by Mary Maxwell
The kitchen door squeaked open and a young woman wearing a white chef’s coat and red bandana over her hair came into the dining room.
“Oh, sorry!” she said to Drea. “I didn’t realize you had company.”
I turned as she approached and gave her a little wave.
“I’m not company,” I said. “I’m Kate Reed.”
In a tiny, frail voice, she told me that her name was Alice Fry. Then she apologized again for interrupting before asking Drea if she could come taste something in the kitchen.
“I’ll be right there,” Drea promised. “Kate and I were almost finished.”
When we were alone again, she explained that Alice was a new member of the kitchen staff and needed reassurance whenever she prepared unfamiliar recipes.
“Heck, I need it myself,” I joked. “With new and old ones!”
Drea smiled. “No way, Kate! My husband and I came in for breakfast last week. It was one of the most delicious omelets I’ve ever had.”
“That’s Julia,” I said. “She’s amazing!”
“Well, I think you’re all great.”
I thanked her for the praise and asked if she’d heard anything specific from the conversation the two men had the other night about women and money.
She pursed her lips and considered the question. Then she said, “I heard two different names: Riley and Maureen. And they also kept mentioning someone named Robert.” She paused, nibbled on one thumbnail and then smiled. “I know this is going to sound weird, but I think they said his last name was Corvette.” She giggled lightly. “At least, that’s what it sounded like. But it was a busy night, so I suppose anything’s possible.”
I nodded. “Could it have been Kovac?” I asked. “Roger Kovac?”
Drea shrugged as the kitchen door opened again.
“I suppose so…” She smiled at Alice Fry. “Like I said, it was kind of noisy, so I didn’t exactly catch every single word.” There was a brief pause as she blushed. “Although, golly, that sounds terrible, doesn’t it? I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop or anything. It’s just impossible not to overhear when you’re behind the bar and people are arguing and all.”
“Are you ready?” Alice called.
“I’m sorry, Kate,” Drea offered contritely. “But I really need to go see what has her in such a tizzy.”
CHAPTER 16
I could tell something was wrong the second I heard Julia’s voice. When the phone rang, I was outside the kitchen door at Sky High, digging for my keys and hoping that there might be one last cup of coffee in the pot. On the drive back from Café Fleur, I’d decided that an infusion of caffeine might be a good idea.
“Thank goodness,” Julia whispered after I answered. “I’m so glad you took my call.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“That’s not it,” she said as I opened the door and stepped inside. “I’m just…well, I’m really freaked out, Katie. I found a plastic skeleton in the mailbox when I got home about twenty minutes ago.”
I felt my stomach drop.
“Was there a note?”
“There was,” she said, pulling in a deep breath. “It told me that I shouldn’t have introduced you and Maureen.”
The second revelation sent another bolt of adrenaline surging through my body.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“We just arrived for Will’s softball practice,” she said. “Jared took Shepherd and Emma to the store. I didn’t want to make a fuss while we were together. It would’ve frightened the kids.”
“That was smart,” I said. “You doing okay?”
“I’m trying not to cry.” She laughed nervously. “And that’s why I called. What should I do, Katie?”
“Are you at the fields on Seneca?” I asked.
“Yes. We’ll be here for another hour or so.”
“I’ll tell you what. Let me get in touch with Trent. Then I’ll see how he wants to handle it, okay?”
“I guess so, b-b-but…” Her voice cracked. “I’m trying not to lose it, Katie.”
“It’ll be okay, sweetie. Trent will get right on it.”
After repeating the pledge that everything would be fine, I finished the call with Julia, shrugged off my jacket and punched Trent’s mobile number into my phone.
“Howdy,” he said a moment later.
“Are you on the way to Boulder already?”
“My brother canceled just as I was leaving town,” he answered with a resigned chuckle. “You don’t sound very good, Katie.”
“I just talked to Julia. Somebody put a skeleton with a note in her mailbox at home.”
I heard Trent moan. “When it rains, it pours,” he groused. “I got one, too.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I wish,” he said. “It was on my desk when I came back from a meeting earlier.”
“Your desk at the station?”
Another robust chuckle came over the line. “Uh…yeah, Katie. Considering that’s my only desk. The skeleton came in with the regular mail delivery.”
“Did you get a note, too?”
“Yes,” he said. “It was long on spook factor and short on verbiage.”
“What did it say?”
“It had my name on it,” he answered. “And then it said, Walk away from the Kovac case or else.” A chill twined around my shoulders as Trent scoffed at the threat. “I guess that’s pretty self-explanatory, huh?”
“I hope you’re taking it seriously,” I said. “One person is already dead. And two other skeletons were—”
“Oh, you haven’t heard!” Trent cut in excitedly. “We identified the murder victim. Turned out he and Anton Rigby had somehow switched wallets when they were out drinking the night before the shooting. The victim was a guy called Harley Skinner, a convicted felon with a sheet as long as your arm.”
I didn’t know the name, so I asked Trent to fill me in.
“Two-bit con from Houston,” he said. “Did a few years in Leavenworth when he was in his twenties. Care to guess who he shared the luxury suite with?”
“Roger Kovac,” I said.
Trent grunted. “Nope. Care to try again?”
“I’m all out of guesses. Who was his cellmate in prison?”
A long, low whistle came over the line. “This is getting good, Katie. Really, really good.”
“Just tell me, big guy. Who was in the cell with Harley Skinner at Leavenworth?”
“Guy named Harris,” said Trent. “Want to guess his last name?”
“No, I don’t!” I said, landing somewhere between a hiss and a shout. “What’s the guy’s full name?”
“Harris Dixon,” Trent announced. “As in, the ne’er do well husband of the lovely and talented Mrs. Maureen Dixon.”
CHAPTER 17
After Trent and I finished our conversation, I called Julia to let her know that Tyler Armstrong would be right over to talk with her about the plastic skeleton in her mailbox.
“That’s good,” Julia said. “A detective in a suit and tie won’t be quite as obvious as uniformed officers.”
“You know Tyler,” I said. “He’ll be very discreet.”
She sighed and I asked for Maureen Dixon’s address. I knew the building she lived in, but wasn’t sure about her apartment number.
“Why do you want that?” Julia said, her voice still jittery.
“I know she’s been interviewed by the Crescent Creek PD,” I answered, “but I’d like to spend a little more time with her in light of all the recent developments.”
“Like what?” Julia’s tone was firmer, less anxious. “Did something else happen?” She paused as a flurry of hushed voices sounded in the background. “I can’t really talk now, Katie. Will’s batting next. I don’t want him to look over and see me on the phone.”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Call me later, okay? Whenever it’s good for you.”
When I slid my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, I realized that my shoulders and neck had tightened into knots
of tension during the call with Julia. We spent so much time together at Sky High—joking, laughing and sharing tidbits about our lives—that the taut, anxious tone of her voice had left me feeling uneasy.
“Nana Reed?” I called. “I need some extra strength and courage right about now.”
Although some people scoffed at the idea, I liked to imagine that my departed grandmother’s gracious and loving spirit surrounded me during the days and nights that I spent in her beloved old Victorian. Between glancing at her picture in various spots around the café or hearing her bubbly voice echo in my heart, I kept her in mind at all times.
“But I also need a jolt of java,” I said, walking across the kitchen.
There was enough coffee left in the pot for a half cup, so I poured it into a Sky High mug before adding a splash of cream and freshly grated nutmeg. Then I headed for my office to do some quick online research. Before I talked with Maureen Dixon, I wanted to see if I could learn exactly where, when and how the lives of Harley Skinner, Harris Dixon and Roger Kovac had overlapped. But before I could begin the process, a call came in on the Sky High phone. A quick glance at the display—Crescent Creek Gazette—suggested that it might be Zack, so I scooped up the handset, took a deep breath and channeled my best Marilyn Monroe.
“Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” I said in a smoky voice. “This is Miss Monroe.”
I expected to hear my beloved react in an equally playful manner, but there was no response. I waited briefly, felt my cheeks growing warm with embarrassment and made a second attempt using the standard greeting.
“Sky High,” I announced. “This is Kate Reed.”
“Oh, good,” a woman said. “I wasn’t sure if I’d dialed the correct number or not.”
“If you were trying to reach Sky High Pies, then you’re right on the money.”
I could hear the keys of a computer clicking away softly on her end.
“That’s wonderful, Miss Reed,” the woman said. “This is Mimi Plunkett calling. I write the Town Tattler column for the newspaper. I was wondering if you might have a moment to answer a few questions.”
I gulped in a breath. Mimi Plunkett was notorious for publishing catty critiques, scathing profiles and anonymous claims by unnamed sources. Since returning to Crescent Creek from Chicago, I’d skimmed her column every so often to read the latest local gossip. Luckily, I hadn’t yet been the subject of her quips and barbs, but I suddenly suspected that was about to change.
“Well, I can spare five minutes to talk,” I said. “Will that be okay?”
She sighed into the phone as if I’d just claimed that inexpensive press-on nails were comparable to a full-blown manicure from the most stylish salon in town.
“Suit yourself,” she said. “I’m calling about the reports circulating around town that Sky High is now using…” She paused, sniffing loudly into the phone. “…frozen pies made in a foreign country.”
My mouth swept into a smile, but I stopped the laugh before it slipped free.
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “Could you repeat that?”
“My top secret tip line received numerous calls about frozen pies,” she said. “I have several unnamed sources who wish to remain anonymous.”
“Well, goodness me!” I said, giving her a dollop of homespun innocence frosted with down-to-earth charm. “That couldn’t be further from the truth, Miss Plunkett.”
She scoffed loudly. “Actually, it’s Mrs. Plunkett,” she sniped. “I’m sure you’ve heard of my husband, Glen Plunkett. He’s the senior partner at Plunkett, Price, Price, Leonardo & Snead.”
The smile on my face threatened to expand beyond my ears. “Yes, I’ve actually met your husband a time or two,” I said. “His law firm is one of our best customers.”
“They won’t be if you’ve switched to frozen pies,” she said. “Glen and his fellow attorneys would never stand for doing business with a fraudulent enterprise, Mrs. Reed.”
I giggled softly. “Actually, it’s Miss Reed. And, as for Wilbur Sprague spreading rumors about the pies at Sky High, I suppose that I have no comment. I’m not sure why he finds it necessary to stoop to such a low level, especially since he and I have never met before.”
“That’s not what he told me wh—” She skidded to a stop, cleared her throat and took another stab at the rebuttal. “That’s not what my anonymous caller said, Miss Reed. They suggested that the trash cans behind Sky High were overflowing with dozens of empty cartons for frozen pies.”
I got up from my desk, walked into the kitchen and peered through the window at the fenced enclosure where we kept the trash bins. The gate was latched securely and nothing looked amiss, so I headed back to my office.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” I said, “but not every rumor bears fruit.”
“What was that?”
I repeated the comment, explained that I had a pressing matter to address and apologized for ending the call so abruptly.
“Suit yourself,” she said again. “I may be in touch tomorrow, Miss Reed. I need to call my anonymous source to clarify his statement.”
She hung up before I could say another word, so I went back to my research. I took a sip of coffee, typed Harley Skinner Felon Leavenworth into Google and watched as the results flooded the screen.
“Well, well,” I said, leaning closer and studying the first few entries, “it looks like our murder victim was a very busy boy once upon a time.”
CHAPTER 18
The windows of Maureen Dixon’s apartment glowed brightly against the dark night when I pulled up in front at seven o’clock. I’d called ahead and she’d agreed to talk if we could finish by eight. I was grateful that she was willing to see me, so didn’t pry into the reason for the specific one-hour window. Instead, I changed my outfit, collected a few cupcakes into a box and scrambled out the door.
“Yes?” Maureen said through the intercom when I pressed the buzzer beside her name.
“It’s Kate Reed,” I said, leaning toward the gleaming stainless contraption on the red brick wall. “I hope you still have time for me.”
Instead of a reply from Maureen, I heard a loud buzzer and a series of metallic clicks as the locked entry popped open. The small vestibule smelled of roses and honeysuckle as I walked to the elevator. A moment later, when she opened the door and a wave of floral scent enveloped me, I discovered that Maureen was responsible for the aroma in the foyer.
“Come right in,” she said, stepping to one side. “I made herbal tea for us to enjoy while we talk.”
“That sounds perfect,” I said, offering the Sky High box. “I thought you might enjoy these goodies as well.”
I followed her into the apartment. It was an expansive space decorated in subdued shades of gray and blue. Two massive sofas and a large coffee table sat in a grouping near the fireplace. Framed photographs and posters hung on the walls, a collection of landscapes, beach scenes and vintage European wine advertisements. A small forest of beeswax candles glowed on a credenza near the windows and classical music played softly in the distance.
“I’ve been meditating and drinking tea all day,” she said as we sat across from one another on the sofas. “The horror of finding that poor man who’d been shot along with the threats on my life have left me pretty rattled.”
She gracefully filled two porcelain cups from a decorative teapot. The steam curled toward the ceiling, twisting and thinning until it vanished into the air.
“That’s completely understandable,” I said as she offered me a cup. “I hope that’s helping you get back on an even keel.”
Her eyelashes flicked as she smiled. “Well, I’m a tough cookie, Kate. I’ve been through some rather harrowing days in my life.” She paused to sip the tea, letting the warm liquid soothe her jangled nerves. I watched silently and waited for her to continue. “But don’t get me wrong,” she said eventually. “I’ve never seen a dead body before. I mean, at least not in that condition.”
The lilting laugh
that followed seemed flat, but I ascribed the lackluster quality to what she’d been through in the past couple of days.
“The dead people I usually see are more…I don’t know, more vaporous and indistinct,” she added. “Like your dear, sweet grandmother.”
I’d been considering the list of questions I wanted to ask when she sidetracked my thoughts with the hint that she’d been in touch with Nana Reed.
“Does that surprise you, Kate?”
I nodded. “Big time. It’s pretty much the last thing I expected to hear tonight.”
“That’s quite common in my line of work,” Maureen said. “I never know exactly which spirits will approach me with messages to share with their loved ones.”
I didn’t want to admit to Maureen that my knowledge of paranormal pursuits was limited. I’d participated in a few slumber party experiments with a friend’s Ouija board when I was twelve. I watched It’s A Wonderful Life several times each year. And I once used the shower curtain from my apartment to attend a Halloween party as Casper the Friendly Ghost. Otherwise, I knew nothing about séances, tarot cards and the rest. I was reminiscing about the shower curtain costume when Maureen tapped her spoon on the porcelain cup.
“Sorry?” I said, forcing a smile. “What was that?”
“Your grandmother said you should look on the bottom of the middle desk drawer,” she said, beaming triumphantly. “The one in the office at Sky High Pies.”
I felt like I’d missed something, but merely smiled, nodded and promised that I would investigate the suggestion later.
“She put it there just for you,” Maureen added. “A little something special.”
I was definitely intrigued by the quizzical remark, but pushed aside thoughts of my grandmother whispering in Maureen’s ear. I wanted to get back to the more pressing matter of the psychic’s husband and his association with the man found murdered in the parking lot outside the night before.
“McVitie’s with your tea?” she said, holding up a white platter filled with small biscuits.
“No, thanks. The tea is perfect.”