by Mary Maxwell
Zack frowned. “Wait a sec. What was that about Suzanne?”
“She went out of town for work,” I said again.
“When?”
I shrugged. “I think a couple of days ago. Why do you ask?”
“Nothing. I mean, well…I could swear that I saw her at the ATM on the corner of First and Rivington this afternoon.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “I mean, I think it was her. Gretchen sent me out at the last minute to take a quick portrait of Herman Bright for the newspaper. His new insurance agency office is right next to the ATM. Anyway, when I was framing the shot in front of his office, I had to wait for someone to finish getting cash.”
“Why do you think it was Suzanne?”
“Because of the thing in her hair,” he answered. “She’s the only woman I know in Crescent Creek who wears those thick plastic headbands every day.”
I nodded. “It’s her trademark. Although it could’ve just been some other woman who wears one, too.”
“Yeah, maybe. But I also saw her arguing with a guy who looked a lot like Nathaniel Craig.”
“Her husband?”
He shrugged. “At least, I thought it was him—same height, same hair color, glasses with silver frames. And he was wearing one of those double-breasted green blazers the guys sometimes wear at the bank.”
“Well, on a day like this, Suzanne Craig’s whereabouts aren’t really that important,” I said. “Considering what happened to Lacy.”
“And isn’t it possible that Portia misunderstood her assistant’s message?”
“I doubt it,” I said. “Portia was livid. And she’s a stickler for details, so she would’ve checked it out herself once she got word that Suzanne wasn’t going to be at the meeting. She also made her assistant call Suzanne’s cell number and double check. Suzanne actually answered and told the woman that she was in Seattle.”
Zack smirked. “Or else lying about where she was.”
“Well, wherever she was, I’m sure Suzanne’s ears are still ringing from the sound of Portia’s voice.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen Portia in full anger mode before, and I would definitely not want to face her wrath under any circumstances.”
“She can be a tough cookie,” I agreed.
Zack howled. “A tough cookie? C’mon, Katie! That woman makes Cruella de Vil look like Bambi. The last time I saw her go ballistic was in the newspaper offices when she and Gretchen got into it about an article in the Gazette.”
“What was it about?”
“The article?”
I nodded.
“The Aspen Food & Wine Classic,” Zack said with a faint smirk. “Portia was all bent out of shape that Gretchen thought Aspen’s event was superior to the one in Crescent Creek.”
I shrugged. “Poor, crazy Portia. No matter what you’re talking about, if it originates in her brain then it’s better, brighter and bigger than anything else.”
“Do you think she’s aware that the Aspen Classic has been going for more than thirty years?”
“Doesn’t matter. Like I said, she’s cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.”
While we enjoyed the rest of our soup and a second glass of wine, I asked Zack about his upcoming trip to Santa Fe. When he wasn’t working as a freelance photographer for the local newspaper, he handled assignments from a wide range of clients—advertising agencies, corporations and a handful of state agencies in the region. The trip to New Mexico was a three-day excursion to shoot a catalog for a new hiking boot company. When he heard the news about Lacy, he’d offered to see if the client could postpone the project, but I’d insisted he honor the commitment. The last thing I needed in addition to grieving the loss of my friend was guilt associated with interfering in Zack’s career.
“I’ll keep my phone on if you need to talk,” he said for the third time. “If there isn’t service where we’re shooting, I’ll call you the second I get back to the hotel.”
When we finished our soup and crackers a few minutes later, I collected the bowls and headed for the kitchen. Zack jumped up and followed, insisting that he’d do the dishes so I could relax.
“I’m okay, sweetie.” I deposited a quick smooch on his cheek. “And I’m a strong woman. I’ll be fine as…” My voice cracked and I felt my eyes fill with tears. “Oh, who am I kidding? I’m going to miss her every day of every week.”
He surrounded me with a warm, solid embrace and my head fell against his broad chest. We stood at the sink for a long time, swaying slightly and letting the tenderness twine around us. When my legs started to wobble, I pushed back, kissed him again and sent him into the living room with instructions to get Pitch Perfect 2 loaded into the DVD player.
“Didn’t we see that one already?” he asked, sounding slightly less than thrilled. “Not that I’m complaining or anything.”
“That was Pitch Perfect,” I said. “Aren’t you glad they made a sequel?”
CHAPTER 10
“Abigail Ascot called again,” Julia announced the next morning after I staggered into the Sky High kitchen. “I wrote everything down, but saved the messages in case you want to listen yourself.”
It was a few minutes after five. When the alarm blared a half hour earlier, I was enjoying my recurring dream about spending two weeks on a sandy beach with Zack. But instead of splashing in the surf with my handsome beau, I’d crawled out of bed, showered quickly and grabbed the first things I could find in my closet.
“Who called?”
When Julia repeated the name, my frazzled brain rekindled a faint memory of the chatty young girl I’d talked to the previous day.
“What did she say?” I asked, heading for the coffee pot.
“Uh…Katie?”
I stopped in the middle of the room. “Jules?”
“Why are you wearing pink lace leggings and a Broncos jersey with penny loafers?”
I looked down. Then I offered a drowsy shrug before retracing my steps out the door, upstairs to my apartment and into the bedroom. When I made my second entrance a few minutes later, Julia applauded, held out a spatula like a make-believe microphone and asked me what designer I was wearing.
“Coffee,” I muttered. “I need coffee.”
She graciously took my arm, guided me to a stool near the counter and patted it with one hand. Then she poured a cup of fresh-brewed Colombian, added a splash of cream and delivered it with a bountiful smile.
“You sip that,” she instructed in a soothing tone. “And I’ll tell you all about Miss Ascot’s messages.”
I lifted the cup and eagerly inhaled the aromatic steam. “Messages?” I said. “As in…more than one?”
“There were three,” Julia answered. “And they were all left last night; the first at nine, the second was at nine-fifteen and her final call came in at eleven-thirty.”
“Doesn’t the child sleep?” I asked, drinking carefully from the mug.
Julia smirked. “Her father’s a multi-millionaire, Katie. She probably has someone do that for her.”
I couldn’t resist a soft laugh before taking a second sip of coffee. Then I said, “What was she calling about?”
“She’ll be in this afternoon around one-thirty,” Julia answered. “She wants to taste the pies she talked with you about.”
Between the shock of Lacy Orvane’s death and the usual hubbub at Sky High, I’d nearly forgotten that Abigail Ascot had mentioned stopping by to sample our creations.
“Well, I did agree to that,” I said as my brain began to whir. “But it was supposed to be tomorrow. And we’ve got more than enough going on today! Should I call back and tell her that we can’t do it?”
“Will you just relax?” Julia’s laugh was loud and bubbly. “Why are you stressing, Katie?”
I mumbled a few nonsensical suggestions before enjoying more coffee.
“Oh, stop being silly!” Julia said. “What are we going to do with you, Katie?”
“Horse tranquilizer?” I suggested with a grin. �
�And maybe a long vacation on a faraway tropical island?”
“Uh-huh. I’ll get right on that. As soon as I have a chance to make…” Her eyes shifted to the list of special orders on the whiteboard. “…two dozen apricot scones for Helen Sutter, a three-layer coconut cake for Trixie Dietrich’s birthday and the gluten-free banana muffins that—”
“I get the picture!”
She giggled again. “We’ve got a busy day ahead. That’s all I’m saying.”
“And I completely agree! We’ve got a busy day that also includes a supercilious Hollywood tyke stopping by to judge our goodies.”
“Don’t look at me,” Julia said with a wink. “You know who’s to blame for that one.”
I nodded sheepishly. “It’ll be okay. And it might even be kind of fun. I actually did some research on her dad. He sounds like a pretty cool guy.”
“With a pretty hot movie career,” Julia said, refilling her coffee mug. “And an even hotter wife.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“He’s married to Margot Duval.”
She waited for my reaction, but I’d never heard of the woman. When I confessed my lack of Hollywood knowledge, Julia’s face lit up with a megawatt smile.
“Well, lucky for you,” she said, “I’ve subscribed to People, Hollywood Reporter and Entertainment Weekly since I was sixteen.”
I smiled at the boast. I’d seen Julia’s backpack often enough to know that it was always filled with a backlog of reading material. I’d also visited her home a few times, a charming log cabin surrounded by Rio Grande cottonwoods and bristlecone pines. The living room was always immaculate and elegant, but the other rooms contained neatly stacked towers of paperback books and magazines. Besides being the talented chef at Sky High, Julia was a world-class worrier who used sleepless nights to indulge her voracious appetite for romance and mystery novels as well as Hollywood and celebrity gossip.
“Okay,” I said finally. “Who is Margot Duval?”
Julia’s eyes went round as saucers. “You’ve never heard of Margot Duval?”
I shook my head and meekly confessed to the crime. Then I enjoyed another sip of the robust coffee while Julia pulled up a stool.
“Here’s the deal,” she said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Margot Duval was once married to Joshua Holcroft who briefly dated Tandy Shaw after she got a divorce from the Spanish soccer star who was in the cologne ad wearing nothing but—”
“Sorry to interrupt,” I said. “Can we just cut to the chase? Why do I need to know about all of those people and their very many dalliances?”
“Because,” Julia gushed. “Margot Duval is married to Brendan Ascot! And we’re going to make eighteen pies for their anniversary!”
I went back to nodding my head while Julia continued the show business update. When she mentioned that the couple was notorious for canceling plans at the last minute, I felt my stomach twist with dread.
“What is it?” Julia asked through a mile-wide smile. “Why do you look so…queasy?”
I managed a faint shrug. “It’s early, Jules. And I had an awful night. Maybe that’s part of it.”
“And the rest?”
“You want me to be honest?”
She nodded vigorously.
“Well, it just seems…silly and self-indulgent,” I said. “I mean, eighteen pies for a bunch of showbiz types? Don’t they usually stay away from sugary treats?”
Her smile slowly faded. “It’s an homage, Katie. One of his biggest movies—the one that he originally offered to Angelina Jolie—was about a couple who celebrate their wedding every six months because the bride has some type of rare medical condition that was supposed to be fatal within six months of the day they took their original vows. The last scene of the movie is the couple sitting down to a long dining room table that’s filled with eighteen pies because she’s still alive a year and a half later!”
I’d never heard of the movie, but I did my best to smile politely as Julia launched into a detailed summary of the plot. When I glanced at the clock, she came to a sudden stop before revealing the final scene.
“Okay, I can tell you’re not very interested,” she grumbled. “We might as well get to work.”
She slid down from the stool and walked toward the sink with her mug.
“Jules!” I got up and scurried after her. “I was listening.”
She rinsed her mug and began drying it with a towel. “It’s okay, Katie. I get it; you’re not big on show biz stuff. You’re into detective books and old Murder, She Wrote episodes.”
Before she could continue the grumble, I took her by the hand, spun her around and wrapped her in a big hug.
“Jules, I adore the fact that you’re so passionate about celebrity gossip,” I said apologetically. “And I’m not against it at all. I love reading People magazine now and then. Or watching those TV shows about which singer is sleeping with which actor. I’m just really exhausted today.”
“There’s more to it,” she said. “I can see it in your eyes.”
I wasn’t sure if she’d heard the news about Lacy Orvane or not. And I hadn’t planned on bringing it up until later. But it seemed like the right time to broach the subject. After all, Julia could always tell when I was distracted by something unrelated to Sky High Pies.
“I’m right,” she said. “Aren’t I?”
I nodded. “Yep. You know me too well, Jules. There is something else on my mind.”
“I think I know,” she said in a somber tone. “It’s Lacy Orvane, right?”
“Yes. But…how did you hear about her already?”
“We had to take Will to the Emergency Room last night,” she answered. “He sliced open his hand on a piece of glass.”
“How did that happen?”
“He and Eddie Wheeler were playing catch and accidentally broke a window in our garage.”
“Is he okay?”
“He and his dozen stitches will be fine,” she said. “But I heard the news about Lacy while the doctor was taking care of Will. Were you there when she…” Instead of finishing the question, Julia took my hand. “You guys were pretty good friends, right?”
“We were a lot closer when we were younger,” I said. “And I wasn’t there when she died, but she was still breathing when they loaded her into the ambulance at Portia’s.”
“Well, it’s heartbreaking,” Julia said sadly. “I know there are a million questions, but I can’t stop thinking about one in particular.”
“What’s that?”
She frowned. “Why do so many of the good ones die young?”
CHAPTER 11
I was talking to a couple of my favorite regulars in the dining room near the front windows when the gleaming black Cadillac SUV with tinted windows turned into the Sky High parking lot. June and Marv Taggart, the middle-aged couple who own Bubble Brite Laundry & Dry Cleaning, usually came in for lunch a few times each month. We were discussing their impending vacation plans as the Escalade rolled to a stop near the stone walkway that leads to the front porch.
“You expecting a dignitary, Katie?” Marv quipped. “That looks like one of the cars they use for government motorcades.”
The backdoor of the hulking vehicle popped open and a slender girl with tousled blonde hair stepped into view. It was Abigail Ascot; I’d Googled her father late the previous night and found a family portrait on a gossip website. She was a tall, gangly twig dressed in skinny jeans, knee-high black boots and a bright yellow down jacket. Dark sunglasses hid her eyes and her mouth was painted with funereal black lipstick.
“You might say so,” I answered. “A dignitary of the Hollywood type.”
June leaned forward, peering through the window. “Is she somebody famous?”
I watched Abigail strut briskly up the walkway. “Her father’s a well-known movie director. She’s stopping by to taste some of our pies for a special order.”
Marv laughed gruffly. “Well, la-di-da! Little Katie Reed goes gla
m!”
June gave him a gentle tap on the wrist. “Hush up, now,” she said as the front door opened. “It’s a feather in Katie’s cap that Hollywood types want to buy Sky High’s goodies.”
“I hope so,” I said, turning toward the entry hall. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should go and—”
“Kate!”
Abigail had spotted me from across the dining room. She said my name so loudly that everyone turned to see who owned the high-pitched squeak. While my face went red with embarrassment, I headed toward the bubbly girl in the bright yellow coat.
“I’m so excited to be here!” she gushed.
“Welcome to Sky High,” I said, holding out my hand. “It’s good to meet you, Miss Ascot.”
She pushed away my hand, surrounded me with two puffy yellow sleeves and squeezed tightly. “I’m a hugger, Kate!”
I felt everyone watching as we stood in the dining room entrance. After what seemed like an eternity, Abigail unlocked her arms and stepped back.
“You’re much prettier than the pictures I found online,” she confessed, squinting slightly. “What do you use on your face? I can barely see the crow’s feet by your eyes.”
I forced a smile. “What do I use? Mainly lots of prayer and bacon fat.”
She kept staring at my face for a moment. Then she said, “No kidding! Bacon fat? I had no idea. My mother makes me use Crème de la Mer from Saks Fifth Avenue, but I’ll ask our housekeeper to—”
“I’m teasing, Abigail. I use a bunch of different creams and moisturizers. Basically whatever’s on sale at CVS on any given day.”
“Oh,” she said, her voice sliding into a serious tone. “So you’re a…joker, huh? You like to pull somebody’s leg by…telling them a lie?”
I felt my throat tighten slightly. The look on her face had blurred from a sunny, buoyant smile to a stern glower.
