Murder for Millions (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 7)

by Mary Maxwell

She laughed once more. “Yeah, ‘curious’ is a perfect word for him. The kids used to call him King Doofus. Did you know that?”

  “I wasn’t aware of that.” I felt a twinge in my heart; underdogs and misfits always elicited a sense of compassion when I heard about them or met someone who fit the bill.

  “It wasn’t nice at all,” Blanche continued. “They bullied the poor guy something terrible.”

  “Did he ever act out against the other kids?”

  “Once or twice, but it wasn’t anything violent. He mostly called them silly names.”

  Another timer chimed in Blanche’s kitchen.

  “That’s for my potatoes!” she said. “I should probably get going, Katie.”

  “Of course. I called at a bad time.”

  “It’s fine, sweetheart. I’ll be around later if you have more questions.”

  “Maybe just one more?” I said. “Do you by any chance have a picture of Matt Soble?”

  She answered first with a bouncy laugh. “As a matter of fact, Boris took a shot of Marla, Matt and me last week when we ran into them at the VFW chili fundraiser.”

  “Do you mind sending it to me?”

  “Not at all, dear. Let me get the potatoes out of the oven and I’ll zap that right over to you. My nephew showed me a new shortcut for attaching things to my emails. I’d been doing it in a roundabout way on the laptop, but he explained that I can actually do it on my phone with one of those app thingies.”

  “That’s cool. Maybe you can show me sometime.”

  “I’d be delighted to, Katie. Check your email in a few minutes. I’ll get that picture to you in a sec. And, whatever you do, please don’t look at my hair, okay? I was caught in an updraft on the way inside that day, so I look a little bit like an elderly female version of Bozo the Clown.”

  When the photograph arrived later, my eyes went right to Blanche’s hair. It wasn’t as bad as she’d described it, although there was a little more frizzy volume than usual. But she looked bright and happy, with a sideways grin and her head angled toward Boris Hertel.

  “They look so sweet,” I murmured to myself. “Like teenagers on a first date.”

  After admiring their engaging expressions, I glanced at Marla Soble. She looked icy and aloof, with heavy mascara on her lashes, candy apple red gloss on her lips and an oversized chunky necklace accentuating her cleavage.

  “Floozy,” I grumbled.

  My eyes shifted to the man on her left. I could see the resemblance between mother and son: the same almond-shaped eyes, fair complexion and dark hair. Matt Soble was neither smiling nor frowning; his mouth was a flat line and his eyes were lifeless marbles fixed on the camera.

  “King Doofus,” I said, shifting my attention to his attire. “You dress like a street urchin, Matt.”

  He was wearing ripped and faded jeans, a pair of scuffed Red Wing boots and a blue jacket that seemed about two sizes too small. His pale hands jutted from the sleeves like fleshy paddles and the bottom of the coat fell slightly below his waist. As I contemplated why he would be dressed in such an unsuitable jacket, I noticed a detail that set off an alarm bell in my brain.

  “The buttons,” I said, squinting at the image on my phone. “Gold with an embossed eagle insignia.” I used my thumb and forefinger to enlarge the picture for a better view. “Just like the ones on Ira’s jacket the other night and the one found at Carter Devane’s house after the break-in.”

  CHAPTER 32

  When Harper came into my office the following morning, her face told me something was wrong. Before I could ask, she hurried over and perched on the edge of the desk.

  “There’s more bad news,” she said.

  I leaned back in my chair. “I can tell that. Did you break another cake plate?”

  Her mouth remained in a rigid frown. “It’s Trent,” she said. “He’s on line two.”

  I hadn’t noticed the light blinking on the desk phone, but I instinctively reached for it before Harper could say another word.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked in lieu of a traditional greeting.

  “Hey, Katie,” Trent said in a somber tone. “It’s Boris Hertel.”

  I felt my heart as it began to jackhammer in my chest. “What happened? Is he okay?”

  “He’s in the hospital,” Trent said calmly. “Intensive care. His son found him this morning on the front porch. He’d been beaten severely, Katie. The doctors aren’t sure he’s going to make it.”

  A filmy image of Boris Hertel came and went in my mind: the twinkling eyes, jovial smile and ruddy cheeks.

  “What do you know?” I asked.

  “That’s about it,” Trent said. “Kevin told us that his dad has been really struggling with booze again. Despite what most people in town think, Boris hasn’t been sober since he got back from Betty Ford.”

  “I know. He admitted as much to me when we talked the other day.”

  “Did he tell you about his son’s connection to Carter Devane?”

  “Yes. He also suspects that someone local is responsible for Jacob Lowry’s death as well as the fire at Ira Pemberton’s place.”

  “Kevin shared that with us, too.”

  “Did he say why they hadn’t come forward earlier?”

  “Ego,” Trent said. “I mean, he didn’t say that; it’s what I suspect.”

  “What about it?”

  “I think that Boris and Kevin thought they could outwit whoever is behind the murder and arson. Kevin’s been a part of Devane’s inner circle since college, right? And he’s been an on-again, off-again employee at Minty Dog. I guess he took a leave of absence a few years ago and never went back. But then Devane reached out to him and dangled a pretty attractive carrot.”

  “Salary and bonus?”

  “And then some,” Trent said. “Kevin was making five-hundred grand up until last month when he quit again.”

  “Why’d he walk away from that kind of money?”

  “I don’t usually like to repeat myself, Katie. But I’d say it’s the same reason—ego. Kevin didn’t reveal all that much, but I got the impression that he and Devane had some sort of argument. And I’d guess it was something insurmountable if Kevin left the company again. He’s told a few people confidentially that he came back to help his dad, but I suspect it was also because of the friction with Devane.”

  “Did you talk to Carter about all of this?”

  Trent laughed. “Cone of silence,” he said.

  “Can you interpret that for me?”

  “Sure thing,” he answered. “It’s the megarich guy defense. ‘Have your people call my people and then my people won’t return the call from your people.’”

  “You’ve got to be joking.”

  “Nope. I had Denny Santiago and Amanda Crane go to the Crescent Creek Lodge to invite Mr. Devane in for a little chitchat. But the guy was gone. Connie said he left about an hour before Denny and Amanda showed up.”

  “Where’d he go? Home to Aspen?”

  “That’s an excellent question,” Trent said. “Maybe he went to the store. Or maybe he’s trying to give us the slip for some reason. I don’t know where he might be, but I do know for a fact that his private jet’s still at the airport in Aspen. The PD down there also sent a car to his house on Willoughby Way, but the housekeeper claimed Devane was still up here in Crescent Creek.”

  “Ah, so now he’s playing a shell game, huh?”

  “I suppose so. But it’s only a matter of time. I called the PD in Palo Alto and explained the situation. They’re keeping watch for Devane at his place out there.”

  “Even so,” I said. “The guy’s worth ninety million. He can buy his way in and out of almost anywhere.”

  Trent scoffed. “Not on my watch, Katie. We will find Carter Devane and he will come in for questioning. The evidence and statements suggest very strongly that there’s a link between his company and Jacob Lowry’s murder. And now, with the assault on Boris Hertel, I’d say the stakes are even higher. If the old guy
doesn’t make it, that would be two murders, one case of arson and a whole host of other charges.”

  “Do you suspect Devane killed Lowry?”

  “We can’t prove who did it yet,” Trent said. “But my gut’s telling me that either the guy’s involved or somehow connected to the person or persons responsible for the burglary as well as the fire and Lowry’s death.”

  “What’s the motive?” I asked.

  “One of the oldest in the world,” Trent said. “Money. I don’t know how all of this goes together yet, but I’m starting to suspect that Devane’s fortune and the future of his company are smack dab in the center of the mess.”

  CHAPTER 33

  After Julia and Harper departed for the day, I called Zack to see how he was doing in California. When it went to voicemail, I left a message and grabbed my keys before walking outside to the car. Although I didn’t know Boris Hertel and his son all that well, I still felt compelled to make a brief stop at the hospital to see how they were both doing. Before I started the engine, the phone whirred and Dina Kincaid’s office number at the Crescent Creek PD popped up on the display.

  “Katie?” she said after I answered. “It’s Dina.”

  “What’s going on? Have you recovered from the encounter with Mrs. Lancaster?”

  She said something disparaging under her breath. Then she added, “What are you talking about? I could take that mean girl down with one withering glance.”

  “I’d pay good money to see that,” I said. “She’s not my favorite person at the moment either.”

  “I doubt if she’ll ever be anyone’s favorite,” Dina commented. “She’s got an arrogant streak a mile wide running through her core. People like that are a burr under my saddle.”

  “A very large burr,” I agreed. “With a very expensive wardrobe and flawless skin.”

  She laughed. “Botox. And maybe some of that elephant placenta goop that I—”

  “Stop! I don’t want to hear about placenta goop.”

  “Sorry, Katie! One of our dispatchers reads The National Enquirer. She was telling me about a new miracle elixir that takes years off in just a few hours.”

  “Oh! In that case, sign me up!” I joked. “Although I’m pretty skeptical about most of those claims.”

  “Same here,” Dina said. “I’m also skeptical about Marla Soble. I talked to her after our little chat with Mrs. Lancaster.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “Botox,” she said again. “Marla has even smoother skin than Velma.”

  I chuckled. “I can see that. She also has a reputation for being pretty shifty. Blanche Speltzer told me a story about Marla that made my hair curl.”

  “Was it the one about the male stripper in Las Vegas?”

  “Yes! And it sounded like a very adult version of the game Clue, right? It was the hunky male stripper in the thousand-dollar hotel suite with the tube of extra strength super adhesive, the vial of gold glitter and the middle-aged rich lady from Colorado.”

  “Marla said the EMTs had to use something that stung really badly to separate her caboose from the hunk’s shoulders.”

  We laughed together for a few seconds.

  “Who on earth would put glue on someone’s skin anyway?” Dina hooted.

  “Marla Soble,” I said. “She told Blanche that they were a few hundred miles past tipsy and he offered to hoist her up on his shoulders so she could get a better view of the desert at midnight from the balcony of her suite.”

  “Well, that makes absolutely no sense whatsoever,” Dina scoffed.

  “Unless you’re in Vegas and the hotel keeps sending complimentary bottles of expensive wine to your room.”

  “True. I’ve never been in that position myself, so I wouldn’t know.”

  “Okay, back to Marla,” I said. “You mentioned that you’re skeptical about her. Was it something she said?”

  Dina snickered faintly into the phone. “More like everything she told me, Katie. It was just a gut feeling, you know? I asked a dozen or more questions—her whereabouts at the time of Jacob Lowry’s murder, whether she knew Carter Devane, if she’d seen or heard anything suspicious about the fire at Pemberton’s body shop.”

  “And?”

  “And she had an answer for every question,” Dina said. “She’s got an alibi for the entire day leading up to the fire at Ira’s place. Which means she didn’t kill Jacob Lowry or set the blaze.”

  “Okay, so that’s one name off the list,” I said.

  Dina didn’t respond. I waited for a moment, but I heard only silence on the other end.

  “Detective?”

  “Oh, sorry, Katie. I was just…”

  When her voice faded again, I asked if she was okay.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” she said. “But I just got a text from Tyler Armstrong. He’s at the hospital talking to Kevin Hertel about the attack on Boris.”

  “I was actually driving over there myself,” I said. “I wanted to pay my respects and let Kevin know that we’re thinking about his father.”

  “That’s kind of you.”

  “I know my dad would want me to,” I said. “And my mom. Before Ira’s wife died, the four of them were pretty close. I haven’t called Florida yet to tell my parents, but I will as soon as I have a chance to talk with Kevin and see how Boris is doing.”

  “That’s what Tyler just texted me about,” she said. “Boris is awake now. They’d sedated him pretty heavily when he first arrived at the hospital.”

  “Is Tyler getting a statement?”

  She laughed. “That was the second part of his text. I guess the combination of medication, being confined in bed and not being able to watch baseball last night has left Boris in a fairly uncooperative mood.”

  “Think Kevin can mediate?”

  I heard her laugh again before she told me that Kevin Hertel was being even less helpful than his father.

  “Must run in the family,” I said.

  “Pigheadedness can be an inherited trait.”

  “You’ve got that right! We both know that from all the years we’ve spent around Deputy Chief Walsh.”

  “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

  “It’s too late,” I confessed. “I’ve told Trent on many occasions that he’s stubborn, inflexible and a P in the A.”

  CHAPTER 34

  The waiting area at the hospital was a small alcove tucked between the elevators and a storage closet. It was around four-thirty when I arrived. Kevin Hertel was the lone occupant, sitting in one of the brown upholstered chairs with his elbows planted on both knees and his face in his hands. A paper cup decorated with vibrant blue and green flowers sat on the floor between his feet. From the lack of steam, I guessed the coffee inside had cooled while he stared at it glumly.

  “Kevin?”

  He grunted at the sound of his name and his head jerked back.

  “Sorry,” I said gently. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  One side of his mouth went up, forming a dozy grin. “You didn’t. I’ve been waiting for the doc, so I thought…” He reached down, surrounded the cup with one meaty hand and then took a long sip. “Are you here visiting someone?”

  “I wanted to check on your dad,” I said.

  His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “Because I heard about what happened. I was concerned.”

  An attendant pushed a cart loaded with bed linen down the hallway past the waiting area. One wheel squeaked and whined as the load of fresh sheets, towels and blankets lumbered along. As he approached the storage closet, the man slowed the cart, glancing briefly in our direction. When our eyes met, he lifted his chin slightly and nodded a silent greeting.

  “Would you be here if my father and I hadn’t approached you about my situation?” asked Kevin.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If we hadn’t asked for your help?”

  Between the strain in his voice and the wary look in his eyes, it was obvious the guy was slowly app
roaching the end of his rope. I couldn’t blame him. Someone had been sending anonymous threats and his name was on the list. They’d burglarized one home, killed an innocent man, set fire to a local business and violently assaulted his father. I’d never experienced similar circumstances, but I’d seen enough during my days as a private investigator to know that everyone has a breaking point.

  “Yes, Kevin. I would be here. Our fathers are friends. They used to play cards together all the time. When my dad heard what happened last night, he called me right away, sick with worry about the news. I didn’t tell him about the anonymous threats because he would just fret even more.”

  He managed to shrug and smile before turning his gaze to the back of one hand. He distractedly rubbed it with the opposite index finger, as if he was trying to erase a smudge of ink or dirt from the skin.

  “How’s your dad doing?” I asked finally.

  He stopped massaging his hand. “He keeps trying to talk, but it comes out more like gibberish than real words. I can tell that he’s really struggling to say something, even with the heavy sedation and broken jaw.”

  I winced. “Oh, no. I hadn’t heard any details. They broke his jaw?”

  “It was bad, really bad. A broken jaw, deep lacerations on his face, a fractured arm. Whoever did this to my dad was out for more than his wallet. The cops suspect it was somehow personal, like the guy that attacked my father was settling some kind of score.”

  “With your dad?”

  He nodded. “It’s crazy, but that’s the theory. My father asked for paper and a pencil so he could write notes. The most important one was that he’s pretty sure he’s heard the guy’s voice before, so that should be helpful.”

  “The person that attacked him?”

  “Yeah. He said it was a man with a low, kind of raspy quality to the way he talked. My dad’s still pretty confused. He said he’d heard the voice before, but couldn’t come up with a name yet. The doctor said it could be the medication. And it’s weird. My dad couldn’t tell us the man’s name, but he was one-hundred percent certain that the guy kept saying that he shouldn’t have gone to your place the other night.”