Death by Deep Dish Pie by Sharon Short

forever. I’ve only got until mid-July to come up with the money—then she’ll sell to whoever wants the place. And there’s no way that whatever Daddy’s gotten into is gonna pan out—his schemes never do. And there’s also no way that I’m gonna get this done by myself in two weeks.”
    She sniffled. I reminded myself of the humiliation of getting dunked in the boys’ bathroom toilets. She sniffled again. I sighed, told myself, you’re a fool, Josie Toadfern, told myself I’d regret it, then said the words anyway. “Listen, Sally, I’m going to help you out.”
    â€œHow? You think you can talk some sense into my daddy?”
    No one could talk sense into Otis Toadfern. But I knew better than to point that out to Sally. She—and her two brothers and three sisters—were the only ones she’d ever let get away with bad-mouthing her daddy, no matter how true what they said might be. That’s just the way of kin.
    I glanced over at the closet of costumes. They’d have to wait. They were fine in there, anyway, I told myself.
    â€œI have a different idea,” I said. “I’m going to help you finish this job.”
    â€You? What do you know about renovating work?”
    â€œNothing,” I admitted. “But I spent a summer once at a church camp over in Appalachia where we worked on fixing up people’s homes. I didn’t have any problem taking directions then—” and, I gulped, wondering just what damage Sally could do to me with a ball-peen hammer if I made one mistake too many, “and I won’t have any problems taking directions from you now. C’mon, you know we can get this done together.” I said that last sentence in my best cheerleader voice—a challenge, given I’d failed the high school cheerleader tryouts three years in a row.
    Sally’s chin started quivering again. “Really? You’d do that for me?”
    I just smiled, trying to look like the sincere, caring cousin I wasn’t. The fact was I was doing it for me, not for her. My business reputation was on the line because I’d foolishly recommended my Toadfern kin again. Now I’d have to find someone to watch the for part of the day, still keep up with my regular laundry orders, and work every night and spare minute for Sally.
    Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe, because I was caught up in a big Sally bear hug. She’d scooted to my side of the couch and tackled me with her hug. “Josie, you’re the best,” she said. “Thanks, cuz.”
    â€œSure, no problem,” I squeaked.
    And at that moment, an ear piercing Skreee! Sounded overhead.
    Sally let go of me and jumped back. “What the hell was that?”
    I gave her a little wavering grin. “I think we’re gonna have company.” And then I told her about Slinky and the meeting she’d missed.
    â€œWell, you’ve sure made a mess of things,” said Mrs. Oglevee, who was floating at the foot of my bed. She had on work clothes and a red, white, and blue bandanna, just like Uncle Otis’s, except it wasn’t tied over her head. She’d tied it in a jaunty off-center knot around her neck, like a scarf. Her white fluffy hair was pulled back with a red headband. And she was twirling, like a baton between her fingers, an oversized, extra-long ball-peen hammer.
    Mrs. Oglevee was floating because she wasn’t real because she’s dead and because I was dreaming her. Mrs. Oglevee has been dead for ten years. She was my junior high school history and sometimes-home-ec teacher. When I graduated junior high, she retired junior high—and then went on to supplement her retirement income by substituting in every subject I had in high school. Five weeks after my high school graduation, she died suddenly of a massive stroke. Word has it that her final words were, it’s not fair!, because she had been in perfect