Plum Deadly (10 page)

Maggie hadn’t realized how alike she and her mother were. She had plenty of older pictures of her mother and father after they were married, and with her as a baby.

These pictures were very different. It could’ve been Maggie in some of them. As teenagers, she and her mother had been remarkably similar.

Maggie was up until 2:00 a.m. before exhaustion claimed her and she switched off the light, falling asleep in the midst of her mother’s clothes. She hadn’t made it to the journal her mother had kept through high school and college. That would have to wait for another time.

Aunt Clara was up at five, her usual time, even though they didn’t have to go and make pies. There was one particularly loud crash that brought Maggie to her feet. She ran down the stairs to the kitchen and stared at her aunt with red-rimmed eyes.

“Everything okay?” she asked in a sleep-slurred voice.

“Sorry. I accidentally dropped the frying pan.” Aunt Clara studied her niece with a knowing eye. “Go back to bed. You were up too late to be up again now. You don’t want to meet Ryan for lunch with those circles under your eyes. Scoot.”

She agreed and went back upstairs. Aunt Clara started frying bacon and that was it. Maggie got up and showered then put on her jeans and a T-shirt before going back downstairs. If she had some dark circles, Ryan would have to understand.

Over breakfast, the two women discussed financial matters. Aunt Clara had a nice annuity that had been set up years before. It would be tight for her to live without money from the pie shop, but it could be done. Maggie hated to think what kind of condition the house would fall into if that happened.

At least she knew they could survive for a while, until the police were done investigating Lou’s death there. Maggie thought about going out to get another job. It would be difficult without a work history for the past ten years of her life. The bank had made it clear that they wouldn’t give her references.

Even worse, everyone in the area knew about Lou’s death and her connection to him, including the embezzlement,
thanks to the local media. Her chances of finding any work were doubtful until all of this was cleared up.

Still, she felt like a useless slug, living off of her aunt. She couldn’t remember when she hadn’t worked.

Maybe she could use a different name.

When Maggie suggested this idea, Aunt Clara was quick to shoot it down. “No reason to panic yet, honey. The police will be done soon and I’ll need you at the pie shop. In the meantime, let’s finish that piecrust, shall we?”

• • •

T
hey brought out
the bowl with the chilled dough in it. Maggie poked it. It didn’t look like much—a white lump that could have been clay.

Aunt Clara brought out her pastry board, which was made from black-and-white-speckled marble. She put it on the counter. “I’ve had this since goodness knows when. I’ve tried everything else and I like the marble board best. That’s why you see the larger one at the pie shop. You might like a different kind better once you get started.”

Aunt Clara took the dough out of the bowl after dusting the board lightly with flour. “Don’t use too much flour on this. It will make your crust dry. Keeping the dough cold enough should keep it from sticking.”

She showed Maggie how to flatten the dough to start rolling it. The wood rolling pin she took out was ancient. It looked like it had rolled out thousands of piecrusts.

“You have a marble rolling pin at the pie shop,” Maggie observed. “Which do you like better?”

“I like the marble better when I need to get things done.
I like the feel of the wood better at home when I can take my time.”

Maggie shrugged. “Why not buy some of those frozen crusts Mr. Gino is always trying to get you to use?” Mr. Gino was the supplier for everything except piecrust at Pie in the Sky.

Aunt Clara’s face was a mask of horror. “Why not put plastic grass in the front yard? Why not eat canned peaches when fresh ones are in season? Have you ever eaten a frozen piecrust?”

Maggie was sorry she’d asked. “Not here. Maybe in New York. The pie was cooked so I couldn’t tell.”

“Believe me, there’s no comparison between my piecrust and those frozen ones. Now pay attention.”

Aunt Clara began rolling the crust with smooth, even strokes after lightly flouring the rolling pin so the crust wouldn’t stick to it. “You’ll roll this until it’s about one-eighth inch to one-quarter inch thick. Use short strokes with the rolling pin, from the center of the dough to the edge.”

Maggie kept her mouth shut after the disastrous comment about frozen piecrust. She reminded herself that she was there to learn, not to suggest newfangled ways of doing things. Aunt Clara obviously knew what was best. She’d been making the most delicious pies in Durham for more than forty years and had won many awards.

“Turn the dough frequently to keep it round.” Aunt Clara nodded to the cabinet by the refrigerator. “Would you get me a pie pan, honey?”

Maggie opened the door. There were dozens of different sizes and types of pie pans. “Which one do you want?”

“We’ll need the eight inch. The larger ones are nine inch. The others are used for tarts.”

“Why are some of them metal?” Maggie took a few out. “Do you want a metal or ceramic pie pan?”

“I like the metal for the flaky pastry. I rarely use the ceramic. They were gifts from friends and family down through the years. I don’t have the heart to throw them away.”

Maggie felt better educated about piecrust now and chose the eight-inch metal pie pan since she knew they were making flaky crust.

“Thanks, honey. Now don’t turn the crust over when you’re ready to put it in the pan. That’s a mistake many cooks make. The crust is better with the rolled side up.”

Maggie watched as her aunt put the crust into the pan. “Don’t you need to butter the pan or something, like when you make cake mixes? And what about those little splits in the dough?”

“There’s no reason to put anything between the crust and the pan,” Aunt Clara told her. “Because the crust is floured and dry, not wet, like cake mix, it shouldn’t stick. As for those pesky splits at the edges, use your fingers to press them back together. See? They’re fine now.”

Aunt Clara hunted around for something to go into her piecrust. “I think I have some leftover filling from that apple pie we ate the other night. We’ll have to make a crumb topping for it. I think I have everything else we need.”

While she talked, Aunt Clara got out the apple filling, which was in a closed plastic bowl in the fridge. She walked back to the counter. “Remember never to stretch your
crust, Maggie. Kind of ease it into place. It will get all out of shape when you cook it if you don’t. I like to trim the edge and flute the rim, to make it look pretty. Prick the shell a few times with a fork to keep it from puffing up when you bake it.”

She pricked the shell a few times. “Some people use pie weights. I don’t think that’s necessary. It’s your choice when you’re on your own. And that’s it. We’ll bake this in the oven at about three hundred and fifty degrees for ten minutes. Then all we have to do is let it cool and fill it.”

“And make crumb crust for the topping,” Maggie said. “I love crumb crust. I don’t know how to make it.”

Aunt Clara smiled. “You will.” She went to the oven to turn it on when the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” Maggie offered.

She opened the door carefully to a familiar face, surprised to find the reporters missing from the front lawn. “Mr. Isleb.” She was stunned to see one of the bank’s executive vice presidents there. “Won’t you come in?”

S
tan Isleb had
been Lou’s boss. He was a short, fragile-looking man with dainty features. His full head of obviously dyed black hair didn’t make his wrinkled face look any younger. His suit and shoes were expensive looking. Maggie once heard that he never bought less than the best and that his wife was the same way. He’d been at the bank forever. Maggie had only met him once and been acknowledged by him—that had been the day she’d started at the bank.

“Thank you, Ms. Grady.” He gestured to the young man
beside him. “This is my assistant, Ron. I hope we’re not catching you at a bad time.”

“Not at all.” She led the way into the sunny living room, aware at once of its shabbiness compared to his Manhattan office. She’d also heard stories about his fabulous apartment. “Please, sit down. Would you like some coffee?”

“Who is it, Maggie?” Aunt Clara was wiping flour from her hands as she walked into the room. “Not those annoying police officers again, I hope.”

Maggie introduced her aunt to Stan and her aunt’s face turned red. “I’m so sorry,” Aunt Clara said. “Let me make some coffee.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Lowder,” Stan said. “I appreciate the hospitality. I’ve never been this far south. I’ve heard a lot about the friendliness of southern people. It certainly seems to be true for you, and it runs in the family.”

Ron, who was perched on the end of a chair, jumped up to run into the kitchen with Aunt Clara. “Let me help you, Mrs. Lowder. I know exactly how Mr. Isleb likes his coffee.”

That left Maggie alone with Stan. He was sure to be there for an explanation of what had happened to Lou. She hoped he didn’t blame her too.

“I’m so sorry about Lou’s death,” she started. “He was a very good friend to me while I worked at the bank.”

“Lou was a fine man. He was my brother-in-law, you know. My wife is devastated.”

Maggie was stunned. She’d worked with Lou all those years and never knew that he was related to Stan.

“I’m sure she is. It’s a terrible tragedy.”

“Is there any further news about how he died?” Stan
pointedly asked her. “The police have told me they don’t believe it was natural causes, but they have no real theories yet. I can’t imagine anyone who would want to hurt Lou, can you?”

“No. I can’t imagine it.” Maggie was beginning to feel uncomfortable. After all, Stan was exactly the suspect she thought she was looking for. He was higher up than Lou at the bank. He could have a reason to blame her for the embezzlement while protecting Lou.

And here he was—sitting in her home the night after the burglary. She couldn’t imagine Stan actually breaking in to steal her laptop, but he could have hired someone else to do it.

He raised one dark brow. “Really? Even though he fired you at the bank for your crimes? I must confess that you were the first person I thought of when I heard the news from my wife. Sometimes the best friends make the worst enemies.”

Maggie felt her face flush with anger and embarrassment. “I assure you, Mr. Isleb, I didn’t hurt Lou. I don’t appreciate you coming here and accusing me of it either. Lou came here to tell me that he knew who the real thief was. I had nothing to gain and everything to lose by his death.”

Isleb nodded. “I
see
.”

Maggie wondered what was going on behind his cold, calculating eyes. Had he come all the way here to try and make her look guiltier? Was he trying to throw off any possible suspicion from himself to her?

She realized Stan could cause her a lot of grief if he thought she was to blame for Lou’s death. That was all
Frank needed to hear—someone else, someone with money and power, not to mention a dead family member—thought she’d played a part in this.

“You know, Lou told me that someone higher up the ladder at the bank was behind this.” She stared right back at him. “He didn’t say who that was, Mr. Isleb. Any ideas?”

If it was possible, his face got even harder. She’d expected as much. He hadn’t attained his place at the bank without being a tough, aggressive man.

“I received an email from Lou about this unfortunate issue, Ms. Grady. He was never good at letting sleeping dogs lie. He told me that he planned to exonerate you. He didn’t say why it was so important to him. But then, he always had
special
feelings for you, didn’t he?”

What?
“What are you trying to say?”

He sniffed and looked away from her as though what he had to say was distasteful to him. “We all know Lou and his wife were experiencing difficulties in their relationship. They broke up after you left the city. Many have speculated that he was having an affair with
you
.”

She caught her breath. “The only special relationship we had was that he was my mentor. I don’t know why he was trying to clear my name. Maybe he had a guilty conscience.”

“Perhaps.”

Aunt Clara and Ron picked that moment to appear with the coffee. His assistant walked the tea cart in so quickly that the china cups rattled together. Stan glanced at him and he slowed down, muttering an apology.

Aunt Clara followed him, sans her flour-covered apron, and poured coffee for her and Maggie. Ron rushed to pour
Stan’s coffee and add the barest hint of cream to it, no sugar. He handed the cup to his employer as though it were a priceless treasure.

Of course, Aunt Clara had included a few pieces of pie with the coffee. Stan and Ron refused. Maggie took a slice of the apple pie so her aunt’s feelings wouldn’t be hurt.