by Mary Maxwell
“Here,” he grumbled, holding out the bag. “This is for you.”
I took the offering and thanked the grouchy man in the wrinkled blue suit.
“Since when do you shop at Bliss Boutique, Deputy Chief Walsh?”
He smirked. “When I told Dina that I was coming over, she asked me to bring this to you.”
I peeked inside the bag and saw something red wrapped in white tissue paper.
“What is it?”
Trent scoffed. “You think I know?”
“Uh-huh. Didn’t she tell you what it was?”
He glared briefly before asking about Maureen.
“She’s in my office,” I said. “It took some work getting her to meet with you, so go easy on her, okay?”
I dropped the shopping bag on the counter near the large glass canisters filled with flour. Then I nodded at the hallway and moved toward the office. I was nearly to the door before Trent grabbed my elbow.
“Not so fast,” he said quietly. “Aren’t you going to brief me?”
“I already did,” I said. “Like, twenty-five minutes ago.”
“I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry. But when we talked, I was kind of focused on my smoothie.” He held up the cup. “Blueberry and kale.”
I ignored the apology and rushed through a quick recap of what I’d learned from Maureen Dixon. When I finished, Trent was squinting at me like he was trying to remember something.
“What?” I said.
“Did you say she’s a spiritual healer?”
“No, a spiritualist; someone who communicates with the dead. It’s the same thing as a medium or clairvoyant or—”
“I got it, Katie. Let’s get in there and see what she has to say.”
But when I opened the door to my office a second later, the room was empty. There was a note on one of the guest chairs along with the box of tissues I’d given to Maureen earlier.
“Where is she?” Trent asked.
“That’s an excellent question.” I walked over and scooped up the message. “Maybe this will…” I scanned the scribbled lines and glanced at Trent. “Well, I’m not surprised.”
He reached for the note, pinching it between one forefinger and thumb. I waited while he studied what Maureen had scrawled on the back of a Sky High spreadsheet.
“Who’s Ted?” he asked with a frown.
“I think she means you,” I said.
“‘Please tell Ted Welch that I’m sorry,’” Trent muttered, glaring at the note. “She got my first and last names wrong, Katie.”
I smiled, but kept quiet as he swiveled his gaze back to Maureen’s message.
“‘I don’t want to die,’” he said, reading the rest of the note, “‘so I think it’s best not to talk to the police.’”
“She was pretty freaked out,” I offered. “Maybe she’ll reconsider once she calms down a little bit.”
“If she lives that long,” Trent said in a sour tone.
“Are you making fun of her?”
“No, but I’ve got about eight million things I need to finish by tomorrow. Your ghost whisperer just cost me an hour of precious time.”
“Well, I’m sorry. I apologize for the inconvenience. But she’s Julia’s friend, so I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind.” I flashed a wide smile. “Besides, it involves a cold case from a few years ago.”
“Which one?”
“The Crescent Creek Bank job. The scuttlebutt around town was that a guy named Roger Kovac was the ring leader.”
“Wow, I haven’t heard that name in years,” Trent said. “I worked that crime scene as a rookie patrol officer. We never found the sixty grand. Probably because none of our witnesses got a good look at the three guys who pulled the heist and the trail went cold when winter set in that year.”
“Nothing linked Roger Kovac to the robbery?”
Trent scoffed. “We could’ve arrested him if suspicious behavior and a criminal background were enough,” he said. “Unfortunately, we kept coming up empty. We got a tip that Kovac’s brother was supposed to drive the getaway car during the robbery, but he missed it because his first child was born the night before. We interviewed him extensively at the time, but he stonewalled us. Between the ambulance chaser he hired to represent him and the dozens of witnesses from the maternity ward, there was no way Kovac’s brother was at the bank that day.”
I considered the information before asking Trent if the case file would have a photo of Roger Kovac and his brother.
“Probably,” he said. “Why?”
“Can you send them to me?” I asked. “I have a hunch that maybe the two guys we saw arguing at Café Fleur last night might be related to Kovac.”
“I’ll have somebody pull the file, but it won’t be today,” Trent said. “We actually have current cases to focus on, so…” He made a face. “Sorry, Katie.”
“I totally understand,” I said. “You know what might be cool?”
Trent glared silently. “I don’t have any idea, but I get the feeling you’re about to tell me.”
I smiled and playfully threatened to tweak the tip of his nose. “If you were on the scene that day, you already know the background about the case. And now, as deputy chief, you can work it again.”
“Based on what—a toy skeleton and vague threat?”
Trent grunted and turned for the door.
“Wait a sec,” I called. “Don’t you want to hear the rest of what she told me?”
He shook his head and waved one hand.
“Adios, Katie. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of work to do, too. Let me know if she turns up again.”
CHAPTER 8
Julia’s call came in as I was cracking eggs into the mixer for the pistachio praline cake that Birdie Baker had ordered. It was an hour after Trent left with his trio of scones and a promise to send a patrol car past Maureen Dixon’s house a few times during the night. Since she lived in a second-floor apartment in Crescent Creek’s tiny downtown business district, the request was easy to accommodate.
I finished with the egg in my hand, wiped my fingers on a towel and scooped up the phone from the counter.
“I got your message,” Julia said after I answered. “I couldn’t believe that someone called Maureen this morning with another threat.”
“She seemed pretty terrified,” I said.
“But I didn’t exactly understand the rest of what you told me. What did you mean by ‘cold feet’ in relation to Maureen?”
I plopped down on a stool and reached for my glass of iced tea.
“Maureen Dixon took off out the front door when I went to let Trent in through the kitchen,” I explained. “She and I talked about the séance and the threats she’d received. When she agreed to meet with Trent, I called and he came right over. But, like I said in my message, I guess she got cold feet.”
“That’s strange. Did she say anything that gave you the impression she might bolt?”
“Not really,” I said. “I mean, she was anxious about talking to him, but who wouldn’t be? The situation is pretty unnerving.”
I took a small sip of tea while Julia shared a similar opinion about Maureen’s most recent séance. She repeated the unsettling story about the young guy’s request to contact a dead bank robber. Then she worried aloud about Maureen’s safety. And then she told me her next move.
“I’m going to call Annabelle,” she added. “They’ve become fairly good friends, so maybe she can convince Maureen to meet with Trent. I’ll let you know later if I hear anything new.”
“Sounds good, Jules. At this point, the whole thing could be a stunt.”
“What whole thing?”
“The plastic skeleton with the note,” I said. “And the threatening phone call. Maybe that guy and a woman he’s working with are upset that Maureen didn’t contact the dead bank robber.”
Julia sighed. “I suppose anything’s possible. It’s my first experience with a psychic, but I don’t imagine there’s an official way to reg
ister complaints.”
“You mean there’s no toll-free number for the National Fortune Teller’s Association?”
“C’mon, Katie. This is serious! It seemed like the guy was making Maureen uncomfortable when Annabelle and I first arrived. But you should’ve seen her face when she asked him to leave and he started getting really aggressive. She was white as a sheet and her hands were shaking so much she couldn’t even hold the tarot cards.”
“Was she reading those for him, too?”
“It just depends on whatever people are asking,” Julia said. “Sometimes she reads the cards, other times it’s tea leaves.”
“I saw something about that on The Real Housewives of New York City once,” I said. “Not that I make a habit of watching those shows.”
Julia chuckled. “Uh-huh, sure. There’s no shame in guilty pleasures.”
“That’s what I keep telling Zack,” I said, regretting the quip as soon as it was out of my mouth.
“My, my, my,” Julia replied in a low, sultry tone. “One can only imagine what you and Zack are up to at night.”
“I didn’t mean anything like that,” I said. “I was talking about the DIY shows that we binge on sometimes.”
Julia was quiet, but I could imagine the things she was thinking.
“Jules?”
“Yes?”
“Is your mind in the gutter?”
She laughed again. “Just giving you a hard time, Katie. I love teasing you.”
“I can tell.”
“You’re an easy target,” she added. “You take some things so seriously that it can be amusing to pull your leg.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Katie?” she asked hesitantly. “Did I make you angry?”
“Heck, no! I was just playing. And I agree with you; sometimes I take things way too seriously. But that’s my nature. Zack has actually taught me a lot about going with the flow.”
“My, my, my,” she joked again in the same throaty rasp. “One can only imagine—”
“Okay, that’s enough fun,” I interrupted. “I’m right in the middle of Birdie Baker’s order, so I need to get back to work.”
“I thought she was picking up later in the week.”
“Plans changed,” I explained. “She called right after Trent left. Her in-laws are arriving earlier than planned, so she’ll be in sometime tomorrow afternoon for the cake.”
“Did she stick with German chocolate?” Julia asked.
“Nope. She changed that, too. We’re going with pistachio praline.”
“I love Birdie,” Julia said with a laugh. “And…you know, come to think of it, how old are her in-laws if Birdie is in her seventies?”
“George is ninety-two,” I said, picturing the woman’s father-in-law, “and his wife is twentysomething.”
Julia was momentarily speechless. Then she said, “Oh. I didn’t realize Birdie’s mother-in-law was younger than her kids.”
“Yeah, it’s fairly uncommon, but…what’s that old song?”
“‘Stacy’s Mom’?”
I smiled. “No, that old blues song that—”
“‘Ain’t Nobody’s Business’?” Julia said.
“That’s it! That should be the official theme song for Birdie’s in-laws.”
Julia laughed so hard that she snorted. “Actually,” she said when she caught her breath, “that should be the official theme song for everybody in Crescent Creek!”
CHAPTER 9
“Katie?”
It was Trent, calling a half hour later from his office at the Crescent Creek PD.
“Hey you,” I said. “Did you enjoy the scones?”
“As usual,” he answered. “Did you open the thing from Dina?”
“I did.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“It was a sweater that I’ve had my eye on for a while,” I said. “Dina wanted to thank me for talking to her cousin about starting a small business.”
“Which one?” Trent asked.
“Which sweater or which cousin?”
He groaned. “I don’t have time for this, Katie. I’m just calling to let you know that we found Maureen Dixon.”
“That’s good to hear,” I said cautiously. “But something in your voice is telling me there’s more to the story.”
“Am I that obvious?”
“Yep. What’s the rest of it?”
He hesitated, starting and stopping two or three times before finally coming out with the last thing I expected to hear.
“We found her in the parking lot behind her apartment,” he said. “With a dead guy on the ground and a Glock 43 in her hand. A neighbor heard the commotion and called 911. Mrs. Dixon was standing over the victim when our officers rolled up. She was mumbling incoherently and clutching what we believe to be the weapon that was used to shoot the victim.”
My mind flooded with questions: Who was the deceased? Did Maureen shoot him? What had happened in the minutes and seconds before she—
“Hello?” Trent said. “You still with me?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I shook off the fragments still lingering in my mind. “Do you know what happened?”
“We’re working on it,” Trent answered. “Dina’s with Maureen now.”
“Who’s the victim?”
Trent answered with an unfamiliar name: Anton Rigby. When I asked him to clarify the man’s identity, I heard a muffled groan followed by one of Trent’s trademark rapid-fire summaries.
“Unfortunately, Mr. Rigby was shot in the face,” he said, “so we’re going off the ID in his wallet. He’s forty-six and works at Summit Industrial, that place that Lucas Klein owns. You know the one? They clean offices, cut lawns, shovel snow and whatnot. Anyway, Rigby’s got a record—two drunk driving arrests, an assault charge and a conviction for—”
The timer on the counter chimed to let me know that Birdie Baker’s pistachio praline cake was done. I asked Trent to hold for a moment. Then I put down the phone and removed the two round pans from the oven. By the time I got back on the line, he was humming “Whistle While You Work” into the phone.
“Okay,” I said. “Sorry about th—”
“Time is money,” he snapped. “And money is time.”
“Well, I’m sorry, big guy. I had to take a cake out of the oven.”
“No worries,” he said, suddenly sounding less grouchy. “I’m just staring at a stack of case files about ten feet high, so I can’t dawdle much longer.”
“Dawdle?”
He scoffed. “What of it?”
“It’s not a word that I’d expect to hear from you.”
“Neither is psychometry, right?” asked Trent.
“Um…I’d agree with that.”
“Know what it is?”
“Not exactly,” I said.
“It’s that thing where quacks claim they can tell you about a person by touching one of their possessions.”
“Did you say ‘quacks’?”
Trent snickered. “Yeah, but that’s because I’m skeptical, Katie. I don’t believe in any of that paranormal stuff.”
“I didn’t think so,” I said. “Yet you know about psychometry?”
“I spent a little time on Google earlier, just to bone up on the world of psychics and fortune tellers. Psychometry is also known as token-object reading, but it’s never been scientifically proven and critics dismiss it as a hoax.”
“Somebody’s been saying the same thing about our pies,” I muttered.
“Oh, so you heard?”
“Yes,” I said. “The owners of Sweetie’s Pies are spreading rumors that Sky High uses frozen pies.”
“Guy’s a dweeb,” Trent grumbled. “But his wife is cool. I met them at Blanche’s house a couple of weeks ago.”
“Seriously? She never told me that she knew Wilbur Sprague.”
“Why would she?” Trent said. “Like I already told you, the guy’s a total dweeb.”
“Dweeb?” I joked. “You sound like one o
f Julia’s kids.”
“You’d rather I used an obscenity?”
“No, not at all. It just sounds weird coming from you.”
“Dweeb,” he said again. “Dweeb, dweeb, super dweeb!”
“Got it, big guy. You think Wilbur Sprague’s a dweeb, and I’d be inclined to agree. I mean, we’ve never met, but he shouldn’t—”
“Dweeb,” Trent whispered.
“Yeah, okay. So…back to Maureen Dixon. Did she make a statement at the scene?”
“She told the first responders that she found the guy and the gun on the pavement when she pulled into the lot.”
“The gun and the victim, but no shooter?”
“That’s what she claimed,” Trent said, sounding more than a little skeptical. “She also described the séance last night. According to what she told us, one of the participants asked her to get in touch with a guy named—”
“Roger Kovac?” I cut in.
Trent grumbled. “How the heck did you know that?”
“Did you even listen to a word I told you earlier?”
“About Wilbur Sprague?”
I felt my blood pressure percolate. “No, Trent. When you stopped by this afternoon. Remember? I told you that some guy asked Maureen Dixon to contact the dearly departed Roger Kovac at the séance last night.”
“You did?”
“Yes, but obviously you weren’t listening.”
“I am now, Katie. So…maybe the dead guy was at the séance.”
“I doubt it,” I said. “Anton Rigby is older than the guy Julia saw last night.”
“How do you know Anton Rigby?”
“I don’t,” I said. “But you just told me that he was forty-six. When Zack and I were at dinner last night, we saw two guys having a disagreement at the restaurant. Based on Julia’s description of the guy from the séance, I believe he was the younger of the two guys that Zack and I saw.”
“Well, only time will tell,” Trent said. “There are lots of unanswered questions at this point. But I do know that we found two addresses in the victim’s pocket—one for Maureen Dixon along with the last known location for Roger Kovac when he lived in Crescent Creek.”
