An Imitation of Murder (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 9) (15 page)

CHAPTER
37

Later that day, I was making a
batch of chocolate espresso shortbread cookies, when Harper lightly tapped my
shoulder. I’d been so engrossed in thoughts about Pia, that I flinched and spun
quickly around.

“Sorry, Katie!” Harper apologized.
“I thought you heard me call your name.”

“It’s fine. I’m just really tired
today.”

“Short night?”

“More like
no
night,” I
said. “But it’s fine.”

“Okay,” she said. “You have time
for a phone call?”

“Who is it?” I asked.

“Earl Dodd. He said it’s important,
but I told him you might not be able to talk right now because of all the
orders.”

“I’ll take it,” I said, wiping my
hands on a towel. “Thanks, sweetie.”

I hurried into the office, leaned
over the desk and picked up the phone.

“Earl?”

“Hey,” he said. “Am I interrupting
anything important?”

“Two dozen cookies for a customer,”
I said. “But her husband’s not picking them up until this afternoon.”

“Okay, cool,” he said. “I wanted to
let you know what my dad told me about that Desmond guy.”

“What is it?” I felt a spike of
adrenaline at the sound of Bach’s name.

Earl chuckled faintly. “Well, to
begin with,” he said, “the person that paid for that room wasn’t a he. It was a
she
.”

“Okay,” I said. “Were the records
somehow flipped? Did the last name Bach end up on Phil Bickerton’s
registration? I heard through the grapevine that he told the police he went to
the room with a woman he met in a bar.”

“No, the computer files were
correct,” Earl said. “And Bickerton wasn’t registered with us. Maybe it was
Desmond’s sister or something, although, if you ask me, that whole story is
starting to smell pretty fishy.”

“And you’re certain that your
father didn’t get a first name on the registration for Room 108?”

“Absolutely,” Earl said. “He just
got initials. But it was definitely a woman with the last name of Bach who had a
New York driver’s license and a Platinum Visa.”

“When did your father tell you
this?” I asked.

“About twenty minutes ago,” Earl
answered. “He got pretty upset in the middle of the night when he found out
about the scene in Room 108. I made him take a sleeping pill to try and calm
down. It worked so well that he’s been out cold since then.”

“And when he woke up, you asked him
about Desmond Bach?”

“Not in so many words,” Earl said.
“We got to talking about poor Mr. Bickerton. You know—getting the stuffing
knocked out of him like that. And then I told my dad that you’d been asking
about the man who paid for the room. That’s when he told me it was a woman.”

“A woman, huh?”

“That’s what he told me. A woman
with a thick New York accent and buckets of makeup and a dress that was so
tight my dad said he could see her—”

“Okay, I probably don’t need to
hear the rest of that,” I said. “But I do appreciate your father’s attention to
detail.”

Earl laughed again. “Yeah, he’s an
old goat, but his eyesight is perfect.”

“What else did he see then?”

“On the woman’s body?” asked Earl.

“No, did he notice anything about
her that stood out?” I said. “Like, was she alone? Was she with Pia Lincoln? Did
he happen to catch what kind of car was she driving?”

Earl quickly rattled off three
answers. The woman was accompanied by two men, including one that matched
Desmond Bach’s description. Mr. Dodd didn’t see Pia Lincoln at the motel at any
point yesterday. And the shapely woman with the skintight dress was driving a
flashy silver car.

“Was it an Aston Martin Vanquish
Volante by any chance?”

“What the heck is that?” Earl said.

“A luxury sports coupé,” I
answered. “There’s a rental place at the Denver airport that specializes in
upscale wheels. I saw something there that suggested someone with the last name
of Bach had rented a silver Aston Martin Vanquish Volante.”

“Maybe the woman is his wife,” Earl
suggested.

“Or his client,” I said under my
breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I’ve got a lot
on my mind. I was speculating about something.”

“Gotcha, Katie,” Earl said. “Do you
want me to give you the driver’s license number?”

“Is that technically legal?” I
said.

“Good point,” he answered. “But
I’ve probably already violated some kind of doctor-patient privilege at this
point.”

I smiled at the reference. Then I
told Earl that I didn’t need the driver’s license details and thanked him again
for calling.

“No worries,” he said. “I know
you’re working to defeat evil, Katie.” He paused, but I didn’t say a word.
“Uh-oh,” he continued a moment later. “Did I just offend you?”

“Not at all. But I wasn’t going to
take credit for doing the right thing. I mean, it seems odd that someone would
rent a seriously expensive sports car
and
a room at the Moonlight.”

“Ouch,” Earl joked.

“Oh, darn,” I said. “Now I’m the
one offending you. Sorry, Earl.”

“It’s okay, Katie. I get it. And I
totally agree. Most of our guests drive slightly more affordable rentals and
they never use a Palladium card. I had to look it up online to get the scoop on
that one. These Bach people must be both really evil
and
really
wealthy.”

I smiled at the quip. “I don’t know
if Desmond Bach actually
is
evil or not at this point. He could just be
an arrogant clown with bad manners.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” Earl said.
“And you don’t know who the woman is either, right?”

“No, I don’t,” I answered. “But I
certainly intend to try and find out about both of them before this thing is
over.”

CHAPTER
38

The call from Earl Dodd had upended
one aspect of my theory about Desmond Bach’s role in the disappearance of Pia
and Vito. When I’d taken a surreptitious glance at the roster of rented
vehicles at Luxury by Kenton, I’d assumed that the entry for
D. BACH
referred to the man that I met at the Crescent Creek Lodge. But with Earl’s
bombshell about the registration details, I was beginning to wonder if the car
and
motel room had been paid for by a woman with the same last name.

Before getting back to work on the
shortbread cookies, I dialed the number for Bickerton Gallery. I wanted to
satisfy my curiosity and ask Oscar King if he knew Desmond Bach. After it rang
twice, someone answered and then immediately hung up the phone. I repeated the
process and waited. When the call connected the second time, I expected to hear
Oscar apologize for accidentally hanging up. But the voice I heard belonged to
a woman.

“Bickerton Gallery,” she said.

“Good afternoon,” I said. “Is Oscar
King available?”

“Not at this time,” she said.
“Perhaps I can help you.”

“My name is Kate Reed,” I said. “I
talked with Mr. King the other—”

“How can I help you, Ms. Reed?”

“Well, I’d prefer to leave a
message,” I said. “Would you mind asking Mr. King to call me at Sky High Pies
when he returns?”

The woman scoffed. “He won’t be
returning,” she said. “Mr. King is no longer with the gallery.”

The news left me momentarily
stunned into silence. When I recovered from the surprise, I asked the woman her
name.

“My name?” she said in a haughty
tone. “I’m Dionne Bach, one of the gallery’s owners. I don’t usually answer the
phone, but difficult times demand that we rise above.” She laughed, but it was
a hollow and melancholy sound. “We’re here in Colorado to straighten a few
things out, so I’m filling in until I can hire someone new to replace Mr.
King.”

“I understand,” I said. “And I’m
sorry to trouble you, but do you mind if I ask a couple of questions?”

“I don’t have much time,” the woman
said. “What did you need to know?”

“I’m trying to unravel a bit of a
mystery,” I began. “It’s something that happened at a local motel.”

“Oh, you mean that terrible incident
with my business partner?”

“Yes,” I said. “The assault on Phil
Bickerton.”

“Well, he checked himself out of
the hospital this morning,” she announced confidently. “I talked to him about
an hour ago. From what he told me, the incident involved a somewhat shady
romantic tryst.”

“Oh…” I winced at the reference. “I
had no idea.”

My mind whirled with the disparity
between what I knew to be true about Bickerton’s ordeal at the Moonlight and
what Dionne Bach had just claimed.

“Yes, Phil apparently met a woman
in a bar and they decided to have a nightcap in her motel room. I guess it was
all going really well until her husband showed up and announced a change of plans
with before his fist collided with Phil’s face a few times.”

“Is that Phil’s version of what
happened?”

The woman didn’t say anything.

“I mean, did he mention anything
about—”

“Are you with the police?” she cut
in. “Did the woman file charges or something?”

I quickly explained that I was a
former private investigator who occasionally consulted with the local
authorities.

“In other words,” she said, “you
have no official role in the matter?”

“That’s correct. But, as you know,
Crescent Creek is a small town. Everyone looks out for everyone else.”

She laughed again. “Well, it would
seem that some people might disagree with you about that theory.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, someone local attacked Phil
Bickerton,” the woman said. “And I don’t see how you can describe that as
looking out for your fellow residents.”

“True enough,” I agreed. “Do you
happen to know where Mr. Bickerton met this woman?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” she
said. “It was bad enough that one of my security associates had to stay at that
disgusting place because the Lodge was fully booked. I didn’t like the look of
the Moonlight, but we didn’t have much of a choice. Of course, my concern was
confirmed when someone stole one of the cars I’d rented and then I had a visit
from the police to inform me that my business associate had been attacked in
such a fleabag dive.”

I flinched at the discourteous
depiction of the Dodd family’s business, but decided not to challenge the
woman. There was no point in trying to convince her that the Moonlight may not
be a five-star luxury resort, but it still provided a clean, comfortable place
for weary travelers to stop for the night.

“When was the last time you talked
to Mr. Bickerton?” I asked. “Was it this afternoon?”

“You know,” the woman said with a
long sigh, “I really do have pressing business to take care of. I’d like to
invite you to come by and see us at the gallery when you can. There are some
stunning new paintings by a local artist that you might like to see.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate
your time, and I’ll definitely come in soon.”

In less than ten minutes, the dots
that I had started to connect—leading from Pia and Vito Marclay to Desmond Bach
and the Moonlight Motel—seemed to disengage and fly off in all directions.
After the woman repeated her invitation to visit the gallery, I took a quick
breath and asked one final question.

“Are you by any chance related to
Desmond Bach?” I said.

“Related to him?” she said coldly.
“I’m his mother.”

CHAPTER
39

The desk in Trent’s office at the
police station looked like a junk food graveyard: Mountain Dew cans, crumpled
potato chip bags and empty boxes of candy from the vending machine down the
hall.

“Don’t you ever clean?” I asked,
coming through the door late that afternoon. “Someone might arrest you for
disorderly housekeeping.”

He spun around in his chair and
glared at me over the manila folder in his hands. “That’s hilarious, Katie.
Who’s writing your material these days?”

I dropped my purse on one of the
guest chairs, grabbed the wastebasket and began clearing some of the garbage
from the cluttered desktop.

“What?” he asked, dropping the
folder onto a stack of paperwork. “You’ve never seen an office where people
actually work?”

I smiled, but kept quiet.

“I mean, c’mon,” he protested. “I’m
too busy to worry if Martha Stewart’s going to come through the door wearing
white gloves to assess my cleaning skills.”

I finished with the desk and moved
to the small table in the corner. It was also a mess: half-eaten glazed donuts
on paper plates, mugs of stale coffee, a McDonald’s cup filled with the gnarled
remains of several spicy chicken wings.

“This is disgusting, Trent. You
really should take more pride in your office.”

He groaned. “Gimme a break, Katie.
I take pride in protecting the citizens of Crescent Creek. The mess in my
office is nothing to worry about until peace has been restored.”

“Or until the stench makes the
place unbearable,” I said, catching a whiff of something rank. “Doesn’t the
cleaning staff come in here at night?”

He shook his head and pointed at
the door. A hand-lettered sign was taped beside the handle:
DO NOT DISTRUB.
NO CLEANING UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE
.

“There’s a spelling error,” I said.
“But you probably—”

“Katie!”

I smiled, doing my best to appear
demure and accommodating. “Yes, Deputy Chief Walsh?”

“I’m busy, okay? What did you want
to tell me?”

I heaved a sigh and lowered into
one of the chairs facing the desk.

“I think Dionne Bach may be
involved with whatever is going on with Pia and Vito,” I said.

“Who?”

“Her name is Dionne Bach,” I said.
“I met her son the other night at Connie Larson’s place.”

He stared at me silently.

“They have the same trouble with
the facts,” I explained. “As well as the same type of bad attitude.”

“And you think they’re involved
with Pia’s disappearance?”

I nodded.

“Based on what?” Trent asked.

“Intuition,” I said.

He frowned slightly. “Meaning
what?”

“Just a gut feeling,” I answered.
“There are too many seemingly random things that are starting to overlap.”

“Such as?”

“Vito Marclay’s previous history
with forged artwork,” I began. “And then Pia Lincoln finding a bloody scene at
Vito’s. Then she called and claimed that he was at her house later that night,
but they’d both gone missing by the time your guys got there. And then the
connection between the rented Aston Martin and two separate crime scenes.”

“Is there a partridge in a pear
tree coming up?” Trent asked, sparking a wide smile.

“And then Desmond Bach?” I
continued, ignoring his remark. “He had a picture of Pia at the Moonlight on
his phone. I’d bet money that it was taken in the same room where we found Phil
Bickerton with his face looking like raw hamburger.”

Trent leaned back in his chair,
folding both brawny arms across his chest.

“You about finished there, Miss
Marple?”

I felt my pulse speed up, but I
showed steadfast control and nodded my head.

“Okay, great,” Trent said. “Because
I know how fussy you get when someone interrupts you.”

He stopped, waiting for me to say
something cheeky. I reached over, plucked an open bag of Doritos from the desk
and began slowly crunching on a chip.

“Where are my manners?” he said. “I
forgot to offer you something to eat or drink.”

“That’s okay. I’m curious to hear
what you’re going to say next.”

Trent relaxed his arms and leaned
forward again. I ate more Doritos while he scanned a few notes on a pad.

“Here we go!” he said, jabbing one
finger on the page. “Desmond Bach and a woman with the same last name flew into
Denver a few days ago. They stayed at the Hotel Teatro on Fourteenth Street.
My guy down there told me they booked two suites for Mama Bear and her cub plus
two regular rooms for a pair of security goons.”

“Fancy schmancy,” I said. “That’s a
great hotel.”

Trent shrugged. “I wouldn’t know,”
he said. “I feel like I’m rolling in style if I stay at a place that has free
breakfast in the morning and clean sheets on the bed.”

I smiled, waiting for the rest.

“They came up to Crescent Creek
after Denver,” he continued. “Mommy Dearest, Desmond and one of the bodyguards
checked into Connie Larson’s place, while the other tough guy got the short end
of the stick. He was in Room 108 at the Moonlight.”

“Which Mrs. Bach paid for with her
Palladium Visa?”

Trent frowned. “I don’t have
anything about her credit card, Katie.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Have
you been over to talk to Mrs. Bach or her son?”

He shook his head. “I’ve got two
guys over at the Lodge. They’re undercover and keeping an eye on things.”

“And still no sign of Pia or Vito?”
I asked.

Trent made a face. “Seriously?
Don’t you think I’d call you if we found her?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry. It’s just…well,
it’s been two days now.”

“She’ll turn up,” Trent said,
tapping his forehead. “Intuition tells me we’re getting closer.” He stopped and
flashed another grin. “And you know what else?”

I shook my head.

“I think we’re getting closer
because your buddy Desmond was overheard talking about renting a panel van to
drive some cargo back to New York City.”

“And what?” I said. “You think that
means Vito told them where to find whatever it is they’re looking for?”

Trent smiled. “Vito or someone
else,” he said confidently as the phone on his desk vibrated. “And we’re going
to do everything we can to find Pia and Vito along with the loot everybody’s
trying to get their grubby fingers on before Dionne and Desmond Bach leave town.”