An Imitation of Murder (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 9) (17 page)

CHAPTER
42

After thanking Marty for his time
and promising to bring Zack in soon to shop for matching sweatshirts, I went
outside and sat on a bench in front of the store. I wanted to check in with Trent
to let him know that Liza Canfield had borrowed Marty’s van to move something
out of Vito Marclay’s house in the middle of the night. There might be a
logical explanation for such a seemingly covert activity, but it seemed like it
could also be something nefarious.

“Hey, Katie,” Trent said through a
connection peppered with static and noise. “Can you hear me okay?”

“More or less. Where are you?”

“Body shop,” Trent answered.
“Somebody hit my car in the parking lot at Tipton’s Liquor Mart last night.”

“Did you give them a breathalyzer?”

He laughed. “I don’t know who did
it, but the damage isn’t too bad. I was driving by Buck Westridge’s place and
decided to get a quick estimate. I’d prefer not to file insurance if the repair
cost is reasonable.”

“I agree completely. Rates can
mysteriously bounce up if you file a claim.”

He mumbled a few sharp words and
asked what I needed.

“Can’t I call just to shoot the
breeze?” I joked.

“With me?” he said. “That’s not
very likely, Katie. What’s up?”

“It’s about Pia and Vito,” I
explained. “Marty Garfunkel told me that her sister borrowed his store’s
delivery van recently to move some things from Vito’s house to a storage
facility in Denver.”

“Why is that important?” he asked.

“Because June Calloway claimed that
she saw the van from Garfunkel’s Sporting Goods at Vito’s house a couple of
nights before he reported a burglary.”

“And?”

“And June said she very clearly saw
Pia and Vito loading the van with items from his house.”

Trent didn’t say anything.

“Doesn’t that sound suspicious?” I
asked.

“Which part?”

“The whole thing,” I answered.
“June said it was the middle of the night when she saw Vito and Pia carrying
what looked like paintings wrapped in cloth out to Marty’s van. But Marty told
me that Liza’s sister borrowed his van
and
hired his son to move the
paintings from Vito’s.”

“I’m still not following you,
Katie.”

“The stories don’t match up,” I
said. “June told me one version. Marty told me another. And I also learned that
there’s a discrepancy between Vito’s statement to the CCPD about the burglary
and what he told his benefactor.”

There was a loud burst of machinery
in the background—
zeep
-
CA-CHUG
-
zeep
-
CA-CHUG
-
zeep
-
CA-CHUG
—that
sounded like the high-pitched, rapid-fire squeal and thud of a pneumatic drill.

“I didn’t catch that last part,” Trent
said. “Can you repeat it?”

“Vito told the Crescent Creek
Police that the burglar only took art supplies and some personal belongings.
But someone told me that a few very valuable paintings were taken during the
break-in.”

“According to who?” he asked.

“Phil Bickerton,” I said. “And Vito
Marclay.”

“And who told you this?”

“It’s a long story. I can explain
that part later. I basically just wanted to see if you or anyone else from the
CCPD had talked with Liza Canfield or June Calloway about the night of the
burglary.”

“No, I haven’t,” Trent said. “But
I’ll check with Dina and Tyler. They’re running down a couple of leads. We got
a tip about something suspicious out on Morris Springs Road.”

“Related to Vito and Pia?”

“I can’t comment on that yet,
Katie.”

“Any idea what it’s about?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Like I already
told you, something suspicious out on Morris Springs.”

“Okay, I’ll wait to get the scoop
from you on that later. I’m going to swing by Langhorn & Diebel to see if I
can catch Liza at work. I wanted to ask if she knew anything about Vito’s
belongings going to a storage unit in Denver. I’ll let you know if it proves
fruitful.”

“That’s a deal,” Trent said. “I’ll
give you a call if the tip about Morris Springs Road leads to anything.”

“I’ll look forward to that, big
guy.”

After another cheerful laugh, Trent
asked if I had anything more to share about the case.

“One conclusion,” I said. “I’ve got
a theory about Vito Marclay.”

“So do I,” Trent said. “He’s a
crook.”

“How so?”

“What do you mean? You found all
that stuff online, Katie. I did a little digging of my own, including a call to
a contact at the NYPD. When he lived in New York, Vito Marclay was a very,
very,
very
bad boy.”

“Forged paintings?” I asked.

“Among a few other things,” Trent
answered. “He was busted during an undercover counterfeiting sting, but his
benefactor had very deep pockets and a shark for an attorney. They got Vito off
and that’s when he moved to Colorado.”

“Do you have the benefactor’s
name?”

“I have it written down somewhere,”
he said, sifting through the papers on his desk. “And as fate would have it,
she’s in town right now. Tyler Armstrong is heading over to talk to her.”

When Trent revealed the identity of
Marclay’s benefactor, I felt a faint glimmer of hope. We were getting closer to
our goal—finding Vito and Pia, identifying the person responsible for
assaulting Phil Bickerton and unraveling the baffling connections between a
wealthy New York art collector, a celebrated contemporary artist and a sweet
tempered caterer from Crescent Creek.

CHAPTER
43

It was dark by the time I got up
from the bench in front of Garfunkel’s Sporting Goods and walked to my car.
There was a slight chill in the air along with a faint trace of curry from the
restaurant around the corner. After climbing behind the wheel, I was getting
ready to start the engine when my phone rang. Figuring it might be Trent,
calling to share a few more remarks about Vito Marclay, I answered quickly to
get the latest news.

“Kate?” The voice was hushed and
hesitant. “It’s Roxie Lambert.”

“Hi, Roxie. How are you?”

“I hope you don’t mind the call,”
she said. “I got your number from Blanche Speltzer.”

Since I didn’t know Roxie well, I thought
she might be calling to discuss something about the new Crescent Creek tourism
bureau.

“It’s good to hear from you,” I
said. “Is it about the meeting to finalize the bylaws?”

“No,” she said, suddenly
whispering. “I’m downtown. Over here on Crestview. And if my voice sounds
strange, it’s because I’m scrunched down in the front seat of my car.”

“You do sound a little different.
Is something wrong?”

“Blanche told me about Pia
Lincoln,” Roxie whispered. “She said that you thought maybe someone from the art
gallery might be involved.”

“Well, that’s just a theory. It’s
too soon to—”

“I just saw Phil Bickerton!” she
blurted. “With two women and another man!”

“Okay, so do you—”

“And the other guy had a gun!”
Roxie gasped. “He forced Phil and the women into the law firm next to Clara’s
fabric store.”

I felt a jolt of exhilaration, the
fleeting sense that something bad was about to happen. I took a breath and
asked Roxie to tell me everything she could remember.

“Okay,” she said. “The visibility
isn’t very good because one of the street lights is on the fritz. But Phil sort
of turned when I walked toward my car. I saw his face very clearly, Katie. He
looked terrified. And I could see where he was all bruised from getting
attacked in the motel room.”

“Did Blanche tell you about that,
too?” I asked.

“Yes,” Roxie whispered. “Hang on,
okay?”

I waited for a few moments,
listening to her frantic breathing and imagining the scene that she’d
described.

“Sorry,” she said, coming back on
the line. “Somebody poked their head out of the law firm. I thought maybe
they’d noticed me sitting out here.”

“Are you okay?” I asked. “Do you
have the car doors locked?”

“I’m fine.” Her voice trembled,
suggesting the opposite. “I’ve got my pepper spray in my purse.”

“Just don’t take any chances,” I
said.

“Well, I could tell Phil was
upset,” Roxie continued, skipping past my remark. “And it only took a second
for me to realize it was because of the gun. I caught a glimpse of it as I
opened my car door.” She paused to take a breath. “And then I heard one of the
women say a name.”

“What name?” I asked.

“It was yours,” Roxie whispered.
“It was clear as a bell. She said, ‘That nosy Kate Reed is asking a lot of
questions around town.’ But then they all heard my car door squeak, so I got in
real quick and pretended that I hadn’t seen them.”

“Did you hear anything else?” I
asked.

“Yes,” Roxie whispered. “I rolled
down my window a smidge. And before they went inside, I heard the guy with the
gun say something about millions of dollars.”

As I listened to Roxie’s hushed
account of what she’d witnessed, I realized that the disparate elements from
the past few days were beginning to make sense:
the stolen artwork, Vito and
Pia’s disappearance and the assault on Phil Bickerton were now merging into one
incident surrounded by whispered secrets and festering lies
.

“What happened next?” I asked.

“They stood on the sidewalk and
talked for a few more seconds, but then they marched right over to that law
firm. One of the women had keys to the office, so she unlocked the door and
they all went inside.”

Since the law practice beside The
Fabric Company of Crescent Creek was the one that Pia’s sister’s firm had
recently acquired, I guessed that Liza Canfield was among the group that Roxie
had witnessed. I also figured it would be best to call Trent and then head over
to Crestview Street. But before I dialed his number, I wanted to make sure that
Roxie was safe from harm.

“Roxie?”

“Yes?”

“Can you do me a favor?”

“Of course, Katie. What is it?”

“After you and I finish, I want you
to start your car and drive home,” I said. “I’m going to call the police and
let them know—”

“Oh, I’ll do that right after we
talk,” she interrupted.

“Okay,” I said. “And then go ahead
and leave. I’m only about three blocks away, so I’ll come over to keep an eye
on things until the officers arrive.”

“Sounds good to me,” Roxie said
quietly. “I just thought you’d want to know.”

“Well, I do appreciate the call,
but let’s hang up so you can get out of there.”

Instead of a reply to acknowledge
my request, I heard a faint
click
and Roxie’s voice was replaced with a
dull electronic hum. I briefly considered calling her back, but decided it
would be best to make sure Trent and Dina were aware of the situation before
driving over to have a look around.

When I pulled up in front a few
moments later, the first thing I noticed was the open front door of Roxie
Lambert’s car. I quickly parked in the next space, jumped out and hurried over
to investigate. The keys were in the ignition, Roxie’s purse was on the seat
and the shattered remains of her phone were scattered on the pavement.

I glanced at the front door of the
law firm. It was slightly ajar, and I could see several silhouettes against the
frosted glass. I hurried across the sidewalk, stepped into the alley beside the
building and pulled out my phone.

“Hey,” Trent said after answering.
“What’s going on?”

“I’m downtown,” I said quietly.
“Can you send a couple of cars to Langhorn & Diebel?”

“The law firm?”

“It’s urgent,” I said, ignoring his
rhetorical question. “I got a call from Roxie Lambert. She saw someone with a
gun herd a small group of people into the building about five or ten minutes
ago. I told her to leave, but it looks like that didn’t happen.”

“What do you mean it didn’t
happen?” Trent asked. “Where is she?”

“There’s a good chance she might be
inside, too,” I answered. “And when your officers head this way, please make
sure they don’t use sirens, okay? We’re probably dealing with a real
tinderbox.”

“Any idea who’s involved?” asked Trent.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “Maybe Liza
Canfield and Phil Bickerton. When I talked to Roxie, she told me that a man
holding a gun went into the law offices with three other people.”

“Okay,” he said. “I guess it
doesn’t really matter who it is if there’s trouble. I’ll get someone over there
now and I’ll be right behind them.”

“Thanks, Trent. I’ll talk to—”

“Katie?” he interrupted.

“Yes?”

“No heroics, okay? Just wait until
we get there.”

He hung up without waiting for a
reply, but I knew what he was asking. I was also aware that Roxie Lambert’s
life was now potentially at risk. As I stood in the alley, a booming voice
spilled into the night from the narrow opening in the door. It was Phil
Bickerton shouting about the fallibility of business relationships.

“…not how things like this work,
Liza!” he was saying. “If one partner is a lying cheat, like you, then the
whole thing crumbles eventually. This, my friends, is our world about to fall
apart.”

Another voice, faint and muffled,
responded to Phil’s declaration. I couldn’t make out what they said or
determine if the speaker was a man or woman.

“Get closer,” I whispered to
myself. “Just so you can hear what they’re saying.”

I moved slowly out of the alley and
leaned against the red brick façade, hesitating just long enough to hear what
Phil might say next. Luckily, I didn’t have to wait long.

“This is all your fault!” he
shrieked. “If you’d never introduced your sister to Marclay, we’d all be fat
and happy in Mexico right about now.”

“I highly doubt that, you sniveling
moron!” said another woman. “Our plan was so simple that a toddler could’ve
pulled it off. But then you jumped the gun and told Dionne Bach that you
suspected Vito wasn’t telling the truth about the burglary.”

I strained to listen, trying to
identify the speaker. Her voice was familiar, although I was certain that I’d
never heard her screeching at full volume before.

“Because that’s what you told me to
do!” Phil shouted. “You told me that I was supposed to call her and say that
Vito had been burglarized so she would think some random thief stole the
paintings.”

“But you weren’t supposed to call
her until
after
we’d sold the originals!” the woman yelled. “Why can’t
you understand that, Phil? We were waiting for Vito to finish the forgeries
before we’d sell the originals and you’d call Dionne. I mean, we went over all
of this, didn’t we? Like, a million times?”

Before Phil Bickerton had a chance
to answer, I heard another voice, even louder and more aggressive than the
others.

It was a man with a thick Southern
accent spiked with a nasal twang and a slight stutter.

“This isn’t a game!” he howled.
“This is the r-r-real thing!”

As I listened to the man’s tirade,
I instantly recognized the voice. I’d heard it for the first time less than
twenty-four hours before when my online sleuthing turned up a YouTube video
promoting the current exhibition at Bickerton Gallery.

“I should just shoot all of y’all
right here and now!” he screamed. “You’ve made a complete mess of my brilliant
plan!”

It was Vito Marclay, sounding very
harsh, very angry and very much in charge.

“How could you three be so
incompetent?” he screamed. “Don’t you realize what you’ve d-d-done?”