“You miss her, too, don’t you?” Alice whispered.
She had always been afraid of Lardo, but maybe with time she could learn to love him. After all, Aunt Polly had loved him. As she watched Lardo lick the last of the tuna fish from his whiskers, Alice felt another song coming on.
Three sardines on a little blue plate
All in a neat little line.
Now that Aunt Polly has left us,
Did you know that you’re legally mine?
She sang it softly a couple of times, and tried to come up with a less technical sounding word than “legally,” but it had been kind of a long day, and she ended up falling asleep.
• • •
In the middle of the night, Alice was awakened by a noise. She turned on the light, wondering if maybe Lardo had knocked something over, prowling around in the dark. He was nowhere in sight and nothing in the room seemed out of place, so Alice decided she must have been dreaming. Feeling a little chill, she shivered, then dove under the covers and went back to sleep.
Alice was not the only one awake in the middle of the night that night. Mayor Needleman was suffering a bout of indigestion and had gotten up to make himself a Bromo-Seltzer. As he stood at the kitchen sink in his bathrobe, sipping the bubbling concoction, he happened to look out the window and see a big green Chevrolet roll by with the headlights turned off.
“Who on earth could that be at this hour?” he wondered, and then he burped loudly and went back to bed.
The next morning when Alice woke up, she discovered that Lardo had left an unpleasant little surprise next to the shoe box. She cleaned up the mess and, after carefully checking to make sure that the door was latched tight, went downstairs to get some breakfast for herself and to see if she could rustle up another can of tuna fish for Lardo.
“Achoo!” her father greeted her from behind his morning newspaper.
“Bless you,” Alice said.
Alice’s mother was standing near the sink, hunched over a big bowl, stirring something vigorously with a wooden spoon. As she stirred, white clouds of flour rose from the bowl and fell like a dusting of powdery snow on the floor at her feet. There was a carton of cream and a tin of cocoa powder sitting on the counter nearby.
Alice was pleased to see that her mother had recovered from her headache and was feeling up to doing a little cooking. She took this as a good sign.
“What are you making, Mom?” she asked.
Her father, his nose buried deep in the morning paper, shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“Your mother’s making a pie,” he said.
“A pie!?” Alice exclaimed, unable to hide her shock.
Alice’s mother turned, her scowling face smudged with flour. There were dark circles under her eyes. Clearly she hadn’t slept.
“That’s right,” she said. “A pie. For the first time in thirteen years, somebody other than Polly is going to win the Blueberry, and I don’t see any reason why it shouldn’t be me.”
Alice could think of a very good reason. As far as she knew, her mother had never made a pie in her life.
“Thanks to your aunt’s generosity,” her mother continued, “your father’s out of a job, Reverend Flowers has the pie shop, and what do we have?”
“A-choo!” Alice’s father sneezed right on cue.
“Precisely,” said Mrs. Anderson bitterly. “So yes, I’m making a pie. And unlike my sister, when I win my Blueberry, I’ll have the good sense to sell my recipe, not leave it to a cat.”
She turned back to her bowl and resumed stirring.
“You don’t need to do this, Ruthie,” Alice’s father said. “I’ll put a call in to Hoover tomorrow. If they can’t take me back, I’m sure I can find something else.”
“You’re not the only one who’s going to be looking for work, George. Without PIE, everybody in town is going to be scrambling,” said Alice’s mother.
It was true. A lot of folks in Ipswitch were already worried. Dick Kaperfew, the owner of the Ipsy Inn, had gotten so many calls from people canceling reservations, he had only one guest room occupied at the moment. Business downtown had slowed to a snail’s pace, the diner was so quiet you could hear a fork drop, and Melanie Needleman couldn’t stop complaining about the impact Polly’s death was going to have on her husband’s campaign.
“If only she could have hung on until after the election,” she’d said to the mayor just that morning over coffee. He’d nodded, pretending to listen, but his mind was elsewhere.
“Pumpkin,” he’d said with a sigh.
His wife smiled, thinking it was a new term of endearment, but when she’d questioned him about it, the mayor had confessed that it was actually Polly Portman’s pumpkin pie he’d been mooning over.
“I’ve had such an awful craving for it since she passed, it’s driving me to distraction.”
Mayor Needleman was not the only one in town who’d been suffering from pie withdrawal. Delores Evans, a cashier at the A&P, had been rushed to the emergency room that day with heart palpitations. The doctor sent her home with instructions to take two aspirin and to try not to think about banana cream pie.
“You remember the way Polly always made it,” the mayor had gone on, “with that wonderful crumbly stuff on top.”
“It’s called streusel, Henry. It’s extremely fattening.”
“And delicious,” he’d added wistfully.
Melanie Needleman had frowned at her husband.
“How can you think about pie at a time like this? The future of Ipswitch is hanging in the balance.” But to be honest, she had been thinking about Polly’s low-calorie buttermilk pie for days, wondering how on earth she would ever stick to her diet without it. It had even occurred to her that she might try making one for herself, which quickly led to a fantasy of what would happen if she entered her pie in a certain contest and won. A Blueberry in the family would do wonders to perk up the mayor’s campaign!
Back at Alice’s house, Alice’s mother was having similar thoughts. She scooped some flour out of the canister and sprinkled it on the counter. Then she scraped the contents of the mixing bowl out onto the floured spot with a rubber spatula.
“Who knows?” she said. “After I win my Blueberry, maybe I’ll open a shop of my own. Ha! That would show Polly. I mean, really, how hard can it be to make a pie?”
Alice had watched her aunt Polly make many pies, so she knew what pie dough was supposed to look like. It was not gray and wet like the gloppy mess her mother had just plopped down on the counter, but Alice knew better than to say anything.
“Has anyone seen the rolling pin?” asked Alice’s mother, rummaging around in a drawer. “I know there’s one in here somewhere.”
There was a bag of raisin bread sitting on the table. Alice was hungry, so she took out a slice and popped it into the toaster.
“Do we have any more tuna fish?” she asked while she waited for the bread to toast. “Lardo ate a whole can of it last night. I think he likes it almost as much as fried sardines.”
“Look in the cupboard,” Alice’s mother told her. “Behind the baked beans. But consider it his last meal.”
“What do you mean?” Alice asked.
“I called the pound this morning and they’re expecting us to drop him off at ten.”
“Mom,” said Alice, choosing her words carefully, since it was obvious her mother was in no mood to be crossed, “Aunt Polly gave Lardo to me. Shouldn’t it be up to me to decide what happens to him?”
Mr. Anderson lowered his paper and peered at his daughter over the tops of his glasses.
“Don’t sass your mother,” he warned.
“I’m not sassing,” Alice explained. “I’m asking.”
“The last thing we need in this house is another mouth to feed,” Alice’s mother told her. “Polly may have found her little parting gift amusing, but I do not. Say your good-byes to the cat and have him ready to go at ten. Now where on earth could that rolling pin be?”
; The toast popped up, but Alice wasn’t hungry anymore. As her mother continued to dig through the kitchen drawers, Alice went to the cupboard and, unable to find any tuna fish, settled on a can of clam chowder instead. With a heavy heart, she carried it upstairs. Aunt Polly had always been so kind to her — how could Alice let her down by allowing Lardo to end up at the pound? If only she could think of some way to change her mother’s mind!
In her room, Alice poured the clam chowder into the bowl and flopped down on her bed to wait. If Lardo was hungry enough, he might come out and eat his breakfast even though she was still in the room. After fifteen minutes, when she hadn’t heard so much as a hiss out of him, Alice leaned over the side of the bed and, taking her life in her hands, carefully lifted the dust ruffle and peeked under. No Lardo. She quickly checked under the bureau, behind the desk, and in the closet. Still no Lardo. Alice had double-checked the door before she’d gone downstairs — she was sure of that — so the cat couldn’t be anywhere else in the house, and that’s when she noticed that the window was open.
“That’s strange,” she said to herself.
Alice was certain she had closed the window before she’d gone to bed. Her bedroom was on the second floor, and just outside the window was a beautiful old elm tree, whose branches grew so close to the house that on windy nights they sometimes rapped against the windowpanes like ghostly knuckles. Alice hurried across the room to close the window, but her heart sank when she saw the unmistakable mark of a cat’s paw print on the sill.
She was too late. Lardo had escaped.
SOUR CHERRY PIE
4 cups pitted sour cherries
¾ cup sugar
3 TBS cornstarch
If it weren’t for the pitting, this would be the easiest pie on earth to make. Don’t tell anyone I said it, but canned cherries are a whole lot faster, and the taste is actually not half bad. Place ingredients in large saucepan and cook over medium heat, stirring constantly until mixture comes to a slow boil and thickens. Let cool for 10 minutes, then pour mixture into piecrust, and cover with top crust. If you’ve got the time to make a lattice, there’s nothing prettier than those red cherries peeking out at you from between the cracks. Bake at 425 for 10 minutes, then lower temperature to 350 and cook for 30 minutes more or until done.
Reminder: Reverend Flowers’s favorite. (Birthday: May 11)
Chapter Five
“Mom!”
Alice came running down the stairs to report the news about Lardo, and found her mother standing in the hallway with a woman she didn’t recognize.
“You’re not going to believe this,” Alice began breathlessly, but her mother put up a hand to stop her.
“Just a minute,” she said. “Can’t you see that I’m busy?”
“But, Mom, Lardo’s —”
“Whatever it is will have to wait,” Alice’s mother told her. Then she turned back to the woman and said, “I’m sorry. What did you say your name was again?”
“Sylvia DeSoto. I’m a reporter with LOOK magazine. I was wondering if you might be willing to let me interview you for an article I’m writing about your sister.”
Alice’s mother sighed.
“Honestly,” she said, “haven’t you people written enough about Polly? What else could there be left to say?”
Sylvia DeSoto had on a flowered dress and high heels. Her yellow hair was piled up on her head like custard on a cone. She had a beauty mark on the right-hand corner of her upper lip and she wore thick horn-rimmed glasses that made her eyes look unnaturally large. Alice couldn’t help thinking she looked like a goldfish peering out from inside a fishbowl.
“I’m particularly interested in the piecrust recipe,” Miss DeSoto said, pulling out her notebook and flipping it open. “I understand she left it to her cat, but I was wondering if you could explain to me exactly how she did that?”
“Mom,” Alice interrupted again, “there’s something I really need to —”
“Not now, Alice,” scolded her mother.
Miss DeSoto licked the tip of her pencil and looked at Alice’s mother expectantly.
“You were saying?” she pressed. “About the recipe?”
“I have absolutely no idea why or how my sister did what she did with her recipe. For all I know, she whispered it in the cat’s ear, or tattooed it on his belly, and frankly, Miss DeSoto, I don’t care anymore,” said Alice’s mother. “Polly was a selfish woman, who did a selfish thing, and you can feel free to quote me on that. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a pie to attend to.”
Sylvia DeSoto raised an eyebrow.
“A pie?”
“My first,” said Alice’s mother. “It’s a chocolate cream. My husband’s favorite. Come back in September after I’ve won my Blueberry and I’ll be happy to let you interview me about it.”
Miss DeSoto looked shocked.
“Your Blueberry?” she asked.
“Well, someone’s got to win it,” said Alice’s mother. “Why shouldn’t it be me?”
“Forgive me, Mrs. Anderson, but the Blueberry is a rather lofty goal for an inexperienced baker such as yourself, don’t you think? There are some who’ve waited years to be recognized.”
Alice saw the color rise in her mother’s cheeks.
“I may be inexperienced, Miss DeSoto, but I watched my sister make hundreds of pies and I don’t see what all the fuss is about. You’ve heard the expression ‘easy as pie’? Why do you suppose people say it?”
The shocked expression on Sylvia DeSoto’s face dissolved into a sly smile.
“This wouldn’t be your way of trying to tell me that you’ve got a little secret of your own, would it, Mrs. Anderson?” she asked.
“Whatever do you mean?” asked Alice’s mother.
“You said you watched your sister make hundreds of pies — perhaps you know her recipe by heart, hmmmm?”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” said Alice’s mother. “As I’ve told you, I don’t know anything about my sister’s piecrust recipe. According to my daughter, Polly never wrote it down. Perhaps you’d like to interview the cat. I believe you’ll find him upstairs coughing up hair balls under Alice’s bed.”
“No, she won’t,” said Alice, unable to hold her tongue any longer. “Lardo ran away last night. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Mom. He’s gone.”
Alice’s mother sighed again.
“My daughter has a flair for the dramatic,” she explained to the reporter. “I’m sure the cat is just hiding somewhere. Now, Miss DeSoto, I don’t mean to be rude but —” she stopped speaking midsentence and cocked her head to the side. “Forgive me for staring, but I just got the strangest feeling that we’ve met somewhere before. Your name doesn’t ring a bell, but there’s something very familiar to me about your face.”
“Is there?” Miss DeSoto said, patting her hair nervously. “You must be mixing me up with someone else. I’m quite certain we’ve never met. In fact I’m positive. Now, don’t let me take up even one more second of your valuable time. Best of luck finding your kitty cat, little girl, and best of luck winning that Blueberry, Mrs. Anderson. Trust me, you’re going to need it!”
And just like that, she was out the door, leaving a wisp of flowery perfume behind her.
“What do you suppose she meant by that?” Alice’s mother asked. “‘You’re going to need it.’ That’s rather rude, don’t you think?”
“Shouldn’t we go look for him?” Alice asked.
“Look for who?” her mother answered absently.
“Lardo, Mom.”
“Look around the house. I’m sure he’s just hiding somewhere.”
“I did look. He’s not here. Maybe we should put up some signs around the neighborhood in case somebody finds him.”
“You do what you want,” Alice’s mother told her. “I have a pie to make.”
It was obvious to Alice that her mother wasn’t the least bit concerned about Lardo having run away, but her aunt Polly had trusted Ali
ce to take care of him and she couldn’t just let him wander around out in the world all by himself. What if he got sick? What if he starved to death or got hit by a car? Alice would never forgive herself.
“If I was Lardo, where would I go?” she asked herself.
The answer was so obvious, she felt silly for even having taken the time to ask the question. Two seconds later she was on her bike, pedaling off in the direction of the pie shop.
Alice hadn’t been back to PIE since her aunt Polly had passed. Seeing the place without her aunt in it was not going to be easy, but PIE had been Lardo’s home, too, so it seemed like the most logical place to start looking for him. The route she took happened to lead her past the Needlemans’ house, where Alice caught sight of Nora jumping rope in the driveway by herself. She was pretty sure that Nora had seen her, too, but neither of the girls waved. Five minutes later, Alice arrived at the pie shop, and to her surprise she found the door standing wide open.
“Hello?” she called. “Is anybody here?”
Alice thought maybe she would find Reverend Flowers inside, since the pie shop belonged to him now, but when she stepped through the door, she gasped. The shop was a total wreck. Broken dishes and pans were strewn across the floor, the pie safes tipped over, their lovely hammered tin doors torn from the hinges. Everything had been knocked off the shelves, and when Alice looked in the pantry, it was even worse. Giant sacks of flour and sugar had been slashed open, and every basket and barrel overturned and dumped out.
A drop of sweat trickled down the back of her neck as Alice climbed the stairs up to Polly’s apartment.
“Kitty, kitty, kitty?” she called nervously.
The door of the apartment was ajar, so Alice gently pushed it open with the toe of her shoe. It was almost noon and the sun streamed in through the windows, filling the place with a light so bright, Alice had to shield her eyes with her hand in order to be able to see. Blinking and squinting, she stepped into the apartment and nearly had a heart attack. Standing in the middle of the room was a tall figure in a dark cap, clutching a wooden baseball bat with both hands and winding up to take a swing at her head.