Death by Deep Dish Pie by Sharon Short Page A

health, at least as far as anyone knew, and because she’d been saving to go on a Mediterranean cruise and was just a week away from departing.
    Apparently dying that way made her mighty grumpy, because every time she shows up in my dreams, she’s grousing at me about something. Why she had to pick me to nag during her afterlife is beyond me.
    I sighed, tried to roll over, and winced. My left shoulder hurt. My right shoulder hurt. My back hurt, and my thighs, and . . . I hurt all over. I’d worked with Sally at the theatre until midnight—work that was punctuated by Slinky’s skree-ree-rees.
    In my dream, at least, I sat up, glaring at Mrs. Oglevee. “I haven’t made a mess of everything,” I said. “I’m trying to set things right. I’ll help Sally get the theatre done in time. Sooner or later, we’ll find Slinky. As for the Breitenstraters—well, that’s not my doing and it’s out of my control, anyway.”
    Mrs. Oglevee rolled her eyes and pointed the ball end of the ball-peen hammer at me, waggling it. “Just like in school. Missing the point, always. Listen up, Josie Toadfern. You’re making a big mistake helping out Sally. You’ll never get the work done—and you know you’re doing it just to avoid Owen, anyway.”
    â€œWhat?”
    Mrs. Oglevee smiled, crossing her arms. “Hah. Gotcha, didn’t I? You’ve got your panties in a wad because he made that one little comment that doesn’t quite fit with what he’s told you about himself. Well, listen up, missy, you’d better let this be. Don’t start picking away at stuff you have no business messing with. Don’t start questioning Owen about his past. Leave the past alone—with him and with Paradise.”
    â€œParadise? What does my boyfriend have to do with Paradise’s past? I’m not interested in Paradise history—you of all people should know that—”
    Mrs. Oglevee snorted a half-laugh. “Right. You barely got by with a C.”
    That was partly because she managed to make local history so incredibly boring—as if she didn’t ever want us asking any questions—and because if I so much as misspelled a word on a question, I got the whole question wrong, no matter if the answer itself was right. Mrs. Oglevee was always out to get me. I never figured out why while she was living. And I sure didn’t want to ask the dead Mrs. Oglevee why. But it seemed she was still out to get me.
    â€œLook,” I said, “Everything is fine with me and Owen—”
    â€œOwen and me—”
    â€œRight, okay. But if you think I’m not going to ask questions of him, you’re wrong. And why you’d think any of this history stuff matters to me—”
    Mrs. Oglevee floated a little forward over the foot of my bed, waving her hammer in my face. She looked mad enough to spit nails—literally. So when she spoke a few came flying out of her mouth. Fortunately, they all floated away before whopping me in the face. “I know how you are, Nosey Josie.”
    I flinched. That was a hated nickname John Worthy had given me in high school.
    â€œIf you have any sense, you’ll tell Mrs. Beavy to stop working with Cletus Breitenstrater on his research. You’ll find Slinky and, while Trudy’s all happy with you, convince her to convince him to give up on his play. The Founder’s Day play I wrote reflects the true history of Paradise! There’s nothing else to know!
    â€And as for Owen—you’d better leave well enough alone. I don’t know what he sees in you, but you’re lucky to have him. Without him, you’d be mighty lonely. I’m warning you—leave his and Paradise’s past alone and just accept what you’ve always been told!”
    And with that, she straightened her red-white-and-blue scarf bandanna, and turned and sauntered off, at least as