by Mary Maxwell
“I guess that’s good.”
The ruddy-faced bartender smirked. “For Dex, yeah. Not so much for the kitchen door.”
“What did they charge him with?”
“Lack of common sense,” Burt said. “And being hopeless as a box of left shoes.”
I didn’t want to probe further to hear about the actual charges, so I let it slide. I climbed up onto a barstool, ordered a club soda with lime and asked Burt if he’d seen Boris Hertel lately.
“Yep.”
“How was he?”
Burt nodded toward the far side of the room. “You can ask him yourself if you’re so inclined.”
I swiveled around on the stool. Boris Hertel was sitting at a table with the woman I’d seen earlier climbing into the BMW in the CVS parking lot.
“Small world,” I said quietly.
“You know her?” Burt asked.
I shook my head. “Not yet.”
“Well, you two have a lot in common. Her name is Velma Lancaster. She’s a PI from Utah. Or maybe she said Nevada. I wasn’t exactly paying close attention.”
“Is that so?”
He dug in his shirt pocket, pulled out a business card and handed it to me. On the front, in dark lilac ink against a pale gray background, I saw the woman’s name, telephone number and email address. There was no mention of her home state. And nothing about driving luxury cars with stolen plates or serving as the accomplice to an inebriated widower when he delivers a startling to-do list.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Burt said.
I shook off the idle conjecture about the tall brunette dressed in pink leggings. Then I asked for a glass of chardonnay to go along with the club soda.
“Drinking on the job, huh?”
I narrowed my gaze. “I’m off the clock, but thank you very much.”
He chuckled. “I know your deal, Katie. Your dad used to come in here on Tuesday nights for our Hungarian goulash while your mom was at her book club.” He paused to wink. “And, by book club, I mean drinking fancy cocktails with her girlfriends while they pretended to discuss the newest Joan Collins or what have you.”
“I’ve never heard my mother talk about a Joan Collins novel before.”
Burt laughed again. “My point entirely! Because those ladies never read the books, you see. Their club was all about cocktails and gossip.”
From the lilt in his voice to the mischievous glint in his eyes, it seemed Burt had intimate knowledge of my mother’s former book club. When I asked how he knew so much, he puffed out his chest, stood a little taller and announced that he had been the only male to be included in the group.
“My ex-girlfriend was a member,” he explained. “She got me in because I used to leave early on Tuesday nights.”
“Then how’d you know about my dad and his fondness for goulash?”
Burt shrugged. “You missed a clue there, Katie.”
“Oh, your ex-girlfriend. So when the romance went south, you got the heave-ho?”
His smile wilted. “Yeah, but it all worked out in the end. If I was still going out with Lynn and pretending to read those books, I never would’ve met Kristen.”
“Happily ever after, right?”
He held up his left hand and pointed at the thin gold band. “Four years and counting,” he said proudly. “She’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”
My heart fluttered as he went on to describe the bliss and wonder of married life. After he explained how Kristen resolved the dilemma of his icy feet in bed during the winter—a tale that involved a spicy foot massage, hot packs warmed in the microwave and mohair socks—I reminded Burt about my glass of wine.
“Darn it, Katie!” He slapped his forehead with one hand. “I’m sorry about that. I start talking about my sweetheart and I’m a goner!”
While he went to the opposite end of the bar for a fresh bottle of chardonnay, I looked over my shoulder again. Boris Hertel was now alone at the table. He was vigilantly picking at the label on his beer bottle and muttering to himself. I quickly slid down from the stool and hurried across the room.
“Mr. Hertel?”
He looked up, glancing sideways through beady red eyes. “Who are you?”
I told him my name before reminding him that we’d talked the day before. “You stopped by Sky High Pies,” I said. “It was right after we opened in the morning.”
His gaze shifted back to the beer bottle. “Impossible,” he mumbled. “I was in Houston yesterday.”
The response left me momentarily speechless. What was the point of talking to someone so muddled and intoxicated? If he didn’t remember our conversation, how could he possibly tell me anything about the—
“May I help you?”
The voice was prickly and scornful. When I turned toward its source, the brunette from the BMW was standing a few feet behind me. She had one hand on her hip and both eyebrows arched with suspicion. I held out my arm, but she made it clear that a handshake was out of the question.
“My name is—”
The jagged voice cut me short. “I know who you are,” the woman said. “Why are you talking to my client?”
Boris Hertel raised the bottle and finished the last of his beer. Then he said, “Yeah? Why’re you talking to her client?”
I glanced back at Burt behind the bar. He was watching the strange interlude as he poured my glass of wine.
“I’m sorry, Miss…” She ignored the pause, so I kept going. “I didn’t mean to upset anyone. I saw Mr. Hertel sitting here alone. And I simply wanted to ask him about something.”
“There’s nothing simple about going where you’re not wanted, Miss Reed,” the woman said. “In fact, why don’t you go back to what you were doing? My client and I were just leaving anyway.”
Boris Hertel frowned. “We were? I need another beer.”
The woman glared at him. “Need?” she said. “Or want?”
The tipsy man looked at the empty bottle on the table. “Both,” he mumbled. “It’s a need and a want.” A mischievous smile flickered on his face. “And, by the way, Miss Lancaster, it’s nonnegotiable.”
“Not here,” she said. “We can find another place where we won’t be bothered. And, by the way, it’s Mrs. Lancaster.”
I watched silently as she reached into the expensive handbag looped around one wrist, pulled out a twenty and dropped it on the table. Then she grabbed the empty bottle and headed for the bar.
“Mr. Hertel?” I said softly.
He pushed the chair away from the table. “Just leave it,” he said, glancing nervously at the woman. “My son and I have got a plan to stop them, Miss Reed. And it’ll work perfectly well as long as you keep yourself on the periphery.”
I checked on Velma Lancaster. She was talking to Burt, waving one hand through the air like a knife gone rogue.
“What’s going on?” I asked as Boris stood and turned toward the door.
“Never mind that!” He suddenly sounded less inebriated, as if the slurred words and mumbled cadence were an act intended to mask ulterior motives. “Just focus on the things I left with you yesterday. There’s no telling who to trust at this point. My son and I wanted you to be aware of what’s going on so you can—”
“Okay, that’s about enough,” Velma Lancaster said. “Let’s go, Boris.”
I reached out and took his arm. “Wait just a second,” I said. “Before you go, I’d like to ask you one question.”
Her eyes gleamed with contempt. “The list?” she asked. “Is that what you wanted to discuss?”
I nodded. “Yes, actually. Do you know about it?”
She pursed her lips and raised her chin slightly. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the situation with you.”
“But I—”
Velma Lancaster tugged Boris Hertel’s arm from my grasp. Then she guided him toward the door, simultaneously whispering in his ear and glaring at me until they were gone.
CHAPTER 11
Viveca and I had ag
reed to meet for dinner at Café Fleur that evening at six-thirty. I briefly considered canceling our plans so I could do some online sleuthing into Velma Lancaster, but Viv had called to remind me and the excitement in her voice was irresistible. We hadn’t been out together in weeks, so I decided waiting two hours to research the strange PI with the silver BMW and stolen license plates would be better than disappointing my neighbor.
“I’m so glad we’re finally doing this!” she said as I shrugged off my jacket and joined her in a booth. “I want to hear how things are going with you and Zack.”
I smiled and pointed at my face. “Here you go! This grin is way more informative than anything I could ever say.”
Viv made a face. “Oh, c’mon! I want to hear all the juicy details. Have you guys booked the trip to Mexico yet?”
“I ordered new beach towels,” I said. “Does that count?”
She giggled. “Not really. But I suppose every little step forward will get you to the goal eventually.”
Our server approached the table with two wine glasses and a bottle of pinot grigio on ice.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Viv said. “I ordered this while I was waiting.”
“That’s perfect! I need a glass after my latest weird encounter with Boris Hertel.”
We both watched as the server uncorked the bottle and poured a small amount for Viv. She took a quick sip, pronounced it amazing and the man filled both glasses to the midway point.
“Would you like to hear about our specials tonight?” he said, returning the wine to the ice bucket.
“We’re not in a hurry,” Viveca told him. “Maybe we’ll enjoy this for a few minutes before we think about food.”
After the server nodded silently and drifted back to the kitchen, Viv looped right back to my comment about Boris Hertel.
“That’s the drunk guy who was in Sky High yesterday, right?”
I nodded.
“Did he come back or something?”
“No, I ran into him at the Poke-A-Dot because my mom told me that he was a regular.”
Viveca cringed. “Yuck! I cannot stand that place! It just stinks of grease and desperation.”
“It’s not the most upscale joint in town, that’s for sure. But I wasn’t looking for ambiance. I wanted to see if I could talk to Boris.”
“And?” Viv said, sipping her wine.
“Good news, bad news,” I answered. “I found him, but he was with a supercilious private investigator.”
She took another sip from her glass. “Hmmm, this wine is delicious! Did you try it yet?”
I sampled the pinot and agreed with my neighbor. “Is it too soon to order another bottle?” I asked. “Or should we pace ourselves?”
Viv smiled, drank more wine and motioned for the server. When he reached our table, she asked for spinach dip and root vegetable chips.
“I’m totally starving,” she said after he left again. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. That sounds really yummy.”
“So? What was that about Utah?”
“Oh, the PI that was with Boris Hertel,” I said. “Burt Dahlquist told me that she might be from Utah.”
Viveca frowned. “Okay, now I’m lost. What does Burt have to do with anything? And why was a private detective from Utah here in Crescent Creek with Boris Hertel?”
I raised my wine. “That, my friend, is the question of the day.”
“Did you ask her?”
“Are you kidding? I had just approached Boris when she waltzed up and shut me down. After that, they left the bar.”
“What about Burt Dahlquist?” Viv said, reaching for the wine bottle. “Did you ask him?”
“The second they were out the door,” I said. “He told me that she and Boris had been talking to some guy before I arrived.”
“Could it be Boris Hertel’s son?”
I thought about the question for a moment or two. Trent had mentioned something about Hertel’s daughter-in-law, but I didn’t know anything about the man’s son other than his first name.
“Are we ready to order?” the server said, suddenly appearing beside the table.
Viv smiled. “Katie? Should we hear about the specials?”
I nodded and the man launched into an energetic presentation about entrée selections prepared especially for the night. I barely listened as he talked, but Viveca was hanging on every word. She asked a few clarifying questions while I was replaying the bizarre encounter at the Poke-A-Dot in my mind. By the time I realized they were both staring at me, I felt my face flush pink with embarrassment.
“Sorry, sorry!” I gushed. “I’m going to have the grilled salmon with asparagus.”
Viv ordered the same thing. When the server left, she asked me again about Boris Hertel.
“What about him?” I said.
“Do you think the woman at the Poke-A-Dot could be his daughter?”
I shook my head. “Boris and his wife only had one child, a son named Kevin. But he’s married, so I suppose there’s a chance the woman with Boris this afternoon could be…” My phone buzzed in my purse. “…married to Mr. Hertel’s son.”
I glanced at Viv.
“Go ahead,” she said. “It could be a pie emergency!”
When I pulled out the phone, I saw a text from Trent Walsh: 911. Call me ASAP!
“It’s urgent,” I told Viveca. “Do you mind?”
She smiled and picked up her wine glass. “Not at all, sister. Knock yourself out.”
I quickly dialed Trent and waited. I could tell from his voice when he answered that it wasn’t good news.
“Remember that list?” he said. “The one written like a poem?”
“Yes. What’s wrong?”
“Ira Pemberton’s body shop,” Trent said. “It’s engulfed in flames. Somebody came in, clocked Ira on the head and knocked him out cold. Then they poured accelerant all over the place and lit a match.”
“Is Ira okay?”
“Physically, yeah. But the rest of him isn’t doing too well. I’d say he’s in a pretty deep state of shock.”
“Is he at the med center?”
“He should be, but the guy’s more stubborn than a pig-headed mule.”
“Did the EMTs at least check him over?”
“They did. Well, Robin Bellmore did. She and Andy Davidson answered the call. Ira took one look at Robin and said she could examine anything and everything she wanted.”
“Okay, so it sounds like the ornery lobe in his brain wasn’t damaged when he got clobbered.”
Trent snickered. “No doubt. But I’d like to talk to you again, Katie. We’re obviously dealing with something more than a drunk guy delivering a scribbled to-do list.”
“I can be there in ten minutes,” I said.
“It can wait until tomorrow. I’ve got my hands full on the scene at the moment, and there’s no telling how long I’ll be here.”
“Okay. Do you want to call me later when you’re finished?”
“That works,” he said.
“Don’t worry about waking me, okay? At the moment, I need to satisfy my curiosity more than I need sleep.”
CHAPTER 12
An hour after Viveca and I left Café Fleur, I was curled on the sofa in the living room at home with a chunky chenille throw over my legs and the dog-eared copy of And Then There Were None that I found in the Sky High dining room a few days earlier. A glass of milk and a plate with two chocolate chip cookies sat nearby on the coffee table—ready, willing and able to comfort me at a moment’s notice.
It was bliss in a nutshell: something to read, something to eat and drink, the comfy gray blanket, the front door locked and the still, dark night on the far side of the windows.
As I finished the first chapter of the Agatha Christie classic, my phone chirped somewhere beneath the chenille coverlet.
“Excuse me, Miss Christie,” I said, closing the book. “That’s my cue.”
When I unearthed the phone and gla
nced at the screen, the idyllic late night scenario moved a few miles closer to perfection. My beloved was calling from Los Angeles.
“Hey, beautiful,” Zack said. “How’s your night?”
“Better now. How are you?”
“Exhausted and ready to crash. We started this morning at five and literally just got back to the hotel.”
“Is the shoot going well?”
“As well as you can expect. The creative director for the ad agency decided to flip the script about an hour after we started today. That sent everyone into orbit.”
“Including you?”
He didn’t say anything.
“Are you doing okay?”
“It’s fine,” Zack answered. “Goes with the territory. I’ve worked with the guy before, so I know what to expect. It was a lot harder on the rest of the crew; they’re Chet Hardy newbies, so I saw a few tears, a couple of heated arguments and the aftermath of a craft services food fight.”
“Sounds pretty crazy.”
He laughed. “Was pretty crazy. But hearing your voice is making me feel a whole lot better.”
“Happy to oblige, handsome.”
“Thanks, babe. I know it’s late, but I really wanted to check in and wish you sweet dreams.”
“That’s so exactly how I like to end the day.” I closed my eyes and pictured his face: dimpled chin, ice blue eyes, tapered nose, short jet-black hair. “I can’t wait until you’re home again.”
“Ditto that,” he said. “How was your day? I wanted to call when I got your text earlier, but we were at dinner with the clients. What’s the latest on the fire?”
“Trent and his crew from the Crescent Creek PD are working on it.”
“How’s Ira doing?”
“So-so. I guess someone thumped him on the head pretty hard before they lit the blaze. Luckily, the first responders on the scene pulled him to safety in time.”
Zack whistled. “Sounds like it was a close call, huh?”
“Completely,” I agreed. “But Trent told me that Ira wasn’t too badly injured and he’s got great insurance. From the buzz I heard around town, he’ll have more than enough to rebuild and get right back to business as soon as possible.”