by Mary Maxwell
CHAPTER 12
The next morning at nine-thirty, as I measured flour for a batch of Mini Chocolate Pecan Pies, Harper tiptoed into the kitchen with a wary look on her face.
“Miss Reed?”
I put down the measuring cup. “What’s with the formality, Miss Anderson?” I asked. “Are we on a hidden camera show that I don’t know about?”
She rolled her shoulders. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but…” She looked down at the order pad in her hands. “There’s a fairly grumpy police detective in the dining room.”
“Male or female?” I asked.
She giggled.
“Uh-oh,” I hesitated. “Is it more like animal, vegetable or—”
“It’s Dina Kincaid,” Harper said in a no-nonsense tone. “What did you do to get on her bad side?”
“How do you know she’s upset with me?” I asked innocently. “Maybe she woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”
Harper’s mouth wriggled into a frown. “Hmmm, she hasn’t even been to bed yet. She told me the crime scene at the Lodge kept her up all night.”
I thanked Harper for letting me know Dina was in the dining room. Then I took off my apron, smoothed my hair and walked into the front of the café. I saw Dina, scowling at her phone as she angrily swiped the screen. I also saw Reverend Tuttle sitting alone in the corner, quietly enjoying a stack of Cinnamon Mocha Chocolate Chip Pancakes. I made a mental note to stop and ask him after my chat with Dina about the redhead at Uncommon Grounds.
“You can drop the act,” the tired detective smirked when I sat across from her at a small table near the front windows. “It’s not working.”
“What’re you talking about?” I tried to sound innocent and carefree even though I knew the answer to my own question. “What’d I do now?”
“It’s the cheery grin,” she said with a slight nod. “Along with the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed pretense. I know you had a call from Connie Larson last night about her cousin. I’m here this morning so we can have a little chat.”
I did my best to look even more bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Then I said, “Fire away, Detective Kincaid!”
She groaned. “This isn’t a joke, Katie.”
“Do you hear me laughing?” I stopped smiling and leaned forward in my chair. “I’m just surprised to see you in person. I figured you’d call to read me the riot act.”
“You know what?” Dina said, sounding dog-tired. “Can you just tell me what you know?”
“About Jasper?”
She nodded; glowering through drowsy eyes while her lips formed an impatient pout.
“I don’t know much,” I said. “Connie called late last night to ask me for help proving that he didn’t have anything to do with John Doe’s death.”
“That part I know,” Dina said. “I went by the Lodge earlier. Connie and I had a nice heart-to-heart about what it means to be honest.”
“Did she lie to you?”
Dina made a face. “I’m asking the questions here, Katie. When did she tell you about Jasper’s felony conviction and time in prison?”
“Last night.”
Her forehead creased with suspicion. “Seriously?”
I smiled again, making sure it was neither bright-eyed nor bushy-tailed. Then I told Dina about the conversation I’d had with Connie the previous evening.
“And that’s it?” she said doubtfully when I finished. “She’d never mentioned it before?”
“I didn’t even know they were related until yesterday,” I said.
She narrowed her gaze. “But I thought you and Connie were pretty good friends.”
“We are,” I said. “But we haven’t discussed every branch of our family trees. When I go to the Lodge, it’s usually to deliver a special order for a party. Sometimes I see Connie, other times someone from the catering staff. But when it’s just Connie and me, we don’t talk about things like cousins and families and whatever.”
Dina’s icy sneer began to soften. “Until last night, huh?”
I nodded. “That’s right. Because last night it was germane to our conversation.”
She snickered. “Oh, I love it when you use big words, Katie.”
I smiled. “Conversation isn’t such a big word.”
“Oh, jeez,” she said, actually laughing. “I wasn’t talking…you know something? Let’s just cut to the chase, okay?”
I nodded.
“Are you planning some type of investigation into the death at the Lodge?”
“I don’t know if I’d call it an investigation, but Connie asked me to make sure her cousin isn’t somehow involved.”
Dina considered my response. Then she sighed loudly, put her elbows on the table and cupped her chin with both hands. “Oh, Katie! What would I do without you being unpredictable and meddlesome? You’ve got a way of keeping things especially interesting for me.”
I blurted a laugh that caused heads to turn at a nearby table. After apologizing to the guests for the outburst, I looked at Dina. “Me? Unpredictable and meddlesome? I don’t exactly follow you there, Detective Kincaid.”
“That probably sounded different than I intended,” she said. “And you’ll have to forgive me; I was up all night trying to identify the victim.”
“Any luck?”
She shook her head. “I know what he weighs. I know he had a pretty bizarre collection of stuff in his pockets. And I know he likes to wear too much cologne.”
“That’s all good preliminary information,” I said. “Would you be interested to learn where he got into a fight the night before last?”
Dina’s mouth quivered slightly. “What was that?”
“The guy was at Bier Haus two nights ago,” I said.
Her eyes brightened with interest. “Did you see him there?”
“No, but I have it on good authority that he was in the bar with a woman,” I explained. “And, apparently, she started flirting with Jasper and his coworker, and…well, that’s when all hell broke lose.”
Dina flipped to a blank page in her notepad. “Who told you about this?”
I filled her in on what Zack had mentioned during dinner at Luigi’s. Then I explained that Connie had confirmed the story; Jasper and a Lodge employee named Shane Scott had been in an altercation with a guy at Bier Haus.
“Ah, so that’s what she was talking about,” Dina said, absentmindedly tapping the pen against her chin.
“Who?” I asked.
“Connie Larson. When I spoke with her this morning, she told me that Jasper recognized the vic because they’d been in an argument of some kind.”
“And it sounds like it started with a woman,” I added.
A mischievous smile materialized on Dina’s face. “Innocent until proven guilty,” she said firmly. “Until I talk to all of the involved parties, I’ll reserve judgment about who started what with whom.”
CHAPTER 13
I watched Dina go out the front door, considering her remark for a few seconds. Then I looked to see if Reverend Tuttle was still at his usual table.
A robust 72-year-old lifelong Crescent Creek resident with a fondness for long walks in the mountains, gospel music and Bible study classes, Reverend Tuttle was one of my favorite Sky High regulars. He always greeted me with a kind word, a friendly smile and an amusing anecdote. As I crossed the dining room, Harper was refilling his coffee cup. She reminded him about our special pricing on cupcake gift packages, gave me a little wink and then headed for a party of three burly men wearing ski pants and fleece hoodies.
“Reverend Tuttle?” I said quietly. “How is everything?”
The easygoing elderly man looked at me over the top of his gold-rimmed glasses. They were smudged with fingerprints and a bit of maple syrup. He was dressed in his customary dark sweater, black slacks and starched white shirt.
“Well, good morning, Katie!” he answered. “I may sound like a broken record, but you’ve outdone yourself again! These pancakes are out of this world!”
&
nbsp; “It’s actually Julia. She’s our pancake mastermind.”
He chuckled before using his knife and fork to carefully carve a small chunk of the flapjacks. Then he popped the bite in his mouth and hummed with delight as he chewed and swallowed.
“Do you mind if I ask a question?”
His eyes twinkled. “I believe you just did, young lady!”
“Yeah, I guess so. How about one or two more?”
“Certainly, Katie,” he said. “Is this about my social media experiment last week?”
I’d heard a few people discussing the sermon he delivered the previous Sunday. In an attempt to reach younger members of the congregation, Reverend Tuttle had tweeted a few homilies from the pulpit during the sermon. Although it was highly unusual and slightly left of center, I thought his idea was certainly fitting for the audience.
“Actually, it’s about something else,” I explained.
He gestured at the empty chair across the table. “Then take a load off, Katie. You’re on your feet about a gazillion hours a day. Let this be a brief respite from all the running around.”
I thanked him for the invitation, pulled out the chair and asked if he remembered the redheaded woman at Uncommon Grounds the previous day. “She was dressed casually,” I added. “Like she’d just come from a yoga class.”
Before answering, he sipped his orange juice and dabbed his lips with a napkin. “I believe that you’re referring to Annabelle Dunkin’s sister,” he said. “For some reason, I think her name is Bethany. But I’m not one-hundred percent certain, Katie. I could always call Annie and ask.”
“Oh, no! That’s not necessary. I was talking to…” I didn’t want to mention the coffee shop owner by name, so I quickly changed gears. “…uh, to a friend, and they thought Bitsy Sanger was in the coffee shop at that time yesterday morning. I was wondering if it was her.”
Reverend Tuttle pursed his lips, deep in thought. “Our Bible group met for at least two hours yesterday morning,” he said a moment later. “And I certainly didn’t see Miss Sanger during that time.”
“And the redhead was Annie Dunkin’s sister?”
“Absolutely!” He nodded confidently. “She stopped by our table for a quick hello.”
“Do you know who she was with?”
He squinted. “Wasn’t she alone?”
“The friend that I mentioned told me that the redhead was talking outside the coffee shop with a man in a tuxedo.”
The reverend smiled. “Oh, you’re entirely correct, Katie! She told us that she had to run because she saw someone that she knew pass by on the street.”
“Do you know if he is—”
“A magician!” he said, rubbing his hands together. “With a funny name. You know, like The Great Thingamajig or The Amazing Whatnot.”
“The Amazing Whatnot?” I laughed. “I don’t think I’ve heard of that one.”
“Well, of course not,” Reverend Tuttle said. “Because I just made it up, Katie. My memory’s not as sharp these days.” He pressed his hands together and put his chin on the fingertips. “I’m older than dirt, you know.” His furrowed brow was replaced by a mischievous grin. “Older, but I smell a whole lot better.” He held out one arm. “It’s my new cologne, don’t you know!”
I leaned forward and sampled the fragrance on his wrist. “That’s very nice. What’s it called?”
“Intenso,” he said. “It’s from Italy. Very popular with the younger set, from what I’m told. My sister sent it to me for my birthday. She told me to…let’s see if I can recall her exact words. I believe she told me to ‘stop being an old fart and start living it up.’” He frowned. “I’m sorry about the language, Katie. I hope that didn’t offend you.”
“Absolutely not! I’ve heard far worse in the kitchen when we get slammed by a busload of tourists.”
“Not that sweet Julia!”
I shook my head. “Nope. I’m usually the one cussing up a storm.”
“Well, I suppose that’s one way to let off a little steam,” he said as I pushed back from the table and got up.
“I’m going to let you finish those pancakes in peace,” I said. “I need to get back in my office and take care of a few things. But thanks so much for taking a moment to chat.”
His smile was warm and infinite. “Oh, anytime, young lady. Are you sure you don’t want me to call Annie and have her sister get in touch with you?”
“That’s sweet, but not necessary,” I said, leaning down to give him a quick hug. “Have a wonderful day!”
As I walked away from Reverend Tuttle, I thought about what he’d just told me and what I’d learned the day before from Dean at the coffee shop. Annie Dunkin’s sister had purchased a skinny soy latte and then talked with a man fitting the description of the victim found in the gazebo. It didn’t explain the cause of his death, but it possibly shed some light on how a coffee cup marked with the name Bitsy ended up at the scene.
When I got to my office and settled in at the desk, I pulled out my phone and sent a text to Dina with the information about Bethany Dunkin.
“She’s going to love this,” I muttered as I composed the note. “One less person to identify and two fewer dots to connect.”
CHAPTER 14
I was organizing the walk-in cooler at Sky High an hour later when Julia told me there were two people in my office.
“Are they from Publishers Clearing House by any chance?”
Her face remained tight. “It’s Connie Larson and some chump with a black eye the color of a Japanese eggplant.”
I complimented Julia on the colorful description. Then I quickly finished the shelf I was arranging, closed the walk-in door and crossed the kitchen to the small hallway that lead to my office.
“…whatever else you do,” Connie was saying as I came through the door. “You need to be honest.”
The guy with the shiner was slumped in one of the guest chairs, elbows planted on his knees and his chin propped up by two hands the size of baseball mitts. When he saw me enter the office, he quickly got to his feet.
“Hi, Katie,” Connie said. “This is Shane Scott.”
The man held out one of his fleshy paws. When we shook, I was glad he went easy on me. He looked like a wrestler, all muscle, no neck and a crooked nose that had probably been broken more than once.
“It’s nice to meet you, Miss Reed,” he said, lowering his considerable bulk into the chair again.
“Likewise,” I said. “Thanks for coming in this morning.” I smiled at Connie, but she was biting her lower lip like someone trying not to cry. “How was your meeting with Dina?”
Shane started to answer, but Connie reached over and put one hand on his arm.
“It was fine,” she said, removing the hand. “Shane told her all about the fight with the man Eloise found in the gazebo. And that’s all we talked about.”
I nodded. “She actually stopped by here a little while ago to ask me what I knew.”
Connie’s mouth trembled slightly. “Why?” she asked. “Is she upset that I wanted your help?”
“She was just reminding me that she’s conducting the official investigation. It’s not a concern, so don’t think it means anything more than that. Dina and I get along fine. We’re actually old friends.”
Connie shifted in her chair. “And you also know the Chief of Police, right?”
“Deputy Chief,” I said, glancing at Shane. “That’s Trent Walsh. He, Dina and I went to high school together. But we’re not here to talk about me; I want to learn more about what happened the other night.”
Shane grunted softly. “It was no big deal.”
“Except it seems that the man you argued with was found dead in the gazebo at Connie’s hotel,” I said. “That makes it of keen interest to the police.”
“And us,” Connie said.
“That’s right,” I agreed, keeping my eyes on Shane. “And that’s why I need to know everything you remember about the incident.”
H
e inhaled slowly, his nostrils flaring and the muscles in his massive jaw clenching.
“Take your time, Shane,” I said after a few silent moments. “It’s important that you tell me as much detail as you can remember.”
He nodded, swallowing hard. “Well, I was pretty much having a good time, you know? Me and Jasper had been talking about shooting some pool for a while. Since our nights off aren’t usually the same, it was a rare opportunity to hang out.”
“And drink a few beers?” I asked.
“More than a few,” he said, frowning. “We got pretty door-knobbed, and—”
I stopped him with one hand. “Door-knobbed?”
“Hammered,” he said with a faint smile. “Tell you the truth, I don’t know how much we had.”
“Too much,” Connie muttered, kneading her hands anxiously in her lap.
“Yeah, way too much,” Shane said. “But that’s the whole reason we got into it with that jerk.”
“Did he say something about you being…door-knobbed?”
Shane smiled again. “No, but neither one of us would’ve ever let that broad get so up in our faces if we’d been sober.”
“That broad?”
Connie made a derisive sound in her throat. “Whitney Morgenson,” she sneered. “Do you know her?”
I shook my head. “I don’t believe so. Who is she?”
“Who is she?” Connie repeated. “She’s trouble, that’s who! I also think she had something to do with the dead guy that—”
“Let’s call him John Doe,” I suggested. “Until we know his real name. There’s something about calling him ‘the dead guy’ that just seems so heartless.”
“Okay, so John Doe,” Connie continued. “I wasn’t trying to be unkind. I just don’t know his name.”
“None of us do,” I said. “But we will soon enough. Now that Dina is aware of the tussle at Bier Haus, she’ll be able to pull surveillance video and get a look at John Doe and his lady friend.”
“We already know who she is,” Connie said. “Her name’s Whitney, the former Las Vegas singer who married Tucker Morgenson after they’d known each other for about a minute!”
