Chocolate Most Deadly (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 2) (2 page)

CHAPTER
2

Shortly after ten the next morning,
while the Sky High Pies dining room hummed with happy diners and Julia
fluttered around the kitchen like a flour-specked butterfly, I sat in my office
and glared at the mountains of paperwork.

“Why can’t you file yourselves?” I
moaned, shifting one stack to the left and another to the right. “I’m not in
the mood to mess with you today.”

I pushed back the chair and propped
my legs on the desk. “A quick power nap would be perfect,” I said, closing my
eyes. “I can get my second wind before I—”

KA-BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!!!
A
thunderous knock rattled the kitchen door.

“—tackle the rest of these things.”
I lurched up from the chair and scurried into the hall. “What the heck was
that?”

As I made my way toward the
kitchen, I heard a second knock, louder and more insistent.

And then a third deafening thud on
the door.

Followed almost immediately by a
fourth.

“This better be good.” I peered
around the corner toward the source of the noise. “And it better not be that
guy coming back to sell us magazine subscriptions.”

Luckily, it wasn’t a door-to-door
salesperson. It was my neighbor, a single woman named Viveca England. She’d
stopped by the day I moved in with a basket of goodies that included a bottle
of wine and a copy of
Unwed & Loving It: Finding Happily Ever After
Without Him!
Viv had long straw-colored hair that she usually arranged on
her head in a casual swirl of wisps and curls. Her face was narrow and tapered,
with a button nose, plump lips and the kind of awe-inspiring cheekbones that
some Hollywood starlets buy from influential cosmetic surgeons in Beverly Hills.

When I opened the door, she came
inside with a muffled sob. Her eyes, rimmed with red and filled with tears,
narrowed into a bewildered stare as she drifted into the room.

“Viv?”

She wobbled to a stool near the
sink and plopped down with another cry.

“What on earth is wrong?”

“It’s horrible!” she panted,
struggling to catch her breath. “My brother…” She swept a few loose strands of
hair from her face. “…down in Denver…” One hand pressed against her chest as it
shuddered wildly. “Tim just told me that somebody tried to…”

When she paused again, I reached
over and gently touched her shoulder. “Hang on a sec,” I said calmly. “Why
don’t you catch your breath while I fix some tea?”

She shook her head. “Tea?” It was a
rhetorical response; the mechanical query of someone trying to cope with
shocking news. “But I don’t want…” The rest of her remark vanished into a cloud
of soft sobs.

I hurried to the stove, grabbed the
kettle and filled it with water. When I glanced back across the room, Viveca
was slumped against the counter with her head in her hands. As the flame
flickered with a gentle hiss, I retrieved two mugs, plunked bags of Earl Grey
into both and then arranged a few Chewy Chocolate Chunk Cookies on a plate.
They were my favorite when I was a girl; the ideal tonic for a skinned knee,
bruised ego or a fragile heart shattered by the taunts and teases of Dolly Lassiter
and Shannon Walker. When we were young, Dolly and Shannon ruled supreme as the
biggest bullies in our grade school. Now that we were adults, they were both
grouchy divorced women who came to Sky High on a regular basis to medicate
their sorrows with meringue, whipped cream and lattice-topped slices of our
namesake treats.

“This should help,” I said a moment
later, placing one steaming cup near Viveca as she dried her eyes with a
shredded paper napkin. “A little tea. A little chocolate. And some friendly
conversation.”

She stared at the plate of cookies.
Then she reached for the tea and took a tiny sip.

“Thanks, Kate. I’m sorry to burst
through the door in such a state, but my brother thinks somebody tried to kill
him two days ago.” She sighed again as her mouth settled into a quivering
frown. “And now, as if that isn’t bad enough, I had a dream last night that it
was all true.” Her voice trembled and dropped in volume. “And in my dream,” she
whispered, “the murderer actually got away with it!”

The bombshell announcement
shattered any hope that tea and cookies would remedy my neighbor’s frantic
state. After years as a PI in Chicago, I’d seen it all before: the tears, the
smeared eyeliner, the fractured sentences spinning in haphazard loops from one
incomplete thought to the next. I knew that the best way to manage someone in
such a state was to stay calm and ask simple questions.

“Okay, Viv,” I said, offering a
serene smile. “Let’s take it slow. I want to try and understand what happened.”
I waited for her to nod before continuing. “What’s your brother’s name?”

“Timmy,” she whispered. “Well, Tim.
I mean, he’s a grownup and so…” She pulled in a long, slow breath. “His name is
Tim England,” she said, managing a cheerless smile. “Same last name as me.”

I nodded. “When was the last time
you saw him?”

She squinted. “Um, maybe a couple
of months ago.”

“Did he seem okay?” I asked. “Was
anything going on in his life that might’ve been out of the ordinary or—”

“Tim’s whole life is strange,” she said.
“It always has been. He’s a free spirit, like someone who…” She paused, tilting
her head slightly. “What’s that saying? Someone who drums to the sound of…”

“Marches to the beat of their own
drum?”

“Yeah, that’s it. My brother’s like
that.”

“And Tim thinks someone tried to
kill him?”

She swallowed hard and gulped in a
breath. “With poisoned cupcakes.” Her voice was a frayed murmur. “The police
already determined it was cyanide.”

I kept my gaze on her face as she
recounted the story. When Tim returned to his apartment three days earlier, he
found four chocolate cupcakes in a white paperboard box beside the door. His
first name was written in the center of the lid—three carefully printed letters
surrounded by a heart-shaped border. There were a few pale green smudges on the
box—faint traces of paint, chalk or dye—but no other distinguishing marks.
After looking inside, Tim knocked on the door across the hall and offered the
baked treats to his neighbor.

“Why would he do that?” I asked.
“It seems like the box was intended as some sort of anonymous gift for your
bother.”

Viveca shook her head, sending
another cascade of bangs into her eyes. “Tim never eats sweets,” she said,
tucking the hair behind one ear. “And he’s horribly allergic to chocolate.”

“Maybe the cupcakes were from a
secret admirer,” I suggested. “Or one of his friends.”

“That’s impossible. Anybody that
knows my brother would also know that he
never
eats chocolate.”

I thought about the comment for a
moment. “Then maybe they don’t,” I said.

She frowned. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t really know him.”

The suggestion elicited a murmured
agreement.

“And if that’s the case,” I
continued, “the person that put cyanide in the cupcakes was almost certainly
trying to harm your brother.”

Viveca closed her eyes and shuddered.
“I know, I know,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about that nonstop since Tim
called.”

“How did he find out they were
poisoned?”

“The police.”

I waited while she sipped her tea.
Then I asked if she could elaborate.

“One of the detectives told Tim they
ran tests in the forensics lab,” she explained, slumping forward and closing
her eyes briefly. “The preliminary results showed lethal levels of cyanide in
the frosting they recovered from the cupcake papers and the inside of the box.”

“And how’s your brother handling
all of this?”

One hand slowly covered her mouth.
“I don’t know really,” she sighed through her fingers. “It’s just all so
impossible to believe, Kate.” She took a deep breath, lowered the hand and
tried to smile. “I mean, my little brother? He’s the nicest guy in the world.”

“I’m sure he is,” I said. “But it
sounds like someone didn’t hold the same opinion.”

She nodded as the frail grin on her
face dissolved into a frown. “I just don’t know—”

“Viv?”

She looked up.

“What else did your brother tell
you?”

She blinked. “About the poisoned
cupcakes?”

I nodded.

“Well, he found the box, looked
inside and decided to give them to his neighbor. A few hours later, like, in
the middle of the night basically, the guy was pounding on Tim’s door, gasping for
air and choking. Tim called 911 and the ambulance took him to the hospital. I
guess the paramedics alerted the police after they saw the symptoms and heard
what my brother had to say.”

“Meaning they suspected something
fishy was going on with the cupcakes?”

“Uh-huh. I guess EMTs see it more
often than we’d ever imagine. You know, people that get poisoned and the like.
After the police came and Tim told them what happened, they found the bakery
box in the neighbor’s apartment and took it to the lab.”

I considered what I’d learned so
far: Viveca’s brother was allergic to chocolate; someone left an anonymous
cupcake delivery at his door; he gave the sweet treats to his neighbor; the
neighbor was rushed to the ER; and, the police suspected it was cyanide.

“And you said this happened three
days ago?”

She answered with a quick nod. “Tim
found them on Saturday afternoon,” she said. “The neighbor went to the hospital
early Sunday morning.”

“Why didn’t your brother call you
right away?”

“He was at the police station for a
really long time,” she said. “And when they allowed him to use the phone, he
called his new girlfriend. She was supposed to let me know, but the situation
got her so rattled that she lost the piece of paper where she’d written my
number.”

“Okay, but they had to release him
at some point, right?”

She smirked. “They did,” she said
angrily. “And he went straight to the nearest liquor store, bought a bottle of
vodka and drank himself right into another relapse.” The look in her eyes was a
swirl of irritation and sorrow. “My brother’s got a bit of a drinking problem,”
Viveca said, confirming what I suspected after something she’d told me a few
weeks earlier. “He’d been sober for nearly a year until all of this happened.”

I listened as she shared a quick recap
of his greatest hits: a drunk driving arrest in Seattle; two broken ankles
after jumping from a third-floor hotel room while inebriated; three nights in a
Wisconsin jail after being arrested for public intoxication; getting fired from
countless jobs when he arrived for work smelling of booze after all-night
benders.

“There’s a whole lot more,” Viveca
said. “But I think you get the picture.”

I nodded. “Tim’s younger or older?”

“He’s twenty-four,” she answered.
“Five years younger than me.”

“When did he call you?” I asked.

“Late last night,” Viveca replied.
“But I also got a call from his girlfriend about fifteen minutes ago.” Her eyes
closed and she pulled in a deep breath. “The police picked Tim up this morning
for more questioning.”

I nibbled on a cookie, waiting for
more. When she sat quietly with her eyes closed for a couple of minutes, I
prompted her again.

“Huh?” She looked at me, blinking
repeatedly. “What was that?”

“You were telling me about your
brother,” I answered. “He was arrested this morning.”

“Not arrested,” she said. “They
just wanted to talk to him again about the guy that lives across the hall.” She
drank more tea and then pushed away the cup. “I’ll wait until that cools a
little,” she continued. “But anyway, uh…” Her eyes were blank and motionless,
locked on an indistinct point in the distance. “Tim’s a good kid,” she said
finally. “He didn’t do so well in school. And he’s really struggled with the
drinking. But his band is starting to take off. They opened for somebody famous
a couple of months ago in Albuquerque.”

“That sounds promising,” I said. “I
take it he’s a musician?”

She smiled. “Guitar and keyboards.
And he can sing like nobody’s business.”

The shift in her expression
suggested that she was replaying a fond memory in her mind, so I let her
daydream for a moment. After I took a few sips of tea and finished my cookie, I
asked her to continue telling me what she’d learned from her brother’s
girlfriend.

“Well, he was at work earlier,” she
said. “He’s got a day job at a coffee shop in Cherry Creek. And then the band
plays gigs at night and on weekends. I tried talking him into going back to
school, but…” She smiled and shrugged. “Sorry, that’s not exactly relevant. I
just can’t quite focus at the moment, you know? I’m pretty freaked out and—”

I took her hand and squeezed it
tightly. “Viv? It’s okay. I get it. Anybody would be upset if they found out
someone tried to murder their brother.”

A sigh slipped from her lips. “But
me being freaked out won’t do anything for Tim,” she said quietly. “I hoped you
might have a suggestion about what to do next.”

CHAPTER
3

My work as a private investigator
in Chicago was common knowledge. Since I’d moved back to Crescent Creek, I
wasn’t surprised when someone asked me to regale them with my previous
sleuthing adventures or suggest the best surveillance camera to catch their
duplicitous spouse in compromising positions. I usually deflected the inquiries
by launching into a description of how my childhood love of detective novels
foreshadowed my decision to spend ten years as a PI before leaving it all
behind to take over Sky High Pies from my parents. In Viveca’s case, however, I
was prepared to make an exception and offer whatever advice seemed appropriate.

“Let’s keep talking,” I said. “What
else did his girlfriend tell you?”

“I hate to take advantage of your
expertise,” Viveca added. “But do you think I should call a lawyer?”

“Why would you do that?”

She sighed. “I don’t know. I’ve got
a bad feeling about this…” She stopped, deep in thought. “I get premonitions
sometimes—when people are sick, if somebody’s in trouble, the night before my
father died.”

“And you feel something like that
now about your brother?”

“Yes. And I think a lawyer might be
helpful.”

“Do you know someone?”

She thought for a moment or two.
“Only back in Idaho.”

“I could put together a list if
you’d like.”

“Delilah said they’d probably…” She
smiled and rolled her eyes. “Sorry, I’m going a million miles a minute.
Delilah’s my brother’s girlfriend. She said that if Tim did get arrested the
city will probably assign a court-appointed attorney if he can’t afford to hire
one. Is that true?”

“Generally,” I said. “Does he have
the resources to hire a lawyer?”

She shook her head.. “He’s got an
old Subaru, a cat named Bad Dog and an apartment that he subleases from some
shady guy named Toby.”

I smiled. “Bad Dog?”

“My brother’s got a twisted sense
of humor. When we were kids, our parents got us a Lab from the city pound. Tim
and I flipped a coin to decide who’d name him. I won. And Good Dog was my
constant companion until he died in his sleep one night.” A shadow of sorrow
darkened her gaze. “But those twelve years were awesome!” she exclaimed, coming
out of the sad remembrance. “He lived up to his name each second of every day.”

“And so your brother named his cat
Bad Dog to get back at you for winning a childhood bet?”

She laughed. “Another telltale sign
about Tim’s personality. He’s a stubborn rascal, a crafty scoundrel and the
sweetest guy you’ll ever meet.” She reached for one of the chocolate cookies.
“These look pretty lethal, Kate. Are you trying to distract me with hot tea and
yummy sweets?”

I smiled. “Is it working?”

“Kind of.” She took a small bite
and hummed while she chewed. “But not really. I’ve got to figure out what to do
about Tim.”

“An attorney might be a good place
to start,” I suggested. “Just in case.”

“I know, but I’m not sure how we
can afford it,” she said. “I don’t have much money after closing the bookstore
in Boise. That’s the main reason I came to Crescent Creek; my uncle died and
left us the house next door and a small amount of money in the bank.”

I remembered Viveca’s Uncle
Chester. He was a former railroad engineer, a kind and generous old man who
loved football, spicy food and teasing Blanche Speltzer after she lost at
bingo. Whenever I worked at Sky High for Nana Reed, Chester always left a
separate tip on the table in an envelope marked with my name. During the last
two years before I left for college in Chicago, when Chester was too hobbled to
walk over for breakfast or lunch, I delivered a slice of pie to him nearly
every day. When I heard that he’d died and his property was being left to a
niece and nephew, I had no idea what to expect. In the end, Viveca had proven
to be a delightful neighbor and a wonderful addition to Crescent Creek. I was
thinking about the first time we met when she started whimpering quietly and
blotting her eyes with a paper napkin.

“What am I going to do, Kate?” Her
voice cracked and she stifled a sob. “How in the world can I help my brother
with this?”

“I’ll tell you what,” I said,
squeezing her hand again. “I’ll check with Trent and Dina at the Crescent Creek
PD to see if they—”

“Please don’t!” she blurted. “I
don’t want anyone to know about this.”

The loud outburst and wild-eyed
stare told me she wasn’t in any shape to have a truly rational conversation
about her brother. And I needed to get back to work. After thinking for a few
seconds, I decided to ask a couple more questions to see if talking might help quell
her immediate distress.

“Did you try to reach your brother
after his girlfriend called?”

She blinked. “Yes, but it just goes
to voicemail. I tried calling all through the night.”

“Is that unusual?”

“What—that it goes to voicemail?” There
was an edge of irritation in her voice; the predictable result of fatigue and
frayed nerves. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

I waited for a moment. “That’s not
what I mean, Viv. Is it unusual for your brother to not take your calls? You
know how some people turn off their phones and forget? Or maybe the battery
needs to be recharged?”

“I guess so,” Viveca said. “But I’m
worried. I’m thinking about driving down to check on him.”

“Okay, but why don’t we go
together?” I suggested. “I planned to drive down tomorrow for some specialty
items anyway. I could ask Trent if he knows someone at the Denver PD who’d be
willing to talk to us about your brother’s situation.”

A faint smile lifted the corners of
her mouth. “You’ll do that for me and Tim?”

“I’ll do whatever I can,” I assured
her. “My mornings and afternoons are devoted to Sky High, but I can do a few
things after we close for the day.”

She jumped up from the stool and
gave me a hug. I could smell her perfume—a gentle blend of lilac and rose—along
with the distinct odor of furniture polish. I guessed that she was dusting when
the call came about her brother.

“That’s amazing!” she cheered. “And
you don’t mind me tagging along?”

“Not at all. It’ll be nice to have
the company.”

“What about this afternoon?” she
suddenly asked. “Could we do it then instead?”

“I shook my head. “I have a couple
of things that I can’t reschedule. And there’s a photographer coming from the
paper to—”

“Oh, no!” Her eyes went wide. “I
would
never
ask you to change your plans, Kate! I’m just grateful for
any help you can give us. We’ll go down tomorrow and see what we can learn. In
the meantime, I’ll keep in touch with his girlfriend and make some calls about
borrowing money in case we end up hiring an attorney.”

“That all sounds like a good idea,”
I said.

“Well, you’re helping me get
focused!” Her eyes crinkled with a smile. “I really appreciate you being so
kind and patient.” The smile trembled and it looked like she might cry again.
“But I should probably get out of here so you can…I don’t know, make some pies
or something.”

As we moved into the hallway, I
asked if she knew the latest on her brother’s neighbor.

“He’s in the ICU at one of the
regional medical centers,” she said. “Delilah overheard someone at the police station
talking about him.”

“Well, at least he’s hanging in
there.”

“I suppose. But it doesn’t make
sense really. I always thought that if someone gave you poison, like cyanide or
whatever, you’d drop dead right then and there.”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “It
depends on several factors—the type of poison, how quickly you get medical
attention, what kind of health you’re in and a few other critical factors.”

“I didn’t know that,” she said. “I
just figured that cyanide or whatever would kill you right then and there.”

“Not at all. Do you remember
Alexander Litvinenko?”

She stared at me blankly.

“He’s the Russian guy that was
poisoned a few years ago in London.”

She winced. “I’m sorry, Kate. I
didn’t really follow the news when I was running the bookstore. I worked around
the clock trying to keep it afloat.”

While Viveca listened, I told her
about Alexander Litvinenko’s case. I explained that he died three weeks after
eating sushi that had been tainted with Polonium, a rare and highly toxic
radioactive substance.

“And you’re serious?” she asked.
“He really died from it?”

“Yes,” I said quietly as we stepped
into the kitchen. “It’s probably safe to say that polonium is way more toxic
than whatever your brother’s neighbor ingested.”

We stood in silence for a few minutes.
Viveca stared into space and sighed loudly every few seconds. When a quick
glance at my phone revealed that it was nearly eleven, I asked if she wanted to
go into the dining room for lunch.

“Oh, golly no,” she said. “I should
get back home. I left the white clothes soaking in the washer and the vacuuming
isn’t finished and I…” She brushed a finger under her eyes again, catching a
few new tears as they appeared. “Just let me know what time you want to go
tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “If that’s still okay with you.”

I surrounded her with both arms,
gave her a quick hug and told her to call if she needed anything during the
rest of the day.

“I will,” she said, opening the
door.

“And, in the meantime,” I added,
“try not to dwell on your brother’s predicament.”