Murder for Millions (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 7) Read online

  “The one about fire mentions Ira Pemberton,” Viveca said. “Doesn’t he own the body shop over on Dunkirk?”

  I held up the sheet of paper, squinting to study the four rhyming lines. “I suppose so,” I said. “I don’t now the name Devane, but I do recognize—”

  Viveca suddenly grabbed my arm, digging her nails in with a ferocity that seemed surprising for someone so willowy. “My word, Katie!” she said breathlessly. “The one that talks about slashing with a blade has the name Hertel! Isn’t that the old guy that was just in here?”

  CHAPTER 3

  Deputy Chief Trent Walsh was comfortably arranged in one of the rocking chairs on the front porch at Sky High as I described the visit from Boris Hertel. It was an hour after the curious conversation with the mysterious man on the phone. I’d dialed Trent the instant that call had ended and asked if he had time to stop by and talk.

  When he’d asked me to explain and I’d shared the strange poem, Trent had told me to keep the letter safe until he arrived. That suggested I might be dealing with something more complicated than a tipsy old guy spouting nonsense and a call from someone with a fondness for anonymity. Before placing the letter in a plastic bag to protect possible evidence, I’d made a copy of the poem and Bubble Brite receipt. My sixth sense was on high hover and I thought it might be handy to keep a record of both just in case I ended up doing a little sleuthing.

  “What was the drunk guy’s name again?” Trent asked on the porch.

  “Boris Hertel. He and my dad used to play cards every week. I didn’t recognize him at first because he was…well, he was pretty disheveled. And he’s aged a lot.”

  Trent nodded. “Yeah, I know. Since his wife died, the poor guy’s been on a downhill slide. He closed his business, sold the house and moved into a rental over on Bear Point Trail. Someone said he has a new girlfriend and that’s straightened him out a little bit, but it sounds like her magic touch might be fading fast.”

  “And what about the list?” I pointed at the cryptic note in his hand. “Don’t you think that’s a bit on the strange side?”

  He smiled. “Well, of course, Katie. I also think it could possibly be tied to a burglary down in Aspen a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Are you serious?”

  One of Trent’s eyebrows lifted. “Aren’t I always?”

  “No, but we’ll leave that for another day. What’s the deal with the burglary?”

  He jabbed one finger at the poem. “Top line here,” he said. “Carter Devane. That’s the name of the guy who reported a break-in to the Aspen PD.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  Trent shook his head. “Not much really. Devane’s about forty. He’s a wealthy guy. He reported a burglary a couple of weeks ago. And he and his family spend part of the year in Aspen and the rest in Palm Springs. Other than that, I don’t know jack squat.”

  “Devane sounds like a lucky guy,” I said. “Living in both of those places would be a dream come true.”

  Trent laughed. “He’s lucky and smart; Carter made a fortune when he sold a tech startup that he launched right after college. It was some sort of travel-related website business, but he sold it for millions and millions. Then he turned around and started a second company that sells those Minty Dog things that everybody’s talking about. And then, as if that wasn’t enough success, he sold that business for another pile of cash just a few weeks ago. The lucky duck is now worth about ninety million.”

  “What did the second company sell?”

  “Minty Dog Chews. They clean a dog’s teeth and freshen its breath.”

  I smiled. “Maybe I should keep some behind the counter. Just in case Mr. Hertel comes back for another little chat.”

  “Yeah, back to that.” Trent scanned the sheet of paper that Boris Hertel had delivered earlier. “The Aspen PD is working the Devane burglary, but they don’t have much at this point. They didn’t find any prints, the housekeeper was at the store when the intruder broke in and the exterior security cameras had been on the fritz for a few weeks.”

  “No prints or clues?”

  Trent shrugged. “Not to speak of,” he said. “They did find a gold button with an embossed eagle insignia.”

  He swiped and tapped his phone until the screen was filled with the photograph of a button tucked into the angled corner of a Bureau scale. I’d learned to use the two-sided six-inch black-and-white ruler when I worked as a private investigator in Chicago. The button found at the scene of the Devane burglary was about three-quarters of an inch in diameter.

  “That’s better than nothing, but it isn’t very distinctive. It could possibly be used on dozens of different garments.”

  He smiled. “You’re the fashion expert, Katie.”

  I skimmed over the remark and asked what was missing from the Devane residence after the break-in.

  “That’s another thing that’s unusual about the case. The only items the intruder took were a pair of earrings and an old book.”

  “That’s odd. If the Devanes are rich, you’d think their house would be chockablock with expensive art and priceless collectibles.”

  Trent smiled. “Picasso, Warhol, Rembrandt and Koons.”

  “Showing off, deputy chief?”

  “Nope. Those are just four of the artists that Carter Devane collects. According to the detective I talked to down there, his house in Aspen is like an art museum.”

  “The guy’s house is like the Guggenheim, MOMA or Louvre,” I said skeptically, “but none of his artworks were stolen.”

  “Showing off, Katie?” Trent chuckled. “Dropping those fancy museum names and everything?”

  I smiled. “Am I right?”

  “Completely. Whoever broke into the Devane place didn’t take anything but earrings and an old book. I don’t have a picture of the book, but I can show you the glitzy baubles.”

  He tapped the phone again, used his thumb and forefinger to enlarge an image and then held it up to reveal a stunning pair of earrings made from diamonds and pearls.

  “Not bad,” I said. “What do you know about the book?”

  He scrolled through the email on his phone for a few seconds before reporting the title: Desire of Eden. He added that it was a first edition by a celebrated British writer from the 17th century.

  “Why do you know about the Devane case?” I asked. “You’ve usually got your hands full up here in Crescent Creek. It seems kind of odd that you’d be aware of a burglary that happened in Aspen a couple of weeks ago.”

  Trent’s faint grin ballooned into a broad smile. “My hands might be full, Katie. But I can still keep one finger on the pulse of the region.”

  I groaned at the comment. “Did you come up with that on your own, deputy chief?”

  He shook his head. “Some speaker at a conference. I liked it, so I’m using it.” He puffed out his chest and straightened his shoulders. “Besides, it’s the honest truth. I keep in touch with a bunch of buddies around the area on a regular basis. A guy I know with the Aspen PD gave me a heads-up about the Devane investigation because one other thing they recovered from the scene was a weird poem that mentioned four names and an equal number of apparent threats.”

  I felt a chill down my back as I asked Trent if the note found in Aspen was the same as the one he was holding.

  “Yup.” He hoisted the envelope that Boris Hertel left with me earlier. “Except there was one difference; none of the entries had been crossed off on the sheet found in Carter Devane’s kitchen.”

  We sat together without talking for a few seconds. Trent folded the sheet of paper and slipped it back into the envelope. I did my best not to let my vivid imagination run wild.

  “Don’t worry, Katie,” Trent said finally.

  I shook my head. “I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. I’ve known you for, like, twenty years. I can tell when—”

  “Twelve,” I said firmly. “We met when we were seniors in high school. And then you broke my heart by
leaving me for Dina. And then you—”

  “Give it a rest, will ya?” Trent said. “I apologized about that little indiscretion. And we both know that I messed up. So let’s leave the past in the past.”

  I laughed and punched his shoulder. “I’m teasing, big guy. I thought a little levity might be in order.”

  Trent smirked. “A little levity?” He held up the envelope and flicked it with one finger. “It looks like somebody’s threatening to murder a couple of people. Where’s the levity in that?”

  I studied his expression to see if he was being serious. After a decade with the Crescent Creek Police Department, Trent had been involved in plenty of tight spots. But I also knew that he could be a lighthearted joker with close friends and associates.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”

  The booming laugh that followed told me that Trent’s reputation as a joker was intact. Before I could decide on the most appropriate way to respond to the juvenile smirk on his face, the screen door opened and Harper appeared on the porch.

  “Katie?”

  “Everything okay in there?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Oh, absolutely. We’re doing great. But there’s a call for you about the Bollinger catering job.”

  Trent pushed up from the rocking chair and slipped the crumpled envelope into his pocket.

  “I’ll be right there,” I told Harper. “I need to finish this first.”

  Once we were alone again, Trent pulled out his phone and swiped the screen. He grumbled, cursed under his breath and said, “Well, your friend Boris Hertel’s not having a very good day.”

  “What now?”

  Trent shrugged. “I just got a text that said Boris was arrested for being drunk and disorderly at Food Town. Nadine Talbot called 911 after she found the old guy plopped down in the potato chip aisle eating from three opened bags of Fritos.”

  “Oh, brother. Is he at the station already?”

  “Not quite,” Trent said, shaking his head. “I guess Denny Santiago and Amanda Crane got him loaded into their car, but then the geezer blew chunks all over the seat.”

  “Too many Fritos?” I asked.

  “Probably too much scotch. From the report I got on my phone just now, Mr. Hertel made a pit stop at Tipton’s Liquor Mart on the way to Food Town. While the cashier was on the phone, Boris grabbed a bottle of Glenfiddich and waltzed right out of the store.”

  “Does he have family in the area?” I asked.

  “Who—Boris Hertel?”

  “Yes. If he’s been spiraling out of control since his wife’s death, maybe a son or daughter could help get him into rehab.”

  Trent smiled. “Hertel’s daughter-in-law told me the other day that she and her husband had tried three different clinics. But the old guy keeps walking away and returning to Crescent Creek. She and his son actually moved back to town a few months ago to try and help Boris stay sober.”

  “Well, maybe the fourth time will be the charm,” I said, trying to sound as upbeat as possible. “Everyone deserves at least two or three second chances.”

  CHAPTER 4

  I was walking toward the front door of Bubble Brite at four that afternoon when I realized the flour-dusted Sky High apron was still around my neck. I decided to leave it on and hope that June and Marv Taggart would find it amusing. But instead of the couple that owned the laundry and dry cleaning business, their 19-year-old daughter was behind the counter with another young woman about the same age.

  “Can I help you?” asked Melissa Taggart when I walked through the door.

  The other girl smiled. “You’re wearing an apron,” she said.

  “That’s very true. I forgot to take it off when I left work.”

  The phone on the wall behind the counter rang. Melissa glowered at it briefly before trundling over to answer.

  “Yeah?” said the second girl. “Where do you work?”

  “Sky High Pies. It’s the bakery café over on Pine.”

  She stared at me as if I’d just said something obscene in an exotic and ancient language.

  “I don’t know what that is,” she mumbled. “I just moved here.”

  “Oh, great! Welcome to Crescent Creek!”

  She grimaced. “Uh, thanks. I guess. I liked New Orleans a whole lot better. But my father decided we should move half way across the planet so he could take some lame job with—” She suddenly stopped, her cheeks turning crimson. “I’m sorry, ma’am. That was rude. We had a big blowout this morning, so I’m kind of still coming down.”

  “I get it,” I said. “I was your age once.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Yeah? Did your dad make you move away from all of your friends?”

  I shook my head. “No, I grew up right here.”

  She offered a weary smile before asking if I was dropping off or picking up.

  “Neither,” I said, reaching into my pocket for the copies I’d made earlier. “I was wondering if you could tell me who this dry cleaning ticket belongs to.”

  I unfolded the paper and held it up. She examined the photocopy for a few seconds before pointing at the duplicate of the Bubble Brite receipt.

  “She’s a witch.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “That ticket number is, like, totally seared on my brain right now,” the young woman said. “It belonged to Marla Soble.” She paused to see if I’d react to the name, but I didn’t recognize it. “Or maybe I should say belongs to her. She and her son came in earlier acting like it was the end of the world. She’d dropped off a silk dress a few days ago. I guess it’s this really expensive designer thing, okay? Between the two of them, my ears are still burning. I mean, almost everyone curses now and then, but Mrs. Soble and her son take the cake on how many F-bombs you can stuff into one sentence.”

  “That’s a shame,” I said.

  “Totally,” the young girl droned. “And he’s so cute, but way too creepy.”

  “Creepy?”

  “Yeah, he asked another girl that works here out on a date. She’s, like, way older than me, more like your age. Anyway, when they got to the movies, he pretended like he forgot his wallet and she had to pay and he didn’t even really say anything about being sorry.”

  “And that qualifies as creepy?”

  She harrumphed loudly, flicking her hair over one shoulder. “Well, yeah. Don’t you think that’s just, like, sketchy?”

  I figured it was easier to agree, so I smiled and asked what happened after Marla and her son cursed up a storm.

  “Not much. Because she lost the ticket. And Missy’s mom and dad—” She swerved her gaze over one shoulder toward Melissa Taggart on the phone. “—well, they’re über-strict about not letting any garments go unless the customer can produce a receipt.”

  “But don’t people lose them now and then?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Like, every five minutes.”

  I made a mental note to never misplace a dry cleaning receipt. Then I asked what the Taggarts do when a customer comes for their order without proof of ownership.

  She laughed softly. “Nothing. I think it’s just some weird red tape thing. If the person can describe the stuff, then we usually let them have it.”

  “And so the woman you just mentioned…”

  “Marla Soble,” she said. “I will never forget that name as long as I live. She was just, like, completely hateful.” Her lower lip jutted out. “She called me fat.”

  The girl looked like she weighed about as much as a feather pillow after a weeklong juice cleanse.

  “Well, if you’re heavy,” I said. “What does that make me?”

  Her eyelids fluttered nervously. “My granny would call you ‘big boned,’” she said. “But I think you look, like, fine.” She did a little swirl in my direction with one finger. “Although the apron is kind of poofing out right around your stomach. You might want to lose that before you go out in public the next time.”

  I smiled. “Duly noted.
And I will. Today was really busy, so it slipped my mind.”

  “I hear that. We had a huge rush from the second I clocked in until about twenty minutes ago.”

  “Was Marla Soble part of that?”

  The twinkle in her eyes vanished. “Uh-huh. It was her third time in today, too.”

  “Was she victorious?”

  The girl frowned. “Was she what?”

  “Did she get her dress?”

  “Well, she took it, if that’s what you’re saying. Me and Missy were doing our best to explain the policy, but the freak just, like, barged her way around the counter when she saw the dress go by on the conveyor. She grabbed it, refused to pay and ran out the—”

  “Okay!” Melissa Taggart interrupted, grinning at her coworker. “You will not believe who just called.”

  I raised my hand. “Marla Soble?”

  They both looked at me.

  “How did you know?” Melissa asked.

  “Lucky guess,” I said. “We were just talking about her and—”

  Melissa grabbed the other girl’s arm. “You told her? My parents said we should never gossip about people with other customers.”

  “It’s okay, Missy, “I said. “I’m a friend of your mom and dad. They come to Sky High all the time.”

  She frowned. “Uh…” Then she squinted to get a better look at my face. “Oh! You’re Kathy, right?”

  “Kate,” I said. “Kate Reed.”

  “Yeah, right. But still…” She shot another disapproving look at the other girl. “We’re not supposed to.”

  “Well, sorry,” the tittle-tattle artist said. “She had a copy of Marla Soble’s receipt, so I thought maybe it…” She stopped when the harsh expression on Melissa’s face held steady. “But I guess not, huh?”

  Melissa swallowed hard. “Will you please not mention this to my mom and dad, Kathy? They said that if I did really good working here in the afternoons there was a chance they’d pay for my trip to Cabo next year.”

  I smiled, deciding not to correct the error with my name again. “That’s awesome!” I cheered. “Going to Mexico sounds like a blast!”