by Mary Maxwell
I shifted the strap of my purse over one shoulder and grabbed the tray. “Okay, I give. What did he say?”
A playful grin appeared on Red’s face. “‘The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.’” The grin widened into a joyful smile. “Get it?” He wriggled both bushy eyebrows. “Second mouse? Fried cheese sticks? Mouse trap?”
I managed a faint giggle before heading for the door marked PRIVATE OFFICE near the ancient jukebox at the end of the bar. When I knocked softly, I heard Ivy on the other side.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me,” I answered. “Kate Reed.”
The door suddenly flew open. “Oh, thank goodness!” Ivy gushed. “I didn’t think you’d ever get here.”
She glanced over my shoulder, motioned me inside and quickly closed the door.
“It took ten minutes,” I said.
“Well, that’s the second time today that ten minutes felt like a lifetime.”
I smiled. “The second time?”
“The first was while I searched the library after I found the letter threatening to kill Walter Shipp.” She blinked a few times. “Or Warren Slocum.”
I cleared a spot on Red’s cluttered desk for the drinks and mozzarella sticks.
“Or Wilhelmina Sullivan,” I added. “If the letter is authentic, one of those three may be the intended victim.”
Ivy reached for her daiquiri, taking a long drink before putting the glass back on the desk. “Thank you for coming,” she said, plucking a paper napkin from the tray and delicately patting her lips. “I know this isn’t how you planned to spend part of your evening.”
“It’s fine, Ivy. I can tell that you’re upset. And if there’s anything I can do to help, I’ll be happy to lend a hand.”
She reached into her purse, came out with a large white envelope and slipped it into my hands. “Then you can start by taking this,” she said. “It’s the death threat along with the other things I found behind the copy machine.”
“Other things?”
She nodded. “An old snapshot, a newspaper article, alternate versions of the letter, a hand-drawn map of Crescent Creek and an order ticket from Sky High Pies.”
“Really? One of our tickets is in there?”
I carefully peered inside the envelope. I saw the familiar Sky High ticket tucked beside several sheets of Moonlight Motel stationery, the faded photograph and a rudimentary diagram of the town’s main streets and landmarks.
“I feel so much better,” Ivy sighed. “I hate to burden you with this dreadful business, Kate. But I truly didn’t know what to do. I just figured that your background as a private detective makes you more qualified to deal with…” Her gaze fell to the envelope in my hands. “…with whatever all of that is connected to,” she added. “Whether it’s a prank or a genuine threat on someone’s life.”
I put the envelope in my purse and reached for the glass of chardonnay. “Can you tell me again about finding the letter?”
Ivy glanced down at her lap, put one hand on her chest and cleared her throat. “It was about twenty minutes before I called you,” she said, gazing up. “I’d been putting some cookbooks on the shelf and started to walk back to the front desk when something caught my eye.”
“Behind the copy machine?”
She nodded. “Yes. I saw the envelope, so I went over and pulled it out.”
“What did you do next?”
She thought for a moment. “Well, since there’s nothing on the front or back, I looked inside to see if I could find out who it belonged to.”
“And that’s when you found the death threat?”
“Uh-huh. That’s basically how they…” She stopped and giggled. “I mean, that’s basically how I found it.”
“Okay,” I said. “Did you notice anyone unusual in the library today?”
“Not really,” Ivy answered. “Although, to be honest, I was pretty focused on last-minute details for the book fair. I didn’t exactly pay much attention to who came and went unless they were checking something out or had a question.”
“Oh, that’s right! The big book fair is on Thursday! I’m really excited about being in the Sky High booth for the first time. I also heard that Blanche Speltzer will be speaking about her new dating service.”
Ivy smirked. “As if I had a choice!” she grumbled. “After Blanche heard that one of our speakers was a romance novelist, she cornered a volunteer and wangled a spot introducing the woman. I guess she plans to include a brief mention of the new business in her remarks.”
“Blanche is actually a pretty good speaker. Have you heard her weekly spots on Clara Haberman’s early morning radio show?”
“Once or twice,” answered Ivy. “And I don’t disagree; Blanche is a wonderful woman. I think all of this death threat business has me tied up in knots. I don’t know how I’m going to get through the book fair after this horrible day.”
“How about meditation?” I suggested. “Or you could put bergamot and vetiver oil on your temporal bone.”
Her face collapsed into a grimace. “Some what oil on my where?”
“Bergamot and vetiver,” I said. “They’re both essential oils that help calm you when anxiety’s got the upper hand.” I reached over and lightly touched her left temple. “And this is where you’d rub them into your skin,” I explained. “Here just to the side of your forehead.”
Ivy held my gaze for a brief moment before giggling softly. “I’m glad you put all that in plain words, Kate. For a second there, I thought you were talking about some kind of witch doctor voodoo nonsense.”
I shook my head. “Fortunately, that’s not my bailiwick. I leave all the voodoo to Blanche.”
Ivy’s eyes narrowed. “Does that mean the rumors are true?”
“What rumors?”
“That Blanche learned to practice black magic during her trip to New Orleans.”
I laughed. “I was just kidding, Ivy. When Blanche was in Sky High the other day, she showed me an antique voodoo doll that she bought on her trip. She said it reminded her of June Camden, the little girl that used to torment her when they were five or six.”
Ivy smiled. “How in the world can she remember something that happened seventy-five years ago?”
“According to Blanche, it’s quite simple,” I said. “For the past thirty years, she’s rubbed rosemary oil on her temporal bone every morning when she gets up and puts it in her bath every night before bed. It helps protect the brain cells that are responsible for memory and logic.”
“Hogwash!” Ivy suddenly snapped. “I can’t believe you’d listen to Blanche’s voodoo baloney, Kate!”
I took another sip of chardonnay. Then I pushed the plate of fried mozzarella sticks toward Ivy.
“Why don’t you have a bite to eat?” I offered. “And I’ll go ask Red to fix you another daiquiri.”
She frowned and tapped one finger against her half-filled glass. “Oh, heavens no! I’ve got to be sharp as a tack tomorrow morning at six.”
“Is that when you set up for the book fair?” I asked.
Ivy nodded. “Harvey Bingham’s scheduled to arrive at six-fifteen to put up the tents and space heaters for the overflow crowd. The main auditorium at the Civic Center was jammed last year and several people complained about having to stand during our keynote speaker’s presentation. I’m not going to risk that kind of trouble again.”
“Sounds like a good plan.”
She smiled. “I hope so! The book fair is the library’s biggest event. We’ve got some very exciting authors this year, including a travel writer from New York City!”
“I’m sure it’ll be a huge success!” I said, patting her hand. “And don’t worry about the letter, okay? I’ll take a look at it later and let you know what I think.”
“Thanks again, Kate. You’re a lifesaver.”
CHAPTER 3
My mind was spinning with thoughts of murderous strangers and ill-omened threats when I returned to m
y apartment that night. I lived in a comfy suite of rooms on the second floor of the Victorian that housed Sky High Pies. My grandmother had purchased the building four decades earlier to serve as headquarters for her fledgling bakery and catering business. During the fifteen years that she ran Sky High, the upper level was used as guest quarters for Nana Reed’s friends and family members when they visited Crescent Creek. For the twenty-five years that my parents ran the business, the upstairs apartment became my father’s man cave, furnished with scruffy recliners, a massive television set and loads of camping gear. When I became the newest proprietor, I’d ditched my father’s beer-stained Barcaloungers and converted the space into a comfortable home.
After turning on the lights and leaving my keys on the table just inside the front door, I headed for the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Every bone in my body ached and there was a particularly virulent throbbing at the base of my neck, but I wanted to examine Ivy’s mystery letter before I soaked in a hot bubble bath. A steaming cup of Pumpkin Spice Brûlée Oolong and a cookie or two would bolster my energy while I studied the things Ivy had given me at The Wagon Wheel.
Once I’d filled the kettle and put it on the stove, I carried the envelope into the living room and settled onto the sofa. I carefully arranged the contents on the coffee table. Besides copies of the hand-written letter—apparently different versions the author had considered, the package contained four other items: a black-and-white photograph with something scrawled on the back, a Sky High order ticket for a pair of decaf cappuccinos and two slices of Red Hot Red Velvet Cake, a hand-drawn map of Crescent Creek and a newspaper article with the headline Banker Dies During Upstate Hiking Trip.
The Sky High ticket was from the previous Friday afternoon. Harper’s initials were stenciled at the bottom and circled twice, a simple shorthand she’d developed to indicate when orders had been delivered to the table and paid for at the register. Harper had also written a small CC/MC beside the total to indicate that the purchase was made with a credit card. The Sky High ticket alone wouldn’t be much help in identifying the author of the letter, but it might be a good place to start if I could match it to a specific credit card voucher. I made a mental note to ask Harper to help with that in the morning.
I put the Sky High ticket aside and reached for the photograph just as the kettle whistled on the stove. I quickly hurried to the kitchen, plucked a fresh bag of the flavored Oolong tea from the cabinet and filled my favorite mug with steaming water. Then I pulled two day-old thumbprint cookies from a Sky High paperboard box and returned to the living room.
After enjoying a few nibbles of the first cookie and a sip of the Pumpkin Spice Brûlée tea, I returned to the photograph on the table. Creased and wrinkled with age, the image showed two small boys dressed in raincoats and rubber boots. On the back of the picture, with faded pencil and an unsteady hand, someone had written a brief notation: CAS and WAS, Pennant Hill Children’s Home.
The map of Crescent Creek was a simple sketch drawn on the back of a paper placemat from Waffle World. A series of intersecting blue lines indicated the main streets, small yellow squares and circles denoted a few local landmarks and a bright red X had been added at the intersection of Broadhurst Street and Evergreen Road. Although I’d suggested earlier to Ivy that the letter could possibly be addressed to Warren Slocum or Wilhelmina Sullivan, I knew that the crimson mark indicated the location of Walter Shipp’s home.
After studying the map and photograph for a few more moments, I put them aside to read the letter. As Ivy had reported earlier, it was written in black ink on a sheet of stationery from the Moonlight Motel. It was unsigned and more than a little cryptic, but the missive contained a few compelling clues:
Dear WS,
My sister and I know you are responsible for our father’s death. We also know that you embezzled a small fortune from his business accounts before killing him. It’s taken us five years to find you, but we’re here now in Crescent Creek so that you can denounce your immoral deeds, confess to the authorities and return our inheritance. You must tell the truth about London and Whetstone Gulf or there will be deadly consequences. You have until midnight on Friday. We’ll be in touch.
And that was it; an unsigned note that simply ended with the promise of an ominous penalty if the recipient failed to meet a set of three demands.
After reading the letter again, I slipped it into the envelope along with the other items, leaned back on the sofa and closed my eyes.
“Motive, means and opportunity,” I said to the empty room. “Motive, means and opportunity.”
It was the mantra that I’d followed in Chicago when I worked as a private investigator. It was also the same guidelines used by the fictional detectives I’d enjoyed reading since childhood. While their names quickly filtered through my mind—Hercule Poirot, Jane Marple, Sherlock Holmes, Nick and Nora Charles—I grabbed my phone and dialed Trent. Ivy Minkler didn’t want to call the Deputy Chief of Police, but I knew it was the right thing to do. If the threatening letter was authentic and Walter Shipp’s life was in jeopardy, Trent Walsh needed to know.
Although Trent and I shared a tumultuous past—our fledgling high school romance had ended abruptly when he dumped me for Dina Kincaid—we’d forged a cordial professional relationship since I’d returned to Crescent Creek. It was also sweet irony that Dina, my teenage nemesis and Trent’s now ex-wife, was a detective at the Crescent Creek Police Department.
After dialing Trent’s number, I listened to the recording and waited.
“Hi, it’s Kate,” I said after the shrill tone. “I wanted to tell you about something that I think…” I considered leaving a description of the death threat, but decided it would be best to tell him the next day instead. “Anyway,” I continued, “can you give me a call tomorrow? I’ll tell you all about it when there’s time to talk.”
Before I could disconnect the call, I heard the faint beep-beep-beep alert on the line. I checked the screen and smiled. It was Ivy Minkler. I figured she’d be in touch again about the mysterious letter, but I hadn’t expected to hear from her less than an hour after our clandestine meeting.
“Ivy?”
“Kate?” A television droned in the background on her end. “It’s me,” said the fragile voice. “Ivy Minkler.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Besides finding a death threat at the library?” She laughed uneasily. “Yeah, everything’s peachy!”
“No, I mean right now.”
“You told me to call if I remembered anything else.”
I kept quiet, waiting for her to continue.
“Kate?”
“Yes?”
“Okay, good. I didn’t know if you were still there or not.”
“I’m still here.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m kind of on edge about all of this.”
I told her that was understandable. Then I asked her to fill me in on what she’d remembered.
“Well, as I was thinking about everything again, I recalled seeing Frank Prevost near the copy machine at the library earlier.”
“Frank Prevost?”
“Yeah, the guy from the UPS store,” Ivy said. “The short one with the limp and the bad toupée.”
“I’ve always wondered about that,” I said. “I mean, the guy’s around thirty-five or forty, right? He seems kind of young to have a hairpiece.”
Ivy laughed. “Hairpiece? Are you kidding me? It looks like a raccoon pelt. My friend Rita used to go out with him, and she has a hilarious story about the first time they—”
“And so?” I’d already heard about Rita’s experience with Frank Prevost from Danielle at the hair salon; it wasn’t something I needed to hear twice.
“Well, Frank was by the copy machine,” Ivy continued. “Then I saw him a few minutes later talking to a young woman that I didn’t recognize.”
“Can you describe her?”
“I think she’s what my daughters call a Goth,
” Ivy said. “Black hair, black clothes, black makeup and her lipstick was—”
“Black?” I asked.
“Purple,” answered Ivy. “My Charlotte tried wearing a similar shade to school one day, but I sent her right back to the drawing board! I told her that no Minkler child was going to be seen in public looking like she’d been French kissing a bottle of Bombay.”
“A bottle of what?”
“Oh, jeez!” Ivy giggled. “Bombay India ink. It’s the kind the kids use in art class. I had to order it special from a store down in Denver because Grover doesn’t carry it at his place.”
Grover Humphrey owned the small art supply store in downtown Crescent Creek. He also taught oil painting at the community center on Thursday nights. I knew that little nugget of information because my mother was a dedicated student for many years, despite the fact that her output resembled Rorschach inkblots left too long in the rain. “They’re abstracts,” she’d fume if someone suggested she try knitting instead. “And beauty may be in the eye of the beholder, but my foot’s going to be in your keister if you don’t stop scowling at my painting.”
I smiled at the memory of my mother’s blurry artwork and asked Ivy to clarify what she’d mentioned about Frank Prevost.
“What’s to clarify?” she asked. “I saw him by the copy machine. Maybe he’s the one making the death threats.”
“Anything’s possible,” I replied. “When was that?”
“About twenty minutes before I found the envelope.”
“Did you actually see Frank using the machine?”
She was quiet for a few seconds. “Well, I don’t think so. But you know how it goes, don’t you? It had been a long day. I didn’t sleep very well last night. And we’ve got the book fair this week. I was probably more focused on something to do with that instead of whether or not Frank Prevost was making copies of his kibbles and bits on the Xerox machine.”
I stifled a laugh. “Copies of what?”
“I was teasing!” Ivy snickered. “I once saw a movie where someone takes off his trousers and sits on the top of the…” Her gentle chuckle shriveled into silence. “Oh, never mind. It wasn’t all that funny. And it’s not an appropriate topic for discussion when someone’s life hangs in the balance.”