Free Death by Deep Dish Pie by Sharon Short

it The Curse Of Paradise —was a shocking revelation.
    â€œEnough!” Alan Breitenstrater bellowed, and charged to the middle of the stage.
    â€I apologize on behalf of my daughter for making a mess of this meeting. I had no idea she was coming. And I want to thank my fellow members of the Paradise Historical Society for letting me take advantage of this play meeting to call together members of the Chamber of Commerce and other town leaders. I know my secretary didn’t call you all until this afternoon—” Ah. That’s why I hadn’t heard about this. I was, blissfully, at Stillwater. For a second, my thoughts drifted back to Guy and Matilda Pumpkin—before my boyfriend started telling lies about his past and my town went cuckoo.
    â€œI called our town leaders here tonight,” Alan was saying, “because I know there has been some concern of late that the July Fourth celebrations have become too ‘branded,’ if you will, by the Breitenstrater name, and thus the lack of interest.”
    The crowd went very still and quiet. It was true, but no one was going to look Alan in the eye and agree—or even nod or murmur assent.
    â€œI want you to know,” Alan went on, “that I have a plan in mind to change all that—but I can’t share the details yet. I would encourage everyone to attend the pie-eating contest a week from tomorrow, next Sunday, at 2:00 P.M ., on the lawn of the Breitenstrater Pie Company. At that time I have a wonderful announcement to make that will certainly prove exciting for our celebration—as well as for the town of Paradise. Please be sure to be there. Encourage all of your employees and their families to come as well.”
    Now, at that, a murmur went up.
    â€œIn the meantime, I would ask anyone with ideas about how to improve our play attendance to please speak up.”
    â€œHow about we give out free balloons? Kids love balloons,” someone said. “Or, urn, Breitenstrater mini-pies.”
    â€œMaybe we could have first, second, and third prizes for the best floats,” someone else said. “The prizes could be Breitenstrater pies, of course.”
    I resisted the temptation to roll my eyes. Here was Alan Breitenstrater offering us a golden opportunity to reclaim our celebration, and everyone was sucking up to him, anyway.
    Cletus moved over by his brother. “I think my new play is quite sufficient to boost attendance,” he announced. “I will have my own announcement at the pie-eating contest about some details of the play—which will really stun everyone with what they reveal about our town’s history—as well as information about auditions, and—”
    â€œCletus, just shut up!” Alan hollered. “You will do nothing of the kind!”
    â€œYou can’t tell me what to do!” Cletus hollered back.
    â€œReally? Oh, I think I can—”
    This was awful. The Breitenstrater brothers—middle-aged men—were about to have a fight befitting the sibling rivalry of twelve-year-olds, and no one was going to stop them.
    But then several things happened that did, anyway.
    Someone screamed. “Oh my Lord! A rat just ran over my foot!”
    And Trudy, clutching her neck, screamed, “Slinky! Where’s Slinky! Everyone be careful—that’s not a rat!” Slinky was no longer attached to her neck. Or anywhere else on her person. The leash dangled down her back like some kind of weird braid, but there was no ferret hanging off the end.
    That’s when we all saw Slinky skittering up the backstage tattered curtains. Trudy ran to the curtains and was just about to nab Slinky by her tail—but then my Uncle Otis parted the curtains and clomped to center stage. The clomping scared Slinky, who skittered the rest of the way up the curtain and disappeared into the rafters. Trudy screamed.
    My Uncle Otis just stood in the middle of the stage, a confused,