Murder by the Slice (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 1)

by Mary Maxwell

  “I’m just curious about the argument,” I said, taking a tiny sip from my glass. “Did you happen to hear what they were fighting about?”

  Red nodded. “What else?” he said. “Football and women.”

  He delivered the answer as if those were the only subjects that could cause two men to argue. I wasn’t about to debate the topic, so I asked if he could tell me more.

  “About football and women?”

  “No, Red. About Pete and the other guy.”

  “Not much else to say really. The stranger came in, ordered a beer and started runnin’ his mouth. He was cocky and loud, going off about how Chicago’s the only city in the country that matters and—”

  “What was that?” I interrupted.

  Red blinked. “Huh?”

  “I’m sorry to cut you off,” I said. “But you just mentioned Chicago, right?”

  He nodded. “Well, it wasn’t me that mentioned it originally. I’m just telling you what that jerk said before he took a swing at Pete Yoder.”

  “Was he from Chicago?” I asked.

  “How should I know?” Red drawled. “I don’t give two shakes about the guy.”

  I smiled. “And why should you? I was just trying to find out what they were fighting about.”

  Red put the cap back on the bottle of Wild Turkey. “And I already told you,” he said. “Football and women.”

  “And Chicago,” I added.

  “Yeah, I guess. But I wasn’t really hanging on every word, if you know what I mean. It was pretty busy in here when they were yapping at one another. And when they started getting real loud, I was about ready to throw the both of ’em out. But then that Muldoon character tried to punch Pete. And Pete went to return the favor. But then the guy from Chicago said something snide about Izzy and that took the fight to a whole new level.”

  “Is that when Izzy decked Muldoon?”

  Red chuckled. “Yep. That’s a woman who definitely eats her Wheaties. No taller than a June bug, but she climbed up on a stool, pulled back her arm and popped that loud son of a gun right in his kisser. The poor guy hit the floor like a bag of rocks.”

  I took another sip of whiskey and pushed the glass toward Red.

  “Thanks for the hospitality,” I said. “But I don’t think I can finish the shot.”

  He glowered at the remaining amber liquid. “You kidding me, Kate?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve got to drive back to Sky High,” I told him. “I’d hate to get pulled over for woozy driving.”

  “What the heck?” he sputtered. “Your old boyfriend’s on the force. Wouldn’t he get you off the hook?”

  I shrugged and grabbed my bag. “I don’t know,” I said. “And I don’t really want to find out. I’ll see you next time, Red.”

  “Not if I don’t see you first,” he said, giving me a parting wave.

  “And thanks for the info about Pete Yoder and Muldoon,” I said.

  “Why’d you wanna know about them anyway?” asked Red.

  “Something I’m working on,” I said.

  He frowned. “For Sky High Pies?”

  “It’s complicated,” I said. “But I appreciate you filling me in on their dustup.”

  Red smiled and told me to drive carefully. I told him that I would before walking to the door and stepping out into the cool, dark mountain air.

  CHAPTER 15

  When midnight arrived, I was wide awake, pacing the floor, nibbling from a box of cheese crackers and trying to understand why someone had ransacked my apartment. Although the anonymous caller seemed convinced that I had something of value in my possession, I knew that everything in my small warren of rooms had come from my old place in Chicago: clothes, kitchen gear, second-hand furniture, treasured family mementoes and framed photographs of my first decade as an adult.

  Random crime isn’t a logical act, but the burglary was truly perplexing. Trent had told me that the last time anyone had called 911 about a break in was five years earlier when Godfrey Rankin mistook the Morrison’s tool shed for his double-wide trailer.

  “And don’t worry, Kate,” Trent had assured me. “We’ll put our best resources on your case.”

  I suspected that he was reluctant to invoke his ex-wife’s name. Well, his ex-wife and my ex-best friend. But it didn’t really matter. Trent wasn’t a faithful boyfriend when we were in high school, but I knew his reputation as deputy chief of police in Crescent Creek was stellar. During the years that I lived in Chicago, my parents mentioned his name in every phone conversation or e-mail. As if simply saying Trent Walsh and Kate Reed often enough would somehow alter the past and bring us together again as a couple.

  “Fat chance,” I mumbled, cramming my hand back into the box of crackers. “I’ve had two strikes and the bases are empty. There’s no hope to win a game with those odds.”

  I pressed my nose to the window and stared into the endless night. I thought about Trent. I thought about Dina. And then I thought about Rodney. My mind seemed to pinball from one disturbing memory to another as I crunched on cheesy squares and watched the pitch-black nothing on the other side of the glass.

  At one o’clock, I put the empty cracker box in the recycle bin. It looked perfectly content beside the empty vanilla wafer package. I smirked at the sad reality of my irregular food choices and went into the bathroom.

  “Don’t you look stunning,” I said to the woman in the mirror. Between the fright wig on her head and the plump bags beneath her eyes, she looked ready for a night of Halloween revelry. “If it was the end of October instead of the middle June, we could go trick-or-treating.”

  The creature in the mirror leered back with disdain for a few seconds before I flossed, brushed and gargled. Then I staggered to my bedroom, flopped onto the unmade bed and squeezed my eyes closed.

  And waited.

  But nothing happened.

  My heart kept galloping and my mind kept spinning with unanswered questions about the burglary and Rodney and Trent. I tried counting sheep. But every time I got close to thirty, I’d lose my place and start again until the frustration made me roll onto my side to try the fetal position.

  And still nothing happened.

  I rolled onto my back again and tried to remember the relaxation exercises that my sister had mentioned a few months ago when she joined a new yoga studio in Denver.

  “It’s super easy,” Olivia had told me. “Close your eyes, put one hand on your belly and slowly inhale through your nose. Concentrate on the sensation of the breath starting in your tummy and follow it to the top of your head.”

  As I followed her instructions, doing my best to focus and breathe, holding my hand on my stomach just reminded me of all the vanilla wafers and cheese crackers I’d consumed while pacing the floor for the past three hours.

  As the glowing red digits on my bedside clock slid toward two o’clock, I threw off the blanket, dropped my legs over the edge of the mattress and headed for the living room. If it was going to be another sleepless night, I could at least unpack another box from my apartment in Chicago.

  I switched on the television for company and found an old Bette Davis movie. I watched for a few minutes as she warned the guests at a party to fasten their seatbelts because it was going to be a bumpy night.

  “Welcome to my world,” I said, glowering at the screen. “Every night’s been bumpy lately.”

  While All About Eve kept playing, I surveyed the apartment. I’d scrambled earlier to collect most of what the burglar had left scattered on the floor. He’d emptied all of my CDs and DVDs from a pair of old beer boxes I’d scavenged from my favorite liquor store near my old apartment. He’d strewn my jasmine votives, candleholders and favorite flower vases on the sofa. And he’d dispersed my prized collection of Winnie the Pooh stuffed animals randomly around the dining room. Instead of cute and adorable, Winnie, Eeyore, Piglet and Tigger looked lost and forlorn.

  “Welcome to my world,” I said again, kneeling to collect my four childhood treasur
es from the floor. “But don’t worry, guys. We’ll get this place spiffed up in no time at all.”

  As I got back to my feet, I saw my reflection in the old Coors Beer mirror that my father had left behind. He’d used the apartment as his man cave after the last tenant moved out, although my mother told me more than once that the only thing he did in his hideaway was nap. I walked closer and frowned at my doppelganger. I looked even more exhausted than I had in the bathroom mirror after brushing my teeth.

  “It’s okay,” I said gently. “You’ll get through this.”

  After arranging Winnie and his friends on the top shelf of the bookcase near the fireplace, I walked over and slumped onto the sofa. My mind was still whirring like crazy, but I was beginning to feel a little drowsy. Before the thought melted into another burst of manic activity, I turned off the television, grabbed the two throw pillows on the coffee table and made a little nest with an old quilt that Nana Reed had made for me when I was in grade school. It was threadbare and there were a few red wine stains from the pity party I threw for myself before leaving Chicago, but it was one of my most treasured possessions.

  As I nuzzled beneath the coverlet, trying to decide if I should get back up and turn off the light in the kitchen, a bundle of envelopes under the coffee table caught my eye. It was mail that I’d collected during my final two weeks in Chicago. At the time, the last thing I felt like doing was opening unsolicited junk or crying as I read one more sympathy card from friends that had heard about Rodney. I’d mentioned the flood of cards and notes to my mother one night while we were discussing recipes for Sky High Pies. “Don’t worry about those now if you don’t want to,” she’d suggested. “Put them in a box, bring them to Colorado and open them when you’re good and ready.” My mother’s advice echoed in my mind as I reached for the bundle.

  I studied the first envelope. The return address told me it was from one of Rodney’s favorite clients, a serial divorcée named Eartha Fink who hired him every time she decided to ditch her latest husband. Since I remembered that her handwriting was even more difficult to decipher than Nana Reed’s pie recipes, I moved on to the next envelope in the stack. It was a fundraising solicitation from my alma mater, the School of the Art Institute of Chicago.

  “So sorry, SAIC,” I muttered. “I’ve got to horde every penny right now to keep Sky High afloat.”

  The third packet was a plain brown envelope with my name and original Chicago address obscured by a dark ink scribble. I’d moved the year after I started working for Rodney when I could afford a large place, leaving my collegiate hovel for a roomy one-bedroom with plenty of space for my easel and painting supplies. In those days, I still harbored dreams of landing a gallery show and becoming a full-time artist. I blinked away the memory and stared at the envelope. It had a yellow sticker from the post office with my final address in Chicago, indicating that it had been forwarded after the original delivery attempt. It seemed odd that someone had mailed an envelope to my old address, so I quickly opened the packet. When I held it upside down, a computer flash drive tumbled from the envelope and fell into my lap.

  “That’s odd,” I said to the quiet room. “Who would send me…”

  I didn’t bother finishing the question when I saw the handwriting on the note inside. It was the familiar block letters that Rodney always used to leave messages on my desk.

  CHAPTER 16

  I stared at the chunky letters and felt waves of immense sadness sweep through my body. The death of anyone that you know well—a family member, friend or, in this case, a longtime coworker and mentor—leaves a permanent fissure in your heart. Since Rodney’s loss also involved inexplicable violence and an unknown assailant, I felt certain that it would always trigger unexpected flutters of sorrow and grief.

  I stared at the note for a few moments before taking a deep breath and reading the message:

  Kate:

  Can’t risk leaving this in the office. It’s for a new case: Gustave Landecker. Keep it in your apartment until I return to Chicago. Will explain later.

  Rodney

  P.S. Don’t worry about the Honeycutt bill. She dropped off a check late last night after you left.

  I kept staring at the note, slowly moving my eyes from one word to the next. I missed Rodney more than I could’ve ever imagined. After being my boss for a decade, we’d become close professional associates. I’d attended his wedding to Alison. They’d invited me to the hospital after their twins were born eight years earlier. And I’d learned an infinite number of things from him about sleuthing, running a business and being a loyal friend.

  Tears toppled down my cheeks as I held the note and thought about my boss and friend. When the call came from New York that he’d been involved in a mugging, I was at the office trying to catch up on filing. The NYPD detective on the phone had been polite and professional, explaining that the circumstances were strange and someone from their office would be in Chicago to interview me the following day. While I know that I talked with a detective from New York twice the next afternoon, I couldn’t remember much about the conversation. I was in shock from Rodney’s death. And the unexpected news that I’d also received that day that my boyfriend was eloping with my neighbor.

  I banished the memories with another deep breath and picked up the flash drive. It was white and silver, a sleek, flat object less than two inches in length. My laptop was downstairs in the Sky High offices. I considered taking the drive down to see what it contained, but decided that I’d been through enough for one day. Wedging it safely in the pocket of my bathrobe, I figured that Trent should know about the development right away. I grabbed my phone, dialed his number and went back to staring at Rodney’s note while I waited.

  “Trent,” I said after the beep sounded for his voicemail. “It’s me. And I just found…” I paused, suddenly feeling that more of an explanation might be a good idea. “I’m sorry,” I continued. “It’s Kate. Kate Reed. And I just found something that I think may be related to the burglary. I’m calling in the middle of the night, which may seem a little weird. But I can’t sleep. And there’s a chance that all of the vanilla wafers I ate earlier are…” I stopped, instantly regretting the overshare. “Okay, sorry,” I said, deciding to focus on the mission. “That’s way too much information for two-thirty in the morning. Uh, can you please call me when you get this? Or stop by Sky High later. We open at seven. And we’re featuring my new Coconut Macadamia Muffins tomorrow, so maybe—”

  A loud and discourteous bleep informed me that I’d overstayed my welcome. I snickered softly, imagining Trent’s face when he listened to my anxious babbling. Then I put the phone on the coffee table, curled up under the wine-stained quilt and waited for Mr. Sandman to pay me a visit.

  “Two hours of sleep would be better than nothing,” I whispered into the pillows, knowing that I’d be lucky to get even half of that before the alarm trumpeted the dawn of another new day.

  CHAPTER 17

  Getting up before sunrise has never been my favorite way to start the day. In Chicago, I lived close enough to Rodney’s office that I could hit the snooze button at least three or four times and still get to work on time. But when my parents asked if I’d consider moving back to Crescent Creek and taking over Sky High Pies, rising and shining in the dark was the biggest drawback.

  “It’ll be easy,” my father had advised. “Until you get in a groove, use two alarm clocks. One by your bed and one in the next room. When the second one goes off, you’re forced to get up.”

  He was right. But my father was nearly always right. He’d predicted that I would follow my passion for painting to the ends of the earth, even if it meant I never earned a living with my brushes and easel. He’d also forecast that Trent would break my teenage heart a few years before he prophesied that my boyfriend in Chicago would do the same thing. And my father had also guessed that I would curse a blue streak when the dueling alarms rang each morning after I’d assumed responsibility for the family business.<
br />
  “Right again, dad!” I griped, trudging down the stairs from my apartment as Julia guided her rusted Ford pickup into the parking lot.

  I gave her a wave and waited outside the kitchen door. As always, she was perky and happy. Despite three kids under the age of ten and a husband who acted a couple of years older than their children, Julia was eternally optimistic, ceaselessly patient and prone to saying just the right thing at exactly the right moment.

  “Don’t you look ravishing?” she gushed, climbing the short flight of steps onto the back porch. “All this clear mountain air is really working for you, sugar.”

  I scowled. “Have you ever been grumpy in the morning?”

  “Just once,” Julia answered. “When the Broncos lost the Super Bowl to Seattle.”

  “I didn’t know you were a football fan,” I said, unlocking the back door and stepping aside so Julia could go in first.

  “I’m not,” she said, dropping her backpack on the counter near the walk-in refrigerator. “But my hubby is. When the Seahawks trounced the Broncos, Jared hurled a plate of nachos across the rec room. Do you know how hard it is to get Velveeta stains out of a white shag carpet?”

  I shook my head, smiling. “I’ve never had the pleasure,” I said. “And I really hope—”

  Julia’s scream stopped me in my tracks.

  “Oh, my word!” she yelped. “It looks like we had a break-in last night!”

  “Another one?” My heart screeched to a stop. “Are you serious?”

  “Dead serious,” she said, pointing at the pie tin and fork in the sink. “But it looks like the only thing they took was half a chocolate cream pie and two bottles of Yoo-hoo.” She raised one eyebrow. “Isn’t that your favorite way to self-medicate when you’re blue?”