An Imitation of Murder (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 9)

by Mary Maxwell

  An Imitation of Murder

  Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries / 9

  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.

  © 2016 Mary Maxwell 08272016

  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 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  NANA REED’S SKY HIGH RECIPES

  CHAPTER 1

  It was a gray, rainy afternoon in late August. I was sitting across from Pia Lincoln in the empty dining room at Sky High Pies, the bakery café that I run in Crescent Creek, Colorado. The last customers had departed an hour earlier after an especially busy day. Julia, our talented chef and dessert maven, was in the kitchen decorating a cake for a special order, while Harper, my childhood friend and overseer of the dining room, was behind the front counter restocking napkin dispensers and humming cheerfully as she worked.

  “Do you mind if I ask a personal question?” Pia said with a cheerful smile.

  As the most popular caterer in town, she stopped by at least once each week for sweet treats or savory appetizers to enhance the menus she created for a wide array of extraordinary events. With her slim figure, immaculate wardrobe and vivacious personality, Pia was a natural when it came to blending the creativity, diplomacy and boundless energy required to satisfy discerning clients and their guests.

  “What do you want to know?” I asked, hoping she might return the favor by divulging the beauty regimen that made her porcelain skin so smooth and unblemished.

  “It’s about business here at Sky High,” she said, gesturing at the empty chairs and tables with one slender hand. “If, that is, you don’t mind.”

  Originally opened by my grandmother more than four decades ago, Sky High had been managed by my parents until I took over the previous year after leaving my career as a private investigator in Chicago.

  “By all means,” I said. “What do you want to ask?”

  Pia leaned forward. “I’d like to know how you do such a great job running this place without losing your mind.”

  I smiled at the compliment. “I learned a lot from Nana Reed and my parents,” I said. “Besides, I have an incredible team. Harper manages the dining room single-handedly and Julia does an incredible job as chef. I basically run back and forth between the two, lending a hand wherever it’s most needed.”

  As one of the most successful caterers in town, Pia had earned a reputation for delicious food and flawless service. Before opening her business in Crescent Creek, she’d worked for more than a decade at The Avalon Inn in Vail, a chic hotel that catered to rich and famous visitors from around the world. But after more than a decade juggling special events and a coterie of high-profile guests, she’d decided to simplify her professional life. Her father’s family was from Crescent Creek, so she opened The Gracious Gourmet in a storefront on one of the main streets in our downtown business district.

  “Maybe I should hire a full-time assistant,” Pia said ruefully. “I keep thinking I can do it all with outside resources and temporary staff, but the last few months have nearly killed me.”

  We’d met that afternoon to discuss cupcake options for the party one of Pia’s longtime clients was throwing for their puppy. I’d been skeptical when she left the original message, but our subsequent conversation had confirmed that Simone Strickland was spending a small fortune to celebrate her dog’s first birthday.

  “To be honest,” I said as Pia sighed sadly, “I’ve been wondering about that. And also worried about you. Between running from one meeting or event to the next, designing all of the menus, invitations and décor, managing the RSVP lists and holding your clients’ hands, you must be absolutely exhausted at the end of the day.”

  Pia frowned. “I thought my sister worked a lot of hours as an attorney,” she said. “But life as a caterer can be even more grueling.”

  “I didn’t know Liza was a lawyer,” I said. “Is she still in Denver?”

  “Yes, but she’s up here fairly often now,” Pia said. “Her firm just acquired a local outfit.”

  “No kidding! My sister’s an attorney down in Denver, too.”

  Her face brightened with a sparkling smile. “Yet another thing we have in common, right?”

  “One of many,” I said. “Like surrounding ourselves with talented people who can help shoulder the burden.” I reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “I think hiring someone would be a very wise move. I’ll be happy to help in any way that I can.”

  The grin on her face brightened even more. “Really? Do you know anyone who might be looking for work?”

  “Blanche Speltzer told me that Amelia Cullen is in the market for something new,” I answered. “Apparently, she hates her boss and the job.”

  Pia laughed. “Amelia hates every job she’s ever had. I ran into her last week at the bank.”

  “Okay,” I said with a smile. “Maybe she’s off your short list.”

  “It’s nothing personal,” Pia said. “But I’ve known Amelia since I moved to Crescent Creek. She’s one of those people who seems happiest when they’re miserable.”

  “Well, that’s kind of unfortunate.”

  Pia nodded. “I know,” she agreed. “Amelia keeps thinking the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.”

  “Did she tell you why she’s unhappy working at the medical supply place?”

  “Yes,” Pia said. “Because they won’t let her telecommute.”

  I smiled. “Isn’t she the front desk receptionist?”

  “That’s right, but she saw this thing called a BeamPro on TV,” Pia explained. “It’s a flat-screen monitor mounted on a pair of legs that attach to a base with two wheels. There’s a camera on the top that swivels like a big Cyclops eye.”

  “How would that work?”

  “Amelia would be at home, comfy in her PJs,” Pia said. “But she could still greet guests, forward phone calls and respond to all the emails.”

 
We were both laughing at the absurdity of the concept when Pia’s phone rang. She checked the display, frowned slightly and asked if we could take a little break.

  “It’s another client,” she said. “I’m doing their anniversary party next weekend, and we’re having a tug of war about a few minor details.”

  “Sure thing,” I said, getting up from the table. “I’ll refill the carafe with fresh coffee and maybe grab a couple of cookies.”

  Pia gave me a thumbs up before answering the phone. As I crossed the room and went behind the counter, I could tell from her bubbly tone that the call was going well. When I returned to the table a few minutes later with a fresh pot of decaf and a few snickerdoodles, she was once again smiling and brushing a shock of bright red hair from her eyes.

  “I’m going to be on my way in a few minutes,” she announced. “Vito Marclay just sent me a text. He wants me to come right over and take a look at a tube of paint.”

  I stared speechlessly for a second or two before asking her to explain.

  “Oh, sorry!” Pia said with her usual sparkling confidence. “Haven’t you met Vito yet?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, he’s an amazing artist,” she said with extraordinary reverence. “His paintings are in the Whitney, the Guggenheim, the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston and a bunch of other famous places.”

  “Is he a new arrival in town?” I asked.

  Pia’s cheeks brightened with a trace of pink. “Vito moved to the area last winter, so he’s relatively new. He was a client at first. But things got pretty up close and personal in the past few months, despite the fact that my sister thinks I could find someone with more desirable qualities and fewer stars in their eyes. She thinks Vito’s shady and not to be trusted, but I think he’s the most wonderful man I’ve ever met! And he has the sweetest Southern accent, too. Something that I’ll be happy to hear for the rest of my days!”

  The meaning was more than a little obvious. The pale pink in her cheeks had turned a vivid crimson.

  “He proposed last night, Katie!” she gushed excitedly. “I’ve been dying to tell someone and I’m so glad that you’re the first to hear the news!”

  CHAPTER 2

  Sitting in Blanche Speltzer’s living room that night around seven, I listened politely as Gilda Stone recited the bylaws for a new organization that was being formed to promote Crescent Creek with tourists. Although Sky High and my personal life kept me busy, I’d accepted Blanche’s invitation to help launch the effort along with Gilda and two other civic boosters, June Calloway and Roxie Lambert.

  As Colorado natives and devoted small town aficionados, we all extolled the virtues of our hometown on a regular basis. Blanche included articles about local businesses and personalities in the blog she wrote to promote her matchmaking service. Gilda, a 35-year-old realtor and single mother, praised the area whenever someone called to inquire about local houses for sale. Customers at June Calloway’s consignment shop knew that the 50-year-old former runway model had her pulse on the town’s latest news as well as some of its best bargains on designer frocks. And Roxie Lambert was a 45-year-old firecracker who ran a small advertising agency and donated countless pro bono hours to help publicize the town with travel agencies and tour operators across the country.

  When Gilda finished reciting the passage from the proposed bylaws, Roxie Lambert’s hand shot straight up in the air.

  “I didn’t catch the part about how long directors will serve,” she said in a tone that mixed dollops of indignation with a slender wedge of disdain. “Can you go over that again?”

  I glanced at Blanche. There was a prickly look in her eyes and she was fingering the pearls around her neck with one willowy hand.

  “Really?” said the 80-year-old retired school teacher. “Wasn’t that the fifth time we’ve heard that part?”

  “Yeah,” June Calloway called from behind her glass of rosé. “Give it a rest, Rox. We’re talking about a tourism committee, not the United Nations.”

  Roxie inched forward on her folding chair. Everyone in town knew she was a stickler for details, but I’d never seen her so focused on one specific element.

  “You know what, June?” she said. “I’ll give it a rest as soon as I’m good and ready. This is important stuff. We’re creating something that will shape the future of our town.”

  June’s mouth clamped into a spiteful sneer. “I didn’t mean to sound snippy,” she offered. “I just can’t understand why it’s taking us so long to get through these ridiculous rules and regulations.”

  “It’ll take as long as it takes,” Roxie said. “Why don’t we go outside and smoke a cigarette? Maybe that’ll calm your nerves.”

  The scowl on June’s face softened into a drowsy grin. “My nerves are fine, Rox. Besides, I’m trying to quit again.”

  “I thought you did that months ago,” Gilda said.

  June rolled her eyes. “I did. But the guy that I was dating smokes, so I fell right back into it.”

  “Past tense?” I asked.

  She sifted her gaze and smiled at me. “Unfortunately, it wasn’t meant to be,” she said, raising one arm. “But I got these little trinkets out of the deal, so I’m not complaining.”

  The gold bangle bracelets on her wrist glinted in the light from a nearby lamp. I’d noticed the flashy bands earlier, but decided not to ask about them. June had a reputation for dating wealthy men just long enough to enrich her jewelry collection or bank account, so I’d figured the showy accessories were from one of her brief romantic entanglements.

  “The truly awful thing,” she continued, plucking a pack of cigarettes from her purse and handing it to Roxie, “is that the jerk is now dating another woman in town.” She made a face and stuck one finger down her throat. “If I’d known he was so interested in dogs, I would’ve bought him a puppy.”

  The laughter that followed was awkward and brief. After a few more disparaging words about her former beau, June followed Roxie out to the front porch while Gilda contemplated the pros and cons of how long directors should serve on the board. When Blanche got up and went into the kitchen, I followed her with my empty wine glass.

  “I can only take so much,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Don’t get me wrong; I adore all three of those women. But they can’t seem to understand the concept of compromise.”

  “Have they always been like that?” I asked.

  Blanche grinned. “Since birth,” she said. “I admire their fortitude and passion, but I wish they’d stop squabbling. I mean, we’re trying to do something to boost tourism, not solve all the woes of the world.”

  She walked to the refrigerator, tugged on the upper door handle and leaned into the light.

  “You want a shot of Stoli?”

  I laughed. “Vodka?”

  “Stolichnaya,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “The Guru of Love left it for me before he went on the hiking trip with his buddies.”

  “Are we talking about Boris Hertel?” I asked with another chuckle.

  Blanche pulled a bottle from the freezer and carried it across the room.

  “That’s the one,” she said. “He’s on an overnight hike with Bo Kennedy and Homer Figg.”

  “Isn’t that potentially dangerous?”

  Blanche scoffed as she filled a shot glass with the frosty alcohol.

  “To the wildlife in the area,” she muttered, lifting the drink. “But not to those three geezers. They take a cab up to the end of Briar Mountain Drive, walk about thirty yards to Bo’s cabin and then spend the next twenty-four hours drinking beer and playing cards.”

  “Where does the hiking get involved?” I asked.

  “It’s fifteen paces from the kitchen table to the front door,” Blanche said, tossing back the vodka and smacking her lips. “Then another forty-five across the porch, down the steps and through the woods to the outhouse. Once you retrace your journey, you’ve walked close to one-sixteenth of a mile.”

  She put the shot
glass in the sink and returned the bottle of Stoli to the freezer.

  “So Homer and his friends went up to the cabin to play cards?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Basically. Don’t you wish we were there instead? I mean, listening to Gilda, June and Roxie talk about silly bylaws for the past half hour has been more painful than getting a root canal without the laughing gas.”

  Blanche opened a package of Lorna Doone cookies, pulled out a couple and then offered one to me.

  “I’m good,” I said, waving my hand. “I ate way too many of those stuffed mushroom thingies earlier.”

  “Do you think the girls are done yet?” she asked, nodding toward the living room.

  “Want me to check?” I offered.

  She shook her head, returned to the freezer and pulled out the bottle again.

  “Change your mind yet?” she asked, holding up the Stoli.

  “I’m fine, thanks. I have work in the morning.”

  “Don’t we all,” she said, pouring more vodka. “Boris left his laundry for me to do while he’s hiking.”

  “That’s sweet,” I said. “You guys seem to be getting along really well.”

  She downed the second shot. Then she said, “Two peas in a pod, Katie. I’m the luckiest senior citizen this side of the Mississippi.”

  I smiled. “And you call Boris your Guru of Love?”

  “Darn right!” Blanche’s eyes twinkled with genuine affection. “He’s the most romantic man that I’ve ever known. He brings me a dozen roses every week. I find sweet love notes all over the house. And he even stopped leaving his wet towels on the bathroom floor.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, those are all great qualities.”

  She shrugged. “I know. I just feel so blessed. Kind of like how you must feel about Zack.”

  I agreed with a smile and then wrapped my arms about the silver-haired spitfire.

  “You’re amazing, Blanche! A true role model for so many younger women.”

  She pushed away from my embrace. “Only the younger ones?” she said with an impish grin. “I had a lovely chat this afternoon with one of my best friends from the good old days. Marchella is actually older than me, and she said that my romance with Boris gave her hope that she might still meet someone new.”