Death by Deep Dish Pie: Chapter 1

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Death by Deep Dish Pie

by Sharon Short

Chapter 1

Secrets have a way of taking on lives of their own.

That's because the true nature of secrets is that they don't want to be secret. They want to be revealed for what they really are: the truth.

And truth be told, secrets are a lot like stains. Take, say, a pair of work pants that are grease covered. You've got to face the mess and deal with it. (I recommend pre-treating grease stains with rubbing alcohol. Or just pouring a can of cola—I prefer Big Fizz—with your laundry detergent on your grease-stained clothes. Believe it or not, this works.) Or else you end up with a nasty stain that's even worse than the original mess.

Truth is like that. No matter how ugly it is, it's better to deal with it right away. Or else you end up with a nasty secret that's going to be harder to deal with than the truth.

Believe me, I know a lot about stains.

I'm Josie Toadfern, owner of Toadfern's Laundromat, the only laundromat in Paradise, Ohio. I'm a self-taught stain expert and proud of it. Best stain expert in all of Mason County. Maybe in all of Ohio. Maybe even in all of the United States of America.

And up until a month or so ago, I thought I was also an expert in everything there is to know about Paradise, Ohio. After all, how much can there be to know about a town of 2,617 in southern Ohio?

But that was early June, before Trudy Breitenstrater walked into my laundromat for the sixth time in a week, and I decided to take pity on her. In those last peaceful moments—before the bell dinged over my door and fate trounced in with a ferret, a frown, and a basket of black laundry—I wasn't thinking about secrets or truth at all.

For one thing, it was too hot—even with my ceiling fans and two big floor fans—to think about things like that.

For another, I was concentrating on helping the Widow Beavy, my only customer at that moment, with her favorite blouse for going to church at the Second Reformed Baptist Church of the Reformation, out on Sawmill Road.

Now I knew—because in a town like Paradise, you know these kinds of things whether you want to or not—that this blouse was real important to Mrs. Beavy. It was pale pink, with ruffles down the front, and lace all around the high-neck collar and the wrists, and faux-pearl buttons that Mrs. Beavy kept nice-looking with the occasional dab of pearl-pink nail polish (something I'd suggested to her.)

The blouse had been a birthday gift, five years ago, from Mr. Beavy, just two days before he died while mowing the cemetery behind the church. Mr. Beavy had a stroke, lost control of his riding lawn mower and plunged right on down the hill into the side of the Breitenstrater crypt—which holds all the Breitenstrater remains all the way back to the original Breitenstraters, who founded our town and started the Breitenstrater Pie Company, one of Paradise's major employers. The crypt was cracked and Mr. Beavy, God rest his soul, died on the spot. No one was ever sure which really came first, the stroke or the crack.

Anyhow, now Widow Beavy was in my laundromat, her hand quivering as she pointed at the pinkish-brown stain that bloomed smack dab in the center of where Mrs. Beavy's left bosom would, should she put on the blouse, turn the stain into an unfortunately-placed bull's eye.

"I thought I got it out," she said, tearfully. "At least, the stain was gone when I left for church last Sunday morning. I rinsed it out, knowing it would dry by the time I got to church. But then it reappeared right as we were singing 'Precious Redeemer,' and Betty Lou Johnson stared right at the spot, like maybe it was one of those images of Jesus that show up in the oddest places—you know, like in the cellophane covering the top of a Jell-o salad?"

Personally, I've never seen Jesus in a Jell-o salad, but then I go to the Paradise United Methodist church (out on Plum Street), which might account for my lack of vision.

"You sure this stain is blood?" I asked. Mrs. Beavy had confessed to me that she'd had a nose bleed and had rinsed the blood out of the blouse in cold water, just like she was supposed to. But the stain looked too pinkish to be blood, which usually dries with a brownish tinge.

"I'm sorry dearie, what did you say?" Mrs. Beavy was now staring up at the television mounted on the wall near the door. I pride myself in offering several such amenities, besides of course drop-off laundering services, a delivery service, and twelve washers and dryers—two of each in the jumbo size. I have well-stocked pop and snack machines, a kiddie area with a plastic picnic table and coloring books and paper and washable markers (I'd had crayons out until Tommy Gettlehorn had tossed a whole pack into the dryer with his daddy's prison guard uniforms), a shelf of paperback books, and a table set up with free coffee in the cool months and a thermos of free ice water in the hot months.

Earlier the TV had been on As Our Lives Bloom (Mrs. Beavy's favorite soap opera) but was now on the afternoon news. There was yet another report about a large company that had secretly over-promised what it could deliver so that an even bigger company would buy it out so that stock holders would make a ton of money. In the end, the company had to lay off workers before finally going bankrupt—with all the workers, except, somehow, the top management, losing all of their retirement money. Not the kind of thing that could happen in Paradise, Ohio.

So I thought.

But then, I didn't think there were any secrets brewing in Paradise, Ohio, either.

I snapped off the TV so Mrs. Beavy could stay focused. I patted her gently on the hand to get her attention.

"Mrs. Beavy, I was asking you about the origin of this stain. It sure would help if you could remember exactly what caused it."

"Oh, I—I told you... I had a nose bleed..." Mrs. Beavy looked away from me. "Oh, maybe that wasn't it. I—I really don't remember now."

Now, Mrs. Beavy is 80-something, so the kind thing to do would be to believe her. But Mrs. Beavy is also the sharpest woman I know. For one thing, she is the founder and president of the Paradise Historical Society, the holdings of which are housed in the former apartment over her garage, the second story of her home (over on Gooseberry Lane), and in her walk-up attic. People have been donating their "historical" items (their Aunt Matilda's old cast-iron iron, or their Mamaw's wedding dress, for example) to her for more than 30 years, ever since the last of Mrs. Beavy's five kids grew up and left home and she decided she needed something interesting to occupy her time and that that something would be preserving the history of Paradise. And if someone came up to her and said, "Mrs. Beavy, twenty-five years ago I donated my Great-Great-Grandpa's Civil War uniform to you and I'd like to see it again," Mrs. Beavy would know right where it was stored in the various places in her house-historical-society-combo.

And now I was supposed to believe she couldn't recall the source of her days-old boob-centered stain? Well, I didn't.

But what kind of secret could the Widow Beavy be keeping about this stain? The Mrs. Beavy I knew—the dear old lady who ran the Paradise Historical Society, who faithfully feather-dusted Mr. Beavy's graveside plastic flower display every Saturday, who was the mother of five, grandmother of eleven, and great-grandmother of seventeen—that Mrs. Beavy didn't have secrets.

Still, patchy redness was now coursing up Mrs. Beavy's neck and over her face, right to the white roots of her top-of-the-head bun. And she was looking at me with teary, pleading, blue eyes, and saying, "Josie, can't you just get the stain out for me?"

I sighed. The truth was, until Mrs. Beavy got her stain-source secret off her chest, I probably wouldn't be able to get the stain itself off her, well, chest.

Still, I couldn't quite bring myself to say that to dear, old Mrs. Beavy.

See how easily truth becomes a secret?

Instead I said, "Mrs. Beavy, if you don't mind, why don't I keep your blouse for a few days. I have some stain books I can consult, and..."

The door to my laundromat opened. And in walked Trudy Breitenstrater for the sixth time in one week. Again, all dressed in black—black T-shirt, shorts, hair (blonde being her natural color), lipstick, nail polish, and eyeliner. Toting, again, a laundry basket of black clothing. And balancing on her shoulder one ferret named Slinky, who was wearing a tiny harness that connected to a chain that in turn connected to a black leather choker around Trudy's neck. Thank God, mostly the ferret slept, although every now and then it scampered to the top of Trudy's head like a retro Daniel Boone cap come to life.

Goth comes to Paradise.

Now, in a small town, many things are Automatically Known. Like who is cheating, who is lying, who is purely sweet, and who is just pretending. And the history of prominent families, like the Breitenstraters.

But in telling about a small town, some things just have to be explained.

So here's the scoop on the Breitenstraters. Clay and Gertrude Breitenstrater, along with the Schmidts and Foersthoefels, were the original founders of Paradise back in the 1790s, deciding to settle at this particularly lovely spot in the woods near a large stream, instead of going further west as they'd planned. The Breitenstraters' descendents since then have been few, but successful, in that back in the early 1920s Thaddeus Breitenstrater the Second decided to start a pie company using recipes handed down through the generations from Gertrude Breitenstrater.

Now, Thaddeus II's great-grandson, Alan, owns the pie company (one of the few major employers near Paradise, besides the Masonville State Prison), and is the richest man in Paradise. He lives in the mansion Thaddeus built. He drives a Jaguar. Lots of Paradisites—including my Aunt Clara Foersthoefel, God rest her soul—have worked for him, relying on his pie company to feed, clothe and shelter their families. Paradisites all but bow whenever a Breitenstrater walks by. (Trust me—any other kid comes into my laundromat with a ferret bungee-corded to her neck, she—and her ferret—are getting tossed out.)

Sounds like a one-man paradise, doesn't it?

Truth be told, Alan Breitenstrater was miserable.

First there was the matter of his younger brother, Cletus. Cletus was—behind the Breitenstraters' backs, of course—the town joke. Everyone knew he was flakier than a Breitenstrater pie crust, which is why his position at the Breitenstrater Pie Company—Vice President, Product Development—was in title only, a title Alan granted to keep Cletus happy. Meanwhile, Cletus lived in the Breitenstrater mansion and explained to anyone who would listen his Theory of Why Utopias Should Really Work And Why Their Failure Is A Government Conspiracy (based, he claimed, on years of research), and tried to keep his only son Doug, who went by the nickname Dinky, out of trouble. And Cletus always had a new pet theory, a sort of side helping to Utopias, that he loved to tell people about. The latest: his newfound belief in a natural wonder drug, ginseng tea.

So, all of his life, Alan had been making excuses for his flaky brother Cletus.

But far worse than that was what had happened six years before. Alan's oldest child and only son, Jason, had been riding home after his college graduation, with Dinky at the wheel. Dinky took a curve out on Mud Lick Road and turned a two-seater sports car (Alan's graduation gift to Jason) into a crumpled pillbox in a ditch. Somehow, Dinky walked away without a scratch. Jason died instantly.

Alan withdrew from everyone, even Trudy, who would have been eleven at the time, and his wife, Anna. Within six months, Anna proclaimed she needed a completely new start on life—she didn't even want Trudy with her. Alan and his wife Anna divorced. Anna moved to St. Louis, leaving Trudy with Alan. Six months after that, Alan remarried Geri Luggenbot—who was my age at the time, 23-years-old, and half Alan's age. Behind their backs, everyone called Geri—who I'd known at East Mason County High School, and who had come from a poor, large family—a gold-digger. I'd known Dinky and Jason, too. But I hadn't hung out with any of them.

Meanwhile, Cletus decided to start a side business based on his long term interest in things that burn, pop, or smoke: the Fireworks Barn. Right on Mud Lick Road. Right across from the spot where his son, Dinky, had walked away from a crash that he'd caused that had killed Alan's only son Jason.

Now, when Trudy Breitenstrater walked into my laundromat that afternoon—when Trudy went anywhere—she dragged in with her the invisible, but heavy, mantle of Breitenstrater family history. Whenever anyone in Paradise saw Trudy, they saw that history, and before she could even say a word, she saw in their eyes what they were thinking: poor-little-rich-kid-Trudy-growing-up-with-all-that-sadness-and-her-daddy-neglects-her-don't-you-know.

I reckon that would be enough to make any 17-year-old girl wear a ferret.

That afternoon, something else was dragging along behind Trudy: Dinky. Rumor was that he'd gotten fired from yet another job, this one at some big company back in Chicago, and was back in town on a visit, his old college roommate and buddy Todd Raptor in tow. At least, that's how Todd was introduced. Since everyone found it hard to believe that Dinky would have such a good, long-term friend, another, slightly nastier rumor was that Todd was having an affair with Geri, Trudy's young-enough-to-be-her-big-sis step-mom.

Now, Dinky was hollering. "Trudy, for God's sake, what are you doing in here? Who was the kid who dropped you off? For God's sake, we have a maid and a laundry room!"

Which was true. The Breitenstrater mansion's laundry room was probably bigger than my entire laundromat plus the two-second story apartments over it. (I live in one and have the other for rent.)

And I admit, I'd been wondering why Trudy had been coming here every day for the past six days to do a basket of black laundry. We'd chatted every now and then about a few safe things, like what she was reading—mostly Camus and Sartre—and what I was reading—mostly mysteries or books on chemistry or cleaning or textiles. (To really be a stain expert, you have to understand such things.) But I'd never asked her why she was doing her laundry here, instead of having it done at her house. It was, I sensed, a secret she wasn't ready to set free.

With his next comment, Dinky went too far. He glanced around my laundromat, a look of distaste growing on his face, and he said, "God, Trudy, what are you doing in a dump like this? You don't belong here! You know your dad wants you to stay away from town. Why do you think he's been sending you off to private school?"

I went over to Trudy and started helping her load black jeans and shorts and T-shirts, most of which were too big for her, into a washer. And I looked up at Dinky's piggy eyes—Dinky is 6 foot 5 and well over 260 pounds—and said, "Trudy is welcome here anytime she likes. And as for the condition of my establishment—well, your Uncle Alan has been using the services of this laundromat for 20 years to have uniforms and linens from your pie company laundered. I'm surprised you don't know that."

Dinky started turning red at the collar of his hunter green polo shirt. He opened his mouth, about to tell me I was fired, I reckoned, when Mrs. Beavy spoke up.

"And stop taking the good Lord's name in vain, young man," she said. "I've been working with your father on a special project for the Paradise Historical Society—it's a secret for now. He's a dear man, and I'm sure he wouldn't approve of your language."

At that, Dinky finished turning red all the way up to his receding hairline. And we all stared at Mrs. Beavy. She was working on a secret project with Cletus? And she thought he was a... dear?

Dinky turned, stalked out. Through the big pane window that fronts my laundromat, we could see bits of his blue sports car (rumored to be the fifth one he'd owned) through the legs of the toad on a lily pad I've painted on my window, right below my slogan: Toadfern's Laundromat: Always A Leap Ahead Of Dirt.

We heard his door slam, then his tires squeal as he sped off.

Trudy looked at Mrs. Beavy, then me. "Thank you," she said.

For a moment, her face brightened. Then she withdrew into a scowl and, as her wash load started churning, she sank into a chair and opened her book, Thomas More's Utopia. Hmmm. Must be Uncle Cletus's influence, I thought.

I went back over to Mrs. Beavy. "Did you want me to take that blouse for you?"

Mrs. Beavy was gazing thoughtfully at Trudy. "What, dear? Oh, yes. Please do." She handed me her pink blouse and kept glancing up at Trudy as she finished folding up the rest of her laundry. Other customers had also begun staring at Trudy and Slinky, when they thought Trudy wasn't looking.

I whispered to Mrs. Beavy what I'd whispered to them. "Don't worry. Trudy's ferret has been demusked. And it's never gotten loose or anything…"

"No, no, that's not the problem," Mrs. Beavy said, squinting over at Trudy. "There seems to be something wrong with her right eye."

And in fact, just as Mrs. Beavy said that, Trudy grabbed at her eye, which caused Slinky to jump, run over Trudy's head and reposition itself on her left shoulder, while giving a little squeal.

"Her eye is fine," I reassured Mrs. Beavy. "It's just that her earring keeps popping off."

Mrs. Beavy looked confused. "Then why isn't she whacking at her ear instead of at her eye?"

I sighed. "She wears a clip-on earring on her right eyebrow because she's not allowed to get her eyebrow pierced."

"She doesn't want to wear earrings on her ears?"

"No, on the eyebrow. It's a style statement."

"Then why doesn't she have them on both eyebrows?" Mrs. Beavy whispered at me. Now Trudy, having figured out that yet again I was trying to explain her to a customer, was glaring at us as best she could, given that she was also pulling her right eyebrow forward while trying to re-clip on a silver loop earring.

"I guess just having one eyebrow pierced—or clipped—is also a style statement. Now, about your blouse," I started, trying to get Mrs. Beavy's attention back on laundry.

But it was too late. Mrs. Beavy was already walking with a half-toddling gait—a recent change that was a result of her having fallen on her porch steps the past winter—over to Trudy.

Oh, Lord. I didn't want Mrs. Beavy to lecture Trudy about her fashion sense. And I didn't want Trudy to be rude to Mrs. Beavy. Truth be told, I liked both of them.

Trudy stood up. Even slumping, she was 5 foot 9. Mrs. Beavy faced her, looking up. Even trying to straighten, she was barely 5 foot 1.

They looked like the oddest of odd couples: a lanky, teenaged Goth queen sporting black dyed spiky hair and a live ferret. And a tiny, eighty-something Historical Society queen in a flowered dress and a beauty-salon-set for her dandelion-seed-puff of white hair.

"Josie here tells me you like to wear earrings on your eyebrow, but just one," Mrs. Beavy said.

"Yeah," Trudy said. "So?"

Slinky stared at the Widow Beavy. My heart thudded. I knew Mrs. Beavy was on medicine for high blood pressure. Was it strong enough to help her heart take the shock if Slinky decided to bungee jump down from Trudy's shoulder to, say, Widow Beavy's head?

But Mrs. Beavy didn't seem to notice the ferret. "Well, dear," she was saying, "I was just thinking about how my children keep nagging me about clearing out things. Maybe they're right. Anyway, I have a box of widowed earrings, waiting for their mates to show back up. But it seems that they never do."

Mrs. Beavy sighed deeply, in great sympathy for those single earrings who awaited their mates and never quite accepted that they were truly alone.

"So I was thinking," Mrs. Beavy went on, "maybe you'd like them."

Trudy stared at Mrs. Beavy so hard that if the earring had been back on her eyebrow, it surely would have popped off and fallen right into Mrs. Beavy's tuft of white hair.

Mrs. Beavy misunderstood Trudy's incredulous stare. "Now, don't worry, dearie," she said, patting Trudy on the forearm. "I won't get offended if I see you in here and you're not wearing one of my old earrings. You'd just be doing me a favor by taking them. I can't throw things out on the curb—it's just never been my way-and I can't think of anyone else who'd want widowed earrings."

Trudy finally found her voice. "You—you're giving me your old earrings? To wear on my eyebrow?"

"Just the ones without a mate, dear." Mrs. Beavy tilted her head the other way, studying Trudy. "You know, I have one with a fake emerald in a dangly silver setting that would really bring out the green of your eyes. Well, of your right eye. Seeing as how you'd be wearing it on your right eyebrow. Or do you ever switch sides?"

Trudy shot me a look—which clearly asked, is she serious or is she making fun of me?

I smiled at Trudy. "That's a right generous offer Mrs. Beavy is making you."

"And a red one. I have this one bright ruby-colored one I think you'll really like," Mrs. Beavy was drifting, not paying any attention now to either Trudy or me. "Why, I got that one to go with that red dress I wore back when I met Mr. Beavy at the canteen back in 1942. It had fringe, that dress did, and a hem that went all the way up to my knees, and when I snuck out to meet Mr. Beavy in secret..."

"Um, I'd love the earrings, really! Thank you!" Trudy said, apparently not wanting the details on what happened more than 60 years ago between Mr. and Mrs. Beavy. Personally, I was curious to hear the truth behind this secret.

But Mrs. Beavy said, "Well, that's just fine dear. If you don't mind walking home with me now—I just live one street behind here, and I could use some help carrying my laundry basket—I'll go ahead and give the earrings to you while we're thinking of it."

She toddled back over to the table where she'd been folding laundry.

"I'll keep an eye on your laundry for you," I said to Trudy.

"Uh, thanks," Trudy said.

Now, I could have left it at that—the widow and the Goth girl, becoming friends. That would have been nice and sweet and simple.

And maybe what happened later—the murders, the explosion, my Uncle Otis Toadfern getting arrested, and everything else—maybe all of that wouldn't have happened. Or at least, maybe I wouldn't have been involved when it did happen.

But I was caught up in the bonding moment the Widow Beavy, Trudy, Slinky and I had just shared. I'm a real sucker for such things.

So I said, "Hey, Trudy, before you go off with Mrs. Beavy, I need to ask you a favor. Could you watch my laundromat tomorrow? It's pretty simple—I'll leave you a list of the orders people will be picking up—and I'll pay you. Five bucks an hour OK?"

She gave me a hard look, and for a second I thought maybe five bucks an hour sounded like an insult to a Breitenstrater. Then she said, "Why?"

"It's the annual family picnic over at Stillwater tomorrow. And I need to be there with Guy."

I didn't need to explain the rest to Trudy. Like I said, Paradise is a small town. Everyone knows my cousin Guy is fifteen years older than me, is more like a brother than a cousin, has autism, and lives at Stillwater Home (so named on account of the nearby Stillwater River), fifteen miles north of Paradise.

I reckon all of us in a small town trail around our invisible mantles of family history.

"No—why do you want me to help you?" Trudy asked.

I shrugged. "Just thought you might want to."

I started to turn away, but then Trudy said, "Wait. I'll—um—I'll do it, but not for five bucks an hour."

"That's what I can afford, Trudy."

She grinned. "No, I want something else that won't cost you anything. But it has to be a secret."

It was my turn to give her a hard look.

"Nothing bad," she said. "Just secret."

And she whispered the secret of what she wanted in my ear, and I hesitated, just for moment, but then thinking of Guy and the picnic and not really understanding yet how secrets yearn to be set free as truth, I agreed, as Mrs. Beavy toddled over, chirping, "Are you ready to get your widowed earrings, dear? Or would they be brow-rings..."