The Birthday Murders

by Mary Maxwell

  The Birthday Murders

  Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries / 26

  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 02282019

  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

  “Can I ask a question?” Julia said.

  I smiled. “I’m pretty sure that you just did.”

  It was half past six on a cloudy morning in early March. We were in the kitchen of Sky High Pies, the bakery café that I run in Crescent Creek, Colorado. We were getting ready for another busy day of breakfast and lunch customers as well as a long list of special orders to deliver before the end of the day.

  “Guess I walked right into that one,” Julia said with a bubbly laugh.

  “More or less,” I said. “So what’s on your mind?”

  She slipped a spotless white apron over her head, looped the fabric strips around her tiny waist and deftly cinched a perfect bow in front.

  “Do you think that I look old and wrinkled, Katie?” she asked in a faint voice.

  It was far too early in the morning for questions that could end in either disagreement or disappointment, but I knew that Julia, our illustrious chef and dessert maven, expected me to be candid and straightforward.

  “And I want you to be honest,” Julia continued, echoing my own thoughts. “Do I look old enough to be Blanche’s mother?”

  Since Blanche Speltzer, a spry and spirited former high school teacher, was in her eighties, the question left me momentarily stumped. Julia was five decades younger. Between the full-time role at Sky High and three munchkins at home, it was a mystery how she swept in nearly every morning looking impeccable and gorgeous. I lived in the apartment above Sky High, and I still arrived some days resembling a pile of laundry with a fright wig plopped on the top.

  “Oh, one more thing,” Julia added. “I want you to be honest, even if it’s bad news.”

  I shook my head “On the contrary,” I began, “I’d say there aren’t many women your age that look quite so gorgeous this early in the day.”

  Her mouth squirmed. “Are you just saying that to be nice?”

  “I’m saying it to be truthful,” I replied. “Why are you thinking about your age?”

  She smiled. “Emma watched me put on my makeup this morning. She said, ‘Do you wear that stuff to cover up all of those wrinkles and spots?’ I have to be honest, Kate; it kind of freaked me out a little bit.”

  “I get that,” I said. “But she’s seven. We all ask questions like that when we’re kids.”

  “Not me,” Julia said, flipping through a binder of recipes. “I wanted to know if Big Bird could actually fly when I was Emma’s age.”

  “Logical subject for curiosity,” I said with a smile. “What else?”

  She glanced up from the binder. “Just tell me, okay? Do I look old and wrinkled? If you saw me with Rachel Olin, would you wonder if we were twins?”

  I shook my head. “No chance. First of all, you look like a newborn compared to her. Rachel bears a striking resemblance to a Barbie doll left too long in the sun. And second, she’s way too selfish to be anyone’s twin. She would’ve insisted on sending her identical sibling to boarding school from the age of five.”

  Julia sighed. “You’re avoiding the question, Katie. That must mean that you think I look like an old prune.”

  “Nope,” I said. “You couldn’t be further from the truth.”

  “Oh, never mind,” Julia said, going back to the recipes. “We should get moving if we’re going to have everything ready to open the doors at seven.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “But first, can I remind you of something?”

  She nodded.

  “Most of us forget the basic truths about ourselves when we’re running through the crazy days,” I said. “For example, I think that you forget how amazing you and Jared are with those three kids. You both work hard to keep them safe, healthy and happy. And you succeed every day, even with all of the long hours at work and the crazy pace of your lives and the trouble that can sometimes be just around the corner. You’re smart. You’re compassionate. And you’re a million miles far from being old, wrinkled and haggard.”

  Julia grinned. “You know what? I just love your positive attitude, Katie. You almost made me forget that my very own daughter considers me old and wrinkled.”

  “Oh, c’mon, Jules! What does she know? She’s cute as a button, but she’s still seven going on twenty-five. When Jared brought the kids in the other day, Emma was giving me tips on wedding planning.”

  She frowned. “Oh, shoot! I’m so sorry! We caught part of Say Yes to the Dress a couple of weeks ago. Ever since then, Emma has been sketching designs for your wedding gown. I said that you’d be able to figure it out on your own, but there’s no stopping the little chatterbox.”

  “It’s fine,” I said. “She left a few dress ideas back on the desk. They were all black with either skulls or spiders made from Swarovski crystals. I told her that they were definitely creative and original.” I paused and smiled. “Emma really is a one-of-a-kind artist, Jules. She’s like Morticia Addams crossed with Vera Wang.”

  “It’s sweet of you to encourage her like that, Katie.”

  I shrugged. “I’m just keeping my options open,” I said. “Zack and I have so much to do before we get married that it might be a big help to have a budding designer in my corner.”

  CHAPTER 2

  I was in the Sky High kitchen later that morning, melting dark chocolate in a double boiler for a batch of Chocolate Cherry Drops, when Deputy Chief Trent Walsh peered into the kitchen from the dining room.

  “Aye aye, Captain Katie!” he said in an unusually jolly tone. “Permission to come aboard, ma’am?”

  I motioned for him to cross the threshold. “What’s with the naval lingo?”

  Trent grinned. “Santiago and I played Battleship last night,” he said. “Do you remember that one?”

  “I think my brother had it when we were kids,” I said. “So who won—you or Denny?”

  “Both,” Trent replied. “I sank his battleship eight out of ten
games, and then he paid for drinks at Red Hancock’s place after.”

  I pictured the two CCPD veterans sitting across from one another, taunting and bragging and bluffing. Then I asked how they both won if Officer Santiago lost more games and bankrolled Trent’s brewskis.

  “That’s easy,” he told me. “It’s an honor and a privilege to be in my company for such an extended period of time.” He winked before uttering a thunderous laugh. “I’m just joking anyway. Santiago and I play every couple of weeks. The loser buys drinks for the winner, and I’ve been on that end of the equation more often than I care to remember.”

  “Good to know,” I said.

  He walked over and studied the melting chocolate. Then he leaned forward and aimed one finger at the pan.

  “Don’t you dare!” I swatted his hand. “That’s unsanitary.”

  Another robust laugh escaped from his mouth. “Just joking, Katie. Why are you so tense this morning?”

  “I’m not. I’d just hate to waste all of this chocolate because someone who knows better contaminated it with his meaty paw.”

  He lifted his hand, studying the fingers and broad palm. “This is meaty?”

  I waved away the question to ask one of my own.

  “What are you doing here?” I said.

  “I was in the neighborhood,” Trent replied. “Thought I’d drop by for a sec.”

  I smiled. “To annoy the staff and contaminate the chocolate?”

  He shook his head. “To ask for your help.”

  There was a subtle shift in his voice; it was less arrogant and intimidating, more self-effacing and appreciative. Trent and I had been high school sweethearts for about a minute before another classmate caught his eye. The fact that my former romantic rival, a smart, thoughtful woman named Dina Kincaid, now worked with Trent as lead detective for the Crescent Creek Police Department, still made me smile whenever I thought about our shared history. After high school, I’d left Colorado for Chicago, where I studied art in college and fell in love with solving mysteries and conducting investigations as a licensed private detective.

  “You’re asking for my help?” I said with a faint smile. “If this is related to your Battleship rivalry with Denny, I’m the last person you should talk to. I’ve never been good at board games.”

  He frowned. “Very funny, Katie. But I’ve got Battleship covered. I wanted to talk to you about a murder case.” He moved closer, glancing at Julia as she scrambled eggs on the front line for a customer order. “Maybe we should move this to your office.”

  “You bet,” I said, switching off the burner and balancing the spatula on the Snoopy and Woodstock spoon rest that my parents had sent for my last birthday. “Do you want a cup of coffee or anything to nibble while we talk?”

  Trent shook his head. “No, thanks. I’m having lunch with Mayor Washington today. We’re going to that new steak place on Broadway.”

  “Fancy,” I said. “Do you decide who picks up the check with a few rounds of Battleship?”

  He glared. “Not funny, Katie. Can we move this to your office, please?”

  I gave him a salute. “Aye aye, sir!” I said. “Right this way!”

  During the brief walk from the kitchen to the small windowless room that served as the Sky High office, Trent asked if I was familiar with a man called Lawton Gleave.

  “Never heard of him,” I said, stepping through the doorway and motioning at the guest chairs in front of the desk. “Who is he?”

  “Mr. Gleave was murdered in a small town outside of Atlanta about three months ago,” Trent said, taking a seat as I settled into the desk chair. “One bullet to the head before he was dumped in his neighbor’s swimming pool during the middle of the night. The poor guy was only sixty when he took his last breath. Well, sixty years, two days and approximately five to eight hours.”

  “Are you trying to be cute or is there a reason for the specificity?” I asked.

  Trent gave me a familiar look; impatience fused with frustration. “The FBI believes that it’s relevant,” he replied.

  You didn’t mention the FBI is involved,” I said. “And why are you telling me about someone from Georgia?”

  “I’ll get to all of that,” Trent answered, “after I tell you about the other victims.”

  My stomach swayed a bit at the disclosure that we were talking about multiple homicides. Although the usual questions about Mr. Gleave’s death surged forward in my mind—means, motive, evidence and potential suspects, as I listened to Trent recite brief summaries of the additional cases.

  The first involved a woman named Natalie Packwood, a 61-year-old law firm librarian. She was found floating in her swimming pool in Sacramento a few days after Lawton Gleave died in Georgia. Instead of drowning, the official cause of Natalie’s death was blunt force trauma. She’d been hit on the back of the head with a cast stone cat statue from her garden.

  The second victim was Dixie Corcoran in Houston. She was found three days after her sixtieth birthday. Although she was facedown in her bathtub, the initial report from the coroner listed asphyxiation as the cause of death. Instead of water in her lungs, they found goose feathers, red cotton fibers and microscopic pieces of blue nitrile, the material used to make disposable gloves worn in hospitals, labs and dozens of other workplaces.

  “And then there’s the most recent victim,” Trent said. “Walker Oldham.” He paused briefly after I gasped. “I didn’t think you’d heard the news yet,” he continued. “He was shot this morning in his office here in Crescent Creek. One bullet through the heart.”

  “But he was…” My throat suddenly felt dry and tight. I took a quick sip of the tepid coffee that I’d left on the desk earlier. “I was going to…to say that Walker and his wife were here for lunch last week.”

  Trent nodded. “It’s a complete shock,” he said. “A few hours ago, Walker Oldham was among the living, but now he’s the focus of a murder investigation that appears to be connected to three other deaths.”

  I tried to picture Walker and his wife talking and laughing when they stopped at Sky High the previous week. Harper had told me later that they were planning a getaway to England and Ireland in a couple of weeks to celebrate Walker’s sixtieth birthday.

  “Any witnesses?” I asked Trent.

  He slumped back in the chair. “That depends on whether or not Pam survives her injuries,” Trent said.

  My pulse quickened again. “Pam Newill?”

  “She was in Walker’s office,” Trent said. “Two GSWs; one was a through-and-through in her upper left arm, and the other nicked her femoral artery. She’d lost quite a lot of blood by the time they got her to Regional Med.”

  “Okay,” I said. “The next question is obvious, right?”

  Trent cleared his throat. “How are they linked? We’ve got Walker here in Crescent Creek, another victim in Georgia, one in Texas and the fourth in California. I had a call from the Feds earlier; they were already tracking the three previous murders. Obviously, Oldham was still living here in town, but the other three had moved away years ago. When the Bureau discovered that link a few weeks ago, they called us to get hometown background on Lawton, Natalie and Dixie. We didn’t realize Oldham was connected to those cases until Pam Newill mentioned something about threatening calls as she was being loaded into the ambulance. Natalie Packwood had also received threats by telephone.”

  “So the FBI is here in town?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Drove up from Denver as soon as we realized there was a connection between Oldham and the other victims.”

  “Didn’t you already suspect that?” I asked. “I mean, you just said that the Feds reached out for information about—”

  “Things are different now,” Trent said. “When they called before, Walker was alive and well. As of today, not so much. Our focus has obviously shifted. Now we have a murder case that overlaps with the other three homicides.”

  “Beginning with their ages,” I said. “All of the victims were ri
ght around sixty. Plus, water was involved in three of the four; two in swimming pools and one in the bathtub.”

  “That’s where we start,” Trent said. “And that’s why I’m here, Katie. Dina and Detective Armstrong are working the Oldham homicide, but they both have pretty full plates with other cases. I was hoping that you might be willing to do some online research and maybe canvass the other businesses around Walker’s office.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Whatever I can do to help.”

  “Thanks, Katie.” His smile was warm and fleeting. “We really appreciated all of your help with cases in the past. I know that we can count on you to do the same this time around.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Zack called that afternoon to finalize plans for dinner. Even though we’d been dating for two years and engaged for several months, my heart still wobbled a little when I heard his voice.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” he said. “Are we still on for six-thirty?”

  “We’re absolutely still on, but do you mind if we get carryout instead of eating at the restaurant?”

  “What’s going on, babe? I can hear it in your voice.”

  I didn’t want to talk about Trent’s visit until later, so I told Zack that I was a little hoarse from calling orders to Julia earlier in the day.

  “We had a wild lunch rush,” I added. “Dallas and Serena brought their ten-month-old triplets in for their debut meal in public.”

  “Uh-oh. How bad was it?”

  I laughed. “Let’s just say, once is enough. Those little nuggets are so cute, but way too loud. If they grow up to be opera singers or auctioneers, I won’t be surprised.”

  “Did Harper do okay with the commotion in the dining room?” he asked.

  “She was a trooper,” I said. “Between her natural patience and the earplugs I grabbed from the office, she made it through the Wolcott family’s visit without once losing her temper.”

  “That’s good to hear,” he said. “Remember when we went over to their place for dinner and Bobby told that story about Harper exploding when the neighbor’s kids had a party? She went over to ask them to turn down the music, but forgot to put on her—”