by Mary Maxwell
He scowled. “A pie what?”
“Purveyor,” I said again as we shook hands. “That was one of my grandmother’s favorite words when she ran the place. It’s the same as—”
“I’ve heard about her, too,” Wilbur snarled. “And your parents. The Reed family has had the market on pies cornered in this town for way too long. We’re here to shake things up a little and give you a run for your money.”
The man’s face was bright red and small beads of sweat gathered on his cheeks. I noticed a few stains and splotches on the front of his chef’s coat along with a sparkly silver-and-diamond ring on his left pinky that clashed with his gold wedding band. I estimated his age at forty-five or so.
“Don’t you think there’s room enough in town for both Sky High and Sweetie’s Pies?” I asked.
Wilbur Sprague’s belly jiggled as he howled. When the laughter subsided, I noticed a woman walking toward us from the back of the shop. She opened the door, pressed her face into the gap and asked my rotund rival how much longer he planned to work on the banner.
“I just finished it,” he said. “I’d be inside by now if Miss Reed hadn’t interrupted me.”
When she heard my name, the woman stepped onto the sidewalk, glaring at her husband.
“Kate Reed?” she said with a warm smile. “From Sky High Pies?”
I nodded, but held my tongue. I didn’t want to take the chance that she might be a carbon copy of Wilbur. Instead, she came closer, grabbed my hand and pumped it rigorously.
“Oh, my word!” she gushed. “I am so pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Reed. I’ve heard…” She paused to scowl at Wilbur as he began folding the ladder. “Pumpkin? Do you mind?”
The roly-poly man in the chef’s coat stopped what he’d been doing and meandered over to where I stood with his cheerful wife.
“That’s better,” she said as Wilbur’s gaze fell to the ground. “Thank you, sweetheart.” His face turned a brighter shade of crimson as his demeanor transformed from hostile and combative to submissive and silent. “Now then,” the woman continued, giving me another bubbly smile, “my name is Patsy Sprague, and this is my husband, Wilbur.”
“It’s a true pleasure!” I told her. “I’ve heard so much about you already.”
Her forehead crinkled. “You have?”
“Yes,” I said, still smiling. “More than a few folks in town told me that…well, how do I put it delicately? They told me that rumors had been circulating about the quality of our pies at Sky High and it seemed that the gossip started shortly after you all came to town.”
Patsy’s eyes narrowed. “Rumors? Like, what kind of rumors?”
“Well, from what I’ve been told, the gossip claimed that we served frozen pies instead of fresh, homemade ones.”
She winced. “You don’t say?”
“That’s just what I’ve been told,” I added. “Although there’s always a chance that the truth is somewhat different.”
Patsy shook her head. Then she pivoted slightly toward her husband. And then she reached over and pinched his plump left earlobe between one finger and thumb.
“Pumpkin?” Her voice straddled the chasm between perky and bloodthirsty. “What did we decide about that despicable idea your friend suggested?”
Wilbur gulped. “But I promised Harvey,” he muttered. “On account of he loaned us the money to—”
She squeezed his ear more intensely and leaned closer to his trembling jowls. “We agreed not to do it, Pumpkin!” she hissed in a low rumble. “No. Dirty. Tricks.”
Her husband gulped again. Then he pursed his lips and said something that I didn’t catch.
“I don’t care,” Patsy said. “We had the option of borrowing the money from my sister, but you accepted Harvey’s offer before we could even discuss it. I didn’t like it, as you know, but I figured we could make it work if you—” She suddenly stopped and glanced at me. “Oh, goodness! I do apologize, Miss Reed. Our little squabble isn’t anything you need to hear.”
I fumbled with my purse strap as it slid off my shoulder. “Well, I…” My throat felt dry and uncooperative as I struggled to keep from snickering. “I was just driving by, so I thought it might be a good time to introduce myself.”
Patsy gave her husband a small shove. He quietly trudged over, folded the ladder and mumbled something about being pleased to meet me. Then he disappeared into the pie shop and I stood beside his wife waiting for her to continue.
“He’s not an ogre,” she said eventually. “But he’s got a few issues to resolve.”
I smiled, nodding silently.
“Wilbur and I both worked for Harvey back in Pueblo,” she said. “He decided to shut down his carpet store with barely any notice. I was the part-time bookkeeper and Wilbur was senior sales manager. We were barely scraping by at that point. We’d had some financial trouble early in our marriage that just kept dogging us like a dark shadow.”
When she paused and looked into the pie shop, I noticed a faint scar on the back of her neck. It was a thin pink squiggle that snaked up from the collar of her blouse toward her hairline.
“Anyway,” she continued, “my family used to live in this part of the state a long, long time ago. When Harvey closed the business, me and Wilbur flipped a coin to decide where we’d go next. Neither of us wanted to stay in Pueblo, after all the difficulties with my health and…” Her smile weakened slightly as her voice thinned. “…so we decided to take my passion for baking and Wilbur’s passion for eating and open up Sweetie’s Pies!”
“How did you choose Crescent Creek?” I asked.
“Darts,” she said with a grin. “Me and Wilbur have always marched to the beat of a different drum, you know? Like I said, we flipped a coin to decide whether we were moving to a different part of the country or staying in Colorado. And then we put a map of the state on the dart board back at our favorite dive bar to figure out which town would be our new home.”
I smiled at the quaint story. “That’s a creative way to do it.”
She shrugged. “We believe in one another,” she said softly. “Well, I do anyway. Wilbur’s ego took a pretty big hit with losing his job and all.” She lifted one hand and lightly touched the scar on her neck. “Plus, my health problems,” she added. “I had faith that everything would go okay, but Pumpkin didn’t weather that storm quite so easily.”
The candor and honesty of her words turned our conversation from a casual greeting to something deeper and more poignant. I’d talked to a few people who had faced life-threatening illnesses before—particularly a girlfriend from college and one of the women from my mother’s bridge club. The unwavering courage and serenity that I’d seen in their eyes now glowed from deep within Patsy Sprague as we stood on the sidewalk outside Sweetie’s Pies.
“And the business with the…uh, gossip,” she said hesitantly. “That was all Harvey’s idea. Instead of standard severance packages, he offered to give us enough to start a small business of our own. When Wilbur told him about Sky High after we got to town, Harvey suggested a gossip campaign to discredit your pies. I threw a fit. And Wilbur promised that he wouldn’t do it. But from what you’ve just told me, it sounds like maybe Pumpkin’s been a bad boy.”
She giggled and I joined in. It felt good to laugh, especially considering what she’d just shared about her health. As the cheery mood swept around us, there was an insistent tapping on the front window of the pie shop. It was Wilbur, knocking on the glass and pointing at his watch.
“Oh, goodness,” Patsy said with a faint frown. “We’re meeting with Herman Bright about the insurance policy for our shop. I should probably get in there and help Pumpkin tidy up.”
We shook hands again and I invited her to come by Sky High as soon as her schedule allowed.
“That would be lovely,” she said, turning toward the shop’s front door. “I’ll be in touch real soon!”
CHAPTER 24
The next afternoon, when Julia offered to clean and resto
ck the kitchen, I went into my office to return a few phone calls. After finishing the first conversation, a short update from a catering customer about the number of guests for an upcoming luncheon, I ran my eyes down the list to the next name and number. But before I could dial Pete Peabody and ask if he’d decided between vanilla and chocolate for his wife’s birthday cake, my mobile phone chirped in my pocket.
“Hey!” I said to my sister after answering her call. “How’s everything in Denver?”
“Are you sitting down?” Olivia asked.
“I am.”
“I’ve got some big news,” she said. “I’m thinking about buying a cookie shop.”
The announcement was as unexpected as if she’d told me NASA had selected her for the first manned mission to Mars. It left me speechless, something that my sister had anticipated because she immediately launched into a description of the bakery, the reason it was for sale and how cute she thought the interior would look if it was painted with massive stripes of blue and white.
“Well?” she said finally. “What do you think?”
“Um…”
“I know, I know!” she blurted. “But it’ll be fun, Katie! You can come down and help me sometimes. And I’ll be sort of carrying on the family tradition by baking cookies and running a little shop.”
“Um…” I started again.
“And, before you ask,” she continued, “Cooper’s totally cool with the idea and I’m not giving up my law career.”
I waited to see if it was my turn. When it seemed like there might be an opportunity to speak, I asked why she wanted to take on more responsibilities and headaches besides her full-time job, two twin sons and a busy social calendar.
“Well, for starters,” Olivia answered, “we hired a live-in housekeeper. Her name is June. You’re going to love her! She already taught me how to fold fitted sheets without completely losing my mind. And the boys can help out at the shop after school, so I—”
“Slow down there, Speed Racer! What about football and soccer and, oh, I don’t know, maybe homework?”
She laughed. “They wouldn’t do it every afternoon. Maybe two or three. And my friend Angie is going to manage the place. Did you meet her the last time you were down?”
“Redhead with a bubbly personality and no body fat?”
Olivia snorted. “That’s Amy, the girl from my yoga class! Angie’s a little taller than me, with brown hair and glasses. She kind of looks like that librarian from high school.”
“Mrs. Carlson?”
“That’s her! She would always interrupt me and Don when we were trying to study.”
I smiled at the memory. “Don’t you mean when you and Don were making out in the stacks?”
My sister groaned. “Judge me all you want, Katie. Mrs. Carlson was an evil busybody.”
I noticed that someone was standing in the doorway to my office. When I glanced up, Harper used her right hand to pantomime that there was a call for me on the Sky High line.
“Hey, Liv?”
“Uh-huh?”
“Sorry to cut this short, but I need to get back to work.”
“No worries,” she said, once again sounding bubbly and cheerful. “Why don’t you and Zack come down this Sunday for lunch?”
“That sounds nice, but I’ll have to check with him first.”
“Just let me know,” she said as I swiveled in the chair toward the desk.
“Okay, sweetie. I love you, sis!”
“Love you, too,” she said.
I dropped the call, put down my phone and answered the Sky High business line.
“Miss Reed?” a man said. “This is Homer.”
“Hi, Mr. Figg! How’s everything at the museum?”
“Epic!” he said joyfully. “We had four ladies from North Dakota come through this morning.”
“That’s fantastic!”
“I know,” he said.
I listened for more, thinking that he might launch into a detailed description of the visitors. When he stayed silent, I asked if I could help him with something.
“No,” he answered. “It’s the other way around. I’ve got information for you about the Kovacs.”
I reached for a pad of paper and pen. Then I asked Homer Figg to keep going.
“The first thing is an address for Roger Kovac’s brother and sister-in-law,” he said. “It’s down in Como. I also heard the nephew is in Fairplay, but I’m still waiting for my source to confirm his whereabouts.”
“What’s the nephew’s name?” I asked.
“Rance Kovac,” Homer said. “He’s maybe twenty-four or so, although his baby face makes him look a lot younger.”
After I wrote down the information, I asked whether the address in Como was a residence or business. Homer laughed and told me it was probably a little bit of both.
“You know how those Kovac people are,” he said. “Always something shifty going on. Sometimes it’s stolen electronics or homegrown marijuana. Other times, it’s a pyramid scheme selling vitamins for dogs.”
“Seriously? They’ve really done all those things?”
“Those and more,” Homer answered. “But you didn’t hear it from me. I don’t throw those fools as far as I can trust ’em.”
“Don’t you mean—”
He interrupted by clearing his throat. “No, I do not. I mean exactly what I said because saying it backwards is just as mixed up and discombobulated as that family’s morals and ethics.”
“I see. To be honest, I’ve never met any Kovac family members, but I’ve heard enough stories in the past couple of days to give me an idea about what you’re referring to.”
“You know that saying that one bad apple spoils a bunch?”
“Sure,” I said. “Is that how you’d describe the Kovacs?”
Homer laughed. “Nah, it’s the other way around! With those folks, every last one is a rotten apple. The big surprise would be finding someone named Kovac who isn’t pulling some kind of scam or committing a crime.”
“Well, thanks for the info. I should have some time tomorrow afternoon to drive down and do a little sleuthing.”
He chuckled again. “Just be on your guard, okay? I don’t want Deputy Chief Walsh thinking that I’m the one who sent you into harm’s way.”
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that. Trent knows what I’m up to. And I’m always careful, so it’s all good.”
“Okay, Katie,” he said. “If I hear anything else, I’ll be back in touch.”
“Thank you again. I owe you a slice of pie and cup of coffee.”
“Deal!” he said with a final laugh. “You have a good day! And be sure to drive safely and watch your back when you go down there.”
CHAPTER 25
When I drove south to Como the next afternoon, I discovered that the address provided by Homer Figg was located on an isolated stretch of a winding country road. Instead of a quaint log cabin or stucco dwelling, Roger Kovac’s brother and sister-in-law lived in a rustic wooden structure that looked like it had been built from an assortment of wood scraps, glass blocks and sheets of tin.
Home sweet home, I thought, parking behind a dust-covered black Camry with Idaho plates. It looks like curb appeal isn’t high on their priority list.
Walking up the curving gravel path toward the front of the structure, I heard the door squeak on its hinges.
“Help you?” someone called from the shadowy entryway.
The voice was a husky rasp, giving no clear indication if it belonged to a man or woman. I squinted to try and make out the figure in the doorway, but it was a muddle of interchangeable dark shapes.
“I’m looking for Ryan or Jena Kovac,” I announced.
The largest silhouette shifted slightly in the gloom.
“They expecting you?”
I shook my head.
“You here about the insurance claim on the Volvo?”
“No, I’m down from Crescent Creek,” I answered, keeping my voice steady and d
iplomatic. “I wanted to ask them about a relative.”
I heard the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked. Then the figure in the shadows began to move, striding into the sunlight after a few quick steps. It was a tall, thin woman dressed in a multicolored tunic, ripped jeans and gleaming black cowboy boots with crosses stitched into the leather. She was about forty or so; skin bronzed by the sun and a turquoise choker around her neck.
“Probably best if you get back in your car then,” she said. “Ryan and Jena aren’t much for unannounced strangers poking into their private business.”
The rifle in the woman’s hands was aimed at the ground, so I didn’t feel that I was in imminent danger. But there was a cold, clinical look on her face and it was more than a little obvious that I wasn’t welcome.
“Do you mind if I just—”
“I do mind,” she said in a gruff drone as the barrel of the gun rose slightly and motioned toward my car. “Like I already suggested,” she went on. “Probably best if you move along.”
“Are you Jena?” I asked.
She shifted from one foot to the other before taking a few steps closer. As I kept my eyes on her face, studying the tension in her jaw and the slight flare of her nostrils, I noticed something hanging in the front window of the house.
When I turned to study the object, I felt my chest tighten.
It was a plastic skeleton, suspended at the end of a noose made from what looked like blue yarn.
“Crescent Creek’s a fair distance from here,” the woman said, ignoring my question.
I swiveled my gaze from the window back to the stranger and her rifle.
“It’s a nice day for a drive,” I replied. “Blue sky, sunshine, Mountain Dew on ice. Traffic was light and I wanted to listen to the new Antebellum CD.”
Her lips slowly formed a smile. “Man, I love them.”
“Same here,” I said.
It was too early to sing “Kumbaya” by the campfire, but I liked the fact that we had at least one thing in common.
“I can give Ryan and Jena a message if you want,” the woman offered.