An Imitation of Murder (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 9)

by Mary Maxwell

  “Howdy, Katie!” said the cheerful silver-haired Sky High regular. “Isn’t this a lovely day?”

  She gazed up at the sky, an endless blue canopy flecked with fluffy white curlicues. I did the same and told her that I agreed wholeheartedly with her assessment.

  “Looks like you’ve already been inside,” I said, gesturing at the shopping bag.

  “Yes, I needed some cotton balls and a few other things. My husband dropped me off about forty-five minutes ago and went to fill up the truck.” She glanced anxiously at the traffic on Arapahoe. “I can’t imagine what’s taking him so long.”

  “Where did he go for gas?” I asked.

  “I thought the MiniMart over on Lookout,” she said. “But I’m beginning to suspect that he decided to drive out to the car wash place on Beech. They’re giving away two free beer koozies with every tank.”

  “Did you try calling him?”

  She glowered. “Daryl? He hates cell phones.”

  “Do you want me to give you a ride home?” I offered.

  She considered the idea for a moment. Then she said, “I better wait for him, Katie. Daryl’s been in the dumps lately and I don’t want to add to his blue mood by not being here when he finally does show up.”

  Daryl and Marjean were the founders of the Sky High Pies Friday Lunch Bunch. The last day of every week, they came in at noon with a revolving cast of characters to enjoy a bite to eat, lively conversation and a slice of pie. My grandmother and Marjean had been good friends, so it always brightened my day to see her and catch up on the latest news from the Bixby clan.

  “How are your kids doing?” I asked as she checked the time again.

  “Oh, they’re just the best!” she answered, delivering the customary reply. “Did I tell you that Danny and his wife are going to be grandparents?”

  “No! That’s fantastic news, Marjean.”

  She frowned comically. “It is, but you know what that’ll make me?”

  “A great-grandmother?”

  She shook her head. “A hypocrite,” she confessed with a sly smile. “I always said that I’d stop wearing my stilettos if and when I had a great-grandchild. But you know what, Katie?”

  I leaned closer and lowered my voice. “What’s that, Marjean?”

  “I lied!” She reached down and lifted the right leg of her taupe bell-bottoms to reveal a white suede pump decorated with hundreds of dazzling crystals. “And I’m not going to apologize! I love my heels, doll!”

  I laughed and studied her shoe. I’d seen something similar in Vogue not long ago, a pair of stunning bedazzled pumps that retailed for nearly three thousand dollars.

  “Are those Jimmy Choos?” I asked.

  Marjean wiggled one eyebrow. “Absolutely!” she said. “Daryl always wants to pinch pennies, but I keep telling him that we can’t take it with us.”

  I nodded, smiling again at the defiant expression on her face.

  “Besides,” she continued, “he has no idea how much they cost. I told him they came from the discount rack at Target.”

  “And he believed you?”

  The rebellious twinkle in her eye faded as she giggled loudly. “Well, of course,” she said. “Daryl’s a sweet, sweet man, Katie. But you know what my mama always said about the secrets of a happy marriage.”

  I shook my head. “Actually, I don’t.”

  “My mother, rest her soul, always told me that—”

  A horn suddenly blared directly beside us. We both jumped in surprise and swiveled to see Daryl Bixby waving from behind the wheel of his pickup.

  “Sorry it took so long, honey!” he called to Marjean. “I ran into Danny and Mindy! The baby’s coming! Let’s go!”

  Marjean frowned, glancing at me quickly before turning back to her husband.

  “What baby?” she asked, sounding more than a little confused.

  Daryl hit the horn again. “Our great-grandbaby! Mindy went into labor early! They were on the way to the hospital and saw me filling up the tank.”

  Marjean reached over and patted my arm. “I guess this is my exit,” she said, still perplexed by the unforeseen news. “You take care of yourself, Katie.”

  I followed her to the truck, waiting until she was safely inside and the door was closed.

  “Congratulations, you two!” I said through the open window.

  Daryl’s hand went for the horn, but Marjean was quicker. She grabbed his wrist, pulled back his arm and glared at him.

  “Don’t you dare,” she said. “That’s more obnoxious than those camo boxers you got last week.”

  He gave me a weary smile. “She’s delirious with joy,” he said. “Has no idea what she’s talking about.”

  “Oh, yes I do, buster!” Marjean said, releasing his arm. “And what I’m talking about now is you better get us over to that hospital so we don’t miss our great-grandchild’s big entrance!”

  I tapped the pickup door and wished them well. Then I watched as Daryl slid the truck into gear, glanced around the parking lot and hit the gas. As they lurched across the pavement and into the street, I heard Marjean’s voice and caught a glimpse through the back window of her wagging one finger at Daryl.

  “‘Hello, young lovers,’” I crooned with a toothy grin. “‘whoever you are…’”

  I kept humming the old song until their truck disappeared behind a grove of Aspen trees. Then I went inside to stock up on candy bars and bottled water before I set off to hopefully uncover something helpful about the Aston Martin that was found at Pia Lincoln’s house after she and Vito Marclay went missing.

  CHAPTER 25

  Although my resolve and willpower were generally unwavering, I couldn’t resist the temptation to have a few bites of my sweet treat as soon as I got back into the car. Nana Reed always chastised me for eating candy bars and sugary treats that weren’t baked in the Sky High kitchen. But I’d surrendered years ago, deciding that the occasional incursion into enemy territory was far from a mortal sin. And for some reason, Twix bars were among my favorites. With the crisp biscuit, chewy caramel and smooth chocolate coating, they ticked all the boxes for me when I wanted a quick jolt of something sweet.

  As I savored the first bite, I checked my phone for messages. There were two new voicemails from my mother, but I decided to wait until later to listen to them.

  “You deserve a moment to yourself,” I said, leaning my head back on the seat and closing my eyes. “Just a few seconds of rest and relaxation and empty calories.”

  I took another bite of the candy bar and my sister’s face suddenly flashed through my mind. Olivia lived in Denver with her husband and two sons. It had been a few weeks since we got together, so I decided to call and ask if she had time to meet for a cup of coffee while I was in the city. But instead of Olivia’s cheery voice, I ended up listening to an automated attendant explain that I would have the opportunity to leave a message at the sound of the tone.

  “It’s a spur-of-the-moment thing,” I said after the high-pitched squeal ended. “I haven’t seen you in a while, so it would be awesome if you’re—”

  I heard the familiar beep-beep-beep signaling an incoming call. I quickly glanced at the screen and saw Dina Kincaid’s name and office number.

  “—if you’re available,” I said, finishing the message for my sister. “Shoot me a text or call me, okay?”

  I toggled over to Dina.

  “Oh, there you are,” she said after my greeting. “I was just about to hang up.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t. What’s going on, detective?”

  “Vito Marclay,” she said. “Have you ever met the guy?”

  “I haven’t had the pleasure,” I said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, most importantly,” Dina began, “I trust your judgment. I’ve talked to a few folks around town so far, mostly neighbors and people who met him at the art gallery, and I’m getting mixed messages. I also had a chance to exchange emails with a detective in New York. It’s a guy I met at a confer
ence last year who offered to lend a hand if I ever needed anything.”

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  “He gave me a snapshot of Vito’s time in the city,” Dina answered. “He worked a series of odd jobs while he was getting his art thing going. Then he exploded and became one of the hot young painters represented by—”

  “Phil Bickerton?”

  Dina sighed loudly. “Lady Edith Guinness,” she said. “A British aristocrat who made a big splash for about a decade with a gallery in Greenwich Village near NYU.”

  “Sorry, detective. I thought you were talking about the Bickertons.”

  “That’s okay, Katie. They actually didn’t meet Vito until a short time later. And I guess it was love at first sight. They loved his paintings. He loved their beach house in Montauk. And they all lived happily ever after until a disgruntled gallery employee tipped the police off to an art theft and forgery ring being run out of the Bickertons’ gallery.”

  “That sounds like trouble for somebody.”

  “It was,” Dina said. “Although Phil and Geraldine Bickerton hired an incredibly sleazy and incredibly masterful attorney who got them all off the hook.”

  “No jail time?”

  Dina laughed. “Not even a slap on the wrist,” she said. “I’m waiting for a copy of the case file, but my contact said it was a truly lucky break that comes along about once every blue moon.”

  “And now they’re all here in Crescent Creek,” I said.

  “Vito lives here year-round,” Dina added. “And Phil Bickerton comes and goes now that his wife passed away. He still has a place in New York.”

  “Okay, so…you mentioned that you’d talked to Vito’s neighbors?”

  “I did.”

  “What did they have to tell you?” I asked.

  “Some described Marclay as a witty, engaging and well-mannered guy,” Dina answered. “But a couple of women have shared some rather unsavory stories about his dating habits.”

  “Uh-oh. Is he a smooth-talking charmer who breaks promises as fast as he makes them?”

  Dina didn’t answer, but I could hear papers rustling on her end. I waited for a few moments, imagining that she was trying to find notes from her interviews so she could share a few salient details. When it seemed like there was a slight chance she’d forgotten about me, I called her name.

  “Oh, jeez,” she stammered, coming back onto the line. “I’m sorry, Katie. I wanted to find this…” She cleared her throat gently before continuing. “Okay, here’s what one woman told me: ‘We met on a dating site, and he claimed that he was currently separated from his wife and getting a D-I-V-O-R-C-E.’” When she laughed at the fact that the woman had spelled out the word, I smiled to myself and waited while she finished. “‘But a couple of dates later, he claimed to be single and never married.’”

  When she stopped, I asked if she’d be willing to share the identity of the witness.

  “I’d rather not,” Dina said. “Trent did my annual review yesterday, so I’m trying to be extra vigilant.”

  “Was it Kim Hatcher by any chance?”

  Dina cursed under her breath. “How’d you know that, Katie?”

  “Because,” I said, trying not to laugh. “Kim always spells out certain words. It’s a habit that she picked up after their first son was born.”

  “Oh, right!” Dina said. “Like C-O-O-K-I-E or B-E-D-T-I-M-E.”

  “Yep,” I agreed. “Those are a couple more. I think it’s kind of endearing.”

  She sighed. “Unless you’re trying to interview her about Vito Marclay.”

  “Which is the most important thing in that whole scenario. I didn’t know that Kim was dating.”

  “She’s trying,” Dina said. “Now that the youngest is in college, she figured it would be okay for her to have a life again.”

  I smiled at the thought of Kim Hatcher venturing out into the world of first dates and awkward conversations. She and her ex-husband had three sons during the first five years of their marriage, but Charlie turned out to be more interested in a woman from his office than the brood of young boys and wife at home. Since the divorce, Kim had devoted herself to raising their sons and working a full-time job. It was good to hear that she was getting out and about for a change.

  “Obviously,” Dina continued, “she won’t be building a new life with Vito.”

  “How long did they date?” I asked.

  “Until she caught him kissing another woman in the parking lot at Food Town,” Dina answered.

  “What a jerk!” I said.

  “Completely,” Dina agreed. “We found Vito’s address book in the desk at his home, so we’re interviewing as many people as possible to see if there might be a solid lead to help determine his whereabouts.”

  “He keeps an address book?” I asked. “Isn’t that kind of antiquated?”

  “I suppose so,” Dina said. “But the guy seems as interested in old styles of painting as he does contemporary work. Some of the unfinished canvases in his studio were of street scenes and people from, like, I don’t know, maybe the eighteenth century or something.”

  A noisy diesel truck was pulling into the CVS parking lot, so I asked Dina to repeat the last part of what she’d just told me.

  “And you said eighteenth century?” I said after she finished.

  “Yes, Katie,” she grumbled, sounding slightly irritated. “For the third time, some of the canvases in Marclay’s studio were of people dressed like the guys on the old cigar boxes my dad used to buy.”

  “Dutch Masters?” I said, remembering my grandfather doing the same thing.

  “I guess so,” Dina replied. “Dressed all in black with wide-brimmed hats and ruffled shirts and long, curly hair.”

  The truck’s brakes squealed as it drove past my car.

  “Where are you?” she said.

  “The CVS parking lot,” I told her. “But I’m getting ready to drive to Denver and check on something.”

  “Isn’t it kind of late for that?”

  I glanced at the glowing digital numbers on the bank sign across the street. It was nearly four.

  “I’ll be okay,” I said. “Zack’s in Santa Fe, so I’m flying solo this week.”

  “What’s he doing down there?” she asked. “Freelance gig?”

  “You got it. He’s doing product shots for a jewelry catalog.”

  “Oh, really?” she said. “Any chance he’ll come home with an engagement ring?”

  The question surprised me so much that I snorted when I laughed.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t expect that one.”

  “Just teasing, Katie. I’ve got a sixth sense about those things. I think Zack’s going to propose one of these days.”

  “It feels like we’re heading in that direction.”

  “And what would you answer?” Dina said. “Y-E-S? Or would it—”

  “Well, golly!” I interrupted. “Would you look at the time? I’d better let you go so I can hit the road. I want to be back home by ten.”

  Dina snickered. “Okay, bride-to-be,” she said. “Drive carefully and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  CHAPTER 26

  The cryptic text from my sister arrived about a half hour before I hit the Denver city limits.

  Coffee @ 5:45, she wrote. CM on Larimer?

  I quickly typed a reply: CM?

  Olivia’s lightning fast fingers zapped the answer back in a flash: Cuppa Mud!!!

  When I pulled up in front of the coffee shop about forty-five minutes later, my sister was leaning against the bike rack near the front door. She was wearing a flattering pink-and-blue peasant dress and cute wedge sandals, looking carefree and cheerful. But after I got out of the car and walked toward her, the jovial grin flattened into a disapproving sneer.

  “You’re late!” she groaned.

  I gave her a hug and pecked her cheek.

  “Traffic was a beast,” I said. “How are you?”

  “I hate the wor
ld so much right now,” she muttered.

  “Okay…”

  “I mean, do you know what happened this morning?” she continued. “Do you know how mad I am?”

  Since answering the second question was easier, I tackled it first.

  “Yeah, Liv,” I said, inching closer. “I’ve seen you this mad a few gazillion times before, especially when we were kids and someone teased you about your braces or the fact that Dale Ardsley and that skinny redheaded kid stole your training bra from—”

  “Don’t talk about that!” she hissed. “This is much, much worse!”

  I gestured at the front door of the coffee shop. “Want to get something to drink?”

  Her mouth opened and closed twice before she gave up and simply nodded. I followed her inside, gently guided her to a table and then went to the counter. While the barista prepared our drinks—a macchiato with caramel syrup for Olivia and a cappuccino for me—I decided to add a PB&J sandwich so we’d have something to nibble. Nana Reed had taught me long ago that food could often help if there were difficult subjects to discuss.

  When I carried the drinks and sandwich to our table a few minutes later, my sister was glaring angrily at an email on her phone.

  “Here we go,” I said. “Something to drink and something to eat.”

  She glowered at the sandwich. “What’s that?”

  “I got it in case you’re hungry,” I said. “It’s peanut-almond butter, date-balsamic jam and chèvre on—”

  “Oh, gross!” she hissed. “That sounds disgusting, Katie! Why can’t people just make regular stuff anymore? Why do we need to have all of these stupid things like date-balsamic jam and craft beer and those ridiculous Spanx bodysuits that make it impossible to breathe and the—”

  I clamped one hand on her arm. “Hey, relax! Take a breath there, okay? What is going on with you today?”

  She slumped forward in her chair.

  “Are the kids okay?” I asked.

  She answered with a silent nod.

  “What about Cooper?” I said quietly. “Are you guys fighting or something?”

  “Cookie shop,” she whispered. “Somebody else bought the cookie shop that I wanted.”