by Mary Maxwell
“I’m not surprised,” I said. “Lots of mothers would feel the same way, whether you’re talking about implants, tattoos, body piercings or dozens of other things.”
“Like tuba lessons,” he said.
I waited to see if there was a punch line, but he didn’t say anything more.
“Can you connect the dots for me, sweetheart?” I said.
“Between tuba lessons and faux gazongas?”
“Yep.”
“Sure thing,” Zack said with a laugh. “When I was ten, I told my parents that I wanted to learn how to play the tuba. My dad didn’t care one way or the other, but my mother was totally against it.”
“Too expensive?” I said.
He chuckled again. “No, because she was afraid it would permanently mess up the shape of my lips. It’s weird, but that’s my mom for you. When it came to her children, she drew the line at faux gazongas and tuba lessons.”
CHAPTER 32
Sue Carswell stepped onto the front porch of her duplex, looking relaxed and carefree in a red gingham blouse and pleated navy skirt. It was shortly after two on Saturday afternoon, and I’d called earlier to ask if I could drop off some goodies. The lunch crowd had been especially sparse, so I’d ducked out to see Sue and make a quick stop at the drug store while Julia and Harper kept things rolling at Sky High.
“You didn’t have to do this,” Sue said, taking the white paperboard box. “But I really appreciate the thoughtfulness.”
“I just wanted you to know that we’re here for you,” I said. “It’s a terrible loss to the community, but you and Wendy have been friends for years.”
She bit her lower lip to stop it from trembling. “Since we were kids,” she said as her voice dropped to a whisper. “I keep thinking that the phone will ring and it’ll be Wendy. Or I’ll go over and she’ll answer the door with her hair in a towel and mud mask all over her face.”
I nodded. “Have you talked to Ken?”
Sue squinted. “Ken?”
“Ken Higby,” I said. “Wendy’s boyfriend.”
The squint softened a little, but her expression remained apprehensive. “Well, of course. He lives next door. I saw him a couple of days ago when the police came over again. They talked to Ken and then walked around the property line in the back for some reason.”
“That could be any number of things,” I said. “Maybe they were filling in a few details about Ken’s whereabouts the day that Wendy was killed.”
“You think?”
“Well, that’s one possibility. I was just wondering if you’d seen him. I left a message, but he hasn’t called back.”
She lifted the box of Sky High treats. “What’s inside here?” she asked. “Cookies?”
“Cookies, scones and muffins,” I said. “A little bit of everything to satisfy your sweet tooth, whether it’s morning, noon or night.”
“Thank you, Katie.” She opened the lid and took a peek. “There’s not much in my kitchen, so these will be nice to nibble on.”
“I hope so,” I said. “And there’s more where those came from!”
She frowned, giving her trim waist a light pat. “I don’t want to push it, but that’s sweet of you. Wendy was always trying to entice me into trips to Scoops of Joy, but I resisted the temptation.”
“She told me once that she preferred ice cream as a stress reliever,” I said. “I have to admit that I ran into her there a time or two when I needed to take the edge off.”
Sue laughed at the remark. “I’ll miss hearing her go into great detail about chocolate chip cookie dough frozen yogurt slathered with caramel sauce and cashews.”
My eyebrows shot up. “That’s a good one, too. I’ll have to remember that the next time I feel the need.”
She offered a smile. “Well, I hate to be rude, but I should get back to what I was—”
“Where are you?” came a voice from inside the duplex. “I can’t find the shirt that you ironed for me.”
Before Sue could say anything, the door behind her opened and Ken Higby stepped into view. He had a white towel around his waist, with damp tousled hair and shaving cream on both earlobes.
“Oh, hey…” The swirl of confusion and embarrassment on his face was priceless. He looked like a toddler caught with both hands in the cookie jar. “How’s it going, Katie?”
“It’s going,” I said. “How are you, Ken?”
Sue glanced at him with a flare of anger. “I told you that I’d be right back,” she said.
“I know, but I can’t…” He let it go and mumbled a few words about trouble with the plumbing in Wendy’s master bathroom. “Okay, good to see you,” he added, gently closing the door again.
“It’s not what it looks like,” Sue said.
I shrugged. “And it’s also none of my business. We’re all adults here.”
She sighed. “That man will never be an adult, but he has a good heart. Things got complicated after he and Wendy started fighting all the time.”
I nodded, but kept it zipped. She seemed interested in explaining whatever had been going on with Ken.
“They got along so well in the beginning,” she continued. “The three of us would go to dinner every so often, you know. Maybe meet for drinks after work. About five or six months ago, around the time that Wendy’s business started to slip, she became so…” Her eyes flicked skyward as she searched for the right words. “…hard and cold and cruel, I suppose. I’ve known Wendy almost my whole life and she never acted that way. But it kept getting worse. Once I moved into the duplex, I would hear them arguing through the wall that separates my kitchen from Wendy’s place.”
“What did they fight about?” I asked when she paused to pull in a deep breath.
“You name it,” Sue answered. “Money, shopping, laundry, sex. I swear that if Ken said it was sunny outside, Wendy would challenge the claim and call him a moron.”
“Did they consider counseling?”
She sighed. “It didn’t help. They went to…oh, what’s her name? The woman with the silver hair in a braid?”
“Maxine Doran?”
“That’s right,” Sue said with a grin. “Maxine Doran. Wendy and Ken went every Friday for, like, three months, but it didn’t do anything. After they stopped going together, Wendy went back for more sessions. I don’t know if it was talking to Maxine or the sudden improvement in her financial situation, but Wendy was much more pleasant to be around during the past few weeks.”
“Did she confide in you about her chats with Maxine?”
Sue snickered. “Wendy? Tell me about what was really going on under all that blonde hair? Never in a million years. She was secretive about some things when we were younger, and she stayed that way.”
“Okay,” I said. “What about the changes in her business?”
“What changes?”
“You just told me that her business slipped a few months ago, but then her finances improved,” I said. “Does that mean her business picked up?”
Sue considered the question briefly. “I guess so,” she replied. “But I didn’t think about it too much. I was just grateful that she was no longer raking Ken over the coals every night and day.”
“Do you know if Wendy had recent disagreements with anyone else?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “Detective Kincaid had the same question. I can see it being possible, but I didn’t know about anything like that. As I already told you, Wendy was pretty guarded about things. The only time that she even hinted at sharing something really sensitive with me was the day that she died.”
“What did she say?”
“It was more what she didn’t say that got my attention,” Sue answered. “We were going to meet for dinner, so I called to confirm the time. Wendy’s voice was different, almost like she was frightened about something. When I asked what was going on, she told me that she’d made a mistake and was involved with something scandalous. I asked her to give me an idea what she was talking about, but she sa
id it could wait until we got together. It seemed like she would be more comfortable discussing the subject face-to-face instead of over the phone.”
“So you don’t have any idea what it involved?”
Sue shook her head. “Not exactly,” she said. “She really was extra secretive about some things. In fact, Ken told me that Wendy flew to Los Angeles last week without telling anyone, so I figured maybe she was going out there to resolve whatever she’d gotten into. I was even wondering if she was thinking about selling her company.”
“Had she mentioned that before?” I asked.
“Never once,” Sue said. “But before we got off the phone the day that she died, Wendy finally admitted that whatever she was going to tell me later was related to a business scam that would impact quite a few people in town. She sounded sad and lost. After a few garbled comments about regrets and learning to change her ways, Wendy told me that she’d go into all of the details that night at dinner.”
“So she didn’t give you any clue about who else was involved?”
“Not one hint,” Sue said. “I don’t really know anything more. But I will tell you one thing; I suspect that whatever it was may have led to her death.”
CHAPTER 33
“Is that Katie Reed?” someone called a moment later as I walked down Sue’s driveway toward the car.
When I looked around for the source, I saw Bill Pinkerton coming across the lawn. He lived in a tidy bungalow directly to the north of Wendy’s duplex. He and his family were Saturday morning regulars at Sky High. During most of their visits, Bill stuck to scones and coffee, his wife nibbled on a muffin and their two teenaged sons devoured twice their weight in pancakes.
“How are you, Bill?” I called.
“Can’t complain,” he said, stepping onto the driveway. “Well, I can, but it never does any good.”
I agreed with the assessment. If there was one trait that characterized Bill Pinkerton, it was consistency. He used the same opening line whenever our paths crossed around town. He worked as a loan officer at Crescent Creek Bank, so the subjects following his trademark greeting usually included the latest mortgage interest rates, news from Wall Street and which teller earned the bank’s monthly Customer Care Champion Award.
“What’s going on at the bank?” I asked.
“It was a crazy, busy week,” he said. “I closed on three loans and they delivered my new desk chair.” He put one hand on his lower back. “Better lumbar support, which is critical for an old guy like me.”
I smiled. “Aren’t you around forty?”
He shook his head. “Be forty-seven next month, Katie. I’m not one-hundred percent sure, but I think that I saw the Grim Reaper peering over my shoulder in the bathroom mirror this morning when I was shaving.”
I responded to his joke with a soft laugh before asking how he was handling the news about his neighbor’s death.
“Terrible way to go,” he said. “Just a terrible, terrible way to go. Who would do something so heinous?”
“It’s hard to imagine,” I said. “Had you seen her much lately?”
“Not really. When I saw a van over there the other day, it was the first sign of life in weeks.” He winced slightly. “Well, that was a poor choice of words, wasn’t it?”
“It’s okay. When did you see the van?”
“Sunday,” he said. “The day that Wendy was killed.”
“Can you describe it?”
He smiled. “Sure thing. It belongs to Sharon Ruiz, the woman that makes the fancy candles.”
“And it was at Wendy’s?” I asked.
Bill laughed. “Is your hearing okay, Katie?”
“I’m just trying to confirm what you said,” I told him. “It’s an old habit from my days as a private investigator. It can be a little annoying, but I want to be certain about the facts that witnesses tell me.”
“I understand about that.” His face sagged with a worried frown. “But why on earth would Sharon Ruiz want to hurt Wendy? They go to the same church. They play volleyball together on Wednesday nights at the high school. And they’ve been friends forever.”
“Did you see the driver?” I asked.
“Not a glimpse,” he said. “They went around the back. Detective Kincaid asked me the same thing, but we didn’t dwell on it since I didn’t see who was driving or what they did back there. At that point, Dina and I got sidetracked on the gossip about Wendy’s boyfriend and her neighbor.”
“You’ve heard rumors about Ken and Sue?”
He nodded. “My wife and I call them Boris and Natasha, like the spies in that old cartoon series. They slink around and think they’re being so cagey, but everybody on the block knows what they’re up to.”
“And what is that?” I said.
He snorted. “Come on, Katie! Are you trying to tell me that you haven’t heard the scuttlebutt?”
“I have,” I said. “But I’m trying to be circumspect.”
“I’m sure that’s their intention, too,” Bill replied. “But they’re way too obvious. Somebody on the next street over told me that Ken sneaks out the back of Wendy’s place and goes over to Sue’s so that nobody will suspect anything’s going on.”
“I’ve actually heard about that,” I said.
“It’s true,” Bill added. “But what the heck does it matter now? The poor girl’s gone and that stooge is still carrying on with Sue. Where’s the decency these days?”
“Good question,” I said. “Let me know if you find an answer.”
He grumbled and let out a long sigh. “Were you asking Sue about the memorial service?”
“No, I hadn’t heard about that yet,” I said.
“That’s why I came out when I saw you just now,” he replied. “A bunch of us here in the neighborhood decided this morning that we should do something to celebrate Wendy’s life.”
“That’s a really wonderful idea,” I told him.
“We’re doing it tomorrow night,” Bill said. “You know, one week since she died. It starts at seven o’clock at the Community Center.”
“Thanks for letting me know,” I said. “I’ll be sure and spread the word.”
“Well, good to chat with you, Katie,” he replied, turning back toward his house. “Hope to see you there.”
CHAPTER 34
“Do you have time for a phone call?” Harper asked as she came into the Sky High office around three-thirty that afternoon. She had a bottle of glass cleaner in one hand and a stick of beef jerky in the other.
“Is that to eat,” I asked, pointing at the snack, “or does it double as a scrubbing device?”
She stuck out her tongue. “Hilarious! I needed a quick fix of protein. Now, do you want to talk to this guy or should I take a message?”
“What guy?”
“The one that’s on hold.” She put the glass cleaner on the desk and looked at the palm of her hand. “Wyatt Stafford,” she said. “I wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget. My brain’s a pile of mashed peas at this point. When it’s slow like it was this afternoon, it feels even more draining than when we’re busy.”
“Why don’t you go home?” I suggested. “I’ll finish up in the dining room.”
She took a bite of beef jerky, shaking her head as she chewed and swallowed. “I only have a couple more things to do,” she said. “And you better take that call before he gets tired of listening to the recording about oatmeal scotchies and snickerdoodles.”
“Is that still on there?” I asked.
Harper smiled. “It’s a classic at this point, Katie. You’ve been saying that you were going to change it since Teddy Roosevelt was in the White House.”
I sneered and wagged one finger before she twirled out of the room. Then I picked up the phone and greeted Wyatt Stafford with as much verve as I could muster.
“Well, hello to you, too,” he said. “Do you remember meeting me at Frank Kanter’s office the other day?”
“Knock, knock,” I said.
Staffo
rd’s laugh was hearty and loud. “That’s right! The knock-knock joke.”
“What can I help you with?” I asked.
“I’ve heard from several people around town that you have a background in investigations,” he replied. “I was wondering if it would be possible to chat for a few minutes now or schedule a time to stop by and go over a few questions that I have about Frank Kanter and Richard Poole.”
“I can talk now,” I said. “And your sources are correct, but my PI work is a thing of the past. These days, my professional focus is exclusively on Sky High Pies.”
“You’re being too modest,” he said. “I had a long meeting with Deputy Chief Walsh this morning. He painted a flattering portrait of you, Miss Reed. From your days playing high school volleyball to the years that you worked in Chicago as a top-notch private detective.”
“Did he tell you about my second-place finish in the third grade talent contest?” I joked. “Or my ability to lose every karaoke competition that I’ve ever entered?”
Stafford laughed again. “Funny, but I’m serious about my request. I didn’t have a chance the other day to fully describe the article that I’m working on at the moment. But the winding trail of clues and mischief has brought me to your fair city, and I find that it’s most helpful to discuss local affairs with local residents.”
“What kind of local affairs?” I asked.
“Kanter Worldwide,” he said. “I guess he just changed the company name this morning.”
I snickered. “And that change will really get everyone talking,” I said. “That much I can definitely tell you. When Frank and his brother took over the company about ten or twelve years ago, it had a local and regional focus. They bought and sold commercial properties, flipped quite a few houses and developed a small strip center outside of Frisco.”
“Sure,” Stafford said. “I’ve been researching Kanter’s business for several months.”
The revelation was surprising. I’d worked with a couple of investigative reporters in Chicago when their professional pursuits overlapped with mine. But I didn’t think of Frank Kanter as the kind of real estate developer to attract attention from national publications. Of course, I wasn’t overly familiar with his company, and didn’t know much about how the enterprise had changed since Sam Kanter sold his shares and moved to Arizona when he was diagnosed with cancer. The illness had been in remission for a few years, but I’d heard that Sam was happier playing golf at the country club and swimming in his pool than butting heads with his younger brother about strategic real estate investments for their firm.