by Mary Maxwell
CHAPTER 4
I was measuring dry ingredients for a batch of muffins early the next morning when Julia crashed through the back door into the Sky High kitchen with a deafening chorus of high-pitched whoops and howls.
“Happy Monday!” she cheered. “How is everyone today?”
I looked around the empty room. “Everyone?”
She smirked. “You know what I mean! How are you?”
“So far, so good,” I told her.
I waited while she shrugged off her jacket, draped it over a hook on the wall and slipped into a clean apron.
“Coffee’s fresh,” I said, nodding toward the far end of the kitchen. “And there’s a new container of coconut caramel creamer in the walk-in if you want to shake things up a little bit.”
“Oh, I don’t need anything to shake up my day, thank you very much!” She flashed an immense grin. “Jared’s a final candidate for that job I told you about! We could barely sleep last night, Katie! It will be so life-changing if he gets the promotion! We’ll be able to finally start saving for the kids’ college, replace our old washing machine and take a real vacation for a change.”
Julia’s husband was in the running for a new regional director position at work. I was still a little fuzzy about the opportunity—something related to mechanical engineering—but everyone within a five-mile radius of Julia’s high-octane reports during the past month was keenly aware that her husband was ready for a change at work.
“How was your Sunday?” she asked, sliding in beside me. “And what’re you working on?”
“Sunday was mellow,” I replied. “We went to church and then out to eat.”
“And what’s in the bowl?” Her nose crinkled with a hint of disapproval. “I hope you’re not making Bernice Winkoop’s regular order.”
I put down the teaspoon and baking soda. “Why? It’s the first day of the week, isn’t it?”
Bernice Winkoop was a perky 75-year-old retired seamstress who adored my grandmother’s Berry Good Morning Muffins almost as much as she loved her husband. Bernice and Atticus had been ordering Nana Reed’s famous baked goodies for years. They always picked up the muffins around noon, so I wanted to get them ready before the breakfast crowd arrived.
“Yes, it’s Monday,” Julia said, poking my shoulder. “But we talked about this the other day.”
I forced a smile. “We did?”
Julia pointed at the whiteboard on the wall. It was the official repository for prep lists, special orders and dietary tips. On any given day, Raspberry Purée, Sweet Tart Dough and Sky High Glistening Glaze might appear alongside Millie Corcoran 2 dozen snickerdoodles, Harriet Dockett 3 loaves banana bread and The best day to start your diet is tomorrow!
“I don’t see Bernice Winkoop up there,” I said. “What am I missing?”
She laughed. “A couple of marbles, apparently. Bernice called on Friday to say that they were finally going on the cruise they’ve been talking about since you and I were both in diapers.”
I felt my cheeks redden. “She did?”
“Uh-huh,” Julia said.
“And we talked about it?”
“Yep.” Her grin was lighthearted and triumphant. “On Friday and Saturday.”
I thought for a moment. “Was the Saturday conversation before or after Zack surprised me with the roses?”
Julia giggled. “It was before and after,” she said. “I mentioned it as I left Sky High in the afternoon, and we also talked about it that night at the fundraiser.”
I slapped one palm against my forehead. “It’s happening, Jules. I’m losing my edge.”
She shook her head. “No, Katie. You’re human. If there’s anything to remember, it’s double check the board before you make any of our standing orders.”
She jabbed my shoulder again. “No harm done! We can use all of that stuff for something else.”
I looked down at the ramekins of baking soda, salt, flour and cinnamon. Then I reached for my coffee. And then I asked if I’d missed anything else from our previous conversations.
“No,” Julia said. “But I do have one suggestion.”
“What’s that?”
She pointed at my feet. I looked down, suddenly realizing that I was wearing a yellow floral Super Birki clog on the right and a green floral version on my left.
“Remember that getting dressed in the dark,” she said with a mischievous snicker, “can lead to fashion disasters.”
CHAPTER 5
At half past two that afternoon, Sharon Ruiz appeared in the doorway of the Sky High office looking uneasy and tense. Since we closed at three o’clock and the dining room was nearly empty, Julia had shooed me from the kitchen a few minutes earlier so that I could work on the proposal for our next big catering job.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Sharon said, fidgeting with the buttons on her jacket. “But can you spare a second or two?”
I waved her into the room, pointing at one of the guest chairs facing the desk. Sharon was a frequent visitor to Sky High, stopping at least two or three times for lunch each week. She owned a successful luxury candle business, and preferred to make customer deliveries herself to keep a personal touch on things. After dispensing the last delivery from her customized vintage VW bus—teal with a bright orange company logo on the side, fringed shades in the windows and Grateful Dead stickers scattered across the back—she would stop in for lunch and a slice of pie.
“I can spare as many seconds as you’d like,” I said. “Do you want anything to drink?”
She shook her head. “I’m okay, but thank you anyway. My stomach’s pretty bubbly. I wouldn’t want to add insult to injury.”
There was something in her voice that suggested her condition was the result of nerves rather than the bug that had been going around town.
“Did something happen?” I asked.
Sharon’s shoulders slumped as she issued a heavy sigh. “Denise Borrelli happened,” she said. “That nosy witch has been telling the world that Kevin and I are getting a divorce, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.”
I wasn’t surprised by Sharon’s declaration. I’d heard the rumors from Harper and Julia during the past few days.
“Where did she get the idea?” I asked.
Denise Borrelli was a tetchy, opinionated woman in her forties. When she wasn’t working for a local insurance company, she frittered away countless hours online posting and sharing tidbits of gossip on a blog that she called The Dirty Laundry Diaries.
“I haven’t the foggiest idea,” Sharon said with a deep frown. “But it’s making my life a living hell. I can’t go anywhere in town without someone offering nuggets of advice or murmurs of sympathy.”
I smiled at her comment. Nuggets and murmurs. Even when she was upset, Sharon had the ability to weave artistic embellishments into her conversations. Although her brothers and sisters were attorneys, accountants and chemists, Sharon had pursued a career as an artist. After several years and a handful of exploratory pursuits—landscape painting, fashion photography and ceramics—she’d combined them all into her handcrafted candles. Each one of Sharon’s unique creations—a blend of soy wax, palm wax and beeswax that was hand-poured into 3D-printed molds—was like a shimmering sculpture of light when the wick was burning.
“I know that Denise thinks gossip is hilarious,” added Sharon, “but I don’t find it amusing at all.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “What can I do to help?”
She melted into the chair, letting her chin drop to her chest. “Shoot me!” she teased with a soft laugh. “Just take me out back and shoot me!”
“I can’t do that,” I said.
“Then shoot her!” Sharon teased. “You’d be doing the world a favor!”
We laughed about the dark humor before she sat up again and squared her shoulders.
“I know that it’s silly,” she said. “But Denise’s antics are starting to get really annoying. And it’s literally the last thing that I
need right now. My hubby’s going in for minor surgery next week. We’re starting a full remodel project on our kitchen and bath the week after that. And the candle business is absolutely skyrocketing. I can barely keep up with the orders and deliveries.”
“That’s wonderful!” I said. “I mean, not the surgery part, but all the rest sounds pretty great.”
She swooped one hand through the air. “Oh, the surgery thing is minor. It’s a tweak to his shoulder. He’ll go in at six that morning, and be back home by one o’clock. I just hope they give him enough pain pills. I may need to borrow a few if this thing with Denise hasn’t calmed down by then.”
“She really is getting on your nerves, huh?”
“It wouldn’t bother me normally,” Sharon answered. “But with the business going crazy and the surgery and—” Her eyes flared with excitement. “Oh! And I’m auditioning for the Crescent Creek Community Theater at the end of the month! It’s been my dream to play Martha in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? ever since I lost the role to Tammy Marie Wannamaker in seventh grade.”
I smiled. “Your junior high let kids play boozy adults in a school play?”
Sharon tapered her eyes. “‘I hope that was an empty bottle, George!’” she said, drenching her voice with a tipsy accent. “‘You can’t afford to waste good liquor, not on your salary!’”
A gentle knock came from the doorway. It was Julia, appearing slightly perplexed by what she’d just heard Sharon announce.
“Um, sorry to interrupt,” she said hesitantly. “But I just finished the order for Harper’s last table. Do you want to go over the catering notes before I start cleaning the kitchen?”
Sharon started to get up. “I’m sorry, you guys. I didn’t even think about what time it was before I started flapping my jaw.”
Julia motioned for her to sit. “You’re fine,” she said. “It’s no problem. Jared’s with the kids today, so I’m not in a hurry.”
“That’s okay,” Sharon said. “It wasn’t anything all that important.”
I could tell from Julia’s expression that she felt bad about cutting into our chat. But we had an understanding that I would close the door if I needed total privacy for phone calls or conversations with visitors.
“Well, I’m going back to the kitchen,” she said. “You two take as long as you need, okay?”
As soon as we were alone again, Sharon apologized for dropping by without calling.
“Nonsense,” I said. “You’re welcome day or night. I’m happy to listen whenever you need to vent. After all, Denise can be a handful.”
Sharon frowned. “Oh, that witch can be two handfuls,” she said with a wicked laugh. “Two handfuls of Grade A, one-hundred percent bull hockey!”
A few minutes later, after we traded our favorite Denise Borrelli stories and Sharon asked if I would be willing to share my grandmother’s recipe for strawberry-pretzel icebox pie, I walked her to the front door.
“Thanks for letting me unleash my inner grouch,” she said. “I feel much better now.”
I moved closer, circled her with my arms for a hug and then stepped back.
“Just remember,” I said as she headed for the front door. “Denise tends to cross boundaries a little more often than most people.”
CHAPTER 6
Zack smiled at me across the table at Luigi’s Ristorante, our favorite Italian place in Crescent Creek. It was nearly eight o’clock that night, and we’d just ordered a bottle of Brunello di Montalcino to share for dinner.
“You look beautiful in this candlelight,” he said, reaching for my hand. “Those cheekbones and lips and—”
My phone buzzed in my purse.
“—there’s a sexy twinkle in your eye, babe. How did I get so lucky?”
I squeezed his fingers. “How did we get so—”
The phone rang again, but I kept my eyes locked on the handsome man smiling back at me through the golden glow of the candle’s swaying flame.
“—lucky in this crazy, mixed-up world?”
Zack pulled my hand closer and peppered it with kisses. Then he gently put it on the table and offered a few more admiring words about the way I’d fixed my hair and the little black dress that I was wearing.
“The way it hugs your backside is…well, it’s pretty much flawless,” he said, lowering his voice to a smoky whisper. “I mean, when I watched everything moving so perfectly as we were leaving your apartment, I almost—”
“Begging your pardon,” said a heavily accented voice. “But I have a telephone call for you, Katie.”
Zack and I both swiveled our eyes toward the gatecrasher standing beside the table. It was Luigi Benedetto, the restaurant’s namesake and celebrated chef. He was holding a phone in one fleshy hand while explaining that someone had insisted on interrupting our meal with an urgent call.
“I think it’s la polizia!” he said, handing the phone to me. “Have you broken the law or something?”
I shook my head, assured our stout Italian friend that I was blameless and then greeted the mystery caller on the other end of the line.
“That was hysterical!” Dina Kincaid laughed. “Tell Luigi that his whisper is about as subtle as a kick in the pants.”
“Will do,” I said, winking at Zack.
“How did you know that we were at Luigi’s for dinner?” I asked Dina.
She laughed. “Because I drove by and saw your car.”
“Ah, very clever, detective,” I said. “Do you want to join Zack and me for dinner?”
“I’m afraid that will have to wait,” Dina answered. “But I do have something to tell you.”
“I’m listening,” I said. “Is it about that lottery ticket that I lost in your office last week?”
“Not quite,” Dina replied. “It’s about Wendy Barr.”
The sudden shift in her tone told me that it wasn’t good news. As my mind raced in every direction at once, a cold, dull lump formed in my stomach.
“What about her?” I asked.
Dina took a deep breath. “She’s dead, Katie. Sue Carswell found Wendy last night near the back steps of her duplex.”
The news felt like a punch in the stomach. I didn’t know Wendy Barr especially well, but the 36-year-old entrepreneur was always friendly whenever I ran into her around town. Shortly after I’d moved back from Chicago to take over Sky High Pies after my parents retired, Wendy stopped by one day with a formal business proposal to provide daily and weekly janitorial services. I’d declined the offer by explaining that Julia, Harper and I planned to continue the same in-house approach to cleaning that my family had used since Nana Reed first opened the doors. Wendy accepted the decision politely, although I’d heard from a few folks that she’d grumbled about my preference for pinching pennies.
When I heard Dina mention something about the crime scene, I pushed the memories of Wendy aside and asked the first question that came to mind.
“So what was the COD?” I said.
“It looks like blunt force trauma,” Dina answered. “There were also ligature marks around her neck and abrasions on her hands and arms that suggest she tried to defend herself during a struggle.”
“That’s terrible,” I said. “Do you think it was a robbery that went sideways?”
“No,” Dina replied. “Wendy’s purse, cell phone and briefcase were found with her body. There was a robbery in that part of town last month, but we made an arrest in that incident a few days after it happened.”
“Was Sue alone when she found Wendy?” I said.
“That’s what she told us.”
“You said that it happened last night?” I asked.
“Sue called 911 at half past seven,” Dina said.
My heart skidded for a few seconds. “We actually saw Sue as we were running errands last night around that time.”
“We?”
“I was with Zack,” I said. “We were in my car, but he was driving. And it was definitely Sue, heading west on University, with a man i
n the passenger seat. It was two or three blocks from City Hall.”
“Really?”
“I’m certain of it,” I said.
“What was she driving?” asked Dina.
“Her car,” I said. “I don’t know the make or model, but it’s a light greenish-blue color.”
“Any idea who was with her?”
“None whatsoever,” I said. “But I got enough of a glimpse to know it was a man, and Sue didn’t look like a happy camper. She was scowling and pounding on the steering wheel with one fist.”
“Will you do me a favor?” said Dina. “Will you stop by the office tomorrow afternoon? I’d like you to discuss the possibility of you doing a little consulting work on this case.”
“What time?”
“How about four?”
“I’ll be there,” I said. “If I tell Julia that it’s related to—”
“Please don’t,” Dina said quickly. “And it’s not that I don’t trust Julia. I’d really like to keep this quiet for now.”
“Which part?” I asked. “Wendy’s death or me coming to see you?”
“The latter,” she answered. “Lazlo and Deb were doing one of their pub crawls tonight, so we had a half dozen witnesses suddenly come around the corner into the Sagebrush Lofts parking lot as we arrived to process Wendy’s office. I’m sure the grapevine is already buzzing with the rumors.”
“Didn’t you have the entrance to the lot cordoned off?” I asked.
She laughed. “Of course, we did. But Lazlo thought it was part of a student film that some high school kids are making around town.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I heard about that from Zack. But he told me it was being filmed out on Del Truman’s farm.”
“That was the original plan,” she said. “But Del changed his mind when they told him the story involved aliens.” She chuckled softly. “You know the deal there, right?”
I smiled and winked at Zack. “Yes, I do. Del believes that he was abducted by aliens one evening a few years ago. But his wife found him in the barn the next morning with an empty bottle of Wild Turkey and his metal detector. They’d disagreed about something the night before. Del had stomped out the door to look for buried treasure around the abandoned prospector’s cabin on the far southern edge of their property.”