Murder for Millions (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 7)
Murder for Millions
Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries / 7
Mary Maxwell
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
© 2016 Mary Maxwell 06182016
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, recorded or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a review.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
NANA REED’S SKY HIGH RECIPES
CHAPTER 1
Our first customer of the day came into Sky High Pies at seven, made a beeline for the counter and asked Harper for a scotch on the rocks. In the forty years since my grandparents opened the bakery café, our family business had served a wide selection of food and drink options. Unfortunately, for our early morning arrival, adult beverages had never been on the menu.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Harper, my childhood friend and Sky High’s dining room manager. “We don’t serve alcohol.”
The stranger scowled. “Since when?”
“Well,” she said, “since…forever. We have coffee, tea, a nice assortment of juices, espresso and—”
“Scotch!” the gruff man demanded. “On the rocks! I used to come here all the time to drink with my friends.”
Harper glanced down the counter to where I sat clipping Daily Special placards inside the menus. She raised her eyebrows, which I instantly recognized as the international distress signal for Mayday! Mayday! This guy reeks of booze and I need help urgently! I put down the box of paperclips, got up from the stool and shuffled behind the counter.
“Good morning!” I said when I reached the man. “How are you, sir?”
He was slim, tan and dressed in a wrinkled navy suit, powder blue shirt and dark green bowtie. His hair looked like it had seen better days and there were red and yellow stains—the telltale evidence of ketchup and mustard spills—on his lapel. Between the gray hair, abundant wrinkles and age spots on the back of both hands, I guessed he was probably in his sixties like my mother and father.
“I’d be better if I could get a drink,” he said, sending a noxious cloud of whiskey-scented breath in my direction. “It’s my right to be served, lady. I’m old enough. I’ve got a wad of cash in my pocket. And my Edith told me not to come home until I was in a better mood.”
At the mention of his spouse, I suddenly realized that the man was my father’s friend, a CPA named Boris Hertel. I hadn’t run into him since I returned to Crescent Creek a few months earlier to take over the family business, but I recognized his usually radiant eyes from long ago.
“Mr. Hertel?”
He grimaced. “How’d you know my name?”
“We’ve met before,” I said.
The man tilted forward on the stool, squinting at me for a few seconds. “Is that so? You don’t look familiar.”
“I’m Kate Reed.”
He smiled. “Good for you, sweetheart. Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“I’ve been away for a few years,” I continued. “But you and my dad used to play cards upstairs on Thursday nights with Theo Westover and—”
“Your dad?” He blinked in confusion. “Is he here?”
“No, but—”
“They told me your parents had moved away,” the man sputtered. “Down to Georgia or something.”
“They retired to Florida a few months ago. I came back from Chicago to take over Sky High Pies.”
He scowled, peering at me cautiously through bloodshot eyes. “What’s your name again?”
“Kate.”
“I thought Audrey and Darren had a girl named Olivia.”
I nodded. “She’s my older sister. We also have—”
“Well, then here!” One hand plunged into his coat pocket and came out with a creased white envelope. “This is for you!”
I accepted the wrinkled offering. The front and back were blank, so I asked the man how he knew it was for me.
“Because I just do,” Mr. Hertel snapped. “Now, am I getting that drink or what?”
Harper had been standing a few feet away, silently observing the strange interlude. When the man’s voice grew more impatient, she moved closer.
“We don’t serve alcohol,” she said again. “But I’ll be happy to bring you a cup of coffee or—”
His fist crashed against the counter, cutting short Harper’s suggestion. “If I wanted coffee,” he rasped, “that’s what I would’ve asked for.” His eyes corkscrewed into a scornful sneer. “Now, are you getting me that scotch or what?”
The chime on the front door sounded and I glanced across the room. My neighbor, a bubbly woman named Viveca England, was walking toward me with a massive bouquet of wildflowers in her hands. Her light brown hair was tucked beneath a wide-brimmed hat and she was wearing a bright blue sundress with yellow flip-flops.
“Morning, sunshine!” Viveca called. “I thought these might—”
Boris Hertel spun around. “Can’t you see we’re talking?”
“Oh, golly…” Viveca stopped in her tracks. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Well, you did!” the man hissed. “And if you don’t mind, we have a conversation to finish.”
I gave Viv a little nod and smiled at Harper. “I’ve got this,” I said, lightly patting Mr. Hertel’s hand. “Why don’t we go sit in my office and talk?”
He jerked his fingers free. “Not if I don’t get that scotch.”
I held his livid gaze for a moment. Then I calmly walked around the counter and sat beside him.
“I am really sorry about this,” I began, “but we don’t have a license to serve alcohol. Sky High is a bakery café, so—”
Before I could finish, he jumped up and walked toward the foyer, arms pumping at his sides and a string of curses tumbling over his shoulders. After the front door slammed, I hurried over to the windows, watching in disbelief as he climbed into the back of a silver BMW sedan with Utah plates. The car had been idling at the curb near the stone path that led from the driveway to the front porch. I couldn’t see the person behind the wheel, but it looked like they were wearing a baseball cap and a jacket with the collar turned up.
“Well, that’s not how I thought the day would start,” Harper called from behind the counter.
I turned around and laughed. “That makes two of us. It’s been a while since I had a close encounter with a drunk man at seven o’clock in the morning.”
Viveca giggled. “Oh, that sounds like a good story, Katie!”
Harper joined in with her own cheerful laugh. “Do tell!” she called. “I enjoy juicy tales of depravity and all-night romps.”
I pulled out my phone and quickly made a note of the license plate from the BMW. It was a habit from my days as a private investigator in Chicago, a tradition that I hadn’t yet left behind. After I put away the phone, I looked over at Harper and Viveca, both waiting expectantly for my confession.
“It’s not as exciting as you might imagine,” I said with a smile. “And before your minds wander into the gutter, I was referring to a case that I worked a few months before coming back to Colorado. It involved doing surveillance work with Rodney.”
Harper’s eyes went wide. “Your boss came to work drunk?”
“No, not Rodney! It was the guy we were tailing. He went into a high-rise on Wacker Drive, so we followed him inside. But when I pushed the elevator button and the doors popped open, the man stumbled out. He was drunk as a skunk and didn’t even realize that he was still in the lobby. The poor guy thought he’d pressed the button for his floor, but had been standing in the elevator the whole time.”
Before they could react to the story, the Sky High phone near the cash register rang. Harper went behind the counter, answered the call with a fizzy greeting and offered the handset to me.
“It’s for you, Katie.”
“Who is it?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know, but he sounds tall, dark and mysterious.”
While Viveca went into the kitchen to put the flowers in a vase, I walked over and took the phone.
“If he asks you out,” Harper whispered, “tell him you’ve already got a boyfriend.”
I smiled and an image of Zack Hutton flashed in my mind. He was in California for the week shooting a freelance photography job. Even though we talked and texted with great frequency, I was still counting the days until he would be back in Crescent Creek.
“This is Kate,” I said to the caller.
“Did you open the envelope?” a man asked.
As I looked down at the creased packet in my hand, I heard someone else in the background. It was Boris Hertel, muttering about being thirsty and in need of a drink.
“Well, Miss Reed?” The man’s voice was callous and sharp, embellished with a faint twang that reminded me of a friend from Texas. “What do you think of our tormentor’s little bucket list?”
Boris Hertel whined again on the other end, demanding scotch on the rocks in a slurred, listless drawl.
“Who is this?” I asked.
The man chuckled. “We’re looking for your expertise, Kate. Names aren’t important until you agree to help us find the individual behind the threats.”
I concentrated on the sound of the caller’s voice, but it wasn’t familiar.
“Look,” I told him. “I don’t want to be rude, but can you please tell me your name?”
He laughed again. “We don’t need to worry about that at the moment,” he said. “But you never know what tomorrow will bring.”
CHAPTER 2
Harper was staring at me eagerly after I finished the brief call.
“Who was that?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I have no idea, but he obviously wants me to open this.” I held up the crumpled white envelope. “And I heard Boris Hertel in the background, so I’m guessing it was somebody in the car that drove off a minute ago.”
She pointed at the stool where he’d been sitting as she came through the door. “You mean that gentleman?”
“Yep. He and my father were friends, but I haven’t seen him in years.”
The front door chimed again. Harper called a greeting to three women as they came into the dining room. I recognized them as Sky High regulars: Lydia Hart, a caterer with offices in both Crescent Creek and Boulder; Ellie Sharp, a realtor; and, Becca Warren, a livewire who worked as the bookkeeper for the Poke-A-Dot Lounge.
“Happy morning, ladies!” Lydia called. “How is everyone today?”
“We’re peachy!” Harper answered, grabbing three menus and indicating a table near the front windows. “How about you all?”
Becca smirked. “We were good until we came around the bend about half a mile down the road. Some old geezer was standing beside a car with his—”
“He was going tinkle,” Ellie interjected, pulling out a chair. “In broad daylight!”
“Broad daylight?” Lydia sneered. “How about in full view of every car and school bus going down Pine Street!”
I glanced at Harper. Then I waited until the trio was seated before asking if they could describe the car and the ne’er-do-well hooligan answering nature’s call.
“Describe him?” Becca giggled. “It was Boris Hertel! Do you all know him? He’s at the bar nearly every night of the week. Poor thing’s lost and alone now that his wife’s gone.”
“Did she die?” I asked.
Becca nodded. “Heart attack a few years ago. She and Boris had some kind of terrible argument about money. When he threw on his coat and stomped toward the door, Edith—that was his wife’s name, Edith Hertel—well, when she saw that he was going to leave without resolving the disagreement, Edith told him not to return until he was in a better mood.”
The line resonated as I recalled hearing Boris utter the same words just a few minutes earlier.
“And by the time he got back,” Becca continued, “Edith was on the dining room floor, both hands on her chest and her face the same shade as a blueberry.”
Ellie gasped. “Are you serious?”
“I am,” Becca answered. “And the really sad thing was, Mrs. Hertel had been to the doctor just three days before that for a checkup. He’d given her a clean bill of health.”
Lydia shook her head. “That happened to my friend’s dog once. Poor little thing; alive and kicking one day at the vet’s and dead as a stone the very next.”
Viveca came into the dining room with the flowers. “Where do you want these, Katie?”
The arrangement was exactly like my neighbor—stunning, colorful and elegant. I pointed at a spot near the end of the counter. “How about there?”
She deposited the vase and stepped back to admire the arrangement. “I don’t know why,” she said, turning around. “But something told me to bring these to you this morning.”
“They’re really beautiful!” Harper said, grabbing an order pad from beside the register. “Thanks for brightening up our day, Viv!”
As Harper headed for the trio by the windows, the front door chimed again. It was a couple that I’d never seen before; a tall, thin man with reddish hair and a statuesque woman dressed in dark slacks, a V-neck lilac sweater and black knee-high riding boots.
“Let me get these folks seated,” Harper said, smiling at Lydia, Becca and Ellie. “Then I’ll be right with you.”
While she attended to the new arrivals, I walked to the counter and sat beside Viveca. Julia, Sky High’s exceptional chef and imaginative dessert ninja, called through the pass window from the kitchen, asking if I could come back in a few minutes to help decipher the final ingredients for one of Nana Reed’s Sky High recipes.
“I thought you were going to rewrite all of those,” Viv said.
I tapped my watch. “Oh, you bet! As soon as there are another forty hours in the week.”
“Want me to help?”
“That’s sweet, Viv. But I’ll get it done soon enough. As long as I’m around to interpret for Julia when she can’t make out my grandmother’s handwriting, we’ll be just fine.”
I put the wrinkled envelope on the counter.
“What do you think it is?” she asked.
I shrugged, opened
the flap and pulled out a sheet of pale blue paper.
“Maybe you’ve inherited some money,” she whispered.
“Or not,” I said skeptically.
As I unfolded the letter, a small scrap of green paper fluttered to the counter. It was a dry cleaning receipt from Bubble Brite Laundry, a thriving local business owned by a middle-aged couple, June and Marv Taggart. I quickly inspected the green slip, but it was blank—no name, date or other relevant information. I slid the receipt back into the envelope before carefully studying the lines printed on the page.
“What is it?” Viveca asked in a soft tone. “Some kind of list?”
I studied the typewritten note. Beneath a three-word caveat, I saw four names and a series of cryptic entries that sent a chill through my body:
You Were Warned!
Carter Devane: Steal from me, I will take your desire
Ira Pemberton: Burn the bridge, you will feel the fire
Velma Lancaster: Poison my heart, your blood will run blue
Kevin Hertel: Slash my spirit and the blade will find you
Pay me $1 million to stop the inevitable from happening! I’ll be in touch to discuss details.
Someone had drawn a line through the Carter Devane entry, but the other three were unmarked.
“Well?” Viv said after a moment or two of silence. “What do you think?”
“I’m no literary critic,” I answered, “but this isn’t an instant classic like ‘roses are red, violets are blue.’”
She smiled. “No kidding. But that’s not what I was talking about. It’s a list of threats, isn’t it?”
“I know that’s not what you meant,” I said. “I guess that I’m feeling a little ornery this morning. But I bet you’re right; it’s a list of threats written like a poem. I’d guess that the names at the beginning of each line are the intended victims, and I’d say the fact that they mention a specific dollar amount points to extortion or blackmail.”
She leaned closer, examining the four items through narrowed eyes. When she reached out and pointed at the second line, I could smell her fragrance, a light blend of jasmine, lilac and orange.