Deadly Desserts (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 6) (8 page)

CHAPTER
17

The green neon sign in the window
at Drake’s Deli blinked
OPEN TIL MID IGHT!
as I turned the corner at
Sawyer and Crestwood. The sandwich shop was a Crescent Creek institution.
Anyone with late night munchies knew that Colin Drake’s outpost would still be
a bright beacon in the darkness long after the other restaurants and fast food
places had closed.

“Hey, Colin,” I called, pushing
through the front door. “Your sign’s missing a letter there, buddy.”

The tall, middle-aged beanpole
behind the counter chuckled deeply. “Thanks, Katie! That’s the ten millionth time
I’ve heard that this week alone. I called Acme Signs to fix it, but you know
how Dewey is.”

I smiled; Dewey Wabash was an
amazing guy, but his work speed ran the gamut from dawdling to sluggish.
Luckily, he was a charmer with a ready grin, an honest face and the ability to
make you laugh so hard that you forgot it had taken him three weeks to finish a
two-day job. Since his father had made the very first Sky High Pies sign for
Nana Reed, I felt a deep loyalty to Dewey and trusted him to make our banners
and posters. He was also one of the few tradesmen in town who could work with
Angus Martin, the crotchety retiree who handled most of the routine repair jobs
around the bakery café.

“I think everybody knows how Dewey
is,” I said as Colin slipped on a pair of disposable plastic gloves.

“What can I get you?” He stood in
front of the refrigerated case stocked with meats and cheeses. “The smoked
turkey is especially fresh, if you’re in the mood for bird. Or we’ve got a
special today on ciabatta with Genoa salami and Buffalo mozzarella.”

“I’m actually on my way to meet
someone for dinner,” I explained. “But I have a couple of questions to ask if
you don’t mind.”

He folded his arms across his
scrawny chest. “Is this about Alexandra?”

“Your granddaughter?”

“She and her friends are soliciting
donations for a school fundraiser,” he answered. “I was afraid maybe they’d hit
you up more than once like they did with Chet Haskell and Sheryl Lazio.”

“I haven’t seen Alexandra in
forever,” I said. “But I’d love to help them out. What’s the money for?”

“Library books,” he answered. “Can
you believe it? I figured with all their laptops and tablets and whatever, most
kids would steer clear of real books. But I guess they’re kind of a retro
novelty nowadays; they still use textbooks, of course, but things like novels
and autobiographies aren’t part of the standard school budget.” He tugged off
the disposable gloves and put them on the counter. “But you didn’t come by to
hear about that, Katie. There were some questions you wanted to ask?”

The sandwich shop was warm and
muggy, so I shrugged off my coat and draped it over a nearby chair. Then I
asked Colin if he was familiar with Nathaniel Craig, the president of Crescent
Creek Bank.

His mouth formed a wary grin. “Familiar
with? Who doesn’t know big, bad N.C.?”

I could tell from the way he said
the man’s initials that there was something more to the remark. I figured that
if I waited long enough, returning the grin with a cagey smile of my own, Colin
would divulge the deeper meaning to the somewhat sarcastic tone.

“Okay, Katie,” he continued a
moment later. “Just between you and me?”

“Always. I’m following up on
something related to an incident at Portia Pearson’s yesterday that—”

“Oh, I’d guessed as much,” he
interrupted. “I heard about what happened to Lacy.”

“I suppose everyone in town has by
this point, but I was actually there when she collapsed.”

“Are the rumors true?” he asked.
“Was it really poison?”

“Nothing’s been confirmed yet,” I
said. “But she was in great health, so…” I paused as a snapshot of Lacy on the
floor, unconscious and barely breathing, flashed through my mind. “Anyway, the
police are working on it, but I thought I’d lend a hand with a couple of
peripheral things.”

“What did you want to know?” asked
Colin.

“I heard that Nathaniel Craig comes
in often to buy his lunch.”

“Almost every day! Peanut butter
and jelly on whole wheat with a bag of honey barbecue potato chips. Never gets
anything to drink, but he always leaves a buck tip, even when someone else
picks it up for him.”

“Mr. Generous,” I joked. “Considering
he’s worth a small fortune.” I felt foolish as the remark left my mouth. “Sorry,
Colin. That was impolite.”

He laughed. “No apology required,
Katie. The guy’s a total blowhard, and everyone knows it. He’s rude to his
employees, dismissive to his wife and…” Colin’s gaze drifted down to the
contents of the display case. “And there I go, engaging in idle gossip again.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “Just makes
us even in our…opinions about Mr. Craig.”

He winked and smiled. “Why’d you
want to know if he gets his lunch here?”

“Just curious,” I answered. “Sounds
like he’s a creature of habit.”

“Yeah, a regular lab rat on a
wheel,” Colin quipped. “I guess he really enjoys the little stroll across the
street, although there are days when someone else picks up his sandwich.”

“Do you remember if Mr. Craig was
in yesterday?”

He considered the question,
nibbling on his lower lip while his brain whirred. “Not yesterday,” he said
finally. “Must’ve been one of his extra busy days.”

“Okay then. Do you know who came by
for it?”

He bit his lip again. “Uh, I don’t
know the guy’s name, Katie. He wasn’t exactly a chatterbox, but I remember his voice
sounded kind of…weird. He just ordered the usual, mentioned that it was for Mr.
Craig and then paid with cash.”

“His voice was weird? How would you
describe it?”

Colin nodded. “Yeah, it was a
really deep rumble, like maybe his normal voice is shrill and he tries to sound
more macho in certain situations.”

I’d known men with high-pitched
voices, so that didn’t seem unusual. After Colin attempted to imitate the
stranger’s tone, I asked if he could describe the guy.

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Just the basics,” I said with an
encouraging smile. “What he was wearing, hair and eye color, anything unusual
that you noticed.”

“Oh, golly…” Colin’s forehead
creased as he tried to recall the man. “Well, he was about the same height as
you, because I remember looking at him nearly eye-to-eye. Normally, you know,
I’m looking down at Mr. Craig, since he’s quite a bit shorter.” A wicked smile
came and went quickly. “So, he was taller than Mr. Craig…and he was wearing a
dark blue jacket with some kind of emblem on it, like maybe a sailboat or
something. And he paid with cash.” Another quick grin. “Oh, sorry, Katie. I
already told you that.”

“No worries, Colin. You’re doing
great. The guy was about my height and he had a blue jacket with a sailboat
emblem.”

“Yeah,” he said with a nod. “Definitely
a sailboat. And it was definitely a dark blue jacket with a zipper and a forest
green corduroy collar. Yeah, for sure! Blue jacket, green collar, sailboat.” He
stopped again, frowning slightly like he was trying to remember more details.
“Oh! And he was wearing sunglasses, the mirrored kind that I hate because you
end up looking at tiny miniatures of yourself.”

“What about his hair?”

“Um, maybe brown. Or dark blonde.
Kind of like my wife’s hair. But he was wearing a baseball cap.”

I quickly pictured Frannie Drake
and made a mental note of her hair color.

“Hey!” Colin’s sideways grin told
me he’d remembered something else. “Speaking of his hair color, the guy also
had a mustache. It was one of those old-fashioned handlebar types; bushy and
the tips were waxed so they curved up.”

I nodded. “Okay. He had a
mustache.”

Colin’s eyes sparked with glee.
“But it looked…well, it looked weird. Like it might’ve been fake. You know—the
kind you glue on if you’re dressing up for Halloween?”

“Do you think he was wearing a
disguise then?” I asked. “I mean, since Halloween’s more than six months away?”

“Could be,” he answered. “We get
all types in here, though. Young kids, old codgers, amateurs from the community
theater over on Folsom who think they’re the next Meryl Streep or Robert
DeNiro. Now that you’re asking me about him, I guess I didn’t really think much
about the guy when he was in here. I just figured he was from the bank on
account of he was buying Mr. Craig’s lunch.”

I asked Colin if he noticed any
distinguishing marks on the man’s face.

“Like a scar?” he asked.

“Yes, a scar, birthmark or
discolorations in skin tone.”

“No scars,” he said. “But I do
remember a tattoo on the inside of his wrist. Oh, and this little gold ring on
his left hand.”

“What do you remember about the
tattoo?”

“It was black,” he said. “And it
was one word:
Love
.”

The remark triggered a hazy memory.
I just saw that tattoo
, I thought.
But where? And when?

“And that’s about it,” the deli
owner added. “I can’t really think of anything else worth mentioning.”

“That’s actually very thorough. And
with that tattoo, maybe our mystery man is a romantic kind of individual.”

Colin smirked. “Aren’t we all?”

“And what about the ring?” I asked.
“You said it was on his left hand, so was it like a wedding band?”

Colin shook his head. “No, it was
on his little finger…like a little gold ring with a black stone. He kept
fiddling with it the whole time I was making Mr. Craig’s sandwich.”

“Was it possibly a signet ring?”

He looked at me and smiled. “Am I
supposed to know what that is?”

“It just sounds like the type of
ring you described,” I said. “Gold with a flat, circular top, usually worn on
the little finger. Some have stones like you described, while others have an embossed
design on the flat part, like a crest or someone’s initials. They’re the sort
of rings that you can press into hot wax to seal an envelope or package flap.”

Colin grinned. “Well, I’m not
really a signet ring expert, Katie. This isn’t the kind of place where we seal
things with wax. We do it with scotch tape, a stapler or good, old-fashioned
glue!”

CHAPTER
18

Zack raised his glass of ale,
touched it against my wine goblet and gave me a quick kiss.

“Here’s to us!” he said brightly.

I sipped my chardonnay and put the
glass on the bar. We were at Bier Haus, enjoying two of their award-winning
sourdough pretzels and a lively conversation about destinations for our first
vacation as a couple. Our original plan had involved dinner at Café Fleur, but
there was a thirty-minute wait for a table and we didn’t have reservations.
We’d decided that cocktails and pretzels would suffice instead of French food
and white tablecloths.

Zack put one hand on my cheek. “It
feels like forever since I saw your beautiful face, Katie.”

 “You saw it last night as you
left my place,” I reminded him. “And this morning…” I tapped the phone in his
shirt pocket. “…in that delirious selfie that I sent you.”

He smiled, wide and dazzling and
tempting. “Delirious? Because your face was covered in flour?”

“That was Julia’s handiwork,” I
said. “We were quizzing one another about culinary history. It’s something she
started doing a couple of months ago.”

Zack frowned. “Really?”

“It can be pretty cool,” I said.
“Obviously, rugged and handsome photographers such as yourself may not be quite
as enamored of the idea, but people who spend lots of time baking and cooking
can really get into it.”

“Is this one of those ‘to each
their own’ kind of things?”

I nodded. “Most definitely.”

“But why’d you have flour on your
face?”

“Because I didn’t know the
connection between funerals and baking pies,” I said. “Julia bet me that I
couldn’t guess. If I won, she’d buy me dinner at Luigi’s.”

“And if you lost?”

“She’d dust my face and take a
picture,” I answered.

“That’s a pretty tame penalty,”
Zack said. “I guess you didn’t know the right answer, huh?”

I shook my head.

“So?” He smiled and drank more ale.
“What do funerals have to do with baking pies?”

“Coffins,” I said. “Centuries ago
in England, the crust of a pie was referred to as a coffin. They spelled it
differently than we do now, but that’s what it was called.”

“Seems kind of dark.”

“I agree,” I said, taking a sip of
wine. “Maybe we should talk about something else.”

“How about Cancun?”

“Is that where you want to go?”

He answered with a shrug.

“What?” I sipped my wine. “Does
that mean you don’t want to go to Mexico?”

“Not at all,” he said. “It means
that I don’t really care. If I’m by your side, I’ll be happy anywhere we go.”

“How about Loveland in July?”

“Here in Colorado?”

I smiled. “Yeah, right here.”

“Well, it’s not the most exotic
destination, but…” He leaned in, kissed me and put one hand on my thigh. “If
that’s what you want…” He squeezed my leg and planted his lips on mine again. “…then
that’s where we’ll go.”

“It’ll just be a daytrip,” I said.
“We’ll still have plenty of time for Cancun, too.”

“Sounds good. What’s in Loveland?”

“The annual Cherry Pie
Celebration!”

He smiled. “I’m okay with a slice
of cherry pie.”

“How about a slice of history,
too?” I teased. “Did you know that Loveland was once home to the largest cherry
orchard west of the Mississippi?”

“Is that so?”

“It was for a long time,” I said.
“I remember going with my parents when I was a little girl. And now that I’m
back in Crescent Creek, I thought it would be fun to revisit those old
memories.”

“And have some cherry pie?”

“Absolutely! They’ll have cherry
pie contests, a bunch of great bands and plenty of fun activities.”

“I’m up for it, gorgeous!”

I held out my hand. He looked at it
for a brief moment before realizing that I wanted to shake on our first
vacation destination as a couple.

“You’re a pip, Katie Reed!” he
said, squeezing my hand and pulling me in close. “And I’m glad you’re
my
pip!”