Sixty Minutes for Murder Read online

  “And moving on,” she interrupted. “What’s up? The edge in your voice says that you want to tell me something.”

  “Ken Higby’s been sleeping with Sue Carswell.”

  “Can you repeat that?”

  “Wendy Barr’s boyfriend has been hooking up with her neighbor and so-called best friend,” I said. “I talked to Helen Studebaker, the woman that lives next door.”

  “The same Helen Studebaker that once told me she dated Frank Sinatra during her college days?”

  I cringed. “What does that have to do with Ken Higby’s getting lucky with Sue?”

  “Oh, Katie,” she grumbled. “I hate that term, getting lucky. It’s so…I don’t know, juvenile. Like the kind of thing a punk kid says when he sleeps with the most popular girl in school.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But you just described the same thing. Ken Higby slept with the most popular girl on Ogden Terrace.”

  Dina chuckled again. “Oh, really? Did they conduct a poll or something?”

  “Helen mentioned that supposed fact when I talked to her just now,” I said. “Apparently, Sue is the nice neighbor, doing favors and surprising people with little gifts, while Wendy’s become the Wicked Witch of the West. According to Helen, during the past few months, Wendy has been screeching at kids when they walk through her yard and glaring at people when she drives down the street. She even refused to sign a petition to ask Mayor Washington to designate Ogden Terrace as the most scenic residential area in town.”

  “How long did you talk to Mrs. Studebaker?” Dina asked.

  “Maybe thirty or forty minutes. Why?”

  “It sounds like you covered quite a lot of ground,” she replied. “The cheating boyfriend, the petition, dirty looks between neighbors and—”

  “Sorry to cut in,” I said quickly. “But you’re missing the point; something’s obviously been going on with Wendy recently.”

  “Uh, yeah,” she said. “Her boyfriend’s doing the bedroom rodeo with her friend and tenant.”

  “Sue was a tenant? Julia told me earlier that she heard Sue actually just bought her side of the duplex.”

  “I don’t think so,” Dina said. “I confirmed that she was still renting it from Wendy. I checked the deed yesterday while doing some other research. Maybe Sue gave someone the impression that they co-owned it together.”

  “Could be,” I said. “I’ll check with Jules tomorrow.”

  “What else did Helen have to say?” asked Dina.

  “She saw one of Sharon Ruiz’s candle company vans go around back at Wendy’s on Sunday evening,” I said. “But you already know about that.”

  “Correct.” I heard her fingers skimming over the laptop keys. “What else?”

  “Ken wears silk pajamas,” I said.

  Dina sighed impatiently. “I was thinking more along the lines of something that would be relevant to the case.”

  “That could be relevant,” I said. “Maybe not the pajamas as much as the…what did you call it?”

  “Bedroom rodeo?” She giggled. “Although there’s also ‘doing the wild thing,’ ‘jingle-jangling’ and ‘making a magical sandwich.’”

  I waited for a few seconds. Then I said, “And ‘getting lucky’ is a problem?”

  “I’m just giving you a hard time, friend,” she joked. “I’ve been stuck in my office for the last two hours with a stack of witness statements and forensic test results. It’s nice to hear a chummy voice for a change.”

  “That’s me,” I said. “Chummy.”

  “I’m serious,” Dina said, sounding slightly hurt. “I appreciate the information about Helen Studebaker, but it’s also good to take a break from work every now and then.”

  “No doubt,” I said. “And speaking of your job, any suspects yet?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” Dina answered.

  “Any thoughts about motive?”

  “Well, if the rumors about Sue and Ken are true,” she said, “that could be a possible motive. That type of messy romantic entanglement has led to murder on more than one occasion. Either way, we’ll find out soon enough. Someone knows why Wendy was killed, and it’s only a matter of time before we discover who they are and why they took her life.”

  CHAPTER 19

  As I drove through town a few minutes later on the way back to Sky High Pies, I decided to take a detour and stop at the Sagebrush Lofts Building. I wanted another look at the ground level entrances as well as the lobby and the hallway leading to Wendy Barr’s office. When I pulled around the corner and turned into the parking lot, I saw Sharon Ruiz and another woman loading boxes into a teal VW bus with fringed window shades. I tapped the horn lightly and waved as I eased up beside them. The other woman smiled before walking to the other side of the van.

  “Perfect timing!” I said.

  Sharon glanced at her watch. “If your idea of perfect timing is running an hour behind schedule,” she said with a weary smile, “then you’d be right.”

  “Oh, sorry,” I told her. “Are you making deliveries this late in the day?”

  Sharon nodded as the other woman reappeared. She was on the short side, with teased red hair, high cheekbones and a beaky nose. Her outfit was simple and consistent: long-sleeved black sweater, skinny black jeans and black boots with a low heel.

  “Have you two met?” asked Sharon.

  I smiled at the redhead. “I don’t believe so. I’m Kate Reed.”

  “Ava,” said the woman with another quick grin. “Ava Barnes.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ava.”

  “Likewise,” she said. “Sharon’s told me tons about your restaurant. My boyfriend and I are new in town, and I haven’t had a chance to stop in yet.”

  “We’ll be ready when you do,” I said. “How do you like Crescent Creek so far?”

  The woman’s smile faltered. “It’s…uh, we’re getting settled in. I’m still a little homesick for Omaha, but Patrick loves his job working for Mr. Kanter.”

  “How great is that?” I looked at Sharon before shifting my gaze back to Ava. “You’re both in the same building. That must make the drive to and from work nice.”

  She nodded. “It’s convenient. And it gives me a few minutes in the morning to catch forty winks on the way to the office.” Her mouth formed a gleeful grin. “Yet another benefit of not knowing how to drive a stick.”

  After a shared laugh, Ava excused herself to go back inside for the last box of candles.

  “Do you mind one or two quick questions?” I asked Sharon as soon as we were alone. “I promise no more than that.”

  Sharon smiled. “No worries, Katie. We’re loading today, but not delivering until tomorrow. I’m driving the van home and leaving my car here in the lot overnight.” She gestured at a nearby sedan. “It’s easier than packing at the crack of dawn and then driving to Winter Park.”

  “Smart choice,” I said. “Jules and I do something similar when we’re prepping for big catering jobs.”

  “So what’s on your mind?” she asked.

  “It’s about Wendy,” I said. “Someone told me that one of your vans was at her house the day that she died.”

  Sharon’s soft smile fell into a frown. “I know,” she said. “And I have no idea who drove it over there.”

  “Really?”

  “None,” she said. “Zero, zilch, nada. Everyone from our team was at a big gift show in San Diego last week. Well, everyone except our part-time graphic designer. We left both of our company vehicles here in the usual parking spots. When I got a call from the police that Wendy’s neighbor reported seeing our van there on Sunday evening, it seemed bizarre. But when they broke the news that…” She stopped to take a breath. “Sorry, Katie,” she continued a moment later. “This is all still freaking me out.”

  “Take your time,” I said.

  Sharon nodded. “It was strange enough that someone drove our van without getting permission,” she said. “But then I met with Detective Kincaid as soon as we got back to town o
n Monday. I guess the police had already received a tip about the van being at Wendy’s the night before, because they wanted to search both of them. And I still cannot believe this, but they found drops of blood in the back of one of our vans. I mean, can you imagine? They temporarily confiscated it after the lab confirmed the drops matched Wendy’s blood type, which is obviously really distressing. And, well, it’s just…weird. It makes me feel somehow…I don’t know, somehow involved or responsible or something.”

  “Well, that’s not the case,” I said. “You weren’t even in town on the night of the murder.”

  “I know, but the police suspect that the killer used our van to move Wendy’s body,” Sharon said. “Which doesn’t make any sense to me at all. I mean, if they killed her inside the building, why not just leave her there? Why take a chance that someone would see them putting her in the van?”

  I didn’t have answers, but I did have more questions of my own.

  “Who has access to the keys when you’re gone?” I said.

  “Well, there’s always a set in my desk drawer,” she told me. “You know, in case of emergency. For example, when the maintenance company is fixing the asphalt or repainting the stripes between parking spaces.”

  “Okay, sure,” I said. “Because that’s such an emergency, right?”

  “I know.” She held my gaze. “But Frank Kanter is a stickler on flawless lines on the asphalt.”

  “Is he really?”

  She nodded. “Huge stickler. And a huge pain in my keister lately. We’ve leased office space from the guy for the past…” She counted silently on her hands. “Eight years, okay? And I’ve never asked for anything special. But he insisted that I leave keys in my desk so they can move the vans whenever someone from my company isn’t available to do it.”

  I could tell the subject was like a burr under her saddle. Since Sharon rarely got upset about anything, I asked why she found Kanter’s request so disconcerting.

  “Because he leaves the lid up in my private bathroom inside our office suite,” she said, lowering her voice. “And he makes a mess of my desk whenever he comes to get the keys to move the vans.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “Which part?” she asked. “The toilet?”

  I shook my head. “The other one.”

  “My desk?”

  I smiled. “Bingo.”

  “Well, because whenever he comes to get the keys after hours,” she said, “he sits in my office and eats pistachios from the jar on my desk. I mean, the guy’s a nut, okay?”

  “Pun intended?” I asked.

  Sharon frowned, obviously unaware of what she’d just said. I decided to let it go, in the interest of time and preventing her from getting any more agitated about the landlord.

  “But, you know,” she continued, “now that we’re talking about it, the last time he didn’t.”

  “Are we still talking about Frank Kanter?”

  She laughed softly. “Uh-huh. I mean if he’d used the van when we were out of town this past weekend, I would’ve found pistachio shells on my desk or in the wastebasket in my office. But I didn’t; the desk was clean and tidy.”

  “Does that mean someone else used your van?” I asked.

  “I suppose it does,” Sharon answered.

  “Then who else knows where you keep the keys?”

  She thought for a moment or two, nibbling on her lower lip. Then she said, “Anybody in his office, I suppose.”

  “And it’s a small staff, right? He doesn’t employ that many people.”

  “Got me,” she said with a shrug. “I don’t think that I’ve ever actually been inside his office. When I signed the lease for our space, we met at Java & Juice. And there’s never really a reason to go up there. We pay the rent online, all of our contact is either phone calls or text, and I don’t think that I’d know anyone else from Kanter Enterprises if they were standing here with us now. Of course, I mean anyone other than Frank.”

  “Sure,” I said. “That sounds reasonable.”

  “Well, well,” she murmured. “You don’t hear Frank Kanter’s name and the word reasonable in the same conversation very often.”

  “Is that right?”

  Sharon brushed a few strands of hair from her face. “Definitely,” she said with a roguish grin. “He’s one of the most unreasonable men that you will ever meet.”

  CHAPTER 20

  While Sharon and Ava finished loading the van, I decided to go inside and get a look at the directory in the lobby. The Sagebrush Lofts Building had been in Frank Kanter’s family for years. Although his father and grandfather were satisfied with a simple red brick façade and simple interior spaces, Frank transformed the building once he took control of the business. In the lobby, he installed marble floors, antique brass light fixtures, framed artwork and potted palms. Most of the offices had also been redecorated, transforming plain rooms into sumptuous suites with plush carpeting, crown molding, Venetian slaked-lime plaster on the walls and state-of-the-art lighting.

  I admired the exquisite marble floor as I walked past the elevator and studied the directory for the five-story building. Besides Kanter Enterprises, which occupied two floors, the landmark structure was home to Sharon’s candle business, Wendy’s cleaning company, Tidewater Medical Supplies, Mountaintop Title Insurance Company and half a dozen attorneys. One of the smaller office suites on the third floor was vacant, and I made a mental note to call Danielle Breen in Kanter’s office the next morning to ask about the previous tenants. If they’d moved out during the past few days, they may have seen or heard something related to Wendy Barr’s murder.

  After I snapped a quick photo of the directory and prepared to leave, the elevator doors opened with a muted click-clack and Frank Kanter stepped into the lobby. He was wearing a dark suit, white shirt and striped blue-and-red tie.

  “Wow!” I said, walking toward him. “What great timing!”

  His gaze tapered. “It is?”

  “Kate Reed.” I held out my hand. “We met once briefly a few weeks after I moved back to town.”

  “When was that?”

  “It’s been a while,” I said. “We were at a Chamber of Commerce meeting that got a little rowdy.”

  He nodded. “The one where Ted Mansard proposed a new local tax to pay for a community swimming pool?”

  “That’s the one,” I said.

  A drowsy smile appeared, his eyes widened and he shook my hand. Then he apologized for not remembering, explaining the lapse by reeling off a bevy of statistics about how many dozens of people he talked to each week.

  “Between our projects in Colorado,” he said, “and new business from here to California, things have been positively insane!”

  “Well, congratulations on the expansion,” I told him. “It sounds like business is really going well for you.”

  “Thanks,” Kanter said. “Now, what was that about great timing? Were you coming up to see me?”

  “Actually, I noticed that you have open space on the third floor. I was going to call Danielle tomorrow and ask about it.”

  “You looking for an office?” he said. “Don’t you run that bakery on Pine Street?”

  I nodded. “I do, but one of my friends has been thinking about moving her business to a more formal setting.”

  “Where’s her office now?” he asked.

  “The kitchen table in her house,” I said. “She’s a CPA. Business has been booming, and she needs to hire at least one assistant to help manage all of the client projects.”

  “Good for her,” Kanter said. “But we’re signing a leasing agreement with a new tenant for the third floor space next week.”

  “Well, then,” I said, “I guess that my timing wasn’t so great after all.”

  He slid one hand into his pocket and came out with a business card. “We have some excellent options in another building over on Manchester and Third. Maybe one of those could work for your friend.”

  “I’ll definit
ely pass that along,” I said.

  “That sounds good.” Kanter looked at his watch. “It was nice to see you. But I need to be somewhere in twenty minutes, and it’s a thirty-five minute drive.”

  “Running on my kind of schedule,” I joked. “Too much to do with never enough time.”

  “You can say that again.” He turned toward the door. “Have a nice day, Miss Reed.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Kanter,” I said. “Do you mind if I walk out with you?”

  He called something over his shoulder that I couldn’t understand, so I quickly followed him into the back parking lot.

  “Can I ask a couple of questions?”

  He pointed at a black Ford F-150 at the far edge of the asphalt. “That’s me,” he said. “You’ve got that much distance, but then I really need to leave.”

  “Sure,” I said. “What about Wendy Barr? Have you seen her much lately?”

  He shook his head. “I haven’t seen her in months. Haven’t even talked to her on the phone.”

  “Really?” I said. “She’s a tenant in the building where you have offices, and you haven’t seen her in months?”

  Kanter’s mouth slid into a dark grin. “The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

  “Well, sure,” I said. “And I suppose it’s possible.”

  Kanter stopped suddenly. “What is this?” he demanded.

  “Just a couple of questions about Wendy,” I said. “I used to work as a private investigator, and I wanted to—”

  “I’ve talked to the police three times, Miss Reed.” His voice had lost any semblance of conviviality. “I really don’t think I need to talk to…wait a second. You worked as a private investigator?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “In Chicago.”

  “So you’re not associated with the official inquiry?” He was moving again. “Is that correct?”

  I nodded. “I’m talking to a few folks around town,” I explained as we approached his truck. “To see if I can uncover anything that the CCPD might not have come across yet.”

  “Such as?”