by Mary Maxwell
I considered the question. She had a good point; I’d never met Oscar King until yesterday when I suddenly appeared in the art gallery with questions about his employer and one of their most illustrious artists.
“Thanks, Jules,” I said. “You just made me look at things in a different way.”
“Oh, yeah? How’d I do that?”
“By asking me that question,” I said. “I hadn’t really considered the possibility that Oscar’s tone could’ve been totally normal.”
She smiled. “Well, I’m always happy to help!”
“And I’ll probably know more once I get a chance to talk with Phil Bickerton,” I said. “As well as the mystery man tonight at the Lodge.”
Julia smiled. “Does your brain ever turn off?”
I shrugged. “Not very often. Maybe when Zack’s rubbing my feet or we’re splitting a pint of dulce de leche ice cream.”
“Hmmm,” she cooed. “Doesn’t that sound good?”
I smiled and watched as she ladled batter onto the waffle iron.
“Sure you don’t need help?” I offered.
“Take this,” she said, handing me the cheddar cheese. “And what about Phil Bickerton? Do you think he’s involved in whatever happened to the painter?”
“No telling,” I said. “I figure he’s probably staying at the Lodge. I’ll check with Connie Larson tonight when I’m there.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” Julia said. “Do you mind?”
“What?” I asked, deciding to tease her a little. “Am I supposed to do something with this cheese that I’m holding? Like, maybe weigh out six ounces?”
She stopped cracking eggs long enough to give me a haughty look.
“What was your first clue?” she asked.
“Hey, now! What’s with the attitude?”
She giggled. “Just trying out a line one of the kids used on me last night.”
“Which one?”
“Will,” she answered. “It started when he told Jared and me that after surviving nine years as our son, he’d earned the right to be mouthy.”
I laughed. “And what did you tell him?”
Julia smiled. “To stop being mouthy.”
“And what happened after that?”
“He mumbled something about a disagreement with one of his friends,” she explained. “I guess it didn’t go well and Will ended up playing first base instead of outfield.”
“Oh, so it was related to his softball team?”
Julia began whisking three egg whites and two yolks in another bowl.
“What was your first clue?” she said with a playful grin.
I put down the shredded cheddar and tweaked one of her earlobes.
“Ouch!” she cried. “What was that for?”
I picked up the cheese again and went around the center island to the scale.
“For being mouthy,” I joked.
CHAPTER 29
“You can put Oscar King to bed,” Trent said when he called that afternoon at four.
I laughed at his choice of words and then asked him to interpret the remark.
“Oscar King,” he said. “You seemed to think maybe he was involved in whatever happened at Vito Marclay’s place.”
“Right,” I said. “Because his knuckles were red and raw, like someone who’s been in a fight.”
Trent chuckled. “Yep,” he said. “That part is true. But it wasn’t with Vito. We talked to Oscar. He was in a fight with some chucklehead named Teddy Wilson.”
“Who’s Teddy Wilson?” I asked.
“I already covered that, Katie. He’s the chucklehead that got into a bar fight with Oscar King.”
“Aha!” I joked. “That clears it up.”
“Hold on there,” Trent said. “When I told you to put Oscar King to bed, I was talking about taking him off the list of suspects. He wasn’t even in town the day that Pia found the bloody scene at Marclay’s. He closed the gallery early that afternoon and went down to meet some friends in Denver. They got trashed, ended up in a bar brawl and spent the night in jail.”
“Okay,” I said. “I get it now. Oscar didn’t assault Vito.”
“Not the other day,” Trent said. “He was otherwise engaged.”
“And you’re absolutely certain?” I asked.
Trent chuckled. “Want me to email the mug shot to you?” he asked. “It’s a good one, Katie. His hair is sticking straight up and there’s smeared lipstick on his cheek from a woman he met before the fight. I actually think the guy was embarrassed about the whole thing. He told us that part of the reason Marty Garfunkel’s kid hasn’t worked much at the gallery lately is because Oscar’s been hitting the sauce pretty hard. He’s called Matt several times to tell him not to come in because of the hangovers.”
“Oscar sounds like a charming guy,” I joked. “I’m sure his mother would be very proud of him.”
“Probably,” Trent said. “Should I give her a call and ask?”
“No!” I shouted. “Don’t call anybody about something like that!”
“Just trying to do my job,” he said. “To protect and serve.”
“And where does calling Oscar King’s mother fit into that motto?”
“Definitely not under the protect part,” he said. “I guess that would be more of a service kind of thing.”
“Well, thanks, but no thanks, big guy. I’ll pass on the Oscar King mug shot.”
“Suit yourself,” Trent said. “But if you ever change your mind, I’ll save it to the Freaks & Geeks folder on my laptop.”
CHAPTER 30
The lobby of The Crescent Creek Lodge was a ghost town when I walked through the entrance a few minutes before nine o’clock that night. Two front desk clerks were staring at a computer terminal, pointing at the screen and talking in hushed voices. I recognized them from my frequent visits to drop off Sky High goodies for the catering staff or meet with my friend Connie Larson. She and her husband owned the upscale hotel, a stylish resort surrounded by lush forested areas and the foothills of Cresta Blanca Peak.
“Hey, guys!” I said as I approached the desk. “This place is really hopping tonight!”
They glanced up with synchronized precision.
“Um…” Sandy gulped and looked at Jordan. “How are you this evening, Miss Reed?”
“Oh, c’mon,” I said. “Call me Katie.”
She shook her head. “Not while I’m on the clock. Hotel protocol includes very clear instructions that we greet all guests and visitors properly.”
I smiled. “I won’t argue with protocol, but I might tell Connie to chill a little bit with that formality stuff.”
I heard the distinctive click-clack of high heels on the lobby’s glossy tile floor. When I turned around, Connie Larson was gliding toward me.
“I think I heard my name,” she said. “Was it a glowing compliment or something else?”
I laughed and assured her it was completely harmless.
“From you, Katie?” Her gaze tapered into a blend of disbelief and humor. “What did you really say?”
When I repeated my comment about the formal hotel protocol, Connie grinned and told Sandy and Jordan that there were a few exceptions to the rule.
“But the thing is,” she said, glancing back at me, “many of our guests are accustomed to staying at finer hotels and resorts around the world. They generally prefer a more prim and proper style, including how our staff addresses them.”
“Okay, sure. I’m just glad I can be one of the exceptions to the rule.”
Connie smiled and took my elbow with one hand. As we walked away from the front desk, she asked about my unexpected appearance in the lobby.
“Isn’t nine o’clock a little late for you to be delivering cupcakes?” she asked.
“Oh, you mean the ones for tomorrow?”
She nodded. “Yes, two dozen vanilla with mocha frosting for Mayor Washington’s luncheon.”
I smiled. “Done and done,” I said. “Julia dropped those
off on her way home earlier.”
“Oh, great!” Connie smiled. “Then…are you here for a nightcap?”
“As a matter of fact,” I said, “I’m meeting someone in the lounge.”
She frowned slightly. “I was just in there. I didn’t see Zack.”
“Oh, he’s in Santa Fe for work,” I explained. “I’m meeting with…” I paused, remembering that I didn’t know the name of the man who’d called me the previous evening. “…well, uh, I’m meeting with a gentleman in the lounge,” I continued. “It’s somewhat hush-hush.”
Her lighthearted grin fell flat. “Is something going on with you and Zack?”
“No, not at all. Why would you think that?”
She moved closer and lowered her voice. “Well, it’s nine o’clock at night,” she said. “You’re at a hotel to meet a man in the cocktail lounge. And you’re being pretty mysterious about his identity.”
I pursed my lips. “Want to know the truth?”
She moved even closer. “Always, Katie. What’s going on?”
“It’s related to something that happened to Pia Lincoln the other day,” I said. “I can’t say much because I don’t know much. I’m trying to help Trent Walsh and Dina Kincaid uncover a few facts about the case.”
Connie’s eyebrows went up. “Oh, one of your unofficial investigations?”
“Exactly,” I said. “So this conversation is just between you and me.”
She put one hand in front of her mouth and pantomimed the act of locking a door and throwing away the key.
“Mum’s the word, Katie,” she said. “I’ll put a cork it. My lips are sealed. I’ll keep my pie hole shut. In fact, I may even—”
“Excuse me,” a voice said from the entrance to the cocktail lounge. “Are you Miss Reed?”
When I turned toward the doorway, I saw a tall, handsome man with a deep tan dressed in a pristine white polo, dark pants and black loafers. His beefy biceps were encircled with intricate tribal tattoos and his grin was nearly as bright as the shirt.
“Mr. Bach?” Connie said. “Is this the woman you were meeting?”
He nodded. “Yes, I didn’t mention her name because I didn’t realize you two knew one another.”
I glanced at Connie and then back at the mystery man. “We’re friends,” I said. “Personally and professionally.”
The man with the snow white smile came forward with his hand extended.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Kate,” he said. “May I buy you something to drink?”
CHAPTER 31
My glass of merlot sat untouched beside my purse as the man in the white polo stood at the opposite end of the bar. As soon as we left Connie and went into the lounge, he’d waved the bartender over, told him that my drink would be on his room charges and then excused himself to talk with an older woman sitting alone.
“You forgot something,” I’d called, pointing at the spot where he’d left his phone beside a tumbler filled with scotch on the rocks and a pack of American Spirit cigarettes.
“I trust you,” he’d said. “Be right back.”
While I waited for him to return, I kept my eyes on the cigarettes. It was the same brand June Calloway had carried at Blanche Speltzer’s the other night. Since I’d checked online to confirm that fact, I also knew that the cigarette butt tipped with red lipstick that I’d seen at Vito Marclay’s was also a match for the smokes sitting on the bar.
When it was obvious my mysterious friend wasn’t coming back anytime soon, I decided to check my voice messages. There wasn’t anything urgent, so I slipped the phone back into my purse and gave the guy a quick sideways glance. He and the woman were engaged in a somewhat heated conversation. I watched for a few seconds, trying to determine who was being more assertive, but then I decided to turn away in case he looked over. As I started to swivel my barstool in the opposite direction, the man’s phone vibrated on the countertop.
“Don’t be rude,” I whispered to myself.
I resisted temptation for exactly three seconds. Then I quickly glanced at the display on the phone.
“Liza Canfield,” I said under my breath. “Why is Pia’s sister calling this guy?”
I was concentrating so intently on the question that I didn’t hear the man’s footsteps until he was standing beside me.
“Sorry about that,” he said, sitting on the next stool. “Family business with difficult clients. Can we begin again?”
I smiled, but didn’t say anything.
“My name is Desmond Bach,” he said. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I’m working on a story about someone who lives in Crescent Creek, and I’d heard that you would be a good source.”
“You’re a journalist?” I said. “Can you tell me why you wanted to talk and why you were so guarded on the phone last night?”
He smiled. “Me? Guarded?”
“Very,” I said. “And you know it. Now, why don’t we cut to the chase, Mr. Bach?”
The smile grew even wider and brighter. “I’d prefer it if you used my first name,” he said with a gravelly rasp.
“And I’d prefer it,” I replied, “if you would just tell me what you know about Pia Lincoln.”
His smile darkened. “And Vito Marclay?” he said. “Or don’t you care about him?”
I ignored the remark and asked Bach to tell me what he knew about my friend’s whereabouts.
“If you’re a journalist,” I said, “does their disappearance have something to do with Vito’s past in New York?”
He smiled. “I’m not really a journalist. But you’d be surprised how willing some people are to talk about Vito Marclay when they think it’ll put their name in a newspaper article.”
The man’s hoax was one of the oldest tricks in the book. He’d claimed to be a reporter working on a profile of Marclay. Under such false pretenses, it was understandable that some local residents would be duped into revealing whatever information they knew about Vito.
“Why are you so interested in Vito Marclay?” I asked.
He laughed at the question, but made no attempt to answer.
“Is Vito in some kind of trouble?”
The man smiled. “Now you’re getting more to the point.”
“That’s good,” I said. “So, what’s the deal? Does he owe you money?”
“He owes us his life,” Bach said, taking a sip of his drink. “If we hadn’t rescued him in New York, he wouldn’t be here today.”
I waited while he finished the scotch and put the glass back on the bar.
“What happened in New York?” I asked.
Bach groaned. “Has anyone ever told you that you ask too many questions?”
“All the time,” I said. “But that’s never stopped me.”
“Excellent,” he said, leaning toward me and lowering his voice. “I like tenacious women, Miss Reed.”
I clenched my teeth, but kept calm. If Desmond Bach knew Pia’s whereabouts, the last thing I wanted to do was provoke him with a dismissive reply.
“Why are you looking for Mr. Marclay?” I asked as he signaled the bartender for another drink.
“Listen,” Bach said. “The important thing is I know that your friend is safe at the moment.”
“Where?” I asked.
He snickered softly. “You really are aggressive, aren’t you?”
I loathed his tone as much as his silky, smug grin. But I’d met guys like him in Chicago while working as a private investigator. Handsome, urbane men who think all women quiver like Jell-O when they walk into a room.
“What’s going on?” I said firmly. “I’m beginning to get the sense that you’re playing some type of game here.”
He shook his head. “A game? That’s the last thing on my mind, Miss Reed. I’m all business, all the time.”
“Well, that’s something,” I told him. “Now, what’s going on with my friend? Where is Pia? And do you know what happened to Vito?”
“Why don’t I ask the questions?” he
said. “And you can provide me with the answers.”
I took a deep breath, lifted my chin and locked eyes with the insolent stranger.
“That’s better,” Bach said.
The bartender arrived with his fresh drink, so I waited while he took a few sips.
“What do you think I know?” I said when he put down the glass again.
He smiled. “Oh, don’t be modest,” he said. “You’re an exceptionally smart woman, Miss Reed. I know you’re very popular here in Crescent Creek, and your family’s business is some kind of local landmark. I know you spent a decade working as a private detective for a man named Rodney Alexander back in Chicago. And I know you helped him crack the Bryan Diaz case exactly four year ago this month.”
“The artwork stolen from a house in Park Ridge?”
“Which you and Mr. Alexander recovered after very diligent and borderline illicit activities,” Bach said with a haughty sneer.
“Rodney and I never did anything illegal,” I said firmly. “We were always within the law, no matter what the case or clients.”
He flashed an icy grin. “The definition of ‘within the law’ can be open to interpretation, don’t you think?”
I wasn’t going to dignify the remark, so I sipped my wine and waited for Bach’s next move.
“Here’s the thing,” he said after a brief, uncomfortable silence. “I have nothing against you, Miss Reed. I know that your heart and soul are now invested in your little café. But I’m also aware that your sense of loyalty and unwavering belief in justice have put you in risky situations on more than one occasion.”
“Is now one of those occasions?” I asked, hoping to force his hand.
But instead of answering straightaway, he drank some of his scotch and picked up his phone. He casually swiped at the screen, tapped a couple of times and then held it toward me.
“I don’t think this situation is necessarily risky or dangerous for you,” he said as I studied the unexpected image. “But the same can’t be said for everyone.”
The photo on the screen showed Pia on a bed. She was dressed in a gray sweatshirt, faded jeans and bulky white cotton socks. Her wrists and ankles were tied with white rope. The expression on her face was one of sheer terror: eyes wide, furrowed brow and ashen skin.
