think I can have a pie on my shelves without knowing what’s in it.”
Wanda thought a discussion of ingredients was premature, but she shrugged. “Whiskey. Just a splash.”
“Is that so. And the spices?”
Wanda told her. At least she told her some of them. She could always plead a memory lapse later, but for now, she wasn’t ready to share every little secret.
“And what else did you bring?”
They followed the same routine with the other two pies. Frieda tasted, and questioned her. By the third pie, Wanda was getting suspicious. At one point Frieda excused herself and went into the back. She returned a few minutes later.
“The pies are fine,” Frieda said. “But I think I need to taste a few more before I commit. And I’d like to take these and pass them around my family, just to see if they think hiring you to bake for us would be a good idea. What else can you bring me?”
Wanda wasn’t about to let Frieda have her pies. Not until they had an understanding. She didn’t like the woman well enough, and worse, with every passing second she was growing more suspicious something was wrong.
She put the lid back on the carriers and removed them from the counter before Frieda could run off with them.
“I’m sorry, but I planned to take these over to the police station. My pies are a big hit with my husband’s buddies over there. What other kinds would you like to sample?”
A young woman with Frieda’s frizzy hair came out from the back, holding a sheet of paper in front of her. “Mom, is this supposed to be some kind of recipe for me to follow? Apple pie with real whiskey? We don’t have any whiskey on our shelves, that’s for sure, and you’re really going to spring for some?”
For the first time Frieda’s smile wobbled. She didn’t take her eyes from Wanda. “No, of course it’s not a recipe, you idiot. I just made a few notes to jog my memory when I talk to this lady again.”
“Sure looks like a recipe. Names of spices. Whiskey. How many apples. Sounds good. Sounds better than ours.” The young woman wandered back into the other room.
“I thought you asked too many questions,” Wanda said, gathering the pies up higher and closer to her chest.
“I told you I just need to know what you put in them if I’m going to sell—”
Wanda was getting angrier and angrier. “You’re not planning to sell my pies. You’re planning to steal my recipes! You even tried to steal these samples. Family my eyebrow! Bet when I walked out the door you’d have put them on those shelves of yours, professional kitchen or not! Well, guess again! I wouldn’t bake a pie for you if I was starving. Bet you wouldn’t pay me even a fraction of what they’re worth, either. And you know what? I figured out what you were up to, and I only told you a little and some of that was a lie. You won’t be able to duplicate my recipes no matter what you do, ’cause you’re a no-talent hack!”
“I didn’t ask you to come in here. I can make my own pies. My customers seem to like them just fine.”
“What customers? There hasn’t been a soul since I came in, and it’s lunchtime. People ought to be streaming in, buying something to go with their sandwiches, or picking up a treat for supper.” Wanda headed for the door. “Somebody ought to give you a run for your money. Palmetto Grove deserves real dessert for a change.”
The door tinkled loudly when she slammed it behind her.
The air outside smelled fresher and sweeter than the air in the bakery. She took a deep breath before she started back to her car, but she was steaming, and not because she was in the sun.
Under the anger, disappointment was blooming. She did two things really well. One was taking care of people and making them feel special. The other was baking pies. First she’d been fired as a server, just because she was past fifty. Now an overblown apple dumpling was trying to steal her pies. It seemed like there was some sort of eternal vendetta going on, but Wanda couldn’t figure out why. Nothing had changed on her end. She’d done her job well. She’d baked pies and been willing to offer them for sale at very little profit.
As if the Fates were conspiring to make a point, she