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

by Mary Maxwell

  Earl quickly rattled off three answers. The woman was accompanied by two men, including one that matched Desmond Bach’s description. Mr. Dodd didn’t see Pia Lincoln at the motel at any point yesterday. And the shapely woman with the skintight dress was driving a flashy silver car.

  “Was it an Aston Martin Vanquish Volante by any chance?”

  “What the heck is that?” Earl said.

  “A luxury sports coupé,” I answered. “There’s a rental place at the Denver airport that specializes in upscale wheels. I saw something there that suggested someone with the last name of Bach had rented a silver Aston Martin Vanquish Volante.”

  “Maybe the woman is his wife,” Earl suggested.

  “Or his client,” I said under my breath.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I’ve got a lot on my mind. I was speculating about something.”

  “Gotcha, Katie,” Earl said. “Do you want me to give you the driver’s license number?”

  “Is that technically legal?” I said.

  “Good point,” he answered. “But I’ve probably already violated some kind of doctor-patient privilege at this point.”

  I smiled at the reference. Then I told Earl that I didn’t need the driver’s license details and thanked him again for calling.

  “No worries,” he said. “I know you’re working to defeat evil, Katie.” He paused, but I didn’t say a word. “Uh-oh,” he continued a moment later. “Did I just offend you?”

  “Not at all. But I wasn’t going to take credit for doing the right thing. I mean, it seems odd that someone would rent a seriously expensive sports car and a room at the Moonlight.”

  “Ouch,” Earl joked.

  “Oh, darn,” I said. “Now I’m the one offending you. Sorry, Earl.”

  “It’s okay, Katie. I get it. And I totally agree. Most of our guests drive slightly more affordable rentals and they never use a Palladium card. I had to look it up online to get the scoop on that one. These Bach people must be both really evil and really wealthy.”

  I smiled at the quip. “I don’t know if Desmond Bach actually is evil or not at this point. He could just be an arrogant clown with bad manners.”

  “Oh, that makes sense,” Earl said. “And you don’t know who the woman is either, right?”

  “No, I don’t,” I answered. “But I certainly intend to try and find out about both of them before this thing is over.”

  CHAPTER 38

  The call from Earl Dodd had upended one aspect of my theory about Desmond Bach’s role in the disappearance of Pia and Vito. When I’d taken a surreptitious glance at the roster of rented vehicles at Luxury by Kenton, I’d assumed that the entry for D. BACH referred to the man that I met at the Crescent Creek Lodge. But with Earl’s bombshell about the registration details, I was beginning to wonder if the car and motel room had been paid for by a woman with the same last name.

  Before getting back to work on the shortbread cookies, I dialed the number for Bickerton Gallery. I wanted to satisfy my curiosity and ask Oscar King if he knew Desmond Bach. After it rang twice, someone answered and then immediately hung up the phone. I repeated the process and waited. When the call connected the second time, I expected to hear Oscar apologize for accidentally hanging up. But the voice I heard belonged to a woman.

  “Bickerton Gallery,” she said.

  “Good afternoon,” I said. “Is Oscar King available?”

  “Not at this time,” she said. “Perhaps I can help you.”

  “My name is Kate Reed,” I said. “I talked with Mr. King the other—”

  “How can I help you, Ms. Reed?”

  “Well, I’d prefer to leave a message,” I said. “Would you mind asking Mr. King to call me at Sky High Pies when he returns?”

  The woman scoffed. “He won’t be returning,” she said. “Mr. King is no longer with the gallery.”

  The news left me momentarily stunned into silence. When I recovered from the surprise, I asked the woman her name.

  “My name?” she said in a haughty tone. “I’m Dionne Bach, one of the gallery’s owners. I don’t usually answer the phone, but difficult times demand that we rise above.” She laughed, but it was a hollow and melancholy sound. “We’re here in Colorado to straighten a few things out, so I’m filling in until I can hire someone new to replace Mr. King.”

  “I understand,” I said. “And I’m sorry to trouble you, but do you mind if I ask a couple of questions?”

  “I don’t have much time,” the woman said. “What did you need to know?”

  “I’m trying to unravel a bit of a mystery,” I began. “It’s something that happened at a local motel.”

  “Oh, you mean that terrible incident with my business partner?”

  “Yes,” I said. “The assault on Phil Bickerton.”

  “Well, he checked himself out of the hospital this morning,” she announced confidently. “I talked to him about an hour ago. From what he told me, the incident involved a somewhat shady romantic tryst.”

  “Oh…” I winced at the reference. “I had no idea.”

  My mind whirled with the disparity between what I knew to be true about Bickerton’s ordeal at the Moonlight and what Dionne Bach had just claimed.

  “Yes, Phil apparently met a woman in a bar and they decided to have a nightcap in her motel room. I guess it was all going really well until her husband showed up and announced a change of plans with before his fist collided with Phil’s face a few times.”

  “Is that Phil’s version of what happened?”

  The woman didn’t say anything.

  “I mean, did he mention anything about—”

  “Are you with the police?” she cut in. “Did the woman file charges or something?”

  I quickly explained that I was a former private investigator who occasionally consulted with the local authorities.

  “In other words,” she said, “you have no official role in the matter?”

  “That’s correct. But, as you know, Crescent Creek is a small town. Everyone looks out for everyone else.”

  She laughed again. “Well, it would seem that some people might disagree with you about that theory.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Well, someone local attacked Phil Bickerton,” the woman said. “And I don’t see how you can describe that as looking out for your fellow residents.”

  “True enough,” I agreed. “Do you happen to know where Mr. Bickerton met this woman?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” she said. “It was bad enough that one of my security associates had to stay at that disgusting place because the Lodge was fully booked. I didn’t like the look of the Moonlight, but we didn’t have much of a choice. Of course, my concern was confirmed when someone stole one of the cars I’d rented and then I had a visit from the police to inform me that my business associate had been attacked in such a fleabag dive.”

  I flinched at the discourteous depiction of the Dodd family’s business, but decided not to challenge the woman. There was no point in trying to convince her that the Moonlight may not be a five-star luxury resort, but it still provided a clean, comfortable place for weary travelers to stop for the night.

  “When was the last time you talked to Mr. Bickerton?” I asked. “Was it this afternoon?”

  “You know,” the woman said with a long sigh, “I really do have pressing business to take care of. I’d like to invite you to come by and see us at the gallery when you can. There are some stunning new paintings by a local artist that you might like to see.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate your time, and I’ll definitely come in soon.”

  In less than ten minutes, the dots that I had started to connect—leading from Pia and Vito Marclay to Desmond Bach and the Moonlight Motel—seemed to disengage and fly off in all directions. After the woman repeated her invitation to visit the gallery, I took a quick breath and asked one final question.

  “Are
you by any chance related to Desmond Bach?” I said.

  “Related to him?” she said coldly. “I’m his mother.”

  CHAPTER 39

  The desk in Trent’s office at the police station looked like a junk food graveyard: Mountain Dew cans, crumpled potato chip bags and empty boxes of candy from the vending machine down the hall.

  “Don’t you ever clean?” I asked, coming through the door late that afternoon. “Someone might arrest you for disorderly housekeeping.”

  He spun around in his chair and glared at me over the manila folder in his hands. “That’s hilarious, Katie. Who’s writing your material these days?”

  I dropped my purse on one of the guest chairs, grabbed the wastebasket and began clearing some of the garbage from the cluttered desktop.

  “What?” he asked, dropping the folder onto a stack of paperwork. “You’ve never seen an office where people actually work?”

  I smiled, but kept quiet.

  “I mean, c’mon,” he protested. “I’m too busy to worry if Martha Stewart’s going to come through the door wearing white gloves to assess my cleaning skills.”

  I finished with the desk and moved to the small table in the corner. It was also a mess: half-eaten glazed donuts on paper plates, mugs of stale coffee, a McDonald’s cup filled with the gnarled remains of several spicy chicken wings.

  “This is disgusting, Trent. You really should take more pride in your office.”

  He groaned. “Gimme a break, Katie. I take pride in protecting the citizens of Crescent Creek. The mess in my office is nothing to worry about until peace has been restored.”

  “Or until the stench makes the place unbearable,” I said, catching a whiff of something rank. “Doesn’t the cleaning staff come in here at night?”

  He shook his head and pointed at the door. A hand-lettered sign was taped beside the handle: DO NOT DISTRUB. NO CLEANING UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

  “There’s a spelling error,” I said. “But you probably—”

  “Katie!”

  I smiled, doing my best to appear demure and accommodating. “Yes, Deputy Chief Walsh?”

  “I’m busy, okay? What did you want to tell me?”

  I heaved a sigh and lowered into one of the chairs facing the desk.

  “I think Dionne Bach may be involved with whatever is going on with Pia and Vito,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Her name is Dionne Bach,” I said. “I met her son the other night at Connie Larson’s place.”

  He stared at me silently.

  “They have the same trouble with the facts,” I explained. “As well as the same type of bad attitude.”

  “And you think they’re involved with Pia’s disappearance?”

  I nodded.

  “Based on what?” Trent asked.

  “Intuition,” I said.

  He frowned slightly. “Meaning what?”

  “Just a gut feeling,” I answered. “There are too many seemingly random things that are starting to overlap.”

  “Such as?”

  “Vito Marclay’s previous history with forged artwork,” I began. “And then Pia Lincoln finding a bloody scene at Vito’s. Then she called and claimed that he was at her house later that night, but they’d both gone missing by the time your guys got there. And then the connection between the rented Aston Martin and two separate crime scenes.”

  “Is there a partridge in a pear tree coming up?” Trent asked, sparking a wide smile.

  “And then Desmond Bach?” I continued, ignoring his remark. “He had a picture of Pia at the Moonlight on his phone. I’d bet money that it was taken in the same room where we found Phil Bickerton with his face looking like raw hamburger.”

  Trent leaned back in his chair, folding both brawny arms across his chest.

  “You about finished there, Miss Marple?”

  I felt my pulse speed up, but I showed steadfast control and nodded my head.

  “Okay, great,” Trent said. “Because I know how fussy you get when someone interrupts you.”

  He stopped, waiting for me to say something cheeky. I reached over, plucked an open bag of Doritos from the desk and began slowly crunching on a chip.

  “Where are my manners?” he said. “I forgot to offer you something to eat or drink.”

  “That’s okay. I’m curious to hear what you’re going to say next.”

  Trent relaxed his arms and leaned forward again. I ate more Doritos while he scanned a few notes on a pad.

  “Here we go!” he said, jabbing one finger on the page. “Desmond Bach and a woman with the same last name flew into Denver a few days ago. They stayed at the Hotel Teatro on Fourteenth Street. My guy down there told me they booked two suites for Mama Bear and her cub plus two regular rooms for a pair of security goons.”

  “Fancy schmancy,” I said. “That’s a great hotel.”

  Trent shrugged. “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “I feel like I’m rolling in style if I stay at a place that has free breakfast in the morning and clean sheets on the bed.”

  I smiled, waiting for the rest.

  “They came up to Crescent Creek after Denver,” he continued. “Mommy Dearest, Desmond and one of the bodyguards checked into Connie Larson’s place, while the other tough guy got the short end of the stick. He was in Room 108 at the Moonlight.”

  “Which Mrs. Bach paid for with her Palladium Visa?”

  Trent frowned. “I don’t have anything about her credit card, Katie.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Have you been over to talk to Mrs. Bach or her son?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve got two guys over at the Lodge. They’re undercover and keeping an eye on things.”

  “And still no sign of Pia or Vito?” I asked.

  Trent made a face. “Seriously? Don’t you think I’d call you if we found her?”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry. It’s just…well, it’s been two days now.”

  “She’ll turn up,” Trent said, tapping his forehead. “Intuition tells me we’re getting closer.” He stopped and flashed another grin. “And you know what else?”

  I shook my head.

  “I think we’re getting closer because your buddy Desmond was overheard talking about renting a panel van to drive some cargo back to New York City.”

  “And what?” I said. “You think that means Vito told them where to find whatever it is they’re looking for?”

  Trent smiled. “Vito or someone else,” he said confidently as the phone on his desk vibrated. “And we’re going to do everything we can to find Pia and Vito along with the loot everybody’s trying to get their grubby fingers on before Dionne and Desmond Bach leave town.”

  CHAPTER 40

  As I left Trent’s office, I decided to take the long way back to Sky High so I could stop and see if June Calloway was home. She lived across from Vito Marclay on Balsam Drive in a bungalow surrounded by lush gardens. I wanted to ask if she’d noticed anything peculiar the night of the break-in at his house.

  After I parked at the curb and slid out of the car, I made my way up the curving sidewalk to the front porch. As I reached for the bell, the door cracked open.

  “Katie?”

  I saw June’s tapered nose and gold-rimmed glasses in the narrow breach.

  “Hi, there,” I said. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes,” she said softly. “I heard the car.”

  “Do you have a second?” I asked. “I wanted to talk with you about Vito Marclay.”

  Her mouth squirmed nervously. “What about him?”

  Between the apprehensive expression and the hushed tone, it seemed like June was uncomfortable with either my presence or the prospect of discussing her neighbor.

  “You sure everything’s okay?” I said, lowering my voice.

  She frowned. “I don’t want to get the guy in any hot water, Katie.”

  “What do you mean, June?”

  She pulled the door open wider and stepped outside.

  “
Is this about the other night?” she asked.

  “I was interested in the recent break-in at Vito’s,” I explained. “Deputy Chief Walsh told me that Mr. Marclay had reported a burglary not too long ago.”

  The uneasy expression on June’s face glimmered briefly with a smile.

  “Don’t you mean the alleged burglary?” she asked.

  I instantly knew where she was going with the question, so I moved closer.

  “You don’t believe him, do you?”

  She glanced over both shoulders and then reached for the door.

  “Come inside,” she said. “With everything that’s been going on lately, I’ll feel better if we’re not out here for the whole world to see.”

  As I followed her inside, I glanced quickly up and down the empty street. There were no pedestrians, no cars, not even a stray cat wandering in search of something to eat.

  “You probably think I’m crazy,” June said once we were sitting at her kitchen table. “But like I told you, things have been going on.”

  “What things?”

  She pressed her lips into a frown. Then she jumped up and asked if I wanted a cup of tea.

  “Thanks, but I’m fine,” I said.

  “Do you mind if I fix one for myself?”

  “By all means,” I answered.

  “It helps to calm my nerves,” she said, heating a cup of water in the microwave. “Mai tais do the same, but I usually lay off the hard stuff until the weekend rolls around.”

  I laughed at the quip and waited a few moments until she’d settled back into her chair with the tea. Then I asked why she had suspicions about the burglary at Vito Marclay’s house.

  “Well, I really don’t like to speak poorly of anyone,” June said. “But he’s not the carefree painter that people believe him to be. I’ve heard some pretty nasty fights between Vito and Pia in the past few weeks. And the night of the supposed break-in…”

  She paused to sip her tea and enjoy the warmth of the herbal blend.