A Zest for Murder (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 5) (7 page)

CHAPTER
17

The tennis courts on University
Place were blanketed with snow from the storm that had moved through the area
during the night. A woman and two toddlers were making angels in the blanket of
downy white flakes as I drove by on my way to see Dell and Hannah Flanagan. It
was a hunch. And maybe a long shot. But I wanted to ask if they’d heard from
their son Dermot lately.

I parked in front of the two-story
townhouse, walked up the curving brick pathway and knocked on the door. Two
brightly-colored garden gnomes stood beside the entrance, glaring at me with
creepy yellow-orange eyes. One had a small hand-lettered sign around its neck:
Go
away if you don’t like happiness!
I was smiling at the tiny statues when I
noticed a small dot of blue on the ground next to the pair. As I leaned down
for a closer look, the door suddenly opened. A short woman with curly gray hair
stood in the entry vestibule. She was dressed in a plaid flannel shirt, faded
jeans and heavy wool socks.

“Yes?” Her voice was soft and her
eyes twinkled above the reading glasses at the tip of her nose. “Can I help
you?”

“Are you Mrs. Flanagan?”

“That’s what they tell me,” she quipped
with a slight roll of her shoulders. “Are you with the neighborhood watch
group?”

I shook my head. “No, ma’am. My
name is Kate Reed. You and my mother were friends when—”

Before I could finish, she clapped
her hands and motioned for me to come inside. “Oh, my word! Is it really you,
Muffin? Audrey and Darren’s little girl all grown up?”

I winced at the childhood
nickname—something my brother had started when he was a toddler—and stepped
into the entryway.

“Oh, Katie! You are
so
pretty now!” She squeezed my chin between one thumb and forefinger, turning my
head from side to side. “I mean, c’mon! I’d kill for that complexion!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Flanagan.”

“You know,” she said, lowering her
hand and taking one step back, “I think the last time I saw you was the
farewell party that your parents had at Sky High before you moved to Chicago.
Do you remember that? All of the tables in the dining room pushed to one side
so everybody could dance and kick up their heels?”

I nodded. “I do remember that
night. It’s one of my favorite memories from back then.”

“And your brother!” She snickered
and removed the reading glasses. “That little Brody was a firecracker! He got a
couple of beers from some of the older kids, got himself drunk and proceeded to
vomit all over the—”

“Yes, I remember that, too!” I
interrupted, hoping not to rekindle any more unsettling mental images of my
younger brother’s handiwork on the desk in the Sky High office. It had taken my
father a good four hours to clean up the mess and freshen the air enough to
make the room habitable again.

“Well, how are you, Muffin? And
how’s everyone else in the Reed family these days?”

“Everyone’s great,” I said.
“Brody’s in San Diego. Olivia’s in Denver. And my parents are—”

“Permanent snowbirds! When your mom
told me they were moving to Florida, I about had a stroke! How can they leave
the mountains for a bug-infested wasteland filled with old coots waiting to
die?”

I forced a smile and shrugged. “I
don’t think they quite see it that way. They’re having the time of their lives.
They’ve made a bunch of great new friends, toured some of the state’s
historical sites and—”

“Cup of tea?”

I’d forgotten how much Mrs.
Flanagan loved to interrupt someone when they were talking. It had been the
only thing my mother ever griped about when she and my father came home after
having dinner with Hannah and her husband Dell.

“That would be lovely,” I said.

“Follow me into the kitchen then,
dear. Pork Chop’s out with Daisy.”

I didn’t want to ask, but I guessed
Pork Chop was her nickname for Mr. Flanagan and Daisy was the family dog.

“They just left about ten minutes
ago, so we should have a good half hour to visit before all hell breaks loose.”

We went down the hallway, around a
corner and into a sunny room decorated with a large gallery of framed family
photographs.

“Daisy’s just three months old, so
we’re still working on our boundaries and potty training and just about
everything else.”

While she prepared the tea, Mrs.
Flanagan chattered away about how nice it was to have an unexpected visitor and
how much I’d grown and how she would never understand the attraction of life in
Florida. I sat at the table and listened with a smile and the occasional nod.

“Then it’s a good thing you live
here in Crescent Creek,” I said when she finally paused to take a breath.

“You’ve got that right!” she
agreed, putting boiling water and bags of English Breakfast into two mugs
bedecked with dog-related slogans.

“Here you go, Muffin!”

I ended up with
All my children
have paws
, while Mrs. Flanagan settled in across from me with
I am only
speaking to my dog today
.

“It’s just so nice to see you,” she
gushed. “I can’t wait to talk to your mother and tell her how pretty you are!”

She sipped her tea, cringing
slightly at the temperature.

“Have you guys spoken lately?” I
asked.

Mrs. Flanagan frowned. “I’m afraid
not. Between Pork Chop’s sprained shoulder and Daisy’s poop everywhere, I’ve
barely had time to breathe.”

“Well, I’m sure mom will love
catching up whenever there’s time. I actually spoke to her earlier. She and dad
are—”

“Fig Newton?” Mrs. Flanagan lifted
her chin and smiled. “Or I’ve got Oreos.”

“I’m fine, but thanks. I ate a late
lunch at Sky High.”

“Suit yourself,” she said. “How are
things at the café?”

“Steady as she goes,” I said. “Some
days are busier than others.”

“Well, Dell and I haven’t been in
lately,” she said. “On account of—”

“His sprained shoulder and Daisy?”

She giggled. “No, because of his
new diet. The doctor told him no dairy, no gluten, no fried food, no eggs. He’s
basically existing on air and Romaine lettuce.” She paused, leaned forward and
lowered her voice. “Along with the occasional highball or three.”

We laughed together and I glanced
at the clock on the microwave. I didn’t want to spend all day sipping tea and
talking about Mr. Flanagan’s eating habits. Or Daisy’s poop. So, while she took
a sip of her tea, I asked Mrs. Flanagan how her sons were doing. The change in
her expression was instantaneous; her smile vanished, her gaze narrowed and her
grip tightened on the orange coffee mug.

“Fine,” she said curtly.

“It was Daniel and Dermot, right?”

“You betcha,” she said.

I gazed around the kitchen,
admiring the pictures of the couple and their children.

“Didn’t you live on Hanover when
the boys were younger?” I asked.

She answered with a small nod.

“I thought so. My friend Tipper
Hedge bought the house from you, right?”

“A lovely girl,” Mrs. Flanagan said
in a flat tone. “Although a little rich for my taste with all that hair dye and
makeup.”

The icy glare in her eyes
strengthened as I considered my next move. I hadn’t seen her in a very long
time, but I could tell Mrs. Flanagan was none too happy with my line of
inquiry.

“At least my memory’s intact,” I
said, feeling ridiculous. “There are days when I can barely remember my own
name, let alone someone I haven’t seen in such a long time.”

She smiled. “That makes two of us,
dear. I haven’t seen either of our boys in forever.”

“Is that right?”

Her gaze tightened. “Yes, that’s
what I said. It’s been months since they came around.” The taut stare softened
slightly. “Probably has something to do with not wanting to spend time with old
folks.”

I smiled. “You’re hardly old, Mrs.
Flanagan.”

“Tell that to Dermot. The last time
he was home, a few weeks before last Thanksgiving, he and his father got into a
pretty heated discussion about money. Dermot kept saying the reason his dad
wouldn’t loan him anything was because he was a cranky old fart.” She snickered
softly at the memory. “As if it’s our fault that he can’t hold a job or…” She
stopped and frowned. “Oh, who wants to hear about all of that?”

“Every family has challenges,” I
offered. “When my brother was younger, he got a speeding ticket in a school
zone up in Boulder. For some reason, Brody thought mom and dad should pay the
fine. When they refused, he went off like a Roman candle; lots of fizzing and
noise and sparks.”

“Hmmmm,” she mumbled. “That much is
true, Kate; every family has something.”

When I finished my tea about twenty
minutes later, after a long and awkward conversation about knitting sweaters
for dogs and making ice packs out of frozen bags of peas, I told Mrs. Flanagan
that I needed to get back to Sky High.

“So soon?” She got up from the
table and took my arm. “Well, it was a really lovely surprise, Muffin.”

We were back in the entryway in a
flash. It was obvious she wanted me out of the house. I wasn’t sure why my
question about her sons had struck a nerve, but I suspected it might have
something to do with their youngest child.

After a final farewell and one of
the least authentic hugs I’ve ever experienced, I was back on the front porch
with the garden gnomes and their yellow-orange eyes.

“I’m leaving,” I said. “Sorry to
have bothered you.”

As I started to descend the steps,
I remembered the flash of color I’d seen earlier. When I stopped and turned
around, I felt a small shudder in my chest when I realized it was a gnawed
toothpick with frilled cellophane on one end.

Exactly like the one I’d seen in
the mouth of the man outside Tipper’s house the previous afternoon.

CHAPTER
18

“Is this about work?” Trent barked.
“Or something personal?”

I was sitting in my car outside the
Flanagan’s townhouse. I’d scooped up the frilly toothpick in a tissue before
leaving the front porch. Since every fiber in my body was telling me it was
related to Tipper’s kidnapping, I wanted to alert Trent immediately. I hadn’t
anticipated that he would be nearly as grouchy as Mrs. Flanagan when I asked
about her sons.

“It’s about work,” I said. “Did I
call at a bad time?”

“I don’t think there is a good time
anymore, Katie. I’m up to my eyeballs in one new case after the next.”

“Busy season, huh?”

He grumbled something
indecipherable. Then he asked me to get to the point.

“The point?” I said. “I may have a
lead in Tipper’s disappearance.”

“Yeah? Did she call you again?”

“No. I found a toothpick.”

Trent laughed. “I’m hanging up now,
Katie. I don’t have time for—”

“Hear me out, okay? Remember the
guy I saw walking the dog at Tipper’s?”

“Yep.”

“And he was chewing a toothpick,” I
said. “One of those fancy ones with frilled cellophane on the end.”

“I’m riveted,” Trent said. “What’s
the connection to Tipper?”

“Do you remember Dermot and Daniel
Flanagan?”

“Unfortunately, I do. They were
both pains in my butt when we were kids.”

“I thought you’d say that.”

“Only because it’s true.”

“Well, I haven’t seen them for
years,” I said. “But I think maybe Dermot was the guy with the toothpick in his
mouth.”

Trent didn’t say anything.

“And I think he went to Tipper’s because
he grew up in that house,” I continued. “You know? Back to a place that
represented his childhood sanctuary? Or maybe back to demonstrate that he was
in control of circumstances in the house.”

“Gimme a break, Katie. If that
theory works for you, knock yourself out. But I need facts here, not some crap
about a childhood…whatever.”

“Sanctuary,” I said again. “It’s
very common, Trent. People often return to places where they felt safe; some
after they’ve committed crimes, others after traumatic events.”

“Okay, so now you’re—what? Dr. Phil
or something?”

I considered hanging up. But I
didn’t want to match Trent’s tetchy behavior, so I said, “No, I’m more like Dr.
Seuss. And I’d like some respect, please.”

He was quiet for a few seconds. I
could hear him breathing, a low, steady wheeze that suggested a cold or
allergies.

“Are you sick?” I asked finally.

“Another cold,” he said. “I got
caught outside with just a light sweater the other night.”

“You need to take better care of
yourself.”

He sneezed.

“See? If you’d been wearing a heavy
coat, that sniffling and sneezing wouldn’t be happening.”

“Okay, yeah. This is all real nice
and everything, but I’ve got three people standing in my office door, Katie. I
need to go now.”

“Just look into him,” I said.
“Dermot Flanagan.”

“Because of a toothpick?”

“Yes,” I said. “I stopped by just
now to talk with his mother. I was hoping she might shed some light on his
current whereabouts.”

“And?”

“And she went from warm, sunny
regular Mrs. Flanagan to Her Royal Ice Queen in about two seconds when I asked
if she’d talked with either of her sons lately.”

“Maybe she hasn’t, Katie. Maybe
they had a falling out. Or maybe there’s another logical reason. Just because a
mother hasn’t talked to her grown sons since, like, last Tuesday doesn’t mean
they’re involved in a murder and kidnapping.”

“But what about the toothpick?” I
said. “I found one on the front porch after talking with Mrs. Flanagan.”

“Oh, brother.” He sighed and
wheezed. “Katie? I’ve got people here.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll stop now. But I’m
serious about Dermot Flanagan. He got into some trouble in New Mexico, Trent.
And the truck you found in Tipper’s garage had—”

“Okay! I’ll check it out! Now, can
I please get on with my day, Katie?”

“Bye, Trent,” I said with a teasing
edge in my voice. “Always a pleasure doing business with—”

And the line went dead.