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  Sixty Minutes for Murder

  Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries / 23

  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.

  © 2018 Mary Maxwell 05222018

  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

  “There’s trouble in paradise,” Julia whispered. “You won’t believe what Henry Callaghan’s wife just said to Wendy Barr!”

  I looked up from the coconut cupcakes that I was transferring from a Sky High Pies bakery box to a sterling silver platter.

  “Which one?” I said.

  It was seven-thirty on a Saturday night. We were in the kitchen at the Community Center preparing a second wave of goodies for the dessert table in the ballroom. Besides managing my family’s bakery café in Crescent Creek, Colorado, I also catered events around town, generally supported by Julia, our gifted dessert maven, and Harper, the eternally patient sentinel who handled the Sky High dining room six days a week. On this particular evening, the event was a silent auction and reception to support the annual Crescent Creek Doggy Dash, a five-mile fun run staged each year to benefit the local animal shelter.

  “What do you mean?” Julia frowned. “Which one what?”

  “Which wife?” I replied. “They’re both here tonight, the original and her understudy.”

  “Understudy?” she said. “Did Henry meet Ashleigh when he was married to Barb?”

  I smiled. “Ashleigh was Barb’s assistant at the medical supply company she and Henry own. Once there was trouble in paradise between Henry and Barb, Ashleigh became a sounding board for both of them.”

  Julia grimaced. “Sounds like a trashy soap opera.”

  “Some people might think so,” I said. “But those three figured out a way through the muck to a new type of civility. After the divorce, Henry and Barb both found new objects for their affection.”

  “What do you mean?” Julia asked. “Henry obviously ended up with Ashleigh, but Barb’s never remarried.”

  “That’s true, but who do you think organizes the Doggy Dash every year?”

  Julia took a moment or two. Then she giggled. “I never knew Barb was in charge. She’s always so mellow and relaxed.”

  “She’s an inspiration,” I agreed. “And a role model for how to juggle a million little pieces at the same time. These days, she pours all of her love and attention into raising money for the animal shelter.”

  “That’s so inspiring,” Julia said.

  “From what I’ve heard, she’s happier now than ever before,” I said. “But let’s get back to Wendy Barr. Who said what to her?”

  “Oh, right! Well, Ashleigh told Wendy that—”

  Julia stopped in midstream when the door to the kitchen suddenly opened.

  “Are there any more Double Chocolate Crisp Cookies?” came a voice from the other side of the room.

  It was Ivy Minkler, head book slinger at the Crescent Creek Public Library. She was standing in the doorway, looking scholarly in a tweed skirt, navy sweater set and black pumps. A pencil was tucked behind one ear, and her trademark string of pearls glowed against the dark knit fabric.

  “Martin Romero just literally inhaled every last one before his mother could stop the mayhem,” Ivy reported.

  I shot a look at Julia. “Isn’t he, like, thirty?”

  “Going on eighteen months,” Ivy grumbled. “His girlfriend dumped him last Valentine’s Day, so he’s going everywhere with his parents again. Bill and Claire are such dog lovers that they couldn’t miss the fun!”

  Julia sighed. “Remember the last time, Katie? When Marty was dating that woman from my yoga class until she caught him with her sister.”

  “How could I forget?” I said. “Marty’s parents brought him to the opening of the high school musical the next night and he ate two dozen cookies before anybody could stop him.”

  Ivy scowled. “Some people never learn,” she said. “Martin Romero’s a bad egg. There are no two ways about it.”

  “Well, his parents are delightful,” I offered. “They’ve bid on every item in the silent auction tonight.”

  “Too bad nobody donated a muzzle,” Ivy quipped. “They could buy that for their son and keep him away from the goodies.”

  “Oh, that’s not an issue,” Julia said confidently. “Katie and I baked more than what we estimated for tonight. The back of my SUV is still crammed with boxes of cookies, muffins and pies.”

  “Good to know,” Ivy said, watching as I finished arranging cupcakes on the silver platter.

  “Did you notice if we’re running low on coffee?” asked Julia.

  “I’m sorry, but I didn’t,” Ivy replied. “Do you want me to run out there and see?”

  “I can go,” Julia said, reaching for the platter of cupcakes. “I’ll take these to the dessert table and check the beverage station on the way back.”

  As soon as we were alone, Ivy walked to the doorway, checked the hall and returned to my side.

  “I heard something out there,” she said in a hushed, conspiratorial tone. “It gave me the chills.”

  “What was it?” I put down the box of cookies that I was getting ready to open. “Another example of Martin Romero’s bad behavior?”

  She shook her head. “Warren Larimer accused Wendy of stealing from his office,” said Ivy. “It was the weirdest thing, too. She and I were blabbing about a Modern Family episode when he sashayed right up, got in her face and told her that six-hundred dollars had been pilfered from his desk drawer the night before last.”

  “I’m assuming that Wendy’s company cleans his offices,” I said.

  Ivy nodded. “For the past five years,” she said, “although Warren threatened to start using the new outfit that’s expanding into the area.”

  “I feel like an ostrich with my head in the sand,” I said. “Which outfit are you talking about?”

  “Gordon Janitorial,” Ivy answered. “Their sales rep came by the library a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t like his high-pressure approach, so I politely declined the opportunity to have them clean for three days at no charge.”

  “Oh, right,” I
said. “They sent a proposal to me, but I don’t remember seeing anything about a free trial.”

  “It’s supposedly part of their standard sales pitch,” Ivy said dryly. “But I wasn’t interested because the guy seemed like a used car salesman. You know the type: shifty, sly, nonstop chatterbox. He was the kind of guy that uses your name about every fourth word.”

  A soft knock sounded from the doorway. It was Zack, my handsome comrade-in-romance, and staff photographer for The Crescent Creek Gazette. He walked in, greeted Ivy with a friendly smile and then swept me into his arms.

  “How’s the most beautiful woman in Crescent Creek tonight?”

  “I’m fine,” Ivy said, tapping him on the shoulder. “And I’m right over here.”

  We shared a laugh and then she promised to keep me posted on the Warren and Wendy situation.

  “What’s going on with those two?” asked Zack after Ivy left.

  I shrugged. “I guess Warren told Wendy that money was missing from his office after her crew was there the other night.”

  “Oh, okay,” Zack said with a bemused grin. “We’re talking about Wendy that owns the commercial cleaning company, not Wendy from the CVS pharmacy.”

  “That’s right, handsome. Wendy Collins is the pharmacist. Wendy Barr owns Silver Spur Cleaning.”

  “And that guy said that she took money from his office?”

  “That guy’s name is Warren Larimer,” I said. “He’s known around town as a prickly stick of TNT with a short fuse.”

  Zack laughed. “And he accused her employees of theft?”

  I nodded.

  “Did he file charges?”

  I shook my head.

  “Do you believe him?”

  I shrugged. “It’s like I just said, Warren’s known for pointing the finger and causing a stink.”

  He chuckled again. “Does that mean that you don’t think Warren is telling the truth?”

  “I don’t have the foggiest,” I replied. “But it’s not the first time he’s made that type of accusation. I was talking to the printer that does our menus the other day, and he had a similar run-in with Larimer last month. One of his employees delivered a job, and Warren later claimed that the guy took a pair of expensive sunglasses from his desk.”

  “Hmmm,” Zack mused. “Money and sunglasses? What’s next?”

  “Probably the last of Warren’s humility,” I said with a playful wink. “If the word modesty exists in the man’s vocabulary, it’s at the very, very, very, very back of the pack.

  CHAPTER 2

  The next morning after church, as we drove through town on the way back to Sky High Pies, I spotted Wendy Barr standing on the sidewalk in front of Diebel’s Custom Tailor on Linwood Street in downtown Crescent Creek. She was jabbing one finger into the chest of a short man wearing a leather car coat and pork pie hat. He was leaning against a spotless black Cadillac Escalade with vanity plates: ANTON’S BABY.

  “Somebody doesn’t look happy,” Zack joked. “Is that her new boyfriend?”

  I looked at Zack. “She has a new boyfriend? What happened to Ken Higby?”

  He smiled. “I heard a few women at the office the other day. They were speculating that Wendy Barr must be dating someone wealthy because she’s been spending money like there’s no tomorrow.”

  “Slow down there, cowboy,” I said. “What happened to Wendy and Ken?”

  Zack shrugged. “No idea, babe. Gretchen seemed pretty convincing. She ran into Wendy at your friend’s clothing place, and they were—”

  “Pearl White’s shop?” I asked.

  He nodded, adding a slight roll of his eyes. “I shouldn’t have said anything. You’re always telling me that it’s all about the facts, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, in this case,” he continued, “I probably only have about half of what I need for the interrogation.”

  I laughed. “What interrogation?”

  He took one hand from the steering wheel to make a small circular motion. “This interrogation,” he said. “The one where you ask twenty questions after I mention that the chattering class at work were talking about Wendy Barr.”

  “The chattering class?”

  Zack grinned. “Bad choice of words?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “I like it. Besides being a good newspaper editor, Gretchen Goode holds her own when it comes to chattering.”

  “That she does,” Zack agreed.

  We drove in silence for a few moments. Then I asked what else the chattering class had to say about Wendy and her supposedly new beau.

  “What do you mean?” asked Zack.

  “Did you hear any more about him?” I asked. “Is he a local guy? What does he do? How did they meet?”

  Zack laughed again. “See? Twenty questions. And unfortunately, I don’t know any more than I’ve already told you.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Blanche probably has the scoop.”

  “Oh, that reminds me!” His eyebrows arched above a relaxed grin. “Blanche told Gretchen that Wendy’s new man must be in the oil business.”

  “Oil? As in, wells and pipelines?”

  His eyes crinkled. “No, babe,” he said. “As in snake oil. Blanche thinks the guy’s shady.”

  I let the comment roll around in my brain for a few seconds. Then I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone and dialed the familiar number.

  “Are you calling ahead to order our pizza?” Zack asked with a hopeful tone.

  I smiled. “I’ll do that in a sec,” I told him. “First, I want to call the queen bee of the chattering class to see what else she knows about the shady snake oil tycoon.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Two hours later, after a delicious feast of sausage, red onion and wild mushroom pizza at Pepper & Roni’s, Zack and I were sprawled on the sofa in my living room, flipping through the channels in search of an old movie. As we narrowed it down to three very diverse options—Laura, Ghostbusters and The Silence of the Lambs, Blanche Speltzer returned my call.

  In addition to her status as the oldest resident in town and everyone’s favorite retired high school teacher, 81-year-old Blanche was one of the kindest women that I’d ever known. She could be tart. And she could be temperamental. But she showered friends, neighbors and strangers with equal parts of compassion, warmth and respect.

  “What’s the story, morning glory?” she asked. “Boris and I were at Martha Hoffman’s house when you called earlier. It was her first time hosting our Sunday Brunch Bunch.”

  “How was it?” I asked.

  She groaned. “Cold toast, runny eggs and coffee as weak as Tina Schulte’s resistance to QVC.”

  The wisecrack was delivered with her customary squeaky voice and rapid-fire wit, earning a quick giggle as she added a few more details about her friend’s dubious cooking skills.

  “Oh, that’s a shame,” I said when she finished.

  “Poppycock!” Blanche chirped. “Ted Palmer was behind the bar, so I focused on my Bloody Mary, and we picked up Egg McMuffins on the way home.”

  “Smart choice,” I said.

  “Boris thinks that the food was so terrible because I made Martha nervous,” said Blanche. “But you know that I adore the woman. She’s my kind of gal; smart and feisty and independent. The simple truth is, not everyone can be as gifted in the culinary arts as you, dear.”

  “Or as skilled in the art of chitchat as you,” I said.

  Blanche laughed. “I do my best!” she said with confidence. “Although chitchat time is limited these days. My ax throwing coach thinks that I have a shot at a gold medal in the regional tournament for senior athletes, so I’m not frittering away all of my time on gossip and local dirt.”

  “You’re really taking that new sport seriously,” I said. “Julia told me that you’re training three times a week.”

  “That’s true. When I heard about it from my grandson, I thought he was pulling my leg. But it’s quite popular in certain circles. And it ge
ts you up off your duff, improves your eye-hand coordination and gives your arm quite a workout.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” I said. “Now, before I fritter away more of your time, can I ask a question?”

  “What’s on your mind, sunshine?”

  “Wendy Barr,” I said. “What do you know about her new boyfriend?”

  Blanche growled into the phone. “Not much,” she said. “I’ve only seen them around town a couple of times. He reminds me of a hipster with a Napoleon complex. His wardrobe seems to consist of a pork pie hat, an angry snarl and shirts from the Mini Me Collection at Old Navy.”

  “Well, doesn’t he sound like a catch?” I said, picturing the short, dumpy guy that I’d seen earlier with Wendy. “Are they the same age?”

  “He looks younger,” Blanche said. “Probably mid-twenties.”

  “And Ken’s around Wendy’s age, right?”

  “I suppose so,” she said. “According to what I heard the other day, if Wendy did dump Ken for the tiny tot, he must be rolling in dough. She’s been spending money like nobody’s business.”

  “That’s what I heard,” I said. “Must be nice, huh?”

  “No doubt,” Blanche said. “I don’t know what that girl’s been up to lately, but it looks like things are certainly going her way. I saw her downtown early last week driving a fancy new car. Boris told me it was a Martin Aston.”

  I laughed softly. “Do you mean Aston Martin?”

  “Whatever,” Blanche said. “You say tomato, I say tomahto. A car’s a car, dear.”

  “Sure thing,” I agreed. “But that’s one expensive tomahto. Wendy’s cleaning business must be doing really well these days.”

  Blanche snorted. “As if! Wendy told Cora and Hattie that she’s lost several accounts in the last few weeks because of that big corporate cleaning outfit that came to town recently.”

  “Well, that’s a puzzler,” I said. “How do you drop a cool two-hundred grand on a new car when your company’s losing customers?”

  Blanche was quiet for a few seconds. Then she said, “I know of at least three ways, dear. Creative accounting, highway robbery or your checks are made out of rubber.”