When Magic Is Murder (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 4)
When Magic is Murder
Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries / 4
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 01222016
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
NANA REED’S SKY HIGH RECIPES
CHAPTER 1
I had just finished decorating three dozen Toasted Coconut Truffle Cupcakes when a woman came into the kitchen at Sky High Pies through the back door. She was carrying an attaché case in one hand and a large blue envelope in the other.
“Are you Kate Reed?” she asked, putting her things on the counter and removing a pair of sleek red leather gloves.
“That’s me,” I said. “How can I help you?”
It was half past three on a sunny January afternoon. Sky High, the bakery café that I run in Crescent Creek, Colorado, had been closed for thirty minutes. Despite Julia’s offer to stay and help with the final special order of the day, I’d sent the hard-working chef home so she could enjoy the unseasonably warm afternoon. Harper, the majordomo of the dining room, was working on an inventory of cleaning supplies and paper products. The cupcakes were for a bachelorette party that a woman from New Orleans was hosting that evening at Crescent Creek Lodge. I had exactly thirty minutes to arrange them in boxes, drive across town and make the promised delivery time.
“I’m Francine Tobin,” the woman announced, tucking her gloves into the briefcase. “I’ve come to see you about a very important matter.”
The name didn’t ring a bell, so I glanced at the whiteboard on the wall. We used it to prioritize daily prep tasks and manage a steady stream of special orders. My eyes raced down the list of pending requests, but I didn’t see the woman’s name.
She looked to be somewhere in the vicinity of forty-five. Her auburn hair was cut short and slicked back with gel, accentuating her high cheekbones, slender nose and ruby red lips. She was wearing a diamond on her left hand the size of a pomegranate and a platinum Rolex glinted on her wrist. Beneath her fur-trimmed cashmere cape and Hermès scarf, she was dressed in a high-end paisley silk dress. I recognized her $6,000 Louboutin black alligator pumps from a divorce case I’d worked during my days as a private investigator in Chicago.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, wiping my hands on a towel. “Are you picking up a special order?” I paused, but she didn’t respond. “Or did you need to place one?”
The icy gleam in the woman’s eyes thawed into a bemused smirk. “I’m not here for baked goods, Miss Reed.” She glanced at the swarm of cupcakes arranged on the counter; each one topped with a blanket of glistening ganache and a layer of toasted coconut. “Although they do look quite…charming.”
I was exhausted from the day and still had to deliver the cupcakes, but I ignored the ill-behaved juvenile voices in my head—Smear frosting on her nose! Sprinkle coconut in her hair!—and thanked the stranger for the superficial compliment.
“I have extras,” I said. “If you’d like to try a sample.”
Her nose crinkled. “Thanks, but no,” she said dismissively. “I try and watch my weight.” My gaze flicked down to her sticklike figure. “And my trainer would kill me if she found out I’d cheated on my diet with…” Her eyelashes fluttered as she searched for the right words. “Well, something so…frivolous.”
I nodded, but refrained from defending our delicious goodies. Instead, I smiled and said, “If you didn’t stop by for pies or cupcakes, how can I help you?”
Her pillowy lips formed a smug grin. “I’m here about my client’s offer to buy Sky High Pies.”
I felt a subtle tremor somewhere deep inside. The day had been a mad whirlwind. Between our usual steady stream of customers, I’d been flooded with telephone calls in response to a post on our website about Valentine’s Day gift baskets. After sending Julia out the door at three o’clock, I’d planned to deliver the order for the bachelorette party and race home for a quick power nap before getting ready for my date with Zack. I certainly hadn’t allowed time for an unexpected offer to buy our family business.
As Francine Tobin continued flashing her self-satisfied smile, my mind staggered with a rush of overlapping thoughts. How would Nana Reed handle this situation? Would she deliver a zinger and send this woman packing? Would she throw back her head and laugh? Or would she—
“Well, Miss Reed?”
I realized the Goddess of Dietary Virtue was thumping her French manicure on the stainless steel countertop.
“What do you think?” she said in a chilly tone. “I came up from Denver today because I didn’t hear from you last week.”
I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t remember getting a message that you’d called.”
She lifted the pale blue packet from the counter. “I’m referring to this,” she said. “I mailed the first copy of the offer letter to you last Monday. Did it finally reach you by any chance?”
My mind skittered back to the previous week. Our breakfast and lunch business had been especially hectic, and we’d been swamped with a seemingly endless avalanche of last-minute special orders for cakes and pies. I’d sifted through the daily mail at some point each evening, but it was entirely possible the woman’s previous letter was still buried on my desk somewhere.
“Well, I’m sorry that I haven’t been in touch,” I said as she returned the envelope to the counter. “But I don’t think—”
“There’s no need to apologize,” the woman announced. “I decided to hand-deliver the letter because I discovered this morning that my assistant had…” She paused, smiling to reveal teeth as white as bleached bone. “I should say, my former assistant had somehow confused Sky High Pies here in Crescent Creek with Mile High Pies in Crested Butte.”
She retrieved a business card from her attaché case, placed it on the blue envelope and tapped it briskly with one perfectly sculpted nail.
“I can be reached at the office number in Denver,” she said assertively. “Or I’ve also written my mobile number on the back. No matter the time of day or night, I’ll be re
ady to negotiate an agreement that’s fair to all parties. I know you haven’t seen the proposal yet, so I’ll give you some time to mull it over.”
I brushed a few strands of hair from my eyes with one knuckle. “I’m really sorry, Miss Tobin, but I—”
“It’s Mrs. Tobin,” she said, narrowing her eyes.
“Okay,” I continued, “then I’m really sorry, Mrs. Tobin. Sky High isn’t for sale.”
She laughed; a sub-zero jingle that was both irritating and insincere. “Everything is for sale, Miss Reed. It’s simply a matter of finding the right price.”
As I kept my eyes fixed on the woman’s face, I imagined what Nana Reed would say. Sky High Pies had been a family business since my grandmother first opened the doors in the 1970s. After piloting the enterprise for fifteen years, she passed the torch to my mother and father. They continued the tradition of serving breakfast, lunch and tasty sweet treats to local residents and tourists for a quarter century. When my parents decided to retire, trading Colorado and the Rocky Mountains for a cozy Florida condo on the Gulf of Mexico, I returned to my hometown and became the third generation to run Sky High. Since then, I’d survived long days, sleepless nights and plenty of grouchy customers. But I’d never been approached by a snooty Denver attorney with an offer to buy the business.
“Perhaps you should take a little bit of time to review the offer,” Francine Tobin said, drumming the envelope again with her slender fingers. “I’ll call you soon to discuss the fine print.”
“The fine print?”
“In the meantime,” she added, “if you have questions, please let me know.”
I raised my hand. She glared down the length of her tapered nose.
“Yes, Miss Reed?”
“I have a question,” I said. “Who wants to buy Sky High?”
The sulky attorney sneered. “I’m not at liberty to say. The buyer would prefer to remain anonymous.”
“Is it Colette Coscarelli?” I asked, conjuring an image in my mind of the former Las Vegas showgirl. “She approached my parents once with the same idea.”
Francine Tobin’s nose twitched as if she’d just smelled something foul. “Are you unfamiliar with the concept of anonymity, Miss Reed?”
The tiny voices in my head began to shriek: Kick her in the shin! Dump the rest of your cappuccino on her pointy little head! And even though I was more fatigued than I’d been in weeks, I skipped the imaginary suggestions and offered a genuine smile before answering her question.
“Of course, I know what anonymity is,” I said. “But in my humble opinion, secrets and mysteries are best-suited to detective novels, not the conversations I have here in our kitchen. It’s common knowledge that Colette really wanted to buy Sky High when she moved back to town last year. And I hate to disappoint the two of you, but the place isn’t for sale.”
Francine Tobin chuckled. “I understand that you feel overprotective about the business. I mean, your grandmother started the place ages ago and it’s been in the family ever since. But I know about your true passion, Kate. You’re frittering away your days serving flapjacks and slices of pie when you should be using your little gray cells to crack cases and solve murders.”
“Little gray cells?”
“Isn’t that what Hercule Poirot says in the Agatha Christie books?” she asked. “I’ve heard you’re a fan.” The self-satisfied tone of her voice was like nails on a chalkboard. “I’ve also been told that childhood reading habits were partially responsible for your first career as some sort of private detective.”
I could tell my visitor was intelligent, but I didn’t take her as a bibliophile. Besides stuffy legal briefs and menus at five-star restaurants, I imagined the longest thing she’d read recently was the label on her Michael Kors paisley silk dress.
“Yes,” I said, finally answering her question. “How did you know that I used to be a PI?”
She smiled. “Like you,” she said, “I have my sources. But also like you, I prefer to keep them to myself.”
After another ten minutes of conversational volleyball, Francine Tobin announced that she needed to leave. “It’s been such a pleasure meeting you,” she said, slipping into her red leather gloves. “I’ll look forward to talking again soon.”
I offered the most authentic smile I could muster and watched while the posh black pumps carried Francine Tobin across the kitchen and out the door.
“And that, ladies and gentleman,” I said to the empty room, “is what Nana Reed would call a waste of good makeup.”
CHAPTER 2
When Harper came through the swinging door from the dining room a few minutes later, I was still pondering the bewildering visit by the overconfident lawyer.
“Who on earth was that?” Her eyebrows were arched derisively. “I was all the way up by the front door, but I heard her snippy tone loud and clear. At first, I thought it was a three-wattle bellbird. But then I realized that wasn’t possible, so I snuck over and peeked through the pass window.”
I frowned slightly. “A three-what kind of bird?”
“A three-wattle bellbird!” Harper cried, sounding like an eager Wheel of Fortune contestant. “Velma Short told me it’s one of the loudest birds on earth. She learned all about them on her latest tropical birding tour in South America.” She paused, flashing a self-satisfied grin. “Did you know people can hear a three-wattle bellbird up to a half mile away?”
“I did not know that,” I said, carrying the spatula and bowl I’d been using to the sink. “But if it comes up in conversation tonight when I’m at dinner with Zack, I’ll be so very happy that you told me. Thank you, Miss Walking Encyclopedia!”
“You’re welcome!” she exclaimed with another glittering smile. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”
With the brief educational detour about three-wattle bellbirds, I’d forgotten what Harper had originally asked. When she repeated the question, I silently wished we were still talking about the trivia that Velma Short was known to share. The globe-trotting senior citizen was a good friend of my mother’s and a regular at Sky High, so I’d heard all about her beloved bird watching hobby for years.
“Well?” Harper said. “Is it a state secret or something?”
“No, of course not. That was Francine Tobin. She’s an attorney in Denver.”
“Are we being sued?”
I shook my head and grabbed the container of freshly toasted coconut on the counter.
“No, but somebody wants to buy us.”
Harper snickered. “Buy us?” The expression on her face was two scoops of curiosity and a heaping spoonful of puzzlement. “Who is it?”
“Not a clue.” I shrugged and pointed at the blue envelope on the counter. “But that’s the proposal. If I ever get around to opening it, I’ll tell you everything it has to say.”
“Maybe it’s the tall, dark and way too handsome guy that’s been coming in every day for a week,” Harper gushed. “He’s been asking a lot of questions about Sky High and your parents and whether or not I’m happy working for you.”
“How’d you answer that last one?” I asked, carefully sprinkling more toasted coconut on the cupcakes.
She giggled. “Oh, c’mon, Katie! You know what I told him; I couldn’t be happier, the boss was a dream and every customer was a priceless gem.”
We shared a jaunty laugh. Then I put the lid on the coconut container and asked Harper if she knew the guy’s name.
“No, but I’d say he’s from far, far away.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He’s got a British accent,” she explained. “And he’s incredibly polite, calling me ‘madam’ and ‘miss’ and ‘young lady.’”
“Oh, brother. So he’s laying it on pretty thick to see if you’ll spill the beans?”
Harper smirked. “About what? I haven’t told him anything that isn’t already public knowledge. And you know that I’d never divulge any secrets or sensitive information, right?”
“Never in a million years,” she said. “Unless, of course, it was Prince Harry dropping by for a slice of something sweet.” She raised one eyebrow. “Or Prince William checking to see—”
“Can you put this in the pantry for me?” I asked, handing her the coconut. “I’ve got to shake a leg. I’m already running late thanks to Her Royal Lady Lawyer.”
As Harper stored the leftover garnish in the pantry, I gingerly arranged the cupcakes in three white paperboard boxes.
“I think you should open the proposal,” she announced, coming back into the kitchen. “Just to see how much they’re offering.”
“You can’t put a price tag on memories,” I said. “My grandmother started Sky High more than forty years ago. My parents were here for a quarter of a century. And I just barely walked through the door. I’m not about to sell the place just to satisfy some patronizing lawyer’s client.”
She smirked playfully. “I’m just teasing, Katie. I know you’ll never sell this place; it’s in your blood.” She peered into one of the boxes that I was packing. “Wow, those look awesome! Are they for the bachelorette shindig?”
“Yep! Thirty-six of these babies for tonight.” I glanced at the clock on the far side of the kitchen. “Oh, shoot! I’ve got exactly seven minutes to get out the door and across town or else Connie Larson will tan my hide.”
“Want me to call and say you’re running late?”
I smiled. “That’s a great idea! But make sure she knows I wasn’t dilly-dallying. Tell her a big shot attorney came in and dangled a golden carrot in front of my face.”
Harper pursed her lips. “I think dilly-dallying might sound better. If you tell Connie somebody’s trying to buy Sky High, the entire town will hear about it and swamp the phones tomorrow morning to protest.”
I closed the top on the last box, sealed it with a gold embossed Sky High Pies sticker and grabbed my purse. “You’re probably right,” I said. “Tell her a big shot attorney wearing six-thousand dollar shoes showed up out of the blue, but leave out the part about the offer.”