by Mary Maxwell
A Vintage View of Murder
Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries / 27
Mary Maxwell
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
© 2019 Mary Maxwell 04022019
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, recorded or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a review.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
NANA REED’S SKY HIGH RECIPES
CHAPTER 1
“Do you really make these here?” the man asked, pressing the tip of his narrow nose against the glass display case. “They look identical to the things that I saw in Seattle a while back.”
He’d been waiting on the front porch when I unlocked the door a few minutes before seven. At first, I thought he was one of our early morning regulars. But when he turned around, I didn’t recognize the tall, bearded guy dressed in a rumpled gray suit. He was around thirty, with buzzed brown hair, close-set blue eyes and the audacity to question the provenance of the cakes, pastries and pies at my family’s bakery café in Crescent Creek, Colorado.
“Everything in the case is made here at Sky High Pies!” I said, glancing over my shoulder at Harper. She had cleaned the case a half hour earlier to prepare for the day, leaving the front immaculate and gleaming. Now it was speckled with greasy fingerprints and oily smudges like a tapestry of touch DNA. “Our chef and I use my grandmother’s recipes to make everything from scratch.”
He swiveled his gaze to meet mine. “So this is still a family business?”
“Yes, it is.” I smiled as he left another oily splotch on the display case. “My grandmother opened the doors more than four decades ago. Then my mother and father took over for twenty-five years. And when they retired, I—”
“Are those any good?” He was pointing at a tray of chocolate-frosted cherry cupcakes. “I’m supposed to buy something to serve for dessert tonight, but I don’t know what to get.”
“They’re very tasty,” I said. “If your friends like chocolate and cherry together, they’ll definitely enjoy those little treasures.”
He offered a croaky laugh. “Treasures, huh? You make them sound like precious gems or gold bullion.”
I shrugged. “They are to some folks.”
“Well, that’s good to hear. But I wouldn’t expect you to say anything different. I know how this game is played.”
There was something argumentative and cold about the way he glared at me from the other side of the display case. He seemed annoyed and eager to be finished with the task of selecting something sweet.
“Do you mind if I make a suggestion?” I asked.
He heaved a sigh. “Go ahead,” he said. “Especially if it will get me on the road in the next five minutes. I’ve got tons more to do after this.”
I smiled. “Business trip?”
“I wish.” His voice grew harder. “My ex is in a bit of trouble. Guess who gets the pleasure of helping her clean up the mess?”
“I’m sorry to hear about that,” I said, giving Harper another quick glance. “But it’s kind of you to lend a hand.”
He rolled his eyes. “Like I had a choice. I’m the only one from back then who—” He stopped and tapped his knuckles on the glass. “How about those?” He pointed at another tray of cupcakes. “Is that chocolate or vanilla underneath the frosting?”
I noticed something on the top of his left wrist. At first, I thought it was a tattoo, but then I realized it was a port-wine stain. It was roughly the size of a quarter and there were a few wisps of the dark hue that curled up his arm toward the elbow.
“Vanilla,” I answered. “And they’re topped with meringue, but we have some in the back that are frosted with buttercream.”
He stood up, scowling at the countless options in the case.
“This is going to make my head explode,” he muttered. “Maybe I should just buy a bunch of Oreos and call it a day.”
“That’s one solution,” I said.
“What about those?” He dragged his finger to the right before tapping on the glass. Then he kneeled down and pressed both hands against the case again. “I’m talking about the ones with vanilla frosting and tortilla chips.”
“Julia made those this morning,” I replied. “They’re one of our bestselling treats. Nana Reed called them Cocoa Loco Cupcakes. They feature a nice blend of cocoa and chili powder for a sweet and spicy flavor.”
He considered the information. Then he groaned and got back to his feet.
“Were you going to suggest something,” he said, “or did I imagine that? I didn’t get much sleep, so I’m feeling a little fuzzy.”
I offered a warm smile. “I totally get that,” I said. “Fuzzy is how I always feel if I toss and turn all night.”
He laughed. “Tell me about it. I stayed at the Moonlight last night. It’s a nice enough motel, but the couple in the next room argued for hours. I finally called the front desk to complain about thirty seconds before they stopped shouting.”
“I hate when that happens,” I said.
“What—people screaming at the top of their lungs?”
“That, too,” I said. “But I was referring to the thing where you’re really patient with a situation because you don’t want to make a fuss. And the minute you speak up about it, whatever was bothering you is suddenly a moot point.”
He checked his watch. “Yeah, that’s a pain. And I hate to be one myself, but I need to get on the road. I actually came here because the guy at the motel told me you’ve got the best stuff in town.”
“Well, that was kind of Earl,” I said.
“It should also save me time later on,” the man said. “So what were you going to suggest?”
“I think that you should buy an assortment of cupcakes,” I replied. “Six or a dozen or however many you’d like. But a combination of flavors and finishes will surely guarantee that everyone finds something they like.”
The scowl on his face vanished. “That’s a perfect idea!” he said. “And it’s probably what my ex would’ve done if she was here instead of me.”
“Does that sound like a good solution?” I asked.
“Definitely!” he replied. “I’ll take four dozen. Just mix and match.”
I looked in the display case. Then I calculated how many cupcakes were in the coole
r in the kitchen.
“I’ll be right back,” I said. “Harper can get you a cup of coffee while you wait.”
“I’m fine,” he said, smiling as our trusty dining room manager headed toward us. “But thank you for the offer.”
When I emerged from the kitchen a few minutes later, carrying four white paperboard boxes balanced carefully in my hands, Harper was giggling like crazy and the man was saying something about Shark Tank. I put the boxes on the counter and asked if he wanted anything else.
“That’s all I need,” he said. “How much do I owe you?”
Once I’d totaled the purchase, he put his phone and keys on the counter and reached for his wallet. As he sorted through a hefty stack of bills, I glanced at the oversized medallion attached to his key chain. It was about the diameter of a tennis ball. A ghoulish skull grinned in the center of the coin and the outer edge was decorated with geometrical designs like those used on Aztec pottery.
“That’s quite a key chain,” I said, nodding toward the jumbo decoration.
He chuckled. “Harder to lose when it’s that big,” he said. “I picked it up last year on vacation in Cabo.”
“Even better that it’s a memento from a trip,” I said before offering to help carry the four boxes of cupcakes to his car.
“I can manage,” he said. “If you don’t mind holding the door for me.”
“Not at all,” I replied, coming out from behind the counter. “I hope your friends enjoy the goodies tonight.”
“Me, too!” he joked. “Otherwise, they’ll take me out in the middle of nowhere and put a bullet between my eyes.”
CHAPTER 2
That afternoon, as our final customers of the day lingered over cups of coffee and slices of pie, I met in the Sky High office with Kenzie Harwood. She’d called the previous week to schedule an appointment to discuss something special for her daughter’s high school graduation party. After we settled in around my desk with a sample of potential cookie and cupcake options, Kenzie finally revealed what she had in mind.
“I’d like to have a cooking class here on a Saturday evening,” she said. “I thought it would be absolutely perfect if you and Julia could teach Becca and her friends how to make a few simple dishes. I can barely boil an egg, so I’m turning to the professionals for guidance.”
“Well, that’s a clever party idea!” I said. “Do you have specific recipes in mind?”
Kenzie nodded. “I took the liberty of making some notes,” she said, reaching into her purse. “Since most of the boys and girls will be going off to college later this year, I thought it would be good to focus on healthy cooking. A constant diet of pizza and beer is like an expressway to the Freshman 15, so I’d like to avoid anything too fattening.”
Listening to Kenzie describe her idea sent me tumbling back in time. After finishing at Crescent Creek High, I left home to study painting in Chicago. The adventure was everything that I’d dreamed it would be, although a part-time job working for a private investigator derailed my original intention to pursue a career in fine art. I loved every aspect of those early years away from home, but my Freshman 15 somehow ballooned to Senior 25 by the time I graduated.
“Those all sound delicious,” I said when she finished. “How many guests are coming?”
Kenzie offered a comical grimace. “Forty,” she said. “Can you and Julia handle that many chattering high school seniors?”
My mind flashed on a similar event that we’d hosted at Sky High one Saturday after closing for the day. The gathering was organized by a couple that had recently moved to Crescent Creek with their 12-year-old daughter and 14-year-old son. The parents thought a cooking class focused on three-ingredient recipes would be a fun way for their kids to bond with new friends and classmates. Unbeknownst to the mother and father, however, their children were already ensnared in a school romance gone wrong. The son had invited another boy who had broken up with the daughter’s classmate a few days earlier. Within the first half hour, the party turned into a free-for-all that left the Sky High kitchen looking less like Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory and more like the aftermath of the food fight from Animal House.
“Julia and I can handle anything,” I told Kenzie. “She has three kids at home, and I serve as referee for my mother and father several times a week. That’s almost the same as dealing with new high school grads.”
“What do you mean?” she asked. “My folks are probably about the same age as yours, right?”
“Mid-sixties,” I said. “My parents are in Florida now, living the high life.”
“That must be nice,” she replied. “Particularly when we’ve got three feet of snow and they’re bobbing around in the pool or strolling along the beach.”
“True,” I agreed. “The weather is a huge difference. But I was referring more to the challenges that occasionally go along with teenagers. You know, petty disagreements, mood swings, hormones and flashes of immaturity.”
Kenzie giggled. “Now I get it! And you’re right; my mother and father occasionally act a little immature if they don’t get their afternoon nap.”
We shared a brief laugh before Kenzie continued outlining her vision for the cooking class. She wanted simple, healthy fare, preferably meals that her daughter and friends could prepare once each week and then freeze for nights when they’d be studying or attending evening lectures or donating time to community volunteer projects.
“And we should keep money in mind,” she added. “School’s expensive enough as it is, so let’s focus on more affordable ingredients and ideas that can help them stretch their weekly budgets.”
“I was already thinking about that,” I said. “What if Julia and I noodle this for a few days? Then we can get together again sometime late next week to go over the recipes that we come up with. Would that be okay?”
Kenzie beamed a broad smile. “That sounds perfect, Katie! If you need me between now and then, please don’t hesitate to reach out.”
“As always,” I said. “We want to make sure that everyone has a good time at the party, from your daughter and her friends to you and Eli.”
At the mention of her husband’s name, Kenzie’s cheerful grin wobbled. “Oh, Eli won’t be there,” she said. “I guess that you haven’t heard the news.”
“Oh, goodness.” My cheeks went pink from embarrassment. “I guess that I haven’t. What’s going on?”
Kenzie exhaled with such force that her bangs flipped up. “What’s going on is we’re moving to Dallas. Eli got a huge promotion at work last month, but they needed him to start immediately.”
“Oh, so it’s…” I paused while she tugged a tissue from the sleeve of her cardigan. “…kind of a good news, bad news scenario?”
She nodded. “He deserves the promotion after all the years of hard work,” she said, sniffling into the tissue. “But I’ve never lived anywhere else in my life. I’ve never been east of Denver, south of Telluride or—”
Her phone whirred loudly in her purse.
“Will you excuse me, Katie?” she asked, checking the screen. “This is the moving company.”
“Of course,” I said, getting out of the desk chair. “Take your time. While you’re doing that, I’ll go check with Julia in the kitchen.”
“Thanks,” Kenzie said. “I’ll come find you as soon as I get off this call. It shouldn’t take but a minute or two.”
CHAPTER 3
An hour later, while Julia and I were catching our breath after preparing BLTs for a table of nine silver-haired bacon lovers, Kenzie raced into the Sky High kitchen.
“Oh, my word!” she gasped, struggling to catch her breath. “I am so sorry about that!”
“It’s okay,” I said. “We have plenty to—”
“Do you know how many times they put me on hold?” She was frantic and jittery; perspiration glistened on her forehead and her breathing was accented by a high-pitched wheeze. “Fourteen! They made me hold fourteen times!”
I nodded.
“Not a peep,” I said.
Julia giggled. “I heard a couple of things,” she confessed. “But it’s nothing I haven’t said myself in a heated moment.”
Kenzie covered her eyes. “Oh, that’s so mortifying! I just gave our kids a lecture last night about using bad language. Did you know that people who use profanity have feeble minds?”
Since Julia and I had discussed the subject a few days earlier after one of her children dropped an F-bomb at church, I gave Kenzie a little nod of encouragement.
“Actually,” Julia offered, “several studies about language have concluded that people who curse are generally more intelligent and have a larger vocabulary than people who don’t.”
Kenzie made a face. “What kind of studies?”
Julia shrugged. “I don’t remember the names by heart,” she said, “but I could forward the details to you. I saved them to my favorites file because you just know the subject’s going to come up again.”
“And again and again,” Kenzie said with a laugh. “About five minutes after I talked to the kids, I heard our oldest boy going off on his sister.”
“What did he say?” I asked.
“He called her new haircut poo-on-a-stick,” Kenzie answered.
Julia laughed again. “Not very nice,” she said. “But it could be a whole lot worse.”
Kenzie slumped against the counter. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said. “We’ll go from poo-on-a-stick to something really foul.”
“It’s a passage of parenthood,” Julia said putting one hand on Kenzie’s shoulder. “And don’t worry; you’ll survive it.”
“I know,” Kenzie said. “And I’m sorry if I sound extra whiny. Brad’s out of town this week, so I’m all alone on the front lines.”
“Is he away on business?” I asked.
She shook her head. “It’s his annual camping trip with his brothers.”