Magic Lies and Deadly Pies

  Magic, Lies, and Deadly Pies

  A NOVEL

  Misha Popp

  To everyone working to dismantle the pastry-archy in their own way

  Chapter One

  The first time I killed a man with a pie, it was an accident.

  But only the first.

  That was a lot of pies ago, and this is most definitely the on-purpose kind.

  It’s not fancy, but it doesn’t have to be. It’s just a buttery Oreo-crumb crust filled with rich peanut butter mousse, drizzled with salted chocolate ganache and dusted with crushed peanut brittle.

  Okay, maybe it’s a little fancy.

  I can’t help it.

  The pie is tucked into a custom wooden carrier with Pie Girl burned in a looping script above a silhouette of a steaming pie. The box is absolutely adorable, received on barter at last year’s farmers’ market, and its elderly maker would probably die if he knew where I was bringing it.

  Which he never will.

  No one knows I’m here, parked in my dad’s old truck across the street from the Sigma Kap house, which is less because I’m stealthy and more because I’ve gotten used to not telling people what I’m doing. Seven years of living alone will do that to a person.

  I perk up as the front door opens and two guys come out, laughing and shoving each other, both laden with bulging gym bags and protein shakes. They drop onto the sagging front steps, toss their bags to the ground, and simultaneously pull out their phones like some sort of modern-day synchronized dance act.

  Neither is the one I’m after.

  I check the dashboard clock and swallow a curse. Tomorrow starts the farmers’ market season, and I’ll be baking all night if these piss-gibbons don’t leave soon.

  Plus I don’t want the peanut butter mousse to get too soft.

  I’m not strictly opposed to marching up the steps between them, but I’d prefer not to. Pie has a way of making people social, and this isn’t a pie I want people interested in.

  The booming thump of bass from an approaching car vibrates the truck’s windows as the two guys stand and gather their things. Finally.

  They climb into the car, and it’s all I can do not to fly out of the truck. Now that it’s go time, my heart is racing and I feel exposed. So instead of rushing, I take five minutes to scroll through the articles I have saved on my phone.

  Kevin Beechum: It Wasn’t Rape

  Victim Impact Statement Leaves Court in Tears

  Light Sentence for Turnbridge Baseball Star Angers Many

  Slap on the Wrist for Turnbridge Baseball Hero

  Kevin Beechum ‘Thrilled’ With Outcome, Says Justice Served

  Judge’s Ruling Sparks Outrage

  Anna Hargrave Breaks Silence: Light Sentence a Sign of ‘Dangerous Things to Come’

  Kevin Beechum deserves this pie.

  I hop out of the truck and smooth the floral fabric of my dress. It’s one of my Nana Fleur’s creations, full skirted and fitted at the waist, stitched together with her own version of the Ellery family magic, a special blend of self-confidence and courage sewn into each seam. I can practically feel the threads humming with it as I heft the pie box by its pink strap and set off toward the house.

  For a split second, I consider leaving the pie on the Welcome Bitches doormat, but I don’t—for two reasons. First, I’m not giving up the box.

  I ring the doorbell.

  Second, I want him to know who it’s from.

  The door opens to reveal Kevin Beechum, bare-chested and sleepy-eyed the pungent funk of cannabis wafting out around him.

  Perfect.

  I paste a cheery smile on my face and tilt the box so he can see the logo on top. “Hi, I’m Daisy, the Pie Girl. You were entered into a drawing for a free pie, and I’m pleased to say you’ve won.”

  He scratches at his naked chest. “Seriously? I don’t remember entering anything like that.”

  I up the wattage of the smile. “Seriously. It’s a weekly promotion, and anyone could’ve put your name in. It’s like having a secret admirer in pie form.”

  He grins that lazy grin that has charmed so many lawyers and reporters. “Sweet. What kind?”

  I slide the lid off so he can see. “Peanut butter and chocolate.”

  “Oh fuck yeah,” he says. “That’s my favorite.”

  I want to say I know, but I don’t. It was a detail I’d picked up while researching him, part of a Meet the Team Q&A the campus paper did. Favorite candy: Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. It was too easy.

  “It’s a new recipe,” I say, and even though I’ve made peanut butter chocolate pie a hundred times, it’s not a lie. This particular version is new. “If you want to try it now, I’d love to hear what you think.”

  “Sure, come on in.” He steps back to let me in and leers as I step through. I feel his eyes do that thing, the up-and-down assessment like my body is a racehorse he might bet on.

  I swallow my disgust and keep smiling. After all, guys are always telling us to smile. Truth is, they should be really nervous when we do.

  Every surface of the kitchen has been taken over by piles of crusty dishes and empty beer cans, so I clear a place on the scratched table. He crowds me as I pull the pie out of the box. I should be scared of him, but I’m not, even as he presses up against my back. The urge to elbow him in the balls is real, though.

  “Do you have a knife? I’ll cut you a slice.” I keep my voice flirty and light, airy as my dress.

  “Maybe that isn’t what I want a slice of anymore.” His breath is fetid against my ear. I roll my eyes. This fucker has no idea.

  With a giggle, I spin away from him. My skirt twirls around my legs. A dance of death.

  “Maybe it’s what you want a slice of first.” I wink at him, and his lips stretch into a lecherous grin. I want to slap it off, but I don’t. My eyes land on a battered knife block that’s sure to be cultivating more bacteria than a CDC research lab. Knife blocks are utterly disgusting, but beggars can’t be choosers.

  Besides, it’s not like I’m eating any of the pie.

  “I like this housewife routine,” he says, leaning on the table and letting his eyes wander. “Seriously. Are there more of you? You do parties?”

  I pluck a water-spotted chef’s knife from the block, test its edge against my thumb. Duller than the dude in front of me.

  No matter.

  “It’s just little old me,” I say. I slide the knife into the pie, and the layers of mousse and crust give way easily beneath the wide blade.

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Probably for the best.” I hold the slice of pie out, the cookie crust firm enough to support the slice without a plate.

  “That looks amazing,” he says.

  “It’s to die for.”

  He doesn’t take the slice from me or get a plate, simply leans in and bites it in half. Crumbs rain down onto the floor as he chews.

  I hold my breath, waiting to see if the effect is immediate. These pies are tricky sometimes.

  He groans around the mouthful of chocolate and peanut butter, and his blue eyes roll upward. “Holy shit,” he says after swallowing. “That’s fucking bomb.”

  He staggers to the fridge and pulls out a half-empty gallon of milk and pops the top. He chugs it, drops it on the table near the pie, and rifles around in a drawer until he finds a fork.

  “Definitely a cheat day,” he says. I want to take a picture of him, standing there half-naked with a pie in one hand and a fork in the other, milk dotting his upper lip. A souvenir of sorts. But I don’t. I never do.

  He eats like he’s starving, but three-quarters of the way through the small pie, he starts to slow. “The pie coma is real.” He drops into a cha
ir at the table and stabs another bite. “But it’s like I have to finish it.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” I say, and some part of me even means it. At its core, baking pie is about making people happy. The world can be going to complete shit, but a freshly baked pie is a reprieve, however slight. Even these pies.

  “I’m gonna need to nap for like a week,” he says. “I thought sugar was supposed to make you hyper. I feel like I could die, but in a good way. Do you have a store or something where I can get more of these?”

  His words are slow and slurring, and I know it’s almost time. I say, “This was one of a kind.”

  “You could make a fortune on that.” He nods drunkenly. “A fortune.”

  That’s the irony of these pies. The ends are usually, although not always, like this: peaceful and happy and satiated.

  The very opposite of what is deserved.

  “Would you like to go lie down?” I ask.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  I take his arm and guide him up from the table. He leans into me, mumbling incoherently, as I guide him to the living room. I don’t like leaving them in kitchens. Dining rooms are okay, beds and bathrooms too, but kitchens are sacred. Even the gross ones.

  He collapses onto the sofa like a felled tree. His breathing is shallow now, but he is content.

  I kneel down beside him. He doesn’t deserve content.

  “Kevin,” I say. “Kevin, try to look at me.”

  His eyes flutter open, find mine.

  “That’s it. Pay attention. Your heartbeat is slowing down now. That’s from the pie.” His face contorts in fear, but I hold a hand up. “No, shh, there’s nothing you can do. Just relax into it. But the pie, Kevin—you weren’t a random winner. This is important. It was a special pie, just for you. Courtesy of Anna Hargrave.”

  Chapter Two

  Going to church is weird for me, and not just because I kill people with pie. It’s more that I can’t think of a worse place to hold support group meetings.

  Seriously. Most of these groups promote themselves as secular, or at least nondenominational, yet they hold their meetings in church basements because, ostensibly, they’re cheap. They’re also depressing as shit.

  It’s insulting because, really, if you’re at a low enough point in your life that you’re showing up to tell a group of strangers every bad thing that’s happened to you, chances are you’ve given up on God by then. And if you haven’t, you need more help than a support group.

  The domestic violence group at Saint Stan’s is my favorite. I know that sounds weird, but it’s a big group in the city, and the members are constantly changing. I’ve found this is true with most domestic violence groups, but Stan’s in particular.

  The gathering is usually big enough to hide in, which makes it good hunting ground. I learned the hard way that small-town meetings are only good for dropping off strength pie donations. Staying to observe when there are less than ten people in the room is a recipe for having to contribute, and the only thing I care to contribute is dessert.

  I’m not myself when I come to meetings. Instead of my usual froofy dresses, I wear baggy jeans and oversized hoodies. I put on makeup, but not to look nice. I smudge it under my eyes so I look more tired than I am. I leave my hair down, something I never do during the day, and comb a bit of shortening through it so it hangs lank and greasy around my face. I become invisible, save for the pies.

  I bring cutie pies, miniature bakes the size of large cookies, which I leave in a plain white box on the refreshments table. The flavors rotate, but they’re universally cheerful: raspberry lemon, cherry vanilla, triple-berry. I cut starbursts of steam vents in the top like sand dollars and sprinkle them with piles of crunchy Demerara sugar. Way more than most people need, because these aren’t most people. These people need the extra.

  Every single pie gets taken, every time. If they’re not eaten, they’re squirreled away into purses and pockets, wrapped in paper towels to be nibbled on later or shared with children.

  When people ask what the secret ingredient is that makes them so addictive, I shrug and say I don’t know.

  But I do.

  It’s not the vanilla bean or the dash of almond extract. It’s not the double dose of sugar or the European butter.

  It’s power.

  The pies for these meetings, regardless of flavor, are infused with as much strength and hope as I can cram into each one.

  I have no way of knowing for sure, not without getting super stalky about it, but I like to think the pies are responsible for the evolving cast of members. My goal is for them to eat enough that they build up an excess of mental strength and can get away from their situations. I know it’s not always that simple, but it can be, sometimes. Of course, once there was a woman who was particularly smitten with a batch of cinnamon peach cutie pies who ended up taking a frying pan to her abusive husband’s head, but that was extreme. She’d wanted to do that long before she ever tasted my pie.

  And if the pie pushed her over the edge, well, good on me.

  The chairs are set up in concentric circles, spiraling out to fill the room. Many are already occupied. I choose a spot by the door, on my own, where I can watch.

  It’s funny how people’s bodies can tell you more than their words. If I didn’t have a higher purpose, it would feel wrong being here, taking in all this pain and suffering like some sort of vampire. But I have a cause.

  It’s the ones who don’t talk that worry me most.

  The ones who are talking are safer. They’re articulating, to themselves as much as to the room, that there is a problem. There’s a reason the cliché says the first step to solving a problem is admitting you have one.

  It’s the silent ones, like the woman across the room who hasn’t raised her eyes from the floor a single time since she sat down, that I worry about.

  It’s probably her first time. It’s the first time I’ve seen her, for sure, because I would remember someone that striking. She’s different than most of the women here. Younger, for one. Maybe midtwenties, hardly older than me. She’s dressed well in a high-collared pinstripe blouse tucked into a navy pencil skirt. Her highlighted hair is swept into a neat chignon, and small pearl earrings dot her lobes. She could be sitting in a work meeting except that her high-heel-clad feet are crossed too tightly at the ankle and her clasped hands are not as still as they appear. She’s using a single manicured thumbnail to rake into the web of her opposite thumb—small movements but enough to leave crimson furrows in their wake.

  One foot twitches back and forth like a manic metronome beneath her chair.

  The group leader, an aging therapist who has embraced her hippie persona wholeheartedly, welcomes everyone to the meeting and opens the floor for sharing.

  As women stand to share their struggles and triumphs of the week, I watch Pinstripe. Her angular jaw is set like concrete. Beneath it a fog of bruises shows along her collar where the fabric has rubbed away the makeup. If she senses me noticing, she doesn’t show it.

  The group leader says, “I see we have several new faces tonight, and I want to thank you all for coming. It was very brave of you to take this first step. This is a safe space. We know how hard it is because we have been where you are. Some of us are still there.” Murmurs of agreement pepper the room. “If anyone would like to introduce themselves, I encourage you to stand up. You only have to share what you’re comfortable sharing.”

  A petite Black woman with immaculate locs stands up and says, “I’m Angela. This is my first time here. My sister’s the one who told me about it. I left a bad relationship a month ago when I found out I was pregnant. It’s one thing for him to put hands on me, but not if he’s endangering my baby. That’s my line. But he keeps calling and coming around. Says he wants to be in the baby’s life, that he has rights. Well, I have a right to protect myself and my child, you know?”

  The group leader offers up a list of resources, and several other women chime in with advice and commiserat
ion.

  The entire time this goes on, Pinstripe’s eyes never leave her knees.

  Mine never leave her throat.

  “This week we’re going to be discussing the importance of future-thinking mindsets,” the leader says. “Is there anyone else who would like to say anything before we get started?”

  When Pinstripe stands, I almost fall off my chair. I’d have bet my oven she wasn’t a sharer.

  “Yes?” the leader says encouragingly.

  Pinstripe shakes her head, eyes still glued downward as if she can’t bear to see where she’s wound up.

  And then she bolts.

  There’s a commotion in her wake, and the therapist looks torn between following the fleeing girl and her duty to the women still in the room. She stays as sympathetic murmurs ripple through the crowd. This isn’t the first time there’s been such an exit.

  I get up, swipe a pair of cutie pies from the box, and dart into the hall. I can hear the machine-gun rattle of high heels above me as I book it up the stairs.

  I catch the glow of streetlights as the heavy wood door swings shut, and I curse myself. This is risky. Too risky.

  But I’m already rifling around in my canvas purse, searching until my fingers close around a cool metal disk. I shove through the door and pull the object out, scanning the street. She’s already a block away, moving quickly with her head down.

  “Hey, wait,” I call after her.

  She ignores me.

  I run.

  “Wait,” I gasp as I catch up to her. Pie baking is not good cardio. “Wait. Please. I can help you.”

  “I don’t need help. That was a mistake.” Tear tracks streak her pretty face. “You shouldn’t have followed me.”

  I reach for her arm but stop before I touch her. She’s had enough people touching her without permission. The button I’m holding clinks to the ground as I drop my hand. She stops, automatically bending to retrieve it as I do the same. She pulls her hand back first as we rise together. I hold the button out to her.

  “I can help,” I repeat. “Or I know someone who can.” I curse myself for the stupid disguise. Irrationally, I want to be myself right now, not another victim.