by Mary Maxwell
As Dina snickered at the familiar story, I asked if she’d interviewed Lazlo and Deb Leland. The middle-aged couple once worked on Wall Street, but left behind the razzle-dazzle of the big city to operate a small tour company based in Crescent Creek. They specialize in pub crawls, white water rafting and snowshoe treks along Arapahoe Creek.
“Any chance they saw something while they were in the area?” I added.
“Detective Armstrong handled their interviews,” she said. “As well as the customers on the pub crawl. He and I are working the case together.”
“Did they have anything helpful?”
Dina scoffed. “I wish,” she said. “But they’d already visited Bier Haus, The Wagon Wheel, Tucker’s Point and that dive bar on Grove and Hardy. When they showed up at the Sagebrush Lofts, they were anywhere from four to ten pints into the tour.”
“Four to ten?” I laughed at the range. “It sounds like the concept of sampling one beer at each stop wasn’t working for some of the crawlers.”
“Right you are,” she said. “You should ask Tyler about his interview with the older couple from Briarfield. They were half in the bag, and the woman kept insisting that she was related to Angela Lansbury so we would let her join the investigation.”
“Ah,” I said. “Another Murder, She Wrote fan, huh?”
“Huge fan,” Dina replied with a heavy sigh. “And it broke Tyler’s heart to tell that sweet old tipsy woman that Jessica Fletcher wasn’t a real person.”
CHAPTER 7
When Zack left the table a few minutes later to make a quick call, I sipped my wine and juggled a dozen disparate thoughts about Wendy Barr. I was going over the discussion with Dina for the tenth time when I heard a familiar voice.
“Is something wrong with the meal?” Luigi asked. “You haven’t taken one bite, Katie.”
I looked from the ice-cold pasta on my plate into the chef’s warm eyes.
“No, no,” I said, shooting a quick glance at Zack as he sat down again. “The food is fine, it’s just…” My voice cracked. “The call earlier was bad news, so I lost my appetite.”
Luigi’s soft smile vanished. “I am so sorry to hear that,” he said, lowering his voice. “Would you prefer to return another night? We can try again when the mood is better?”
I felt Zack’s foot nudging my ankle under the table. When I looked back at him again, he was nodding.
“That would be a great idea,” I said. “Can we maybe get the check?”
Luigi shook his head. “Not a chance! You are two of our favorite customers. This evening will be our treat to you.”
“That’s very generous,” Zack said, reaching for his wallet. “But we’d really prefer to pay for our dinner and the wine.”
“I appreciate that,” Luigi said, putting his hands on his hips. “But you and Katie are like family. And when our family members are sad, we take care of them. In this situation, one way we can do that is by taking care of the tab tonight.” He paused briefly to smile. “Do we have an agreement?”
Zack nudged me again. I returned the gesture and thanked Luigi for his generosity. Then I promised that we’d be back soon to enjoy another evening at the restaurant.
“Perfect!” said the stout chef. “We’ll see you then! And again, I’m sorry that you received difficult news this evening.”
After Luigi returned to the kitchen, Zack asked if I wanted to finish the wine in my glass.
“Not really,” I said. “But I would like to take a walk. It’s a nice night, and I think that some fresh air would be a very good idea. Maybe it’ll help clear my head a little.”
“Sounds good to me, sweetheart,” he said, getting up from the table. “How about if I give Nadia Renwick a call as we walk?”
“I don’t think that I know that name,” I said, following him toward the door. “Is she from the newspaper?”
Once we were on the sidewalk, Zack turned and pressed one finger to my forehead.
“Your database is too full,” he teased. “I mentioned Nadia last week after her first day on the job. She’s the reporter that joined the staff to cover crime and city government.”
I had no recollection of the conversation, so I smiled and nodded.
“I know that look,” Zack said. “You forgot that I told you, right?”
I shrugged. “No comment.”
“Well, I did,” he said. “And that’s okay. You were pretty wiped out that night. It was the day the bus of forty senior citizens pulled up at a quarter to three looking for lunch.”
A handful of images from that afternoon swept through my mind. I saw Harper’s face in the pass window as she placed the order. Then Julia’s grimace as she read the ticket and called out thirty-seven grilled ham and cheese sandwiches, two double stacks of pancakes and one poached egg with dry rye toast. We’d spent the next twenty minutes preparing the meals and trying to guess who had requested the Spartan diet. It turned out to be the oldest member of the crowd, a 94-year-old woman who popped into the kitchen on their way out the door later to thank us for not overcooking the egg.
“That was a pretty rough day,” I said as he took my hand. “But I’m sorry that I don’t remember hearing about…” I made a comical face. “Was it Nadia?”
“Nadia Renwick,” he said with a robust laugh. “She was with a paper in Oregon for fifteen years, but her husband accepted a transfer to his company’s Denver office.”
“And she didn’t go to the Post?” I asked.
“No room at the inn,” he joked. “These are lean times, sweetheart. I think she felt lucky that Gretchen had an opening here in Crescent Creek.”
I nodded in agreement. Then we walked along in silence for a few minutes. I gazed in the front windows of the shops as Zack let go of my hand, pulled out his phone and dialed a number.
“Hey,” he said a moment later. “Is this Nadia?”
The display at my favorite shoe store caught my eye, so I wandered over and studied the artfully arranged heels and flats. Zack’s voice buzzed in the background as he talked to the reporter. Although I wasn’t able to hear everything that he said, I did catch a few words: blunt force trauma, red fibers, small chips of white plastic shaped like crescent moons, red marks on her neck, grommets, iPhone, briefcase, purse.
When Zack finished the call, I was staring blankly at the shoes in the window. He walked over and gently touched my shoulder.
“Hello?” His voice was calm. “You okay, babe?”
I swiveled around. “Just distracted. What did Nadia have to say?”
“She picked up quite a bit at the scene,” he told me. “The police think that Wendy was strangled with some type of strap or belt that had repeating rows of three grommets down its length. She was also hit on the back of the head with something large and heavy.”
“I heard you say something about white plastic and red fibers,” I said.
He nodded. “They were recovered at the scene along with Wendy’s phone, purse and briefcase.”
“So it wasn’t a robbery,” I said.
“Maybe that’s how it started,” Zack suggested. “But the perp was interrupted before he or she could take Wendy’s things.”
I smiled at the serious expression on his face. “Look at you,” I said. “Going all Sherlock on me.”
He laughed. “If anything, maybe Watson. After all, you’re the Sherlock here. I mean, you could totally rock a deerstalker cap, babe. Not to mention that you’ve read every word that Arthur Conan Doyle ever wrote, and your work as a PI in Chicago kind of gives you a slight advantage when it comes to sleuthing.”
“Well, it’s nice to have a Watson,” I said, reaching for his arm and burrowing against his side. “With or without the funny hat.”
CHAPTER 8
“Tell me again,” I said as we pulled into the parking lot at Sky High Pies a half hour later. “What did Nadia say about Wendy’s neck?”
“The police found ligature marks that suggested she had been strangled,” Zack answe
red, cutting the engine. “There was also a distinctive pattern in the skin. It was three small circles of the same size that aligned vertically and repeated every two inches.”
He climbed out of the car, walked around to my side and opened the door.
“Small circles?”
“Like grommets,” he said. “The little metal fasteners that reinforce holes at the top of a shower curtain.”
“Sure,” I said, slipping out of the seat. “They’re actually used in dozens of ways, like dog collars, banners, shoes and canvas boat sails.”
“It could also be a utility belt of some type,” he added. “Like the kind electricians and carpenters use.”
I pondered the options as we climbed the steps to my apartment on the second floor of the Victorian that housed Sky High Pies. We went inside, slipped out of our jackets and removed our shoes before settling onto the sofa.
“Glass of wine?” Zack asked.
I shook my head. “No, but there’s plenty in the kitchen.”
He moved closer, dropping one arm behind my neck. “I’m fine right here, sweetheart. At least for a few minutes.” He yawned and leaned his head against mine. “It’s been a day and a half.”
I murmured in agreement and closed my eyes. “If they used a dog collar,” I said, “did they bring it from home or was the pooch with them when they strangled Wendy?”
Zack responded with a muffled grunt.
“Did Nadia say anything about dog fur?” I asked.
“Nothing about dogs,” Zack said. “But the police found tiny red fibers and white pieces of confetti shaped like crescent moons in her hair and on her clothes. They also found some…” He yawned again. “I’m sorry, Katie. I’m starting to fade big time.”
“And she said three grommets?” I asked. “All in a row and close together, right?”
“Yep.”
“So they really could’ve used a dog collar or utility strap.”
“Sounds like it,” he mumbled.
I gave him a soft jab with one elbow. “Are you falling asleep?”
“Not yet,” he answered. “Just winding down.”
“You know, there’s one thing that I was curious about,” I said. “How did—”
“Just the one,” he teased.
“For now,” I said. “I wanted to ask how Nadia got so much information from Detective Armstrong. It seems odd that he would share those details with a reporter at the crime scene while they’re just starting to work the case.”
Zack chuckled. “Nadia’s got a secret weapon,” he said. “She can read lips.”
I felt a sizzle of shock at the answer. “Are you serious?”
“Yep. Not many people know, but she confided in me when I called her earlier. I told her about your background in conducting investigations and promised not to tell anyone else the details that she shared.”
“Interesting gimmick,” I said. “I wonder how Tyler’s going to feel when he reads the details in the Gazette tomorrow.”
“There’s no worry about that,” Zack said. “Nadia’s cool; she’ll only publish what he told her on the record. The rest is background and fodder for stories down the road.”
“Fodder?” I smiled. “Is that your word or Nadia’s?”
He started to answer my question, but another yawn interrupted.
I turned my head and kissed his cheek. “You staying here tonight?”
“Can’t,” he said. “Bill and Nico will be at my place at five tomorrow morning.”
“What for?” I asked.
“Hiking, babe.” He cupped my chin with one hand. Then he turned my head gently and gave me a long, lingering kiss. “Remember?”
“Is tomorrow Tuesday?”
“Yep. I told you that I was taking a vacation day.”
“Wow, that’s a brain hiccup, huh?”
He got up and held out both hands. Once I was on my feet, he tugged me in for a hug. Then he hummed a few bars of “Goodnight, Irene” into my ear before stepping back.
“I love you, beautiful.” He brushed the tip of my nose with a tender kiss. “Promise that you won’t stay up all night thinking about Wendy Barr.”
I made a face. “Uh-huh,” I said, walking him to the door. “Like that’s even possible.”
CHAPTER 9
Despite my best efforts to fall asleep, I was still wide awake at midnight.
“Come on, Mr. Sandman,” I whispered. “What’s the holdup?”
Fifteen minutes later, after rearranging my pillows a half dozen times and turning from right to left and back again, I climbed out of bed, wandered into the living room and got comfortable under the cashmere throw on the sofa. Then I flipped through the channels, hoping to find an old movie. I eventually settled for Shawn Killinger describing a four-piece collection of remote-controlled flameless candles on QVC.
Despite the temptation to order a set for my apartment, I switched off the television and went into the kitchen. Two chocolate chip cookies later, I brushed my teeth and went back to bed.
As a truck labored by on Pine Street, I stared at the ceiling and tried to think of a reason someone would want to kill Wendy Barr. I’d seen enough heartbreak and tragedy during my years working as a private investigator to know that bad things happened to good people all the time. I also knew that perception and reality were often diametrically opposed; someone that appeared to be stable and balanced might be filled with storms of chaos and rage.
“But Wendy Barr?” I said quietly. “Was she hiding secrets? Did she do something to trigger the violence that resulted in her murder?”
It seemed more than a little inexplicable. On the professional side, Wendy owned a successful commercial cleaning business that served customers in Crescent Creek and surrounding communities. She supported several local charities, working on the annual silent auction for Crescent Creek Food Pantry as well as fundraising events for Salvation Army, Boys & Girls Clubs, Nature Conservancy and Habitat for Humanity. She started her company right after college with an ancient Toyota, five hundred dollars borrowed from her father and a desire to be independent. Nearly twenty years later, Silver Spur Cleaning was a thriving enterprise with eight full-time employees and a part-time workforce that helped students, single mothers and retirees supplement their income with a steady paycheck and flexible evening hours.
Despite recent rumors about the possibility of a wealthy new boyfriend, Wendy’s personal life had also seemed smooth and steady. She’d been dating Ken Higby for the past two years. Although Ken’s first marriage ended in divorce, he and Megan remained good friends, sharing custody of a mutt named Beasley. Around town, Ken was known as a handsome raconteur whose storytelling talents were intrinsic to his success as a contractor on commercial and residential construction projects. I wasn’t surprised at all when Wendy told me during a visit to Sky High for lunch that Ken had moved into her duplex a few months after they met. The couple seemed like they were happy-go-lucky romantics, holding hands as they strolled through downtown and going everywhere together.
As I pondered various aspects of Wendy’s life, I let the two most obvious questions bounce around in my weary mind.
Who had the motive to kill Wendy? I thought. And are they from Crescent Creek?
The longer I concentrated on the questions, the more my frustration mounted. By one-thirty, I’d been back to the kitchen twice more and the dozen chocolate chip cookies had been reduced to a scattering of crumbs in the bakery box.
“Get some sleep,” I mumbled at the bleary-eyed woman in the bathroom mirror shortly before two. “The alarm’s going off in less than three hours, and you’re way too old for an all-nighter.”
CHAPTER 10
Julia was already in the Sky High kitchen the next morning when I came through the door a few minutes after five. The coffee was ready, the grill was switched on and something was bubbling in a large pot on the stove.
“Morning,” I called, offering a wave. “What time did you get here?”
She
held up four fingers. “Emma had another rough night. I’ve been awake since two-fifteen.”
“Poor little angel. What was it this time?”
Julia shook her head. “Part nightmare, part monkey business,” she said. “That’s what Jared and I decided when she demanded that we sing ‘Let It Go’ with French accents.”
I walked across the room, retrieved two clean mugs from the cabinet and asked if she wanted coffee.
“That would be heaven,” she said. “Let me check on the chicken stock while you pour those.”
A minute later, after she’d peeked into the steaming pot and joined me by the coffee maker, I asked her again about the sleepless night.
Julia laughed and threw her hands up in the air. “I don’t know what the future holds if last night is any indication of how crafty our little girl can be. Apparently, she took her brother’s binoculars and watched part of Jaws on our neighbor’s massive flat screen in their family room.”
I giggled at the look on her face. “Uh-oh. Good luck getting her in the swimming pool this summer.”
“I know. Jared thought it was hilarious, but I doubt he’ll be laughing much when he gets her ready for school this morning. She’ll be extra cranky.”
I listened as she shared a few more details about the previous night. Then I took a deep breath, deciding that it was time to broach the subject of Wendy Barr’s murder.
“Did you hear about what happened on Ogden Terrace?” I asked.
She shook her head. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s Wendy Barr,” I said.
Julia smiled. “Wendy Barr? Is this about Warren Larimer’s accusation on Saturday night?”
