by Mary Maxwell
CHAPTER 40
“What’s that cliché?” I said to Wyatt Stafford as we sat in the lobby of the Sagebrush Lofts an hour after Danielle Breen confessed to killing Wendy Barr. “The one people say about luck?”
“Hmmm, let me think.” The burly journalist smoothed his horseshoe mustache with one hand. “‘If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have no luck at all’ is the first thing that comes to mind.”
I smiled. “That’s a good one for Danielle. But I was thinking more along the lines of being in the right place at the right time. If you hadn’t arrived when you did, I might be on my way to the morgue.”
His brow puckered. “I don’t believe that for a second. You’re a smart, savvy woman. I bet you escaped plenty of dicey situations back in Chicago.”
“A few,” I said.
“That’s what I thought. And that’s why I bet you would’ve handled Danielle Breen no matter what she pulled. There may have been a few loose ends and unanswered questions about her motives for killing Wendy Barr and Richard Poole, but you were chasing the truth. In the end, I think that your gut instinct brought you here today.”
“What about you?” I asked.
He smiled. “Meaning?”
“What brought you to Frank Kanter’s office again?” I asked. “Whatever it was, I stand by my comment; I might be on my way to the morgue if you hadn’t come through the door when you did.”
“After the police told me that I could leave the scene of Richard Poole’s shooting,” Stafford said, “I decided to stop by and ask Kanter about some new information that I received from a source in Palm Springs. There’s a commercial building out there by the airport that had been on the market for seven figures until a consulting engineer submitted a report filled with significant structural flaws. Repairs would be prohibitively expensive, so the only interested buyer backed out of negotiations. Guess who pounced on it early last week when the price dropped?”
“Frank Kanter?”
Stafford sipped from the Java & Juice cup he’d been carrying when he walked through the door earlier. “Logical choice,” he said. “But that’s not who it was. Care to try again?”
“Sure,” I said. “How about a clue?”
He smiled. “Adult female,” he said. “Mid-thirties, stylish, confident.”
I focused on his eyes, hoping to detect some tip-off about the woman’s identity. Considering what we’d just witnessed upstairs in Frank Kanter’s office, I was tempted to go with Danielle Breen. But there was something in Stafford’s delivery that shifted my mind toward another possibility.
“Was it Kanter’s wife?” I asked.
His left eyebrow jolted up. “Well, well,” he said. “You, my friend, are getting closer. It was definitely a woman from Crescent Creek.”
“Can you tell me who?”
He nodded. “Be happy to. I shared the information with Detective Kincaid, and I know that you two have a semi-professional relationship.”
“Semi-professional?”
“However you want to describe it,” Stafford continued. “When I phoned her earlier this afternoon with the news about the Palm Springs deal, she mentioned something about sharing it with you because you’ve been consulting on the case.”
“What can I say?” I smiled. “I miss working as a private investigator.”
“Right,” he said. “I was already aware of that.” He paused, grinning broadly. “It’s the journalist in me; always researching the people I meet in case their story might be something for the future.”
“Not mine,” I said. “I now lead a very different life; nothing exciting or newsworthy.”
Stafford gave me a sly smile. “Quite the opposite,” he said. “I read a couple of the articles that have been written since you took over the bakery from your parents. There may be other examples of three generations at the helm of a thriving enterprise, but you offer a unique twist.”
“Me?”
“How many other private detectives have gone from sipping tepid coffee on a stakeout to selling cakes and pies?”
I shrugged. “No idea. But I’m more interested in hearing the rest of your story about Kanter’s swindle in Palm Springs.”
Stafford nodded. “Well, it wasn’t his biggest deal, but the building near the airport down there would’ve netted Kanter and his colleagues a fairly hefty profit.”
“Nice work if you can get it,” I said.
He chuckled. “Nice and dirty.”
“So you were telling me about the person from here that represented Kanter in the transaction,” I said. “A woman in her mid-thirties, right?”
He nodded. “That’s correct. After my source told me about the Palm Springs deal, I asked him to reveal the identity of the person who made the offer. I was fully expecting him to tell me it was Kanter, but he pretty much blew my mind when he said it was Wendy Barr.”
The shock of hearing Wendy’s name left me momentarily speechless.
“Pretty astonishing, isn’t it?” Stafford said. “I’ve been looking into Frank Kanter, Richard Poole and Gallagher Holdings for the past several months. Wendy Barr’s name hadn’t turned up in any of the research. But when I contacted her a couple of weeks ago by phone to see if she’d discuss Frank Kanter as a landlord, Wendy was suddenly ready to talk. I asked one or two questions to hint that I knew he was into some shady business deals, and she offered to provide details.”
“Just like that?”
“Well, we talked more than once,” Stafford explained. “I assured her that I would keep things confidential. At that point, I wasn’t aware that she’d been blackmailing Kanter and Poole for a while. And I also had no idea that she’d been approached by Anton Cady, the confidential informant for the Denver PD. He met Wendy through a mutual friend. A couple of weeks before I talked to her, Cady broached the subject about Kanter and Poole.”
“What do you mean?”
“He found a way to engage Wendy in a conversation about Kanter,” Stafford answered. “The guy apparently has quite the skill for sensing when someone is vulnerable. I guess he and Wendy were talking one day about the lease on her office space, and she wasn’t feeling very compassionate about Kanter. Two or three more questions later, she confided to Cady that she’d overheard Kanter and Poole discussing their real estate scams.”
I nodded. “The air ducts,” I said. “They’re like being on a conference call.”
He smiled. “During our last couple of conversations, I got the impression that Wendy was feeling guilty because of her…uh, shall we say, because of her successful efforts to demand money from Kanter in exchange for her silence. I think she enjoyed the financial perks for awhile, but then realized she’d stepped across the line.”
“Have you talked with Detective Kincaid about all of this?” I asked.
“I gave her copies of my files,” he answered. “It’s also what I planned to tell you about when we met for a beer. Normally, I protect my hard work with a fierce devotion until my articles are published. But I believe in doing the right thing, especially in a situation that involves cold-blooded murder.”
“And what does that mean in this situation?”
“It means doing whatever I can to help get justice for Wendy,” he said. “And put her killer behind bars. I still don’t know much about Danielle Breen’s role in Gallagher Holdings, but it’s quite clear that she was aware of Kanter’s dirty business. A confidential source told me that Ms. Breen began making sizable deposits to her bank account shortly after Gallagher acquired its first property. The amounts were steady and identical until about six months ago. I suspect that’s when Wendy Barr discovered what Kanter was doing, and somehow leveraged that knowledge into a two-part plan to enrich her own coffers.”
“A two-part plan?” I said.
“I’m fairly certain that Wendy’s initial approach involved blackmailing Kanter to keep quiet about his nefarious business transactions,” Stafford explained. “After that, she forced his hand, joining Kanter
and Richard Poole in actually sourcing and buying properties through the dodgy real estate scams.”
“Wow!” I said. “That’s really surprising. I had no clue that Wendy could be so conniving.”
He arched one eyebrow. “She was definitely shrewd and manipulative. I met with a couple of her employees day before yesterday. They told me a few things about how Wendy liked to create rivalries between people to make them do twice as much work for the same amount of pay.”
“How’d she do that?”
“By telling one lie after another,” Stafford answered. “Apparently, that behavior started when her company began to falter.”
“Oh, right,” I said. “When Gordon Janitorial came to town?”
He shook his head. “It actually started before that. Wendy invested in a few risky tech companies that her brother recommended. In a perfect world, the ventures might’ve made them both multimillionaires. Unfortunately, Silicon Valley is anything but perfect. They don’t hand out get-rich-quick guarantees these days, so Wendy and her brother lost every last dime.”
“When did that happen?” I asked. “I don’t remember hearing that she was interested in tech companies.”
“That’s because she was good at keeping secrets,” Stafford said. “Really, really good at it.”
“Then how did you learn about all of this?” I said. “If Wendy covered her tracks, who spilled the beans?”
His mustache lifted as he grinned. “Wendy told me some of it,” he said. “I learned the rest from Danielle Breen. When I met you the other day, I talked to Frank Kanter for about an hour. He’d agreed to an interview about a legitimate property development project down in Snowmass. As I was leaving the office, I happened to ask Danielle if I could interview any of the tenants in the building for my profile of Kanter. She gave me three names, but warned me not to talk to Wendy Barr. She claimed that Wendy wasn’t reliable. In fact, she told me two or three stories that I was able to easily disprove with a quick session of online research.”
“Seriously?” I said. “The day after the murder, Danielle was gossiping about Wendy?”
He nodded. “She was cool as a cucumber, but that’s not surprising. Someone capable of committing two murders to protect their financial interests wouldn’t think twice about telling a bunch of fibs. It’s in their DNA, I believe. They’re as comfortable with lying as they are with walking and talking.”
“Why do you think she killed Richard Poole?” I asked.
Stafford frowned. “I overheard Danielle telling one of the cops upstairs that Poole had refused to help her pressure Frank Kanter into giving her a bigger cut of the profits from the real estate scams.”
“And it comes back around to the beginning,” I said. “Greed and self-interest. Kanter and Poole started it by scamming sellers to earn higher profits on real estate deals. Wendy squirmed her way in with the blackmail scheme after she discovered what they were up to. And Danielle’s ego was badly bruised when Kanter took some of her slice and gave it to Wendy to buy her silence.”
Stafford smiled. “Like rats chasing their own tails,” he said. “Never thankful, never content and never able to refuse easy money.”
“You just described the whole enchilada,” I said, getting up from the bench where we’d been sitting. “Another example of avarice, ego and stubbornness that ends with heartache and tragedy.”
CHAPTER 41
The dining room at Luigi’s was crowded and noisy as Zack and I finished dinner. It was a week after Danielle Breen’s arrest, and we’d returned for the meal that we’d abandoned the night Wendy Barr died.
“Have I ever told you how beautiful you look in this candlelight?” Zack smiled as he refilled my glass with more Brunello di Montalcino. “Those cheekbones and lips and—”
My phone rang, but there was no chance I’d break the spell.
“—the way your nose crinkles each time you smile.”
When he paused, I promised to ignore the incoming call.
“It’s okay,” he said. “It might be about business.”
I smiled. “And I might be otherwise occupied at the moment.”
“That makes two of us,” he said.
I lifted my wine. “Here’s to the man that halves my sorrow,” I said, “and doubles my joy.”
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Zack said, touching his glass to mine. “And here’s a toast to love and laughter,” he said, “as well as happily ever after.”
We sipped the wine, relishing the warmth of the moment. After dating seriously for more than a dozen months, the bond between us was growing stronger with each passing day.
“I love you,” Zack said.
I was preparing to repeat the very same words when Luigi approached the table. He had a phone in one hand and a dessert plate in the other.
“Pardon the interruption,” he said. “But Detective Kincaid called a moment ago. She asked me to bring you something sweet with her compliments.”
He positioned the plate in the center of the table.
“This is our newest creation!” the happy chef said with a bubbly smile. “Pumpkin-gingersnap tiramisù situated in a pool of Calvados syrup.” There was a brief pause as he beamed proudly at the confection. “I hope that you will enjoy!”
As soon as he left the table, Zack leaned closer. “What’s Calvados?”
“It’s made from apple brandy,” I said. “You’ll love it.”
And he did. As we slowly devoured the delicious dessert, Zack and I talked about his upcoming trip to Texas to visit relatives. He’d invited me to go, but I didn’t want to leave Julia and Harper on their own at Sky High Pies for a full week. They were both fine with the idea. But whenever I contemplated seven days away from the helm of our family enterprise, a flock of anxious butterflies filled my stomach.
“Don’t sweat it,” he said for the gazillionth time. “We’ll take a long trip sometime soon.”
I knew that he was right. And I felt slightly ridiculous to worry so much. But I wasn’t yet ready to venture away from the familiar comfort of the old Victorian on Pine Street and the business that my grandmother had started more than four decades ago.
After assuring me that he would post pictures of his trip to Instagram on an hourly basis, Zack’s grin faded.
“What’s the latest on the Wendy Barr situation?” he asked. “I can tell that you’re still thinking about it.”
I nodded. “I always will,” I said. “I can’t seem to shake any of the big cases that I’ve been involved with.”
“I understand that. You’re a real pro, Katie. Even though you’re no longer on the job as a PI, you still take it all as seriously as I imagine you did back then.”
“You’re right. I don’t think that’s the kind of mindset that you can ever really switch off.”
“But you’re thriving at Sky High,” he said. “You’ve got a whole new career, and it’s going great guns!”
I smiled. “Thank goodness! I don’t know what I would’ve done if I came back here from Chicago and it all fell apart.”
“No need thinking about that,” Zack told me.
We went back to work on the tiramisù, alternating small bites of the sweet pumpkin-gingersnap custard with sips of wine.
“What about Frank Kanter?” Zack asked out of the blue. “Is he being charged with anything?”
“Not as far as the Wendy Barr murder,” I said. “But he’s in deep doodoo with the federal government for bank fraud, wire fraud, conspiracy and tax evasion.”
“Bummer,” Zack said. “I guess all the candid shots that I took at his office will end up in the trash.”
“What candid shots?”
“The newspaper was planning a big feature story about Kanter for the business section,” Zack explained. “It was going to be one of those big profiles to showcase a local guy who was making the transition to the national stage.”
I laughed. “And the poor sucker gets yanked out of the spotlight just before the splashy publicity!”<
br />
“That can happen if you get greedy,” Zack said.
“True enough,” I agreed. “And the sad thing is, Kanter’s business was doing just fine before he and Richard Poole started running their scam. He wasn’t a multimillionaire or anything, but he was comfortable.”
“Sure, but it sounds like he wasn’t happy being a big fish in a small pond,” Zack said.
“No, he wasn’t,” I agreed. “But now he’ll be a small inmate in a big penitentiary.”
Zack chuckled. “I probably shouldn’t laugh at the guy’s misfortune, but that’s kind of funny.”
“Sad, too,” I said. “This whole case was layer upon layer of things that weren’t funny.”
“Wendy Barr became a blackmailer,” Zack said. “And look what happened.”
“Exactly right,” I said. “She pulled her own little swindle on Frank Kanter at the same time that her boyfriend was romancing Sue Carswell.”
“And then there’s Danielle Breen.” Zack shook his head. “How did she ever think that she could get away with killing both Wendy and Richard Poole?”
I shrugged. “Well, you start by avoiding unforced errors. For example, you don’t drop one of your red fleece gloves after you just shot Poole on the side of the road where you rendezvoused to threaten him with exposure if he doesn’t help you out.”
“Let me guess,” Zack said. “Danielle wanted more money, Richard Poole refused and she shot him in a rage.”
“That’s what she confessed to,” I said.
“And she dropped a glove at the scene?” he asked.
“She did,” I said. “And the other unforced error was stashing the liquor bottle that she used to hit Wendy Barr in her desk.”
“In Danielle’s desk?”
I shook my head. “No, she put it in Wendy’s desk. Apparently, she thought it was a clever little twist to send the police on a wild goose chase. Just like when she told Lindy Showalter that Barry Thornhill was driving Sharon’s van on Sunday.”
