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

by Mary Maxwell

  “Congratulations,” Will said.

  I waited for more, but he didn’t offer anything to clarify the laudatory remark.

  “For what?” I asked finally.

  “Just for moving forward,” he said softly. “After I did what I did, well…” His voice faded into a gutted whisper. While he cleared his throat and prepared to finish, my mind flooded with images of Will and Rebecca kissing, walking hand-in-hand through Grant Park, riding the Ferris wheel at Navy Pier. “I’m just so sorry, Katie,” he continued. “I was an ass.”

  “I agree,” I interjected quickly. “So was she.”

  “Hold on there a sec,” he said. “Rebecca had nothing to do with—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” I felt my pulse charge and my stomach tighten. “When she first moved into my building, I invited her down for a glass of wine. And then we went out to dinner about a dozen times before I introduced her to you.”

  “That’s not what I’m—”

  “And she was very well aware how much I loved you,” I said, not giving him a chance to defend the strumpet’s honor. “But I guess all of that was a lie anyway. Isn’t that right, Will?”

  He didn’t answer, but I could hear him breathing on the other end.

  “You may have loved me at some point,” I added. “But then you stopped loving me. And for some crazy reason, you decided to share that little news bulletin with my neighbor first before letting me find out the hard way.”

  He sighed so loudly that it seemed like he was sitting right beside me. “Look, Katie,” he said. “I don’t know what more I can do. I apologized then. And I’m saying it again—I’m sorry that I hurt you. Beyond that, I don’t know what else there is to tell you.”

  I felt the tears fill my eyes as I listened. When he stopped, I swallowed hard to keep from sobbing.

  “Know what I mean?” Will asked. “I’m sorry. Today, yesterday, forever. Other than that, I don’t know what I can say.”

  “How about goodbye?” I whispered.

  “What?”

  “Goodbye, Will,” I said. “I’ll send you the movie as soon as I can. Take care of yourself, okay?”

  CHAPTER 23

  As the clock crept slowly toward midnight, I sat on a stool in the Sky High Pies kitchen, trying to decide whether my late night snack should be a Cocoa Loco Cupcake or a sliver of Chocolate Peanut Butter Pie. After the disconcerting phone conversation with Will, I needed a bite of something sweet. Possibly two or three bites.

  Following a brief and lively internal debate between my angelic side and the slightly more mischievous part of my personality, I settled on one of the miniature pies that I’d added to the Sky High menu as a signature item. When I described the idea to my parents, they’d both scoffed and grown unusually quiet for a few moments.

  “A miniature pie?” my mother finally said, her voice dripping with skepticism. “What’s that supposed to be—a way to cut back on calories?”

  “That’s part of it,” I said. “Portion sizes are too big in most restaurants. Some people that come to Sky High are looking for a little guilty pleasure, not a stomach so full they can barely waddle back out to their car.”

  “Are you saying that your grandmother had the wrong idea all those years?” my father asked.

  “Yeah, Katie,” my mother added. “We built the success of Sky High on her favorite family recipes.”

  “And she never skimped on the size of a slice,” said my father. “That’s the whole idea of the name, sweetie. Your Nana Reed called it Sky High Pies because they were so tall and generously filled with fruit or custard or whatever. They weren’t like those flat, lifeless things you find at Barb Delmar’s place or that little café near the town square.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” my mother agreed. “Barb’s pies were as appetizing as an old sock. And the way they lay on the plate all squat and lifeless, they looked like a flat tire.”

  I didn’t attempt to engage in a debate about the merits of our competition. Sky High Pies was one of three venues in Crescent Creek where residents and visitors could treat themselves to a caloric extravagance. And even though Delmar’s Delites and Crescent Creek Bistro didn’t offer anywhere near the breadth of Sky High’s selections, they both had loyal customers who remained faithful. Unless, of course, they wanted a blueberry-pecan scone, a towering slice of pineapple-apricot turnover or a mini pecan pie.

  As I took my first bite, I reflected again on the conversation with my parents about the new menu items.

  “What’s wrong with the way things were?” my mother had said.

  “Nothing,” I’d replied. “I just want to try a few new things. Is that so bad?”

  My father sniffed. “That’s what Napoleon said at Waterloo,” he groused.

  “And you know how well that turned out,” my mother added.

  “But I’m not Napoleon,” I said.

  “You don’t have to tell us,” my father said. “The only child in Miss Kendrick’s French class to mispronounce ‘oui’ until the poor old woman threw up her hands in defeat.” He’d chuckled and paused as he always did when telling the story. “I mean, c’mon! Who says ‘ooh-ee’ in Paris?”

  After my father finished recounting his favorite nostalgic nugget from my childhood, I’d changed the subject and asked them about Florida. It was the day after I’d returned to Crescent Creek; a week before they packed up the RV for the drive to their new home on Sanibel Island.

  “It’s paradise,” my father had said. “Beautiful beaches, the best stone crabs in the world and no state income taxes.”

  “And if you feel like you’ve gained weight,” my mother added, “you can just go look at a manatee and feel better about your figure.”

  Since my mother had always been a petite cyclone of energy, I didn’t understand why she thought comparing herself to a huge sea creature with flipper-like paddles was funny. But I smiled when I first heard the comment, and I was smiling again as I stood in the kitchen at Sky High savoring my first bite of Chocolate Peanut Butter Pie. It was delicious; two of my favorite things blended into creamy perfection. The second bite was also pretty scrumptious. In no time at all, my sweet tooth had been satisfied and I was ready to go back upstairs.

  As I washed my hands in the sink, I glanced over and discovered that one of the slots in the massive rubberwood block was empty. I hadn’t noticed it earlier in the day, so I quickly searched the kitchen to see if I could find the missing knife. Keeping things neat, tidy and organized in the kitchen was an essential element of culinary success. I’d learned that lesson from Nana Reed when I stood on a milk crate beside her as a little girl. My grandfather had always complained that she was more interested in a shipshape kitchen than nearly anything else, but I also believed that Sky High Pies was such a huge success because of her drive and discipline.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I said. “I will not be a happy camper if I can’t find you, Mr. Knife.”

  Twenty minutes later, after hunting high and low through the kitchen, pantry and dining room, the elusive knife was still missing. I made a note on the whiteboard and then headed back up to my apartment. It was nearly midnight. I didn’t feel particularly drowsy, but the alarm was going off in four hours whether or not I was ready to sleep.

  Once my head hit the pillow, I fell into a deep and restless sleep. I dreamed about miniature pies falling from the sky. After that, my slumbering mind filled with visions of Barb Delmar appearing on the local talk radio station to tell everyone that my Chicago boyfriend had dumped me because I couldn’t speak French. My lack of foreign language skills somehow led to a nightmare about Napoleon chasing my Nana Reed through the Sky High dining room with the missing knife. The diminutive French despot had my beloved grandmother cornered near the cappuccino machine when the alarm blared in my ear, splintering the disturbing dream into a million pieces.

  After a quick shower and an attempt to make my hair look less like an electrified tutu, I slipped into a Sky Hig
h Pies T-shirt, jeans and my bright orange Crocs. I’d nicknamed the left shoe Mario and the right one Batali in honor of the famous chef who inspired my choice of footwear.

  I made a quick stop in the kitchen, grabbed a protein bar and slipped it in my back pocket. Turning for the door, I saw the blank spot on my refrigerator where the burglar had left the cryptic threat: We want the file for Alexander’s last case. Leave it on front porch by midnight tomorrow. Or else!

  Since midnight had come and gone, I felt the flicker of a smile on my face.

  “Guess I beat the clock for once,” I said, stepping outside and locking the door. “Maybe there’s—”

  My triumphant mumbling fell silent as I glanced at the porch. A trail of muddy footprints on the stairs lead from the back deck to the front door of my apartment.

  “Where did those come from?” My voice was as thin and soft as the early morning breeze. “I know they weren’t here yesterday.”

  I narrowed my eyes, squinting at something resting on the bottom step.

  “What in the world?” I crept slowly down the staircase. “That looks like…”

  And it was.

  The missing kitchen knife from Sky High Pies sat in the middle of the weathered wooden stair.

  And the blade, glinting in the halo from the security light by the backdoor, was covered with a thick coat of dried blood.

  CHAPTER 24

  My eyes remained fixed on the gruesome sight as I fought the urge to run back up to my apartment and bolt the door. I stood on the stairs and gripped the railing, feeling my pulse rocket through my body as my mind surged in a dozen directions at once. I need to call Trent! Should I pick up the knife? Where did it come from? How could it—

  “Kate?”

  My gaze bounced to the left. Julia was coming toward me from her car. I’d been so focused on the strange discovery that I hadn’t noticed her pulling into the parking lot. I moved carefully down the staircase until I was standing just above the spattered knife.

  “What is it?” she asked, shifting her canvas tote over one shoulder. “Did you drop something or—”

  Her voice froze as she realized what was on the step between us.

  “Is that one of ours?”

  I nodded. “Yes, it’s the large carving knife. I realized that it wasn’t in the kitchen during the middle of the night.”

  “Why were you downstairs in the—”

  “And I think that’s blood,” I said, making my way gingerly around the weapon so I could get a better view.

  “Blood?” Julia’s voice trembled slightly. “You mean like…human blood?”

  I gave her a quick glance. “I have no idea if it’s from a person, but I’m pretty sure that’s what it is.” I knelt down for a closer look. “And it looks fairly fresh.”

  “How can you tell?” she asked.

  I pointed at the drops on the stairs and the glistening remnants on the blade. “Blood contains a protein called hemoglobin,” I explained, instantly channeling the conversations that I’d had at crime scenes with Rodney in Chicago. “When it’s exposed to air, the hemoglobin absorbs oxygen, turning it a glossy reddish-brown color.”

  I instinctively pulled my phone from my pocket and took a few pictures of the knife.

  “What are you doing?” Julia asked.

  “Documenting the evidence,” I answered. “It’s an old habit.”

  Julia winced. “Why do you know so much about blood?”

  I shrugged and moved away from the knife. “Leftover information from my life in Chicago,” I said. “Working with Rodney for so many years, I was exposed to things you could never imagine.”

  She pulled a tissue from her purse. “And I’d like to keep it that way,” she said, dabbing her forehead. “I live in Crescent Creek to get away from stuff like bloody knives and dead people. We don’t have much crime up here, so I’ve never had a reason to learn about hemoglobin absorbing oxygen.” She crumpled the tissue and dropped it into her purse. “Do you think we should call Trent?”

  I nodded, lifted my phone again and dialed 911.

  “Emergency Dispatch.” It was the same woman that answered when I called to report the burglary. “What’s the exact location of your emergency?”

  “Hi, this is Kate Reed again,” I said slowly. “I’m calling from Sky High Pies.”

  “Is this about your burglary?” asked the dispatch operator.

  “No, it’s something else.”

  “What’s your emergency this morning?”

  I took a quick breath to prepare for what I was about to tell the woman. “I think there’s been a murder.” The words sounded impossibly surreal as they left my mouth. “I mean, I think that we just found a murder weapon.”

  There was no reply for a few seconds. I glanced at Julia, but she was staring so intently at the knife that she didn’t look up to meet my gaze.

  “Let me see if I heard you right, okay?” said the operator with a hint of hesitation in her voice. “Did you say that you found a murder weapon?”

  “Yes, that’s right. I was coming down the steps that go from my apartment on the second floor to the back deck. The first thing I noticed was drops of what looked like maybe paint or ketchup or something. And then I saw the blood-spattered knife.”

  “Okay, so you found a knife outside your door?”

  “It’s on the bottom step,” I said. “Can you maybe call Trent Walsh for me?”

  “I can try to reach him after I send a patrol car, okay?”

  “Sure, I just…”

  “Stay right there for just a sec, Miss Reed.”

  There was a muffled click as she put me on hold to call the nearest officers. While I waited, Julia motioned toward the door to the Sky High Pies kitchen.

  “Is it okay if I go inside?” she said in a hushed voice. “All that blood is making me feel a little woozy.”

  I nodded. “Yes, of course. I’m just going to wait until—”

  Another barely audible click announced that the dispatch operator had returned. She told me that a car would arrive in the next ten minutes.

  “What about Trent?” I asked.

  “He’ll be there in a jiffy,” she said. “He was pretty much dead to the world when I…” She paused. “Sorry, that was a poor choice of words,” the operator continued. “Officer Walsh was sound asleep when I called him at home. But he told me to let you know that he’d be right over.”

  I thanked the woman and slipped my phone into a pocket. Through the back screen door, I could hear Julia crashing and clattering around the kitchen. On any other day, she would barely make a sound; the baking sheets, pots and pans always landed like feathers on the countertops or stove. But if she was anxious or irritated, she didn’t take as much care with the equipment.

  All was quiet for a few seconds before the sound of breaking glass spilled through the open door.

  “Dagnabit!” Julia bellowed. “Would you be more careful with things?”

  I opened the door and went inside just in time to see her ample rear end as she bent to scoop up the shards of a ceramic cake plate. She heard my footsteps and glanced around.

  “I’m sorry, Katie.” Her cheeks were red as cherries and wisps of hair fluttered around her face. “It just slipped out of my hands.”

  I joined her on the floor, carefully plucking broken pieces of glass from the linoleum before dropping them into a wastebasket.

  “Why don’t you let me finish this?” I said.

  She answered with a string of colorful language as the tinge on her cheeks deepened. “I just got rattled by the sight of that knife and the b-b-blood.” She finished her explanation with a furrowed brow and deep scowl. “Do you know what I’m saying? I come to work, easy as you please, expecting that I’ll be making dough and baking pies. And then I see you.” She got to her feet. “And then I see the knife. And then I feel like I’m going to upchuck.”

  She leaned against the counter and swept the hair from her eyes.

  “It’
s okay, Jules,” I said. “I’ll take care of this while you catch your breath.”

  I shot across the room, grabbed the broom from its hook on the wall and swept the remaining shards of glass into a dustpan. I was checking under the stainless steel table in the middle of the kitchen when I heard the crunch of tires on gravel from the back parking.

  “I’ll go outside and talk to the officers,” I suggested. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

  She sputtered and shook her head. Then she went to the sink, turned on the water and started to wash her hands as I headed out back.

  “Long time no see,” Officer Bennington said as he climbed the steps to the deck. “Heard you had some excitement out here again this morning.”

  I pointed at the bloody knife. “I suppose so,” I agreed. “If you call that exciting.”

  He glanced at the blade, moved closer and leaned down for a better look. “Guess that depends on how you define ‘exciting.’”

  “Before you go any further,” I said, “that’s one of ours. I noticed it was missing last night.”

  Bennington looked over. “From where?”

  I pointed at the backdoor. “From the kitchen,” I said. “We have a large rubberwood block to store most of our knives. When I was downstairs last night, I realized one slot was empty. I looked around the kitchen and dining room, but didn’t find it.”

  The patrolman nodded. “Until just now?”

  “Yes, I was coming down the stairs to start the day.”

  “And you saw the knife straightaway?”

  I shook my head. “I saw the drops of blood and muddy footprints first. The trail leads from my front door down to the knife.” I studied the knife and thought about what I’d just told Bennington. “Or, you could also say that the trail leads from the knife up to my front door,” I added. “Which would suggest that someone is attempting to either send a message or frame me for what appears to be a murder or violent assault.”