Deadly Desserts (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 6)

by Mary Maxwell

  I heard Zack get up from the sofa. When I peeked around the corner into the living room, he tiptoed toward the kitchen and tapped his wrist. I held up one finger and motioned for him to sit down again.

  “Loony bird’s one name for the guy,” I said. “Another one might be liar.”

  Dina snickered. “Well, whatever we call him, it doesn’t sound like the guy’s being completely truthful.”

  “You think he’s involved?”

  “I think we both suspect that he is,” she said. “But we’ll need more than stupidity and lies to charge him with Lacy’s murder.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Early the next afternoon, as I sat at my desk finishing a turkey and avocado sandwich on a jumbo buttermilk biscuit, I heard the incoming email chime on my laptop. I relished the last bite of lunch, wiped my hands with a napkin and swiveled around in the chair to peer at the newest arrival.

  It was from Dina: Call me.

  After I dialed her number and she answered, I asked why she hadn’t sent a text with the message instead of an email.

  “Isn’t that what I did?”

  “No, detective. It was—”

  “Well, what’s the diff? Here we are talking.”

  “Another one of those days?”

  “So far, it feels like three of those days crammed into one,” she answered. “But do you hear me complaining?”

  “Not yet.”

  She actually laughed. Then she delivered the same taunt Nana Reed often used whenever my siblings and I tried stealing cookies from the cooling racks. “Think you’re a regular joker there, wise guy?”

  As a child, I’d back away from the fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies and apologize. Of course, that was easy to do because our grandmother would always tell us to go ahead. “Take two,” she’d say with a smile. “And then make like a ghost and vanish!”

  I was still thinking about Nana Reed when Dina launched into a recap on the lab results from the coffee mug, Russian nesting dolls and Twizzler package that I’d given her the previous day.

  “Are you ready for the outcome?” she asked finally.

  “Is it good news?”

  “Well, it’s a mix of good and bad,” she said. “One set of prints that you brought us actually matched the plastic carryout container found with the used syringes and vial of poison.”

  “And the bad news?”

  “None of the prints are in the system,” she said.

  “How is that bad news?”

  She grumbled. “Because, Katie. They’re not in the database, so it doesn’t help us identify Lacy’s killer.”

  “No, no,” I said quickly. “I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant…well, I can tell you who the prints belong to.”

  “Then why did you have us run them through the lab?”

  “To see if they matched the prints from the carryout container.”

  “Okay, then who do the prints belong to?”

  “One set is Daphne Wright,” I answered. “And the other is—”

  “Portia Pearson?”

  “Yes, how’d you know?”

  “Lucky guess,” she said. “Actually, I remember seeing the Russian dolls on Portia’s desk.”

  “Okay, so which set matched?” I asked. “Coffee mug, nesting dolls or Twizzler package?”

  A rush of adrenaline flashed through me as I heard the answer. But instead of feeling a sense of satisfaction at possibly helping to identify Lacy’s killer, I felt an overwhelming sense of sorrow.

  “Why aren’t you saying anything?” asked Dina.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Because you actually know the potential suspect?”

  I considered her comment, but the sense of sadness continued to grow.

  “Let me think about that. I’ll get back to you, okay?”

  “Sure thing, Katie. And, who knows? Maybe the next time we take, we’ll have the case buttoned up and the killer behind bars.”

  CHAPTER 32

  “Is that you, Kate?”

  I didn’t recognize the woman’s voice on the other end of the line, but she sounded apprehensive. I’d been in the Sky High walk-in doing inventory when the phone rang, so the mad dash to my office had left me gasping for air.

  “Yes,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “This is Kate Reed.”

  The line crackled with static. I could hear someone breathing, but it didn’t seem like she was going to say anything more.

  “Hello?”

  I waited again, hearing more faint noise.

  “Okay, I’m going to hang up now, so—”

  “It’s Daphne Wright,” she said finally. “From Portia Pearson’s furniture store.”

  “Oh, sure! What’s going on?”

  She exhaled slowly. “Can I talk to you for a few minutes?”

  “Absolutely. What’s on your mind?”

  The first part of her answer wasn’t entirely unexpected, but I was surprised by what followed. “It’s Lacy Orvane,” she announced. “I think that I may have had something to do with her death.”

  I waited for a moment to let the news sink in. Then I asked her to tell me more.

  “I’m an idiot,” she said. “I never would’ve agreed to go along with it if I knew…” Her voice caught in her throat and she took a moment to regain her composure. “If I knew what would happen to Lacy.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. “What did you agree to do?”

  “Leave the backdoor unlocked.”

  Portia’s words from the other day sparked in my mind: “…someone left the delivery door wide open and unlocked as if we were advertising for all the local riffraff to come right in…”

  “Who asked you to do that, Daphne?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I frowned at the answer. Then I asked her to explain the comment.

  “What do you mean?” she said, her voice sharper and louder. “Some guy called and said he’d pay me a thousand bucks if I left the delivery entrance unlocked. He said it was a surprise for Portia. Since her birthday’s coming up, I thought it had something to do with that.”

  Yep, an idiot, I thought, recalling how she’d described herself a moment earlier. Not to mention gullible and naïve.

  “I’m guessing that you needed the money?”

  “Well, duh!”

  “I mean, you needed it enough to jeopardize your job?”

  She huffed into the phone. “My boyfriend totally ripped me off, Kate. He took my credit card, ran up this huge bill and then skipped town. Do you know him? His name is Lucas Breen?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I don’t know the name. And I’m sorry for what he did with your credit card. But, I’m having trouble grasping what you just said about someone paying you to leave the door unlocked.”

  “What don’t you get?”

  “The whole thing,” I said. “Someone that you don’t know just called out of the blue and offered to pay you a thousand dollars to leave the door of Portia’s furniture store unlocked?”

  She heaved a sigh. “Well, when you say it like that, I can see how it’d be difficult to understand. But I was…I was desperate. My rent was due. My bank account had, like, five dollars in it. And Portia had refused to advance anything on my next paycheck.”

  “This isn’t Portia’s fault, Daphne.”

  “I know that! I’m not blaming her! And I didn’t call you to be yelled at.”

  “I’m not yelling at you,” I said in my most mellow tone. “I’m trying to understand what you’re saying.”

  “I know, see? I’m an idiot. And I’m responsible for what happened to—”

  “Who knew about your money problems?”

  “Huh?”

  “Besides your ex-boyfriend and Portia, who knew you were strapped for cash?”

  “I don’t know. I guess…well, my best friend, but she would never tell a soul. And I talked to a couple of girls who live in my apartment building, but they’re totally on my side. They’d never spread gossip
or anything.”

  I ran through what she’d just revealed: disreputable boyfriend, money trouble, discreet friends. And then I had a thought, so I asked Daphne if she’d ever talked about her financial woes on the phone during business hours.

  “You mean at my desk?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, yeah…” Her voice softened. “Do you think one of the customers might’ve overheard me?”

  “Quite possibly,” I said. “Have you told the police about this?”

  “Not yet. Since I knew you were friends with that detective, I wanted to tell you first to see if you think I could go to jail as an accomplice or something.”

  “You really need to call Dina Kincaid,” I advised. “Like, right this second.”

  “Can you do it for me?”

  My jaw tightened. “No,” I said firmly. “You need to tell Dina everything.”

  “But I’m afraid. He said that if I went to the police, he’d find out about it.”

  “Who—the guy that paid you to leave the door unlocked?”

  “Yes. He called that morning and asked me to do it. He somehow knew that my bank account was low and my credit card balance had, like, totally gone through the roof.”

  “Did you recognize his voice?”

  “No, he was using one of those things,” she said. “He sounded like a robot, you know? All distorted and mechanical.”

  “Okay, so he was using a voice scrambler and he had access to your financial information. Could it have been your boyfriend?”

  She huffed angrily. “You mean my ex-boyfriend?”

  I ignored the remark. “Could it have been him? Maybe disguising his voice or something?”

  “It was definitely a guy,” she answered. “But there’s no way it was Lucas. He’s got a little, um, stutter, so I would’ve definitely heard that if he’d made the call.”

  “Possibly one of his friends?”

  “You haven’t met Lucas; he didn’t have any friends. And now I know why.”

  “Well, there’s always a chance that—”

  “The guy called back the next day,” Daphne said suddenly. “That’s when he threatened me. And he said…there was something he said that made it seem like he knew about the poison, but it wasn’t supposed to really hurt Lacy or anything.”

  “What did he say?” I asked. “Do you remember his exact words?”

  “No,” she answered. “To be honest, it freaked me out so much that I didn’t know what to do. I felt horrible about leaving the door unlocked, like I had made it possible for the person to sneak inside and go downstairs to poison all of the—”

  “Daphne?”

  It took a moment, but she finally responded. “Yes?”

  “Can I ask you a couple of questions?”

  She mumbled her consent.

  “Do you have a tattoo on the inside of your wrist?”

  There was no reply, so I asked the question again.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “It may be related to Lacy’s case,” I explained. “I can’t go into the details, but I have a theory about who may have wanted to harm her.”

  “And the person had a tattoo?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “But lots of people have them. I don’t see how—”

  “The tattoo is one word.”

  I heard her gasp faintly. “Is it…love?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Well, it’s not me,” she said, her voice quivering. “But I think…”

  She began to cry, quietly at first before it gained volume and intensity.

  “Can you tell me the name?” I asked.

  She coughed a couple of times before revealing the identity. I felt a faint twinge of sorrow deep inside; my intuition was on track, but it left me wondering how someone who seemed reasonable and law-abiding could not only betray a friend but also kill her.

  “Call Detective Kincaid,” I advised her. “You need to tell her everything. About the man who threatened you. About the scheme to leave the door unlocked. And about the person with the tattoo.”

  It took a few moments before she was composed enough to talk. When the tears had faded and her voice was steady enough, she asked a simple, obvious question.

  “Do you think I’ll go to jail?”

  She sounded like a child that’s been caught doing something wrong—skittish and delicate and afraid.

  “I can’t advise you on that,” I said finally. “But it’s time to do the right thing. Please call Detective Kincaid, okay?”

  She mumbled a reply and hung up. I waited a few minutes before sending a text to Dina: If you don’t get a call from Daphne Wright, please get in touch with her.

  I stared at the phone, waiting and hoping. I didn’t have to wait long.

  On the phone with her now, read Dina’s reply. I’ll call you later.

  CHAPTER 33

  As I drove to Food Town to buy ingredients for the chili I planned to make for dinner, I spotted Pinky Newton’s sister on the sidewalk in front of Smoky Joe’s Bar-B-Q. She didn’t hear me honk, so I took the first parking spot I could find and headed inside the restaurant.

  “Hey, stranger!” Barb called as I approached the booth where she sat alone. “My sister’s on the way. Do you want to join us for some ribs?”

  I slid in across from her, explaining that I’d just stopped to briefly discuss the call Nathaniel Craig had made to the flower shop.

  Barb’s face crumpled into a frown. “What call?”

  “Pinky told me that you talked to him when he called to order flowers,” I said.

  “Oh, that’s right. The way you asked the question, it sounded all official or something; like he was talking about bank business.”

  “No, it was…” I paused as she stopped to check her phone.

  “Sorry,” she apologized, turning her attention back to me. “Pinky will be here in a sec. Now, what were saying about Nathaniel Craig?”

  “I was curious about the call,” I said. “And what he told you regarding poison in the food samples at Portia Pearson’s the other day.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What’re you talking about, Katie?”

  “The call from Nathaniel Craig. Didn’t he tell you that all the desserts and snacks had been tainted with cicutoxin?”

  The withering frown flipped into a smile. “Have you been drinking?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet, but…” There was no denying it; the look of confusion on her face was genuine. “Did I get that wrong then?”

  “What? The poisoned desserts thing?”

  I smiled. “I’m sorry, Barb. I haven’t been sleeping very well. And Sky High’s been super busy this week, so…” I chuckled and held up both hands. “I’m obviously having a brain misfire!”

  She giggled. “Happens to me all the time.”

  We commiserated about fatigue and sleep issues and frazzled memories. I didn’t listen to her comments with much interest; I was too busy trying to figure out who was telling the truth about the call from Nathaniel Craig—Pinky or her sister Barb.

  After we’d exhausted the topic of insomnia and late-night television, I asked her if she had actually talked to the bank president.

  “Oh, heck yeah!” Barb said enthusiastically. “And he was nice enough once I got him calmed down.”

  “Was he upset?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m just filling in to help Pinky out for a few days, so he got a little steamy when I answered the phone and he had to give me the details of the order. I mean, it was like I was supposed to read his mind about sending a dozen roses to his wife.”

  I ignored the remark and moved on. “Why did he get upset when you wanted details for his order?” I asked. “Wouldn’t most people have to do that anyway?”

  “Not Nathaniel Craig,” Barb answered. “Normally, when he calls and Pinky answers, they’ve got a shorthand. He’ll say, ‘Hey, Pinky. It’s Nathaniel at the bank. I want to send the usual order to the usual ad
dress on Saddleback.’ Then she’d say, ‘Okie-dokie! Do you want that on the usual MasterCard?’ And he’d say—”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” I said quickly. “But you are aware that Nathaniel and Suzanne don’t live on Saddleback Drive, right?”

  Barb’s head jerked back on her neck. “Say what?”

  “You just told me that Nathaniel Craig ordered a dozen roses to be delivered to—”

  “458 Saddleback!” Barb said. “That’s what he told me. I’m not making this up or anything.”

  I smiled. “Well, Nathaniel and his wife used to live there,” I explained. “But they sold that house a few years ago after they built a new place out on Prairie View Trail.”

  “Is that right?” she asked. “If somebody told me that before, it slipped my mind. Do you know who bought the house when Nathaniel and Suzanne moved?”

  “You bet,” I said. “They sold the house to Lacy Orvane.” I paused to let the news sink in. “So…I guess that means…”

  “Hold up,” Barb said. “If that’s true, then that means that Nathaniel Craig’s been sending roses to...”

  “Lacy Orvane,” I said.

  Barb cupped both hands around her mouth. “Then does that mean Nathaniel Craig is the man that Lacy’s been having an affair with?”

  I shrugged. “That’s the rumor.”

  She was still trying to absorb the news when Pinky Newton came through the door and zipped across the restaurant.

  “Well, hey Katie!” She slipped out of her coat and plopped into the booth alongside her sister. “You joining us for dinner?”

  “No, I was—”

  “What the heck, Pinky?” Barb hissed, ignoring the fact that I was starting to answer her sister’s question. “Did you know that Nathaniel Craig and his wife moved and he’s been sending flowers to Lacy Orvane?”

  Pinky shook her head. “Do we really have to talk about flowers?” she moaned. “I’m off the clock and not in the mood. Not to mention that I don’t know a thing about anybody’s affair with a cheating, lying, no-good dog!”

  Barb huffed, leaning toward her sister with the squinty stare still ablaze. “Oh, c’mon! Everybody in town knows Lacy’s been seeing a married man, but she’s done a really good job of keeping his identity a secret.”