An Imitation of Murder (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 9) (11 page)

CHAPTER
26

The cryptic text from my sister
arrived about a half hour before I hit the Denver city limits.

Coffee @ 5:45
, she wrote.
CM
on Larimer?

I quickly typed a reply:
CM?

Olivia’s lightning fast fingers
zapped the answer back in a flash:
Cuppa Mud!!!

When I pulled up in front of the
coffee shop about forty-five minutes later, my sister was leaning against the
bike rack near the front door. She was wearing a flattering pink-and-blue
peasant dress and cute wedge sandals, looking carefree and cheerful. But after
I got out of the car and walked toward her, the jovial grin flattened into a
disapproving sneer.

“You’re late!” she groaned.

I gave her a hug and pecked her
cheek.

“Traffic was a beast,” I said. “How
are you?”

“I hate the world so much right
now,” she muttered.

“Okay…”

“I mean, do you know what happened
this morning?” she continued. “Do you know how mad I am?”

Since answering the second question
was easier, I tackled it first.

“Yeah, Liv,” I said, inching
closer. “I’ve seen you this mad a few gazillion times before, especially when
we were kids and someone teased you about your braces or the fact that Dale
Ardsley and that skinny redheaded kid stole your training bra from—”

“Don’t talk about
that
!” she
hissed. “This is much, much worse!”

I gestured at the front door of the
coffee shop. “Want to get something to drink?”

Her mouth opened and closed twice
before she gave up and simply nodded. I followed her inside, gently guided her
to a table and then went to the counter. While the barista prepared our
drinks—a macchiato with caramel syrup for Olivia and a cappuccino for me—I
decided to add a PB&J sandwich so we’d have something to nibble. Nana Reed
had taught me long ago that food could often help if there were difficult
subjects to discuss.

When I carried the drinks and
sandwich to our table a few minutes later, my sister was glaring angrily at an
email on her phone.

“Here we go,” I said. “Something to
drink and something to eat.”

She glowered at the sandwich.
“What’s that?”

“I got it in case you’re hungry,” I
said. “It’s peanut-almond butter, date-balsamic jam and chèvre on—”

“Oh,
gross
!” she hissed.
“That sounds disgusting, Katie! Why can’t people just make regular stuff
anymore? Why do we need to have all of these stupid things like date-balsamic
jam and craft beer and those ridiculous Spanx bodysuits that make it impossible
to breathe and the—”

I clamped one hand on her arm.
“Hey, relax! Take a breath there, okay? What is going on with you today?”

She slumped forward in her chair.

“Are the kids okay?” I asked.

She answered with a silent nod.

“What about Cooper?” I said
quietly. “Are you guys fighting or something?”

“Cookie shop,” she whispered.
“Somebody else bought the cookie shop that I wanted.”

It had been a while since Olivia
had announced that she planned to buy an existing cookie bakery in Denver. I
didn’t understand how she expected to take on such a monumental project while
continuing to juggle all of her existing personal and professional
responsibilities, but my sister had always been hard-working, smart and
stubborn. If she had a personal coat of arms, it would definitely feature the
words
Laboriosi
,
Ipsum
and
Contumacem
inside regal scrolls
with stylized images of a wine glass, an eyelash curler, a pair of skinny jeans
and her ULTA Beauty rewards card.

“Do you know who bought it?” I
asked, regretting the question when I saw the look on her face. “Okay. Okay.
Just forget I mentioned that. Do you know if—”

“Polly Tyson,” Olivia hissed.

The name was vaguely familiar, but
it took a moment for my fatigued brain to dredge up the details.

“The paralegal at the law firm?” I
said.

Liv nodded. “Yeah. She is such a cow.”

“What happened?” I asked. “Did she
overhear you and swoop in to claim it for herself?”

“Basically,” my sister answered. “I
only told a couple of people. Like, Tina from accounting. Remember her? You
guys met at that wine and cheese thing that Cooper and I did a couple of months
ago?”

When she paused for a reply, I
nodded energetically even though I had no memory of Tina from accounting. Or a
wine and cheese party that my sister and brother-in-law had hosted. But I
wasn’t about to confess to a faulty memory. My objective was to somehow cheer
up my sister before I had to climb back in the car and head to Luxury by
Kenton.

“And I told Anthony Schmitt,” she
said. “He’s a partner at the firm.”

“Do you think Tina or Anthony told
Polly about your plans?”

My sister swallowed hard, battling
the tears that were welling in her eyes.

“I just wanted one thing that could
be mine,” she said in a hoarse, trembling tone. “I mean, is that too much to
ask?”

I’d seen my sister get exceedingly
emotional before, and it was always about major life events: when Cooper
proposed, their wedding day, when she graduated from law school or the birth of
their sons. Otherwise, she was generally reasonable and reserved, traits that
served her well in the legal profession.

“Are you going to eat any of the sandwich?”
she asked.

“I’m fine,” I said, pushing the
plate across the table. “Help yourself.”

As she nibbled on the PB&J,
taking tiny, rabbit-like bites and chewing with keen concentration, I launched
into a quick rundown of a few reasons losing the cookie shop to someone else
was a good thing.

“You’ll save money,” I said. “And
calories. Do you know how many pounds I’ve gained since taking over Sky High
Pies?”

She patted her lips with a napkin.
“Fifteen or so?” she guessed. “And I’m glad you brought it up, Katie. The pants
you were wearing the last time I was in Crescent Creek looked a little tight in
the butt.”

“Fifteen?” I said in disbelief.
“More like four!”

My sister winked. “I’m teasing,”
she said. “Isn’t that a good sign? That I’m able to joke around?”

“I suppose so,” I agreed. “But I
wish it was about another subject.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. You look
fine.” There was a brief pause and another sly wink. “But I wouldn’t wear those
pinstriped slacks again until you’ve dropped a few.”

I sat and watched as she finished
the sandwich. Then her phone rang and she checked the screen.

“It’s Cooper,” she said. “I’ll call
him back later.”

“You guys are okay, though?” I
asked.

She smiled at the mention of her
husband.

“Did I tell you what Coop got me to
make up for the bakery?” Liv asked.

“Not yet.”

She held out her right hand. The
ring finger glinted with something bright and shiny. When I got closer to
inspect her new gift, my eyes ricocheted between the ring and my sister’s happy
face.

“Wow!” I said. “That’s what I call
a rock!”

She giggled. “Isn’t it nice?”

“Uh, ‘nice’ doesn’t do it justice,
Liv. That thing is the size of a satellite dish. I can’t believe you weren’t
tilting to the right as you walked in here.”

“I’m a lucky woman,” she said,
flashing a grin that was wide and relaxed and sincere. “I love my new ring, but
I really wanted that cookie shop.”

“You’ll be fine without it,” 
said. “Plus, you know some other wild idea will come along soon enough.”

CHAPTER 27

Luxury by Kenton was located on Peña
Boulevard just south of the Denver airport in a nondescript building
surrounded by gleaming cars and SUVs. I felt slightly self-conscious leaving my
vintage Ford Taurus—replete with a dented hood and EAT MOR CHIKIN bumper
sticker—anywhere near the vehicles gleaming beneath the parking lot lights. But
I figured my visit would be brief and the dingy brown sedan would be seen by
very few upper crust travelers in the market for an expensive set of wheels.

Walking through the door, I stepped
into a hushed, refined elegance. The air was lightly fragranced with the faint
aroma of floral perfume. The floors were a polished black marble, several
potted palms stood like regal sentries around the perimeter and soft jazz
played softly in the background. As I gaped at the spotless interior and tried
to count the number of high-class cars in the lot outside, a woman dressed in a
sleek burgundy dress suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

“Good evening, ma’am,” she said
with a delicate British accent. “Are you leasing a vehicle today?”

I’d decided on the drive down to Denver
that a modest amount of subterfuge might expedite my visit to the car rental
agency. I didn’t want to engage in blatant lies, but I hoped that a few subtle
questions or implied references might help to reveal the identity of whoever
drove the Aston Martin from the airport to Crescent Creek.

“Well, actually,” I said, looking
for a name tag, “uh…are you Charlotte by any chance?”

Her lacquered lips briefly flirted
with the idea of smiling before returning to their original inert position.

“I’m Jennifer,” she said. “There’s
no one with our firm by the name of Charlotte.”

I made a face. “See? I knew Mr.
Bickerton’s New York assistant was confused.”

The woman’s left eyebrow lifted.
“Do you work with Mr. Bickerton?”

I smiled. “Oh, do you know him?” I
asked. “I just left the gallery in Crescent Creek an hour or so ago.”

So far, so good. The first part was
pure fiction, and the second was more or less true.

“I’ve heard that it’s quite nice,”
Jennifer said. “Although I haven’t visited yet. I’m fairly new to the area.”

“Oh, you should definitely go!” I
gushed. “The current exhibition features some really inventive paintings by a
man called—”

“Vito Marclay!” she said excitedly.
“He’s genius. Just pure genius. My husband and Vito have become rather friendly
since we moved to the area. Whenever his guests come to visit the studio, Vito
always calls us to take care of their transportation needs.”

The glimmer in her eye seemed to
indicate a fondness for the artist, and the elevated vibrato in her voice
sounded like there was a dash of celebrity worship just below the surface.

“Does Vito have any friends in from
out of town this week?” I asked.

She pursed her lips. “Not that I’m
aware of.”

“Well, how about Mr. Bickerton?” I
said. “Oscar told me…oh, you must know Oscar, right? The fellow that runs the
gallery?”

She nodded faintly. “He’s been in a
few times,” she said. “Mostly to dispute invoices or complain about some tiny
bits of dirt on the hood of a car or something.”

A phone rang in the distance.

“Oh, sorry,” she said. “I’m
expecting an important call. Will you excuse me for a brief moment or two?”

I smiled and she hurried across the
polished floor and around the corner into an office. I heard her voice rise and
fall as she talked to the caller. While she was gone, I casually drifted over
to the desk tucked between two towering ficus trees.

I noticed a pair of black leather
binders sitting beside a rack of Luxury by Kenton brochures. One of the folders
was labeled
CURRENT
and the other was
PENDING
.

“Just one peek,” I whispered.

Before I had a chance to
second-guess the idea, I quickly leaned across the desk, lifted the front of
the
CURRENT
binder and scanned the list of customer names and vehicles.
My gaze raced from one entry to the next, searching for a reference to an Aston
Martin. As I examined the records, I heard the woman on the phone again.

“I will absolutely,” she said. “But
can you wait a few minutes? I have someone in the showroom.”

I went back to the list, skimming
down the entries until I saw a neatly printed notation:
D. BACH—Aston Martin
Vanquish Volante (7 days, 6 nights
),
Range Rover Sport (7 days, 6
nights)
.

“Yes, that sounds wonderful,” the
woman said in the next room. “And I promise—”

I quickly closed the binder, made
certain it was in its original position and then moved briskly toward the
center of the room.

“—it will be in thirty minutes or
less,” she added. “And I’ll call you back at this number so we can sort things
out.”

When she appeared around the corner
again, her face was slightly flushed and she was taking a long, deep breath.

“My apologies, ma’am,” she said,
regaining her composure.

“Everything alright?” I asked.

She smiled, but it was cheerless.
“It will be. Now then, what can I help you with?”

“Yes,” I said. “I wanted to inquire
about renting a particular type of Aston Martin.”

Her eyes widened and her chin
lifted slightly. “A
very
good choice, ma’am.”

“It’s the Vanquish Volante,” I
continued. “Of course, I don’t know anything about exotic cars, but I was
checking on a few things for some friends. They were most curious to find out
if you handled that particular model.”

“We do,” the woman said. “But with
most of our elite makes and models, we generally have a limited number at any
time.”

“Oh, sure.” I gave her my most
patient, sympathetic smile. “They’re kind of like rare peacocks, aren’t they?”

“Well, I guess…” She blinked a few
times and glanced discreetly at the diamond watch on her slender wrist. “A rare
peacock that glides like a dream and surrounds the driver and passengers with
the utmost in luxury and comfort.”

The smile that followed was tense
and vacant. Since I’d overheard her conversation and knew that she had to
wrestle with some type of dubious task, I decided not to prolong the ruse.

“And, tell me,” I said. “Do you
have that particular type of peacock available this evening?”

She frowned, but her forehead
remained as motionless and level as the surface of a tranquil lake.
“Unfortunately, we only have one Aston Martin Vanquish Volante in our fleet,
and it’s already under contract to another client.” She paused, reversing the
frown into a dreary grin. “How about a Porsche 911 or a Maserati Quattroporte?
They’re both available as we speak.”

“A Maserati Quattroporte?” I said.
“That sounds like a pasta dish with four cheeses.”

The smile on her face quivered as
she made a sound that I imagined qualified for laughter in her world.

“That’s
so
funny,” she said
in a lifeless monotone. “If you’re interested in either the Porsche or the
Maserati, we can adjust the fee since your first choice wasn’t available this
evening.”

Because I loved a bargain no matter
what the item, I had to ask for the discounted price.

“Now, this special rate is only
because the Aston Martin was unavailable,” she explained. “But we can adjust
the day charge and throw in free insurance coverage so that your Porsche or
Maserati would be only ten thousand for the first twenty-four hours and
sixty-five hundred for each additional day.”

I felt my mouth sag open and my
head drift back on my neck.

“Wow! That’s
such
a great
bargain! Why don’t I go outside and think about it? If I feel it’s the right
fit, I’ll come back in so we can take care of the paperwork.”

She gave her sparkly wristwatch
another quick glance.

“That sounds
so
perfect,” she
said. “I know you’ll
love
whatever you select.”

“Oh, I agree,” I said, reaching out
to shake her hand. “Thanks so much.”

After I left the showroom, crossed
the parking lot and climbed into my car, I started laughing.

“Ten grand?” I said to my
reflection in the rearview mirror. “For a rental car? For a single day?”

I was still chuckling a few moments
later when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the name, but the area code was
familiar. Someone from New York City was calling, so I quickly swiped the
screen, pressed the phone to my ear and offered a cheery greeting.

“Miss Reed?” said a man with a
gravelly voice.

“Yes,” I answered. “This is Kate
Reed.”

For a brief moment or two, I
imagined it was a Sky High customer. Maybe someone who was visiting a relative
in Crescent Creek calling to place a special order. Or a tourist staying in
town for a few days who had questions about our menu. But when the man spoke
again, he left my mind reeling and icy chills coiling around my heart.

“If you want to know the truth about
Vito Marclay and your friend Pia Lincoln,” he said, “meet me in the cocktail
lounge at Crescent Creek Lodge tomorrow night at nine.”