Murder by the Slice Read Free

things with an iron fist, as the old saying goes.”
    “That’s odd. Usually you try to get people to do things by being nice to them, especially when you’re relying on volunteers.”
    “That’s not the way Shannon looks at it. Although I shouldn’t say that, since I don’t really know her. I’m just going by what I’ve heard.”
    “Well, maybe with our help, she’ll get off Marie’s, uh, posterior.” Phyllis looked at the other three. “Right … guys?”

Chapter 2

    “I have an idea,” Carolyn said as she came into the kitchen.
    From under the sink, where she was struggling to fit a pipe wrench around a balky pipe, Phyllis said, “That’s nice.”
    She could have hired a plumber to fix the leaking pipe. She could have even asked Sam to have a go at it. He had all sorts of tools and spent a lot of time building and repairing furniture on Kenny’s workbench in the big garage, and more than once he had told Phyllis he would be glad to help out with any handyman work that needed to be done around the house.
    But she was stubborn enough to feel that she ought to at least try to do it. This was her house, after all, and when Kenny was alive he had taken care of it. She owed it to his memory to continue the tradition.
    On the other hand, even when she got the wrench on the pipe, she couldn’t budge it. Years of teaching in the public schools had taught her to choose her battles wisely and be selective about which brick walls she picked to bang her head against.
    Dressed in jeans and a comfortable shirt, she scooted out from under the sink and placed the big wrench on the floor.
    “What on earth are you doing?” Carolyn asked.
    “Leaky pipe.” Phyllis pushed back several strands of graying brown hair that had fallen over her eyes, then reached up to grab hold of the kitchen counter and steady herself as she climbed to her feet.
    “You should let Sam do that.”
    Phyllis didn’t let on that she had come to the same conclusion. Instead she said, “You were saying something about having an idea.”
    “Oh, yes. About the bake sale at the carnival.”
    Several days had passed since their encounter with Marie Tyler at Wal-Mart. During that time Carolyn had called some of their friends in the Retired Teachers Association, trying to line up people who could be counted on to supply goods for the bake sale. Of course, parents of the students at Loving Elementary would be asked to donate cakes and pies, too, but young people were so busy these days you couldn’t rely on them to provide enough help. Another lesson teachers quickly learned was that if something absolutely had to be done, you’d better be prepared to do it yourself.
    “Everyone does a regular bake sale,” Carolyn went on. “The RTA just did the one at Wal-Mart.”
    Phyllis didn’t need to be reminded. It had been a long afternoon without many results. They had raised less than a hundred dollars.
    “People are tired of them. I think we need to do something different.”
    “All right,” Phyllis said. “What can you do different with a bake sale, though? The whole thing’s pretty cut-anddried.”
    Carolyn held up both index fingers. “We keep the auction where we get people to donate the fanciest, most elaborately decorated, most unusual cakes they can come up with and then auction them off to the people who attend the carnival.”
    An idea occurred to Phyllis. “You know, I saw something in a magazine—”
    Her mouth clamped shut. She had almost made a mistake.
    She had almost spilled a possible plan to an archrival.
    Phyllis and Carolyn were friends, of course. They had known each other for many years and shared this house for several. But that didn’t mean they didn’t also have a healthy sense of competition with each other. Both women had entered numerous baking and cooking contests, including the one at the Peach Festival held in Weatherford every summer, and at times the competition between them had become rather intense. Carolyn