by Mary Maxwell
Dear Kit-Kat:
How remarkable you are, dear child! This morning as you left for school with the box of banana muffins gripped in your tiny hands, I remembered a nearly identical scene from your mother’s childhood. Like you, she was reluctant to go out into the big, wide world. And, also like you, she’d prepared for the first day of school with a new outfit, new shoes and two new barrettes in her hair.
Your mother made it to school that day with both clips on her head, but I found this little orphan on the Sky High kitchen floor a few minutes after you left this morning. I thought about having someone drive it over to school for you, but then I decided it would be more fun for you to find it when you’re playing hide-and-seek with Olivia and Brody. I know the cubby under my desk is one of your favorite spots to hide from your sister and brother, so I imagine one day soon you’ll discover this note and your missing barrette.
On the other hand, maybe it will be something you find later in life, after you’re a grown woman (what you like to call a “bigger big girl” these days) and you’ve taken charge of our little family bakery.
Or, maybe your granddaughter will find it taped to the desk, sometime way, way in the future, many years from now when you’re my age and she’s looking for the best hiding place in the world.
Nobody knows what tomorrow will bring, Kit-Kat. Maybe you’ll never find this envelope. Or maybe someone else will. But, whatever happens to this little note and your sweet blue barrette, please know that I love you more than you can imagine and that affection will bind our hearts now and forever more.
With a million hugs and kisses,
Your Nana
I scanned the note for a few more seconds before putting it back in the envelope.
“What’s wrong, babe?” Zack asked.
I blinked away the fuzzy memories of my grandmother and a sense of anger that was beginning to bubble deep inside.
“It’s not from her,” I said.
“What?”
“This note wasn’t written by Nana Reed,” I told him.
“I don’t understand,” Zack said with a bewildered grin.
“That makes two of us,” I said.
“If she didn’t write it, then how’d it get into your office?”
I slid the envelope into my purse.
“Tomfoolery,” I said. “Nothing but tomfoolery.”
CHAPTER 21
“She left a what where?” my mother said again. “I’m having a hard time hearing you over the slot machines, Katie.”
I’d called my mother the morning after opening Nana Reed’s envelope at Zack’s house. He and I had read the note a dozen or more times as we finished our wine before calling it a night. Besides being a handsome, rugged man with a passion for heart-pounding adventure, NFL football and anything involving the great outdoors, Zack also had a tender and sensitive side. He’d been just as touched as I had by my grandmother’s sweet missive and the kindhearted intention she’d left behind all those years ago.
“A note,” I said again into the phone. “Along with a blue barrette. I think it’s the one that I lost on my first day of kindergarten.”
“First day of what?” my mother bellowed.
“School!” I said loudly. “Kindergarten!”
My mother didn’t respond, so I asked if she was still there. When I’d dialed their number, I expected to reach my parents at their condo in Florida. Instead, they were in Las Vegas for a weeklong vacation, and I’d apparently interrupted a winning streak at the MGM Grand.
“I remember that day,” my mother said finally. “You took a loaf of banana bread to school for Miss Bradley.”
I smiled. “It was actually banana muffins for Miss Bradshaw.”
“So sue me,” my mother snapped. “I’m in the middle of a high-stakes competition with your father. My mental faculties are already starting to peter out.”
“Okay, mother. I’m sorry for calling at a bad time. Give my best to—”
“He’s right here,” she interrupted. “It’s nice to hear your voice, kiddo!”
Kiddo? I thought. My mother had never called me kiddo in my—
“Don’t mind her,” my father suddenly blurted. “She’s tipsy. We’re up a hundred and eighty bucks, so she celebrated with one of those Sexy City cocktails.”
“What kind of drink?” I asked.
“From that TV show,” he answered. “The one with the floozy, the fashion girl, the lawyer and—”
“Do you mean Sex and the City, dad? Is she drinking a Cosmo?”
He snorted. “How should I know? I’m just the schmoe bankrolling this blowout in Vegas. We were originally going to take a cruise to Alaska, but then we saw a bunch of news stories about…” He stopped short and I heard my mother’s strident voice in the background. “Katie?” my dad said, coming back on the line. “My lovely bride told me that I’ve talked long enough. I just wanted to say that I love you, kiddo!”
Again? Kiddo?
“Well, I love you too, dad. I hope—”
And he was gone with a muted click and the sound of my mother feeding coins into a one-armed bandit in Las Vegas.
CHAPTER 22
Since Blanche Speltzer, my usual source for information on Crescent Creek’s history and notable citizens, was in Acapulco with several of her friends, I drove that afternoon to see if Homer Figg could answer a few questions about Roger Kovac.
Homer had converted the two-car garage at his house on Conover Street into the Crescent Creek International Museum of Art & Antiques. Most of the exhibits and memorabilia had been donated by local residents or culled from the Lost & Found drawer at Figg’s Pretty Penny Emporium. Originally opened by Homer’s grandfather as a toy store, Figg’s was now a consignment shop for clothing, furniture, toys and John Deere collectibles. Homer’s son and daughter managed the shop while he kept watch over the museum and a pair of Labs that he and his wife adopted from the Denver Animal Shelter.
“What’s crackin’ there, Katie?” Homer asked when I finally found him kneeling behind the cash register in the back of the garage.
“Did you lose something down there, Mr. Figg?”
He shook his head and slowly clambered to his feet, stepping gingerly over the slumbering dogs.
“Mouse problem,” he said. “I was just checking the catch-and-release traps.”
I nodded, deciding not to pose a follow-up question about the rodent situation. Instead, I asked Homer if he could spare a few minutes to discuss a local family.
“You here about Wilbur Sprague’s new pie shop?” he said. “If that’s the case, you can rest assured that I’m a loyal Sky High fan until the day I die.”
I was ambushed by the inquiry, despite the fact that the name of my apparent nemesis seemed to be on the tip of more than a few tongues in town.
“No, I was actually interested in finding out what you remember about the Kovac clan.”
Homer’s nose wrinkled. “That bunch of criminals?” His voice was thick with disdain. “Why are you curious about them?”
I shrugged. “It’s a long story, but the—”
“Got all the time in the world,” Homer cut in, sweeping one thin arm through the air. “Business here at the museum isn’t exactly hoppin’, as you may be able to detect, Katie.”
I smiled. “Momentary lull in the action, huh?”
“That’s optimistic,” he mumbled, leaning down to squint at a large leather-bound book on the counter. “Our last visitors were here…” He stopped to make out the date scribbled beside the final signature in the guest book. “…well, I think this says they were here six weeks ago, but I can’t quite decipher the man’s scrawl. He was from Dubuque, traveling through on his way to a top-secret Star Trek convention.”
I laughed. “Couldn’t be too much of a secret if he told you, Mr. Figg.”
Homer’s eyes narrowed to small slits. “I happen to be a very trustworthy man, Katie. I once helped a couple of police officers get a famous goalie into the back
of his limousine after the poor guy upchucked all over the stage at a Céline Dion concert in Salt Lake City.”
Homer puffed out his chest a bit as I praised his honor and reputation. For a 75-year-old retired postal carrier, he was in rare form: physically fit, intellectually sharp and renowned for being the only resident of Crescent Creek to have received a hand-written thank you note from the commissioner of the National Hockey League.
I waited while Homer shuffled around the end of the counter. “Let’s go get comfortable in the Continental Divide Lounge,” he said, motioning toward a pair of threadbare recliners in one corner of the garage. “I’ll be able to keep an eye on the door in case we get visitors.”
I followed the gray-haired charmer across the museum and sat in one of the chairs.
“These belonged to Naomi Wabash,” he explained, gingerly patting the arm of his perch. “Before she met her husband and moved to town, Naomi worked in California as the personal assistant to an accountant who once came very close to getting a job with Steven Spielberg.”
“Wow, that’s pretty great,” I said. “A real local celebrity.”
Homer lifted his chin. “We’ve got tons of trivia nuggets like that,” he said. “But I suspect you’d rather talk about whatever is on your mind instead of the finer points of our town’s history.”
“Actually,” I said, “it’s a bit of both. I wanted to ask what you remember about the time Roger Kovac supposedly robbed the Crescent Creek Bank and buried the loot somewhere in the mountains. I’ve heard that the Kovac boys claimed that story to be untrue because they had alibis for that particular day.”
“Poppycock!” Homer said, shifting in his chair. “Those Kovac thugs wouldn’t know the truth if it bit them on the bon-bon.”
I smiled at the inventive language and asked Homer if he thought the story of Roger Kovac robbing the bank alone was a myth.
“More like a fantasy,” he answered. “There’s no doubt that Roger Kovac was a common criminal, but the likelihood that he could rob a bank single-handedly is about as high as a flea’s belt buckle.”
“Do you know who might’ve helped him?”
Homer crossed one bony leg over the other. “Indeed, I do,” he said. “A couple of his good-for-nothing friends. I know that the police interviewed all of them when it happened, but they couldn’t get anything to stick. Roger’s sister-in-law provided an alibi that seemed to be plenty convincing, although I suspected all along that she was lying through her pretty bleached teeth.”
“What’s the brother’s name?” I asked.
Homer grinned. “Dopey’s what I used to call him, but his birth certificate has him listed as Ryan Kovac.”
“Do you mean Dopey as in Snow White and her—”
“You betcha! But, in this case, she’s only got four little companions; Dopey, Stinky, Curly and Moe.”
“It sounds like you’ve got some pretty strong opinions about the Kovac boys, Mr. Figg.”
He flashed another smile. “Call me Homer. I like to keep things plain and simple here at the Crescent Creek International Museum.”
“Okay, Homer,” I continued. “What else can you tell me about the bank robbery and the Kovac boys?”
While I listened closely, my host launched into a lengthy monologue about the events of that long ago afternoon. He described his usual postal delivery route past Roger Kovac’s house. He told me about overhearing a few choice conversations while sliding the mail into a box mounted beside the front door. And he provided a thorough review of the robbery itself, from the rusted minivan the perpetrators used as a getaway vehicle to the fact that Roger Kovac’s sister-in-law had once been caught cheating during a history exam in high school.
“Did Blanche Speltzer give you that last tidbit?” I asked.
Homer raised one eyebrow. “I can neither confirm nor deny that,” he said. “But, between you, me and the lamppost, there’s a good chance that was the case.”
We sat and listened to a police siren wail in the distance.
“Donut run,” Homer teased.
I snickered. “Funny, but not true. I happen to know that none of the Crescent Creek officers would ever do such a thing.”
Homer slapped one knee. “Oh, I know that, too. But it’s fun to joke, isn’t it?”
I nodded.
“You know, Roger’s mom and dad were good, decent folks,” he continued. “I delivered their mail for years, and the both of them were never anything but kind and thoughtful. In fact, one winter, Mrs. Kovac knit me a scarf.”
“That’s really sweet,” I said.
“It sure was,” Homer agreed. “All the trouble started when she and Reggie up and moved to Minnesota for his job. The house was paid for by then and the kids were grown, so Reggie and Francie let the heathens take it over.”
“Den of inequity?” I said with a smile.
“Dang right!” Homer’s voice quivered slightly. “They were part of the reason I asked to switch my delivery route. I got tired of all the hateful things they’d say, calling me names and making snide remarks about my wife.”
“The louts,” I said.
“You’re on the money there, Katie. Louts and hooligans and common crooks. Only good thing was my transfer didn’t go through until after the robbery, so I was able to hear them planning the thing.”
“But…I’m confused,” I said. “If you heard the Kovac brothers and their friends planning the robbery, how’d they get away with it?”
“Simple twist of fate,” Homer said. “Between the alibi from Roger’s sister-in-law, the lack of physical evidence and the disguises, the police could never prove it was Roger Kovac along with them other two mutts.”
“You mentioned a van, right?”
He shrugged. “It was never found. Just like the loot. Folks started spreading rumors around town a while later. Some people thought Roger went up into the mountains and buried the cash before he took off for Mexico. Others believed he was still living in the area after using some of the haul to get plastic surgery on his face.”
“I heard he was deceased,” I said.
“That’s just it. Between the lack of evidence and credible witnesses, the investigation kept hitting one brick wall after the next. Who knows the real story?”
“I suppose that’s like a lot of cold cases,” I agreed. “As the years go by, the truth fades and the probability of justice keeps getting smaller in the rearview mirror.”
Homer heaved a sigh, adjusted his posture and slapped his leg again.
“Tell me, Katie,” he said. “Why are you asking about the Kovacs anyway?”
“It’s a long story,” I answered.
He laughed and glanced around the empty garage. “I’ve got the time. As you can see, business is kind of slow.”
“Let’s just say it has something to do with skeletons, ghosts and a fortune teller being warned not to contact Roger Kovac.”
Homer’s eyes went wide. “Well, that sounds like a good way to spend the rest of the afternoon! Why don’t we go inside and I’ll fix us a highball? You can start at the beginning and tell me your long tale of mystery and intrigue.”
I dug my phone out of my purse and checked the time. “I love that idea, Homer. But I need to get back to Sky High. There are a couple of catering jobs pending and I need to finish the menus and budgets.”
He nodded and got up from his chair. Then he walked over and lowered one of the garage doors.
“Is the museum closing early?” I asked.
He looked over one shoulder and winked. “You betcha! Our staff is thirsty and they’re not allowed to bring mixed drinks around the exhibitions.”
“That makes perfect sense,” I said, making my way around a glass-covered case filled with campaign buttons and placards from old Crescent Creek mayoral races.
“Besides,” Homer added, “the Rockies are on tonight, so I want to get our steaks on the grill by six o’clock so I can eat while I watch the game.”
CHAPTER 23
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As I drove through town on my back to Sky High from Homer Figg’s, I noticed a heavyset man on a ladder in front of Sweetie’s Pies. Dressed in baggy khaki pants, bright green running shoes and a black chef’s coat, he was in the final stages of hanging a banner above the front door of the newly-renovated shop: The ONLY Fresh Pies in Town!
“Not so fast, buster,” I grumbled.
I hadn’t met Wilbur Sprague yet, but I’d heard enough from other people to suspect that he was the corpulent gentleman teetering on the top rung of the ladder. During the weeks that the former home of Purdue Office Supply was being converted into Sweetie’s Pies, I’d passed by a few times to monitor the progress. Although dozens of Sky High devotees complained about the newcomer, I welcome the competition. My family’s business had been a culinary landmark in Crescent Creek for the past four decades. I would never rest on those laurels, but I felt confident that our customer base was truly dedicated and the area could easily support a second pie shop. Besides, Sky High was a full-service eatery; Sweetie’s concentrated exclusively on fruit and cream pies.
“Take the high road,” I reminded myself as I parked in front of my competitor’s shop. “Don’t say anything that you’ll regret later.”
As I opened the door and stepped out of the car, Wilbur’s head swiveled on his chunky neck. He peered at me through wire rim glasses clinging to the end of his bulbous nose.
“We’re not open,” he said in a surly tone. “Come back tomorrow at eleven.”
I closed the door, slipped my purse over one shoulder and walked toward him.
“I’m Kate Reed,” I said, blazing him with a megawatt smile. “From Sky High Pies.”
Wilbur jabbed the glasses back up his nose with one pudgy hand. Then he forced a smile and slowly descended the wobbly ladder.
“I’ve heard about you,” he announced, coming toward me on the sidewalk.
“Ditto,” I said, extending my right arm. “It’s nice to meet a fellow pie purveyor.”
