An Imitation of Murder (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 9) (13 page)

CHAPTER
31

My glass of merlot sat untouched
beside my purse as the man in the white polo stood at the opposite end of the
bar. As soon as we left Connie and went into the lounge, he’d waved the
bartender over, told him that my drink would be on his room charges and then
excused himself to talk with an older woman sitting alone.

“You forgot something,” I’d called,
pointing at the spot where he’d left his phone beside a tumbler filled with
scotch on the rocks and a pack of American Spirit cigarettes.

“I trust you,” he’d said. “Be right
back.”

While I waited for him to return, I
kept my eyes on the cigarettes. It was the same brand June Calloway had carried
at Blanche Speltzer’s the other night. Since I’d checked online to confirm that
fact, I also knew that the cigarette butt tipped with red lipstick that I’d
seen at Vito Marclay’s was also a match for the smokes sitting on the bar.

When it was obvious my mysterious
friend wasn’t coming back anytime soon, I decided to check my voice messages.
There wasn’t anything urgent, so I slipped the phone back into my purse and
gave the guy a quick sideways glance. He and the woman were engaged in a
somewhat heated conversation. I watched for a few seconds, trying to determine
who was being more assertive, but then I decided to turn away in case he looked
over. As I started to swivel my barstool in the opposite direction, the man’s
phone vibrated on the countertop.

“Don’t be rude,” I whispered to
myself.

I resisted temptation for exactly
three seconds. Then I quickly glanced at the display on the phone.

“Liza Canfield,” I said under my
breath. “Why is Pia’s sister calling this guy?”

I was concentrating so intently on
the question that I didn’t hear the man’s footsteps until he was standing
beside me.

“Sorry about that,” he said,
sitting on the next stool. “Family business with difficult clients. Can we
begin again?”

I smiled, but didn’t say anything.

“My name is Desmond Bach,” he said.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I’m working on a story about someone
who lives in Crescent Creek, and I’d heard that you would be a good source.”

“You’re a journalist?” I said. “Can
you tell me why you wanted to talk and why you were so guarded on the phone
last night?”

He smiled. “Me? Guarded?”

“Very,” I said. “And you know it.
Now, why don’t we cut to the chase, Mr. Bach?”

The smile grew even wider and
brighter. “I’d prefer it if you used my first name,” he said with a gravelly
rasp.

“And I’d prefer it,” I replied, “if
you would just tell me what you know about Pia Lincoln.”

His smile darkened. “And Vito
Marclay?” he said. “Or don’t you care about him?”

I ignored the remark and asked Bach
to tell me what he knew about my friend’s whereabouts.

“If you’re a journalist,” I said,
“does their disappearance have something to do with Vito’s past in New York?”

He smiled. “I’m not really a
journalist. But you’d be surprised how willing some people are to talk about
Vito Marclay when they think it’ll put their name in a newspaper article.”

The man’s hoax was one of the
oldest tricks in the book. He’d claimed to be a reporter working on a profile
of Marclay. Under such false pretenses, it was understandable that some local
residents would be duped into revealing whatever information they knew about
Vito.

“Why are you so interested in Vito
Marclay?” I asked.

He laughed at the question, but
made no attempt to answer.

“Is Vito in some kind of trouble?”

The man smiled. “Now you’re getting
more to the point.”

“That’s good,” I said. “So, what’s
the deal? Does he owe you money?”

“He owes us his life,” Bach said,
taking a sip of his drink. “If we hadn’t rescued him in New York, he wouldn’t
be here today.”

I waited while he finished the
scotch and put the glass back on the bar.

“What happened in New York?” I
asked.

Bach groaned. “Has anyone ever told
you that you ask too many questions?”

“All the time,” I said. “But that’s
never stopped me.”

“Excellent,” he said, leaning
toward me and lowering his voice. “I like tenacious women, Miss Reed.”

I clenched my teeth, but kept calm.
If Desmond Bach knew Pia’s whereabouts, the last thing I wanted to do was
provoke him with a dismissive reply.

“Why are you looking for Mr.
Marclay?” I asked as he signaled the bartender for another drink.

“Listen,” Bach said. “The important
thing is I know that your friend is safe at the moment.”

“Where?” I asked.

He snickered softly. “You really
are aggressive, aren’t you?”

I loathed his tone as much as his
silky, smug grin. But I’d met guys like him in Chicago while working as a
private investigator. Handsome, urbane men who think all women quiver like
Jell-O when they walk into a room.

“What’s going on?” I said firmly.
“I’m beginning to get the sense that you’re playing some type of game here.”

He shook his head. “A game? That’s
the last thing on my mind, Miss Reed. I’m all business, all the time.”

“Well, that’s something,” I told
him. “Now, what’s going on with my friend? Where is Pia? And do you know what
happened to Vito?”

“Why don’t I ask the questions?” he
said. “And you can provide me with the answers.”

I took a deep breath, lifted my
chin and locked eyes with the insolent stranger.

“That’s better,” Bach said.

The bartender arrived with his
fresh drink, so I waited while he took a few sips.

“What do you think I know?” I said
when he put down the glass again.

He smiled. “Oh, don’t be modest,”
he said. “You’re an exceptionally smart woman, Miss Reed. I know you’re very
popular here in Crescent Creek, and your family’s business is some kind of
local landmark. I know you spent a decade working as a private detective for a
man named Rodney Alexander back in Chicago. And I know you helped him crack the
Bryan Diaz case exactly four year ago this month.”

“The artwork stolen from a house in
Park Ridge?”

“Which you and Mr. Alexander
recovered after very diligent and borderline illicit activities,” Bach said
with a haughty sneer.

“Rodney and I never did anything
illegal,” I said firmly. “We were always within the law, no matter what the
case or clients.”

He flashed an icy grin. “The
definition of ‘within the law’ can be open to interpretation, don’t you think?”

I wasn’t going to dignify the
remark, so I sipped my wine and waited for Bach’s next move.

“Here’s the thing,” he said after a
brief, uncomfortable silence. “I have nothing against you, Miss Reed. I know
that your heart and soul are now invested in your little café. But I’m also
aware that your sense of loyalty and unwavering belief in justice have put you
in risky situations on more than one occasion.”

“Is now one of those occasions?” I
asked, hoping to force his hand.

But instead of answering
straightaway, he drank some of his scotch and picked up his phone. He casually
swiped at the screen, tapped a couple of times and then held it toward me.

“I don’t think this situation is
necessarily risky or dangerous for you,” he said as I studied the unexpected
image. “But the same can’t be said for everyone.”

The photo on the screen showed Pia
on a bed. She was dressed in a gray sweatshirt, faded jeans and bulky white
cotton socks. Her wrists and ankles were tied with white rope. The expression
on her face was one of sheer terror: eyes wide, furrowed brow and ashen skin.

When I glanced up, Bach held one
finger to his lips.

“I know you want to say something,”
he told me, lowering his voice. “But right now is the time for you to simply
listen.”

I felt my pulse quicken and spikes
of adrenaline ricochet through my body. A dull pounding had suddenly started in
my ears, a persistent and steady drumbeat of fear and rage and helplessness.

“Very good,” Bach whispered. “Like
I said, you’re a smart woman. And a quick study. If you want to see your friend
again…” He leaned closer, finishing the threat in a hoarse whisper. “…you’ll
stop looking for Pia Lincoln and Vito Marclay. To do otherwise would possibly
put your life at risk and ensure that your friend won’t be seen again.”

CHAPTER
32

After a few more tense minutes of
conversation with Desmond Bach, I walked outside, got into my car and called Trent.
When it landed in voicemail on the third ring, I left a message and explained
that I had something to tell him about Pia and Vito.

“Come on, big guy,” I’d muttered,
staring at the idle phone in my hand. “Call me back.”

After ten minutes of silence, I
dialed Dina Kincaid, hoping that she’d answer and feeling my heart grow a
little heavier when I heard her outgoing greeting begin.

“You’ve reached Detective Dina
Kincaid with the Crescent Creek Police Department,” she announced in her clear,
immaculate voice. “I’m sorry that I can’t take—”

I dropped the call and put the
phone on the seat. Then I drove home through the empty streets, thinking about
Pia and Vito and Desmond Bach. He’d warned me not to alert the CCPD, but I was
hardly going to play by his rules. Despite asking several times, he’d refused
to divulge anything meaningful about himself or the reason for his visit to
Crescent Creek.

After I arrived home around
ten-thirty, I made a cup of tea, grabbed my laptop and climbed into bed to
record notes about the case and my conversation with Bach.

I documented everything from the
past two days: the original call from Pia, the scene at Vito Marclay’s house,
the second call from Pia and her subsequent disappearance.

Then I started a separate list
about Desmond Bach. I knew that he had rented an Aston Martin and Range Rover
from the luxury car outfit near the Denver airport. Based on Pia’s Instagram
post, I was aware that the Aston Martin was parked in front of Vito’s house
when she arrived the other day. And I also knew that Bach’s language, demeanor
and obvious knowledge about my work as a PI in Chicago suggested that he was
skilled at conducting these sorts of cloak and dagger campaigns.

“What else do we know?” I whispered,
thinking of my friend’s terrified expression in the photo on Desmond Bach’s
phone. “We know Pia’s being held somewhere. And we know it’s about Vito. And
there’s the—”

My mind skittered back to the
photograph of Pia with her wrists and ankles bound. There was something
strangely familiar about the fabric beneath her, the floral pattern and
aquamarine tones and—

“The Moonlight!” I suddenly
blurted. “She’s at the Moonlight!”

I’d never stayed at the local motel
before, but I’d been inside the rooms once or twice to visit friends. The décor
was dated and scruffy: nicked furniture, worn carpeting, inexpensive framed
prints featuring landscapes and still life paintings.

But the most important thing was
the floral bedspread in the picture of Pia. It was definitely the same bedding
used at the Moonlight. Since my friend from high school managed the
family-owned motel, I decided to see if he was working at the front desk.

“Thank you for calling the
Moonlight Motel,” Earl Dodd said after answering. “How can—”

“Earl!” I blurted. “It’s Kate Reed.
I need your help.”

He hesitated for a moment before
snickering and asking why I sounded so frantic.

“Because my friend’s life is in
danger,” I said breathlessly. “And I think she’s being held at the Moonlight.”

While I waited for him to respond,
I noticed someone else jabbering in the background. It took me two seconds to
identify the voice: it was Julia Child, warbling away about roast suckling pig.
I’d watched the same classic episode of
The French Chef
enough times to
know exactly what she was saying at any given moment.

“Earl?” I said. “Can you please
turn that off?”

The famous chef’s voice stopped in
mid-sentence.

“I thought you liked Julia Child,”
Earl said. “Did you know her old stuff is on YouTube? I’m trying to learn how
to—”

“Earl!” My voice was high-pitched
and aggressive. “Would you
please
stop talking about Julia Child?”

He offered a hushed apology and
then asked why I sounded so hysterical.

“Have you seen Pia?” I asked.

“The caterer?”

“Yes, Pia Lincoln. I can’t go into
the details right now, but I suspect she’s being held against her will in one
of the rooms at your motel.”

He chuckled softly. “Heck, Katie.
I’m being held against my will here, too. So I don’t—”

“It’s
not
a joke!” I yelled.
“She’s in trouble, Earl.”

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know exactly,” I answered.

“Did you call the cops?”

“Not yet,” I said. “But I have
reason to suspect that she’s being detained at the motel. I wanted to talk with
you and have a look around before I call it in.”

“I haven’t seen Pia in a long
while,” Earl said. “And I know what she drives and it’s not in the lot.”

“Well, maybe someone else drove her
there.”

Earl sighed. “I can’t go knocking
on every door, Katie. It’s almost midnight. Lucky for you that I’m working the
graveyard shift. Our new guy took off this week to—”

“Is there someone registered by the
name of Desmond Bach?” I interrupted. “He probably would’ve checked in a couple
of days ago.”

“Dexter
what
?”

“No, it’s Desmond Bach,” I said,
carefully enunciating every syllable. “Like the composer.”

“Can you give me a sec?” Earl
asked. “My dad’s been working afternoons. I know that at least three people
checked in two days ago before I came on duty.”

The computer keys clicked softly in
the background as Earl searched through the registration details on the motel’s
guests.

“I don’t have anybody by that first
name,” he said, coming back to the phone. “But there is someone with the last
name Bach in Room 108.”

“Are they from New York?” I
asked.              

“Uh-huh,” Earl said. “They showed
my dad a New York driver’s license when they checked in.” He whistled into the
phone. “And they used a Palladium Card to charge the room.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“A Palladium Card?”

“Yes, Earl. What is it?”

“It’s a Visa,” he answered. “But
not the regular kind. You need to have liquid assets of more than, like,
twenty-five million bucks before they give you one.”

“I guess that’s something I won’t
have to worry about in the near future,” I said.

Earl laughed. “That makes two of
us, Katie.”

“Do you know what the person in
that room is driving?” I asked.

“Um…”

“It’s okay if you don’t know,” I
said.

“No, that’s cool,” Earl said. “I’m
sure my dad made a note. Let me see if…” I heard the keyboard clicking again.
“Aha! I’ve got it for you right here. My dad’s note says that the person was
driving a silver sedan with a rental agency sticker on the windshield.”

“Did he make a note of the agency
name?” I asked.

“No, sorry. Do you want me to go
outside in the parking lot and look?”

“That’s okay, Earl,” I said. “I’m
pretty sure that’s our guy. And my guess is he has Pia in that room.”

“Should I call 911 or something?”
he asked.

“Not yet,” I said. “I’m going to
drive over. I’ll be there in less than fifteen.”

“Got it, Katie,” Earl said. “I’ll
watch for you.”

As soon as I hung up, I jumped out
of bed, hurriedly changed my clothes and raced for the kitchen. My heart was
pounding as I scooped up my purse and keys from the counter where I’d left them
earlier. I had a hunch that Pia was at the Moonlight and Desmond Bach was
holding her there while he tried to find Vito Marclay.

On the drive across town, I
considered sending a quick text to Trent and Dina. But then I decided to wait
until I’d reached the motel and assessed the situation.

“Just keep your eyes open,” I said
repeatedly as I raced through the night. “And stay calm.”