Deadly Desserts (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 6)

by Mary Maxwell

  “Oh, goodness. Did he say something obscene?”

  Her cheeks reddened. “Horribly obscene! And, mind you, I spent decades surrounded by high school students. I’ve heard more than my fair share of vulgar language before, but this fellow takes the cake!”

  “Where did this happen?”

  “The library,” Blanche said quietly. “I was meeting a friend for lunch and got downtown early, so I figured it would be fun to browse through the stacks.” The faint grin on her face grew into a wide smile. “Did you know that’s how I met my husband? We were both wandering around the Denver public library one rainy afternoon and—”

  “Hello, ladies!”

  Neither Blanche nor I had heard Frieda Stephenson approaching the table.

  “I saw you whispering together,” she went on, “and I just had to come see what was so captivating. Is it about the fight that Tina and her sister had in the church parking lot last Sunday?”

  Without missing a beat, Blanche sat up in her chair and fixed Frieda with a dazzling smile. “We’re talking about UTIs, darling. Katie asked my advice on the best way to…” She covered her mouth and giggled. “…well, the best way to treat the infection with home remedies.”

  Since I’d seen Blanche in action before, I knew she was trying to discourage our unexpected visitor from lingering too long at the table.

  “Oh, I see…” Frieda’s eyes bounced from Blanche to me and back again a few times. “Well, I’m so sorry to hear about that, Katie. I suggest cranberry juice. And lots of it!”

  “Actually,” Blanche said, “that’s an old myth. I read a very compelling article in American Family Physician at the doctor’s office not too long ago. While it’s been believed for many years that cranberry juice alters the levels of hippuric acid and stops bacteria from sticking to the uroepithelial cells in—”

  “Would you look at the time!” Frieda pointed at her wrist. “I am late, late, late for a meeting at the office. So good running into you both! See you soon!”

  We waited until she was out the door before sharing a long, boisterous laugh. When we’d regained our composure, I asked Blanche if she’d actually read an article about the medicinal benefits of cranberry juice.

  She shrugged. “No, but one of my matchmaking clients is in the medical profession. Dr. Samson and I got to talking one afternoon and he told me all about it.”

  I held up one hand. “I don’t even want to know how UTIs came up in conversation.”

  Blanche sipped her cappuccino. “You’d be surprised, Katie. People say the strangest things when they’re discussing love and romance.”

  I smiled. “Don’t I know!”

  “Oh, how sweet,” she cooed. “You and Zack are still in love, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but that’s not why you called me over here to talk.”

  The grin on her face vanished. “No, you’re quite right. I wanted to discuss Lacy’s killer.”

  “Okay, so what did he say?” I asked. “You were telling me about being in the library the other day when you—”

  “‘Somebody should do the world a favor and send you six feet under.’”

  She delivered the line with such gusto and fervor that it left me momentarily speechless.

  The same could not be said for Clement Pegg, who had finished his amorous phone call and was now eavesdropping on our little chat.

  “Blanche!” he cried. “Why on earth are you threatening Katie! Was something wrong with your breakfast?”

  When she twirled around in her chair, Blanche accidentally sent her cappuccino flying. In the ensuing confusion—shrieks of surprise followed by a geyser of espresso and steamed milk splashing on Gladys Morton as she walked by our table—Clement grabbed his coat, dropped a twenty on the table and headed for the door.

  A few minutes later, after I’d collected the pieces of the shattered mug and Harper had cleaned up the spilled coffee, the hubbub in the dining room faded into a series of hushed conversations.

  “Well, that was embarrassing,” Blanche muttered as I rejoined her at the table. “I blame it all on Clement!”

  “What did you say, Mrs. Speltzer?” he shouted from the entry hall, cupping one hand around his ear.

  “I said that I adore you!” Blanche blew him a series of kisses. “And I love the fact that you were only looking out for my safety.”

  Once the old man with the keen hearing went out the door, I asked Blanche to resume her story.

  “What else is there to say?” she asked. “I overheard the man threaten Lacy’s life. Then I hurried around the bookshelves and saw her talking with a tall, pale man wearing a suit and tie.”

  “Oh! So you actually saw him?”

  Blanche nodded. “Yes, and I—”

  She stopped so suddenly that I thought for a split second that she’d lost her train of thought. But then I realized she was staring over my shoulder toward the front door.

  “Are you okay, Blanche?”

  She gulped. “Yes, but…”

  I turned in my chair and saw a tall, thin man dressed in a gray pinstriped suit, gleaming dress shoes and a starched white shirt. He was exceedingly pale and his dark hair was slicked back with a heavy slather of pomade.

  “That’s him!” Blanche whispered. “That’s the fellow that threatened to kill Lacy Orvane!”

  CHAPTER 20

  Before I could get up and greet the new arrival, he began walking toward our table. As he came closer, I realized it was the man from the photograph of Lacy Orvane that I saw the day before at Portia Pearson’s store.

  “Oh, heavens!” Blanche gasped. “It’s The Grim Reaper! And he’s wearing Brooks Brothers instead of a hooded cloak!”

  I reached over and squeezed her hand. “Would you just relax? Nobody’s going to hurt you here.”

  While she nervously pressed a napkin to her mouth, I got out of the chair and approached the pale stranger.

  “Welcome to Sky High!” I said. “Are you joining us for breakfast?”

  The man nodded at Blanche. “Good morning, ma’am,” he said in a deep, resonant voice. “It’s nice to see you again.”

  She attempted to smile, but it withered in midstream. He waited for a moment to see if Blanche would speak, but glanced at me when it became apparent she was determined to maintain a steely silence.

  “You’re Kate Reed.” It was a statement, not a question, and it was delivered with a genial smile. “My name is Thomas Green.”

  When we shook hands, I was surprised by the warmth of his touch. From the pale complexion and dark, sunken eyes, he looked like someone who might have cold, clammy skin.

  “I worked with Lacy Orvane the bank,” he continued. “Portia Pearson said I should talk to you about what happened yesterday.”

  Blanche kept her eyes locked on the man’s face. As she stared intently, I noticed that she had the fingers of one hand twined around a butter knife.

  “Would you like to join us then?” I said, nodding at one of the other empty chairs.

  He glanced anxiously around the room. “Is there somewhere more private?”

  “Why don’t you try Bertie Hecht’s mausoleum?” Blanche muttered. “It’s the first one on the left after you pull through the gates at Elmbrook Memorial Gardens.”

  Thomas Green smiled uneasily. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  “Don’t mind her,” I said. “Blanche is a little touchy this morning.”

  She grumbled. “Who wouldn’t be if the angel of death suddenly turned up?”

  The man frowned. “I’m sorry? The angel of what?”

  I could tell we weren’t getting anywhere, so I carefully pushed my chair back under the table, promised Blanche that I’d call her later and suggested to the visitor that we take our conversation into my office.

  “This is so kind of you,” he said as we left the dining room. “I probably should’ve called, but I’ve been pretty flustered since I heard the news. I saw Portia at the bank earlier this morning, and she suggested I come r
ight over to ask for your advice.”

  We left the dining room, walked down the center hallway and turned into the small, cluttered room tucked in the back of the old Victorian between the kitchen and the storage closet.

  “Sorry the office is such a mess,” I apologized. “I’ve been getting ready to meet with the accountant about our taxes, so…” I glanced around at the stacks of folders and boxes. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “No, thank you.” He sat in one of the guest chairs beside my desk. “I’m really pressed for time; my boss thinks that I’m at Pinky Newton’s shop ordering flowers for Lacy’s funeral.”

  I left the door slightly ajar and walked around behind the desk. As I got comfortable in the chair, Green reached into his jacket and pulled something from the inside pocket. It was an envelope along with a bundle of folded papers. The envelope had Lacy Orvane’s name printed in the center in blue ink along with a return address in the upper left corner: Benny Calhoun on Arroyo Chico Boulevard in Crescent Creek.

  “I found these in the top drawer of Lacy’s desk yesterday afternoon.” He put the things on my desk. “I think that…” He paused, swallowing hard. “I think that someone murdered her, Miss Reed! And I think it might be Benny Calhoun!”

  The eruption was sharp and sudden, leaving my guest with bright red cheeks and a faint sheen of perspiration on his upper lip. I reached into my purse, retrieved a travel pack of tissues and offered it to him without a word. He smiled, plucked the top tissue from the package and used it to dry his face.

  “Thank you,” Green said when he finished. “I promised myself that I wouldn’t get emotional.”

  I nodded gently. “Some promises are easier to keep than others.”

  We sat quietly for a moment or two until his breathing calmed and the crimson in his cheeks faded. Then I asked if he would resume telling me about the reason for his visit.

  “Lacy was having an affair,” he said. “I believe the man she was involved with is responsible for her death. I also think Benny Calhoun also had something to do with it.”

  The declaration was unexpected and shocking. In a town as small as Crescent Creek, extramarital romances were often grist for the rumor mill, but rarely discussed with someone you didn’t really know.

  “Why do you suspect that Lacy was seeing someone else?”

  Green took another tissue and pressed it against his mouth. “Because she told me all about it,” he answered. “I never knew his name or what he did for a living. I just knew that she hadn’t been happy with the boyfriend she had when the affair began, so it made some kind of sense that she might seek comfort in the arms of another man.” He winced at the awkward subject matter. “But, I guess everybody makes choices in life, right?” His eyes met mine and I nodded. “I’m not saying that I’m perfect by any means, but I don’t believe in adultery or being involved with a cheating spouse.”

  “Life’s tricky,” I agreed. “Everyone has to figure out what they can and can’t tolerate.”

  “Like being duplicitous,” he said. “Or carrying on with a married man because your last relationship didn’t go as planned.”

  I smiled. “Like I said, tricky.”

  Green’s mouth lifted into a weak grin. “Sounds very tricky,” he agreed. “When Lacy confided in me a few weeks ago, I couldn’t believe she was stepping out with another woman’s husband. And when she told me about the ultimatum she gave to the guy, I became really concerned for her safety. I guess he’s got quite the temper, so—”

  “Sorry to revisit this,” I said. “But you didn’t have any idea who she was seeing?”

  Green shook his head. “She never told me his name. And I certainly didn’t want to know any of the sordid details.”

  “But if you did know,” I said, “you’d share the information with the police?”

  “Of course,” Green said. “Everything’s clearer in hindsight. I mean, when she told me, I asked if it was someone else at the bank. But Lacy assured me that it wasn’t. I figured it was some kind of fling, you know? Something that she was doing to get over her breakup with Ron.”

  “Did she tell you anything about the married guy?” I asked. “Anything that might help identify him?”

  Green thought for a few seconds, nervously rubbing his hands on his thighs and tapping one foot. “I got the sense that the guy was an executive wherever he worked,” he said slowly. “And he was into boating and skiing. I guess he and his brother worked for the ski patrol when they were younger.”

  “Is that it?”

  “It’s like I already told you, I didn’t want to know about the guy.” He paused, stared down at the floor and then sighed. “Although now I wish I’d asked more questions.”

  “It’s okay, Mr. Green. You didn’t—”

  “Thomas,” he said. “I have to go by Mr. Green at the bank, so it’s nice to actually hear my first name once in a while when I’m not there.”

  “I didn’t realize it was so formal,” I said.

  He smiled playfully. “That’s what N.C. prefers,” he said with a puckish grin. “And by N.C., I mean Nathaniel Craig. We have to address him by his initials, but all of us have to use our last names.”

  “Nathaniel Craig?” I asked. “The bank president?”

  The mischievous smile appeared again. “That’s the one.”

  “Is he the man that—”

  “I doubt it,” Green said. “Lacy couldn’t stand the guy. She always called him ‘a weasel dressed in thousand-dollar suits,’ although that’s pretty much what everybody thinks of N.C. anyway.”

  “Could that have been subterfuge?” I asked. “Maybe her way of keeping people from suspecting that she and Mr. Craig were involved with one another.”

  He considered the suggestion. “I suppose anything’s possible. But I always thought Lacy had more…” His eyes narrowed as he saw the clock on my desk. “I am so sorry to do this, Miss Reed, but I should be going.” He was on his feet and heading for the door in a flash. “Our quarterly reviews are this week and I can’t afford to ruffle N.C.’s feathers.”

  “Okay, but wait!” He was reaching for the doorknob. “You can’t leave yet. I have a couple more quick questions.”

  He stopped, pivoting on his heel. “What’s that?”

  “Someone told me that they heard you threaten Lacy in the library the other day.”

  He smiled. “Mrs. Speltzer?”

  “I can’t confirm or deny that,” I said through a smile. “What was going on? Why did you tell Lacy that—”

  “It was for the Crescent Creek Community Theater,” he said. “Lacy and I were on the selection committee for the upcoming amateur showcase.”

  I wasn’t familiar with the event, so I asked him to explain.

  “How can you not be familiar with it?” he said. “It’s the big annual fundraiser. We do it every December to bring in a few extra dollars for our operating budget.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve only been back in town for a few months.”

  He smiled. “Ah! That makes sense. It started about five years ago. The theater’s board of directors thought it would be a good way to supplement the money we earn from ticket sales and a couple of smaller fundraisers that we do during the summer.”

  “And so…you and Lacy were at the library, but you got into an argument?”

  “Not at all,” Green answered. “We were going through a couple of plays that we found in the library’s drama section. I think Mrs. Speltzer overheard me reading one of the lines from a play about a murder on a country estate.”

  “Sure, that makes sense. I mean, Blanche is eighty, so her hearing isn’t exactly top-notch all of the time.”

  “Well, it was that day,” he said with a laugh. “She charged around the bookshelves, rushed toward me and threatened to call 911 if I didn’t leave Lacy alone.”

  “And then what happened?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing. Lacy explained that we were working on something for the theater showcase.�
�

  “I see. I wish Blanche had thought to mention that little nugget when she was telling me the story earlier.”

  “Yeah, but she loves drama just as much as anybody else,” Green said. “And she knows how to tell a story.”

  “That she does.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Was that it then?”

  “One more quick thing,” I replied. “You mentioned that Lacy gave the man an ultimatum recently?”

  Thomas Green nodded.

  “What did she tell him?”

  He took a quick breath and swallowed nervously. “She told him that he had one week to tell his wife about the affair.”

  “And if not?”

  “Then Lacy would tell her.”

  “And what did the man say to that?” I asked.

  Green’s eyelids fluttered again. “He told Lacy that she’d live to regret it,” Green said. “If, that is, she lived at all.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Julia was grinning like the Cheshire Cat when she knocked on my office door later that afternoon.

  “Katie?” Her eyes sparked with mischief. “Are you sitting down?”

  “I’m in my chair, Jules. Does that qualify?”

  She came into the room, put a fresh cup of tea on my desk and plopped both hands on her hips.

  “Thank you,” I said, trying to determine what was behind the ironic smile and playful twinkle. “Are you trying to cheer me up or let me down easy?”

  “Could be a little of both. Abigail Ascot is on hold for you.”

  “Our very own Hollywood starlet-to-be?”

  Julia’s grin flattened. “It’s not good news,” she said. “The anniversary party for her parents is off.”

  “Oh?”

  “There’s apparently a tabloid story about her father,” Julia explained. “At least, I think that’s what she said before the crocodile tears started to flow.”

  “She’s crying?” I asked in disbelief. “And she called us during the sobfest?”

  “Either that or she really is a talented actress.”

  I looked down at the phone on my desk; one light blinked like a harbinger of doom.