Murder by the Slice (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 1) Page 2

  “They retired,” I said brightly.

  “At such a young age?” Blanche sneered. “Aren’t they both about sixty-five?”

  I smiled. “Something like that.”

  “Well, that’s a shame,” she grumbled. “I’m still working part-time at the convenience store that my son owns down on Cherokee. After all, idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”

  “Well, mom and dad decided it was time to pass the torch,” I explained.

  “Is that right?” Blanche heaved a feathery sigh. “Just so you can burn the place to the ground with your fancy new gizmos and weirdo recipes?”

  I kept smiling as she glared at me through two watery emerald eyes. “Which gizmo are you referring to, Mrs. Speltzer?”

  She jabbed her fork at the nearest chalkboard: Free Wi-Fi at Sky High! “All that computer junk,” she said. “Don’t you know it’s a plot to turn our brains into mush?”

  I considered defending our new wireless service, but decided to conserve the energy. Instead, I asked which recipes she thought were peculiar.

  After taking a bite of her cinnamon roll, Blanche aimed her crumb-covered fork at another sign on the wall. “Corned beef pie?” she sneered. “What the heck is that anyway?”

  I took a quick breath. “Well, I’m introducing a few savory items to the menu,” I said. “Just to shake things up a little bit.”

  Blanche scowled. “If I want to shake things up, I’ll go to the county fair and jump on the Tilt-A-Whirl.”

  I pressed my lips into another reverential smile, wondering what she would criticize next, when my sister called my name from behind the counter. I thanked Blanche for coming in on my first day, and then hurried to see what Olivia needed.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh,” she whispered. “Blanche can be a bit much. I was just trying to save you from all that griping.”

  “She’s a pistol,” I said quietly.

  “And for your information,” Blanche yelled from the far side of the room, “this pistol just got new hearing aids! They’re set on maximum right now, so I can hear a pin drop in Tulsa with these babies.” She patted one ear and winked at us. “Mind your manners, girls,” she added. “Elders are to be respected, not treated as the target for cheap shots.”

  I grabbed the coffee pot and made my way back to her table. “Sorry about that, Mrs. Speltzer. I’m a little stressed and tired, even though that’s no excuse.”

  Blanche watched while I refilled her cup. Then she leaned toward the spirals of steam rising from the hot coffee and fanned it toward her face.

  “Always remember to take care of your skin, dear,” she said, smiling at me with her dazzling pearly whites. “My Henry used to grouse when I’d put on my face cream, but there’s nothing more important to maintain a woman’s natural beauty.” She touched one cheek lightly and moved the slender fingers to her chin. “If you’ve got time for all that computer junk, you’ve got time to take care of your skin.”

  The front door opened with a fluttering peal of the silver bell. I glanced over and saw a man dressed in a dark business suit and running shoes. I did a quick double take at the odd fashion statement before walking over and greeting him with a smile.

  “Welcome to Sky High Pies,” I said. “Table for one?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Are you Kate Reed?”

  “That’s me,” I said. “How can I help you?”

  He reached into his pocket and handed me a business card. “Special Agent Ben Carson,” he said in a warm, honeyed voice. “I’m with the Bureau, and I have a few questions about Rodney Alexander.”

  Hearing the name of my recently deceased boss from Chicago sent a chill down my spine. I was a struggling college graduate with a fine arts degree and mountains of debt when Rodney hired me to answer the phone at his fledgling detective agency. Over the years, as his business grew and our friendship deepened, Rodney confided in me whenever a case was especially difficult to solve. I’d confessed my childhood love of Sherlock Holmes, and Rodney thought I had a very intuitive mind for the business of investigation. At one point, he convinced me to get my PI license, although I still painted at night, hoping for a career in the arts and filling my tiny apartment with one canvas after another.

  “Miss Reed?” the FBI agent said.

  “Oh, sorry,” I said, blinking away the fresh waves of sorrow. “What about Rodney? I talked to the detectives in Chicago before I left.”

  Carson acknowledged my remark with another slight nod. “Your statement was clear and concise,” he offered. “It was also very helpful. But we’ve had a development in the case, and I’m following a new lead. I’m based in Denver, and our Chicago office asked me to drive up and run a few more things by you.”

  My sister suddenly appeared beside me. “Kate?”

  I kept my eyes on the FBI agent.

  “Kate?” Olivia tugged on my sleeve. “Julia needs you in the kitchen. She’s got a question about one of Nana Reed’s recipes.”

  It felt like I’d suddenly fallen into the deep end of a swimming pool filled with Jell-O. Sounds were muffled, fractured images of Rodney flickered in my mind and my feet seemed glued to the floor.

  “Miss Reed?” Agent Carson said. “Are you okay?”

  My sister looped her fingers around my wrist. “Katie?” From the look on her face, I didn’t think she’d heard the man mention Rodney’s murder. “What’s going on?”

  I concentrated on surfacing from the swirl of memories, banishing the flood of sadness with another deep breath. “Wow, sorry about that,” I sputtered. “My brain just short-circuited there for a sec.”

  Olivia giggled. “Well, if it’s plugged back in, Julia could really use your decoding skills in the kitchen.”

  “Decoding skills?” Agent Carson asked with a smile.

  “It’s our grandmother,” Olivia explained, tugging on my arm. “She was a sweet, kind woman, but her recipe cards sometimes look like she dictated them to Biscuit.”

  Carson nodded. “And Biscuit would be?”

  “The yellow Lab that nana found on the side of the road,” I quickly explained. “They were inseparable for the longest time.”

  “Pets can be remarkable,” Carson said politely.

  We stood in an awkward silence for a few seconds, my gaze fixed on his impossibly blue eyes. When his phone whirred in his pocket, I clicked back into the moment. “But you’re not here to talk about Biscuit,” I said. “And if you’ll give me two shakes, I need to step into the kitchen for a second.”

  I promised to return in a flash before following Olivia to the kitchen.

  “Who is that?” she gushed as soon as we were in the back. “He’s really cute! And there’s no wedding band.”

  “There’s also no point,” I said. “I’m not in the market, so you can stop trying to play matchmaker, okay?”

  Olivia smirked. “Party pooper,” she grumbled.

  “Not to mention that he’s with the FBI,” I added. “He’s not here looking for a date.”

  “Everybody needs love,” my sister said brightly, spinning around and heading back through the swinging door. “Especially those who protect and serve!”

  I grabbed a paper towel and blotted my face. Between rushing around frantically and the unexpected emotional landslide, my forehead was peppered with perspiration.

  “There you are!” Julia called as she came out of the walk-in cooler. “I’m working on a couple of special orders, but I can’t make sense of the last three ingredients for the strawberry-rhubarb recipe.”

  I joined her by the long stainless steel table that divided the kitchen into two separate work areas. Over the years, the Victorian’s original quaint kitchen had been renovated to accommodate the growing business. On one side, there was a six-burner industrial gas stove sitting between two short counters that held side-by-side waffle irons, a pair of professional blenders, a well-worn cutting board the size of Rhode Island and two large ceramic urns crammed with ladles, s
poons, whisks and spatulas. On the other side of the center island was a commercial dishwasher, cavernous farmhouse sink and a pair of ancient eight-slice toasters.

  “Let me take a peek,” I said, plucking the recipe card from Julia’s hand. “I don’t know why I haven’t taken the time to convert Nana Reed’s scrawled instructions into something legible.”

  Julia grinned. “Maybe because you’ve been up to your eyeballs getting ready to take over Sky High,” she said, patting my shoulder tenderly. “Your parents tried to teach you everything they know in two weeks. That’s a ton of stuff for anyone to remember.”

  “I suppose,” I said, squinting at the list of ingredients. “Ah, so the last three things are one teaspoon of vanilla extract, three tablespoons of butter that’s been cubed and one egg white beaten with a teaspoon of water.”

  Julia studied the recipe card again. “Oh! Now I see it,” she said cheerfully. “I think my eyes play tricks on me sometimes.”

  “Join the club,” I said, heading back to the dining room. “I’ll check with you in a few minutes to see if you’re mystified by any more of my grandmother’s hieroglyphics.”

  The volume in the dining room had increased a few notches when I pushed through the swinging door. I stood behind the counter for a brief moment, staring in disbelief at how many local residents and longtime customers had turned out to show their support on my first day. After forty years as a bastion of baked goods and comfort food in Crescent Creek, Sky High Pies was a favorite destination for local residents and tourists. Some people came by every morning for a cup of hot coffee and the latest gossip. Others stopped in on a weekly basis to indulge in their beloved guilty pleasure—whether it was a slice of coconut cream pie, a massive cinnamon roll covered in cream cheese frosting or one of our popular soup and sandwich combos.

  “That didn’t take long,” my sister said, scurrying behind the counter to grab a fresh pot of decaf. “Julia must be getting better at understanding nana’s handwriting.”

  “Aren’t we all,” I said. “There are still a few things that I can’t figure out in the Coconut Cream Crazy recipe.”

  Olivia gave me a knowing look and started for the front of the dining room.

  “Hey!” I called. “Where’s the FBI guy?”

  My sister chuckled. “I think that ship sailed, Katie. I mean, you’ve gotta reel a man in the first time they nibble, right?”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked as she went to greet a couple at the front door. “He’s from the FBI, not somebody looking for a date.”

  “She’s just toying with your emotions,” said Harper, coming up from behind me. “You know—sisterly teasing and all that.”

  I stood and watched her dash to a table crowded with regulars. Some of them had been eating at Sky High Pies since they were little kids. It warmed my heart to see all of their happy faces as they drank coffee, nibbled on scones and chattered gleefully about the usual subjects: the weather, local gossip, politics and a host of outdoor activities that depended on the season, including skiing, snowmobiling, hiking, white water rafting and horseback riding.

  “Did he give you a business card?” Olivia asked as she flew by again.

  “Who—Agent Carson?”

  “No, Santa Claus,” Olivia joked.

  “Yes,” I said, patting the pocket in my apron. “He gave it to me as he introduced himself.”

  My sister tilted her head to one side. “Well, then,” she said. “You’ll have his phone number the next time you need to track him down. For now, you can amble outside.” She giggled and gave me a mischievous wink. “He’s waiting for you outside.”

  CHAPTER 3

  When I opened the screen door and stepped outside, I saw Ben Carson at the far end of the wrap-around porch. He was sitting in one of the high-backed rocking chairs that had been a mainstay since my grandparents opened Sky High Pies. My first night back in Crescent Creek, when I couldn’t sleep and jagged images from the past kept popping out of the shadows, I came outside and sat on the porch until dawn. When I was a little girl, I did the same thing anytime something bad happened—when my parents argued, when I was bullied at school, when Trent dumped me for Dina. As I made my way along the porch, I smiled at a familiar couple coming up the front walk. I thought their last name was Schmidt, but I didn’t want to risk being wrong. I’d been away from the area for so long that some of my pre-Chicago recollections were wobbly and imprecise.

  “How are you?” I called.

  “We’re fantastic!” the woman answered. “Although Mr. Schwinn wanted to go to that bagel place.” She paused to smirk at her husband; I was relieved that I hadn’t trusted my memory. “And I told him that we were marching down here to support Audrey and Darren’s little girl.”

  “That’s really sweet,” I said, shaking their hands as they joined me on the porch. “It’s good to see you again. Thanks for coming on my first day!”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Mrs. Schwinn said brightly. “Isn’t that right, Ed?”

  “That’s right, dear.” The woman’s husband beamed a wide smile at me. “She’s fairly forgetful these days, Kate. I was the one who suggested we come down here. Libby wanted bagels and cream cheese.”

  Mrs. Schwinn swatted his arm. “Mind your manners, young man! Or else there’ll be no lovin’ and nothin’ from the oven when we get home tonight!”

  After he pressed his lips to her forehead, they strolled to the door and slipped inside. A warm tingle of pride cascaded through me; verification that coming back to Crescent Creek was the right thing to do at this point in my life. Seeing so many familiar faces from my childhood and hearing the kind words from longtime family friends was incredibly refreshing and encouraging. I kept my eyes on the door for a moment and then turned toward the far end of the porch.

  “I thought maybe you forgot about me,” Ben Carson said when he heard my footsteps and looked up from his phone.

  “Sorry about that,” I said, tucking a few loose strands of hair beneath the bandana I wore instead of a net cap or chef’s toque. “It’s my first day running the place, so there are a few wrinkles to iron out. And I’m having a blast talking to people that I haven’t seen since I was a teenager.”

  He smiled and gestured at the closest empty chair. “Can you talk for a minute or two?”

  “Maybe three,” I said, gingerly sitting on the edge of the rocker. “But if you’ve got more questions than that, maybe you could come back this afternoon. I don’t want to leave the others for too long. We close at three o’clock, so I could talk anytime after four or so.”

  Carson nodded. “I understand, Miss Reed. I can barely boil an egg, so I can’t imagine the pressure of cooking for—what? Hundreds of people every day?”

  “More like dozens,” I said. “We usually have a nice, steady stream from seven when we open until about one or one-thirty. After that, it’s mainly customers picking up pies to take home or retirees who want to get out and stretch their legs. Quite a few of those folks stop in for a cup of coffee and something sweet, so it keeps us fairly busy until we close.”

  I realized he was waiting for me to stop babbling about the finer points of running Sky High Pies, so I leaned forward slightly and nodded.

  “Well, that was informative,” he said in a teasing tone. “Are you going to reveal the secret family recipes, too?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry, Mr. Carson. I’m pretty much levitating at this point from lack of sleep, jumpy nerves and too much coffee. What did you want to ask me?”

  He reached into his pocket and retrieved a slim leather-bound notebook.

  “Just a couple of things really,” he said, flipping open the pad and glancing at the first page. “But I want to begin by telling you that I’m very sorry for your loss. I know you worked with Rodney Alexander for quite a long time.”

  “It was ten years,” I offered. “I started as a part-time receptionist right after he opened the agency. When I finished school, he expanded my dut
ies and I became his assistant for a while before getting my PI license.”

  “What exactly did you do for Mr. Alexander?”

  “Everything from A to Z really. It was a two-person shop, just he and I. There were occasional stringers that he’d hire for certain jobs like stakeouts or following people or…” My voice cracked and I swallowed hard to push down the ripples of sorrow that were beginning to surface. “Sorry,” I continued, pulling in a deep breath. “It’s still so new. And I worked so closely with Rodney for so long that…” I decided not to finish the thought; Carson was nodding and tapping his pen on the notepad. “Anyway, besides assisting on big cases and handling a few small ones on my own, I ran the office, handled all of the paperwork and managed any other administrative things needed to be done.”

  “When you assisted Mr. Alexander with his cases, did you leave the office?”

  I blinked, not sure what he was after. “What are you—I mean, are you wondering if I did surveillance work or something?”

  The FBI agent shrugged. “Anything besides office work. So that could include surveillance, undercover assignments, meeting with clients.”

  “Oh, sure. I met with clients all the time when they came to the office. Or I’d deal with them by phone, email, text. Whatever the case required really.”

  As I listened to Carson, I pictured Rodney’s face: broad nose, flat cheeks and dimpled chin beneath a shock of pitch-black hair. He was forty-two when he died, although he looked ten years younger. His smile was infectious and he always had a bad joke or two to share when he bounced into the office every morning.

  “Miss Reed?”

  I glanced up at Ben Carson. He was staring at me eagerly, and I realized that I’d missed a question.

  “Sorry about that,” I said softly. “What did you ask?”

  “Did you pack Rodney’s paperwork from the office after he passed away?”

  I nodded.