Death by Deep Dish Pie Page 4

  Like my Uncle Otis Toadfern and his daughter, Sally. Just a month before, I had convinced the matrons of the Paradise Historical Society—Mrs. Beavy and her friends—that Uncle Otis and Sally could do a fine job renovating the Paradise Theatre, which is owned by the town and which is only used once a year for the Founder’s Day play while the town council figures out what to do with it. It had fallen into disrepair in recent years, then was mildly damaged in a tornado this past spring. Uncle Otis and Sally were in charge of completing the renovations in time for the Founder’s Day play, and were on schedule. At least, as far as I knew.

  Pumpkin 124: “Travis Pumpkin!”

  Anyway, for a long time here at Family Day at Stillwater, the only person for Guy was me. But over the past few years Winnie—who Guy had come to accept—came along. This year, for the first time, Owen joined us.

  All the residents have jobs that fit their abilities and interests. Real jobs, not just busy work to keep them quiet or to fill time. Mostly, residents are enthusiastic about their assignments. More enthusiastic, I’ve noticed, than lots of people working out in the “real” world.

  Guy works on the pumpkins. In the spring, he tends the starts in the greenhouse. In the summer, he transplants the starts and cares for the patch. In the fall—with some supervision from one of the caretakers—he helps kids from the neighboring towns pick out the perfect Halloween pumpkins. And in the winter, he clears out the pumpkin vines, tills under the soil so it will be ready the next year, and studies a book he has about pumpkin varieties. He can’t read, but the book has been read to him so many times, he’s memorized the text that goes with the pictures and diagrams.

  Guy’s not just a pumpkin expert. He’s a pumpkin devotee.

  Pumpkin 163: “Michael Pumpkin!”

  He was assigned pumpkins because they’re orange. Guy hates the color red. He can tolerate a tiny dollop of red—a berry on a bush, or a single red petunia in a whole flowerbed.

  Much more than that, and he gets agitated. He’s had screaming fits over the sight of someone in a red outfit. Every year, Aunt Clara and Uncle Horace took him to visit Santa. They thought his crying fits might be out of shyness.

  After he bit one Santa and yanked off his beard, they stopped the Santa visits.

  At Stillwater, one of his first duties was to harvest tomatoes. Instead, he started throwing them. Between that and the Santa stories, eventually everyone figured out he just can’t stand the color red.

  No one knows why. Probably, no one ever will. I reckon even Guy doesn’t know why. If he does, he’s not able to tell us. His speech is very limited.

  But at Stillwater, getting to the why isn’t always necessary. Guy was moved to pumpkins, which he loves. When Santa visits at Christmas, it’s in a green velvet suit, and no one seems to care. Every year I send Guy a great big orange handcrafted Valentine. And when purple ketchup came out, I bought several bottles and took them up to Stillwater, just for Guy.

  Pumpkin 212: “Winona Pumpkin!”

  Winona was the last pumpkin. But if we started over at pumpkin number one, that pumpkin would still be Matilda, and Guy would name every pumpkin exactly as he had before, right through to Winona. It’s one of those odd, yet beautiful, abilities that sometimes come with autism.

  Family Day is a bit stressful, because it breaks routine, and the twenty permanent residents (plus nine day-only residents) love their routines. But it gives the extended families a chance to mingle with each other, too, and provide some connections with other families that have these special—but often difficult to manage—adults in their lives.

  Just as Guy finished introducing us to Winona Pumpkin, the large bell gonged. The bell calls residents from their tasks to meals, and so we followed Guy back to the house. There was a large white canopy tent set up out front, though, for lunch for all of the families, so there were a few minutes of chaos as residents (with their family members’ help) adjusted to the changed routine.

  As we waited in line for our hot dogs and baked beans and cole slaw, I slipped my arm through Guy’s, and looked up at him. I’m five feet four; he’s six feet two. The tall Foersthoefel genes did not override the shrubbier Toadfern genes for me.

  “Thanks for introducing me to your pumpkins,” I said. “They look healthy.”

  Guy nodded happily. Then he patted the top of my head, for about the tenth time that day. I used to wear my hair long, in a ponytail, but then I had a very unfortunate styling mishap—too many coloring and perming chemicals made part of my hair fall out, and what was left turn orange—but that’s a whole other story. Let’s just say the best choice was just to literally start over . . . and shave my head. (Right after, I bought a few wigs in several shades, but only ended up wearing them when alone with Owen, which turned out to be more fun than I’d have thought. A lot more fun.)

  Now my hair has grown back out into a soft burr, with a bit of styling here and there. Very chic in some places (from what I see in magazines). Odd, in Paradise. Kind of fun, when alone with Owen. Fascinating, to Guy. I didn’t mind, though.

  Eventually, we filled up our food trays, then found seats at a table. Winnie, Owen, Guy, and I sat across from Jenny and Craig Somerberg, and their daughter Alyssa, who is one of just five full-time female residents. Autism, for whatever reason, appears more frequently in men than in women. I made the introductions of Owen and Winnie to the Somerbergs, and we chitchatted while eating.

  Guy, as was his way during a meal, was quiet, focusing intently on his food, frowning at it while he ate as if he didn’t quite trust it, chewing thoroughly and precisely.

  “So, Owen, tell me about yourself,” Craig was saying. “What brought you to Ohio?”

  I smiled to myself, knowing the charming story Owen would tell. He’d grown up in Seattle, lived there his whole life, finished his many degrees, then discovered that PhDs in philosophy, religion, and literature didn’t qualify him for any of the high-tech jobs in his area. Fortunately, one of his father’s cousins—Owen was an only child—was a teacher at Ohio State University, and heard of a teaching position in the Humanities Department at Masonville Community College.

  But just as Owen started to launch into his story, Jenny yelped—Alyssa had accidentally dragged the edge of the sleeve of her white blouse through her hot dog’s ketchup—red, I noticed. I made a mental note to buy more purple. Alyssa’s eyes teared up.

  Jenny sighed. “Oh, dear. That was her favorite birthday gift.”

  I passed my paper napkins to Jenny. “Dab up the ketchup, but try not to spread it any further. I’ll be right back.”

  “Don’t worry,” I heard Winnie saying as I walked away from the table. “Josie is a stain expert.”

  Guy was so focused on his non-ketchuped hot dog, and Craig and Owen were so focused on whatever they were talking about, that none of them noticed me leave. I came back a few minutes later with a mix of half white vinegar and half water and more paper napkins, then focused on gently soaking the stain with the vinegar/water mixture, then dabbing up the excess moisture.

  “Amazing,” said Jenny as the stain started lifting from Alyssa’s sleeve.

  “You’ll want to wash the blouse as soon as possible, though,” I said. “Put on some more white vinegar, then pretreat with stain remover. It’s my favorite way of getting out anything tomato based. Or you can try pouring boiling water through the stained part over a sink . . .”

  “Amazing,” Craig was saying. I thought he was talking about the stain, too, but he was looking at Owen. “It is so great to run into someone who knows the Ames area.” Craig looked over at Jenny. “Hey, honey, I met someone from my old alma mater!”

  Jenny rolled her eyes. “Craig tends to go nuts whenever he meets a fellow University of Iowa grad.”

  I stared at Owen, my expression clearly flashing confusion. University of Iowa? But Owen had told me he had lived his whole life in Seattle . . . Owen was suddenly concentrating on his food, staring down at his plate, refusing to look my way.
No one else seemed to notice. Craig, Jenny, and Winnie had moved on to a conversation about their favorite books. Alyssa was happily eating her hot dog.

  Then Owen looked up at me, and I saw pain in his eyes. I felt something shift between us and I gasped, suddenly dizzy as if I were falling, as I realized that I really knew nothing about Owen at all. . . that the Seattle story he told me had been just that—a story. And the truth?

  “Josie?”

  Guy was tugging at my sleeve. “Fireworks, Josie? Josie, fireworks?” His question was anxious.

  Every year, at Family Day, he asks me that, somehow knowing that just two weeks after Family Day is the July Fourth fireworks display. I don’t think he knows it’s July Fourth, just that it’s close to fireworks time. He has to close his eyes at the red ones, and wear his winter earmuffs to block the sound, but he loves the fireworks. And he would be heartbroken to miss them.

  So of course I gave him the answer I always do. I patted him on the arm, looked directly into his deep brown eyes as

  I said to him, “Yes, Guy, I will take you to the Founder’s Day Fireworks.”

  He grinned, happily.

  I looked back at Owen. But he had gotten up, taking his tray and his nearly full plate to the trashcan.

  I knew we wouldn’t talk about what he’d said to Craig today.

  But I knew we would have to, soon.

  As promised, my car was ready at 5:30 at Elroy’s Gas Station and Body Shop.

  I leaned out of the station door and gave a thumbs-up to Winnie, who was idling her truck over by the air hose. Owen was asleep in the back. Still. He’d avoided looking me in the eye for the rest of lunch, or during the games, or during the tour of the newly decorated and renovated games room at Stillwater. Then he’d fallen asleep as soon as he’d gotten in the backseat of Winnie’s truck. At least, he’d closed his eyes. And hadn’t responded when Winnie asked him what he thought of the day. Winnie and I had driven back in a silence that was a stark contrast to our gabbing on the way over. I knew Winnie could tell something was wrong, but she had the good sense not to mention it, just let me watch the country scenery roll by until we got to Elroy’s.

  Winnie pulled out of Elroy’s, and I popped back into the tiny quick mart/cashier area.

  “The total comes to $367.85, Josie. That’s for the muffler and exhaust pipe, plus the oil change and transmission fluid change you requested, plus labor, and tax, of course,” Elroy said, unhappily. I do Elroy’s and his few employees’ uniforms at my and always cut him a deal for doing the uniforms every month, like I do all my regular customers.

  I knew in his business he couldn’t really do that—and he’d probably already discounted the labor. I gulped at Elroy’s news, momentarily forgetting Owen’s conversation with Craig. Elroy had told me my car repair would be steep, but that was about fifty dollars more than I’d hoped. . . or that I had in my checking account. “I did top off your gas tank and washer fluid at no charge,” he added helpfully.

  “That was nice of you, Elroy,” I said. “Is it okay if I write a check for a hundred and charge the rest?”

  “No problem,” he said, starting to ring up the transaction.

  “And I’ll take a tuna salad sandwich and a Big Fizz Diet Cola, too,” I said, heading over to his soda case. “But I’ll pay cash for those.”

  When I turned back, Big Fizz Diet Cola in hand, Elroy was filling a brown paper bag with my sandwich and something else I knew he wouldn’t charge me for—a Breitenstrater “Little Taste of Paradise” mini-pie.

  I knew I needed to get back to my and see if everything was okay and then go with Trudy down to the play meeting. But the meeting wasn’t for another forty-five minutes, I was hungry for supper after all those games and walking at Stillwater, and I needed a break from people.

  So, while I munched on my tuna salad sandwich (delicious) and drank my Big Fizz Diet Cola, I drove the country roads around Paradise in my newly fixed car. In between bites, I hummed to a Reba McEntire tune on Masonville’s country radio station—at least when I could hear it. My car radio fades in and out and needs to be replaced, but that would have to wait. Country driving is something I like to do when I need a break or need to think. Maybe it’s all those hours in a .

  And it’s always fascinating to see where my subconscious leads me. I found myself out on Mud Lick Road, by the Fireworks Barn—which seemed to be doing a fair business—taking the curve right by it very slowly, the curve where Dinky wrecked and Jason was dealt a young death. The Fireworks Barn was right by the road, and just across from it was a little white plastic cross with blue plastic flowers at the spot. I wondered who kept it up. Surely not Cletus Breitenstrater, though his business was right there. Probably not any Breitenstrater. Maybe an old high school friend. It was nice, though, that Cletus left the little memorial in place—assuming he’d noticed it.

  I drove on, thinking about the cross and flowers. I always wonder about the story behind those little makeshift memorials you see on roadsides. I was sad to know the story behind this one.

  Then I came to a stop sign where Quail Bottom Run intersected Mud Lick Road. No one was coming, of course. But I came to a full stop and counted to three—slowly—in case Chief John Worthy was anywhere nearby. He doesn’t like me, I don’t like him, and I sure can’t afford another traffic ticket.

  I turned, drove on, and then found myself slowing when I came to a thick stand of trees. I pulled off the road, stopped, and stared through the trees. I could just catch a glimpse of the Breitenstrater mansion—large, and gorgeous, built at the height of the Great Depression with a wealth that defied the times—a defiance that had become a Breitenstrater trademark every bit as much as their advertising slogan.

  I closed my eyes and tried to think. First, about Owen. Why had he told Craig Somerberg he’d lived in Iowa when he’d told me he’d always lived in Seattle? He was either lying to Craig . . . or to me. But why?

  Then my worries wandered to that night’s meeting. What was Trudy up to, wanting to go to a routine Paradise Historical Society meeting—and why had I agreed to bring her? I should have just hired Chip Beavy, the Widow Beavy’s grandson, as I usually did, to watch my when I had to be gone for extended hours. But I’d felt sorry for Trudy, who’d seemed so lost and needy . . .

  I opened my eyes, shook my head. This worryfest was doing no good.

  I picked up the freebie Breitenstrater mini-pie from El-roy. Apple-filled. My mouth watered. Breitenstrater pies really are wonderful. Luscious fillings bursting at the flaky crust seams. The mini-pies are really more like popovers—the same fillings as their regular pies, but the fillings are put on one-half of a small circle of crust, and then the crust is folded in half to make a puffy half-moon. The edges are crimped together and the pies glazed and baked.

  The mini-pies were the last Breitenstrater Pie Company innovation since 1983 (except, of course, Cletus’s ill-fated and thankfully short-lived creation of a gooseberry-rhubarb tart). But that’s okay. Nothing wrong with making simply yummy pies: apple, cherry, blueberry, pecan, pumpkin, sweet potato, raisin, chocolate cream, lemon meringue, butterscotch, coconut cream. All the regional diners serve Breitenstrater pies. People buy them for special occasions: holidays and graduations and parties. And when people move away—say, to retire to Florida—they always ask visiting kin to bring along “A Little Taste of Paradise.”

  I closed my eyes again—this time in anticipation of the yummy mini-pie—and bit into it. A half-chew later, my eyes were open and I was staring at the mini-pie. It tasted okay . . . but just okay. The inside was only half-filled. And did I detect staleness in the crust? I checked the sell-by date on the wrapper. This mini-pie was supposed to be good for another month or so. And it was still tasty. But it sure wasn’t up to the usual Breitenstrater standard.

  I’d heard that the pie company had been losing sales, had recently cut back on ingredients and quality to save costs. An Alan decision, I reckoned, which to me didn’t make sense. Who’d want to
buy mediocre pie?

  I ate it anyway. Pie is pie. I gazed through the trees at the bits of looming, gray stone mansion, thinking about how the Breitenstraters—usually quiet captains of local industry—seemed to be everywhere lately, with odd goings-on. We had Cletus working with Mrs. Beavy on some project she wouldn’t discuss . . . Dinky back in town with a friend, Todd Raptor, who was supposedly having an affair with Geri Breitenstrater (Alan’s wife). . . Trudy playing Goth girl and hanging out at my . . . and now—the clincher—a less than perfect Breitenstrater pie.

  Yep, something unusual—more unusual than usual, that is—was definitely up with the Breitenstraters. I pulled away from the side of the road and headed back to town with the feeling that I was about to find out what.

  4

  I planned, really I did, to take the straight and narrow (figuratively speaking) back to Paradise. But to borrow another old saying, it turns out the road to Paradise is paved with good intentions.

  Now, what happened was that for the second time in two days, I did a good deed for a Breitenstrater. And again, I have to wonder, if I hadn’t done this good deed—if I’d have just whizzed past Cletus Breitenstrater walking down the side of the country road—if all that happened later—the murders, the explosion, everything else—would have happened. Because if I hadn’t picked up Cletus, he wouldn’t have gotten to the Paradise Historical Society meeting where, it would turn out, Alan Breitenstrater was already waiting for him.

  But it was still a hot summer day, even if it was early evening, and Cletus—at least fifty pounds overweight and wearing a suit—was wandering in a zigzag on and off the blacktop road. I couldn’t just leave the man wandering out there to have a heart attack.

  So, of course, I pulled off to the side of the road and put my car in park and leaned over and hollered through my already-lowered passenger window (my car doesn’t have air conditioning) as Cletus walked by, “Mr. Breitenstrater? You need a lift somewhere?”