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

  “He’s tenacious,” Zack said.

  “Whoa, tiger! That’s a pretty big word for me this late at night.”

  He laughed; the melodious and husky sound sent tendrils of warmth to my core.

  “I miss you,” he said, nearly whispering. “I may never take a weeklong assignment again.”

  “I miss you, too.”

  We let the tender moment linger, riding the gentle waves of affection for a few silent moments.

  “What are you wearing?” Zack asked as I opened my eyes and reached for the glass of milk.

  I glanced down at my wrinkled, tattered Ghostbusters T-shirt. It was one of my favorite things to sleep in, as roomy and soft as any flannel nightgown. There was a stain of indeterminate origin on one sleeve and the thread along the bottom seemed to be unraveling even as we spoke.

  “A pink lace negligee,” I said, doing my best to sound sultry. “With a little bedazzling along the cleavage and a keyhole cutout that leaves very little to the imagination.”

  Zack laughed again. “Broncos or Ghostbusters?” he said. “You left the pink thingy at my place the other day, Katie.”

  I smiled at his sense of humor and the impeccable memory. “I can answer that question in four words,” I said. “Who you gonna call?”

  He murmured softly. “I love you in that one, gorgeous. It hugs all of your curves in just the right way.”

  My face tinged pink. “Thank you, handsome. And what are you wearing?”

  “A smile,” he said, the gravelly texture of his voice elevating the pale pink in my cheeks toward a more robust crimson. “And a towel around my waist.”

  I laughed. “Always the perfectly stylish gentleman, Mr. Hutton. Ready for every occasion, no matter what the dress code.”

  I heard him yawn.

  “Sounds like somebody’s ready for bed,” I said. “Why don’t we call it a night and talk in the morning?”

  “Works for me, gorgeous. Don’t stay up too late reading whatever it is you’ve got there.”

  “How’d you know I was reading?”

  He chuckled again, but it was swallowed by a cavernous yawn. “Because, Miss Reed,” he said eventually. “I know a thing or two about you, beginning with the fact that you read to fall asleep and you always have a book within reach.”

  “I confess. I found an old Agatha Christie downstairs the other day, And Then There Were None.”

  “I don’t know that one,” he said, stifling another yawn. “But tell me when I can read our story, okay?”

  “What’s that going to be called?” I asked.

  He made a sound deep in his throat, the telltale hum of happiness and joy. “I think there’s only one title that’ll work,” he said. “And Then Two Became One.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The sky overhead was brilliant blue. Lush palm fronds fluttered gently in the breeze. Music played in the distance and joyful laughter looped around the edges of the sun-splashed terrace.

  “Another margarita, Miss Reed?”

  I glanced up, my eyes locking on a lean guy with tan skin, blue eyes and curly brown hair.

  “Please,” I murmured. “And maybe some sliced papaya?”

  I was floating on a bright pink raft in a swimming pool somewhere in the hills above West Hollywood.

  “Of course,” he replied, flashing his impossibly white teeth again as he disappeared from view.

  I concentrated on the music, laughter and the drowsy sensation of gliding on the surface of the pool as the sun warmed my skin and—

  An annoying clatter suddenly cleaved the tranquil setting.

  What is that noise? I thought, straining to banish the unwelcome disturbance from my peaceful trance. Will someone please make it stop?

  I put my hands in the water and paddled toward the sound.

  Who’s making that racket? How can I enjoy the afternoon in the pool with Zack and his friends if—

  My eyes flashed open. I was facedown on the living room sofa in my apartment, the Agatha Christie book tucked under one arm and the evidence of a late-night cookie feast on the coffee table.

  “Holy crackers!” I muttered, groping under the gray chenille blanket for my phone. “I was just awake, like, two seconds ago.”

  I found the phone, glanced at the screen and saw Trent’s name.

  “Hey,” I croaked. “What’s going on?”

  “Hi, Katie. I know it’s late, but you wanted me to call.”

  I looked across the room at the clock on the mantel. It was half past one.

  “Oh, no worries,” I said, pushing against the cushions so I could sit up. “How’d it go at the crime scene?”

  “We finished for the night about thirty minutes ago,” he answered. “The arson investigator will be out at sunrise to take another look.”

  “But your gut’s telling you it was intentional?”

  Trent grunted. “My gut,” he said. “Along with Dell Anson’s initial thoughts. He found the point of origin in Ira’s office. At least, what he suspects is the place where it started. There were three one-gallon metal gas cans in there along with a very melted disposable lighter.”

  “Okay. That would suggest something out of the ordinary, right?”

  “Yeah, like someone really stupid or clumsy is behind it.”

  “Because they left the gas cans?”

  “Uh-huh. And because they left a wallet.”

  “Inside Ira’s building?”

  “No, it was about ten yards from the backdoor,” Trent answered. “A black leather wallet with a driver’s license, credit cards and about two hundred in cash.”

  “Whose wallet was it?”

  “Jacob Lowry.”

  “And who is Jacob Lowry?”

  “The dead guy we found in the silver BMW with Utah plates,” Trent answered. “It was parked another ten yards from the body shop behind a small shed. There was a room key for Crescent Creek Lodge in his pocket along with a fat wad of hundred dollar bills which makes it fairly certain that the motive wasn’t robbery.”

  The announcement sent my mind spinning into overdrive. I shifted again on the sofa, dropping my legs over the edge and leaning against the pillows. The book I’d been reading slipped over the edge and fell to the floor as I contemplated the news that Trent had delivered in a casual, straightforward tone.

  “Katie?”

  “Yeah, I’m still here. I was just trying to wrap my brain around that last little tidbit.”

  He laughed quietly. “Pretty freaky, right?”

  “Well, you know how people are always saying that Crescent Creek is a small town?”

  “Mainly because it is,” Trent said. “But the car’s owner actually reported it stolen earlier in the day.”

  “Hold on,” I said. “The car that had stolen plates was also reported missing?”

  “You got it.”

  “Who’s the owner?”

  “A woman named Velma Lancaster,” he said, sparking an image in my mind of the woman in pink leggings at the Poke-A-Dot. “She called 911 from the Lodge. According to the dispatcher’s notes, Mrs. Lancaster had loaned her car to a friend and he was supposed to return it by seven o’clock.”

  “Is her friend the man you found?”

  “I can’t answer that yet,” Trent said. “Dina and Tyler are going to the hotel first thing in the morning to talk to her. What I do know for certain is that she left her car in the parking lot at the hotel when she got back sometime this afternoon, and—”

  “Probably after I saw her with Boris Hertel at the Poke-A-Dot.”

  “Maybe,” Trent said. “But she was heading out to dinner around seven-thirty when she discovered that the BMW was MIA.” He chuckled. “Did you catch that one, Katie?”

  I groaned. “Yes, Trent. Very clever. Tell me more about the stolen car.”

  “There’s isn’t anything more,” he said. “Mrs. Lancaster was unaware her car had stolen plates. Well, she claimed that she didn’t know about them. At this point, the whole thin
g is smelling a little fishy, but Dina’s going to follow-up with the woman about her car and alibi. It’s still ‘innocent until proven guilty,’ so we’ll take Mrs. Lancaster at her word. At the moment, we’re concentrating on the fire at Ira Pemberton’s and the dead SOB in the BMW.”

  He paused, waiting for me to acknowledge his second allegedly humorous use of two acronyms in a single sentence. I waited patiently, hoping he’d let it go.

  “And so, uh…” he hesitated, sounding mildly irritated that I’d ignored his comic wit. “What do you think about all of that?”

  “The apparent arson and murder at Pemberton’s?” I asked. “It sounds like one big mess for you to unravel.”

  “And I wasn’t really in the mood for a twofer,” he said. “We’ve got not only a suspicious blaze at Ira’s place, but also a dead guy in the car you’d told me about less than twenty-four hours before. Sounds kind of like six degrees of separation, doesn’t it?”

  I agreed before asking what he knew about Jacob Lowry.

  “Well, we know he’s deceased,” Trent said. “And we know someone wants us to believe that he’s responsible for the fire.”

  “What? Where did that come from?”

  “The so-called suicide note,” Trent answered. “It was in the car with him.”

  “But you don’t buy it?”

  “What—that he set the fire before killing himself?”

  “Right,” I said. “I can hear it in your voice.”

  As I pulled the chenille blanket tighter around my legs, I listened to Trent tell me more about Jacob Lowry. He was a local guy who moved to California for college and lived there for many years. Before I could ask any follow-up questions, Trent explained why he didn’t believe the man had killed himself. The justification seemed logical, especially when he got to the part about the victim’s throat.

  “I haven’t seen more than one or two suicides,” he said, “but the medical examiner’s initial conclusion about COD was strangulation.”

  “Oh, come on,” I said. “Are you making this up?”

  When Trent didn’t answer, I knew that I’d stepped over an invisible line.

  “I’m sorry, Deputy Chief Walsh,” I said, trying to sound remorseful. “Will you tell me more about the cause of death?”

  “It’s like I already said, Katie. There was a suicide note. And the guy had been shot. But the ME believes that Mr. Lowry was garroted with a piece of wire. Whoever did this is not only overly optimistic, but they’re pretty dang ignorant. There was a wool scarf wrapped around the man’s neck, covering up the strangulation marks. But we found a bloody length of wire in the trash out back of Ira’s shop along with a box of ammunition for the SIG Sauer P228 that was in the BMW.”

  “Wow, that’s pretty twisted. Any thoughts on why they tried to make it look like suicide?”

  Trent scoffed. “Yeah, Katie. I already covered that; overly optimistic and ignorant. There was a badly smudged set of prints on the back of the note. We’re checking the system to see if we can get a match.”

  “How badly smudged?”

  “What—on a scale of one to ten?”

  When he paused for a reply, I kept quiet. Then he eventually confessed that they were optimistic about getting a match if the person was already in the database.

  “Was that it, deputy chief?”

  He chuckled softly. “For tonight, yeah. I’m beat. But I promised you a call, so here I am.”

  “I appreciate that,” I said. “Anything more on Boris Hertel?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. It seems pretty obvious that he’s involved, so…” I heard the unmistakable rustle of a potato chip bag on the other end. “…so maybe we should see if he knows Jacob Lowry.”

  Trent chomped in my ear for a moment. Then he said, “We, Katie?”

  I knew that he was doing his due diligence to remind me that I wasn’t an official member of the Crescent Creek Police Department. But I also suspected that he wouldn’t mind the thoughtful contributions of a supportive and vigilant citizen if they happened upon any evidence or eyewitnesses that might help solve the case.

  “I’m just offering my services,” I said after he inhaled another handful of salty snacks. “I know there’s a line that I can’t cross.”

  He laughed again. “Can’t?” he said. “Or won’t?”

  “How about this? If I hear of anything that I think might be consequential, you’ll be the first person I tell.”

  “I’m just giving you a hard time, Katie. I know you’ve got a handle on these things. With your background as a PI and the time or two that you’ve already helped us, I’d be happy to hear about anything constructive that you come across.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Deal,” Trent said. “We’re most interested in finding three things: the arsonist, the shooter and the gun that was used to drill a hole through Mr. Lowry’s noggin.”

  “Wait a sec. I thought you found a SIG P228 in the car with the dead guy.”

  “Well, we did,” Trent said. “But it can’t be the gun they used because it hadn’t been fired lately.”

  “No GSR?” I asked.

  “Nope,” Trent said. “No gunshot residue. Even more importantly, a steel insert had been welded into the chamber.”

  “Who would do something so obvious?”

  “A dodo bird,” Trent sniped. “Clearly, whoever killed the guy didn’t really think through the details and finer points of homicide. I’d guess it was an impulsive act and not premeditated.”

  “This thing just keeps getting more and more peculiar,” I said.

  I waited while Trent ate another mouthful of chips.

  “Sorry about that, Katie,” he mumbled finally. “I haven’t had anything since breakfast, so I’m pretty well famished.”

  “No problem,” I said. “Why don’t we say goodnight? You can find something to eat, and I’ll try to get some sleep.”

  “Happy snoring!” he said with a laugh. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

  I suddenly realized that I hadn’t told Trent about Boris Hertel’s cryptic remarks at the Poke-A-Dot Lounge, but before I could utter a sound the line was silent.

  “Oh, well,” I said, sending him a quick text summarizing the comments. “That—and everything else—will have to wait until tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 14

  The Sky High kitchen smelled like peppermint and cinnamon when I opened the door the next morning a few minutes after five. Julia was already at work, standing beside the industrial mixer with a small ceramic bowl cradled in the crook of one arm.

  “Morning, Katie!” Her voice was bright and cheery. “How’d you sleep?”

  I walked over and leaned against the counter. “Like a baby,” I said. “How about you?”

  She smiled, nodded and went back to the mixer. “The same. I fell asleep on the sofa watching the news. My hubby covered me with a quilt and I was there all night.”

  “Thank goodness for small miracles. Your sleep patterns have been way off lately.”

  “I know. Probably too much caffeine in the afternoon.”

  “Speaking of which,” I said. “Can I pour you a cup?”

  “I’m good.” She pointed at a mug I hadn’t seen behind an enormous bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips. “I’ve got coffee and chocolate within reach, so I can handle just about anything this morning.”

  I peeked at the recipe card on the counter and then glanced at the whiteboard.

  “Beginning with two dozen Peppermint Puffs for Mrs. Baldasari?”

  She gave me a thumbs up. “Yep. Two dozen of these and then another two dozen chocolate chips for a workshop that Herman Bright’s doing at his insurance agency this afternoon.”

  “Busy, busy!” I cheered. “We’re glad to hear that, right?”

  “Definitely!” Julia said. “After all, you know what they say about idle hands.”

  I nodded. “Yes, I do. Nana Reed used to remind us kids of that every day after sch
ool. My brother once snuck a pair of red horns into the kitchen, thinking he’d surprise her when she rolled out the old adage.”

  “Did he?”

  I laughed at the memory. “He did. But it was something that only happened once. My grandmother was so surprised by the horns that she dropped a tea cup that had belonged to her great-great-grandmother.”

  Julia winced. “Ouch! Did he get punished?”

  “Grounded for a week,” I said. “Plus, he had to sweep and mop the Sky High dining room for a full month.”

  While she continued with the special order she’d already started, I poured a cup of coffee, added a splash of cream and shuffled back to her side.

  “Did you hear about the fire?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Jared went out to buy cereal for the kids late last night. He ran into Amanda Crane at the MiniMart on Lookout Road. I guess she was just finishing her patrol shift when the call came in.”

  “Did she actually go to the body shop?”

  Julia shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you. But she gave Jared the scoop; the fire department suspected arson from the get-go because they found gasoline cans inside the building.”

  “That’s not all they found,” I said, sipping my coffee.

  She frowned slightly. “What else?”

  “A body.”

  “Oh, my goodness! Ira Pemberton?”

  “No, although it seems that he got whacked on the head pretty good by whoever set the fire. Trent told me Robin Bellmore and that new guy she’s partnered with—”

  “Andy Davidson!” Julia blurted. “Is he a dreamboat or what?”

  I chuckled at her response to the name of the new EMT. Andy Davidson had joined the Crescent Creek Fire Department a couple of months earlier when he and his wife moved to town. Mrs. Davidson was a pediatrician and she’d agreed to relocate to our mountain paradise to take over Dr. Shannon’s practice. He was retiring after six decades as the area’s most popular doctor, a slice of news that caught many local residents by surprise. Since he’d delivered nearly all of them when they were born—along with their own children—most people felt his retirement was the end of an era. But I liked Lili Davidson and it was amusing to watch women in town swoon over her husband.