An Imitation of Murder (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 9)
Read An Imitation of Murder (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 9) Online
Authors: Mary Maxwell
An Imitation of Murder
Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries / 9
Mary Maxwell
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and
incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and
any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments,
events or locales is entirely coincidental.
© 2016 Mary Maxwell
08272016
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means
electronic, mechanical, recorded or otherwise, without the prior permission of
the author except for the use of brief quotations in a review.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
It was a gray, rainy afternoon in
late August. I was sitting across from Pia Lincoln in the empty dining room at
Sky High Pies, the bakery café that I run in Crescent Creek, Colorado. The last
customers had departed an hour earlier after an especially busy day. Julia, our
talented chef and dessert maven, was in the kitchen decorating a cake for a
special order, while Harper, my childhood friend and overseer of the dining
room, was behind the front counter restocking napkin dispensers and humming
cheerfully as she worked.
“Do you mind if I ask a personal
question?” Pia said with a cheerful smile.
As the most popular caterer in
town, she stopped by at least once each week for sweet treats or savory
appetizers to enhance the menus she created for a wide array of extraordinary
events. With her slim figure, immaculate wardrobe and vivacious personality,
Pia was a natural when it came to blending the creativity, diplomacy and
boundless energy required to satisfy discerning clients and their guests.
“What do you want to know?” I asked,
hoping she might return the favor by divulging the beauty regimen that made her
porcelain skin so smooth and unblemished.
“It’s about business here at Sky
High,” she said, gesturing at the empty chairs and tables with one slender
hand. “If, that is, you don’t mind.”
Originally opened by my grandmother
more than four decades ago, Sky High had been managed by my parents until I
took over the previous year after leaving my career as a private investigator
in Chicago.
“By all means,” I said. “What do
you want to ask?”
Pia leaned forward. “I’d like to
know how you do such a great job running this place without losing your mind.”
I smiled at the compliment. “I
learned a lot from Nana Reed and my parents,” I said. “Besides, I have an
incredible team. Harper manages the dining room single-handedly and Julia does
an incredible job as chef. I basically run back and forth between the two,
lending a hand wherever it’s most needed.”
As one of the most successful
caterers in town, Pia had earned a reputation for delicious food and flawless
service. Before opening her business in Crescent Creek, she’d worked for more
than a decade at The Avalon Inn in Vail, a chic hotel that catered to rich and
famous visitors from around the world. But after more than a decade juggling special
events and a coterie of high-profile guests, she’d decided to simplify her
professional life. Her father’s family was from Crescent Creek, so she opened
The Gracious Gourmet in a storefront on one of the main streets in our downtown
business district.
“Maybe I should hire a full-time
assistant,” Pia said ruefully. “I keep thinking I can do it all with outside
resources and temporary staff, but the last few months have nearly killed me.”
We’d met that afternoon to discuss
cupcake options for the party one of Pia’s longtime clients was throwing for
their puppy. I’d been skeptical when she left the original message, but our
subsequent conversation had confirmed that Simone Strickland was spending a
small fortune to celebrate her dog’s first birthday.
“To be honest,” I said as Pia
sighed sadly, “I’ve been wondering about that. And also worried about you.
Between running from one meeting or event to the next, designing all of the
menus, invitations and décor, managing the RSVP lists and holding your clients’
hands, you must be absolutely exhausted at the end of the day.”
Pia frowned. “I thought my sister
worked a lot of hours as an attorney,” she said. “But life as a caterer can be
even more grueling.”
“I didn’t know Liza was a lawyer,”
I said. “Is she still in Denver?”
“Yes, but she’s up here fairly
often now,” Pia said. “Her firm just acquired a local outfit.”
“No kidding! My sister’s an
attorney down in Denver, too.”
Her face brightened with a
sparkling smile. “Yet another thing we have in common, right?”
“One of many,” I said. “Like
surrounding ourselves with talented people who can help shoulder the burden.” I
reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “I think hiring someone would
be a very wise move. I’ll be happy to help in any way that I can.”
The grin on her face brightened
even more. “Really? Do you know anyone who might be looking for work?”
“Blanche Speltzer told me that
Amelia Cullen is in the market for something new,” I answered. “Apparently, she
hates her boss
and
the job.”
Pia laughed. “Amelia hates
every
job she’s ever had. I ran into her last week at the bank.”
“Okay,” I said with a smile. “Maybe
she’s off your short list.”
“It’s nothing personal,” Pia said.
“But I’ve known Amelia since I moved to Crescent Creek. She’s one of those
people who seems happiest when they’re miserable.”
“Well, that’s kind of unfortunate.”
Pia nodded. “I know,” she agreed.
“Amelia keeps thinking the grass is always greener on the other side of the
fence.”
“Did she tell you why she’s unhappy
working at the medical supply place?”
“Yes,” Pia said. “Because they
won’t let her telecommute.”
I smiled. “Isn’t she the front desk
receptionist?”
“That’s right, but she saw this
thing called a BeamPro on TV,” Pia explained. “It’s a flat-screen monitor
mounted on a pair of legs that attach to a base with two wheels. There’s a
camera on the top that swivels like a big Cyclops eye.”
“How would that work?”
“Amelia would be at home, comfy in
her PJs,” Pia said. “But she could still greet guests, forward phone calls and
respond to all the emails.”
We were both laughing at the
absurdity of the concept when Pia’s phone rang. She checked the display,
frowned slightly and asked if we could take a little break.
“It’s another client,” she said.
“I’m doing their anniversary party next weekend, and we’re having a tug of war
about a few minor details.”
“Sure thing,” I said, getting up
from the table. “I’ll refill the carafe with fresh coffee and maybe grab a
couple of cookies.”
Pia gave me a thumbs up before
answering the phone. As I crossed the room and went behind the counter, I could
tell from her bubbly tone that the call was going well. When I returned to the
table a few minutes later with a fresh pot of decaf and a few snickerdoodles,
she was once again smiling and brushing a shock of bright red hair from her
eyes.
“I’m going to be on my way in a few
minutes,” she announced. “Vito Marclay just sent me a text. He wants me to come
right over and take a look at a tube of paint.”
I stared speechlessly for a second
or two before asking her to explain.
“Oh, sorry!” Pia said with her
usual sparkling confidence. “Haven’t you met Vito yet?”
I shook my head.
“Well, he’s an
amazing
artist,” she said with extraordinary reverence. “His paintings are in the
Whitney, the Guggenheim, the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston and a bunch of other
famous places.”
“Is he a new arrival in town?” I
asked.
Pia’s cheeks brightened with a
trace of pink. “Vito moved to the area last winter, so he’s relatively new. He
was a client at first. But things got pretty up close and personal in the past
few months, despite the fact that my sister thinks I could find someone with
more desirable qualities and fewer stars in their eyes. She thinks Vito’s shady
and not to be trusted, but I think he’s the most wonderful man I’ve ever met!
And he has the sweetest Southern accent, too. Something that I’ll be happy to
hear for the rest of my days!”
The meaning was more than a little
obvious. The pale pink in her cheeks had turned a vivid crimson.
“He proposed last night, Katie!”
she gushed excitedly. “I’ve been dying to tell someone and I’m so glad that
you’re the first to hear the news!”
CHAPTER
2
Sitting in Blanche Speltzer’s
living room that night around seven, I listened politely as Gilda Stone recited
the bylaws for a new organization that was being formed to promote Crescent
Creek with tourists. Although Sky High and my personal life kept me busy, I’d
accepted Blanche’s invitation to help launch the effort along with Gilda and
two other civic boosters, June Calloway and Roxie Lambert.
As Colorado natives and devoted
small town aficionados, we all extolled the virtues of our hometown on a
regular basis. Blanche included articles about local businesses and
personalities in the blog she wrote to promote her matchmaking service. Gilda, a
35-year-old realtor and single mother, praised the area whenever someone called
to inquire about local houses for sale. Customers at June Calloway’s
consignment shop knew that the 50-year-old former runway model had her pulse on
the town’s latest news as well as some of its best bargains on designer frocks.
And Roxie Lambert was a 45-year-old firecracker who ran a small advertising
agency and donated countless pro bono hours to help publicize the town with
travel agencies and tour operators across the country.
When Gilda finished reciting the
passage from the proposed bylaws, Roxie Lambert’s hand shot straight up in the
air.
“I didn’t catch the part about how
long directors will serve,” she said in a tone that mixed dollops of
indignation with a slender wedge of disdain. “Can you go over that again?”
I glanced at Blanche. There was a
prickly look in her eyes and she was fingering the pearls around her neck with
one willowy hand.
“Really?” said the 80-year-old
retired school teacher. “Wasn’t that the fifth time we’ve heard that part?”
“Yeah,” June Calloway called from
behind her glass of rosé. “Give it a rest, Rox. We’re talking about a tourism
committee, not the United Nations.”
Roxie inched forward on her folding
chair. Everyone in town knew she was a stickler for details, but I’d never seen
her so focused on one specific element.
“You know what, June?” she said.
“I’ll give it a rest as soon as I’m good and ready. This is important stuff.
We’re creating something that will shape the future of our town.”
June’s mouth clamped into a
spiteful sneer. “I didn’t mean to sound snippy,” she offered. “I just can’t
understand why it’s taking us so long to get through these ridiculous rules and
regulations.”
“It’ll take as long as it takes,”
Roxie said. “Why don’t we go outside and smoke a cigarette? Maybe that’ll calm
your nerves.”
The scowl on June’s face softened
into a drowsy grin. “My nerves are fine, Rox. Besides, I’m trying to quit
again.”
“I thought you did that months
ago,” Gilda said.
June rolled her eyes. “I did. But
the guy that I was dating smokes, so I fell right back into it.”
“Past tense?” I asked.
She sifted her gaze and smiled at
me. “Unfortunately, it wasn’t meant to be,” she said, raising one arm. “But I
got these little trinkets out of the deal, so I’m not complaining.”
The gold bangle bracelets on her
wrist glinted in the light from a nearby lamp. I’d noticed the flashy bands
earlier, but decided not to ask about them. June had a reputation for dating
wealthy men just long enough to enrich her jewelry collection or bank account,
so I’d figured the showy accessories were from one of her brief romantic
entanglements.
“The truly awful thing,” she
continued, plucking a pack of cigarettes from her purse and handing it to
Roxie, “is that the jerk is now dating another woman in town.” She made a face
and stuck one finger down her throat. “If I’d known he was so interested in
dogs, I would’ve bought him a puppy.”
The laughter that followed was
awkward and brief. After a few more disparaging words about her former beau,
June followed Roxie out to the front porch while Gilda contemplated the pros
and cons of how long directors should serve on the board. When Blanche got up
and went into the kitchen, I followed her with my empty wine glass.
“I can only take so much,” she
said, rolling her eyes. “Don’t get me wrong; I adore all three of those women.
But they can’t seem to understand the concept of compromise.”
“Have they always been like that?”
I asked.
Blanche grinned. “Since birth,” she
said. “I admire their fortitude and passion, but I wish they’d stop squabbling.
I mean, we’re trying to do something to boost tourism, not solve all the woes
of the world.”
She walked to the refrigerator,
tugged on the upper door handle and leaned into the light.
“You want a shot of Stoli?”
I laughed. “Vodka?”
“Stolichnaya,” she said, glancing
over her shoulder. “The Guru of Love left it for me before he went on the
hiking trip with his buddies.”
“Are we talking about Boris
Hertel?” I asked with another chuckle.
Blanche pulled a bottle from the
freezer and carried it across the room.
“That’s the one,” she said. “He’s
on an overnight hike with Bo Kennedy and Homer Figg.”
“Isn’t that potentially dangerous?”
Blanche scoffed as she filled a
shot glass with the frosty alcohol.
“To the wildlife in the area,” she
muttered, lifting the drink. “But not to those three geezers. They take a cab
up to the end of Briar Mountain Drive, walk about thirty yards to Bo’s cabin
and then spend the next twenty-four hours drinking beer and playing cards.”
“Where does the hiking get
involved?” I asked.
“It’s fifteen paces from the
kitchen table to the front door,” Blanche said, tossing back the vodka and
smacking her lips. “Then another forty-five across the porch, down the steps
and through the woods to the outhouse. Once you retrace your journey, you’ve
walked close to one-sixteenth of a mile.”
She put the shot glass in the sink
and returned the bottle of Stoli to the freezer.
“So Homer and his friends went up
to the cabin to play cards?”
She rolled her eyes. “Basically.
Don’t you wish we were there instead? I mean, listening to Gilda, June and
Roxie talk about silly bylaws for the past half hour has been more painful than
getting a root canal without the laughing gas.”
Blanche opened a package of Lorna
Doone cookies, pulled out a couple and then offered one to me.
“I’m good,” I said, waving my hand.
“I ate way too many of those stuffed mushroom thingies earlier.”
“Do you think the girls are done
yet?” she asked, nodding toward the living room.
“Want me to check?” I offered.
She shook her head, returned to the
freezer and pulled out the bottle again.
“Change your mind yet?” she asked,
holding up the Stoli.
“I’m fine, thanks. I have work in
the morning.”
“Don’t we all,” she said, pouring
more vodka. “Boris left his laundry for me to do while he’s hiking.”
“That’s sweet,” I said. “You guys
seem to be getting along really well.”
She downed the second shot. Then
she said, “Two peas in a pod, Katie. I’m the luckiest senior citizen this side
of the Mississippi.”
I smiled. “And you call Boris your
Guru of Love?”
“Darn right!” Blanche’s eyes
twinkled with genuine affection. “He’s the most romantic man that I’ve ever
known. He brings me a dozen roses every week. I find sweet love notes all over
the house. And he even stopped leaving his wet towels on the bathroom floor.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Well,
those are all great qualities.”
She shrugged. “I know. I just feel
so blessed. Kind of like how you must feel about Zack.”
I agreed with a smile and then
wrapped my arms about the silver-haired spitfire.
“You’re amazing, Blanche! A true
role model for so many younger women.”
She pushed away from my embrace.
“Only the younger ones?” she said with an impish grin. “I had a lovely chat
this afternoon with one of my best friends from the good old days. Marchella is
actually older than me, and she said that my romance with Boris gave her hope
that she might still meet someone new.”
“I’ve never heard you mention her
before,” I said. “Is she in the area?”
Blanche shook her head. “She’s in
your old stomping grounds, Katie. Marchella lives just outside of Chicago.”
“Well, I hope she meets someone
just as nice as the Guru of Love.”
“Oh, I agree! Although I think they
broke the mold when they made Boris.”
“Speaking of love and romance,” I
said. “Did you hear that Pia Lincoln is engaged?”
In an instant, Blanche’s frothy
smile vanished.
“To that painter?” she said.
I nodded. “Vito Marclay. Do I sense
that you don’t approve?”
She heaved an ominous sigh. “I was
afraid that Pia would fall for his Rico Suave act,” she said. “I saw them at
cocktail party at Todd and Myra’s about a month ago. Vito seems all sweet and
wonderful, but I have my doubts.”
A chorus of loud voices and rowdy
applause sounded in the living room.
“Uh-oh,” Blanche said, returning
the vodka to the freezer. “We better check and see what those three are up to.
I just had the carpet shampooed, so I don’t want any carnage in there.”
When we walked into the living room
a moment later, June and Roxie were in the middle of the floor, clenched in a
tight hug. Gilda stood beside them, dabbing at one eye with a tissue.
“What’s the latest?” asked Blanche.
June and Roxie lowered their arms
and turned toward us. They were both wiping away tears and sniffling softly.
“We realized the best thing was to
find the middle ground,” June announced. “Each director will serve for a period
of three years and six months.”
Blanche gave me a quick wink.
“The middle ground?” she said.
“That’s extraordinary, girls! I think we need to celebrate your breakthrough.”
Gilda clapped her hands. “I agree! How
about something truly naughty and wicked?”
Everyone in the room slowly turned
and waited for the rest of the scheme.
“I have a half-off coupon from
Scoops of Joy!” Gilda added triumphantly. “Let’s get ice cream sundaes and just
go wild!”
“Shotgun!” Blanche shouted,
reaching for her purse. “Who’s driving?”