The Cherry Chip Murders

by Mary Maxwell

  When I entered the sleek showroom from the sidewalk, two women in their twenties were hovering over a display table of bras and panties. I watched them whisper and giggle for a few seconds. It reminded me of my days in Chicago, when my best friend and I would venture into expensive shops and imagine what it would be like to plunk down five hundred dollars for a set of pink silk pajamas.

  “Can I help you?”

  I turned around and the woman from the bar at the City Oasis was gliding toward me like a supermodel sashaying down the catwalk at a fashion show. Her mouth was puckered, her posture was impeccable and her face looked like a masterpiece created by Estée Lauder, Michelangelo and PhotoShop. A white plastic name tag was pinned to her blouse: Carrie Anne Norton.

  “I’m interested in a robe and PJs for a special occasion,” I said.

  Her left eyebrow shuddered skyward. “Ah, very nice,” she replied in a smoky voice. “Do you have a favorite color?”

  “Well, that’s a great question.” I felt like the biggest fraud in the world, but took a breath to calm my nerves. “I suppose black. It’s slimming, right?”

  Carrie stepped back and gave me a head-to-toe appraisal. I felt like it was a grade school talent show all over again, being judged and dismissed before I’d opened my mouth or started my dance routine.

  “Excellent choice,” she said.

  I replied with a simple, silent nod.

  “Why don’t you follow me?” she suggested. “We’ll go over here to take a look at a few things that I think you’ll like.”

  I complied with her instructions, walking a few steps behind her as the faint aroma of lavender trailed in her wake.

  “I like your fragrance,” I said.

  She glanced over one shoulder. “Everyone does. It’s my personalized signature scent.”

  Of course, I thought. It’s probably called Eau de Toilette Très Humble.

  When we reached a long, glass-topped counter in the rear of the shop, she went around to the back and gazed at the collection of silk robes displayed beneath the glass like works of art against a slab of white marble.

  “You look familiar,” I said as she opened a drawer. “Have we met?”

  When she stood up again and placed three boxes on the glass top, there was a curious curve to her smile. It was somewhere between wary and welcoming.

  “I never forget a face,” she said. “I’m certain that our paths have never crossed.”

  She opened one of the boxes, lifting something black and lacy and skimpy into the air.

  “This is one of my favorites,” she said. “It’s made from eyelash lace and there’s a matching thong that—”

  “No, wait,” I interrupted. “I went to dinner with my sister a couple of nights ago at the City Oasis.” She stared at me blankly, so I added, “It’s the steakhouse in the Fenwick Hotel.” There was no reaction, so I slapped one more detail on the end. “You were with a group of men that work for Leo Leachman.”

  She lowered her chin and stared at me down the length of her slender nose. Then she carefully returned the robe to the box, opened a second and repeated a similarly breathless introduction for the new garment.

  “This is another of my favorites,” she said, she reached into the box and removed something blue. “Don’t you just love the floral lace trim? I wore this on my second trip to Honolulu with my husband.”

  “Lucky you!” I pretended to admire the tiny periwinkle garment for a moment. Since I had no idea what it was—Armband? Garter belt? Sling shot?—I decided to comment on the tiny bit of fabric. “I’ve always wanted to visit Hawaii.”

  Her gray-green eyes looped around beneath lashes as thick as small twigs.

  “It’s really amazing,” she said. “And the people were sweet as can be.”

  “Anyway,” I said, reaching for my phone. “About the other night. It’s the strangest thing. I’m sure that I saw you at the bar with a bunch of hunks.”

  Carrie shook her head. “Sorry,” she said. “I think you’re mistaken.”

  I quickly pulled up the picture that my sister’s friend took of us sitting at our table in the restaurant at the Fenwick.

  “See?”

  I turned the screen so she could get a glimpse of the picture. She was clearly visible in the image, framed between two men who seemed to be laughing at something that she’d just told them.

  “No, that’s not me,” she said, flapping her lashes. “I can see how you might get me confused with her, but she’s much prettier.”

  “Um, well…”

  She reached out and touched my hand. It felt like an ice cube had brushed against my skin.

  “Will you excuse me for a minute?” Her voice was as relaxed and carefree as a gentle breeze. “I need to check on something in the back.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Take your time.”

  While I waited for her to return, I inspected a few of the items in a nearby display case. They were all delicate and chic—gauzy masterpieces fashioned from lace and silk and crystals and metallic thread. Small black and silver placards sat beside each garment, revealing prices that made my pulse quicken.

  When ten minutes had passed without her return, I had a hunch that either Ms. Eau de Toilette Très Humble was incapable of telling time or she’d given me the slip. Since the other two women had left, I was alone in the shop.

  “What’s the harm?” I said under my breath. “Let’s take a peek.”

  After walking around the counter, I went through the sliding door in the wall. The back room of the shop looked like the typical retail area. It was a hodgepodge of cardboard boxes, rudimentary workspaces for shipping and receiving activities, floor-to-ceiling shelves for merchandise and hanging racks loaded with high-priced lingerie in plastic garment bags.

  “Hello?” I called.

  There was no reply, but I heard voices and a car horn in the distance. I walked slowly through the space, moving toward the source of the sound. When I stepped around the end of a tall shelving unit, I wasn’t surprised by what I found.

  The door to the alley was ajar. When I pushed it open, I spotted something white on the ground.

  “What have we here?”

  I leaned closer for a better view. It was the name tag that the woman was wearing pinned to her blouse.

  I reached down, picked up the small white tag and studied the front again: Carrie Anne Norton. Sales Advisor.

  I smiled, reached into my purse for one of the Ziploc bags I kept handy and dropped the tag inside.

  “Hey, Carrie Anne?” I asked, remembering an old pop song that my father loved when I was a child. “What’s your game now? Can anybody play?”

  CHAPTER 25

  I walked up to the entrance at City Oasis a few minutes before they officially opened for the evening. I peeked inside and saw members of the staff prepping stations and inspecting tables in the dining room. A handsome blond with a short beard was behind the bar. He wasn’t working the night that I saw Darren Rigby and Carrie Norton, but I figured there was a chance he might recognize her since Jane Lund told me that the shapely lingerie enthusiast was in the restaurant’s bar two or three times a week. When I asked why Jane was so certain about that information, she’d confided that Carrie had been a confidential informant for the FBI for the past year as they worked to ensnare Tony Hett and his European buddies in the counterfeit lingerie case.

  “Excuse me,” I said, sliding up to where the barkeep was slicing lemons. “Can I ask a quick question?”

  He stopped the knife in midair.

  “I think you just did,” he answered, making a face. “Sorry about that. I couldn’t resist.”

  “It’s okay. I walked right into it.”

  “Yep,” he said, putting down the knife and drying his hands on a bar towel. “What can I get for you?”

  “Information,” I said.

  He smiled. “We don’t have that particular brand, but I’m sure we can find something that you’ll like.”

  �
�Funny,” I told him. “I’m actually looking for someone that comes in fairly often.”

  “Is that right?” His head angled to the left. “One of our staff or a customer?”

  “The second option,” I said. “She’s an attractive woman with brown hair. I believe that her name is Carrie. I have a picture of her that I can show you.”

  He shifted his weight from right to left. Then he said, “I’m a firm believer in customer confidentiality.”

  “Oh, I’m right there with you,” I said. “We’ve never met, but I’m the discreet, trustworthy type.”

  He glowered at me for a few seconds. “You know who else is the discreet, trustworthy type?”

  I shrugged.

  “Andrew Jackson,” said the bartender. “As in, Andrew Jackson on our nation’s currency.”

  I laughed at my own naïveté. Then I reached for my billfold, pulled out a twenty and put it on the bar.

  “There we go,” I said. “Anybody happens to see us talking, they’ll think that I’m paying for the glass of club soda that you’re about to pour for me.”

  He gave me a sideways glance. “For real?”

  I touched my throat and explained that I’d driven all the way from Crescent Creek without a drop of anything to drink.

  “You from up that way?” he asked.

  “Hometown,” I said. “I lived elsewhere for a few years, but came back to take over my family’s business.”

  He arched one eyebrow. “Family thing, huh? What kind of business?”

  “It’s a little bakery café,” I said. “My grandmother started it before I was born. She ran it for fifteen years, passed it on to my parents and a quarter century later it was my turn behind the checkbook.”

  The guy’s eyes suddenly widened. “What’s the name?” he asked. “That sounds kind of familiar.”

  “Sky High Pies,” I answered. “Do you know it?”

  Without warning, he gave a yelp and pumped one fist overhead.

  “I love that place!” he shouted. “My grandparents live in Briarfield. When I was little, we’d go up all the time to visit, and every trip included a stop at your family’s café for silver dollar pancakes and sausage patties!”

  “Talk about a small world,” I said as he pushed the twenty back across the bar.

  “I’ll take a look at that picture for free,” he said.

  “That’s okay,” I replied. “I really am thirsty. I’ll pay for the club soda. You can keep the rest.”

  “Seriously?”

  I nodded. “I’m Kate, by the way.” I extend my hand to shake his. “Kate Reed.”

  “I’m Scott,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”

  After he shared a few more childhood memories about Sky High, I pulled out my phone and showed him the picture of Carrie, Darren Rigby and Leo Leachman’s colleagues.

  As he examined the image, a smile bloomed slowly on his wide face. “That’s Carrie Norton,” he said. “Does she owe you money, too?”

  “No,” I said. “You?”

  His smile stayed strong and bright, but I noticed a subtle sag in his shoulders.

  “We dated for a while,” he said. “She’s an amazing woman. But if you don’t have a fat bank account or jumbo trust fund she loses interest by the third or fourth week.”

  “With all due respect,” I said, “if you met Carrie here, wouldn’t she realize that you might not have either of those things?”

  He flinched. “Ouch!”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have—”

  “No, no,” he interrupted. “You’re good. But tell me for real; why are you looking for Carrie?”

  “It’s complicated,” I said.

  He laughed. “Perfect! Because so is she.”

  “Do you know where I might be able to find her?”

  “If she’s not here, not at home and not at the plastic surgeon’s office,” he said, “she’ll probably be at work. It’s a lingerie store over on Market.”

  “I tried there already,” I said. “Where does she live?”

  He rattled off an address in the neighborhood. Then he warned me to try that as a last option because Carrie’s roommate was an angry, confrontational self-defense guru named Ultra Violet.

  “Ultra Violet?” I smiled. “Does she have a last name?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t know. Not gonna ask.”

  “I’ve met a few people like that in my life. The key is treading lightly, right?”

  He laughed again. “Treading lightly before you run as fast as possible in the opposite direction. I was with Carrie one night at her place, and Ultra Violet was on the phone with her boyfriend. Man! That chick has a pair of lungs like nobody’s business.”

  “Funny how those two things go together,” I said. “The proclivity to yell and the crabby personality.”

  He nodded. “So are you going to tell me why you want to talk to Carrie?”

  “Like I already said,” I replied. “It’s complicated.”

  “As complicated as two dead guys upstairs in one of the suites?” he asked. “As complicated as two stiff that both knew Carrie?”

  I glanced around to make sure we were alone. Then I moved closer to the bar. And then I asked my new friend what he’d heard.

  “Can’t really go into it here,” he said. “But if you want to meet me after my shift, I can tell you a couple of interesting details that I heard through the grapevine.”

  “Meet you here at the hotel?” I asked.

  He made a big show of shaking his head. Then he started to open his mouth, but a woman carrying a stack of menus came up and started lecturing him about how he’d left the bar in utter disarray a couple of nights earlier in the week. When she finished the harangue, she turned to me.

  “Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

  I smiled. “I think the same thing just about every other day.”

  She giggled loudly and then scampered away with the menus.

  “I should get back to work,” said the bartender. “Do you want to meet up at eleven?”

  I shook my head. “As much as I’d like to,” I said, “my alarm goes off at four-thirty every morning.”

  “Oh, sure! The pie place.”

  “Yes, the pie place,” I said, retrieving one of my business cards from my pocket. “But if you have time, I’d really like to hear about what you learned from the grapevine.”

  “Deal,” he said. “I’ll track you down tomorrow sometime.”

  “I’ll look forward to hearing from you,” I said. “Thanks for the chat. I appreciate the help.”

  CHAPTER 26

  “What is it with these people?” I teased after explaining my current quandary to Dina. “I ask a couple of questions, maybe press them on a point or two and they slip out the back door.”

  I was sitting in my car after leaving the Fenwick Hotel. Someone had double parked beside me, so I decided to use the time to report back about my reconnaissance trip to Denver.

  “So you aren’t kidding?” asked Dina. “Carrie really did run out the back door?”

  “That’s what happened,” I said. “I was polite. I was respectful. And I never once complained about the cost of the merchandise.”

  She laughed. “I’ve been in that place. It’s pricey.”

  “Five hundred for PJs?” I whistled into the phone. “Who spends that much for something that you can’t wear to a nice restaurant?”

  “Penny Murdoch,” Dina said quickly. “She and those other two were at Café Fleur once, crowing about how much loot they dropped at that place. But that’s a story for another time. Please tell me that you learned something helpful from your chat with Carrie before she did a runner.”

  “Okay,” I said. “She’s a beautiful woman with lots of confidence.”

  I waited for a response, but the line was quiet.

  “And she’s also skittish,” I said. “When I showed Carrie the picture that Olivia’s friend took of us at the rest
aurant, the one where she’s clearly visible in the background talking to Darren Rigby and the other men, she hightailed it out of Dodge.”

  Dina let out a sigh that sounded like air rushing from a balloon.

  “None of that is exactly what I’d call helpful,” she said. “Anything else?”

  “Funny you should ask,” I replied. “After Carrie ghosted me, I went back to the restaurant. The bartender there happens to be a fan of Sky High Pies, and he seems willing to give me some scoop, about Carrie as well as Tony Hett’s murder.”

  “Well, that sounds a bit better,” Dina said. “But do you mean that he seems or seemed willing?”

  “The first one,” I told her. “He wasn’t comfortable getting into it at work.”

  “Can you give him a call tonight?”

  I cringed at the question. How did I forget to ask for his number?

  “No,” I told her. “I’ll explain that later.”

  “I’ve got time,” she said.

  “Can we spend that on something else?”

  “As long as it’s relevant to the case,” she answered. “Otherwise, I should get off the line and get back to work.”

  “Are you still at the office?”

  “I am,” she said. “Is it because you forgot to get the bartender’s number?”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Going with my gut,” Dina said. “I think that you sometimes forget that we’ve known each other forever, Katie. I can tell when you hesitate that something is either wrong or you don’t want to admit to doing or not doing something.”

  “Guilty as charged,” I said. “But I have a good feeling about this guy. He resisted at first. You know, being the tough guy and everything. But once we broke the ice with the whole Sky High connection, it was like we developed an instant bond.”

  “Did you hold hands and sing Kumbaya?”

  “Pretty much,” I replied.

  She scoffed, but didn’t say anything.

  “So if I don’t hear from him tomorrow,” I continued, “I’ll drive down again and pay him a visit.”