Skeletons & Scones (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 8)

by Mary Maxwell

  I started to answer, but yawned instead.

  “I thought so,” Zack said. “Your eyelids were starting to droop. Why don’t I clean up the kitchen and head home? We’ve both had a long day.”

  I put one arm around his neck. Then I pressed my lips to his cheek and gave him a quick peck.

  “I think that’s probably a good idea,” I agreed. “Unless you want to stay the night.”

  He shook his head. “I have to be in Vail tomorrow morning at seven. There are files at home that I need for the trip.”

  “Okay,” I said with another cavernous yawn. “Sounds good to me.”

  He nodded, got up from the sofa and held out one hand.

  “Come on, beautiful. I’ll get you tucked into bed before I do the dishes.”

  I let him pull me up before leaning in for a big hug. We stood silently for a few minutes, our hearts playing the same steady rhythm. I pressed my ear against his muscular chest and listened.

  “Are you staying overnight in Vail?” I asked.

  “No, it’s a quick down-and-back trip,” Zack answered. “I’ll be home by four or so tomorrow afternoon.”

  “That’s good news,” I said. “What should we do for dinner?”

  “How about I fix something for you?”

  “That would be so sweet,” I said. “Is six-thirty okay? I’ll get some wine and we can meet at your place.”

  “Sounds good, babe.” He tugged gently on my hand. “Now, let’s get you into bed before you fall asleep on your feet.”

  CHAPTER 13

  I was standing at the stove in the Sky High kitchen the following afternoon, stirring a batch of caramel sauce, when Harper came through the door from the dining room.

  “Katie?”

  I glanced over and watched her mouth lift into a goofy grin.

  “Birdie Baker’s father-in-law is here to pickup the cake,” she said. “He’s got a Victoria’s Secret model in one hand and a flaming skull walking stick in the other.”

  “A flaming what?” I asked, guiding the wooden spoon slowly around the pan.

  “Skull,” she said. “It’s a cane with, like, a silver skull that has flames coming off the back to form the grip.”

  I checked the timer. Two more minutes remained before I could remove the sauce from the heat and stir in the vanilla extract. Julia had left early to meet the plumber at home, so I couldn’t ask her to take over for me.

  “He wants to see you for a sec,” Harper added, pushing a ballpoint pen behind one ear. “Should I send them back?”

  It had been a particularly busy lunch rush, so the kitchen was still a disaster zone. A leaning tower of soiled pots and pans filled the sink, a trail of grated parmesan led from the walk-in to the front counter and the air still reeked of scorched bread from a toaster mishap.

  “Maybe they could have a seat in the dining room?” I suggested. “And I’ll come out in about five—”

  The door suddenly swung open again and an elderly man walked into the kitchen. He was wearing a burgundy jacket, black turtleneck sweater and distressed skinny jeans. His chin was flecked with gray stubble and his hands were encased in fingerless black leather driving gloves. He was followed by a statuesque redhead wearing a body-hugging leopard-print cat suit and brown suede cowboy boots accented with silver studs and fringe. Her eyelids glowed with bright blue powder and her lips were slathered with at least two gallons of gleaming red gloss.

  “Miss Reed?” said Birdie’s father-in-law. “I’m Charles Baker.” He raised the young woman’s hand. “And this is my lovely wife, Jewel. I wanted to thank you personally for taking such good care of our Birdie all these years.”

  “Well, thank you, Mr. Baker.” I nodded down at the pan of bubbling caramel sauce. “I would come over and shake your hand, but I need to keep stirring this for another minute or so.”

  He smiled, flashing dentures as bright as new-fallen snow on a sun-splashed mountaintop.

  “Birdie said you’ve been making pies for forty years,” said the waiflike creature holding the old man’s hand. “What in the world do you use on your skin, sugar? You don’t look a day over fifty.”

  I forced a smile, thanked Mrs. Baker for the compliment and told her my age.

  “For real?” she squealed. “You’re thirty?”

  I nodded.

  “Golly, what’s it like to be so old?” she droned. “I’ll be twenty-two in March.”

  The frisky geezer tapped his walking stick on the floor. “Age is just a number, my dear,” he said to the woman. “And Miss Reed is the third generation of her family to run this fine establishment.”

  The woman’s eyes zigzagged from her husband to Harper before twirling to me.

  “The third generation?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, then where are the other two?” she asked, leaning toward Mr. Baker. “We should thank them as well, honey.”

  “Why don’t I just pass along your kind words?” I suggested. “I’m sure you both would rather spend as much time with Birdie during your visit as you can. No sense in dilly-dallying around here all day.”

  The redhead giggled. “I love that word—dilly-dallying. Same as shilly-shallying. My granny says it all the time.”

  “Her grandmother’s seventy,” said Birdie’s father-in-law. “I was dating her at the time that Jewel and I met.”

  They locked eyes, grinned like mischievous conspirators and shared a smooch that was so provocative I thought we might need a defibrillator in case the old goat’s heart overheated. When they finally uncoupled, Mr. Baker’s expression suddenly shifted from animated and joyful to a look of grave seriousness.

  “We heard about the dead fellow they found on Roosevelt Street,” he said.

  I was so surprised by the unforeseen change in subject matter that I simply nodded.

  “We also heard that you once worked with the police in Chicago,” Mr. Baker continued. “Are you helping to track down the perpetrator?”

  I shook my head, but still couldn’t find my voice.

  “Track down the what?” asked Miss Va-va-va-voom.

  “Perpetrator,” her husband answered. “I’m asking Miss Reed if she’s helping to find the killer.”

  Jewel’s eyes went wide. “Oh! I just love Cagney & Lacy,” she said. “And Law & Order. I watch all those police shows when I get home from yoga and my Boo is having his nap. Do you have a badge that I can see?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not with the Crescent Creek PD,” I explained. “I used to be a private investigator. My boss and I did some work on a couple of cases that led to helping the Chicago police, but it was the exception rather than the rule.”

  “Is that so?” Mr. Baker asked. “You did it in Chicago, but not around here?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “What do you mean?”

  “Birdie’s friend Blanche told us that you helped crack a big blackmail scheme not too long ago.”

  “That’s true, but it wasn’t anything official,” I said. “I was just trying to help the local police find out who was responsible for a couple of crimes.”

  “Was it Colonel Mustard?” Jewel asked.

  I laughed when I thought she was joking, but then realized it had been an entirely serious question.

  “Well, your order is all set to go,” I said quickly, lifting the caramel sauce from the burner. “Birdie paid in advance, so it’s ready to roll.”

  I walked over, gently plucked the box marked BIRDIE from the counter and carried it across the room. The slender vixen in the cat suit frowned slightly as I held out the box.

  “Me?” she said with a frown. “But my nails aren’t dry yet.”

  She offered her pale, weightless hands as proof. The end of each finger was lovingly tinted with a soft pink base and tipped with pure white.

  “That’s a great French manicure,” I said, smiling at her doll-sized hands. “Where’d you go?”

  Jewel frowned. “I don’t know the name,” she said. “But the lady s
poke English. I don’t think she’s from France.”

  Harper stifled a laugh, offered to carry the cake outside and then came toward me.

  “She’s got a PhD in ditzy,” she whispered. “And a Master’s in clueless.”

  “Thank you, Harper,” I said with a wink. “We can discuss that later, okay?”

  After she carried Birdie’s order out to the dining room, Mr. Baker asked about my Nana Reed.

  “Is she still helping out around here?” he said as I reached for the vanilla extract.

  “Oh, no. My grandmother passed away a few years ago. And my parents retired to Florida. I’m the only member of the Reed clan still here at Sky High.”

  “I remember meeting her once,” the old man said. “She had a caboose like nobody’s business. Reminded me of two perfect grapefruits wrestling under a blanket. And when she bent over to—”

  “Thank you again for picking up the cake for Birdie,” I cut in, not wanting to hear a single word more about Nana Reed’s backside. “Please tell her that I said hello, okay?”

  CHAPTER 14

  The text from Trent came in a half hour later as I was walking out the door: Have time to talk?

  Since Julia had finished the prep list before leaving earlier, I’d decided to see if Drea Scott at Café Fleur could answer a few questions. I quickly locked the door, slipped my purse over my shoulder and dialed Trent’s number.

  “Hey, Katie,” he bellowed. “What’s shaking?”

  “I don’t know, deputy chief. You asked if I had time to talk.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” he said, sounding perplexed. “Things went sideways just now with the Hollister case we’ve been working for the past few weeks, so I’m juggling a bunch of new things all of a sudden.”

  I offered to call later in the day, but he rejected that suggestion.

  “I’m driving up to Boulder at six,” he said. “Dinner with my brother and his wife. If, that is, I can put out a couple of fires before then.”

  “Okay, so…” I waited, but he didn’t take the hint. “Trent?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What did you want to—”

  “Ah, sorry about that, Katie. Dina and Tyler just walked into my office. They don’t look very happy, so I should make this quick.”

  “I get that,” I said calmly. “What’s up?”

  “Maureen Dixon didn’t kill the guy in the parking lot behind her apartment.”

  He delivered the news with such a casual tone that I almost asked him to repeat it. But before I could gather my thoughts, Trent answered the next most obvious question.

  “Security camera,” he said as voices bubbled up in the background. “Tyler got the footage from—” He covered the phone with one hand and asked the detectives in his office to keep quiet for a few seconds. “You should see these two,” he continued. “They’re both glaring at me like I’m the Big Bad Wolf.”

  “Then why don’t we talk later?” I offered. “You’ve obviously got a lot going on.”

  “Same Shinola, different day,” he grumbled. “I thought you’d like to know that your friend didn’t pop the guy.”

  “My friend?”

  “Maureen Dixon,” he said. “She’s not the perp.”

  I decided not to take time to explain that I’d just met the woman and we weren’t exactly BFFs. Instead, I asked if she was still at the station.

  “She’s been released,” Trent answered. “Denny and Amanda drove her home about a half hour ago.”

  “I’m sure she’s relieved,” I said. “How’d you make the call so quickly?”

  “We reviewed the footage from the cameras in back of Garfunkel’s Sporting Goods. It showed the victim and some other guy in the parking lot a good fifteen minutes before Maureen Dixon pulled up. The two men were arguing pretty violently before the Guns N’ Roses fan pulled out a revolver and put two slugs in the vic’s chest at close range.”

  “Guns N’ Roses?” I asked.

  Trent scoffed. “Yeah, Katie. They’re a rock band that was huge back in—”

  “I know who they are, big guy. I was trying to understand how you knew the perp was a fan.”

  “Leather jacket,” Trent said. “He had his back to the camera the whole time, so that’s about all we’ve got at the moment. He was wearing a coat with the Guns N’ Roses logo on the back along with dark pants and a ball cap.”

  “Any chance one of the boots had tape around the toe?”

  “Tape?” Trent croaked. “Is that what you said?”

  I quickly explained why I was asking about the gunman’s footwear.

  “Duct tape,” I said. “Gray duct tape that he probably put on there instead of getting it repaired or buying another pair of boots.”

  “I still don’t get it,” Trent drawled. “Why are you asking about tape on his boot?”

  “Because,” I explained, “the young guy that Zack and I saw in a scuffle the other night might be your shooter.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll take another look at the footage. I do know there was a red patch sewn on the back of his jeans.”

  “Marty put in the color cameras after all?” I said, remembering a conversation that I’d had a few weeks earlier with the owner of the sporting goods store.

  “Yeah, he went all out.” Trent’s voice telegraphed disapproval. “I told him the old setup was fine, but you know how Funk Man can be.”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant; Marty Garfunkel, a classmate of mine when Trent and I were at Crescent Creek High, had always seemed even-tempered and reasonable. Although I was interested in hearing more about Trent’s remark, I knew that conversation would have to wait.

  “Thanks for letting me know,” I said. “I’ll let you go so you can get back to business.”

  “Sounds good, Katie,” Trent replied. “I’ll talk to you later, gator!”

  CHAPTER 15

  Café Fleur was empty when I pulled open the door and stepped inside a half hour after my conversation with Trent. On the drive to the restaurant, an old Guns N’ Roses song had fluttered through my mind. I wasn’t overly familiar with the band’s music, but I’d heard “Paradise City” during a news report about their most recent tour.

  Drea Scott was behind the bar, scowling at a sheet of paper on a clipboard. When she looked up and saw me walking through the empty dining room, her frown melted into a self-conscious grin.

  “Hey, Kate,” she called. “Please tell me that you didn’t hear what I just said.”

  I laughed. “Was it an F-bomb?”

  Her face went red. “Oh, no! I’m so sorry! I didn’t think anyone was here.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, sliding onto a barstool. “I didn’t hear you. That was just a good guess.”

  She rolled her eyes. “The inventory is all messed up and I can’t figure out why. The produce guy just delivered sixteen cases of lemons.”

  “How many did you need?”

  She checked the clipboard. “One, but I think there was…” Her eyes scanned up and down the sheet of paper. “Oh, maybe this is it. We needed one case of lemons and six cases of lettuce. It looks like whoever wrote the order entered the six on the wrong line.”

  “Shinola happens,” I offered, remembering Trent’s goofy remark earlier. “But it’s not the end of the world.”

  Drea shook her head. “No, I know that. But business has been a little off lately, so we’re really trying to watch the budget.”

  “Hey, I can take some of those lemons off your hands if you’d like.”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “Seriously?”

  “Sure thing,” I said. “We can use them for lemon bars and lemon chiffon cake and lemonade and a bunch of other things.”

  She laughed, but it sounded forced and mournful.

  “You okay?” I asked. “You look kind of down.”

  She slid the clipboard under one arm. “I’m okay. My husband’s out of town and our baby girl has a bad cold. It’s got me pretty worried.”

  “Is sh
e with your mom?”

  Drea nodded. “Granny to the rescue! I don’t know where I’d be without my dear, sweet mama.”

  “I hear you. I talk to mine at least once a day. It helps me keep things in perspective.”

  She laughed again, sounding lighter and brighter than before. “Like the difference between your kid’s health and a mix-up on the lemon order?”

  “That’s right!” I said cheerfully. “Don’t sweat the small stuff!”

  We shared a laugh before Drea offered to pour a glass of wine for me. I declined the idea and explained that I’d stopped by to ask about the two men arguing at the bar a couple of nights earlier.

  “What about them?” she said with a puckered brow.

  “Do you know either of them? Zack and I had never seen them before, but maybe they’re new in town.”

  Drea shook her head. “They were strange,” she said, “and they were strangers. The younger guy at least had fairly decent manners, but his older buddy was a wild animal disguised as a human being.”

  I smiled at the description.

  “I’m serious, Kate! His nails were ragged and dirty, his breath was like a swamp and the words coming out of his mouth would make a sailor blush.” She scowled at the memory. “And he had little cross tattoos on every one of his nine fingers.”

  “Did you say nine fingers?”

  She raised one eyebrow. “Yep. He was missing his right pinky. I figured he probably lost in a fight with the other animals.”

  Her gaze fell to the phone on the bar. She swiped the screen to check the time.

  “How did it get to be so late?” she groaned. “I never thought a mix-up with lemons could derail my entire afternoon.”

  “Hey, I know you’re busy,” I said. “But can you spare the time for a couple more quick questions?”

  “You’re fine, Kate. I’ve got until five.”

  I nodded and asked if she had heard what the two men were arguing about the other night.

  She smiled. “What else? Women and money.”

  “Yeah?”