The
Quiche and the Dead
A
Pie Town Mystery Book 1
by
Kirsten Weiss
Genre:
Cozy Mystery
Is
Val's breakfast pie the quiche of death?
Owning
her own business seemed like pie in the sky to Valentine Harris when
she moved to the coastal California town of San Nicholas, expecting
to start a new life with her fiancé. Five months—and a broken
engagement—later, at least her dream of opening a pie shop has
become a reality. But when one of her regulars keels over at the
counter while eating a quiche, Val feels like she's living a
nightmare.
After
the police determine the customer was poisoned, business at Pie Town
drops faster than a fallen crust. Convinced they’re both suspects,
Val's flaky, seventy-something pie crust maker Charlene drags her
boss into some amateur sleuthing. At first Val dismisses Charlene’s
half-baked hypotheses, but before long the ladies uncover some shady
dealings hidden in fog-bound San Nicholas. Now Val must expose the
truth—before a crummy killer tries to shut her pie hole.
A blond in a smooth-fitting, green workout suit strode through the dining area. Her ponytail bobbed, her long,
lean dancer’s muscles moving smoothly, and I had to crane my neck to look up at her. On her jacket, Heidi’s Health
and Fitness was emblazoned over her heart. She halted in front of the register.
Joe looked up from his bar stool, grinning, but his smile seemed a little pained.
“Hi.” Smiling, I laid a hand on the counter. “You must be from the new gym. I’m Val.”
“I’m looking for the owner.” The corners of her lips quirked, quick, professional, cool.
“That would be me. Welcome to the street. I was about to go to your grand opening.”
“I’m Heidi Gladstone.”
We shook hands, my knuckles grinding within her grip.
Dropping my hand to my side, I flexed my fingers, restoring the circulation. “Thanks for stopping by. I baked a
welcome gift for your grand opening,” I said, taking the quiche from beneath the counter.
“No thanks.” She shook her head. “I don’t do dairy.”
“I used almond milk.”
“Is there any cheese in it?”
“Only goat cheese.”
She reared away as if I’d suggested cyanide. “I don’t do dairy.”
Joe’s smile broadened.
I took a deep breath, inhaling the calming scents of baking fruits and sugar. “What can I do for you?”
“You can change your sign.” She pointed at the neon above me. “Turn your frown upside down? It encourages
emotional eating. Sugar kills, and though it does give a quick emotional high, the satisfaction is fleeting. My
customers are trying to rebuild their health. It’s not good for them to constantly see that negative reinforcement.”
I laughed. She was kidding. Of course. “Right. Good one!”
She frowned, a faint line appearing between her blond brows. “I’m quite serious.”
“But . . . it’s my slogan. It’s on everything—my sign outside, the menus, my business cards.” This had to be
a joke.
“Exactly,” she said. “It’s a problem. Do you have any sugar-free pies?”
“My potpies are sugar free. And so is this quiche.”
“I advocate a vegan diet. I couldn’t eat a potpie or a quiche. Do you sell any sugar-free fruit pies?”
“Um, no.” Sugar free? I’d heard of such things, and this was California, where people could be more thoughtful
about eating. But a sugar-free pie? That was unnatural and possibly un-American. Besides, fruit was full of natural
sugars.
“I’ll bring some recipes by tomorrow.” She whirled, her ponytail coming within inches of my face, and marched out
of the store. The bell over the entrance tinkled in her wake.
Joe wedged himself free of the bar stool and waddled to the counter, arms extended. “I’ll take that breakfast pie.
And a fork.”
Sighing, I handed him the quiche. “All right. You win.
Do you want a plate to go with that?”
“No. Why get a plate dirty? I’ll eat it from the tin.”
“How did you know she wouldn’t take it?”
Joe winked. “She kicked off her grand opening this morning with a lecture on the evils of gluten, lactose, and
anything that tastes good. I figured at least one of those things would be in that breakfast pie.”
I nodded. I had yet to meet a gluten-free piecrust that really sang.
He rubbed his stomach. “And the spread was awful, all twigs and health food.”
“It is a gym.”
Petronella stomped toward me in her black motorcycle boots, her brows lowered in a slash, a pie in each hand.
“Are you working the counter today or am I?”
“You are. Sorry. You can have it back.” I edged away.
“Because I need this job, and if you’ve decided you can do it for me—”
“Nope, you’re still chief pie wrangler. Have at it.” While I wasn’t exactly afraid of Petronella, both she and Charlene
were protective of their duties. And since Charlene made the best piecrust in five counties, and Petronella could
soothe the most ferocious customer, I’d learned to stay out of their way.
There was a choking sound, and we both snapped our heads toward the counter.
Joe’s fork clattered to the linoleum. Bowed over the quiche, he gripped his stomach.
I froze, brows squishing together, coldness piercing my core. Then Petronella and I raced around the counter,
bumping into each other as we fought our way through the narrow passage beside the cash register.
Joe fell to the floor, writhing.
I fumbled in my apron pocket for my phone and called 9-1-1.
Petronella clasped one of Joe’s hands. “Joe! I’m here.
Val’s calling an ambulance. What’s happening?”
Joe went limp, his eyes rolling back. He didn’t answer.
Bleeding
Tarts
A
Pie Town Mystery Book 2
Val's
new pies are foolproof—but not bulletproof.
Old
West ghost towns are as American as apple pie. So what better place
to sponsor a pie-eating contest than the Bar X, a fake ghost town
available for exclusive private events on the edge of Silicon Valley.
Valentine Harris is providing the pies, hoping to boost business for
her struggling Pie Town shop and become a regular supplier for the
Bar X.
But
no sooner does she arrive in town than a stray bullet explodes the
cherry pie in her hands. And the delicious dessert is not the only
victim. Val finds the Bar X bartender shot dead in an alley. Egged on
by her flaky friend and pie crust specialist, Charlene, Val aims to
draw out the shooter. But solving a real murder in a fake ghost town
won't be easy as pie. And if Val doesn't watch her back, her pies
won't be the only thing filled full of lead . . .
I gripped the pie box as the Jeep bumped along the winding, dirt road.
Charlene, my octogenarian piecrust specialist, yanked the wheel sideways. Her white cat, asleep on the dashboard,
slid toward me and the Jeep’s open window.
One-handed, I steadied the cat, Frederick. Charlene believedFrederick was deaf and narcoleptic, so she carted
him everywhere. I thought he was rude and lazy and didn’t belong on important pie-selling business.
Oblivious to Frederick’s near-sudden exit, Charlene hummed a western tune. The breeze tossed her white hair,
its loose, glamour-girl curls shifting around the shoulders of her lightweight purple tunic.
Certain in the knowledge I wasn’t getting that tune out of my head in the near future, I sighed and leaned closer to the
windshield. My rollercoaster fear mingled with optimism in a heady brew of nervicitement. We were zipping toward a
faux ghost town as super exclusive as only an event site on the bleeding edge of Silicon Valley could be. The Bar X was so private, I’d only learned about it three days ago, and I’d been living in San Nicholas nearly nine months.
Now, not only was I going to see the Old West town, but I was delivering pies that would be featured in its charity
pie-eating contest. If all went well, the Bar X would become a regular Pie Town client. If all didn’t go well, I
didn’t want to think about it.
Frowning, Charlene accelerated, and gravel zinged off the Jeep’s undercarriage. “I don’t know why Ewan had to
make the roads so authentically awful. Now about our case—”
“Mrs. Banks is a lovely person.” I gripped my seat belt.
“She buys a strawberry-rhubarb pie every Friday. But she’s a little distracted, and she’s not a case.”
“You mean you think she’s gaga. Not every old person is nuts, you know.” Her white curls quivered with indignation.
“I know.”
“She says when she buys groceries and brings them home, they disappear from her backseat.”
“Mrs. Banks is forgetful, and no,” I said before Charlene could object, “I don’t think all old people are forgetful. But
she is. She might not have remembered to load the groceries into her car in the first place.” And the Baker Street
Bakers, our amateur sleuthing club, didn’t have time for another tail-chasing case. I had my hands full with my
real job.
Four months earlier, in a fit of sugar-fueled enthusiasm, I’d doubled Pie Town’s staff. Now, the pie shop I’d put
everything I’d owned into was barely scraping even. At the thought of the financial grave I’d dug for myself, nausea
clutched my throat.
“I’ve researched Banks’s problem.” She veered around a curve, and my shoulder banged the passenger window.
“I’m thinking fairies. They’re known thieves. I wouldn’t put a few bags of groceries past them.”
“It’s a well-known fact that there are no fairies on the California coast.” Or anywhere else, since they’re not real.
“You’re wrong there. There’ve been reports of fairy activity in the dog park. Of course, most people think it’s
UFOs.”
“Right. Dog park. Because where else would they be?”
The late summer morning was already warm. I smelled eucalyptus and sagebrush and a hint of salt from the nearby
Pacific.
“Or the cause might be ectoplasmic,” she said enthusiastically.
“The groceries could be apporting.”
I struggled not to ask, and failed. “Apport? What does that mean?”
“It’s when ghosts suck objects into another plane.” She made a whooshing sound. “Then the spirits make the objects
reappear in different places in our dimension. I told her we’d stop by on Friday night and try out my new ghosthunting
equipment.”
I rubbed my brow. Right now, I wouldn’t mind apporting to another plane. Our armchair crime-solving club was all
in good fun . . . until Charlene left the armchair. “I really don’t think it’s a case.”
“We don’t know that. And it’s not as if you have other plans for Friday night.”
My cheeks heated, and I braced an elbow on the window frame. Charlene knew very well what I’d scheduled for
Friday night. “Sorry, but Gordon and I are going on a date on Friday. Remember?” My insides squirmed with pleasure. It had been a long time since I’d been on a date—not since my engagement to Mark Jeffreys had gone kablooey earlier this year. Detective Gordon Carmichael and I had been dancing around going out for months, and it was finally happening.
“Are you sure it’s a date?” She quirked a white brow.
“Not just two people getting together?”
“Of course, it’s a date.”
“Because you two have been having a lot of ‘not-dates.’”
“We’ve been getting to know each other,” I said, defensive.
“Usually that happens on dates.”
“It’s the twenty-first century, Charlene.”
She grimaced. “Don’t remind me. Have you bought new knickers?”
“What?” I yelped.
We rounded a bend. Charlene cut the curve close and scraped the yellow Jeep against the branches of a young
eucalyptus tree.
“You heard me,” she said. “You can’t be too prepared.”
I sputtered. “It’s only a first date!” And knickers? Who even talked that way anymore? It’s not like she was from
Regency England.
“High quality unmentionables—”
“Unmentionables?” Had we time traveled to the Victorian era?
“Are a confidence builder.”
And Charlene knew all about confidence. She’d been in the roller derby. Had scuba dived off the Great Barrier
Reef. Had gone skydiving. And if it hadn’t been for her, there never would have been any Baker Street Bakers.
I hadn’t quite forgiven her for that.
“Besides, your date will be over by the time the ghost hunt starts. Things don’t really get going until midnight or
one AM.”
“And you know I have to be at work by five. If I’m not in bed by ten, I’m done for.” I yawned just thinking
about it.
We trundled into an Old West ghost town. Its single dirt road was lined with ramshackle wooden buildings. Hills
carpeted with low, green scrub cascaded from the east.
“I wonder where Gordon will take you,” she mused.
“Your options are limited in a small town like San Nicholas. Maybe he’ll take you to the . . . Marla!” She slammed on the brakes, and I careened forward.
The seat belt caught me in the ribs, but not quick enough to keep my head from banging into the windshield.
“The pies!” Ignoring the thudding pain in my skull, I whipped around and peered anxiously at the pink and white
boxes stacked in the rear of the Jeep. I exhaled a shaky breath. The boxes hadn’t fallen.
A growl vibrated beside me.
I turned, eyeing Frederick. The sleeping cat hadn’t budged from the dashboard.
Charlene’s knuckles whitened on the wheel. “Marla, here. Here!”
“What?” I looked around. The street was empty. “Who’s Marla?”
Charlene floored the accelerator, whiplashing me against the seat. We rocketed down the dirt road and flew past a
saloon, a chapel, and other random Old West buildings. I yelped. “Pies. Pies!”
She braked hard. The Jeep screeched to a halt, engulfed in a cloud of dust.
Coughing, I rolled up the window. “What was that about?”
“Marla, is what,” she snarled. Opening her door, she gently dislodged Frederick from the dashboard and
arranged him over one shoulder. Charlene strode into the dust cloud and vanished.
I unbuckled myself and clambered over the seat. Holding my breath, I lifted the lid on one of the pies in the cargo
area. The air whooshed from my lungs. The pie had survived The others might be okay as well.
Pie-eating contests are traditionally messy, but it wouldn’t do to prebreak the inventory. Not when I wanted to make
a deal with the Bar X to be their regular pie supplier. Aside from guns, cowboys, and those old-timey photos where you dress like a prostitute, there’s nothing that says “Old West” more than hand pies. And we made awesome hand pies. Lurching from the yellow Jeep, I dusted off my pinkand- white Pie Town T-shirt. Beneath its giant smiley face
was our motto: TURN YOUR FROWN UPSIDE DOWN AT PIE TOWN! I’d designed the shirts myself, one of the perks of
owning my own business. The downsides of entrepreneurship? Baker’s hours and knuckle-biting payrolls. If I could add this wholesaling business, the latter worry would be a thing of the past.
The dust dissipated, leaving a brownish ground fog.
We’d parked in front of a squat wooden building set amidst a stand of eucalyptus trees. A sign above the one-story
wooden shack read: POTTERY.
At the far end of the dirt road, Charlene vanished into a carriage house, its ginormous, barnlike doors wide open.
A shot rang out, and I flinched.
Mr. Frith had warned me about the gunshots. It was only the sharpshooters, practicing for the event later today. But
since a homicidal maniac had attempted to shoot me earlier this year, I was an eensy bit sensitive to gunfire.
“Charlene!” A woman shrieked inside the carriage house.
“You look awful. What happened?”
Three more shots rang out in rapid succession, and my jaw clenched.
I trotted into the carriage house and slithered past a massive coach that looked like it had driven out of a Wells
Fargo ad. Straw lay scattered about the wood plank floor, and the massive room smelled strongly of manure. Past the
coach were rows of empty stalls, and a second set of open doors on the other end of the building.
An elegant, silver-haired woman in a salmon-colored silk top and wide-legged slacks was awkwardly embracing
Charlene. Diamonds flashed on the woman’s fingers. An expensive camera hung from one slim shoulder.
An older gentleman in jeans and a crisp, white button-up shirt beamed at them both. “I’d no idea you two knew each
other.” He chuckled. “That’s life in a small town. I should have guessed.”
The woman released my piecrust maker. “What are you doing here?”
“Pies,” Charlene said, gruff. “For the event today.”
“You’re the pie maker?” The woman’s lip curled. “Charlene, I would have thought you’d have retired.” She sighed.
“That’s California though. So impossibly expensive. Fortunately, I’ve got my real estate rentals. I had no idea I could
make so much money renting houses. So much money.”
Charlene stiffened. She owned rentals as well. And as one of her tenants, I didn’t like that this conversation was
headed toward higher rent. The snowy cat looked up from Charlene’s shoulder and
yawned.
“I work because I want to,” Charlene said. “I like to keep my hand in, stay busy.”
“Of course, you do,” the woman said. “Ewan, take a picture of the two of us. I can’t wait to compare this to our old
yearbook photos.”
The man stepped forward, and she handed him her camera.
The woman—Marla?—pressed herself next to Charlene and struck a pose.
Charlene flushed, her fists clenching.
Uh-oh. For some reason, Charlene was seriously annoyed.
I cleared my throat. “Mr. Frith?”
He returned the camera to Marla and swiveled, his teeth gleaming white against his rough and ruddy skin. “And
you must be Val. I’m Ewan. Welcome to the Bar X, young lady!” He strode forward and took my hand, pumping it
enthusiastically.
I was twenty-eight, but I’d take young lady, and I grinned. “Charlene’s told me so much about you,” he continued.
“Not that she needed to. Your pies speak for themselves.”
I grinned. That sounded promising. “And this is the famous Bar X! I’m excited to finally see it.”
The mystery woman—Marla, it had to be—sidled up to him and draped a diamond-spangled hand over his broad
shoulder. “And who are you? Charlene’s employee?”
“Ah . . .” I darted a glance at my piecrust maker. “We work together,” I said, deliberately vague.
Charlene’s shoulders dropped. She raised her chin.
“Val owns Pie Town. I run the piecrust room. Val Harris, this is Marla.” Her voice lowered on the last syllable, dripping with disdain.
Marla scanned me. “How adorable. And your skin!
What I wouldn’t give for the skin of a twentysomething, right Charlene?”
Adorable? I’d always figured myself for kind of average, and I warmed at the compliment. I was a normal California
gal—blue eyes, five foot five, and a little curvy (the tasty tragedy of owning a pie shop). I touched my brown hair,
done up in its usual knot.
Charlene harrumphed. In her mind, she still was a twentysomething. Or at least a fortysomething.
“When Ewan suggested a pie-eating contest for our little fundraiser,” Marla said, “I’d no idea you two would be
involved.”
“Who is it supporting?” I asked.
“The local humane society,” she said. “All those poor lost doggies and kittens. I’m on the board. You know how
it is when you’re retired. It does help to stay involved, even if my passion is helping others rather than baking pies.”
Her nose wrinkled, and she linked her arm with Ewan’s.
“Now, did you say something about a private tour?”
“Of course,” he said. “The carriage isn’t hitched up, so we’ll have to walk. Charlene? Val? Would you like to
join us?”
Yes!
“Val can’t,” Charlene said. “She needs to get the pies out of the Jeep.”
I shuffled my feet. The pie retrieval wasn’t that urgent.
“But—”
“Before they get soggy in the heat,” she continued.
Grrr!
“But I could go for a walk,” Charlene said.
Marla’s face tightened. “Lovely. We really do need to catch up. Are you sure you can manage the exercise, Charlene?
You look rather tired.”
Charlene glowered. “I’m fit as a fiddle.”
“Oh, Charlene.” Marla laughed, a jewel-like tinkle. “You haven’t changed a bit. At least, not on the inside.” She
snapped a photo of the carriage house, and the three ambled toward the open doors on the other side of the barn.
Another shot rang out, and I started. “Wait,” I said.
“Where should I put the pies?”
“The saloon,” Ewan called over his shoulder. “My daughter Bridget will be there to help you.”
“Okay,” I said. But they’d already disappeared around the corner of the carriage house. My lips compressed with
disappointment. I wouldn’t have minded a tour, but I could take a hint, and Charlene’s had been as obvious as an elephant on Main Street. She didn’t want me around.
I stomped to the Jeep, opened the driver’s side door, and paused, chagrined. Charlene had the key. I could get inside,
but I couldn’t drive the pies closer to the saloon, which was across the street and down a bit. I’d just have to make lots
of trips.
Another shot cracked.
A murder of crows rose noisily from the nearby eucalyptus trees. Uneasily, I watched them flap toward the hills.
I stacked six pink pie boxes in my arms and clamped my chin on the top box to steady them. Nudging the door shut
with my hip, I lurched across the road, automatically looking right, then left. I gave a slight shake of my head. It
wasn’t as if buggies were racing down the—
A shot cracked. The top box flew from beneath my chin. It exploded in a burst of pink cardboard and piecrust and
cherry filling.
I shrieked, the boxes swaying.
I slapped my hand on the top box, and they steadied.
Okay. Okay. I was alive. But what-the-hell? Another shot rang out, louder.
Heart banging against my ribs, I scrambled for cover behind a horse trough. My tennis shoes skidded in the loose
dirt, and I half fell against the trough. I clutched the remaining boxes to my chest. Someone. Some stupid person . . .
My fingers dented the pink cardboard. Probably some kids, or hunters, or a random idiot. The trick shooters couldn’t
have been this careless.
I forced my breathing to calm. “Hello?” I shouted. “Hold your fire!”
No one answered.
Still clinging to my pies, I squirmed about and peered over the trough. Since I hadn’t been hit, the bullet that had
taken out my pie must have come from an angle, from my side rather than my front or rear.
The eucalyptus trees across the street shivered. They would have made a good hiding place for a shooter.
Hiding place? The shot had to have been an accident, but suddenly all I wanted was to get out of here.
I hunched over my remaining pie boxes and speed walked toward the saloon, the nearest shelter. It now seemed
light years away. Its front doors were shuttered closed. I scooted up its porch steps and set my pies by the door,
rattled the heavy wood shutters.
Locked. I gave a small whimper.
Abandoning my pies, I ducked into the alley between the saloon and a bath house. Panting, I peeked into the
main street.
I was probably safe here. I’d probably been safe behind the watering trough. This was twenty-first century California,
not the Wild West. But cold sweat trickled down my neck. I backed deeper into the shade of the alley.
My heel bumped something. I staggered and braced my hands against the rough, wood-planked wall. Legs wobbly,
I exhaled, turned.
A man lay sprawled on the dirt, his plaid shirt soaked with blood. Mouth open, he stared sightlessly at the cloudless
sky.
Kirsten
Weiss worked overseas for nearly fourteen years, in the fringes of
the former USSR and in South-east Asia. Her experiences abroad
sparked an interest in the effects of mysticism and mythology, and
how both are woven into our daily lives.
Now
based in San Mateo, CA, she writes genre-blending steampunk suspense,
urban fantasy, and mystery, blending her experiences and imagination
to create a vivid world of magic and mayhem.
Kirsten
has never met a dessert she didn’t like, and her guilty pleasures
are watching Ghost Whisperer re-runs and drinking red wine.
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