by Mary Maxwell
Deadly Desserts
Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries / 6
Mary Maxwell
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
© 2016 Mary Maxwell 04272016
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, recorded or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a review.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
NANA REED’S SKY HIGH RECIPES
CHAPTER 1
“Am I speaking with…Kate Reed?” asked the voice on the phone. “The one that runs…the pie place?”
It was half past one on a chilly, overcast day in April. After a busy breakfast rush and an early surge for lunch, things had calmed down in the last hour. Julia was in the kitchen handling customer orders, Harper was managing the dining room and I was paying bills in the office at Sky High Pies, the bakery café that I run in Crescent Creek, Colorado.
The caller sounded like she was maybe twelve or thirteen at the most. She spoke with a slight British accent and the tendency to pause frequently at curious intervals.
“This is Kate,” I answered. “How can I—”
“Do you actually…make the pies?”
“Our chef Julia and I both do,” I said. “Along with cakes, cookies, scones and—”
“Are they…any good?”
“Well, we sure think so! My grandmother started Sky High more than forty years ago, and then my parents ran it for—”
“In that case, I’d like to place…an order,” the girl announced. “Six apple pies, six cherry pies and six blueberry pies.”
“That’s eighteen pies!”
She giggled. “I know. It’s for a surprise…anniversary party.” She delivered the unexpected twist with a maturity beyond her youthful years. “It will be next month when my parents get back from Cannes.”
Another tinkling laugh came over the line. I’d never taken a telephone order from anyone quite so young or precocious.
“Cannes?” I asked. “As in France?”
The girl laughed again. “Is there another?”
I took a breath. “I don’t know actually. I was just…well, it’s not a place that comes up in conversation all that often in Crescent Creek.”
“My father’s in the movie business,” the pipsqueak confessed after more soft laughter. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him: Brendan Ascot.”
I’d never heard the name, but I didn’t want to offend the young customer. So I said, “Oh, Brendan Ascot…” I paused for my own attempt at theatricality. “And what’s your name?”
She giggled again before providing the answer: Abigail. Then she launched into a brief summary of her father’s greatest hits. I listened to the first three or four, but then my mind wandered to the list of things I needed to accomplish before Sky High closed at three o’clock.
“…and his most recent blockbuster was a film about a comic book crime fighter that wears purple tights,” Abigail said, drawing to a close. “It wasn’t to my taste, so I can’t even bring myself to say the name.”
“That makes two of us,” I admitted. “Although I rarely get out to the movies these days, what with baking pies and all the rest.”
“Fascinating,” she said in a lackluster tone. “What’s your schedule like in the next day or two?”
“Didn’t you tell me the party was next month?”
“Yes,” she said. “But I’d like to stop by for a tasting in the next couple of days.”
I smiled to myself. There was something exceptionally likable about the girl, a bold confidence that conveyed a mature and self-possessed charisma. As she explained why she wanted to sample our pies—something about a disastrous catered event that her parents once hosted for a member of the British royal family—I conjured an image in my mind of the young girl on the other end of the line. I pictured her with porcelain skin, impeccable hair, a slightly upturned button nose and delicate hands that danced through the air as she spoke.
“How about the day after next at one or two?” she suggested. “I’ll bring my older brother if he can break away from his Xbox long enough to join me. And I should warn you right now—he has a tendency to be fairly rude to strangers!”
“I understand that,” I said. “I have a brother and sister myself.”
“Well, from what I’ve read online, they’re lucky to have you.”
The comment left me speechless.
“What?” Abigail said. “Are you surprised that I Googled you before calling?”
“Well, there’s always a first time for everything,” I said through a bemused smile.
“My father and mother encourage us to be as independent as possible,” she said. “My brother spends his time playing video games, but I like learning things. When I decided to host an anniversary party, I wanted it to have a relaxed vibe. Thus, the idea of pies and ice cream and board games. I searched for the best pies in Colorado and your place kept coming out on top.”
“The party idea sounds really sweet,” I said. “And I’m flattered that you’ve chosen Sky High to make the pies. It’s nice to know that our reputation today is as good as it was when my Nana Reed—”
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “But it’s almost time for my piano lesson. I’m glad we had a chance to chat, Miss Reed. I’ll plan on seeing you in a couple of days for the tasting.”
“Right,” I said. “I’ll see you soon.”
She thanked me again before a gentle click ended the call. I got up from my desk, wandered into the Sky High kitchen and sat on a stool near the back counter. I was staring at my phone a few moments later, still thinking about the giggling go-getter on the phone, when Julia came out of the walk-in cooler with a box of eggs and a gallon of milk.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
I blinked and nodded.
“Was that about the Food & Wine Festival?”
I shook my head.
“Do you still have the judges’ meeting this afternoon?”
I smiled. “Yes, it’s at five-thirty.”
“Then why do you have that look on your face?”
“What look?”
“It�
�s the ‘forlorn and confused’ look,” she explained. “The same one you get whenever your brother calls to borrow money or ask your advice about dating.”
“It wasn’t Brody,” I said. “It was someone else.”
She carried the eggs and milk to the counter before walking around the center island to where I stood.
“Was it bad news or something?”
The sincerity of her voice and touch of her hand brought me out of the trance. “Sorry, Jules,” I said, shaking off the lingering impression of my conversation with Abigail Alcott. “I just talked to a very precocious child and she left me kind of thunderstruck.”
Julia laughed. “A precocious child? Was it my husband?”
“No, why? Has he been acting up lately?”
She rolled her eyes. “He lost a bet with a guy at work, something about football or hockey trivia. I’ve never seen him so grouchy.”
“Well, you know what my grandmother used to say?”
Julia shook her head.
“‘Men will be boys,’” I said, grinning. “‘And boys will be trouble.’”
“I guess. But, anyway, who was on the phone?”
“Her name is Abigail Ascot,” I said. “She ordered eighteen pies for her parents’ anniversary party.”
Julia’s eyes bulged. “Eighteen? For when?”
“Next month. But she’s coming in for a tasting this week.”
Her wide gaze narrowed. “A tasting?”
I smiled.
“Who does that?”
“Abigail Ascot,” I said. “And I’m actually looking forward to it. She reminded me of someone I knew when I was younger.”
Julia went around the island and started cracking eggs into a bowl. “Oh, yeah? Who’s that?”
“Me,” I said, feeling a flicker of bittersweet nostalgia in my heart. “Back when I was young and naïve and convinced that anything could be possible.”
CHAPTER 2
Pinky Newton was standing on the sidewalk in front of her flower shop when I pulled up at twenty past five. She had a dozen yellow roses tucked under one arm, a large striped canvas satchel over her shoulder and a bright red Twizzler clutched in her teeth. When she saw my car, she removed the licorice and gave me a big wave.
“You are truly an angel!” she said, climbing into the passenger seat. “I guess the battery’s dead on my car or something. I drove it earlier without any problems when I went to…” She stopped and her mouth puckered into a frown. “When I went to the dry cleaner, so I don’t know what happened.”
“Do you want to try and get it started?” I asked. “I’ve got jumper cables in the trunk.”
She tapped her watch with one finger. “We’re already behind schedule, but thanks for the offer. I’ll call Skip Bledsoe’s tow service after the meeting. Portia will skin us alive for being any later than we are already.”
I motioned at the licorice. “Is that lunch or dinner?”
She grinned. “Both. But at least it’s low fat and yummy!”
“So are martinis, but we can’t live on those alone.”
She shot me a disapproving look. “Well, there just aren’t enough hours in the day, Katie. I still haven’t found the right person to help me in the shop, so I’ve been running around like a crazy loon. No time to eat. No time to reapply my makeup. And no time to flirt with that cute man who opened the wine bar across the street.”
I giggled. “Well, that’s a good thing, sweetie. Because that cute man’s cute wife probably wouldn’t like you flirting with her husband.”
“Oh, golly!” She grimaced and covered her mouth. “I think it’s too late for that. I went over last week with a dozen fresh-baked sugar cookies.”
“No harm done,” I said. “As long as you didn’t throw yourself at the guy.”
“I would never do anything so crass, Katie.” She finished the Twizzler and pulled the bag of candy from her satchel. “You want one?”
“No, thanks. I had a late lunch.”
“Suit yourself,” she said, pulling a second piece of licorice from the nearly-empty bag. “I know Portia would disapprove of me eating these before we sample things for the festival, but I haven’t had anything since a blueberry Pop-Tart this morning at six.”
“Alrighty then,” I said. “Bon appétit!”
She took a bite. And then another. By the time we pulled up in front of Portia Pearson’s furniture store, the last piece of licorice was history and Pinky was tugging a Wet-Nap from the container she always kept in her tote.
“Want one?” She held the canister of moist towelettes toward me.
“I’m good,” I said. “But I have a suggestion.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Go for it.”
“What about Brittany Kincaid?”
Pinky frowned. “What’s she got to do with Wet-Naps?”
“She’s looking for a part-time opportunity.”
“Oh, I get it,” Pinky said. “But isn’t she Detective Kincaid’s niece?”
I nodded and parked the car in a spot at the curb. “The one and only. Brittany’s a senior at Crescent Creek High. She’s a really smart girl; disciplined, dedicated and a hard worker.”
“Then why isn’t she already working?” Pinky asked. “I mean, with qualifications like that and a detective in the family? You’d think somebody would hire her in a heartbeat.”
“Somebody did,” I said. “Ralph Swenson.”
Pinky’s eyes did a wild loop. “Oh, that explains everything.”
“Yeah, good old Ralph. If they awarded prizes for least trustworthy business owner, he’d get the gold medal.”
“Is it true he embezzled all that money?” she asked.
“Half a million dollars.”
“And now Dina’s niece is out of a job?”
I frowned. “Her and everyone else that worked at the jewelry store.”
“Maybe somebody will reopen it,” Pinky suggested.
“That would be nice, but it doesn’t help Brittany or the others right now.”
Pinky dabbed the Wet-Nap around her mouth with tiny, precise movements. I’d known her long enough to recognize the meditative expression on her face; she was considering my suggestion by comparing Dina’s niece to all of her former employees. With each diminutive pat of the damp cloth, the muscles in her neck seemed to relax a little more. As I shut off the engine and opened my door, she asked if I had Brittany’s number handy.
“I don’t, but I’m sure Dina will be happy to give it to you.”
“Thanks, Katie! I think you may have just saved my life!”
“All in a day’s work,” I said with a laugh. “And I hope I didn’t save it just so Portia can stab you in the back. I heard some chatter on the grapevine earlier; she’s been in a foul mood lately and no one is safe from her wrath.”
CHAPTER 3
When Pinky and I stepped through the front door of Home Suite Home, Portia Pearson was sitting on a sumptuous red velvet loveseat in the middle of the furniture store she’d inherited from her father a few years earlier.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in!” she twanged in her vaguely Southern accent. “Everyone else was thoughtful enough to arrive early!”
“Oh, brother,” Pinky grumbled under her breath. “I can feel the tip of that knife blade already.”
“How are you, Portia?” I asked as we made our way across the crowded showroom floor.
“I. Am. Fabulous!” She stood gracefully and flashed a smile that confirmed the power of bleach and porcelain veneers. “Are you both ready for the preliminary round of dessert and snack samples? We have fifteen entries in both categories, so we’ll need to eliminate five from each this afternoon. The final ten will be judged on stage during the last night of the festival.”
Pinky muttered behind me, but I ignored the complaint. I didn’t want to trip over anything as we walked toward our host. Portia’s father had opened the store long before she was a twinkle in his eye. During the years that he ran the business, i
t was a popular spot for midrange prices, overstuffed recliners and convenient Lay-A-Way plans. When Mr. Pearson retired to Arizona and bequeathed the store to Portia, she transformed it overnight into a showcase for extravagant designer collections, pricey European antiques and a snooty atmosphere that hissed If you have to ask the price, what the heck are you doing here?
“Sorry we’re late,” Pinky offered as we looped through a minefield of multicolored ottomans. “My car wouldn’t start, but Katie was kind enough to give me a lift.”
“Don’t you fret about it, sugar,” purred the matriarch of opulent décor accessories and founder of the Crescent Creek Food & Wine Festival. “Everyone else is downstairs enjoying a cocktail.”
“Oh, good!” Pinky said, swerving to avoid an enormous brown leather headboard. “I’m parched and it’s been a terrible day!”
I was surprised that Portia would serve alcohol to the judges before they sampled entries for the annual festival, but I wasn’t about to question her authority. The scowl on her face and barbed tone of her voice told me to just go with the flow.
“The store looks amazing,” I said. “You’ve changed things around since the last time I was here.”
Portia smiled, but didn’t say a word. The expansive space was divided into several areas containing artfully arranged furniture meant to suggest a contemporary living room, a tasteful master bedroom and something that suggested Prehistoric Caveman Meets Tomorrowland, a cluster of clear plastic furniture and angular metal chairs accented with faux sheepskin throws.
When we finally reached Portia, she raised her chin, appraised our outfits and pushed her tomato red lips into a nearly believable grin.
“Don’t you both look absolutely stunning!” She minced closer on her stilettos. “Two of the most beautiful volunteers in the history of our little event!”
Pinky and I had both agreed to serve as judges for the annual event a few weeks earlier. I’d considered declining the request, but Julia and Harper had cornered me in the kitchen at Sky High to explain why that wasn’t an option. “Don’t you remember what happened to Antonia Schlagle?” Julia had asked. “She turned down Portia’s offer and they found her dead at the bottom of Laudermilk Mountain the very next week!” Although the death had been ruled an accident, local scuttlebutt attributed it to Portia’s keen interest in revenge and her sizeable collection of vintage voodoo dolls.
