The Birthday Murders

by Mary Maxwell

  “We must never mention that again,” I cut in. “Harper’s still mortified that those teenage hellions saw her Little Dora nightgown and Mickey Mouse tattoo.”

  “Okay, so are you going to tell me?” he asked.

  “Tell you what?”

  He chuckled. “I know you, Katie. And it’s definitely in your voice. Something’s distracting you.”

  “You’re right,” I confessed. “Trent stopped by this morning and asked me to help with a case. Do you know a guy named—”

  “Walker Oldham?” His voice was tinged with satisfaction. “That’s it, right?”

  “Yep. How did you know?”

  “I was in the staff kitchen at the newspaper,” he said. “One of the reporters was giving a couple of other people the rundown on Mr. Walker’s murder. As soon as I heard that, I figured that you’d get involved somehow.”

  “Which reporter?”

  “The new guy,” Zack said. “Art Bricker.”

  “He’s not new,” I replied. “I remember that name from the Christmas party.”

  “That was Art’s brother, Aaron,” Zack told me. “He used to work at the Gazette, but left to start a distillery with a bunch of his college buddies.”

  “Really? Is it here in town?”

  “Not yet,” Zack said. “They’re still working on the funding.”

  I laughed. “Isn’t that something you usually figure out before you quit your job?”

  “That’s how most people do it,” he said. “But the Bricker boys march to the beat of a different trombone.”

  I laughed at Zack’s quip. “That one never gets old,” I said. “So how’s Art as a newspaper reporter?”

  “He’s aces,” Zack replied. “The Oldham murder is his first story on the crime beat, but he’s done really well with politics, style, business, government, tech and sports.”

  “One reporter covers all of those subjects?” I said.

  “Hey, we’re lucky to still have a newspaper here,” Zack said. “The fates have not been kind to the journalism business lately.”

  “Of course, I shouldn’t have been surprised.”

  “It’s okay, babe,” he said. “But if you meet Art, don’t mention food and fashion. If it doesn’t involve politics, sports or crime, he’s not really a fan.”

  “Guess he hasn’t heard that variety is the spice of life,” I said.

  “He doesn’t really complain that much,” Zack said. “And it’s pretty obvious he likes covering more serious subjects. I mean, he was pretty animated after he got back to the office from the crime scene this morning. I guess that Oldham’s administrative assistant is in pretty bad shape. She was also shot by whoever killed Oldham.”

  “I heard that from Trent,” I said. “And I—”

  “Hey, Katie?”

  It was Harper, appearing in the office as if by magic.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “Linda Walton’s here for your two o’clock. She’s waiting in the dining room.”

  My heart skidded. “Oh, no! I totally forgot she was coming by. Would you please tell her that I’ll be out in a flash?”

  Harper leaned closer to the phone. “Hey, Zack! How’s it coming with the wedding plans? I heard that you want to elope so you don’t have to wear a monkey suit.”

  “That’s just a rumor,” Zack was saying when I put the phone back to my ear. “Nothing but gossip.”

  “Which part?” I asked. “The wedding itself or the tuxedo?”

  “I’ll wear whatever you’d like,” he said, “if I get to marry the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  “That’s sweet,” I said. “But I think Gisele Bündchen’s already taken.”

  He laughed again. “You’re right, but I wasn’t talking about her. I meant you.”

  “I know. And I love you for feeling that way!”

  “Love you, too,” he said. “We should get off so you can meet with the invitation lady.”

  “Invitation artist,” I said. “She’s the one that does the calligraphy that you liked the best.”

  “I remember,” Zack replied. “Tell her that I said hello, and shoot me a text later about dinner. I’ll swing by the restaurant and pick it up so you can take care of whatever you need to do.”

  “You’re amazing,” I said. “Can I ask one more favor?”

  He laughed. “What’s that?”

  “Would you ask Art Bricker to give me a call? I’d love to talk with him about the Walker Oldham case.”

  “I’ll pass that along,” Zack said. “His first story about the murder is on the site now. You might want to take a look at that when you have a moment.”

  “Definitely,” I replied. “Thanks for letting me know.”

  “Anything for my bride-to-be,” he said with another deep chuckle. “Anything at all.”

  CHAPTER 4

  After we closed at three and tidied up the kitchen and dining room, I waited until Julia and Harper headed for home before making a cup of tea and going into the office. I answered the most urgent emails, paid a few bills and reviewed the menus for a pair of upcoming catering jobs. One was the grand opening of a new office building and the other was a couple celebrating their thirtieth wedding anniversary.

  Thirty years. It seemed dreamlike to imagine spending that much time together with Zack. I wondered if Mitzi and Mort Longview ever thought they would be together for that long. How can you think about what your marriage will be like in three decades when all of the preparations for the actual wedding are so overwhelming?

  I made a note on the back of an envelope to call my mother and ask if she considered future anniversaries on their wedding day. Then I made another note to call my sister with the same query. She and Cooper were approaching their fifteenth anniversary, but that qualified in my mind as a distant milestone since Zack and I still had another year before we tied the knot.

  As I continued daydreaming about Zack and our engagement, I opened the envelope that Linda Walton had delivered earlier. She’d prepared three proposals for our invitations: one with a floral border, another featuring a wreath around the text and a third sample that used a black-and-gold color scheme with art deco typography. I’d promised Linda that we would be in touch with feedback as soon as possible. The brief meeting with her didn’t exactly cross anything off the list, but it felt fulfilling to have at least one wedding-related item underway.

  When I heard the chime on my phone announcing a new text, I hoped that it would be Art Bricker from the Gazette. Instead, it was my sister in Denver: I’m totally bloated! What remedy did Nana Reed always talk about?

  I giggled at the message before sending a quick reply: Sorry you’re bloated! She swore by chamomile, peppermint, lemon balm and fennel seeds steeped in boiling water.

  Since it wasn’t Bricker, I added the reporter’s name to the list on the back of envelope. Then I refreshed my laptop, double clicked the Google Chrome icon and waited for the browser to load.

  Maybe Zack forgot to mention it, I thought. Maybe Art Bricker has no idea that I want to pick his brain about the Walker Oldham case. Or maybe Zack did pass on the request, but the guy is a rude little—

  The phone rang. I checked the display and my cheeks instantly flushed deep crimson.

  “Mr. Bricker?” I said after answering the call. “It’s Kate Reed.”

  “Howdy,” he said. “Zack suggested that I give you a call if I wanted to see another sunrise.”

  My mouth dropped open in surprise. “Uh…”

  “Don’t worry,” he said quickly. “I’m joking. It’s a joke. It’s what I do. I joke with people to keep them laughing and, hopefully, to keep them from dwelling on the fact that we’re all going to die and there’s nothing that we can do about it.”

  I took a breath. “Have you always been this upbeat?”

  “Well, darn it,” he replied. “Did I really say all of that out loud?”

  “Yes, you did,” I told him. “You said it. I heard it. But I don’t judge.” />
  He sighed. “Thanks, Katie. Zack said that you were cool.”

  “Like I said, I don’t judge. I understand fatigue. There are some days where I’m in the kitchen here from five in the morning until ten, eleven at night.”

  “That’s a whole lot of pie,” he said.

  “It’s a lot of everything. And maybe sometime you can stop by and I’ll tell you all about it. What I’m curious to learn today is—”

  “Walker Oldham,” Art said.

  “That’s right. I’m working with the CCPD on a consulting basis to help identify the perpetrator. I’ve done something similar a couple of times before, and I previously worked as a private investigator.”

  “Zack told me about your years in Chicago,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I was hoping that you could tell me what you’ve learned so far about the case,” I said. “Any chance that you’ve heard the latest on Pam Newill’s condition?”

  “She’s stable,” he said. “There’s not much more we can get from the hospital. The law’s pretty strict about medical professionals sharing information with anyone other than the patient and their legal representative.”

  “Okay, so Pam is clinging to life. Walker Oldham is deceased. And the person or persons responsible for these crimes is somewhere out in the world. They might be planning another attack, gearing up for a repeat performance or finalizing preparations for more bloodshed.”

  “Off the record?” Art said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “If I tell you something off the record, will you honor that?” he said.

  “One hundred percent,” I replied.

  “The police don’t think the perp is getting ready for the encore,” he said.

  “What are they basing that on?”

  “I’ve got a source,” he said. “And that source told me confidentially that a greeting card was found with Mr. Oldham. Inside, someone had printed, ‘Now there are none.’”

  “Kind of like Agatha,” I said.

  “What was that?” Art asked.

  “Agatha Christie,” I told him. “One of her novels is called And Then There Were None.”

  “That’s interesting,” he said. “Was it also about a birthday?”

  “It starts with a dinner party,” I said. “Ten strangers are invited to an island by a mysterious host. When they begin to die, the reader learns that it’s all about secrets and intrigue and someone’s desire to commit a series of unsolvable murders.”

  “I’ll have to check it out,” Art said. “I’m not familiar with that title.”

  “It’s one of my favorites,” I replied.

  “Well, there’s one big difference between Oldham’s killing and that book you’re talking about,” said Art. “Besides ‘Now there are none,’ the card had another inscription.”

  “And what was that?” I asked.

  “Just below those four words,” Art said, “someone had printed another sentence: ‘Four little devils and not one halo.’”

  “Suggesting that there might be other victims,” I said, thinking about Trent’s remarks that morning.

  “That’s right,” Art said. “It’s your classic lose-lose situation. We’ve got four victims, one or more killers and absolutely no winners.”

  CHAPTER 5

  That evening after dinner, Zack dipped his spoon into the bowl of Peanut Butter Pistachio from Scoops of Joy and held it toward me so I could have the first bite.

  “How’s that taste?” he asked.

  “Like perfection.” I smiled and opened my mouth again. “More, please?”

  He satisfied my request before sampling the icy treat. I detected from his closed eyes and lengthy moan that he agreed with me.

  “I should’ve bought three pints,” he said. “Two for now and one for the middle of the night.”

  “No way, mister! If I eat too much of this stuff, I’ll never get into my wedding dress.”

  He smiled. “We haven’t even picked a date yet, sweetheart. We should indulge in as many good things as we want before our lives change forever.”

  I arched one eyebrow. “Are we talking food and drink?”

  He plucked his backpack from the floor next to the sofa. After unzipping the flap, he reached in and pulled out a Michelin Guide for San Francisco.

  “I’m going to a photography conference next month,” he said. “Will you come with me?”

  I smiled, quickly agreed to join him on the trip and then instantly began to worry about Julia and Harper running Sky High without me. In the past, when my grandmother and parents ran the business, a couple of local caterers would help out in the kitchen when they went away for a long weekend. I’d done something similar when I first returned to Crescent Creek from Chicago, but my regular backup for those rare occasions had moved to Los Angeles when her husband’s company changed his sales territory.

  “What’s wrong?” Zack asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “But I’ll have to find someone who can work with Julia to do the cooking and baking.”

  He grinned. “I expected that would cross your mind.” He reached into the backpack again, retrieved a dark green file folder and dropped it on the coffee table. “That’s why I asked around, here in town as well as Boulder, Fort Collins and Winter Park.”

  “My, my,” I said. “Are you the most well-connected photographer in this part of the state?”

  He shook his head. “No, but I know a bunch of event planners, caterers and restaurant managers from my freelance work or covering different things for the Gazette. I sent an email and asked for their best recommendations for people who could walk in the door and hit the grill running.” He winked at me. “Get it?”

  “Cute,” I said. “Hit the grill running instead of—”

  “Anyway,” Zack went on, “four different people recommended a woman named Cara Dooley. She has a little catering outfit in Winter Park, and she’d be delighted to come by and meet you, Harper and Julia to discuss the gig.”

  “You’ve already talked to her?” I asked.

  He held up one hand, moving the thumb and forefinger together. “Teensy, tiny chat, babe. I didn’t want to overstep, but I figured it might be a good idea to at least call the different candidates and see if they were even available for the weekend we’ll be gone.”

  “That was sweet of you,” I said. “And a little bit unusual.”

  “Unusual?” Zack asked, sounding deflated. “In what way?”

  “Oh, don’t worry, sweetie,” I said as his grin dimmed slightly. “I meant unusual in a good way. I’m not used to having someone do that type of thing for me. It’s really kind and thoughtful.”

  His smile returned to its full luster. “Whew! I thought for a second that I was in trouble.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible,” I said. “You’re not capable of getting into the kind of trouble that would require a doghouse or going to your room without dinner.”

  He laughed. “That’s nice, but I think we’re all capable of that, Katie.”

  As I tried to come up with a snappy retort, my phone rang. It was Dina Kincaid, calling from her office at the Crescent Creek PD Headquarters.

  “I need to take this,” I told Zack. “Knock yourself out with the ice cream while I’m gone.”

  “But I might eat the whole thing,” he said.

  “Don’t worry,” I replied. “You weren’t the only one who stopped at Scoops today. There are two more pints of Peanut Butter Pistachio in the freezer.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “How are you, detective?” I asked Dina after going into the kitchen to take the call.

  “Peachy,” she answered. “How’s your night going?”

  “It’s perfect so far,” I said. “I’ve got my man to cuddle with. We had a delicious dinner that Zack made. And we were just dipping into a bowl of our favorite ice cream from Scoops.”

  She hummed into the phone. “You’ve got it all, Katie: a great guy, tasty homemade food and scrumptious d
essert. I’m alone in my office with a microwave pizza and a bag of peanut M&Ms.”

  “My condolences,” I said. “We have some leftover pasta if you want to head over here.”

  “No can do.” She yawned and then apologized. “It’s going to be another late night. At the moment, the Oldham case is as far from simple as it gets.”

  “Trent told you that I’m onboard to help, right?”

  She laughed. “Thus, the reason for my call. I wanted to give you a quick update on a couple of details if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure thing,” I said. “What’s the latest?”

  “It’s a fairly mind-blowing development,” she said. “Tyler found a distribution list on Oldham’s office computer that contained his name along with three others who once lived in Crescent Creek. It was labeled The Four Royals, which Tyler learned was the name of their childhood clique. Once he Googled the other individuals, he confirmed that they’d died under mysterious circumstances in the past few weeks. It suggests that Oldham’s death could possibly be connected to the other three individuals.”

  “Because they grew up together?”

  “No,” Dina said. “Because they were all murdered.”

  Are we taking about the people that Trent mentioned earlier?” I asked.

  “Yep,” she said. “And as you and Trent discussed, the similarities are undeniable. All four victims died on or near their sixtieth birthday. With the exception of Oldham, who was obviously still living here, Crescent Creek was home to the other three when they were children. And three of the four deaths involved water.”

  “Do you know when they left Crescent Creek?” I asked.

  “That’s where we’d like you to focus first,” Dina said. “We need to gather background on all of the victims. It would be great if you could see what you can learn about Natalie Packwood and Walker Oldham.”

  “Is Tyler taking care of Lawton Gleave and Dixie Corcoran?”