by Mary Maxwell
“I didn’t mean to…” I noticed Harper heading toward us from the far side of the room. “I’m sorry, Miss Ascot. I was just surprised by the question about my beauty routine.”
She suddenly clapped her hands and started jumping up and down. “Gotcha, Kate!” she exclaimed. “I was just teasing!”
Harper arrived before I could say anything more to the quirky youngster.
“Hi, there!” she greeted Abigail. “Are you here for lunch?”
The Hollywood adolescent shook her head. “No, I’m here for the tasting.”
“Oh, golly!” Harper flashed a dazzling smile. “You’re Miss Alcott? Well then, welcome to Sky High!”
“Thank you…” Abigail glanced at the white plastic tag pinned to Harper’s baby blue cardigan. “…Harper. I really appreciate that! I’ve been so busy planning the anniversary party for my parents that the drive up to Sky High is like a little…escape from all the insanity.”
Harper shot me a quick grin. “We have our own brand of crazy up here,” she said. “But we’ll do our best to keep it under control during your visit.”
The blonde girl giggled. “Oh, that’s not…necessary,” she said. “I’m Brendan Ascot’s daughter. I was born into crazy. I live in it on a daily basis. Between the people that my dad works with and all of his insane friends, I’m used to being surrounded by kooks.”
Harper laughed. “Then you’ll be right at home,” she said. “And you’re in good hands with Katie. She learned everything from the best.”
“I know!” Abigail said, turning to me again. “I read all about your grandmother and parents teaching you how to do it all; bake the goodies, take care of customers, manage the behind-the-scenes nitty-gritty stuff—”
“Sorry to cut in,” Harper said quickly as Julia rang the bell in the pass window. “But I need to get that order out to Izzy Pope before he starts cussing. Enjoy your time with Katie today.”
We watched Harper glide across the dining room. Then I asked Abigail if she wanted to see the Sky High kitchen.
“I would love that! Esméralda never lets me in there.”
“Is she your housekeeper?” I gestured toward the center hallway and the side door into the kitchen. “Or your family’s personal chef?”
“No, she’s my father’s…stateside personal assistant.” Her tone was gloomy and languid. “He also has someone based in London since he…spends so much time over there.” Her lower lip jutted out in frustration. “And, I know it’s not nice to say this, but…I hate them both more than you’ll ever know!”
I ignored the remark and followed Abigail down the hall. Once we were in the kitchen, she rushed over to where Julia was ladling batter into a waffle iron.
“Oh, my…goodness! Is that how waffles are made?”
Julia smiled. “You must be Abigail Ascot.”
“And you must be Julia! I’ve read so much…about you.”
Julia’s grin was replaced with a look of astonishment. “You have?”
“Oh, totally!” Abigail answered. “My dad’s research assistant in New York found tons of stuff online about you. Like, food blogs and a column from the Boulder newspaper and this TV interview from, I don’t know, maybe five years ago…” She glanced at me. “It was when your mom and dad still ran the place, Katie. One of the stations in Denver sent a crew up to report on a cooking competition or something.”
“Could be,” I said. “I was in Chicago at the time, so—”
“I know!” Abigail’s eyes sparked with delight. “And you totally worked as a cop, right?”
“Private investigator,” I nodded. “But now I’m here. And so are you.”
She laughed brightly and watched closely as Julia cracked eggs into a bowl for an omelet.
“And we have samples of the three types of pies ready for you right over here,” I said, walking around the center island to the back counter. “Apple, cherry and blueberry!”
Abigail followed me at a brisk pace. “Yes, that’s what I originally had in mind,” she said. “But now I’m wondering if we should go with something less…predictable.”
I felt a lump in my throat. “Such as?”
She giggled again. “How about papaya, passion fruit meringue and…mamey sapote?”
CHAPTER 12
An hour later, as I watched Abigail’s chauffeur-driven Escalade begin its return trip to Aspen, I heard Julia laughing as she joined me on the front porch.
“Well, that wasn’t what I expected!”
I raised my eyebrows. “She’s quite something, isn’t she? Independent and opinionated, but still a child at heart.”
Julia’s soft chuckle turned into a full-throated howl. “A child? C’mon, Katie! That was no child. That was a world-weary Hollywood starlet about ten minutes before she becomes the flavor of the month.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” Julia said, “when you ducked out to take a call, Abigail confessed that she’d just landed a part in Spielberg’s next movie.”
“No kidding! That’s amazing!”
“And impressive,” Julia agreed. “But I get the sense she’s a really lonely little girl. Her parents travel constantly. Her brother treats her terribly. And she lives with a tutor, two housekeepers and somebody named Esméralda, who sounds like a cross between Attila the Hun and Mary Poppins.”
“That’s one of Brendan Ascot’s personal assistants,” I said. “Although I don’t disagree with your description; Esméralda sounds like the five-letter word that rhymes with—”
“And what the heck is mamey sapote? I heard you guys talking after Abigail said she’d changed her mind.”
“Apparently, Abigail decided that apple, cherry and blueberry are too pedestrian for Mr. and Mrs. Ascot’s wedding anniversary.”
“What does she want instead?”
“Papaya, passion fruit meringue and mamey sapote.”
Julia shook her head. “I need a martini. But I’ll settle for a cappuccino. You want to come inside and tell me what the heck that is?”
“You bet!”
While we climbed the front steps and went inside, Julia peppered me with more questions about Abigail Ascot. She wanted to know if the bubbly young girl had mentioned anything about her father’s affairs with an actress named Judy, a singer named Trixie and a broadcaster named Alana.
“The woman that used to be on CNN?”
“Yep. She’s on another channel now,” Julia said. “But before she switched, she and Brendan Ascot supposedly had a wicked hot affair when they were at the Olympics in China.”
“You don’t say.”
Julia smirked. “Yes, I do say. Because I read it in People, so it must be true.”
After she divulged more Hollywood gossip and I made two frothy cappuccinos speckled with nutmeg and cinnamon, we went into the kitchen. One or two lunch customers were still in the dining room, lingering over coffee and dessert, so Julia needed to be on duty in case any last minute orders came in during the final minutes before we closed.
“Okay,” she said, pulling out a stool and inhaling the fragrant steam from her cup. “What’s the scoop on mamey sapote?”
I sat beside her and sipped my cappuccino. “Well, Abigail told me a long story about a trip she took to Miami last year with her family. While they were in Florida, they had mamey sapote smoothies and marmalade. Her mother loved it so much, the hotel’s chef made a pie with it. And, long story short, that’s part of the reason Abigail decided to switch from the more traditional fruit pies to the three new flavors.”
Julia nodded. “Okay, but that doesn’t tell me about mamey sapote.”
“Oh,” I said. “You were asking about the fruit itself?”
Her eyes crinkled as she smiled. “Exactly, Katie. I’ve never heard of it before.”
“Sorry, Jules. It’s pretty simple really. Mamey sapote is a large evergreen tree that produces berries known by the same name. On the outside, they’re brown and sort of scratchy, like something between peach fuzz and sa
ndpaper. When you cut open the berries, the flesh is usually orange, red or pink, and it tastes like a combination of cherry, almond, honey, peach and sweet potato.”
Julia contemplated the description as she drank more of her cappuccino. Then she said, “And we can just stroll down to Food Town and buy some?”
Between the expression on her face and the lilting sound of her voice, I couldn’t help but laugh. “No, smarty pants! I’ll place a special order with one of our vendors in Denver. I’ll make sure they arrive in plenty of time to ripen properly so we can make a mamey sapote fruit pie topped with a lattice of raspberry jam swirls and coconut.”
Julia frowned. “Oooh! That sounds…well, it doesn’t sound very good to me. But if it’s what Little Miss Hollywood wants, then it’s what Little Miss Hollywood gets!”
CHAPTER 13
I’d just locked the front door of Sky High Pies when my phone rang a few minutes after three. A quick glance at the screen told me it was Dina Kincaid, calling from her office at the Crescent Creek PD.
“Detective?”
“Hi, Katie. How are you?”
“I’ll be better when the prep work for tomorrow is done and I can catch up on the bookkeeping. How are things going with the Lacy Orvane case?”
“That’s what I was calling about,” Dina answered. “I was wondering if you’d thought about the incident since we talked earlier. I mean, you were at the meeting and you know how we investigate a suspicious death, so I’d appreciate your views on the situation.”
“You’re treating it as suspicious?”
“Very,” Dina said. “The initial toxicology report shows incredibly high levels of cicutoxin.”
I’d never heard the name before, so I asked for an explanation.
“It’s nasty stuff, Katie. Cicutoxin is potent, highly noxious and found in a variety of plants. The most common one is water hemlock.”
“And that’s what killed Lacy?”
“According to the preliminary autopsy results and tox screens,” Dina said. “The medical examiner was pretty certain, but we’re running more tests to make a definitive conclusion. We’ll have those reports in a few days.”
I closed my eyes and pictured Lacy’s gorgeous smile, the way her bangs were forever falling into her eyes and the tiny curved scar on her chin from a childhood ice skating accident.
“You still there, Katie?”
“Yeah, sorry. I was just…” I banished the thoughts of Lacy and opened my eyes. “Do we know how she was poisoned?”
“Chocolate-dipped strawberry,” Dina answered. “It was loaded with the stuff, probably injected with a syringe.”
“What was the name of the poison again?”
“Cicutoxin,” Dina said. “From water hemlock plants; they grow in marshy areas, near lakes, streams, farm ponds, that sort of thing. I know you were still in Chicago early last year, but there was a very sad case that got a ton of local publicity. A family was at Horsetooth Reservoir up near Fort Collins. Their little pooch chewed on some water hemlock and died within three or four hours.”
“Just like Lacy.”
“Exactly.”
“Okay,” I said. “How can I help?”
“Well, I’m starting with the food festival judges at the meeting,” Dina said. “Do you know if anyone had a bone to pick with Lacy?”
I thought about the group from the previous afternoon: Portia, Becca, Pinky, Luigi, Harley, Daphne and Yvonne. As far as I knew, everyone loved Lacy and the feeling was mutual. She was a sweet, thoughtful and charming woman, the kind of friend who remembered every birthday and anniversary. She sent greeting cards, baked delicious cakes and always called whenever someone was going through a rough patch.
When I told Dina that I couldn’t think of any bad blood amongst the judges, she widened the net. “How about anyone in the community?” she said. “Do you think her work as a loan officer at the bank might have something to do with it?”
“Anything’s possible. I’ve never heard her mention contentious customers, but I would imagine she’s declined a loan application or two along the way. Have you talked to Suzanne Craig? She’s still working part-time at the bank as her husband’s assistant.”
“I plan to ask her about it,” Dina said, “but she’s out of town for a couple of days.”
“She is?”
“According to the assistant branch manager, Suzanne left on a business trip two nights ago and she’s due to return tomorrow.”
“I’d heard the same thing, but Zack swears he saw her in town yesterday afternoon.”
“Oh, really?”
“Well, I think…” I paused, trying to remember Zack’s exact words. “You know what? Why don’t I ask him later? If it sounds like it’ll be helpful, I’ll call you right away.”
“Sounds like a plan, Katie. I appreciate your help.”
“My pleasure,” I said. “Lacy was a good friend. I’m going to miss her.”
“You and everyone else in town,” Dina agreed.
CHAPTER 14
The pile of unpaid invoices on my desk looked as appetizing as a stale strawberry cupcake slathered with liverwurst-flavored frosting. As I stared at the collection of bills, wishing magical powers were real and the pencil in my hand was a wand, the phone rang and Pinky Newton Home appeared on the screen.
“Katie?” she said in a faint voice after I answered. “It’s Pinky.”
“Why are you whispering?”
“Our lives are in jeopardy,” she said. “I just heard a rumor, Katie. All of the food that we were supposed to taste yesterday was poisoned, not just the strawberries that Lacy ate.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
She answered with a few hushed words that were so faint it sounded like bees buzzing on the other end. When I asked her to repeat them, she said it would be best if we talked in person.
“Do you want to come over here?” I asked. “We can sit down with a slice of pie and some coffee.”
“Have you seen my thighs lately?” she said, no longer whispering. “They’re a mile wide and jiggly as Aunt Tinker’s Sunshine Salad.”
I smiled at the image. I’d seen the side dish enough times to know that Pinky’s thighs didn’t jiggle as much as her aunt’s much-loved carrot, pineapple and gelatin concoction.
“You look great, Pinky. But if you want to skip the pie, we can just have a cup of coffee.”
She whispered another reply. When I asked her to repeat it, she sighed and said, “Just give me a sec, okay? I’ll slip into the powder room. I’ll be able to talk more freely there. I’ve got a gazillion things to do this afternoon, so I probably shouldn’t be driving all over the planet.”
I listened to her footsteps and the sound of a door opening and closing. Then she repeated the bombshell she’d delivered a few moments before.
“All of them, Katie,” she added. “Every last entry for Decadent Desserts and Sassy Snacks had been tainted with some kind of toxic substance.”
“Cicutoxin,” I said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“That’s the name of the poison that Lacy ingested. I talked to Detective Kincaid earlier.”
“Okay,” Pinky said. “But my source didn’t tell me the scientific name; they just said it was poison.”
“Who was your source?”
She scoffed. “Do I ask you to reveal the secret ingredients in your recipes?”
“That’s different,” I answered. “We’re talking about a murder, Pinky. And, potentially, any of us could’ve sampled one of those contest entries ahead of the official tasting.”
“Well, we’re not supposed to,” she said sharply. “Rules are rules! Lacy Orvane ignored that little fact and look what it got her.”
“But that was common knowledge, right? According to Portia’s comments, Lacy was notorious for sneaking a sample or two ahead of time. It was also her job to organize and inventory the competition entries, so she was alone in the room for a good hour or so with the samples. Sinc
e everyone in town knew that she was especially fond of chocolate-dipped strawberries, I suspect that the person who did this probably counted on her to eat at least one. But then they dosed the other desserts and snacks just in case.”
“Oh, what does Portia Pearson know? That witch is always so busy being high and mighty that she’s as clueless as a clump of dirt.”
I quickly considered a short list of people that knew Pinky and also had knowledge of the police investigation. There was Dina Kincaid, although she’d never reveal inside information to anyone but her coworkers and a small group of trusted confidants. Amanda Crane’s sister was a frequent customer at Pinky’s flower shop. Since Amanda had been one of the uniformed officers on the scene shortly after Lacy was discovered, there was a slim chance she’d told her sister. And it was possible that Nelson Branch from the morgue, someone who played poker with Pinky’s brother, could have divulged the information. I was thinking about which of the three might possibly be Pinky’s source when I heard her whispering again.
“What was that?”
“Have you talked to Trent?” she asked. “What’s he say about all of this?”
“Deputy Chief Walsh is in Evans representing the Crescent Creek PD for a CACP meeting.”
“A what meeting?” Pinky asked. “That all sounded like alphabet soup!”
“It’s the Colorado Association of Chiefs of Police. Trent’s involved in a planning committee for their next annual conference, so he isn’t even in town at the moment.”
“But surely he’s privy to what his team is working on,” she said.
“I would imagine so,” I agreed. “But I haven’t talked to him in a few days. Dina mentioned that he’s out of town when we were at Portia’s yesterday.”
“When somebody tried to kill us all!” Pinky gasped. “We could be dead right now, Katie! Do you realize that? If we’d started nibbling on those desserts and snacks, we’d be standing outside the Pearly Gates trying to explain to St. Peter why the heck somebody would want to murder us in cold blood!”
I waited until she finished the rant. Then I asked her to take a deep breath and count to ten.
