by Mary Maxwell
The muscles in his jaw tightened slightly. “Oh, really? How is she?”
“Peachy,” I lied. “How are you?”
He ignored the question and asked what I was doing in downtown Crescent Creek.
“Shouldn’t you be back in the kitchen?” he said. “Mixing or baking or whatever it is you do?”
I let the smile on my face soften. “We finished early enough today so I could run some errands.” His steadfast gaze was unnerving, so I glanced at my watch. “Speaking of which,” I went on, “I should get going. I’m meeting my sister for dinner, and I need to…” I suddenly remembered the phone in my hand and the fictitious conversation with Olivia. “I need to finish discussing where we’re going to eat before I get back to work.”
His mouth lifted into a cold, flat grin. “Sounds good, Miss Reed. I’ll let you get back to it then.”
I felt like I was six again, caught in an obvious lie by my mother after stealing a piece of Chocolate Crumble Cake from the kitchen counter. My cheeks turned red and it felt like the word LIAR had suddenly appeared on my forehead.
“Okay,” I said as Carson started to walk away. “Nice seeing you again.”
He stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “Likewise, Miss Reed. I’ll be in touch soon to discuss the situation with Rodney Alexander.”
I kept my eyes on him until he disappeared around the corner. Then I dropped my phone back into my bag. I was heading toward my car when I heard Ellen calling my name from the door of the coffee shop.
“Well, that didn’t look like a love connection,” she said, joining me on the sidewalk.
I blinked. “Sorry?”
“Your little tête-à-tête with the handsome hunk in the suit.”
“Oh, that! Well, it didn’t look like anything because it wasn’t anything.”
Ellen sighed. “Munchkin,” she said, digging in her Birkin. “You don’t have to be coy with me. I won’t tell a soul.”
For a split second, I thought about calling her on the obvious lie. When we were kids, she was notorious for spreading rumors. After our brief conversation in the coffee shop, I could tell that gossip was still near and dear to her heart. But I decided that it wasn’t worth it; if Ellen wanted to spend her time engaged in idle chitchat, who was I to judge? I just needed to avoid giving her any grist for the mill.
“There’s nothing to tell,” I said as she applied another coat of gloss to her lips. “That guy is with the FBI. He came by Sky High to ask me a few questions about my former boss in Chicago.”
Ellen’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Oh, is that right?” she said. “What was it—a torrid office romance? The classic fantasy of sex on the copy machine with the boss?”
I made a face. “Neither,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “Rodney was the ultimate professional. He gave me a job when I really needed one. Then he mentored me through the process of getting my PI license.”
A look of defeat crossed Ellen’s face. “Oh,” she said. “That’s not the juicy tale of intrigue that I was expecting.”
“No doubt,” I said. “My life isn’t like that, Ellie. I keep my nose clean and—”
She suddenly reached into her bag, came out with a phone and swiped the screen.
“This is Ellen Parker,” she said. “Can you hold for a sec?” She pressed the phone to her hip and gave me a peck on the cheek. “Sorry to cut you off, munchkin. This is a business call, so I have to take it.”
“I understand,” I said. “It was good to see you again, Ellen. Come by Sky High sometime so we—”
But she was back on her call and walking away before I could finish the invitation. I studied her stride as she moved down the sidewalk, gliding on impossibly high heels with the grace and elegance of a ballerina.
“Why can’t I look that elegant when I carry sacks of flour across the kitchen?” I muttered. “Maybe I can hire Ellen to teach me a few lessons in poise and charm.”
The thought made me laugh, and I instantly flinched when I realized that three teenaged boys on skateboards were watching from a nearby alley.
“What?” I called to them. “Haven’t you ever seen a babbling idiot before?”
The tallest of the three stepped forward. “Just now,” he said with an insolent sneer. “Aren’t you the new pie lady?”
“Guilty as charged,” I said, grabbing the car keys from my pocket. “You guys should come in sometime to try a few of our new flavors.”
“For free?” asked the short, roly-poly member of the trio. “Is that what you mean?”
I opened the door and climbed in behind the wheel. “You got it,” I said. “The first slice is on me. And what you just saw here today will be our little secret, okay?”
The first kid shook his head. “Heck no,” he said. “I already tweeted a video of you talking to yourself.”
The news made me laugh again, even louder than the first time. “Well, that’s just dandy. But the offer’s still good; come to Sky High sometime and I’ll hook you up with a free slice of whatever pie or cake you’d like to try.”
CHAPTER 11
Finishing my list of errands with a quick stop at Fulbright’s Pharmacy & Gifts for toilet paper and cotton balls, I decided it was time to head back to Sky High Pies. As I drove through town, past the quaint cottages, elegant Victorian homes and rolling hills dotted with Aspen trees, I thought about the encounter with Ben Carson and Muldoon.
I didn’t know the two men, but what I’d observed was clearly a heated argument. Since I’d been enmeshed in the world of sleuthing for so many years in Chicago, I automatically began speculating about a few possibilities. Maybe Muldoon was also an undercover FBI agent, working on another hush-hush case. Or perhaps Carson was actually Muldoon’s brother; his reference to “back at home” actually meant their mother and father. I’d worked with Rodney long enough to know that the dusty chestnut was true—never judge a book by its cover.
When the red lights flashed and the gates lowered at a train crossing, I decided the unexpected delay was a great opportunity to catch up on phone calls. I needed to order a few things for Sky High Pies, and I also wanted to thank my sister again for coming to Crescent Creek to help out.
I was in the process of dialing her number when another call came in. I checked the screen and felt a faint quiver of anticipation pass through my heart. It was Trent, calling from the police station, and he was muttering the lyrics to an old Rick Springfield song when I answered.
“Trent?”
“Oh, hey!” His voice was edged with embarrassment. “How’s it going?”
I smiled and watched the line of train cars glide by. “I’m okay, but were you actually looking for Jesse’s girl?”
He growled, a low, husky tone of uneasiness. “Ah, c’mon, Katie. Did you hear that?”
“Loud and clear,” I answered. “Are you practicing for karaoke night at the Wagon Wheel?”
His answer was lost in a crackle of static. “…and Dina was going to call, but she ended up in court at the last minute,” he was saying when the clatter on the line subsided. “We both thought it would be a good idea to check in and share the latest on your burglary.”
“That’s really thoughtful,” I said. “Do you provide this service for everyone, or is this—”
“I don’t have much time,” he interrupted. “I’ve got a conference call in ten minutes.”
I kept quiet and waited.
“So, anyway,” Trent continued. “I’ve been in touch with a guy I know in Chicago, just getting some background on your former boss.”
The news pinged around my brain like a lead pellet. “Really? Who’d you talk to?”
“Chet Kozlowski.”
I knew the name; Rodney and Chet were good friends. They bowled together in a weekly league, ran in the Chicago Polar Dash every January and their wives hosted a monthly potluck dinner for a ragtag group of private investigators and Chicago PD detectives.
“What did he tell you?” I asked reluctantly, not
wanting to hear anything that might disparage Rodney’s reputation. “Do you think it’ll help ID whoever broke into my apartment?”
“I don’t know about that yet, but Kozlowski told me that Rodney’s storage units had also been burglarized earlier today.”
“The ones on Addison?”
“I don’t know where they’re located,” Trent answered. “But he said the padlock had been cut off and the contents had been tossed.”
As I thought about the news, an image of the storage units flashed in my mind. I’d gone there once with Rodney to search for an old case file. We’d located it quickly and then he’d proudly shared a few of his high school wrestling trophies with me. Besides overflow paperwork and documentation from the office, Rodney had used the side-by-side lockers to house a trove of personal belongings and memorabilia.
I was reflecting on that long ago afternoon and the fact that I’d mentioned the storage units to Ben Carson, when Trent asked another question.
“How much do you know about Rodney’s last case?”
I thought for a second or two, my eyes following the rumbling train cars as they rolled through the intersection. “Well, if memory serves, he was working for a woman from Naperville,” I said. “She suspected her husband was having an affair. Rodney had trailed the guy a few times, but there was no indication he was actually cheating on his wife.”
“Does the name Gustave Landecker sound familiar?”
My pulse surged; it was the second time in as many days that I’d heard the question. “Well, I don’t think that was the name of the supposedly unfaithful husband.”
“You’re right,” said Trent. “The woman from Naperville was Annabeth Prell. Apparently, Rodney and Chet had a few beers a couple of nights before your boss was killed. Chet remembered hearing about the Prell case, but it’s unrelated to Gustave Landecker.”
I concentrated on my final few conversations with Rodney. Nothing out of the ordinary came forward from the shadowy recesses of my mind.
“Okay,” I said. “I give; who is Gustave Landecker?”
“It’s not a who,” answered Trent. “It’s a what; specifically, a global chemical powerhouse with North American headquarters on Wacker Drive.”
I said a little prayer of gratitude as the final few cars of the train came into view. I wanted to be home, a glass of wine in one hand and a bowl of cheese crackers in the other. The longer I sat at the railroad crossing, the more fatigued I felt.
“I’m sorry, Trent. It’s been a long day. Did you say something about chemicals?”
“Yes, Gustave Landecker is a chemical company,” he said in a slow, calm voice. “They’re based in Geneva, but the Chicago office handles all their business in North America.”
“I’ve never heard the name,” I said. “Well, I never heard Rodney say it. But when Ben Carson came to see me the other day, he asked about the same company. He said it had something to do with Rodney’s accident.” I paused to see if Trent would pickup on the emphasis; the wait was brief. After Trent tried to correct me by calling Rodney’s death a homicide, I confirmed that the FBI agent had used the term accident instead of murder. “I didn’t really think about it too much then,” I continued, “but now I’m starting to wonder why Carson mislabeled it.”
“Could’ve been a slip of the tongue,” Trent suggested.
I considered the explanation, but dismissed it in a flash. “No, it seemed very calculated,” I said. “I mean, now that we’re talking about it. And after I saw Carson just now arguing with Muldoon.”
The line was quiet for a moment before Trent asked me to repeat my last comment.
“And who’s that?” he said.
“Muldoon works for Sandy Ingernook,” I said. “At the Perfect Party Shoppe.”
“You mean Sandy Ingersoll?”
“Sure, okay. Anyway, Olivia bought a bunch of balloons and other decorations for my first week at Sky High Pies. Muldoon delivered them and I didn’t really think much about the guy until I saw him and Ben Carson going at it on the street.”
“Going at it?” Trent’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Do you mean they were punching one another or—”
“Arguing,” I blurted as the last car of the train moved through the intersection. “They were having a pretty heated fight in front of Java & Juice.”
“Did you hear what they were arguing about?”
I explained that I’d only heard snippets of the quarrel. “I was trying to be circumspect,” I added. “Even though you’ll probably—”
He laughed before I could finish the thought.
“—tell me that I’m too nosy to be discreet,” I said. “But I’m not the same girl I was when we were in high school. I’ve learned how to be tactful and guarded when I’m working a case.”
Another chuckle came through the phone. “Apparently so,” he said. “And, for the record, I know you’re not the same girl, Katie. It’s very evident that you’re a smart, clever woman who learned a lot during all those years away from Crescent Creek.”
“Keep going,” I said. “I haven’t heard that kind of high praise in a while. The past few days with my sister have made me question my self-esteem more than once.”
“How about we get together for a drink?” Trent suggested. “I can pour on the high praise and help boost your self-esteem with a whole bunch of compliments.”
The invitation caught me off guard. Even though we’d both been flirting a bit, I wasn’t ready for such a direct overture. I kept quiet and hit the gas after the red lights stopped blinking and the gates lifted.
“Or not,” Trent said. “But, for now, let’s stick to the business at hand.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I agreed. “What’s the latest on my burglary?”
“Before we get to that,” he said, “can you give me a description of this Muldoon guy?”
I did my best to depict the balloon deliveryman: freckles, short red hair, paint-spattered coveralls, scruffy black work boots.
“Any tattoos?” Trent asked.
“None that I remember. But I’ve only seen the guy three times. And the first two involved my sister freaking out about balloons, so my focus wasn’t completely focused on Muldoon’s appearance.”
“Got it. I was just curious.”
I asked why he wanted to know about Muldoon.
“We had a call last night from Red Hancock at the Wagon Wheel,” Trent explained. “A guy fitting that description got into a knock-down, drag-out tangle with Pete Yoder.”
“Really? What were they fighting about?”
“Mrs. Yoder,” Trent answered.
“I see. And who won?”
“Once again,” Trent said, “Mrs. Yoder. She apparently has a pretty mean left hook. Dropped your buddy Muldoon with one punch.”
We laughed briefly about Izzy Yoder’s street fighting prowess before Trent said he had to go.
“I’ve got to jump on a conference call,” he explained. “But I’d much rather talk to you.”
I let his warm voice coil around my heart for a split second before snapping back to reality. We weren’t seventeen. It wasn’t a warm summer night in the long ago past. And the only reason we’d been talking so much was because I’d been the victim of a crime.
“Okay, sure,” I said, pressing the phone even more tightly to my ear. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“If not sooner,” he said. “Take it easy, tiger.”
And my cautious heart skipped a few beats as the term of endearment I hadn’t heard for nearly fifteen years echoed in the silence.
CHAPTER 12
I sat in my car for a few minutes when I got back to Sky High Pies. Late afternoon shadows covered the back of the stately Victorian, and a radio played somewhere in the distance. It sounded like an old Beatles song. Maybe “Love Me Do.” I closed my eyes and leaned against the headrest, listening and thinking about Trent.
I was daydreaming about the time we went white water rafting with some other kids from school w
hen someone knocked on the windshield.
My eyes popped open and my sister was pressing her nose against the glass.
“Why are you sitting out here?”
“Just thinking,” I answered.
“About anything in particular?”
I shrugged. “Pie dough and biscuit recipes and food cost margins.”
She cringed. “Well, that’s pretty much no fun. Why don’t you come inside? Julia and I have just about finished the prep list. I was hoping we could go for a beer or something when we’re done.”
I pulled the keys from the ignition and climbed out from behind the wheel.
“I’m only here for another day or so,” Olivia added. “We haven’t had enough time to just hang out and talk.”
“I know, but I’m so grateful that you came up to help.” I surrounded her neck with my arms and squeezed as hard as I could. “I love you so much, Liv.”
“Right back at ya!” she said. “Now, let me go before I pass out from lack of oxygen.”
We walked up the back stairs and into the kitchen just in time to hear Julia singing “Whistle While You Work.”
“Doesn’t that sound sweet?” I said, dropping my bag on the counter. “Which one of the seven dwarfs are you?”
She tossed a small amount of flour into the air. “Grouchy,” she said.
“Do you mean Grumpy?” asked my sister.
Julia frowned. “Did I stutter?”
Olivia and I exchanged a quick glance. “I guess somebody is ready for a cocktail,” I said.
“It’s been a very long day, Jules. Why don’t you go home after you finish that?”
She giggled. “I was teasing. I’m not grouchy. Or grumpy.”
“Thank heavens for small miracles,” Olivia said. “I wish my sons could be as cheerful as you.”
Julia turned back to the dough she was rolling. “Well, they’re what—twelve or so?”
“Or so,” Olivia said. “Their birth certificates say twelve, but their language sometimes sounds more like they’re sixty-year-old longshoreman working on the docks.”
