Chocolate Most Deadly (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 2)

by Mary Maxwell

  Chocolate Most Deadly

  Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries / 2

  Mary Maxwell

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  © 2015 Mary Maxwell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, recorded or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  NANA REED’S SKY HIGH RECIPES

  CHAPTER 1

  “Can you save me, Kate?” Eliza Wells pleaded from beneath a faded Denver Broncos cap. “I know it’s late, but please save me!”

  Trapped in the harsh glare of the light above my front door, she looked pale and frantic. Her mascara was smudged, her eyes were watery and tangled brunette tufts spilled from beneath the hat like tumbleweeds bouncing in the breeze.

  “Please, Kate!” she cried again. “I really need something scrumptious for the Civic Circle meeting. If I don’t impress the other ladies, they’ll think that I’m a slacker in the domestic arts.” She dabbed her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “And you know what I think would be just perfect?” Her pearly whites glowed in the bright lamplight. “Two large platters of those cute bite-sized cupcakes, cookies and pies that you sell!”

  It was ten o’clock on a Monday night in early September. Before Eliza began pounding on the door, I was seconds away from crawling into bed with a good book and cup of chamomile tea. I’d been up since before dawn juggling a million hectic moments at Sky High Pies, the bakery café that I run in tiny Crescent Creek, Colorado. The last thing I needed was an emergency order from a frenzied fan. But I live in a cozy apartment on the second floor of the Victorian that houses our family business, so it’s hard to hide from someone as persistent as Eliza Wells. While most people would pick up the phone with such an urgent request, Eliza was more of a face-to-face communicator—especially when her reputation was on the line. I’d already seen it a couple of times since I moved back from Chicago to take over the business.

  “I just adore everything you make!” Eliza gushed as I motioned for her to step inside. “And there’s such history between us. I mean, our grandmothers were at school together. Our parents went on double dates when they were teenagers. And all of my brothers and sisters think you can do no wrong in the kitchen, Kate!”

  “But if you serve our goodies,” I said, stifling a yawn, “isn’t that cheating? I mean, if your friends are expecting something homemade, won’t they be disappointed if they discover that you tricked them?”

  Eliza scowled. “Can’t you keep a secret? I’ll pay double the special order rate, okay? And I’ll never ask you for another favor again as long as this fresh Rocky Mountain air fills my lungs.”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at her theatrical expression and choice of words. When I took over Sky High from my parents, they’d provided a list of local residents who often requested last-minute favors. Eliza had been at the top of the roster—in bold type with several exclamation points. “She’s a pickle,” my mother had said graciously. “Oh, really?” my father had chuckled. “Is that what we’re calling professional procrastinators these days?”

  As I stood in my living room, listening to Eliza fervently promise to never again ask for special treatment, my father’s booming voice and vigorous laughter echoed in my mind. If it wasn’t two hours later in Florida, I’d call their cozy retirement condo as soon as Eliza left to entertain them with her most recent eleventh-hour request.

  “Well?” she squeaked as tears trickled from her eyes. “Can you do it, Kate? Will you spare me from certain humiliation in front of the group?”

  I spun around, grabbed a box of tissues and held it toward her. After she’d dried her cheeks and stuffed the crumpled tissue under one cuff, I promised to prepare an assortment of miniature goodies for the meeting. Then I complimented her on how nicely the paint-spattered sweatshirt looked with her bright pink-and-yellow nightgown, fuchsia socks and hiking boots.

  “This old thing?” She glanced down at the oversized pullover, flecked with drops of blue, green and teal. “My husband wears it to work around the house. I was in such a panic—you know, after the cookies I was making for the meeting burned to a crisp—that I grabbed the first thing I saw to wear over my nightie.”

  I nodded at the breathless explanation. “Well, you look cute and comfortable, Eliza.”

  She beamed a dazzling smile. “Thank you, Kate.”

  “Okay, back to business,” I said. “When is your meeting?”

  “In two days,” she said. “I’m expecting twenty women, the leading movers and shakers of Crescent Creek.”

  I bit my lower lip to refrain from saying anything unseemly about the Civic Circle crowd. I was well aware that the group’s members—a select coven of bitter, malicious and judgmental bellyachers—had been spreading rumors about the reasons my parents left Crescent Creek and moved to Florida. “Her father’s a womanizer,” they’d jeered. “And her mother’s addicted to online poker.” Of course, both claims were wrong; my parents were deeply devoted to one another and my mother’s idea of a wild time online involved Google searches for culinary trivia. I’d also learned that one member of the group—a former Las Vegas showgirl named Colette Coscarelli—started the rumors after my parents declined her attempts to buy Sky High Pies. “Family business my derrière!” she’d allegedly snarked. “Their daughter Kate doesn’t know a first-rate pâte sucrée from a hole in the ground.” Since Nana Reed taught me to make sweet tart dough when I was seven and I’d helped my Uncle Buzz build a fence on his property near Leadville at the age of ten—involving countless holes and plenty of ground—I’d overlooked the rumors.

  I was chuckling quietly about the ridiculous tittle-tattle and Colette’s nasty remark when I realized Eliza was still going on about her upcoming witches’ summit.

  “…but a cheese tray isn’t an option because Tipper Hedge is lactose intolerant and Frenchie King apparently has a fear of cows.” She paused to giggle. “Have you ever heard o
f such a thing? Someone who’s afraid of cows and gets hives if they’re in the same room as dairy products?”

  I shook my head. “Sounds heartbreaking.”

  “Ha!” Eliza hissed. “It sounds positively fabricated to me, like the kind of gibberish you tell someone if you’re desperate for attention or—”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” I said with another yawn. “But it’s late. And I’m exhausted.” I paused long enough to let the concept register in her frantic brain. “Don’t worry about the treats for your group, okay? Julia and I will take care of everything.”

  “Are you sure?” Her mouth fell open and her eyelashes fluttered like a swarm of overexcited moths. “I don’t want to be any trouble, Kate.”

  Too late for that, I thought, pressing my lips into a cordial smile. “Oh, I’m absolutely sure,” I said. “It’s no trouble at all. What time is your meeting?”

  “Seven o’clock,” Eliza said. “On Wednesday evening.”

  I took her elbow and gently guided her toward the door. “Sounds good,” I said. “We’ll have everything delivered by five that afternoon.”

  Before I knew what was happening, she’d trapped me in a powerful hug, planted a big kiss on my cheek and flooded the room with a high-pitched squeal.

  “You are too amazing, Kate!”

  I wiggled out of her death grip, blushed a little and mumbled a few words of appreciation.

  “See you on Wednesday!” she called, slowly clomping down the exterior staircase in her hiking boots. “You’re a real life saver, that’s for sure!”

  As soon as I was alone again, I grabbed my phone and crawled into bed. I zipped through my contacts, found Julia’s name and sent her a quick text: Special rush order for Eliza Wells—two SHP Mixed Mini Samplers. Deliver on Wed afternoon. See you in the AM! The Mixed Mini Sampler featured diminutive versions of our best-selling goodies. Some customers ordered nothing but pies, while others blended bite-sized versions of our renowned cakes, cookies and scones into the mix. Since Sky High first opened forty years earlier, my Nana Reed’s recipes had earned a sterling reputation among local residents as well as tourists who passed through Crescent Creek on their way to Aspen, Vail, Boulder, Telluride or any of our state’s other famous destinations. The Mixed Mini was a perfect way for them to indulge in petite nibbles of our top sellers.

  After sending a second text to my sister in Denver—Will call soon! Love you!—I dropped my phone on the bed, sipped the lukewarm tea and opened the Agatha Christie novel that I’d been reading for the past few nights. Nana Reed had introduced me to the pleasures of mysteries and detective stories when I was young. During the decade that I spent working as a private investigator in Chicago before returning to Crescent Creek, the books had seemed a strange counterpart to my daily life. But now that I’d left behind my work as a PI, I cherished the time I could spend with my favorite fictional sleuths. Even if I only read a few pages before falling asleep, it was my treasured respite from the world and a cherished connection to my beloved grandmother.

  I’d just opened The Body in the Library when my phone vibrated. A quick glance answered the question that I was muttering softly under my breath: Who thinks now is a good time to call? It was my sister, undoubtedly responding to my message.

  “Olivia!” I said brightly after swiping the screen. “What are you doing up so late?”

  “It’s barely past ten,” she answered. “That’s not really so late, is it?”

  “Speak for yourself, sis. I get up at four-thirty every morning. Remember?”

  “Well, you just texted me. I figured you were still awake.”

  I decided to skim past the rhetorical chatter. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I wanted to see how your dinner went with Trent,” she said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial hush. “Where’d you go? What did you have? And was it as incredibly romantic as I hoped it would be?”

  I flopped back against the pillows and closed my eyes. Despite telling Olivia that I wasn’t interested in rekindling a romance with the hometown boyfriend who’d unceremoniously dumped me in high school, she kept needling me to give Trent a second chance. It was true he was still handsome. And it was also true that he was once again single. But I’d returned to Crescent Creek for Sky High Pies, not to reconnect with the boy who broke my heart all those years ago.

  “Kate?” my sister whispered. “Are you still there?”

  “Yes, Liv. I’m still here. Why are you muttering like that?”

  “I’m not muttering,” she muttered. “I’m trying to be discrete. I don’t want Cooper to know that I’m prying into your love life. He thinks I should mind my own beeswax.”

  I smiled. My brother-in-law was the strong, stoic type. But when he did have something to say, it was usually meaningful and wise.

  “Well, you can tell Coop that you weren’t being nosy,” I said. “Even though you are. Sort of. But it’s okay because I don’t have a love life.” I pictured Will, my ex in Chicago, on the night he announced that he’d fallen in love with my upstairs neighbor. “I mean, you can’t pry into something that doesn’t exist, Olivia,” I added. “So there’s no need to whisper like that.”

  “Okay,” she whispered. “But what about Trent? How’d your date go?”

  I groaned and opened my eyes. “First of all, we’re having dinner tomorrow, okay? And, second of all, it’s not a date. He wanted to get together and hear more about my work in Chicago.”

  “Eew,” Olivia said. “There’s nothing romantic about being a PI.”

  “Some people would disagree with you,” I said, closing the Agatha Christie and putting it on the nightstand. “But I’ve already told you—my dinner tomorrow with Trent isn’t going to be romantic, okay?”

  She huffed and sighed before launching into a monologue about why I should give him another chance. Since Olivia’s stubborn streak is several miles wider than mine, it took a few minutes to convince her that my dinner plans with Trent Walsh were as far from romantic as possible. When she finally said she believed me and I promised to text her with a full report in a couple of days, we said good night and I shuffled to the kitchen to make another cup of tea. The alarm would scream at me in a few short hours, but I wanted to enjoy at least two pages of Agatha Christie and one cup of chamomile before turning off the light.

  CHAPTER 2

  Shortly after ten the next morning, while the Sky High Pies dining room hummed with happy diners and Julia fluttered around the kitchen like a flour-specked butterfly, I sat in my office and glared at the mountains of paperwork.

  “Why can’t you file yourselves?” I moaned, shifting one stack to the left and another to the right. “I’m not in the mood to mess with you today.”

  I pushed back the chair and propped my legs on the desk. “A quick power nap would be perfect,” I said, closing my eyes. “I can get my second wind before I—”

  KA-BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!!! A thunderous knock rattled the kitchen door.

  “—tackle the rest of these things.” I lurched up from the chair and scurried into the hall. “What the heck was that?”

  As I made my way toward the kitchen, I heard a second knock, louder and more insistent.

  And then a third deafening thud on the door.

  Followed almost immediately by a fourth.

  “This better be good.” I peered around the corner toward the source of the noise. “And it better not be that guy coming back to sell us magazine subscriptions.”

  Luckily, it wasn’t a door-to-door salesperson. It was my neighbor, a single woman named Viveca England. She’d stopped by the day I moved in with a basket of goodies that included a bottle of wine and a copy of Unwed & Loving It: Finding Happily Ever After Without Him! Viv had long straw-colored hair that she usually arranged on her head in a casual swirl of wisps and curls. Her face was narrow and tapered, with a button nose, plump lips and the kind of awe-inspiring cheekbones that some Hollywood starlets buy from influential cosmetic surgeons in Beverly Hills.
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  When I opened the door, she came inside with a muffled sob. Her eyes, rimmed with red and filled with tears, narrowed into a bewildered stare as she drifted into the room.

  “Viv?”

  She wobbled to a stool near the sink and plopped down with another cry.

  “What on earth is wrong?”

  “It’s horrible!” she panted, struggling to catch her breath. “My brother…” She swept a few loose strands of hair from her face. “…down in Denver…” One hand pressed against her chest as it shuddered wildly. “Tim just told me that somebody tried to…”

  When she paused again, I reached over and gently touched her shoulder. “Hang on a sec,” I said calmly. “Why don’t you catch your breath while I fix some tea?”

  She shook her head. “Tea?” It was a rhetorical response; the mechanical query of someone trying to cope with shocking news. “But I don’t want…” The rest of her remark vanished into a cloud of soft sobs.

  I hurried to the stove, grabbed the kettle and filled it with water. When I glanced back across the room, Viveca was slumped against the counter with her head in her hands. As the flame flickered with a gentle hiss, I retrieved two mugs, plunked bags of Earl Grey into both and then arranged a few Chewy Chocolate Chunk Cookies on a plate. They were my favorite when I was a girl; the ideal tonic for a skinned knee, bruised ego or a fragile heart shattered by the taunts and teases of Dolly Lassiter and Shannon Walker. When we were young, Dolly and Shannon ruled supreme as the biggest bullies in our grade school. Now that we were adults, they were both grouchy divorced women who came to Sky High on a regular basis to medicate their sorrows with meringue, whipped cream and lattice-topped slices of our namesake treats.

  “This should help,” I said a moment later, placing one steaming cup near Viveca as she dried her eyes with a shredded paper napkin. “A little tea. A little chocolate. And some friendly conversation.”

  She stared at the plate of cookies. Then she reached for the tea and took a tiny sip.