by Mary Maxwell
I expressed my concern for the injured drivers and then asked if he’d heard anything around town about Walter Shipp.
“The rich guy that snubbed Sonya Lipton?”
“One and the same.”
“Yeah, I witnessed that mess at The Wagon Wheel,” Trent said. “Sonya screeched like a banshee and Walter spewed a bunch of obscenities I’d never heard before!” He laughed at the memory. “Is that what you’re talking about?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “Have you heard any other gossip about the guy? Anything a little more recent maybe?”
“No, thank goodness.” He paused to blow his nose. “Sorry, that must sound disgusting over the phone.”
“I’ve heard worse,” I said.
Trent laughed again. “Why are you asking about Walter Shipp? Have you heard something?”
“Yeah, but you know what? Let me poke around a little bit. I’ll let you know if I come across anything of interest. It sounds like you’re pretty busy today. I probably shouldn’t have bothered you.”
He groaned loudly. “You’re never a bother, Katie. It’s just that I’ve got my hands full and this cold is making me kinda impatient with things.”
I smiled at the remark. When we were kids, Trent was known as Mr. Impatient because he was always the first one ready to go—on the football field, at track meets and in the classroom. When other athletes and students took longer to prepare for whatever they were doing, Trent would inevitably spurt a few choice words to get them motivated.
“Katie?”
I suddenly realized that my mind had wandered while Trent described everything that was keeping him so busy.
“Yeah?”
“Didn’t you hear me?” he said, sounding annoyed. “I just asked if you’re sure it can wait.”
“Of course, it can.” I watched the stoplight flicker from red to green. “I’ll let you go. Maybe we can talk later in the week.”
He coughed and wheezed. “Okay, but tell me something real quick.” His voice shifted from prickly to playful. “Why are you asking about Walter Shipp? Isn’t he a little old for you?”
I sighed. “I’m not interested in dating him,” I said. “I just heard something yesterday that seemed a little odd.”
Trent laughed. “That’s every day in my world, Katie. At first glance, Crescent Creek looks like a sleepy little mountain town. But you’d be surprised at the kooks and shady goings-on just below the surface.”
“I know that, Trent. I grew up here, remember? I haven’t forgotten about the time that Jewel Steinhauer tried to scalp her husband with a carving knife because he made eyes at another woman. Or the Carvers. Remember them?”
“Remember them?” Trent asked. “We just ticketed Daphne again for speeding in a school zone.”
“What was her excuse?” I asked. “Running late for a bikini wax?”
Trent’s soggy snicker turned into a muffled cough. “How’d you know that?” he asked suspiciously. “Have you talked to Daphne since it happened?”
“No, it was a lucky guess,” I said. “Was that really her excuse?”
“Yep. She asked Bennington if he wanted to see how badly she needed some…uh, maintenance down there,” Trent hesitated. “But he just wrote out the ticket and told her to drive more carefully next time.”
“Sounds like good advice,” I said. “But, hey—I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“Sure thing,” he said. “But before I hang up, can’t you give me a hint why you’re interested in Walter Shipp?”
“You’ve got enough on your plate right now,” I answered. “If this business with Walter develops into anything significant, you’ll be the first person I call.”
CHAPTER 9
Walter Shipp lived in a white colonial house with blue shutters on Evergreen Road, a narrow, tree-lined lane with some of the most desirable real estate in Crescent Creek. When I was growing up, the place belonged to Hugo and Tricia Blackwell, a charming couple with a flock of six lanky redheads. When the last of their brood, a boy my age named Rudy, left for a job on an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico, the Blackwells sold the family homestead to Walter Shipp before buying a condo in Denver.
Although I was living in Chicago at the time, my mother always kept me updated on the town’s shifting population. When Walter arrived five years ago, she explained that he was a retired Wall Street banker with slicked-back silver hair, a vintage bright red Ferrari coupé and a new bride less than half his age. “The old goat’s pushing sixty-five,” my mother had quipped. “But his wife looks like the ink’s still wet on her high school diploma.”
During his first year in Crescent Creek, Shipp’s wife left him for a hunky ski instructor, the Ferrari ended up wrapped around a tree during a blizzard and people in town started to suspect that the wealthy bachelor was hiding more than a few skeletons in his closet. After several months alone in the sprawling house, Walter hired Alma Cassidy, a bubbly local woman with a keen wit and boundless patience, to serve as his housekeeper. Besides cleaning, running errands and doing Walter’s laundry, Alma prepared meals that he could reheat in the evening after she’d left for the day.
As I parked in front of the house, I thought about Alma’s bouncy laugh. She was usually a bright addition to any day; an outgoing raconteur who always had good stories to tell and new jokes to share. But the woman who opened the door a moment later, holding a can of furniture polish and a feather duster, looked a million miles from cheerful.
“He’s in a wretched mood,” she whispered. “Leave now and save yourself from slaughter.”
I giggled at the gallows humor. “And hello to you, too!”
Alma’s grim scowl swooped into a buoyant smile. “I’m just kidding, Katie! How are you?”
Alma was about forty-five, with straw-colored hair, a wide face and glittering hazel eyes. She was dressed in a lavender sweater over a simple white blouse and gray slacks.
“I’m great, thanks. How about yourself?”
Her eyes rolled from side to side in an exaggerated grimace. “I’d be better if Mr. Grumpenstein wasn’t so crabby.” She lodged one hand on her hip and noticed the Sky High box in my hand. “Is that for the lord of the manor?”
I nodded. “His favorite,” I answered. “Red Hot Red Velvet with—“”
“I know,” she interjected. “Butterscotch topping on the side. That was the first thing the old curmudgeon told me when I started. ‘I don’t eat cake or pie without plenty of butterscotch sauce.’”
Her singsong delivery made me smile. “I haven’t seen him lately,” I said. “And I didn’t want to show up unannounced without a gift.”
“Well, maybe that will help turn his frown upside down.”
I peered around her into the foyer. “Is he busy?”
“Barricaded in the study,” she said. “We just finished our third squabble about how noisy the vacuum is while he’s trying to read his newspaper.”
“Mind asking if he can spare a few minutes?”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Alma’s lips formed a wicked grin. “He’s in rare form today, Katie. Some of the curse words he’s used were so bad I threatened to wash out his mouth with soap.”
“How’d that go?”
She chortled loudly. “He unleashed another flood of foul language,” she said. “I told him to keep it up if he wanted to live in squalor. I’m not kidding; some days are so dicey around here that I think about throwing in the towel and looking for a new job.” The mournful look on her face was quickly replaced with another smirk. “I’ve been here almost five years,” she added. “A girl can stand only so much. Know what I mean, Katie?”
I nodded. “I definitely know what you mean. And if you’re serious, Pinky Newton is looking for someone to help at the flower shop.”
Alma waved the feather duster overhead. “Oh, I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “Despite his temper and the naughty words, I rather like working for him. He’s actually a very generous and thoughtful man. Last
summer, when he heard that my cousin had been diagnosed with breast cancer, Mr. Shipp arranged for Nancy and her husband to meet with a specialist in Boston. He paid for everything, too. The airplane tickets, hotel room, all of their meals. It was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for someone in my family.”
After we talked briefly about her cousin’s health, I asked Alma if she would check with Walter to see if he had time for a quick chat. But before she could even answer my question, he scurried around the corner into the entryway.
“Is someone at the door, Miss Cassidy?”
Dressed in a tweed jacket, blue button-down shirt, khakis and leather slippers, Walter Shipp looked every bit the part of a former Wall Street titan. His face was tan and relaxed, his silver hair gleamed with pomade and there was a flicker of good humor in his eyes.
“Well?” he boomed. “Who’s there?”
She winked at me and turned around. “It’s Kate Reed, sir. She stopped by to see you.”
He squinted over the top of his reading glasses. “Kate who?”
I gave him a little wave. “Hi, Mr. Shipp. We met a few weeks ago at Sky High Pies.”
Walter slipped off the glasses. “Well, of course,” he said. “The pretty blonde with the lovely smile. I remember you, Miss Reed.”
Alma stepped aside, keeping one hand on the door and the other propped on her hip.
“I was wondering if you had a moment,” I said.
He narrowed his eyes slightly. “For what?”
I looked at Alma before turning back to Walter.
“It’s actually a personal matter,” I said. “Can we talk in private for a few minutes?”
Walter grinned and chuckled. “A personal matter? Did Blanche Speltzer send you, Miss Reed?”
The question was unexpected, so I fumbled for a response. “Well, uh…”
“I signed up for her dating service,” he continued with a coarse laugh. “I saw your photo on her blog and told her you were exactly my type.”
“That means you’re young enough to be his granddaughter,” Alma muttered. “But old enough to drive him around.”
Walter glared at her. “Don’t you have some noise to make somewhere with that blasted vacuum, Miss Cassidy?”
The corners of Alma’s mouth quivered slightly before lifting into a carefree smile. “Yes, I believe that I do,” she said. “Should I bring coffee for you two first?”
Walter nodded. “That would be perfect!” he said brightly. “We’ll be in the living room.” He glanced at me and gestured toward the arched doorway on the opposite side of the foyer. “Right through here, Miss Reed.”
I smiled at Alma before following Walter into an expansive room that smelled of furniture polish and cigar smoke. He sat in a tufted leather wingback chair while I perched across from him on an overstuffed sofa covered in pale blue silk. The coffee table between us was covered with orderly stacks of magazines, correspondence and manila folders.
“Sorry about the mess,” he said, aiming one slender finger at the table. “I like to use this room to open and sort my mail.” He bobbed his head toward the windows over his shoulder. “Great view of the mountains in the morning,” he added. “For some reason, that helps me focus on the drudgery of the task. Ever since I retired and moved to Colorado, things like letters and invoices and bank statements hold such little interest for me.”
The remark seemed curious, but I simply smiled. “I heard that you might be feeling a little under the weather.” I lifted the Sky High box. “Maybe this will cheer you up. It’s a big slice of red velvet cake with butterscotch sauce on the side.”
“My favorite!” Walter cheered. “How kind of you, Miss Reed.”
“Please,” I said. “Call me Kate.”
He nodded.
“I don’t know if you remember or not,” I went on, “but when we met at Sky High, you told me that your grandmother always served cakes and pies with butterscotch sauce.”
“Did I now?”
“Yes, and so I wanted to—”
I stopped in mid-sentence when a thin, metallic version of Frank Sinatra’s voice suddenly erupted from the pocket of Walter’s jacket. Start spreadin' the news. His face went bright red as he lurched from the chair. I'm leavin' today. He quickly retrieved the ringing phone and checked the screen. I want to be a part of it. An apologetic smile glimmered beneath his watery blue eyes. New York, New York. He tapped the screen and glared at the phone.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Reed. But I need to take this.” The smile had vanished; his face suddenly looked strained and anxious. “It’s my sister calling. I’ll be right back in just a moment.”
As he shuffled across the faded Oriental carpet toward the entryway, I looked down at the coffee table. I felt a twinge of guilt for snooping, but it was an old habit from my previous life as a PI in Chicago. After ten years visiting clients, witnesses and perpetrators in their homes and offices, I knew that clues were often hidden in plain sight. I scanned a scribbled list on a legal pad: Clean air ducts, donate billiard table to VFW, call attorney regarding estate plans, book Hilton Head flight and hotel for Gilroy’s charity tournament. The entries seemed routine and conventional; the types of activities that I imagined were common for plenty of retired executives. I was reading the list again when a piece of paper beneath a folded copy of The Wall Street Journal caught my eye. I instantly recognized the light green shade; it was the same color as—
“The Moonlight Motel,” I whispered. “And that handwriting is…”
I carefully lifted the newspaper and felt a chill down my spine as I saw the familiar text from the letter Ivy found at the library:
To: WS
My sister and I know that you are responsible for our father’s death. We also know that you embezzled his fortune before killing him. It’s taken us five years to—
“Is he still yammering on the phone?”
I quickly dropped the newspaper and looked across the room. Alma was gliding toward me with a small silver tray that held two white porcelain mugs and a plate of cookies. I gulped in a breath, hoping that she hadn’t noticed my snooping. I watched while she carefully placed the tray on the table and handed one of the mugs to me.
“Thanks,” I said, trying to sound calm and composed while my heart fluttered nervously. “It smells really delicious!”
Alma smiled and pointed at the Sky High box on the sofa beside me.
“Does that need to be refrigerated?”
“If you don’t mind.” I scooped up the box and handed it to her. “And thanks again for the coffee.”
“My pleasure,” she said. “And, just so you know—it’s decaf. Whenever Mr. Shipp gets like this, I cut way back on the caffeine.”
“Probably a good idea for lots of people,” I agreed. “If I have more than three cups in the morning, I tend to get a little jittery.”
She chuckled. “He’s way past the jittery stage,” she said. “I’m not sure what’s got him so wound up, but there’s something—”
Shipp’s voice suddenly exploded in the foyer. “Are you out of your mind?” he shouted. “I will never do anything of the sort, young lady! I had nothing to do with—”
As quickly as the volume had erupted, he suddenly began talking in a hushed tone, glancing over his shoulder once or twice. When our eyes met, he smiled and I nodded.
“See what I mean?” Alma said quietly. “Something is really troubling him these days.” She shrugged. “I asked if he wanted to talk, but he put on his stoic face and told me to mind my own business.”
When she paused for my reply, I simply smiled.
“Well, then,” Alma said. “Anything else I can bring for you, dear?”
“I’ll just sip my coffee and wait for him to—”
Shipp thundered again at the top of his lungs. I couldn’t understand much of what he yelled into the phone, but the deafening roar flooded the hallway and ricocheted into the living room.
“Absolutely not!” he screamed at one po
int. “And if you don’t stop pestering me, I might do something that we’ll both regret!
CHAPTER 10
When the shouting ended, Alma’s eyes were wide as saucers and her lips had formed a solemn frown.
“Are you okay?” I asked gently.
“Oh, I’ll be fine,” she whispered. “I’m used to it by now. He’s been like that for the past few days, Kate. Mood swings, strange phone calls, a temper so short I’ve essentially stopped trying to carry on a normal conversation with the man.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “All that shouting and cursing must be difficult to deal with.” I paused briefly while Walter’s voice thundered again in the foyer. “He’s always so nice and friendly when he comes into Sky High.”
Alma looked at me, raising one eyebrow. “I honestly have no idea what’s going on with him lately,” she said. “And you know what?” She glanced anxiously toward the foyer. “He just told you a blatant fib, Kate. He doesn’t even have a sister.”
“That’s interesting,” I said. “But I don’t really know much about Walter. I’ve only talked to him a few times.”
The housekeeper’s frown deepened. “I actually feel sorry for the man,” she said. “Walter had a brother, but he died in some type of accident a few years back.”
“That’s terrible,” I said. “Were they close?”
She answered with a quick shrug. “They were both adopted by different families from an orphanage in Texas,” she said. “The brother was six; Walter was two years younger. He told me the story shortly after I started working for him. And that’s the surprising part about what just happened, Kate. I’ve never known him to tell anything but the truth, even about something as painful as a difficult childhood.” She paused and took a breath. “But I simply don’t understand his odd behavior these days. Telling lies. Acting all secretive. Sending me home earlier than usual twice last week and then again yesterday.” She frowned, shaking her head sadly. “Since the mess with Betsy Flood, he’s been minding his manners. But in the past few days, it seems like all bets are off.”