KILLER COCOA PIE Read online

  Tilting his head and giving her a nod that seemed to say, you silly little woman, he answered her question. “We like to keep an eye on successful start-ups, such as your own,” he stated flatly as if it was already obvious.

  “Yes, I sort of caught that drift, but what does your company do?”

  Leaning back in his chair and gently tugging on his lapel, he gave a sickening grin. “We acquire LLCs such as yours and turn them over.” He used the word LLC like it was something that would go over her head. Maybe he was used to spouting off technical jargon and just having people roll over and pretend they knew what was happening.

  Not Bert.

  This was exactly what she’d expected. She clenched her jaw, speaking through barred teeth and trying to not show how agitated she felt. “So, basically, your company knocks out the competition for other companies.”

  Mr. Bradford’s forehead wrinkled up, showing his first real hint of anger. “That’s an awfully simplified and crass way of putting things, Mrs. Hannah.”

  “But it’s true, isn’t it?”

  “We help elevate a business to a new level.”

  “Or you’re just planning to knock this place down and turn it into some chain coffee shop or bookstore,” she argued, her level of politeness having almost completely melted away.

  “I can assure you, that isn’t the case,” he hissed.

  Clearly, in this man’s eyes, this was supposed to be an open and shut easy buy. Why else would he just show up and offer to buy the shop without any other provocation or notice?

  Bert and her store were small potatoes to this type of person, which seemed to make him think he had the right to just waltz into her store at six a.m. for an unannounced business meeting.

  “If you will just take a moment to listen to me, I know you’ll agree that selling is in your best interest as a businesswoman.” His layer of faux politeness had returned, but Bert wasn’t buying it.

  “Do you plan to simply close up my shop?”

  “Please, Mrs. Hannah.”

  “Do you want to reduce the competition for other businesses in the area?” she accused, knowing she was probably stepping over a line at this point. However, something inside her seemed to say that this was a fishy deal. The idea of her business, which she’d poured her passion and energy into, being bought up made her sick.

  If Mr. Bradford had set up an official appointment and had treated her with more respect, she would likely be more willing to listen and cooperate with him.

  As it was, the whole thing seemed a bit off.

  “Now, hold on a minute,” he insisted, clicking the lock open on his briefcase.

  He had dodged the last question which led Bert to believe she had been right in her assumption just now. She was about to interrupt him again and ask him to please leave when he slid a piece of paper out of his briefcase and across the table to her. “This is our offer for you. Before you say anything else, before you jump to any more conclusions, please look at this first.”

  Bert grabbed the slip of paper and opened it. Reading the number on the inside, she nearly fell out of her chair.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” he declared proudly.

  “You have got to be kidding.”

  “I’m dead serious, ma’am, and so is my partner.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Closing the briefcase, he clasped his hands again. “As I should have said to begin with, I’m sorry for my early and unannounced arrival this morning. However, I am only stopping here in town for a couple days to sort out some business ventures. It was a last-minute decision that you should be included in those meetings. Unfortunately, this morning was my only available time.”

  “Why didn’t you call first?” she accused, still trying to get to the bottom of things.

  “I tried calling the shop number and no one answered.”

  “I see,” she sighed. Glancing at the paper one more time, she folded it up and pushed it back across the table. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bradford, my business isn’t for sale at any price.”

  His eyelids fell halfway, showing he was not satisfied with that answer. “You won’t get another offer like this one,” he argued.

  “I don’t care. I’m not selling. That’s what I should have said right off the bat. I’m sorry.”

  His mouth turned down into a frown. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am.”

  Grabbing his suitcase handle, he stood up. “I don’t have time to sit here and debate the issue.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’ve made a serious mistake, Mrs. Hannah. You are going to regret this decision.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Turning on his heel, he headed for the front door. As he walked out onto the street, Bert hoped she’d never have to see his face again.

  CHAPTER 3

  * * *

  “He offered you a million dollars and you turned him down?” Carla gasped as she sat at the table in the shop’s dining area.

  Bert had tried desperately not to let her friend in on just how high the offer had been. Unfortunately, over the course of the last hour and a half, Carla wouldn’t let the subject drop. Her constant questions were slowing Bert down in her usual morning preparations.

  She was elbows deep in an oversized stainless-steel bowl, kneading a mixture of flour and dark Dutch-style cocoa. It was the beginnings of a huge batch of her wildly popular Lovers Pie. With the number of scheduled deliveries ahead of them that day, she had a lot of these single serving size desserts to crank out before Shiv arrived at ten a.m.

  “You know, Carla, a million dollars just isn’t that tempting.”

  “It would be for me. Sheesh, I could open a whole new shop with that kind of money.”

  “But that’s the whole point. I don’t want to open a new shop. I’ve put my love into this place and there is no way I’m going to just hand it off now that things have really started to pick up—especially not to some money grubbing conglomerate. Heck, for all I know they’d force me to sign some sort of contract that forbids me from opening up another bakery of any kind.”

  “You might be right about that, I guess.”

  “And don’t forget, they’d be buying the rights to all my pie recipes. I’ve spent countless years perfecting the art of the perfect pie, you know. I would basically be selling my life’s work to them.”

  Letting out a loud gasp, Carla covered her mouth in shock.

  Bert was surprised her friend hadn’t thought of all these minor details earlier. However, a number like one million has a way of knocking people senseless—which she was sure Mr. Bradford was counting on. It would explain why he’d gotten so angry when she didn’t just fall for his bid immediately.

  Bert was just glad it hadn’t happened to her.

  “Bert, you just can’t sell the shop. It would be like giving up your entire personality to someone else,” Carla declared as if she were saying something new that Bert hadn’t already pointed out.

  The shop owner only rolled her eyes in response.

  While her best friend owned her own shop in the Old Market, Carla never had to start getting ready until ten or ten-thirty, since Christmas in July didn’t open until eleven during the non-holiday seasons.

  Bert would be lying if she didn’t admit that she loved living close to her friend and enjoyed their morning chats together, but there was always the occasion where she just wished Carla would open her shop earlier.

  “You know, money might not be major a driving force for you or me, but it certainly is for other people. In fact, I remembered what I’d read in the tabloids the other day about Bradford and Bradford.”

  “Oh?” Walking over to the fridge, Bert pulled out the large bowl of creamed butter, sugar, and vanilla she had prepared earlier and had set to chill. Pouring both the flour base and the creamed ingredients into the industrial mixer, she turned on the metal arm to combine the two.

  “Yep. The younger of the Bradford brothers, Ken o
r something, recently got married to a younger woman. A very buxom redhead.”

  “There is no accounting for taste, I assume?” she joked.

  “And her name was absolutely ridiculous. A bird’s name like Raven or Dove or something. I can’t remember exactly.”

  “Wow,” Bert responded with an upraised eyebrow.

  “Yeah, and I’m betting she only married him for the money.”

  “Well, Carla, just like you said, it wouldn’t ever be a temptation for me.”

  While the dark cocoa crust was being mixed, she grabbed the ingredients for the filling. A carton of heavy cream, a glass milk bottle, an egg, and a mammoth amount of bittersweet baker’s chocolate chopped up into little filings.

  The richness of the dark chocolate filling was perfect. You could never go wrong with a heavy helping of cream to smooth out a texture and flavor. Combining everything in a pot, she stirred it all carefully and slowly until the dairy began to take on a dark velvet color.

  While it was true that there was no sugar in the filling, it was the last touch of toppings on the pies that made them the perfect and divine collaboration of sweet and bitter flavors. Egg whites, sugar, a pinch of cream of tartar, and some food coloring were a perfect ending to this recipe. Customers had their choice of pink, red, or white to act as the frosting on the miniature heart-shaped delicacy.

  Grabbing the bag of sugar from where it sat near the mixer, Bert paused as she realized it was too light. Looking inside, she realized she’d completely run out of the ingredient. “I have to run into the back to get more sugar,” she told her friend as she walked around the counter.

  The ding of the front door opening stopped her, and she looked up to see Detective Harold Mannor step inside with his tan trench coat wrapped around his body. “Morning, Bert,” he announced his presence with a wave.

  “Harry, hold on. I have to grab something, and I’ll be right back.”

  “No problem,” he agreed, heading for the table where Carla was sitting.

  Slipping through the door at the far end of the shop, she disappeared into the storeroom for bulk ingredients—flour, sugar, and salt; all the staples.

  The brick-walled space was cramped, already skinny before the wooden shelves full of food had been added in. Squeezing her way to the back where the bags of sugar were stored, she hefted one up onto her shoulder and paused.

  Something seemed odd. A sudden chill ran up her arm as if a cold breeze had touched her skin. She knew the old building had its fair share of drafts, but this was downright freezing. It felt almost as if someone had left the back door open a crack and the chilly winter air was swirling in around her.

  Setting the bag back down for a moment, she held out her hands to try and feel where the cold air was coming from. It only took a moment to realize the wall behind the flour shelf was the source of the problem.

  Sliding one of the flour bags aside, she gasped as a plume of white flour erupted into the air. “Oh, no,” she groaned, realizing the bag had a tear in the back.

  However, her frustration over the spilled flour quickly disappeared when she spotted something far stranger.

  Bending down for a better look, she could see clear through to the other side of the wall. A small hole about the size of a golf ball seemed to have been created in her building.

  CHAPTER 4

  * * *

  “That is certainly strange, I will give you that,” Detective Mannor noted as he was bent over to inspect the hole in the wall. A circle of pale morning light encircled one of his eyes as he looked out.

  “Yes, strange, but how did it get there?” she demanded, holding out her hands in a gesture of confusion.

  “Maybe it’s always been there?” Carla asked from where she stood behind Harry and Bert, pressing further into the room, creating a sardine effect.

  Bert was beginning to feel claustrophobic but was also preoccupied with the odd hole in the wall.

  “I wouldn’t be totally surprised if it’s always been there and I’ve never noticed. I mean, it is possible. It just seems very unlikely,” she pointed out.

  “Maybe Carla’s right. Maybe this was originally here for some sort of wiring or pipes that ended up becoming obsolete,” Harry agreed, straightening up from his examination of the hole.

  “Pipes?”

  “Maybe at some point the building owner had them removed, thus leaving the hole,” he motioned toward the wall.

  “But why not patch up the hole as well?”

  He shrugged. “It’s possible they didn’t see the need, as this is just a storage room and not one of the areas where someone is living or running a business.”

  Putting her hands on her hips, she shook her head. She tried to take a step back and create more space in between her and Harry but just ended up pressing closer to the sugar bags behind her.

  “Look, I’m not saying it was the proper choice for the owner, but it’s possible. Maybe Mr. Jankes was trying to cut corners.”

  Bert let out a low growl in her throat as she thought of her landlord. He was a kind gentleman, but often young and stupid, too. “Jankes would do that.”

  “See? There is your explanation,” he put forward, hoping that would close the subject. “Just give him a call and ask him to patch it up.”

  “It’s true, Bert. Kyle is usually efficient about getting things like this resolved,” Carla chimed in, having been one of Mr. Jankes’ tenants for a lot longer than Bert.

  “Or, maybe he would somehow blame me for the hole and force me to pay for it out of my own pocket,” she moaned, thinking of earlier days in her life when she and her now deceased husband rented an apartment from a sketchy landlord.

  “Jankes won’t do that,” Carla scoffed, waving a dismissive hand.

  She was probably right, but it didn’t stop Bert from wondering. “But what about the bag? Why is there flour everywhere?” she pointed out.

  “Come on, Bert. This isn’t a homicide investigation,” Harry said. It was his way of trying to calm her down and end the conversation.

  He clearly didn’t have a whole lot of recent experience dealing with women—especially ones he was potentially dating.

  Folding her arms and tightening her lips, Bert narrowed her eyes at him. “I know this isn’t a homicide investigation, Detective,” she replied, using the title in a demeaning way. She knew it was his way of giving her an underhanded ribbing. She’d been involved in a fair number of murder investigations over the past six months, and Detective Mannor had never been very happy about her nosy nature around the crimes.

  He’d learned to be more laid back about them now that the cases were all solved, but still had an underlying sense of irritability that he had to have a woman’s help in figuring things out in the first place.

  He didn’t hide his feelings very well.

  “Maybe a mouse chewed a hole in the bag,” Carla jumped in, trying to ease the tension from growing too quickly.

  Bert’s jaw dropped. “A mouse? You can’t be serious.” Having a rodent problem in her pie shop was the last thing she needed, especially during the Valentine’s Day rush.

  “Who knows. Maybe a mouse chewed that hole in the wall,” Carla pointed out.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Harry retorted, pointing at the hole. “See how circular this is, not to mention even and smooth? This was drilled here.”

  The explanation of old piping being removed but the hole being left behind was sounding more and more like the truth. The only trouble was, why hadn’t she felt the draft before? Why hadn’t she noticed the hole when she’d stocked the room with bags of flour?

  “Of course, it is possible that a mouse tried to crawl in and chewed into the bag.”

  Bert rubbed her cheeks with the palms of her hands. “No, no, no. I can’t have mice in here.”

  “If that’s the case, I’d say call Jankes as soon as possible. You don’t want a rodent entrance built into your shop.”

  * * *

  After doing a
quick sweep of the storeroom for any other signs of mice (feces, chewing, the works) Bert made the phone call right away, leaving a message for her landlord to contact her the moment he got a chance.

  When she’d finished that, she dove right back into her work, politely asking Harry and Carla to leave so she could concentrate. She had over a hundred Lovers Pies to bake up before Shiv arrived and not a whole lot of time to do it in.

  As the opening hour approached, Bert busied herself tying each heart-shaped dessert in a clear heart patterned cellophane. The hardest part was pairing up each specific color of pie with the books that customers had selected. Wuthering Heights, Emma, Sense and Sensibility, and other classics alongside the more modern bodice buster romances were tied with pink ribbon to the bottoms of the pies to be ready to go.

  It was tedious work, but it needed to be done.

  “Next year, no special delivery deals,” she scolded herself as she neared the end of her task.

  When ten o’clock finally rolled around, Bert only saw her favorite (and only) employee for about five minutes before she had loaded up the car and was off again to deliver pies to sweethearts and valentines across the city.

  The work didn’t stop there, however. As soon as the “open” sign had been turned to face out, the shop swarmed with countless more customers all looking to order their own heart-shaped pie and book gift package. Many others also wanted to buy one of the normal pies from the menu, either to eat or to take home to an expectant loved one. They crammed their way in, waiting in line, sitting at tables, or squeezing between bookshelves.

  Bert was beginning to feel just as claustrophobic as she had in the back room.

  It was around noon when a woman dressed in a pink and white sweater, wearing large glasses, and holding a mini tape recorder stepped up to the counter.

  Bert was used to people from all walks of life coming into the pie shop, and even people holding notepads or recorders. After all, the Old Market was close to the city’s own newspaper office.