by Mary Maxwell
Murder by the Slice
Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries / 1
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.
© 2015 Mary Maxwell
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
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 1
“Where are the decorations?” Olivia shrieked, rushing into the kitchen with her arms flailing wildly. “It can’t be a grand opening without banners and balloons!”
I smiled as she gave me a quick hug. “This isn’t a grand opening,” I said, stirring the blackberry-apple turnover filling as it simmered on the stove. “It’s just another Monday morning. Sky High Pies has been here for forty years.”
“Well, I know that, silly!” She crumpled her artfully-plucked eyebrows into a smirk. “I’m talking about your grand opening! It’s your debut as the head honcho! And for something that historic, we need banners and balloons—lots and lots of balloons! I mean, who ever thought my baby sister would return to Crescent Creek and take over the family business?”
I managed another smile and silently counted to ten as she added streamers and sparkly confetti to her inventory of required decorations. The last thing I needed at six in the morning was my older sister babbling about balloons and banners. It was my first day as proprietor of Sky High Pies, the bakery café started by our grandparents ten years before I was born. After a restless night filled with dreams of scorched meringue, moldy strawberries and fatal flour avalanches, I was scurrying around the kitchen managing dozens of last-minute tasks before the doors opened at seven.
“What’s wrong with balloons?” Olivia asked again, planting one hand on her hip. “Mom and dad thought it was a cute idea.”
Staring at her squiggly frown and curious gaze, I took a deep breath and considered how quickly my life had changed. After ten years working for a private investigator in Chicago—first as his receptionist and eventually earning my PI license to assist with the case load, I’d returned to my Colorado hometown to take over the family business. My parents had announced the previous winter that they were ready to trade twelve tablespoons of cold unsalted butter, three cups of all-purpose flour, one teaspoon of kosher salt, one tablespoon of sugar, one-third cup of chilled vegetable shortening and one-half cup of ice water for a two-bedroom condo on Florida’s Gulf Coast.
“Your grandparents nurtured Sky High Pies with love, devotion and hard work,” my father had proclaimed while sharing their big news with our family. “For the past twenty-five years, your mother and I have been at the helm. Now it’s time for you kids to take charge. We think the three of you should come back home to Crescent Creek and work together as a team to keep the tradition going. Whenever you’re ready, just say the word and we’ll pass the torch.”
My sister had balked, citing her thriving life in Denver: law practice, busy social calendar, two energetic sons and one husband teetering toward a midlife crisis. My younger brother had grumbled something about being allergic to crimping, kneading and rolling dough. Despite his attempt at humor, I knew that Brody would never give up the surf and sunshine in San Diego—not to mention the brainy television anchor he’d been dating for the past year.
“I guess that leaves you, Kate,” my mother had declared. “We hope you’ll think about it.” I promised that I would. And that’s exactly what I did—I thought about it. For nearly a year. Until one recent afternoon when fate pushed me toward a major change. In one horrific day, three terrible things rocked my world: My boss was killed in what appeared to be a bungled robbery, leaving me grief-stricken and unemployed; the landlord announced that my affordable apartment was being converted to expensive condominiums; and, most catastrophically, my boyfriend of two years left me for our upstairs neighbor. “I’m really sorry, honey,” he’d said during our final conversation. “But Rebecca’s responsible and consistent. You’re flighty and artistic. When she’s sad, she goes for a run. When you’re sad, you make pies. And then you eat them in one sitting. She buys new clothes when she needs something to wear. You skulk around thrift shops shopping for stuff other people threw away. She likes reading Sherlock Holmes novels. You think you are Sherlock Holmes, always snooping around and looking for clues and calling me Watson.”
I didn’t argue with him. I cooked when I was stressed. I liked being creative and thrifty. And my childhood list of after-school activities had included playing detective with my best friend Harper. But the main reason I didn’t argue with my ex-boyfriend that horrific afternoon was because I suddenly realized that fate had also provided a truly appealing Plan B. The next chapter of my life would be written in a busy bakery café housed in a rambling Victorian with a wrap-around front porch, oodles of cozy charm and a second-floor apartment that I would call home.
I was reliving the awful memory of my boyfriend dumping me for the ten millionth time when a high-pitched yelp wrenched me back into reality. It was my sister, shouting even more stridently and thumping my shoulder with one plump finger.
“But do you want to know what’s really bugging me?” she demanded. “Besides the balloon thing?”
I shrugged. “I haven’t a clue, Liv. What’s got you so worked up?”
“My extra-firm control bodysuit!” she hissed. “It’s like expensive sausage casing made by fashionable sadists. These built-in foam-lined cups are cutting off circulation to everything below the girls.” She gestured at her ample cleavage. “Luckily, you can call Trent if I faint. I’m sure your high school sweetheart will be more than happy to come over so he can flirt with you again.”
“Trent’s a cop,” I reminded her again. “Not a paramedic.”
Since the moment I’d agreed to take over Sky High Pies, my sister had been teasing me to rekindle my romance with Trent Walsh. In high school, we were inseparable. Until, that is, Dina Kincaid wedged her slim, snooty self between us during a graduation party. Trent blamed everything on a bottle of cheap vodka, but the mouth-to-mouth action I saw before leaving that night left no doubt in my mind that h
e was far from smashed. I learned the next morning that Dina was telling everyone she’d slept with Trent, although he denied it ever happened. In the end, that disastrous evening helped sway my decision to leave home for Chicago. Through the grapevine, I kept track of Trent and Dina: marriage after college, side-by-side jobs with the police department, divorce after five years of unhappily ever after. These days, Trent and Dina still worked for the Crescent Creek PD: he sat behind the deputy chief’s desk and she worked as one of three detectives.
The hazy recollection of my first kiss with Trent was fluttering through my mind when Olivia screamed.
“I may have to take off this bodysuit,” she groaned. “Everything’s gone numb from my navel down.”
I listened patiently to my sister carp about balloons and her too-tight shapewear. The subjects may have changed, but I’d been doing the same thing for as long as I could remember. Olivia was thirty-five, half a decade older than me and several inches shorter. When we told people that we were sisters, they found it hard to believe. I was tall and willowy, with blonde hair and blue eyes. Olivia was short and round. As a young girl, she wore her red hair in pigtails. Now that she was the mother of twelve-year-old twin boys, juggling car pool duties and football practices and constant demands on her time, she favored a short bob. “It’s more practical,” she’d explained the first time I saw her peeking out from beneath the feathery bangs of a crimson hair helmet. “I can save a good twenty minutes every day with this carefree no-muss hairstyle.”
As always, her hair looked flawless as she slipped an apron over her head. “Well, Kate? Besides not having any balloons, are you ready for the first day?”
“I certainly hope so,” I said, glancing at the checklist I’d scribbled on the back of my hand. “Although I feel like I’m gonna drop any second. I barely slept last night. And I’ve been up since four, baking pies and trying to decipher Nana Reed’s recipe cards.”
Olivia walked over and gave me a big hug. “I never could read her chicken scratch,” she confessed. “But, lucky for you, I’ve got balloons covered.” She glanced at her watch and muttered under her breath. “Although I wonder where the heck they are,” she continued. “I told the guy at the party store that we needed them by—”
The little silver bell on the front door chime. I peered through the pass window across the empty dining room to see Harper Anderson. When she heard I was coming back to run Sky High Pies, my childhood best friend had lobbied for a spot on the employee roster. “I can do it all,” she’d told me confidently. “Bake pies, wash dishes, run the register, wait tables and mop the floor!” She’d giggled and twirled a lock of her dark hair around one finger. “And I can do it all at once or in whatever order makes the best sense for you!”
I gave her a little wave as she scurried across the room. “Sorry I’m late!” She stowed her purse under the counter and grabbed a Sky High Pies apron from the coat tree behind the register. “The police have Valmont Road blocked off, so I had to go back to College and then over to Jefferson and then—”
“Sounds like quite an obstacle course!” I interrupted. “I’m really glad you’re here for our first day. Can you start by making sure the dining room is all set?”
She spun around, glancing at the tables and chairs. “Looks good to me!”
“Maybe you could double check the napkin dispensers, water glasses and coffee cups,” I suggested. “I did all of that so late last night it could be a complete jumble. After that, maybe you can help in the kitchen if there’s time left before we open.”
As Harper went to work, my sister dipped one finger in the chocolate fudge frosting that I’d made for the Cocoa Loco Cupcakes.
“Hey!” I chided. “That’s not sanitary!”
“Sure it is,” she answered, holding her finger aloft. “I wiped my hand on my apron first.”
“Never again!” I warned. “Mom and dad may have allowed that kind of thing, but I’m in charge now and I want Sky High to be top-notch.”
Olivia rolled her eyes. “Okay, sure,” she muttered. “Whatever you say, boss lady.”
I let the comment slide, pulled an icing spatula from the drawer and thrust it toward my sister. “Can you please finish these cupcakes?”
“Aye-aye, captain!” she giggled. “Your wish is my command!”
“In that case,” I said, narrowing my gaze and leaning closer. “I wish you’d drop the baloney so we can get some work done.”
With another chuckle, she focused on the chocolate cupcakes while I started a batch of dough for the turnovers. Sky High Pies was known for a wide assortment of baked goodies: pies, coffee cakes, turnovers, scones, cupcakes and cookies. I wanted to have something in each category ready for my first day, and turnovers was the last thing on the list. As we worked quietly and Harper scurried into the kitchen muttering about placemats, the front door bell chimed again.
“That better be the balloons,” my sister grumbled. “Or I’m gonna be one grouchy customer.”
Harper watched her head for the front door. “Isn’t your sister always a grouchy customer?”
“She means well,” I said. “When she offered to come and help during my first week, I told her it wasn’t necessary. But she insisted, so I’m going to make the best of it.”
I heard Olivia squealing cheerfully before a deep voice boomed in the dining room.
“Sorry I’m late,” a man said. “The cops closed Valmont Road, so I had to go back to College and then—”
The rest of his explanation was crushed by a torrent of obscenities from Olivia that made my cheeks turn red.
“I’m going to kill someone!” she shrieked. “How could you be so stupid?”
I hurried out of the kitchen. A freckle-faced guy wearing paint-spattered coveralls stood in the middle of the dining room. He was holding an enormous bouquet of bright red balloons imprinted with SKY HIGH PIPES in dazzling white letters.
He glanced at me. “Where do you want these?”
“How about the city dump?” I suggested.
The guy winced. “Ah, c’mon, lady. I got out of bed extra early to blow these up.”
“Well, you should’ve used more dynamite,” I said. “I didn’t order any balloons.”
Olivia stomped one foot. “Well, I did!” she proclaimed, glaring at the helium-filled crimson mistakes. “And I can’t believe you didn’t check these first!”
The bewildered deliveryman gazed up at the balloons.
“I mean, really!” Olivia screeched. “You’ve got the name of the café spelled wrong!”
The guy leaned to one side, carefully studying the balloons above his head. “Well, can you believe the luck?” he groaned loudly. “I thought something looked weird.”
CHAPTER 2
It was nearly ten when I finally stopped to catch my breath, sip a cup of coffee and delight in the joy of my new undertaking. The first three hours of the morning had blurred by in a steady stream of customers, special orders for the next two days and my sister’s profuse apologies for Balloongate. After the delivery guy left earlier, taking the bundle of botched decorations through the kitchen to the trash cans in back, Olivia had followed me around for the longest time.
“I don’t know what happened,” she’d gushed. “It seemed like Muldoon knew what he was doing.”
I smiled. “Muldoon? Is that the guy’s first name or last?”
My sister shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s what he had on his name tag at the store.”
“And you went to Perfect Party on Coldwater?”
She nodded.
“I didn’t see him when I was in there the other day,” I said.
“He’s just passing through Crescent Creek,” Olivia explained. “One of those free spirits or something. I guess he lucked into a temporary job helping the woman that owns the party shop. You know who I mean—the one with the braid down her back?”
I thought for a moment. “That’s Sandy Ingernook,” I said. “Or Ingersoll.”
&nbs
p; “Whatever,” Olivia said. “I guess Muldoon asked if she needed help around the shop for a few days. Her regular delivery guy is in the hospital, so it was like kismet!”
“Or lucky timing,” I said. “But that doesn’t explain how he confused pies and pipes, huh?”
She scowled. “I wrote the name myself on the ticket. And Muldoon repeated it back to me a dozen times.” She’d paused long enough to roll her eyes and heave a fluffy sigh. “But I was eventually satisfied that he wouldn’t muck it up.”
I’d stopped crimping the edges of a peach pie. “A dozen times?”
Olivia nodded.
“Maybe that should’ve been your first clue,” I suggested. “If it took him twelve attempts to get the name right, you might have suspected that there might be trouble later.”
“Oh, don’t be mean, Katie. The guy’s new in town, and he was just trying to earn a living.”
“By misspelling Sky High Pies?”
She’d rolled her eyes. “I don’t get the sense that his middle name is Einstein or anything,” she’d told me. “He was living somewhere back east before he came to Colorado. From the conversation I overheard when I was ordering the balloons, he spent some time in prison. Let’s just hope he moved to Crescent Creek to turn over a new leaf.”
I’d scoffed. “He obviously didn’t come here to enter any spelling bees!”
In the end, we’d agreed to disagree. There wasn’t time to debate Muldoon’s handiwork. As the hours clicked by, I divided my time between the kitchen, where I helped Julia, the expert dessert ninja I’d inherited from my parents, and the dining room, where I joined Harper and my sister in greeting guests, pouring coffee and listening to longtime diners recount their favorite Sky High memories or share their thoughts about the third generation of our family taking over the business. Unfortunately, not everyone was thrilled that I was now in charge of the local landmark.
“Somebody told me that you’re calling the shots as of today,” said Blanche Speltzer, an eighty-year-old spitfire who worked as a history teacher at the local high school until her seventy-fifth birthday. “What happened to your parents?”