A Zest for Murder (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 5)

by Mary Maxwell

  “Always,” I said, sipping my smoothie.

  “Do you think they’ll find Tipper before…” Her voice dropped away and she frowned. “I mean, I hate to even say it, but do you—”

  “Yes!” I interrupted. “They’ll find her. They’ll catch whoever’s responsible. And things around Crescent Creek can go back to normal.”

  “I hope you’re right,” she said.

  I nodded, forcing a smile. “So do I, Jules. So do I.”

  CHAPTER 37

  When my sister called around two-thirty that afternoon, I was in the Sky High office finishing the daily bookkeeping.

  “I just wanted to remind you that I’m stopping there tomorrow on the way home from Salt Lake City,” she said after I answered.

  “I remembered,” I said. “What time do you think you’ll be here?”

  “Depends on traffic and weather,” she said. “They’re predicting snow in the morning, so that may delay my departure a little bit.” She snickered softly. “Not that I’m in any hurry to leave the Hotel Monaco. It’s really incredible, Katie!”

  She sounded bubbly and her words were slightly slurred, so I asked if she’d been drinking.

  “One glass of wine with lunch,” she whispered.

  “Liv?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “I wasn’t,” she said in a slightly louder tone. “You probably just weren’t listening closely enough. I bet you’re doing something else right now while you talk to me.”

  “We call that ‘multi-tasking,’ darling sister.”

  She clucked her tongue. “Well, I call it being impolite!”

  I’d been around my sister enough times when she had one too many glasses of wine to know that her confession about lunch had been underestimated. I also knew that there was no point in pressing the matter. Besides, I couldn’t blame her; the business trip to Salt Lake City had been a rare respite from life in Denver where she juggled a stressful job, one scatterbrained husband and two demanding twin sons.

  “I’m sorry if you feel that way,” I said, trying to sound contrite. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  I heard ice cubes clink in a glass. “It’s okay. I maybe had two glasses at lunch. I’m drinking juice now.”

  “How’s the trip going?” I asked.

  “Oh, it’s been a big success,” she said. “I won’t bore you with the details. But the reason I had two chardonnays with my salad is because things went so well. I wanted to celebrate and blow off some steam.”

  “Sounds like a great idea, Liv! You deserve some ‘me time’ every so often.”

  She sighed. “I know. That’s why I’m heading to the hotel spa in twenty minutes for a hot stone massage, a mani-pedi and a mud bath.”

  “Wish I could join you,” I said, feeling a tiny dash of jealousy. “We could have a day of beauty, go out for dinner at a fancy restaurant and then hit the town for a night of dancing.”

  “Let’s do it!” she blurted. “If you go to the airport right this second, you could be here for dinner and dancing!”

  “That would be fun,” I agreed. “But not very practical.”

  “Delta has a five-thirty,” she announced. “You’d be at the hotel by eight, Katie!”

  I listened as she quickly ran through all of the reasons a spontaneous trip to Utah made sense. Then I graciously declined the invitation, explaining why a spur-of-the-moment overnight adventure was out of the question.

  “Oh, pleeeeease!” she droned. “Julia and Harper can take care of Sky High for one day!”

  “It’s more than that,” I said. “Tipper’s still missing. There’s no way I can leave Crescent Creek until she’s safe from harm.”

  The announcement left my sister momentarily speechless. After a few seconds, she cleared her throat, apologized for being so silly and asked for an update on the case.

  “Do you think they’ll let her go eventually?” she said when I finished.

  I started to answer, but the reply caught in my throat. During my years as a PI in Chicago, I’d heard far too many tragic stories about abductions that didn’t end well.

  “Katie?”

  “Sorry, Liv. I was…” I took a quick breath. “Just keep Tipper in your thoughts and prayers, okay? Trent and his team are working nonstop to locate her.”

  “Why can’t they find her if she’s still in Crescent Creek?” Liv asked. “It’s a small town. I can’t believe the kidnappers could just hide her like that for so long.”

  “It’s not that easy,” I said. “Whoever’s doing this is smart. They’re using untraceable phones and Tipper’s car had been wiped clean. It stands to reason that they’re hiding out somewhere in the area until the ransom is delivered. They might even be moving her from one place to another to avoid detection.”

  Neither one of us said anything for a few moments. Finally, my sister whispered, “Are you doing okay?”

  I felt another wave of anxiety building, so I told her that I looked forward to seeing her the following day.

  “Okay, me too,” she said, sounding much more clear-headed than she had at the beginning of the conversation. “But don’t ever forget this, Katie—I’m here if you need to talk.”

  CHAPTER 38

  I was climbing out of my car in the parking lot at the Crescent Creek PD later that day when I heard someone tap their horn a few times. I’d run out to replenish the stash of chocolate-covered almonds that I kept in my apartment. On my way home, I made a spur-of-the-moment decision to stop and check in with Trent. The longer the search for Tipper dragged on, the higher my blood pressure climbed. I knew that I could call for an update, but there was something reassuring about sitting face-to-face to hear the most recent news.

  At first, I thought maybe Trent was responsible for the muffled horn taps, but then I realized it was Dina Kincaid.

  “Hey, detective,” I said as we closed the distance between us. “How’s your night going?”

  She held up a McDonald’s bag. “Dinner is served. Want to split a Quarter Pounder?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve got leftover chicken pot pie at home. I just wanted to see if we’d heard anything new about Tipper.”

  Even though her face was partially obscured by shadow, I saw the dejected look in Dina’s eyes. “Nothing in the last few hours,” she said. “We had a tip earlier about the alley behind the hardware store, but the group that swept it didn’t find anything useful.”

  “Just beer bottles and cigarette butts?”

  She grinned. “C’mon, Katie. Let’s get inside where it’s warmer. Trent should be up in the conference room on the second floor with a couple of the guys.”

  As we crossed the lobby and headed toward the elevator, Dina told me that Tipper’s mother had called earlier. Apparently, she’d received a series of messages from someone purporting to be the kidnapper. The voice on the phone was garbled, but Mrs. Hedge was adamant that it was a man. He’d asked for two-hundred grand in exchange for Tipper’s release.

  “Is she going to pay the ransom?” I asked.

  “She’s working on getting the cash together,” Dina said as we reached the elevator. “But she also told me something really interesting. Two-hundred thousand is the exact amount that Tipper tried to borrow about a month ago to help her new boyfriend with a business deal.”

  The elevator arrived, we stepped inside and Dina punched the button for the second floor. As the doors creaked slowly shut, I asked her to tell me more about the call from Mrs. Hedge.

  “I was actually pretty impressed,” she began. “Tipper’s mom is one tough cookie. She had the presence of mind to ask for proof of life. They sent a picture, but it’s pretty blurry.”

  Dina clutched the McDonald’s bag in one hand and dug in her coat pocket with the other. She came out with her phone, asked me to hold the Quarter Pounder and then pulled up the photo that Mrs. Hedge had forwarded.

  “Can I see?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Like I sa
id, it’s not the best.”

  As the elevator climbed slowly toward the second floor, she held up her phone and I studied the picture for a few seconds. Tipper looked flustered and confused. Her hair was uncombed, the mascara around her eyes was smeared and a piece of duct tape covered her mouth. As the elevator doors opened on the second floor, my eyes stopped directly behind Tipper.

  “I’ve seen that lithograph before,” I said, pointing at the phone.

  “You’ve seen what?” Dina looked at the image again. “Oh, that,” she said casually. “That’s just an old Abraham Lincoln poster.”

  I shook my head, leaning forward and pointing at the screen. “No, it isn’t,” I said. “That’s a Salvador Dali lithograph.”

  I paused to gauge her reaction, but she didn’t say anything. When the elevator doors began to close again, I used my hand to stop them so we could step into the hallway.

  “You can’t tell from this, but when you get up close to the actual thing, it’s a bunch of different images—some colored blocks, a woman’s back, an orange sky, the silhouette of a woman’s head. And when you step back, the cubes of color form a portrait of Abraham Lincoln.”

  Dina smiled. “Thanks for that, Katie. But I’m more interested in where and when you saw it?”

  “Remember Dermot Flanagan’s dad had that white water rafting business?”

  She squinted and shook her head.

  “He rented an old vacant gas station out on Half Moon Road,” I added. “It did great for a couple of years before—”

  “Is that where you saw the Abraham Lincoln picture?”

  “Yes! I stopped by the other day, just following a hunch about Dermot.”

  “What about him?”

  “I don’t really have anything concrete yet, but—”

  Footsteps echoed toward us from the far end of the hall.

  “I thought I heard you two,” said Trent.

  “Katie’s got something,” Dina called.

  He smiled. “Yeah? What might that be?”

  “She may have found Tipper,” Dina announced, walking toward where he stood.

  “What was that?” he bellowed.

  “I think we know where they’re holding Tipper,” I said.

  Trent’s loopy grin fell flat. “You serious?”

  Dina held out her phone. “The Abraham Lincoln poster,” she said. “Katie saw it hanging inside an abandoned building out on Half Moon Road.”

  “Then why are we standing around?” Trent roared, grabbing the walkie-talkie on his belt. “Let’s have dispatch send the nearest patrol cars, and then we should all get out there now!”

  CHAPTER 39

  Half Moon Road coiled through the countryside like a rootless nomad, twisting and turning and following the terrain as it sloped toward the base of Wildrose Mountain. When we were kids, my father would often use it as a shortcut between Crescent Creek and Coldwater Junction, the nearby town where his brother lived for a few years. As I sat in Trent’s SUV, watching inky silhouettes of trees flash by the window, I was thinking about those childhood memories when Dina called my name from the backseat.

  “Have you seen Dermot Flanagan since you got back?” she asked.

  I turned on the seat to face her. “No, I haven’t even thought of him for years. He and my sister were sort of friends when we were younger, but I didn’t really know him that well.”

  Trent snickered. “The guy was a jerk back then; an arrogant know-it-all who—”

  The walkie-talkie on the seat between Trent and I squawked with a burst of static before a voice came through clearly. “Santiago to Walsh, over.”

  “Go for Walsh,” Trent said after scooping up the radio.

  “We’ve got the place covered,” Denny said. “Nothing visible from the front, but there are tire tracks and what appears to be a lantern in the back office. Do you want us to go and have a look?”

  “Negative,” Trent said. “Hold your positions until we get there.”

  “Copy that,” said the voice on the walkie-talkie.

  After Trent finished with the radio, we rode in silence. The road meandered beneath the pitch-black sky, rushing from one solitary streetlight to the next. Each time we passed through one of the bright ovals, I glanced at Trent. His hands gripped the steering wheel with a fierce determination and his eyes were narrow and tight, concentrating on the slender band of asphalt as we raced toward the abandoned cinderblock building. As we approached the final bend in the road, the silence was pierced again by the walkie-talkie.

  “Santiago to Walsh,” Denny said through the static. “Over.”

  Trent grabbed the radio again. “Go for Walsh.”

  “We’ve got movement,” the veteran officer whispered urgently. “The front door opened and…” He paused and none of us dared breathe. “…and two people are coming out, one with a gun to the other one’s head.” My heart dropped into my stomach. “What’s our move? Over.”

  Trent sighed unhappily. “They might’ve spotted you,” he said. “Hold tight until we—”

  The unmistakable sound of a gunshot came over the walkie-talkie.

  “Santiago?” Trent barked, pressing the radio to his mouth. “What just happened?”

  There was no reply.

  “Denny?” Trent’s voice was steady as he pressed down on the accelerator. “Can you hear me? Over!”

  Dina said something in the backseat, but I was so focused on the walkie-talkie that I didn’t catch it.

  “Denny?” Trent’s foot flew from the gas to the brake as we reached a sharp turn. “Are you there? Over!”

  The SUV slowed, Trent navigated the curve and the old gas station came into view. Two Crescent Creek patrol cars were parked at the side of the road behind a thick stand of trees. Two flashlights sliced the shadows in the gravel parking lot in front of the abandoned building.

  “This is such a…” Trent left the pronouncement incomplete as he angled into the entrance and aimed the headlights at the two officers walking toward a dark mound in the snow. “What the blasted…” He turned quickly toward me. “Are you seeing this, Katie? Dina?”

  Before either of us could answer, his door was open and he was running toward the building.

  “Is that a woman?” Dina asked as she followed Trent out of the Jeep.

  I pushed against the passenger door, dropping to the ground and filling my lungs with a deep pull from the icy air. My legs felt weightless as I scrambled through the darkness and into the two beams jutting from the front of the SUV.

  “He shot me!” a voice shrieked. “He shot me!”

  One of the officers knelt in the gravel. As I approached, I discovered that it was Denny, leaning forward and pressing a wadded rag against the victim’s bleeding thigh.

  “Nobody was supposed to get hurt,” a second voice whimpered. “It was just to get some money. Claire got shot by accident in Tipper’s kitchen and—”

  “That’s your story?” Trent hissed.

  As I came closer and moved around to the right side, I saw bright red crimson splotches on the white snow. In the distance, a siren split the night, howling and growing louder as the ambulance sped down Half Moon Road.

  “Who called that in?” asked Trent.

  “I did,” said the officer standing above the two sprawled bodies. I recognized the voice; it was Hank Russell, another veteran member of the Crescent Creek PD. “The second he fired and hit the vic, I got dispatch on the line.”

  I took a few more steps, shifted my gaze lower and felt a massive bolt of adrenaline burn through my body as I realized Tipper was on the ground. She’d been shot in the leg; blood pumped freely from the wound, despite Denny Santiago’s attempts to apply pressure.

  I stood silently, eyes wide and mouth slightly open, as I pulled my gaze from Tipper’s anguished face to the second shape stretched a few feet away. It was Kyle Gallagher; clenching his teeth against the pain of a gunshot I couldn’t even see.

  “She…” He winced and groaned. “I d
idn’t mean to shoot…anyone. But my brother was going to…”

  Trent stood above the scene, both hands planted on his hips and a look of disgust on his face. “Can somebody explain what happened here?”

  Denny Santiago looked over his shoulder. “It was like I was telling you,” he said. “They came out the front, walking right toward us. He had a gun pressed against her head. I called for them to—”

  “Hold up,” Trent snapped. “Gallagher had a gun on Tipper?”

  “Jammed against her head,” Santiago said again. “And after I told them both to stop, he started to lower the gun, but then he just…shot her. From where we were down there…” He jerked his head toward the patrol cars beyond the trees. “…we could hear them arguing, but we couldn’t tell what they were saying to one another.”

  Kyle Gallagher moaned again. “Is somebody going to call 911?” he said slowly. “I need…”

  “Just zip it,” Trent said. “They’re on the way. I’m more interested in hearing what the blazes was going on.”

  “She got hit first,” Denny said. “In the leg.”

  “I’d guessed as much,” Trent muttered. “Who shot the other one?”

  “He was aiming right at us,” Hank Russell said. “We’d given him three chances to drop his weapon before he suddenly fired a round and she fell.”

  Tipper’s eyes were two white marbles, glaring up defiantly at the faces that surrounded her. “And why?” she screamed. “I’m a victim here, a kidnap victim. I never did anything to—”

  “She’s lying,” Kyle said through gritted teeth. “We were all in it together. Until my brother decided he was going to pull a fast one and—”

  A voice suddenly called from the open door of the old building. “We’ve got the other two. They were hiding in a crawl space above the hot water heater.”

  I spun around just in time to see Amanda Crane escorting Dermot Flanagan across the gravel parking lot. He was barefoot and his shirt was torn, probably ripped in the attempt to escape before things went south. A few seconds later, Steve Pembrook, a rookie officer with the department, came through the door with a second man. I’d never seen him before, but I guessed it was Kyle Flanagan’s brother.