Never Say Pie (A Pie Shop Mystery) Read Online Free

watched potential customers walk by.
    I assured them they were in the right place at the right time.
    “The fair has got to be full of concerned culinary adventurers,” Dave said. “People who care enough to buy and eat locally. I just hope there are enough of them around.”
    So far everything at the fair looked and tasted amazing. Who was this reporter and why hadn’t I seen him? Whoever he was, he had the world’s best job. Walking around tasting things and writing up how fabulous the Crystal Cove Food Fair was. That way for sure more people would come next week and by the end of the summer we’d all be rich and famous.
    “What kind of pies are you selling?” Bill asked.
    “Today I’ve got lemon meringue, blueberry, chocolate cream …”
    “Say no more,” he said holding his hand up. “Save me one. Any kind. I’ll be by before we close up to pick it up.”
    We shook hands and I decided that if I ran into Sam again I might casually invite him to a sausage dinner under the guise of helping local merchants by eating their products.
    Next my nose led me to a rotisserie chicken truck where the smoke wafted my way and the smell was mouth-watering. There was a line of customers waiting to buy the golden brown birds on the spit. I hoped Grannie and her chums wouldn’t mind waiting a little longer while I stood in line. When I got to the counter I asked why their chickens were better than any others. Despite the crowd, the woman whose nametag said Martha took a minute to explain.
    “First, they’re free-range chickens,” she said proudly. “Raised in barns but free to roam in the pastures outside. You won’t find any fat, flavorless, industrial-raised poultry on our farm.” The way she spat the words out made it clear what she thought of industrial chicken raising. “Sure, they cost you a little more, but they’re worth it. We believe you don’t just grow a chicken, you grow a relationship.”
    I stared at the birds rotating on the spit, their juices sizzling on the grill below and I wondered about what kind of relationship they had with the owner.
    “Happiest chickens you ever saw,” she continued. “That’s what I told that reporter.”
    The reporter again. I ought to get back in case he came to my booth.
    “They get all vegetarian diets, without additives,” Martha, the chicken lady, said. “They’re basted with butter, and seasoned with paprika, salt, and pepper. Try one. You’ll never eat another kind of chicken again.”
    How could I resist. I had to have one. All in the name of research I told myself. I had to find out what sold and what didn’t at the market. Now I’d definitely have to invite someone to dinner. This woman’s pitch was almost as good as Grannie’s. She too was using the new spatula tool to whack the chicken in two for those who only wanted to buy a half. No need to cut one in half for me, I had to have the whole succulent bird.
    Next I paused to take a sample of a hand-dipped chocolate caramel studded with sea salt from a woman selling tiny boxes of candy for exorbitant prices. I understood the philosophy. If it cost that much, it must be good.
    “These are wonderful,” I told the woman.
    “Glad you like them. You don’t remember me, do you?” she said.
    I smiled politely, trying to decide whether to fake it or not. No, I didn’t remember her, but she looked about my age and was wearing black tights, ballet shoes, and a black and white tunic. She must have had a friend like Kate because her hair and makeup were perfect.
    “Let’s see,” I said, “class of ninety-four, ninety-five … ?”
    “I was in your class,” she said. “I’m Nina Carswell. Or I was. I married Marty Holloway.”
    I stared at her in disbelief. Nina Carswell was what we called a dork in those days. Her hair, once lank and stringy was now cut in layers and streaked with blond. Her lips were full, her nose was pert, her thick glasses were gone and her eyebrows were shaped to perfection.