Death by Deep Dish Pie by Sharon Short Page B

much as anyone can saunter when they’re floating, until she disappeared.
    I moaned again, rolled over, winced when I hit a particularly sore spot—and came wide-awake, staring at the clock. It was 2 A.M .
    Great. Not only was the whole town mad at me and my boyfriend was acting weird and Alan was threatening to take away the fireworks—which would break poor, dear Guy’s heart—but even my own personal ghost was threatening me.
    How could things get any worse?

6
    Things didn’t get any worse, at least not for a whole week.
    They just stayed miserable.
    In the middle of the night after the meeting, we had a downpour. Then, a heat wave—high humidity, no more rain—squatted over Paradise.
    The heat made my customers grouchy, even though I ran my big fans and offered free bottled water and Big Fizz Cola.
    Word had gotten around Paradise that Alan Breitenstrater funded the Fireworks Barn . . . and that he’d cut off Cletus if he didn’t back off from making an announcement at the pie-eating contest. Meanwhile, Cletus came into town every day, tossing snaps on the sidewalk, and telling everyone not to worry about what Alan said—there’d be fireworks aplenty, both when he made his announcement about the new play’s story line at the contest, as well as on July 4.
    Trudy came into my laundromat only once that week. She didn’t speak to me, and only did a few bits of black socks and black underwear. But she came by the theatre every night, and while Sally and I worked—Sally barking orders at me, me trying to keep up—she called for Slinky. Every now and again, Slinky let out with Skreee!, which Trudy swore was in response to her cries but which I thought were stress-triggered more than anything else.
    Every night I went home past midnight—too late to call Owen. Too tired to worry much that he hadn’t called me to leave a message. Just enough energy for a long, cool shower. Ten minutes later, I felt too hot again. My bedroom’s window unit air conditioner puffed out bits of tepid air, so I took to just opening my screened window, falling down on my bed in a T-shirt and panties, and thanking God for my ultrashort hair.
    And once I did drift off to sleep, who was there to greet me but Mrs. Oglevee herself? She’d taken to wearing work clothes like mine and Sally’s, but hers were neat and clean and pressed and she looked cool, fanning herself with an elegant paper fan as she lectured me on my foolishness for messing things up with Owen and getting involved with the Breitenstraters and thinking I could really help Sally pull off this renovation job.
    The next morning I’d wake up warm and sticky and start the whole, miserable, humid routine over again.
    But by Saturday night, the night before the pie-eating contest, it finally looked as though things might start to break my way.
    For one thing, after I closed up my laundromat and went on over to Sandy’s for a Cobb salad and cherry pie (Breitenstrater, of course) a la mode, and I was walking down the sidewalk toward the theatre, it started raining. Big, fat, slow, raindrops—the kind of ploppity-ploppers that are a sure sign a gully washer is coming. And sure enough, I just got to the theatre when the rain started sluicing down hard and fast. I ducked under the ticket booth and grinned as I took in that special smell of rain hitting heat on a summer’s night.
    Backstage, I found Sally painting a wall from a can labeled BISQUE .
    She stopped when she saw me and grinned. “You know what, girlfriend? We’ve got another two weeks before July Fourth, and I think this is going to actually get done!”
    I felt a surge of hope. Sure, we could get the work done! Then Sally would get paid, plus I’d give her my share (except what I needed to cover my most recent car repair) so she could buy Bar-None. We’d finished the work in the theatre itself—replastering and