Deadly Desserts (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 6)

by Mary Maxwell

  “What’s the description?” I asked.

  She answered with a succinct report: baseball cap, jacket with a sailboat emblem on the front, handlebar mustache, gold pinky ring and sunglasses.

  “Sounds fairly distinctive,” I suggested.

  “I suppose…well, maybe. We’ve got a BOLO out with that description. Nothing so far.”

  “The day is young,” I said optimistically.

  “Wish I was,” she grumbled.

  “Oh, c’mon, detective. You’re only as old as you feel.”

  She groaned and sighed. “Well, at this moment, I feel two-hundred and five,” she said. “Give or take a decade or two.”

  CHAPTER 17

  The green neon sign in the window at Drake’s Deli blinked OPEN TIL MID IGHT! as I turned the corner at Sawyer and Crestwood. The sandwich shop was a Crescent Creek institution. Anyone with late night munchies knew that Colin Drake’s outpost would still be a bright beacon in the darkness long after the other restaurants and fast food places had closed.

  “Hey, Colin,” I called, pushing through the front door. “Your sign’s missing a letter there, buddy.”

  The tall, middle-aged beanpole behind the counter chuckled deeply. “Thanks, Katie! That’s the ten millionth time I’ve heard that this week alone. I called Acme Signs to fix it, but you know how Dewey is.”

  I smiled; Dewey Wabash was an amazing guy, but his work speed ran the gamut from dawdling to sluggish. Luckily, he was a charmer with a ready grin, an honest face and the ability to make you laugh so hard that you forgot it had taken him three weeks to finish a two-day job. Since his father had made the very first Sky High Pies sign for Nana Reed, I felt a deep loyalty to Dewey and trusted him to make our banners and posters. He was also one of the few tradesmen in town who could work with Angus Martin, the crotchety retiree who handled most of the routine repair jobs around the bakery café.

  “I think everybody knows how Dewey is,” I said as Colin slipped on a pair of disposable plastic gloves.

  “What can I get you?” He stood in front of the refrigerated case stocked with meats and cheeses. “The smoked turkey is especially fresh, if you’re in the mood for bird. Or we’ve got a special today on ciabatta with Genoa salami and Buffalo mozzarella.”

  “I’m actually on my way to meet someone for dinner,” I explained. “But I have a couple of questions to ask if you don’t mind.”

  He folded his arms across his scrawny chest. “Is this about Alexandra?”

  “Your granddaughter?”

  “She and her friends are soliciting donations for a school fundraiser,” he answered. “I was afraid maybe they’d hit you up more than once like they did with Chet Haskell and Sheryl Lazio.”

  “I haven’t seen Alexandra in forever,” I said. “But I’d love to help them out. What’s the money for?”

  “Library books,” he answered. “Can you believe it? I figured with all their laptops and tablets and whatever, most kids would steer clear of real books. But I guess they’re kind of a retro novelty nowadays; they still use textbooks, of course, but things like novels and autobiographies aren’t part of the standard school budget.” He tugged off the disposable gloves and put them on the counter. “But you didn’t come by to hear about that, Katie. There were some questions you wanted to ask?”

  The sandwich shop was warm and muggy, so I shrugged off my coat and draped it over a nearby chair. Then I asked Colin if he was familiar with Nathaniel Craig, the president of Crescent Creek Bank.

  His mouth formed a wary grin. “Familiar with? Who doesn’t know big, bad N.C.?”

  I could tell from the way he said the man’s initials that there was something more to the remark. I figured that if I waited long enough, returning the grin with a cagey smile of my own, Colin would divulge the deeper meaning to the somewhat sarcastic tone.

  “Okay, Katie,” he continued a moment later. “Just between you and me?”

  “Always. I’m following up on something related to an incident at Portia Pearson’s yesterday that—”

  “Oh, I’d guessed as much,” he interrupted. “I heard about what happened to Lacy.”

  “I suppose everyone in town has by this point, but I was actually there when she collapsed.”

  “Are the rumors true?” he asked. “Was it really poison?”

  “Nothing’s been confirmed yet,” I said. “But she was in great health, so…” I paused as a snapshot of Lacy on the floor, unconscious and barely breathing, flashed through my mind. “Anyway, the police are working on it, but I thought I’d lend a hand with a couple of peripheral things.”

  “What did you want to know?” asked Colin.

  “I heard that Nathaniel Craig comes in often to buy his lunch.”

  “Almost every day! Peanut butter and jelly on whole wheat with a bag of honey barbecue potato chips. Never gets anything to drink, but he always leaves a buck tip, even when someone else picks it up for him.”

  “Mr. Generous,” I joked. “Considering he’s worth a small fortune.” I felt foolish as the remark left my mouth. “Sorry, Colin. That was impolite.”

  He laughed. “No apology required, Katie. The guy’s a total blowhard, and everyone knows it. He’s rude to his employees, dismissive to his wife and…” Colin’s gaze drifted down to the contents of the display case. “And there I go, engaging in idle gossip again.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “Just makes us even in our…opinions about Mr. Craig.”

  He winked and smiled. “Why’d you want to know if he gets his lunch here?”

  “Just curious,” I answered. “Sounds like he’s a creature of habit.”

  “Yeah, a regular lab rat on a wheel,” Colin quipped. “I guess he really enjoys the little stroll across the street, although there are days when someone else picks up his sandwich.”

  “Do you remember if Mr. Craig was in yesterday?”

  He considered the question, nibbling on his lower lip while his brain whirred. “Not yesterday,” he said finally. “Must’ve been one of his extra busy days.”

  “Okay then. Do you know who came by for it?”

  He bit his lip again. “Uh, I don’t know the guy’s name, Katie. He wasn’t exactly a chatterbox, but I remember his voice sounded kind of…weird. He just ordered the usual, mentioned that it was for Mr. Craig and then paid with cash.”

  “His voice was weird? How would you describe it?”

  Colin nodded. “Yeah, it was a really deep rumble, like maybe his normal voice is shrill and he tries to sound more macho in certain situations.”

  I’d known men with high-pitched voices, so that didn’t seem unusual. After Colin attempted to imitate the stranger’s tone, I asked if he could describe the guy.

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Just the basics,” I said with an encouraging smile. “What he was wearing, hair and eye color, anything unusual that you noticed.”

  “Oh, golly…” Colin’s forehead creased as he tried to recall the man. “Well, he was about the same height as you, because I remember looking at him nearly eye-to-eye. Normally, you know, I’m looking down at Mr. Craig, since he’s quite a bit shorter.” A wicked smile came and went quickly. “So, he was taller than Mr. Craig…and he was wearing a dark blue jacket with some kind of emblem on it, like maybe a sailboat or something. And he paid with cash.” Another quick grin. “Oh, sorry, Katie. I already told you that.”

  “No worries, Colin. You’re doing great. The guy was about my height and he had a blue jacket with a sailboat emblem.”

  “Yeah,” he said with a nod. “Definitely a sailboat. And it was definitely a dark blue jacket with a zipper and a forest green corduroy collar. Yeah, for sure! Blue jacket, green collar, sailboat.” He stopped again, frowning slightly like he was trying to remember more details. “Oh! And he was wearing sunglasses, the mirrored kind that I hate because you end up looking at tiny miniatures of yourself.”

  “What about his hair?”

  “Um,
maybe brown. Or dark blonde. Kind of like my wife’s hair. But he was wearing a baseball cap.”

  I quickly pictured Frannie Drake and made a mental note of her hair color.

  “Hey!” Colin’s sideways grin told me he’d remembered something else. “Speaking of his hair color, the guy also had a mustache. It was one of those old-fashioned handlebar types; bushy and the tips were waxed so they curved up.”

  I nodded. “Okay. He had a mustache.”

  Colin’s eyes sparked with glee. “But it looked…well, it looked weird. Like it might’ve been fake. You know—the kind you glue on if you’re dressing up for Halloween?”

  “Do you think he was wearing a disguise then?” I asked. “I mean, since Halloween’s more than six months away?”

  “Could be,” he answered. “We get all types in here, though. Young kids, old codgers, amateurs from the community theater over on Folsom who think they’re the next Meryl Streep or Robert DeNiro. Now that you’re asking me about him, I guess I didn’t really think much about the guy when he was in here. I just figured he was from the bank on account of he was buying Mr. Craig’s lunch.”

  I asked Colin if he noticed any distinguishing marks on the man’s face.

  “Like a scar?” he asked.

  “Yes, a scar, birthmark or discolorations in skin tone.”

  “No scars,” he said. “But I do remember a tattoo on the inside of his wrist. Oh, and this little gold ring on his left hand.”

  “What do you remember about the tattoo?”

  “It was black,” he said. “And it was one word: Love.”

  The remark triggered a hazy memory. I just saw that tattoo, I thought. But where? And when?

  “And that’s about it,” the deli owner added. “I can’t really think of anything else worth mentioning.”

  “That’s actually very thorough. And with that tattoo, maybe our mystery man is a romantic kind of individual.”

  Colin smirked. “Aren’t we all?”

  “And what about the ring?” I asked. “You said it was on his left hand, so was it like a wedding band?”

  Colin shook his head. “No, it was on his little finger…like a little gold ring with a black stone. He kept fiddling with it the whole time I was making Mr. Craig’s sandwich.”

  “Was it possibly a signet ring?”

  He looked at me and smiled. “Am I supposed to know what that is?”

  “It just sounds like the type of ring you described,” I said. “Gold with a flat, circular top, usually worn on the little finger. Some have stones like you described, while others have an embossed design on the flat part, like a crest or someone’s initials. They’re the sort of rings that you can press into hot wax to seal an envelope or package flap.”

  Colin grinned. “Well, I’m not really a signet ring expert, Katie. This isn’t the kind of place where we seal things with wax. We do it with scotch tape, a stapler or good, old-fashioned glue!”

  CHAPTER 18

  Zack raised his glass of ale, touched it against my wine goblet and gave me a quick kiss.

  “Here’s to us!” he said brightly.

  I sipped my chardonnay and put the glass on the bar. We were at Bier Haus, enjoying two of their award-winning sourdough pretzels and a lively conversation about destinations for our first vacation as a couple. Our original plan had involved dinner at Café Fleur, but there was a thirty-minute wait for a table and we didn’t have reservations. We’d decided that cocktails and pretzels would suffice instead of French food and white tablecloths.

  Zack put one hand on my cheek. “It feels like forever since I saw your beautiful face, Katie.”

  “You saw it last night as you left my place,” I reminded him. “And this morning…” I tapped the phone in his shirt pocket. “…in that delirious selfie that I sent you.”

  He smiled, wide and dazzling and tempting. “Delirious? Because your face was covered in flour?”

  “That was Julia’s handiwork,” I said. “We were quizzing one another about culinary history. It’s something she started doing a couple of months ago.”

  Zack frowned. “Really?”

  “It can be pretty cool,” I said. “Obviously, rugged and handsome photographers such as yourself may not be quite as enamored of the idea, but people who spend lots of time baking and cooking can really get into it.”

  “Is this one of those ‘to each their own’ kind of things?”

  I nodded. “Most definitely.”

  “But why’d you have flour on your face?”

  “Because I didn’t know the connection between funerals and baking pies,” I said. “Julia bet me that I couldn’t guess. If I won, she’d buy me dinner at Luigi’s.”

  “And if you lost?”

  “She’d dust my face and take a picture,” I answered.

  “That’s a pretty tame penalty,” Zack said. “I guess you didn’t know the right answer, huh?”

  I shook my head.

  “So?” He smiled and drank more ale. “What do funerals have to do with baking pies?”

  “Coffins,” I said. “Centuries ago in England, the crust of a pie was referred to as a coffin. They spelled it differently than we do now, but that’s what it was called.”

  “Seems kind of dark.”

  “I agree,” I said, taking a sip of wine. “Maybe we should talk about something else.”

  “How about Cancun?”

  “Is that where you want to go?”

  He answered with a shrug.

  “What?” I sipped my wine. “Does that mean you don’t want to go to Mexico?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “It means that I don’t really care. If I’m by your side, I’ll be happy anywhere we go.”

  “How about Loveland in July?”

  “Here in Colorado?”

  I smiled. “Yeah, right here.”

  “Well, it’s not the most exotic destination, but…” He leaned in, kissed me and put one hand on my thigh. “If that’s what you want…” He squeezed my leg and planted his lips on mine again. “…then that’s where we’ll go.”

  “It’ll just be a daytrip,” I said. “We’ll still have plenty of time for Cancun, too.”

  “Sounds good. What’s in Loveland?”

  “The annual Cherry Pie Celebration!”

  He smiled. “I’m okay with a slice of cherry pie.”

  “How about a slice of history, too?” I teased. “Did you know that Loveland was once home to the largest cherry orchard west of the Mississippi?”

  “Is that so?”

  “It was for a long time,” I said. “I remember going with my parents when I was a little girl. And now that I’m back in Crescent Creek, I thought it would be fun to revisit those old memories.”

  “And have some cherry pie?”

  “Absolutely! They’ll have cherry pie contests, a bunch of great bands and plenty of fun activities.”

  “I’m up for it, gorgeous!”

  I held out my hand. He looked at it for a brief moment before realizing that I wanted to shake on our first vacation destination as a couple.

  “You’re a pip, Katie Reed!” he said, squeezing my hand and pulling me in close. “And I’m glad you’re my pip!”

  CHAPTER 19

  The next morning at half past nine, Blanche Speltzer sat alone at a front table in the Sky High dining room. She was eating a blueberry scone with tiny, contemplative bites, nibbling at the sugar-dusted biscuit between sips of her customary decaf cappuccino. When she saw me talking to Harper behind the front counter, the retired history teacher called my name and motioned me over to her table.

  “I heard the news about Lacy,” she said in her honey-dipped voice. “Such a ghastly way to go, don’t you think?”

  I nodded sadly. “Yes, it was incredibly shocking. Lacy is such a…” I felt the words catch in my mouth. “…well, she was such a sweetheart. Crescent Creek will be a lot less cheery without her.”

  Blanche wiped her mouth with a napkin. “I actually wante
d to talk with you about what happened,” she said, pointing at the empty chair beside her. “I overheard something troubling the other day, and I wanted to get your opinion about whether or not I should go to the police.”

  I’d never heard Blanche sound quite so hesitant before. After decades as a history teacher and a stellar reputation as one of the most independent and dynamic women in town, it seemed more than a little strange to hear her sounding reluctant and tentative.

  “What did you hear?” I asked. “Was it about Lacy?”

  She put one finger against her mouth as I sat down. “Hush, Katie! Keep your voice down!”

  I glanced around. The nearest table was occupied by Clement Pegg, a 70-year-old retired factory foreman who was busy talking on his phone with someone named Gertie.

  “He’s not listening to us,” I said. “He’s in the middle of a conversation.”

  Blanche smirked. “You never know,” she said. “It would seem that he’s jabbering with Gertrude Povey, right?”

  I shrugged.

  “Well, he is,” Blanche continued. “I introduced them through my matchmaking service a few weeks ago. They’re like little lovebirds now, always gurgling into the phone or walking around town holding hands.”

  I smiled. “Isn’t that a nice thing?”

  “That’s not the point, Katie. I just want you to keep your voice down so we can discuss…” She stopped, glanced around again and leaned closer. “…the murder of Lacy Orvane.”

  “You think it was a homicide?”

  “I suspect so. I want you to tell me if what I heard is incriminating enough to share with the police.”

  “Okay,” I said quietly. “What did you hear?”

  “Someone threatening her life,” Blanche whispered. “I didn’t seriously think about going to the police until I heard that she collapsed at Portia’s.”

  “Do you know who it was?”

  Blanche shook her head. “I just know that it was a man,” she answered quietly. “With dark hair and a filthy, filthy mouth.”