Red Velvet, Dead Velvet (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 3)

by Mary Maxwell

  While she used her walkie-talkie to alert Trent, I noticed a man standing on the front porch with a phone pressed to his ear and a bottle of beer in one hand. It was Abe Waterhouse, Walter’s neighbor and a frequent patron at Sky High Pies. Abe was a tall, lean man of forty or so, a good-looking divorced guy who owned a small plumbing company. He was still on the phone when Dina Kincaid motioned to him through the open doorway. Trent hadn’t specifically told me Dina was working the case. But since she was the department’s best detective, I wasn’t surprised to see her on the scene. Abe said a quick goodbye, slipped the phone into his pocket and listened intently as Dina said something and gestured at the piece of paper she was holding.

  “Kate?”

  I was so focused on watching Dina and Abe that I didn’t realize Amanda had finished with the walkie-talkie.

  “What did Trent say?”

  “He’ll be right out,” she answered. “He’s conferring with one of the techs about something.”

  “Sounds good. Thanks for letting him know that I’m here.”

  She nodded. “How’s everything at Sky High?”

  “Really good!” I beamed. “Thanks for asking! We have a booth at the book fair tomorrow. This’ll be my first year, so I have a few butterflies. But Julia’s confident that I’ll get through it without any major catastrophes.”

  The fresh-faced officer chuckled. “You’ll be fine. I didn’t go last time, but the year before your mother and father handed out all of their samples the first day in less than three hours.”

  I beamed at the reference to something I’d heard about dozens of times from my parents. “Make sure you don’t underestimate the crowd,” my mother had advised when we talked recently about the fair. “Take twice as many of everything. Then you’ll be prepared.” My dad was listening in on the other phone in the master bedroom of their Florida condo. When he heard my mother’s advice, he snickered and said, “Don’t worry about leftovers, Katie. If you have a few samples at the end of the day, you’ll have something to snack on that night.”

  “Did you hire any extra hands to help out?” Amanda asked.

  “In the booth?”

  She nodded. “Your parents had Blanche Speltzer lending a hand two years ago, but she dozed off about midway through the first hour. I’d suggest someone a little younger if you’re using additional staff.”

  “My sister took a couple of days off work,” I said. “She’s driving up from Denver early in the morning to help.”

  We chatted for a few more minutes about the library’s annual special event. Amanda was describing an appearance by one of her favorite authors when Trent suddenly came out from behind an SUV parked in the driveway. He was wearing a dark suit, white shirt and bright blue protective gear on his hands and feet.

  “Well, if it isn’t Miss Kate Reed!” he boomed. “The most beautiful bakeshop owner in all of the Rocky Mountains.”

  I smirked at him for a second. “Can we get down to business? I’ve had a long day. And I’m a little anxious about the book fair tomorrow. I’d like to get home before midnight.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “My, my,” he said. “Somebody’s in a mood.”

  “Just tired,” I said. “How’s the cough?”

  “So-so. I’m over the recommended limit on cold pills, but life must go on. I was actually on my way home, but then we got the call about this one.” He nodded over his shoulder at Walter’s house. “When I heard that your business card was found at the scene, I figured it might be best to talk to you tonight.”

  “Where’d you find my card?”

  Trent nodded and lifted the crime scene tape so I could slip under. “Come on inside, Katie. The forensics team is still working in the living room, but I’d like your thoughts about what we found so far.” He stopped by the SUV, raised the rear door and grabbed a pair of disposable blue shoe covers. “Here you go,” he said, “These will go perfectly with that fancy-schmancy dress you’re wearing.”

  I quickly slipped the covers over my pumps. “No cracks about my outfit, please. I was at dinner when you called.”

  “With Zack Hutton,” he said. “How’d you like the shrimp at Luigi’s?”

  “Who told you that I was with Zack?” I followed him up the driveway and around the back of Walter’s house. “And how’d you know what I had for dinner?”

  Trent chuckled. “This is Crescent Creek, Katie.” He walked to the door and grabbed the handle. “And I’m the Deputy Chief of Police. What I don’t already know, people tell me.”

  “I’m sure they do,” I said. “But it just seems like an invasion of—”

  “Let’s talk about your privacy another time,” said Trent. “I want you to take a look at these things.”

  I stepped over the threshold into Walter’s kitchen. The place was a chaotic jumble: overturned chairs, cabinet doors covered with fingerprint powder, pairs of discarded blue booties piled just inside the door. On the far side of the room, a trail of reddish-brown droplets curved across the floor in a haphazard line.

  “What’s it look like?” I asked as Trent walked toward several plastic evidence bags on the counter. “Home invasion?”

  He motioned for me to join him and I began gingerly crossing the white linoleum.

  “Let’s move it!” he said brusquely. “You’re the one who wants to get home so fast.”

  I looked down at my feet. “I don’t want to accidentally tamper with any evidence.”

  “You’re okay,” Trent said. “This side of the room is clear.”

  When I reached where he was standing, I looked down at the evidence bags. One held my business card, the second appeared to contain a sheet of paper and the other three contained wine goblets with Walter Shipp’s monogram etched on the base. I noticed that one of the glasses had a dark and very prominent smudge of purple lipstick on the rim.

  “What is it?” asked Trent.

  I glanced over. “Huh?”

  “You were staring at that glass,” he said. “The one with the lipstick.”

  “It’s the shade,” I said. “Pretty unusual, don’t you think?”

  “Amanda said it’s possibly something called Ultra Plum Panic,” he said, rolling his eyes. “One of those fancy designer things. Her kid sister wears it when she goes out to clubs.”

  I eyed the glass again, conjuring a picture of the woman that I saw arriving at Walter’s earlier in the taxi.

  “Katie?”

  I looked up at him. “Yes?”

  He flashed a crooked grin. “Why do I get the impression that there’s something you’re not telling me?”

  “Well, I started to mention it this morning,” I said. “Remember when I asked if you’d heard any gossip about Walter?”

  He answered with a silent nod.

  “Well, I had a call from Ivy Minkler yesterday,” I explained. “She’d found an unsigned letter in the library that appeared to threaten Walter’s life. It was written on a piece of stationery from Moonlight Motel.”

  Trent picked up one of the evidence bags.

  “Did it look anything like this?”

  I glanced at the sheet of paper inside the clear plastic sleeve. It was the letter I’d seen earlier that afternoon in Walter’s living room.

  “Yes,” I said. “Exactly like that.”

  He put the plastic bag back on the counter and picked up the next piece of evidence.

  “And this, as you can see, is your business card,” he said. “It looks exactly like the ones you give out at Sky High with one exception—the front is covered with blood spatter.” He turned over the bag to show me the back of the card. “And there’s a list here that looks very much like your writing.” He handed the bag to me. “Recognize it, Kate?”

  I looked at the card. It was the roster of local highlights I’d provided to Nigel Summerfield when we met that morning at Sky High.

  “Well?” Trent said, pulling a pen and notepad from his pocket. “Does it look familiar?”

  I nodded.
>
  “Did you give it to Walter Shipp?”

  I shook my head, still silent.

  “Really?” His voice was edged with disbelief. “We found some of your red velvet cake in the refrigerator. I figured maybe he’d stopped at Sky High and you gave that list to him for some reason.”

  I quickly explained that I’d delivered the cake to Walter when I visited earlier in the day.

  Trent flipped open the notepad. “You were here today, huh?” He looked down and made a quick note. “What was that all about?”

  “I wanted to let him know about the letter that Ivy found,” I explained. “Just in case it actually had any merit.”

  “And what did he say when you told him?”

  “He didn’t seem to take it seriously at all. But I got the feeling that wasn’t really the case.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Trent gave me a sly smile. “Based on what—the fact that he didn’t buy into your conspiracy theory?”

  “Don’t be like that,” I said sharply. “When I was here this afternoon, I saw a copy of the letter in Walter’s living room. It was on the coffee table underneath a newspaper. When he stepped out to take a phone call, I sort of…” I winced slightly. “…you know how it goes. I worked as a PI. Looking for clues is a hard habit to break.”

  Trent made another note and chuckled. “Why am I not surprised, Katie?”

  I waited while he scribbled something more.

  “Okay,” he continued. “Back to the business card. Do you know how it came to be in Walter’s kitchen?”

  “Not a clue,” I said. “I gave it to someone at Sky High this morning. He’d asked me to suggest a few places that his sister might visit while they were in town for the book fair.”

  “Names?” he said firmly.

  I frowned. “Well, the guy is Nigel Summerfield,” I explained. “He’s one of the authors speaking tomorrow at the book fair.” My mind reeled as I studied the dried drops of blood on the front of the card. “His sister’s name is Annabeth, but I don’t know if she uses the same last name or not. She’s staying at Connie Larson’s place.”

  “Crescent Creek Lodge?”

  “The very one,” I said. “Earl Dodd told me that she stayed the first night at the Moonlight, but it wasn’t up to her standards.”

  “You do get around, don’t you?” Trent scribbled a few more words. “And what do you know about this Nigel guy?”

  “Nothing really. I mean, nothing more than what I just told you. He’s a travel writer. He’s in town to promote his book. And his sister joined him for the trip.”

  I fixed my eyes on the blood-stained business card, thinking about how to tell Trent that I suspected Nigel and Annabeth might have something to do with the death threat. Before I could decide on the best approach, I realized he was asking me another question.

  “From where?”

  “What?”

  “Where do they live, Kate?”

  “Um, New York I think. I don’t really know where exactly, but…” I turned and looked at the upturned furniture and trail of blood drops. “Where is Walter?” I asked. “Is he okay?”

  One corner of Trent’s mouth puckered. “We don’t know,” he said. “The first responders found the front and back doors wide open, the place pretty much trashed and the blood you see there on the floor.” He slid the pen and pad back into his pocket. “There was no sign of Walter and no sign of his Cadillac.”

  “Maybe he drove himself to—”

  “He’s not at either hospital in the county,” Trent interrupted. “And we checked with the walk-in clinics at all of the drug stores within a fifty mile radius. They didn’t see him or receive a call about helping anyone who’d been injured. It looks like someone took him, Kate. We’re treating this as a kidnapping for the time being.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Twenty minutes later, I was standing on Walter Shipp’s driveway, waiting while Trent talked to the forensic techs. He’d asked me to stick around a bit longer so we could go over everything one last time. I’d been idly scrolling through email on my phone when I heard footsteps approaching from the shadows near the side of the house. It was Abe Waterhouse, still gripping the bottle of beer and distractedly picking at the label with one thumbnail.

  “Scary stuff, eh?”

  “Very scary,” I said. “Deputy Chief Walsh told me that you called 911.”

  Abe nodded. “That’s right. I was just getting home from the Civic Center and noticed the front screen door flapping in the breeze.” He raised the bottle, took a swig and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Walter’s a lot of things, but forgetful isn’t one of ’em. I know for a fact that he always latches the screen door from the inside when he’s home alone.”

  “What time was that?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe around six, six-thirty.”

  “And how did you happen to notice that Walter’s front door was open?”

  “Because I happen to have two eyes,” Abe answered curtly.

  “I don’t mean to upset you, Mr. Waterhouse. I was just trying to piece together the events leading up to your call to 911.”

  His head tilted suddenly to one side. “Isn’t that what the cops are supposed to do?”

  “Of course,” I said. “But I worked for ten years as a private investigator. I guess it’s hard to break some habits.”

  Abe smirked. “Not if you make the effort, Kate. You should give it a try sometime. Stop treating innocent people like they’re guilty of a crime they actually told the police about in the first place.”

  From the way he clenched his jaw and furrowed his brow, it was obvious that I’d crossed a line with Abe. It also seemed like he was uncomfortable discussing his whereabouts during the time someone was kidnapping Walter Shipp.

  “I do apologize if my questions offended you, Abe. That wasn’t my intention.”

  He scoffed and sipped his beer. “No harm done. And I’m sorry if I was short just then. I think maybe this whole thing has me on edge.”

  “That’s understandable. Discovering that your neighbor has been abducted is hardly an everyday occurrence.”

  Abe grunted. “Who said he’s been abducted?”

  “It seems pretty clear,” I said slowly. “He’s nowhere to be found. There was evidence of a struggle. His SUV’s gone. And the police found a trail of blood on the kitchen floor leading to the garage.”

  Abe’s forehead creased as he snickered darkly. “You working with the police now, Kate?”

  “No, I was just…” I realized his usually affable demeanor had become even more irritable. “I’m sorry, Abe. Like I said, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “Offend me?” His lips twisted into a bitter grin. “That’s the second time you’ve said that, Kate. And I’m still not offended. I’m just tired of telling the story is all.” He guzzled noisily from the bottle. “I mean, they make you repeat it over and over and over.”

  I nodded, deciding to keep quiet until he finished the tirade.

  “And they come at you from a bunch of different directions!” His voice slid into a snarl, a loud and dissonant yelp that matched the scowl on his face. “Making me tell them where I was this morning! Asking me did I know if Walter had money trouble! Being all curious about what I was up to yesterday! Trying to get me to admit that me and Walter had argued lately!” The sneer on his face shuddered as he took a deep breath. “Like I’m the guilty party here and not that Goth chick and her boyfriend.”

  Between his sputtering pace and hostile tone, I wasn’t sure I’d heard the last part clearly.

  “What was that?” I asked. “Did you see someone leaving Walter’s before you noticed his front door was open?”

  Abe turned his head. “Huh?”

  “You just said something about a Goth chick and—”

  “Yeah,” he said. “The one with all the smeary dark makeup dressed like an undertaker’s wife.”

  My pulse quickened. “She was with a man?”

&n
bsp; “Guy with a beard,” Abe snapped. “Skinny, pale punk, if you want my opinion. Like the kind of loser who sits around reading poetry, smoking French cigarettes and listening to jazz.”

  I smiled at the stereotype. When I met Nigel Summerfield, he’d seemed vigorous and hearty; someone who was more likely to hit the gym instead of the clichéd beatnik coffeehouse scene that Abe had just described.

  “Where did you see them?”

  “Pulling away from Walter’s like bats out of hell,” he said. “In some kind of SUV. Maybe a Subaru or something.”

  “And you shared all of that with the 911 dispatcher?”

  He glared at me silently, throwing a thousand invisible daggers in my direction. I waited for his reply, smiling warmly and doing my best to keep from unleashing the rope of harsh words coiled in my mind.

  “Tell you the truth?” Abe said finally. “I wish I never agreed to get involved in this whole mess.”

  The choice of words seemed curious. “What do you mean by that?”

  He drank more beer. “By what?”

  “You just said that you wish you’d never gotten involved.”

  His eyes flashed with panic for a split second. “I mean by calling the police,” he stammered anxiously. “By telling them that something fishy had happened at Walter’s.”

  I smiled. “I know how that goes,” I said. “I’ve been around enough crime scenes to appreciate that being a witness can be stressful.”

  Abe grunted. “Ain’t that the truth?”

  He sipped from the bottle again and looked back at the house.

  “Abe?” I said. “Mind if I ask a couple more questions?”

  His eyes scrunched into a callous glare. “Go on then,” he said. “Hit me with your best shot.”

  “You mentioned that Walter latches the screen door when he’s home alone.”

  “Yep. He’s a creature of habit.”

  “But the police found three wine glasses in the kitchen,” I said. “That would suggest that he wasn’t alone before he went missing.”

  The icy glare sharpened. “I didn’t say he was alone, Kate. I just commented about the screen door being latched if he’s here by himself.” He paused and took another step forward. “You calling me a liar or something?”