by Mary Maxwell
“Yep.”
“And the blackmailer is a man?”
“Figure of speech,” answered Trent. “Dina conducted the interview and I’m not sure if Carter actually specified the gender of the person making the threats.”
“Okay, so when did the scheme move from telephone calls to anonymous notes written in verse?”
Trent shrugged. “Sorry, Katie. I’m juggling more than one hot potato. I didn’t memorize the dates.”
“That’s okay.”
“It’s not relevant to the overall matter anyway,” he said. “I’ve got an arson and a murder to solve.”
I held his gaze for a moment or two, thinking about the connections between the longtime residents of Crescent Creek and an anonymous extortionist.
“Okay,” I said a moment later, “if Carter Devane is the target for the scam, why were the other three included on the unsigned note?”
“You mean the crappy poem?”
I nodded. “If Devane’s the rich guy that someone is trying to blackmail into a million-dollar payoff, why include Ira Pemberton, Velma Lancaster and Boris Hertel’s son? And what about Jacob Lowry? He isn’t even mentioned in the note.”
“Excellent questions,” Trent said. “Feel free to connect the dots between the millionaire, the dog chews, the arson and Mr. Lowry’s murder.”
“All in good time,” I said. “You mind if I do some sleuthing around town?”
Trent laughed. “Don’t mind a bit,” he said. “Just stay aware of the invisible line, Katie.”
I asked him to explain.
“The separation between the efforts of a former private investigator,” he said, “and the work of the handsome deputy chief from the local law enforcement authority.”
“And that would be you?”
He winked. “One and the same,” he said. “One and the same.”
CHAPTER 17
An hour after Trent left, I was back in the Sky High kitchen, sifting the dry ingredients for a batch of cranberry walnut scones when Harper twirled through the swinging door.
“Call for you,” she said. “It’s a foxy older woman in Florida.”
I put down the measuring spoons. “Did she say what she wants?”
Harper made a face. “It’s your mother,” she said. “I’ll bet she’s calling just to say she loves you.”
I glanced at Julia, giggling as she rolled a batch of pie dough on the marble pastry board.
“Not a peep,” I warned. “I’m tired of you guys teasing me about how often my parents call.”
Julia shrugged. “We’re just jealous, Katie. We wish our mom and dad called us eight or ten times a day.”
Harper scoffed. “Speak for yourself, Jules. If my mother calls once a week, it’s a miracle. She’s too busy for her own kids now. Between book club, the bridge group, volunteer shifts at the hospital and auditing lectures at the junior college, the old girl’s barely got enough time to squeeze in dance lessons and Spanish class.”
“Your mom’s learning Spanish?”
“She and dad are going to Barcelona and Madrid this fall,” Harper said, pushing on the door. “Retirement is treating them very well.”
After she swooshed into the dining room, I walked to my office and punched the blinking light on the phone.
“Well, heavens to Betsy!” my mother exclaimed. “I’ve been waiting so long I nearly forgot who I’d called.”
“Hello, mother of mine. What’s going on?”
“Well, your father’s snoring in his chair and it’s raining cats and dogs. I feel like a caged animal.”
“Can’t you go out and sit on the terrace?”
“I suppose so,” my mother said. “But then there wouldn’t be anything to complain about.” She paused and her feathery laughter filled my ear. “Anyway, I was thinking about our last chat and thought of something to tell you about Boris Hertel.”
I flopped into the chair and put my feet on the desk. “I’m listening. What did you remember?”
“Betty Ford,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Boris Hertel went to that Betty Ford place in California to stop drinking.”
“When was that?”
She made a little humming sound as she tried to remember the date. “I think it was between your freshman and junior year, sweetheart. Edith came by Sky High one afternoon. It was obvious from the look on her face that something wasn’t right. When I asked, she changed the subject. But eventually she opened up about it; Boris had flown out to Rancho Mirage to the Betty Ford place.”
“It’s a clinic,” I said. “The Betty Ford Clinic.”
My mother heaved a sigh. “Well, whatever it’s called, that’s where Boris went. And he never touched another drop of liquor.”
“But I heard he’s drinking heavily again.”
“Who told you that?”
“Becca Warren,” I answered. “She’s the bookkeeper at Poke-A-Dot. When we were talking about him the other morning, she said that Boris is in the bar nearly every night of the week.”
“So? You can go into a bar and order something besides alcohol, Katie.”
I considered the remark. She was right. But it seemed that Becca would know if Boris was ordering club soda with lime instead of scotch on the rocks.
“Okay,” I said after a moment. “I’ll give you that. Maybe Boris doesn’t drink when he goes to the Poke-A-Dot.”
“It’s not a question of ‘maybe,’” my mother said. “I trust Blanche Speltzer. And when I asked her last night if Boris had fallen off the wagon, she seemed to suggest that he is most definitely still dry as the Sarah Desert.”
“Do you mean the Sahara Desert, mother?”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
I knew better than to engage her in a discussion about the subject. Besides, her point about Boris Hertel being sober was far more interesting.
“Did you ask Blanche about his drinking?” I said.
“It came up in conversation when she called this morning,” my mother answered. “I like to keep in touch with a few of our old friends in Crescent Creek even though we live down here now.”
“Keep in touch with your friends?” I said. “Or talk to them so you can keep tabs on me?”
My mother laughed. “They aren’t mutually exclusive, sweetie. Your dad and I just want to make sure you’re doing a good job of carrying on the family tradition at Sky High.”
“And?”
“And what?” she said.
“Does Blanche Speltzer think I’m doing a good job?”
I heard another warm, lighthearted laugh. “Don’t you worry about it, doll. I wouldn’t want to put pressure on you about being the third generation to run the place.”
“Uh-huh. And if I believe that, you probably have a bridge to sell me, right?”
The line was quiet.
“Mother?”
“I’m still here, sweetie. I was just trying to figure out what you were talking about.”
“Never mind, mom. It was a silly joke.”
She groaned. “More like a lame one, but that’s just one meager mother’s opinion.”
It was my turn to laugh. When I finished, my mom told me to call Blanche Speltzer about Boris Hertel’s sobriety. “Or,” she added, “you can also go right to the horse’s mouth.”
“You mean I should ask Boris?”
“If you don’t believe Blanche.”
“I’d never do that,” I said. “Seems kind of tacky.”
“Hasn’t stopped you before.”
The barb came out of left field, stinging slightly. “Ouch,” I said. “What was that about?”
“It’s nothing,” my mother said. “I was just thinking about the time you called Dina Kincaid a few choice names that should never cross the lips of most decent folks.”
“Yeah, because I was a teenager,” I said. “And because she stole my boyfriend.”
“Look how well that turned out for her.”
“I know, I know. But…” I heard metal clattering on her end. “What’s that noise?”
“Silverware drawer. I’m looking for my wedding ring.”
“Why’s it in with the silverware?”
“I took it off when I was doing the dishes,” she told me. “If your father finds it on the counter, he puts it with the soup spoons so it doesn’t get lost.”
I smiled at the image of my father carefully stowing my mother’s diamond in the drawer instead of walking through the condo and slipping it back on her finger.
“I’m going to have to hang up in a sec,” my mother said. “I think the rain is stopping, and I’ve got a busy rest of the day.”
“Okay, I won’t keep you.”
“I just wanted to let you know about Boris,” she said. “According to my sources, he’s still sane and still sober.”
“Then why did he smell like booze the other morning?”
“Well, Katie,” she said. “There’s at least one good way to solve that mystery.”
“Ask Boris?”
She laughed. “I was going to say you should ask Blanche. She knows the old guy pretty well on account of they go to the same shrink.”
“Oh, my goodness. That woman really does have loose lips.”
“Not loose, dear. She’s very careful who she shares things with.”
“Like you?”
“And you, Katie. I know you’ve talked to Blanche about sensitive things a time or two.”
“That’s true,” I agreed. “Maybe I should ask her about Boris.”
“Well, then,” my mother said. “It sounds like my work here is done. If you need to know anything at all about Boris Hertel, give Blanche a call. Just don’t ask her any indelicate questions.”
I suddenly understood what my mother was talking about, and the realization left me speechless.
“Don’t judge,” she said.
“I’m not, but…isn’t he, like, twenty years younger?”
My mother sighed. “Love is timeless,” she said. “And it’s also ageless, Katie. Haven’t you heard of May-December romances?”
“Sure, but I never…” I pictured Blanche Speltzer in all of her eighty-year-old glory. “I guess that the combination of Blanche and Boris never crossed my mind before.”
“Why should it?”
“You’re right. But I see Blanche at least once or twice a week. She’s never mentioned that she was dating Boris Hertel.”
“Have you asked her?”
“If she was dating him?”
She sighed again. “No, not specifically. Have you asked if she’s dating anyone?”
“Oh, I get it. Because of her age…” I left the rest of the thought unspoken. “I will though. I’ll stop by later and take her a loaf of blueberry bread.”
My mother laughed softly. “Oh, she’ll adore that! Blanche Speltzer and blueberry bread go together like—”
“Blanche and Boris?”
She laughed. “Alright, daughter of mine,” she said. “I love you and I’ll talk to you soon!”
“I love you, too, mom. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”
CHAPTER 18
It had been a long day: wave after wave of lunch customers; three last-minute special orders for the next afternoon; and, much to my amusement, an unannounced visit by the health inspector. Luckily, we passed with flying colors, and I sent the overseer of all things clean and sparkling on his way with a trio of banana cupcakes slathered in cream cheese frosting.
I was in the walk-in cooler around three-thirty, doing a quick inventory and listening to the gentle drone of the unit’s motor. There was something comforting about the mechanical hum; the steady, smooth rhythm always helped me concentrate on more mundane tasks like counting crates of eggs, pounds of butter and containers of milk. As I prepared to tally the remaining cartons of heavy cream, I heard my phone ringing on the kitchen counter. I dropped the clipboard on a box of romaine lettuce, scooted out of the walk-in and answered the call.
“What’s with all the heavy breathing?” asked a man with a French accent.
I checked the display: Deputy Chief Walsh, CCPD.
“What’s going on, Trent?”
The Pepé Le Pew imitator grumbled something about fingerprints.
“Can you please speak English?”
He chuckled. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“I don’t know about fun,” I said, “but I’ll at least be able to figure out what the heck you’re talking about.”
“I already told you, Katie. I’m talking about fingerprints.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“The prints we found on Jacob Lowry’s suicide note,” Trent explained.
“I hope it’s good news.”
“Depends on how you look at it,” he said. “The prints belong to a guy named Chuck LaMarche. He worked at Ira Pemberton’s body shop for…” Papers ruffled in the background as he searched for the details. “Okay, here it is. LaMarche was a mechanic at Ira’s place for eleven years. He worked there from right after he came back from Afghanistan until about six months ago when he left to open his own repair shop.”
“He’s a war vet?”
“One of our country’s finest,” Trent said.
“Then why were his prints on the forged suicide note left with an apparent murder victim?”
“Because LaMarche also handled some of the paperwork for Ira,” Trent answered. “He didn’t do the actual books, but he supervised orders, processed customer surveys and took care of other administrative things like that. The sheet of paper was from the office in the body shop, and his prints are in the system from his military service as well as a bank teller job he had during college.”
“How does that relate to Jacob Lowry’s murder?”
“It means we can rule out LaMarche as a suspect,” said Trent.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “You don’t think he did it because he quit working at the body shop six months before Lowry was killed?”
Trent laughed. “No, Katie. I don’t think he did it because the guy’s got an airtight alibi for the time of the murder.”
“Good for him. Where was he?”
“Playing poker down in Frisco with Denny Santiago and a couple of guys from the Colorado State Patrol.”
I smiled, picturing the look of victory on Trent’s face. “Well, that’s pretty darn airtight. But it doesn’t do much for the case.”
“We’re still working a few leads. Dina’s following an anonymous clue that came in last night on the tip line, and Tyler Armstrong’s about halfway through interviews with body shop customers.”
“You think one of Ira’s customers might’ve killed Jacob Lowry?”
“Won’t know until Tyler’s finished,” said Trent. “In the meantime, any chance you’ve got some of that chocolate lava cake lying around?”
I laughed. “As a matter of fact, Julia made a fresh one this afternoon before she left for the day.”
He whimpered with delight. “J'adore le gâteau au chocolat,” he said in the phony Parisian twang.
“Yes, of course,” I said. “Everybody knows you love chocolate cake, big guy. Do you want me to drop off a piece later so you can scratch that itch?”
“Mais bien sûr!” he said. “But of course!”
After I stopped laughing, I asked why he was spicing up his usual act with choice French phrases.
“Our sister city’s sending a delegation over for a visit next month,” he said. “I’m just practicing a few things that I learned online.”
I’d never heard that Crescent Creek had a sibling on the far side of the Atlantic. When I asked Trent to explain, he promised to do so when I stopped by later with the chocolate cake.
“I’ll be there around six,” I said.
“Mais bien sûr!” he said again. “Mais bien sûr!”
CHAPTER 19
Blanche Speltzer was watering the potted geraniums on her front porch when I pulled up later that afternoon
. I climbed out of the car, called her name and brandished the loaf of blueberry bread.
“This has your name on it!” I called.
She waved for me to join her on the porch. After I climbed the steps and presented the gift, Blanche invited me in for a dirty martini.
“I’ll pass on the cocktail,” I said, following her through the door. “I’m out running errands and need to keep my wits about me. But I would love to chat for a few minutes if you can spare the time.”
She smiled warmly. “What’s on your mind?”
“Boris Hertel,” I said.
“You must’ve talked to your mother. She’s the only person who knows that Boris and I are an item. I figured you’d want the skinny on us at some point.”
We went into the living room and sat at opposite ends of the sofa. Blanche kicked off her garden clogs and began rubbing her feet.
“My dogs are barking,” she moaned. “I’ve been running around the house all day, working on this and that. Not a moment’s rest or anything to eat.”
I pointed at the blueberry bread. “Want me to slice this for you?”
She shook her head. “Thanks, but I’ll wait until later. I’ve got my mind made up, Katie. A dirty martini first, something to snack on after that and then Boris and I are going to Luigi’s for Italian.”
“Sounds lovely.”
She murmured softly, her eyes closed and a faint smile on her face. “Boris is a real sweetheart. I promised Edith before she died that I’d keep an eye on him. I never imagined that we’d become anything more than friends.”
“I think it’s sweet. I mean, you’re both single, so what’s to stop you?”
Blanche smirked. “Well, his drinking for one thing. I’m sure your mother told you that Boris has struggled with an alcohol problem for much of his adult life.”
I nodded. “She mentioned it, yes. And she also told me that Boris had been to Betty Ford to get treatment.”
“That’s true. Edith sent him away after a particularly bad episode. She told him it was either sobriety or divorce.”
“And he chose sobriety?”
Blanche nodded sadly. “For a long while, but he’s relapsed a time or two. I’m just grateful that he remained sober during the rest of Edith’s days.”