by Mary Maxwell
“Any suspects?” asked Aaron.
I shook my head. “Not yet.”
“Really?” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Do you know if they’ve talked to Ken Higby?”
“Wendy’s boyfriend?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I mean, I don’t want to start a rumor, but…” He stopped and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Katie. I probably shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Ah, but now that you have…” I smiled. “What gives?”
He hunched his shoulders and looked down at his feet. “Oh, man. I did it again.”
“Do you know something?” I asked.
Aaron’s gaze met mine. “I saw something,” he answered. “More than once.”
I smiled. “What was it?”
“Ah, dang,” he said, scuffing one shoe against the deck. “I should mind my own business. But this job takes me all over town, so I catch glimpses of stuff that I wouldn’t otherwise know about.”
“Uh-huh. And what did you glimpse in this situation?”
“Ken Higby,” he said. “Sneaking out of Wendy’s house and into her neighbor’s place.”
I smiled again at his suddenly timid tone and sheepish expression. “When was this?”
“The most recent instance?” he asked.
“Has it really happened more than once?”
Aaron nodded. “Fairly often,” he said. “Once Ruby Rose and I get back to her house, we go in the yard and wash off the mud from the pond. There’s a hedge along the back property line that separates Jack and Evelyn’s yard from Wendy’s place, but you can totally see over it.”
“Aha! And so you’ve totally seen Ken Higby leaving Wendy’s house, walking around the lattice wall that divides their patios and going into Sue’s duplex?”
“Yep.”
“Any chance it could be something innocent?” I asked. “Offering to run an errand? Returning a DVD?”
Aaron laughed. “Uh, that’s a negative, Katie. I also happened to see Sue greeting him on more than one occasion and it didn’t involve a brisk handshake.”
“The cheating hooligan,” I said. “He and Wendy have been together for…well, what is it now?”
“Way too long!” Julia suddenly called from the front line. “That guy’s a total loser!”
I didn’t realize that she’d been listening to our conversation, but she confirmed as much when she walked over and greeted Aaron.
“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” she said. “And I missed part of what you were saying when I was in the walk-in.”
“I can bring you up to speed later,” I told her.
“How are you, Aaron?” she asked. “And who’s this gorgeous creature?”
“I’m good, Jules,” he said. “This is Ruby Rose.”
Julia went over and nuzzled her face against the dog’s head. “What a sweetheart!”
“Yeah,” Aaron said. “She’s a good pup.”
“Not a nasty liar like Ken Higby, right?” Julia joked.
“That’s right,” he said. “I feel weird talking about it. But after I heard what happened to Wendy, I was kind of wondering if the police know about Sue and Ken.”
I smiled. “I bet they do,” I said. “But I’ll be talking to Detective Kincaid later in the day. I’ll mention Ken’s sneaky move through the back yard from Wendy’s place to Sue’s house, but I’ll leave your name out of it.”
Aaron shook his head. “You don’t need to do that, Katie. If Dina wants to know how you heard about it, you can tell her that it was me.”
“Deal,” I said as his canine companion issued a high-pitched cry. “And I’ll tell her that you were here, too, Miss Ruby Rose!”
CHAPTER 16
After Sky High closed for the day, I took a quick shower, slipped into a fresh outfit and headed downtown. There was an available spot directly in front of the Sagebrush Lofts Building, so I parked the car, grabbed my purse and went into the lobby. I took the elevator to the fourth floor and went into Frank Kanter’s office. In addition to owning the stylish office building, Kanter had been Wendy Barr’s landlord since she moved her company headquarters to the location a few years earlier. I thought it would be a good idea to ask if anyone in the building had reported unusual or suspicious activity in Wendy’s office lately.
The reception area in Kanter Enterprises resembled the waiting room at a medical office: upholstered chairs, neat stacks of magazines on side tables and a muted flat screen showing one of HGTV’s remodeling programs. Framed photographs on the walls displayed some of the commercial properties owned by Frank Kanter’s family business. Although the company started with two- or three-story red brick buildings in small towns like Crescent Creek, Briarfield and Carlton Springs, Kanter and crew had recently gained attention for a bevy of much larger projects, including a shopping center in Boise, a warehouse complex in Flagstaff and a sizable tract of undeveloped land outside of Grand Junction. As I studied the pictures on the wall, I heard footsteps and a voice from the far side of the room.
“Well, hello there,” a woman said. “Have you been waiting long, Katie?”
When I turned around, I saw Danielle Breen, Frank Kanter’s longtime administrative assistant and semi-regular Sky High customer. The frequency of her visits tended to increase when she was in an upbeat mood. Since we hadn’t seen her in a while, I offered an ebullient greeting and confessed that we missed seeing her big smile.
“Well, that makes two of us,” she said glumly. “There hasn’t been much to be cheerful about lately.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” I said. “Are you okay?”
She tilted her head to the side and rolled her eyes toward Frank’s office door. “It’s one headache after another,” she said. “The boss has been under increasing pressure, and you know what that means.”
I nodded.
“Poop rolls downhill,” Danielle continued. “I’d wear my husband’s waders to work, but they don’t go with anything in my wardrobe.”
She smiled and laughed, but it was lifeless.
“Really bad, huh?” I said, trying to go for something neutral that also sounded sympathetic.
Her initial response was another dull giggle. Then she said, “Was there something that I can help you with?”
I took a deep breath, gathering my thoughts so I could glide through the next few seconds as breezily as possible.
“It’s about Wendy Barr,” I said. “I was wondering if anyone in your office saw or heard anything on Sunday evening.”
“Wendy Barr?” She said the name like it was odd and unfamiliar instead of a close friend who leased office space in the building. “Isn’t that a matter for the police?”
“Yes, of course. But I was trying to…well, I used to work as a private investigator, and I sometimes do a little unofficial sleuthing to see if I can help.”
“Oh, that’s right,” she said. “You worked with Deputy Chief Walsh and Detective Kincaid on something not too long ago.”
I nodded. “And that’s what I’m trying to do again.”
“I see,” Danielle said, managing another limp smile. “Well, that makes perfect sense, but I’m afraid that we won’t really be able to lend any assistance. As you’re probably aware, our offices are closed on the weekend.”
“Sure, I know that,” I replied as a middle-aged man with a gray horseshoe mustache came into the reception area from the hallway. “But I thought it might be worth—”
“Detective Armstrong was here yesterday,” Danielle said crisply. “I told him everything that I know about Wendy Barr. Now, if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I need to let Mr. Kanter know that his five o’clock is here.” She smiled at the man standing near the doorway. “Good afternoon, Mr. Stafford. I’ll be right back.”
Before I could say another word, Danielle was gone. I waited for a few seconds before turning around to face the tall, broad-shouldered man behind me. He was wearing a tweed blazer, blue slacks and scuffed wingtips.
“Sorry
about that,” said the stranger. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “You’re fine. I was just…” His eyes were like two ice blue marbles against a deep tan. “Looks like you’ve been lucky enough to enjoy some sunshine, huh?”
“Don’t be deceived,” he said with a warm laugh. “I’m usually pale as a ghost, but I’m working on a big story that’s taken me outside more than usual.” He held out his hand. “Wyatt Stafford,” he added. “I’m an investigative reporter with a monthly business publication out of New York.”
“Kate Reed,” I said as we shook. “I run a bakery café here in town.”
“The pie place?” His smile was even wider. “Over on Maple?”
“It’s actually on Pine Street,” I said. “About a mile and a half west of City Hall. It’s a big Victorian with a parking lot on one side.”
“I’ve heard all about you,” he said. “I mean, all about your place. I’m staying at the motel on Lone Elk Road. The guy there told me to make sure I tried a slice of the Mountain Mud Pie.”
I smiled. “That’s Earl Dodd,” I said. “He and I went to high school together.”
The man frowned. “Really? If that’s true, then he’s either aging incredibly fast or you’ve had some work done.”
“Oh! You were talking to Earl’s dad then.”
“Probably so,” Stafford said. “Older gentleman with thinning gray hair and a wicked sense of humor.”
“That’s the one! Did he tell you any of his knock-knock jokes?”
The man laughed. “Knock, knock.”
I hesitated a moment, trying to decide if he was being serious. When he arched one eyebrow, I said, “Who’s there?”
“Mustache,” he said, brushing one finger beneath his nose.
“Mustache who?”
“I mustache you a question,” he replied, “but I’ll shave it for later!”
We both groaned and then Stafford apologized. “I couldn’t resist,” he said. “Mr. Dodd seemed so proud of his comedic expertise.”
“Well, I don’t know if I’d go that far,” I said. “But they do a nice job with the motel. And they’re both really good guys.”
“Seemed like it,” Stafford replied. “When I told them what I was doing here, they gave me a nice discount.”
“No kidding?”
He smiled, but didn’t say anything more.
“Okay, so I’m the naturally curious type,” I said. “What are you doing in Crescent Creek?”
“Well, it’s a long story,” he said. “Or it’s starting to look like it will be a long one. I’m working on a feature article about a series of questionable real estate—”
“Well, that took long enough!”
We were both startled by Danielle’s voice when she called out from the hallway leading to Frank Kanter’s office.
“He’ll be right with you, sir,” she said to Stafford before giving me an apologetic shrug. “I wish that I had time to talk, Katie, but I’m going to take notes during their meeting. I’m so sorry!”
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “And you already answered my question about Sunday, so it’s all good!”
“Thank you,” she said with a big sigh. “I was afraid you might think that I was being rude.”
“Never in a million years,” I said before turning to the reporter with the horseshoe mustache. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Stafford. I hope you enjoy your visit to Crescent Creek.”
He grinned and shook my hand again. “Time will tell,” he said. “I’ll be stopping for a slice of pie before I leave, so maybe our paths will cross again.”
CHAPTER 17
Ogden Terrace was a winding ribbon of pavement that ran from one side of Crescent Creek to the other. It started at the edge of a city park and ended at Arapahoe Creek, a narrow stream of water that spilled over its banks in the spring whenever winter snowfall in the mountains was particularly plentiful.
As I turned onto Ogden from Main Street, I glanced at Wendy Barr’s duplex and felt a fresh wave of sorrow. The lawn was immaculate, the hedges were neatly trimmed and Wendy’s beloved collection of stone bunnies still kept watch from the edge of the front porch.
I used an empty driveway to turn around before parking in front of the well-tended Tudor on the south side of Wendy’s house. The owner was a woman named Helen Studebaker. She and my mother were classmates at Crescent Creek High School. When my parents retired to Florida, Helen joked about tagging along. Her husband had passed away a few years earlier from a sudden heart attack, and she claimed that the town wouldn’t be manageable without my mother to provide advice and support. Luckily, Helen and my mother both mastered FaceTime on the first try, so their weekly get-togethers for coffee and gossip continued without interruption.
After I climbed out of the car and started up the sidewalk, Helen’s front door opened and she scrambled onto the porch with an enthusiastic wave.
“I was just talking to your mother!” she shouted. “Have you seen her new haircut?”
“Not yet,” I called. “Is it cute?”
While Helen provided a detailed description of my mother’s new bob, I made my way up the front steps.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” she said, looping her arms around me. “I’ve been a mess since Wendy left.”
I nodded somberly. Helen had always referred to death with the same phrases most people used when someone went on a less permanent journey: skedaddled, decamped, hit the road, departed and flew the coop.
“I know,” I said as she tightened the hug. “It’s such a sad ending to a beautiful life.”
Helen suddenly loosened her arms and stepped back. “A beautiful life?” She scowled darkly. “I wouldn’t go that far, Katie.”
“Oh, well…” I was momentarily speechless; her mood had changed from bereft and restrained to snarky and judgmental in the blink of an eye. “You don’t think that Wendy’s life was beautiful?”
“It’s not so much that,” answered Helen. “It’s the change in her behavior during the past six or seven months. As soon as her business started turning a huge profit again, she became all hoity-toity and fancy. I asked her last week if she wanted anything from Walmart, and she actually told me that she doesn’t shop at down-market places.” Her mouth puckered with scorn and she exhaled through flared nostrils. “I mean, the nerve, right? Wendy used to work at Walmart, let alone shop there!”
I nodded silently. I knew that Helen was just getting started.
“But I shouldn’t speak ill of the poor woman,” she continued. “I should be grateful for all of the times she let me borrow her Rolex when my sister was coming to town and I wanted to impress her.”
She reached for the door, opened it and motioned for me to step inside.
“I mean, we’re all capable of being snooty,” Helen continued as we walked into the living room. “But Wendy took it to new levels of arrogance and haughtiness! When I complimented her fancy new car, she said it was unfortunate that I was still driving the same Chevy Tahoe that I bought before I retired.”
She pointed at one of the La-Z-Boy recliners near the fireplace. I took a seat and waited for her to join me.
“You want a highball?” she asked, still standing. “Or is it too early in the day?”
“I’m fine, but thanks,” I said. “If you want one, go right ahead.”
She pointed at a pink sippy cup on the coffee table. “Way ahead of you, sweetheart. I got back from the chiropractor and went right for the Johnny Walker.”
“Nice,” I said. “That should help relax you for the evening.”
“I hope so.” She sat in the matching chair and put up her feet. “Like I already told you, I’ve been a wreck since I heard the news.”
“Did you notice anything unusual going on at Wendy’s in the past few weeks?”
“Like what?”
“Oh, you know,” I began, “it could be disagreements, visitors at odd hours or—”
Helen arched one eyebrow.
“Or the fact that Ken Higby was doing the horizontal mambo with both Wendy and Sue?”
I gulped. “Um…”
“Don’t be squeamish!” Helen said. “We’re all adults here. I knew that hanky-panky was going on over there when I saw Ken skulking around Sue’s front porch one night when Wendy was in Las Vegas for a business conference.”
“And you think it involved hanky-panky?” I asked.
Her eyes lit up. “Absolutely! When a man wearing silk pajamas rings a woman’s door at midnight with a bottle of champagne in one hand and a dozen red roses in the other, he’s not dropping by to borrow a cup of sugar.”
I laughed. “Silk pajamas?”
Helen nodded. “They were burgundy,” she said. “And he was wearing them with his work boots.”
“Shameful!” I joked. “Every philanderer knows that boots and silk PJs do not mix.”
She gave me a crooked grin. “Well, you can rest assured that Ken Higby wasn’t concerned about his attire. He went back to Wendy’s the next morning at six o’clock, looking pretty pleased with himself.”
CHAPTER 18
“Did you have it?” Dina asked when I called her from the car a few minutes after leaving Helen’s house.
“Did I have what?” I said.
“The crème brûlée at Café Fleur,” she answered. “It’s the only thing that I’ve thought about since we talked yesterday.”
“Uh-huh,” I said with disbelief. “I bet that you’ve had plenty of other things on your mind, Detective Kincaid.”
She laughed. “It’s called multitasking, Katie. I can work on the Wendy Barr case and obsess about crème brûlée at the same time.”
“Impressive,” I said. “Did they cover that at the Police Academy?”
She huffed on the other end. Then she rustled some papers on her desk. And then she repeated her opening question.
“Yes, I had the crème brûlée,” I told her. “And it was, in a word, amazing! It was quite possibly the absolute best custard dessert that I’ve—”
