Free Never Say Pie (A Pie Shop Mystery) by Carol Culver

eat.”
    I stifled what my response would have been— Well, what are you here for? Instead I said, “Well then how about something to take home like a bourek or an empanada?” I wrapped a crisp bourek in a special tissue paper and held it out.
    He studied it carefully. Either he’d never seen one before or he was a true aficionado of Middle Eastern cuisine. Then he said “Thanks,” and actually ate it while he stood in front of my booth watching me talk a woman into buying the last Strawberry Cream Pie from my portable cooler.
    “The strawberries are organic and picked locally,” I said. “They’re so sweet I hardly had to use any sugar.”
    “How many will it serve?” she asked.
    “That depends,” I said. “Six large pieces or twelve slivers suitable for dieters.”
    “Dieters? I never invite dieters to my house. It looks so good I could eat the whole thing right now.” She sighed. “But I won’t.”
    “I admire your restraint,” I told her, sliding the pie into a box.
    When the woman left, I swallowed my pride and apologized to Sam for being snippy the night before. “I shouldn’t have said I wasn’t sorry Heath was murdered. It must have sounded heartless.” I was hoping he’d say, Hanna, you’re definitely NOT heartless, but he didn’t.
    He said, “You’re not the only one.”
    I waited hoping he’d elaborate, tell me who else was glad Heath was gone out of their lives. I could imagine everyone who Heath had criticized was on that list, but who else? He didn’t say. What he did say was, “That was an outstanding boureka, best I’ve had since I left San Francisco.”
    “Was it at that little place out on Geary Street that made the best Mediterranean food? I loved that shop. I don’t know how they did it. But I’m determined to find out. So in between traditional pies I keep trying something new. Grannie thinks I’m crazy for deviating from her old standards, but making the same apple pie every fall gets boring.”
    “It was a place called Aziza,” he said. “With hand-woven carpets on the walls.”
    “That’s the one. I used to go there for the stuffed grape leaves and the dolmah.”
    “So did I.”
    I looked at him and I wondered how we’d missed each other. Was it by minutes? Or was it by years? Maybe it was fate. We were not meant to meet again until now. But why? He propped his arm against the post that held up the sides of my booth as if this was nothing but a casual visit by old friends hanging out together at the Food Fair.
    I didn’t understand. Was he on duty or not? Was this an official visit or what? Had he caught the murderer and now he was taking a break? Whatever it was, it was a big change from the way he’d acted last night. And a welcome one.
    “I’m surprised I never saw you there,” he said. “And you’re surprised I ever ate anything but donuts.”
    I shook my head. “If you did, you wouldn’t be in such good shape now.” Then I bent over to brush a non-existent smudge from the counter so he couldn’t catch me staring lustfully at his body. “Were you a cop then?” I asked. I thought I’d slip in a personal question when he wasn’t on guard in hopes of uncovering something from the mysterious middle part of Sam’s life. I knew about his high-school years and I knew about his small-town police chief career, but not much about what happened in between except for an incident where his partner was killed. Would he ever tell me the whole story?
    “No, I wasn’t,” he said. “What were you doing besides eating boureks?”
    “I had a job. I went to work, I came home, and I hung out with friends. That’s my story. What’s yours?” I asked.
    “Same,” he said.
    Just when I was about to give up on his lack of communication skills, Lindsey and Tammy came by on break from their booth, each clutching loaves of their bread under their arms.
    “Sam,” Tammy said, batting her eyelashes at him just like she did in high school, “any luck finding