Apple Pies and Alibis Read online

  Apple Pies and Alibis

  Christy Murphy

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1. Margaritas and Mayhem

  2. Overtures and Obstacles

  3. Menus and Melee

  4. Complications and Questions

  5. Experiments and Examinations

  6. Confrontations and Confusion

  7. Police and Pies

  8. A Note from the Author and her mom

  Also by Christy Murphy

  Copyright

  Cover designer, Priscilla Pantin; Editor, Robb Fulcher

  Copyright 2016-b Christy Murphy. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to the actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Join Mom & Christy's Cozy Mysteries Club

  http://christymurphy.com/apple

  Dedication

  As always thank you to my family.

  Mom, Dad, David, Edie, David, Diana, Darwin, Jason, Anthony, and Ana

  Special thanks to Robb and Solomon for inspiring two folks in Fletcher Canyon

  1

  Margaritas and Mayhem

  The Turing Tech staff devoured the apple-glazed baby back ribs, Waldorf salad, and personal apple pies, but the breakout hit was the frozen apple margaritas. I’d never catered a work party with Mom before, but it seemed like the cocktails might be making too big of an impression. It could have been because the boss (aka our client) had yet to return to the office, the late lunch celebration having slipped from tipsy good times to “I’m going to regret this in the morning” dork-on-dork debauchery.

  I checked the food to see if anything needed refilling, but looking at the geeks-gone-wild scene before me, I sensed that drunken karaoke and even worse inter-office relationship choices were the next items on the menu. Maybe it was time to pack things up, or at least slow down the drinking. I headed over to Mom and her best friend, Wenling, manning the margarita machine.

  “So festive!” Wenling said as I dodged a drunken programmer on a Razor scooter whooshing past us.

  He yelled something in Klingon. (Or is it Klingonese?)

  “Nanu Nanu!” Mom shouted back. He held up his hand in the Vulcan sign for “Live Long and Prosper” as his reply.

  It occurred to me that catching two Star Trek and one Mork and Mindy reference, both TV shows before my time, made my calling the employees geeks and dorks (even just in my mind) a tad hypocritical.

  “Do you know when Barbara’s getting back?” I asked Mom.

  “Yeah,” Wenling chimed in, adding a Humphrey Bogart affectation to her natural Chinese accent. “When’s the dame who owns the joint going to come so we can tell her we caught the ‘perp’?” For the record, this is not Wenling’s usual manner of speaking, but it made dodging drunken dorks on scooters much more exciting.

  “Shhh,” Mom whispered to her. “We’re undercover, remember?”

  Wenling widened her eyes and nodded yes to Mom, and then went over to the dessert table and arranged the last of the mini apple pies in an overly deliberate manner before returning to us and winking. I couldn’t help but smile. I didn’t have the heart to tell her we were really caterers taking a stab at being amateur detectives, and not the other way around. Why be a killjoy? Besides, it’s more fun to think you’re pretending to work than to just work, even if the actual labor amounts to the same thing.

  Barbara Turing, aka the dame who owns this joint, rushed into the office.

  “I’m going to tell her,” Mom said to Wenling.

  “I’ll keep a lookout,” Wenling said, and stepped over to the pies again. I wasn’t sure what she was looking out for or why the table with the pies was her chosen stakeout place, but I found myself keeping a lookout, too. Maybe our prime suspect, who was holed up in his office, would saunter over and overhear something.

  Barbara hurried over to Mom. “This leak might blow our big contract,” she said in an angry whisper.

  Mom whispered back. “We think we’ve found the one who’s betraying you.”

  Mom used dramatic words like betrayal all of the time. All the Filipinos I know, which were mostly relatives, have a thing about “betrayal.” I think it has something to do with growing up on a small island with a large extended family.

  “Tell me,” Barbara said, her whisper clipped and harsh.

  “We think Rick Heller might be your mole,” Mom answered with her own impressive use of spy language. Mole was the perfect word. Heller was Barbara’s Chief Technical Officer. As CTO, he had access to all the company’s projects in development. Mom and I believed we’d found evidence that supported our theory that he was the one leaking inside information to Turing Tech’s competition. “Let’s go into your office, and we’ll explain.”

  I’d expected Barbara to invite us into her office. Up until now, she’d seemed like such a calm and rational woman. But in this moment, to use a phrase apt for a caterer, she flipped her lid.

  “Rick!” she yelled, ending whisper time with one shrieking syllable. “We need to talk.”

  Everyone in the office turned to the door of Rick’s corner office, but he didn’t come out. After waiting a beat, Barbara marched over, yanked the door open, and slammed it behind her. Celia, my cousin, who’d been hosting the karaoke part of the party, turned up the machine and tried to keep the party going. She was in the midst of singing “Wrecking Ball” by Miley Cyrus.

  Yelling erupted from the private office as Celia sang about never hitting hard as before and being wrecked. My mind flashed back to the first party Mom and I catered last week. It ruined The Bee Gees for me. Thank goodness I wasn’t a major Miley fan. There wasn’t much to ruin.

  The main room that had just been a cacophony of office party chaos went silent—except for the karaoke. I had a flashback to when I was a kid, and my parents fought. A quick glance around the office, and I could see by the downward cast eyes and slumped posture that most of the office felt the same way. That is, everyone except Wenling, who watched the scene as if it were one of the cable shows she and Mom watched when they rolled wontons. “So dramatic,” she whispered to Mom.

  “I hope we were right,” I said, worrying that there might have been a slight chance we’d fingered the wrong employee as the spy.

  “Yeah,” Mom said, which I hoped was more of a response to Wenling rather than me.

  “Why don’t you go to the van and bring up the garbage bags for cleanup, and more wet naps and paper towels?” Mom suggested.

  Glad to leave the tense atmosphere, I hustled out of the office, made a hard right, and headed to the double doors that led to the service entrance. My phone dinged. I figured it was Mom reminding me to get something out of the van or to give me more gossip. I hit the button to summon the freight elevator and checked my phone.

  It was a text from my soon-to-be ex, Robert: What’s up?

  Seriously! The man could teach a class in how to infuriate a woman in two syllables or less.

  As I exited the building and made my way to our van in the back lot, my brain bubbled with unproductive self talk of the “How dare he?” and “I haven’t heard from him in months!” variety. I couldn’t let Robert derail my new life, so I forced my angry brain to focus on the case. Had Mom and I come to the right conclusion? It would be awful if Rick wasn’t “the mole.”

  I heard a faint skipping click,
something like a piece of plastic hitting the ground behind me. I turned to check out what it might be, but didn’t see anything. Then, the fire alarm to the building sounded. I glanced at the building to see if there was smoke. No signs of fire. I figured it was another false alarm, grateful that I wasn’t inside this time. When it went off during our visit the day before yesterday, I’d had to hold my ears as we trudged down seventeen flights of stairs. My thighs were still sore.

  I turned back in the direction of the van. My foot skidded on a rock. I looked down at its sharp edges and size. An urge to kick it struck me. So I did. The satisfying quick scrape of the stone on the asphalt let me know I’d kicked it just right, and I watched it gain altitude and soar. That’s when I realized the rock was headed directly at our catering van. What the heck was I thinking?

  I’d parked the van quite a distance from the building, because I wanted to avoid the risk of another near-collision with the huge trucks that seemed to pull up to the loading dock. So our van was the only vehicle in this part of the back parking lot, and instead of kicking the darn rock in any other direction, I’d opted to punt for our windshield. The rock sailed toward the van, but veered to the left and hit the back of the sideview mirror with a hard clink. I exhaled with relief, thankful I didn’t crack our windshield.

  But my gratitude was short-lived. A stomach-turning crunch interrupted my thoughts.

  My gaze shot toward the noise and the first thing that caught my eye was an orange trash bag-like thing fluttering in the wind. I stepped closer to check it out, and I could see that underneath the bag, or more like wearing the bag, was a man. I could tell from the back of his head (long story) that it was Rick Heller. Or more pointedly—the dead body of Rick Heller.

  A part of me posited the idea that he’d panicked and jumped out the window to save himself from the fire. But deep in my gut, I worried it might be foul play. Yes, in my mind, I used the phrase “foul play.” Blame it on Wenling.

  This was the second dead body I’d seen since I’d moved back home with my mother.

  And yet, life was still better than living with Robert.

  I dialed 911 and told myself I’d stew on my collapsed marriage another time. From the looks of it, Mom and I might have a murder to solve—again.

  2

  Overtures and Obstacles

  In order to understand our investigation into Rick Heller’s death, it’s important to know why Barbara hired us in the first place. Plus, there was the added complication that Barbara might have killed Rick. This presented several problems. One: If our client is the killer, how do we get paid? (I know that’s cold, but I’m broke, and Mom’s financial situation is still a mystery to me.) And two: Did we provide the motive for murder? And if we had, did we finger the wrong employee?

  Now would be a good time to review our sleuthing.

  DJ, play that funky, flashback music...

  It was a Wednesday, and we had an appointment to meet Barbara Turing of Turing Tech in Pasadena in a little under an hour. She wanted us to look into the possibility that someone in her company was selling secrets to her competitors. You’d think we were private investigators, but we’re actually caterers. (Well, I can’t cook, but I serve the food and drive the van.) And Mom’s an actress still from time to time, when that work comes her way.

  Barbara is a fellow resident of Fletcher Canyon, where Mom and I live, and she overheard Mom solving a murder related to our first catering gig. I convinced Mom that a party would be the best cover for us to go in and snoop around (and a legal way for us to get paid), and she agreed.

  I hoped we’d get to meet Barbara on time. Mom’s agent called that morning with a last-minute audition. It was for a healthcare commercial, and Mom was supposed to play a sick woman getting care at a hospital. Being Filipina, Mom got calls to audition when a company wanted to be “diverse.”

  I glanced around the waiting area. When I was a kid, I thought Hollywood casting offices would be glamorous, but they looked like a doctor’s waiting room: uncomfortable chairs, office workers of indiscriminate responsibilities hiding to keep from having to talk to you, and neutral carpet. Except instead of magazines on the coffee table and sniffles, there was a healthy dose of snobbery and neurosis. I’d wanted to wait in the van, but Mom insisted I come inside with her.

  Mom was inside auditioning now. Laughter echoed into the waiting area. I could see the panicked look on the faces of her competition. Mom had been a featured extra on a long-running popular show in the late seventies and early eighties. I can’t mention the show, but let’s just say my Filipina mom played an awesome war-torn Korean. Casting directors loved to hear stories about her time with the stars of the show. Not to mention, Mom had her “sad face” that was epic in its ability to pull at anyone’s heartstrings. The other actors didn’t stand a chance.

  When one of the casting directors walked out with Mom, they were still laughing. “It’s great to see you again, Jo,” she said to my mother.

  I stood up and grabbed my purse. “Is this your daughter?” the casting director asked, looking me up and down.

  “She was the one I was pregnant with during that episode,” Mom said.

  I could tell the woman had hoped I’d be petite and “diverse”-looking like Mom. But I was half-white (courtesy of my dad) and plus-sized (courtesy of eating).

  “It’s a shame you two don’t look more alike. We get calls for mother/daughter work sometimes. Oh well,” she said with a sigh, and then went back into the casting room.

  I’d just been rejected for a non-existent part that I wasn’t even auditioning for. I’m glad I moved out of Hollywood and back to Fletcher Canyon. This town is tough.

  Mom spotted a woman she knew from a commercial she’d done two years ago and started a conversation. I pulled her away.

  “We’ve got to get going, Mom. We don’t want to be late,” I said as I hurried her to the door. Mom, like our new cat, does not like to be corralled, but this time she didn’t put up too much of a fuss. We were both excited to get to work on this next catering gig.

  Mom and I exited the elevator and headed to Sunset Boulevard. The casting office didn’t validate for parking, and there was no way Mom and I were going to pay twelve dollars an hour for garage parking. Despite my difficulty piloting our new catering van, I’d managed to parallel park at a meter a block and a half from the casting office. I glanced at my watch. We still had almost forty minutes to get to Pasadena. If traffic remained light, a big if in Los Angeles, we’d make it. Except when Mom and I reached our van, we discovered we’d been blocked in by an illegally-parked, silver BMW.

  I cut the wheel hard to the left, put the stick shift into what I hoped was reverse, and inched the van back. I’d driven compact automatic cars my entire life, and this catering van highlighted my limited driving skills. The side mirror reflected Mom on the sidewalk waving her hands that I had more room. For the millionth time in the week since I’d traded my Honda in for this darn thing, I mourned the loss of a rearview window.

  The van’s tires bumped against what I hoped was the curb. I cut the wheel the other direction, shifted into first, and eased (well, my version of eased) the van forward. The van stalled out. I took a deep breath and told myself to calm down. My neck and face warmed with my rising stress levels. Keep calm. I slipped the van into neutral, restarted, and looked into the side mirror. The piercing wail of a nearby car alarm shattered any hope of me remaining calm.

  I triple checked to make sure my feet were on the brakes. It’s impossible I hit a car. I wasn’t even moving. Or did I hit it when I was in reverse and there was some kind of time delay? I turned off the ignition, engaged the emergency brake, and hopped out to see what was going on.

  Mom stood by the car that blocked us in with her hands over her ears. She took one hand away from her ear and waved at me. I rushed over to her.

  “Mom, did I hit this car?” I asked, but I don’t think she heard me.

  “I think he’s coming,” she sai
d, pointing to a man about Mom’s age in a tie rushing over and hitting a button on his keychain repeatedly.

  A loud boop beep noise burped from the car, and the alarm shut off.

  “Did you just hit my car?” he said to me as he looked at our van.

  “No,” Mom said. “But since you’re here, can you back it up so we can get out?”

  The man glared at Mom and then inspected his car for damage. “If you didn’t back into my car, then how did the alarm go off?”

  “I pushed on your tire like this,” Mom said putting her metallic-bronze dress flats onto his tire and pushing it gently with her foot. The car rocked, and it set off his alarm.

  “Hey! Don’t do that!” the man said, snatching his keychain from his pocket and hitting the boop beep button.

  “The parking lady is coming, and you’re blocking the crosswalk,” Mom explained, pointing to the parking enforcement officer at the end of the street. “I thought I’d help you avoid a ticket by giving you our spot. Just back up so we can get out,” Mom said as she headed to the passenger door of the van. “Hurry!” she said to the man as she waved him to his car. “The lady is coming.”

  The guy looked down the street and saw Mom was right. Without a word, he hopped into his car, and Mom and I jumped into our van. He backed out of the way. I was able to reverse and pull out. Mom rolled down the window and waved to the man. I’ll be darned if he didn’t wave back with a smile.

  “Mom,” I said as I drove down the street. “Did you set his alarm off because parking enforcement was on the way?”