by Mary Maxwell
“Didn’t the state police in New York investigate your father’s accident?”
“It wasn’t an accident,” Nigel said firmly. “It was fratricide, the cold-blooded and calculated murder of one brother by another.”
I blinked at the revelation. “Your father and Walter Shipp?”
“Brothers,” Nigel said solemnly. “Walter Shipp was my father’s younger brother. Remember the old picture in the envelope?”
I nodded.
“That was taken at an orphanage in Texas,” he said. “The place is long gone now, but it operated for about thirty years in a small town called London. My father and Walter were left there in the middle of the night by their mother after she decided that caring for them was too much for her to do alone. I guess our grandfather had abandoned the family a couple of years before that.”
“How heartbreaking,” I said. “That sort of trauma can scar you for life.”
“I know. But my father overcame his difficult childhood. He eventually moved to New York, started a successful construction company and sold it for millions about a decade ago.”
“And what about Walter?”
Nigel scoffed. “He’s always been a con man, trying to find the easiest way for someone else to make him rich.”
“Were they close?” I asked. “Your father and Walter Shipp?”
“Not at all.” Nigel shook his head and pushed back from the table. “Walter suddenly appeared in New York about six years ago, begging my father to loan him two-hundred grand so he could pay off his debts.”
“Why did they go hiking in Whetstone Gulf?”
“My father had the biggest heart you can imagine,” Nigel said. “Once they were reunited, he couldn’t just cut off his brother. He thought they should keep in touch and establish some type of connection.”
“Was the hiking trip your father’s idea?”
Nigel shook his head.
“Walter suggested it?”
“Yes, Walter proposed the trip to Whetstone Gulf. He told my father they could talk more openly and honestly if they were in the mountains. But it didn’t exactly…” His eyes closed and he sighed. “You know what happened after that.”
We sat in silence for a few moments. Nigel sipped from the CCPD mug on the table. I grabbed a breath mint from my purse and contemplated the situation. When the tension on his face had dissipated, I asked Nigel how his father’s fortune fell into Walter Shipp’s control.
“We haven’t figured that part out exactly,” he said. “The PI we hired is still digging into Walter’s financial records. He found a wire transfer out of our father’s bank to an offshore account, but the trail ended abruptly without leading us to the money that we know Shipp stole.”
I decided to drop the subject of the missing millions for the time being. Instead, I asked Nigel if the state police had interviewed the witnesses to their father’s accident.
“Don’t you mean his murder?”
I kept my eyes fixed on his. “What about the witnesses?”
“The state police don’t actually know about them yet,” he explained. “Annabeth and I asked the PI not to do anything with that development until we came out here to see Walter Shipp. I’m not sure how the investigator found the witnesses. And I don’t know how the state troopers missed them back when it happened. But our guy now has sworn affidavits and videotaped testimony that he’ll give us when we get home. Our lawyer said there’s a very strong chance it would be admissible in…” His voice faded as Trent knocked on the door and stepped into the conference room.
“Sorry to break up the party,” he said. “But I need to escort Mr. Summerfield to his suite for the night.”
Nigel’s eyes lit up. “Back to the motel?”
Trent sneered. “The holding cell downstairs, bud. Your intentions may not have been malicious, but we take burglary pretty seriously around these parts.”
I smiled at the folksy twang in his voice. “Is that really necessary?” I asked. “Nigel was feeling helpless. He was just looking for something that might help find his sister.”
Trent ignored my appeal and motioned for Nigel to get up. “Let’s go, bud.” He rolled his eyes at me. “And, Katie? See if you can stay out of trouble while I take Mr. Summerfield to his accommodations, okay? I’ll be right back for a little heart-to-heart.”
CHAPTER 28
The first thought that crossed my mind when the alarm rang the next morning was simple: I wonder how Nigel’s doing in the holding cell. Once Trent had taken his prisoner to the cell the night before, he’d returned to the conference room where I was waiting. “Maybe it’ll teach Mr. New York City Fancy Pants a little lesson,” Trent had said. “The kind of lesson you learn only after you’re caught trying to break into someone’s house.” I’d suggested it was also the kind of lesson someone could learn from a pointed conversation, but Trent defended the jail cell idea so vehemently that I eventually left the police station and went home.
As I stood in the shower, enjoying the warm water and my new rosemary mint shampoo, I thought about the day ahead. The book fair would run until four o’clock. If attendance was manageable and I heard back from Eugene Crisp, I’d be able to leave my sister alone in the booth for part of the day to explore the rest of my theory.
After finishing my morning routine and slipping into jeans and a gray fleece turtleneck, I grabbed my coat and purse before dashing out the door. Olivia was already in the Sky High booth when I arrived at the Civic Center a few minutes later.
“How do you feel?” I asked.
“Fine, Katie.” She squinted at me through the steam rising from a cup of coffee. “How about you?”
“Good,” I said. “I was afraid you might be a little sleepy after your night out with the girls.”
“Not at all,” she said, carefully sampling the hot brew. “I’m a warrior, sis. I can make do with very little sleep during the week.”
“And then what? You sleep all weekend?”
She giggled. “Not all weekend. Just a big chunk of it.”
As Liv straightened the promotional materials on the table, I saw Julia scurrying toward us from the far side of the exhibition hall. She was grinning widely and bouncing as she walked.
“Here comes a ray of sunshine,” I said, giving my sister a gentle nudge.
“Good morning, guys!” Julia was carrying a half dozen paperboard boxes from Sky High. “I forgot to load these in your car before you left earlier, Katie.”
“What are they?” I asked.
“The miniature Cocoa Loco Cupcakes,” she answered. “Do you want me to help set them out?”
“We’ve got it,” Olivia said.
“Yeah, we’re fine,” I agreed. “But I have one quick question. If you’re here delivering these, who’s running the kitchen?”
Julia gave me a theatrical wink. “That’s my little secret,” she said. “And don’t sweat it, Katie. I’m only going to be gone for a half hour tops. I’ll be back there in a flash.”
Despite her breezy confidence, I was still curious. “How about one clue?” I asked. “I’m kind of freaking out here, Jules.”
The reticent grin on her face blossomed into a buoyant smile. “Well, he’s pretty…handy,” she said slowly. “And he loves Irish whiskey.”
I felt my heart slam against my ribs. “Angus Martin?” I couldn’t believe that she’d left our craggy handyman in charge of cooking breakfast orders. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
“Relax, Katie,” Julia said confidently. “He told me that he actually spent two years as a short-order cook before going to work for the railroad.”
“And you believed him?” I demanded.
I felt Olivia tugging on my arm. “Katie, let it go. We need to get ready before the book fair opens in a few minutes.”
“Jules?” I gulped in a breath. “Tell me you’re joking.”
She shook her head and spun on her heel. “I’ve gotta get back there,” she said. “And I can guarante
e you that everything will be fine.”
As I watched her skitter toward the exit, I heard my sister’s voice near one ear.
“You worry too much,” she whispered. “Let’s take a deep breath and try to relax.”
I knew they were both right. Everything would be fine. And I needed to get a grip. Between running Sky High, preparing for the book fair and trying to figure out what was going on with Walter Shipp, it wasn’t surprising that I was uneasy about Angus Martin scrambling eggs, flipping pancakes and running the waffle iron.
“Actually,” my sister said, “why don’t you take a quick breather? You’re looking a little queasy, Katie.”
As Olivia went back to arranging mini cupcakes on a three-tier stainless steel display stand, I paused briefly to try and imagine our handyman wearing an apron and Sky High ball cap taking orders from Harper. Angus was a former railroad engineer who retired to Crescent Creek and opened his part-time handyman business. He was on the far side of sixty, highly opinionated and prone to swigging from a flask toward the end of the afternoon. When my pulse felt like it might stabilize, I knelt down to grab a few more stacks of Sky High flyers from where we’d stored them under the table.
“Put the brochures right here, Katie.” Liv pointed at a tray of Coco’s Chocolate Coconut Cookies that had been cut into bite-sized pieces. “And when you’re finished with that, maybe we could—”
Her suggestion was cleaved by the sound of my phone ringing in my pocket.
“Saved by the bell,” she said. “See who that is and I’ll go find more napkins.”
I gave her an appreciative smile and checked the Caller ID: Crisp Real Estate, LLC. After I answered, I heard a high-pitched squeak saying my name.
“Miss Reed?” I didn’t recognize the voice, but it definitely wasn’t Eugene Crisp. “Are you there, Miss Reed?”
“Yes, this is Kate Reed.”
“Oh, hi! This is Suzee Dirnhofer from Mr. Crisp’s office.”
“Sure, I remember. How are you?”
“I’m fine, thanks. You’d asked Mr. Crisp about some vacant properties that Walter Shipp had visited. He asked me to give you a call since he’s still tied up in Fort Collins.”
“Do you have the list?”
“Uh-huh,” Suzee said. “You ready?”
Before I could say a word, she quickly rattled off three addresses along with the current price for each. When she paused to take a breath, I thanked her and asked if she could send a quick text with the details.
“I could do that,” she said. “What’s your number?”
I smiled. “It’s the one you just dialed.”
“How silly of me!” Suzee giggled. “I guess I need another cup of coffee, don’t I?”
“That makes two of us,” I agreed. “More caffeine helps me get through anything!”
After she shared way too much information about why she was so sleepy—a colorful explanation that involved two cans of Reddi-wip and a boyfriend named Emilio—I offered my thanks again and told Suzee to have a good day.
CHAPTER 29
It was nearly noon by the time I felt comfortable leaving Olivia alone in the booth. Crowds throughout the morning had been larger than expected, so I wanted to greet as many as possible with a mini cupcake and an invitation to stop by and see us at Sky High.
When the throngs dwindled to an occasional visitor, my sister took a half hour break and returned with a fresh coat of lipstick, a box of Mike and Ike candies and a Diet Coke.
“Go on,” she’d insisted. “I can tell you’re getting antsy.” I promised to be back as soon as possible, dashed outside to the car and headed out of town with the list from Eugene Crisp.
The first property that Walter Shipp had looked at during his search for a getaway residence was located at 72 Signal Ridge Court. A one-story prefab box surrounded by pine and aspen trees, the dwelling looked like a DIY project gone awry. The front of the structure was painted a bright shade of blue, and someone had used orange and yellow paint to stencil leaves around every door and window.
“This does not look like Walter’s style,” I said, climbing the steps to the front deck and peering through a window. “And neither does that.”
Three walls in the living room were covered with flocked crimson paper and a huge sunset mural adorned the fourth. Built-in bookshelves on either side of the white brick fireplace held a large selection of Star Wars action figures. Since there was no furniture, I guessed that the current owner was still in the process of moving to their new residence in a galaxy far, far away.
I left the living room and walked down the deck to a window on the far side of the front door. I leaned forward, peered through the dusty glass and saw a dozen cardboard boxes arranged in two neat stacks. Each carton was labeled in thick black marker: STAR TREK / KIRK & SPOCK COLLECTIBLES.
“Okay, somebody really loves outer space,” I said, squinting at one box that sat alone on the kitchen counter. “Oh, and they saved a little corner of their universe for Snoopy, too.”
I left the assortment of memorabilia and wandered slowly around the house. The property was neat and tidy. Bushes were trimmed, the picnic table beneath a mature aspen tree looked like it had been repainted recently and a faded garden gnome stood watch from atop an empty birdbath. After looking in all of the windows and checking to see if any of the doors were unlocked, I decided that it was time to leave.
I walked back to the car, consulted Suzee’s text for the second address and drove off toward the west. I was about half way to the next stop when Trent called and asked why I wasn’t at the book fair.
“I’m standing here in front of your booth,” he said. “Liv’s spent the last five minutes explaining to Cyrus Branson that his Constitutional rights do not include eating all of the little cheesecake thingies that you brought.”
I laughed at the mental image of a retired political science professor and my sister debating the U.S. Constitution.
“Who’s winning?” I asked.
“I’d say it’s about even,” Trent answered. “Cy’s made some great points about civil liberties and Liv nearly scored a knockout by promising that you’d make him a personal-size cheesecake every month for the next year if he’d walk away from the booth.”
I groaned at the thought. Then I told Trent that I’d have to call him back.
“Why?” he asked. “Am I boring you?”
“Uh…”
“Don’t answer that,” he added quickly. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, sure. I’m just out running a couple of errands.”
He whispered something.
“What did you say?” I asked.
“I said ‘running a couple of errands’ is probably code for you’re out there sticking your nose in our investigation.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Uh-huh. And if I believe that, you’ve got a bridge to sell me, right?”
“I’m following a hunch,” I said.
He snickered. “Okay, Katie. As long as it doesn’t lead you off a cliff, I’m fine with that.”
He waited for a reply, but I didn’t say anything.
“And I’m just giving you a hard time,” he added with a laugh. “What are you really up to?”
I considered making up a reasonable response, but then I settled on the truth. I told him that I was visiting the other vacant properties that Walter Shipp had considered before buying his new cabin.
“You pulling my leg?” Trent asked when I finished.
“Nope.”
“How many have you been to so far?”
“Just the one on Signal Ridge Court,” I answered. “Why?”
“Because I’ve got Amanda Crane and Denny Santiago doing the same thing. Eugene Crisp’s assistant called earlier and gave us the list.”
I smiled. “I guess great minds think alike, huh?”
“Don’t try to be cute, Katie. Are you alone?”
“As far as I know,” I said.
Trent grunted. “
Dang it, Kate! I’m not fooling around. We haven’t got a clue who took Walter. They could be armed and dangerous.”
“I’ve got my Glock in my purse.”
“And you’re alone,” he said. “Not very smart, in my humble opinion.”
“I’ll be careful,” I promised. “I’m almost to the second place.”
“The one on Sequoia Trail?”
“No, I’ll go there next if I don’t find anything at the cabin on County Road 10. It’s pretty much smack dab between Signal Ridge and Sequoia.”
It sounded like the call had dropped, so I waited a few seconds before saying Trent’s name.
“Yeah, I’m still here,” he groused.
“And sounding pretty darn upbeat,” I joked.
“Katie,” he said in a somber tone. “You can be more than a handful.”
“Ah, c’mon. Don’t be a killjoy. I’ll be careful, okay? I’ve got my phone. I’ve got my gun. And I’ve got my spunk.”
“Yes, you do,” he said. “And that last one has gotten you into trouble more than once.”
CHAPTER 30
County Road 10 was a meandering two-lane stretch of dirt and gravel that looped north from Signal Ridge to Gibney Reservoir, a popular spot for hiking, fishing and boating.
As I drove toward the second entry on Eugene Crisp’s list, I thought about Walter Shipp, Nigel and Annabeth Summerfield and the curious cast of local characters who were now floating around the edges of my theory. I’d talked to Nigel enough to believe his story about the letter; it was only intended to intimidate Walter Shipp, not serve as the precursor to homicide. And, even though it seemed Walter was a pompous grumbler with a disastrous reputation, he didn’t deserve to be the victim of whatever dreadful act had occurred at his home the other night.
I was replaying the events from that evening in my mind when I saw a FOR SALE BY CRISP REALTORS sign ahead on the right. I’d driven on County Road 10 plenty of times, but had never once visited any of the secluded residences along the scenic route. Both sides of the thoroughfare were thick with trees, so I was glad the bright black-and-yellow metal sign was easy to spot.