Murder for Millions (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 7) (6 page)

CHAPTER
12

An hour after Viveca and I left
Café Fleur, I was curled on the sofa in the living room at home with a chunky
chenille throw over my legs and the dog-eared copy of
And Then There Were
None
that I found in the Sky High dining room a few days earlier. A glass
of milk and a plate with two chocolate chip cookies sat nearby on the coffee
table—ready, willing and able to comfort me at a moment’s notice.

It was bliss in a nutshell:
something to read, something to eat and drink, the comfy gray blanket, the
front door locked and the still, dark night on the far side of the windows.

As I finished the first chapter of
the Agatha Christie classic, my phone chirped somewhere beneath the chenille
coverlet.

“Excuse me, Miss Christie,” I said,
closing the book. “That’s my cue.”

When I unearthed the phone and
glanced at the screen, the idyllic late night scenario moved a few miles closer
to perfection. My beloved was calling from Los Angeles.

“Hey, beautiful,” Zack said. “How’s
your night?”

“Better now. How are you?”

“Exhausted and ready to crash. We
started this morning at five and literally just got back to the hotel.”

“Is the shoot going well?”

“As well as you can expect. The
creative director for the ad agency decided to flip the script about an hour
after we started today. That sent everyone into orbit.”

“Including you?”

He didn’t say anything.

“Are you doing okay?”

“It’s fine,” Zack answered. “Goes
with the territory. I’ve worked with the guy before, so I know what to expect.
It was a lot harder on the rest of the crew; they’re Chet Hardy newbies, so I
saw a few tears, a couple of heated arguments and the aftermath of a craft
services food fight.”

“Sounds pretty crazy.”

He laughed. “
Was
pretty
crazy. But hearing your voice is making me feel a whole lot better.”

“Happy to oblige, handsome.”

“Thanks, babe. I know it’s late,
but I really wanted to check in and wish you sweet dreams.”

“That’s so exactly how I like to
end the day.” I closed my eyes and pictured his face: dimpled chin, ice blue
eyes, tapered nose, short jet-black hair. “I can’t wait until you’re home
again.”

“Ditto that,” he said. “How was
your day? I wanted to call when I got your text earlier, but we were at dinner
with the clients. What’s the latest on the fire?”

“Trent and his crew from the
Crescent Creek PD are working on it.”

“How’s Ira doing?”

“So-so. I guess someone thumped him
on the head pretty hard before they lit the blaze. Luckily, the first responders
on the scene pulled him to safety in time.”

Zack whistled. “Sounds like it was
a close call, huh?”

“Completely,” I agreed. “But Trent
told me that Ira wasn’t too badly injured and he’s got great insurance. From
the buzz I heard around town, he’ll have more than enough to rebuild and get
right back to business as soon as possible.”

“He’s tenacious,” Zack said.

“Whoa, tiger! That’s a pretty big
word for me this late at night.”

He laughed; the melodious and husky
sound sent tendrils of warmth to my core.

“I miss you,” he said, nearly
whispering. “I may never take a weeklong assignment again.”

“I miss you, too.”

We let the tender moment linger,
riding the gentle waves of affection for a few silent moments.

“What are you wearing?” Zack asked
as I opened my eyes and reached for the glass of milk.

I glanced down at my wrinkled, tattered
Ghostbusters T-shirt. It was one of my favorite things to sleep in, as roomy
and soft as any flannel nightgown. There was a stain of indeterminate origin on
one sleeve and the thread along the bottom seemed to be unraveling even as we
spoke.

“A pink lace negligee,” I said,
doing my best to sound sultry. “With a little bedazzling along the cleavage and
a keyhole cutout that leaves very little to the imagination.”

Zack laughed again. “Broncos or
Ghostbusters?” he said. “You left the pink thingy at my place the other day,
Katie.”

I smiled at his sense of humor and
the impeccable memory. “I can answer that question in four words,” I said. “Who
you gonna call?”

He murmured softly. “I love you in
that one, gorgeous. It hugs all of your curves in just the right way.”

My face tinged pink. “Thank you,
handsome. And what are you wearing?”

“A smile,” he said, the gravelly
texture of his voice elevating the pale pink in my cheeks toward a more robust
crimson. “And a towel around my waist.”

I laughed. “Always the perfectly stylish
gentleman, Mr. Hutton. Ready for every occasion, no matter what the dress code.”

I heard him yawn.

“Sounds like somebody’s ready for
bed,” I said. “Why don’t we call it a night and talk in the morning?”

“Works for me, gorgeous. Don’t stay
up too late reading whatever it is you’ve got there.”

“How’d you know I was reading?”

He chuckled again, but it was
swallowed by a cavernous yawn. “Because, Miss Reed,” he said eventually. “I
know a thing or two about you, beginning with the fact that you read to fall
asleep and you always have a book within reach.”

“I confess. I found an old Agatha
Christie downstairs the other day,
And Then There Were None
.”

“I don’t know that one,” he said,
stifling another yawn. “But tell me when I can read our story, okay?”

“What’s that going to be called?” I
asked.

He made a sound deep in his throat,
the telltale hum of happiness and joy. “I think there’s only one title that’ll
work,” he said. “
And Then Two Became One
.”

CHAPTER
13

The sky overhead was brilliant
blue. Lush palm fronds fluttered gently in the breeze. Music played in the
distance and joyful laughter looped around the edges of the sun-splashed terrace.

“Another margarita, Miss Reed?”

I glanced up, my eyes locking on a
lean guy with tan skin, blue eyes and curly brown hair.

“Please,” I murmured. “And maybe
some sliced papaya?”

I was floating on a bright pink
raft in a swimming pool somewhere in the hills above West Hollywood.

“Of course,” he replied, flashing
his impossibly white teeth again as he disappeared from view.

I concentrated on the music,
laughter and the drowsy sensation of gliding on the surface of the pool as the
sun warmed my skin and—

An annoying clatter suddenly
cleaved the tranquil setting.

What is that noise?
I
thought, straining to banish the unwelcome disturbance from my peaceful trance.
Will someone please make it stop?

I put my hands in the water and
paddled toward the sound.

Who’s making that racket? How
can I enjoy the afternoon in the pool with Zack and his friends if—

My eyes flashed open. I was
facedown on the living room sofa in my apartment, the Agatha Christie book
tucked under one arm and the evidence of a late-night cookie feast on the
coffee table.

“Holy crackers!” I muttered,
groping under the gray chenille blanket for my phone. “I was just awake, like,
two seconds ago.”

I found the phone, glanced at the
screen and saw Trent’s name.

“Hey,” I croaked. “What’s going
on?”

“Hi, Katie. I know it’s late, but
you wanted me to call.”

I looked across the room at the
clock on the mantel. It was half past one.

“Oh, no worries,” I said, pushing
against the cushions so I could sit up. “How’d it go at the crime scene?”

“We finished for the night about
thirty minutes ago,” he answered. “The arson investigator will be out at
sunrise to take another look.”

“But your gut’s telling you it was
intentional?”

Trent grunted. “My gut,” he said. “Along
with Dell Anson’s initial thoughts. He found the point of origin in Ira’s
office. At least, what he suspects is the place where it started. There were
three one-gallon metal gas cans in there along with a very melted disposable
lighter.”

“Okay. That would suggest something
out of the ordinary, right?”

“Yeah, like someone really stupid
or clumsy is behind it.”

“Because they left the gas cans?”

“Uh-huh. And because they left a
wallet.”

“Inside Ira’s building?”

“No, it was about ten yards from
the backdoor,” Trent answered. “A black leather wallet with a driver’s license,
credit cards and about two hundred in cash.”

“Whose wallet was it?”

“Jacob Lowry.”

“And who is Jacob Lowry?”

“The dead guy we found in the
silver BMW with Utah plates,” Trent answered. “It was parked another ten yards
from the body shop behind a small shed. There was a room key for Crescent Creek
Lodge in his pocket along with a fat wad of hundred dollar bills which makes it
fairly certain that the motive wasn’t robbery.”

The announcement sent my mind
spinning into overdrive. I shifted again on the sofa, dropping my legs over the
edge and leaning against the pillows. The book I’d been reading slipped over
the edge and fell to the floor as I contemplated the news that Trent had
delivered in a casual, straightforward tone.

“Katie?”

“Yeah, I’m still here. I was just
trying to wrap my brain around that last little tidbit.”

He laughed quietly. “Pretty freaky,
right?”

“Well, you know how people are
always saying that Crescent Creek is a small town?”

“Mainly because it is,” Trent said.
“But the car’s owner actually reported it stolen earlier in the day.”

“Hold on,” I said. “The car that
had stolen plates was also reported missing?”

“You got it.”

“Who’s the owner?”

“A woman named Velma Lancaster,” he
said, sparking an image in my mind of the woman in pink leggings at the
Poke-A-Dot. “She called 911 from the Lodge. According to the dispatcher’s
notes, Mrs. Lancaster had loaned her car to a friend and he was supposed to
return it by seven o’clock.”

“Is her friend the man you found?”

“I can’t answer that yet,” Trent
said. “Dina and Tyler are going to the hotel first thing in the morning to talk
to her. What I do know for certain is that she left her car in the parking lot at
the hotel when she got back sometime this afternoon, and—”

“Probably after I saw her with
Boris Hertel at the Poke-A-Dot.”

“Maybe,” Trent said. “But she was
heading out to dinner around seven-thirty when she discovered that the BMW was
MIA.” He chuckled. “Did you catch that one, Katie?”

I groaned. “Yes, Trent. Very
clever. Tell me more about the stolen car.”

“There’s isn’t anything more,” he
said. “Mrs. Lancaster was unaware her car had stolen plates. Well, she
claimed
that she didn’t know about them. At this point, the whole thing is smelling a
little fishy, but Dina’s going to follow-up with the woman about her car and
alibi. It’s still ‘innocent until proven guilty,’ so we’ll take Mrs. Lancaster
at her word. At the moment, we’re concentrating on the fire at Ira Pemberton’s
and the dead SOB in the BMW.”

He paused, waiting for me to
acknowledge his second allegedly humorous use of two acronyms in a single
sentence. I waited patiently, hoping he’d let it go.

“And so, uh…” he hesitated,
sounding mildly irritated that I’d ignored his comic wit. “What do you think
about all of that?”

“The apparent arson and murder at
Pemberton’s?” I asked. “It sounds like one big mess for you to unravel.”

“And I wasn’t really in the mood
for a twofer,” he said. “We’ve got not only a suspicious blaze at Ira’s place,
but also a dead guy in the car you’d told me about less than twenty-four hours
before. Sounds kind of like six degrees of separation, doesn’t it?”

I agreed before asking what he knew
about Jacob Lowry.

“Well, we know he’s deceased,” Trent
said. “And we know someone wants us to believe that he’s responsible for the
fire.”

“What? Where did that come from?”

“The so-called suicide note,” Trent
answered. “It was in the car with him.”

“But you don’t buy it?”

“What—that he set the fire before
killing himself?”

“Right,” I said. “I can hear it in
your voice.”

As I pulled the chenille blanket
tighter around my legs, I listened to Trent tell me more about Jacob Lowry. He
was a local guy who moved to California for college and lived there for many
years. Before I could ask any follow-up questions, Trent explained why he
didn’t believe the man had killed himself. The justification seemed logical,
especially when he got to the part about the victim’s throat.

“I haven’t seen more than one or
two suicides,” he said, “but the medical examiner’s initial conclusion about
COD was strangulation.”

“Oh, come on,” I said. “Are you
making this up?”

When Trent didn’t answer, I knew
that I’d stepped over an invisible line.

“I’m sorry, Deputy Chief Walsh,” I
said, trying to sound remorseful. “Will you tell me more about the cause of
death?”

“It’s like I already said, Katie.
There was a suicide note. And the guy had been shot. But the ME believes that
Mr. Lowry was garroted with a piece of wire. Whoever did this is not only
overly optimistic, but they’re pretty dang ignorant. There was a wool scarf
wrapped around the man’s neck, covering up the strangulation marks. But we
found a bloody length of wire in the trash out back of Ira’s shop along with a
box of ammunition for the SIG Sauer P228 that was in the BMW.”

“Wow, that’s pretty twisted. Any
thoughts on why they tried to make it look like suicide?”

Trent scoffed. “Yeah, Katie. I
already covered that; overly optimistic and ignorant. There was a badly smudged
set of prints on the back of the note. We’re checking the system to see if we
can get a match.”

“How badly smudged?”

“What—on a scale of one to ten?”

When he paused for a reply, I kept
quiet. Then he eventually confessed that they were optimistic about getting a
match if the person was already in the database.

“Was that it, deputy chief?”

He chuckled softly. “For tonight,
yeah. I’m beat. But I promised you a call, so here I am.”

“I appreciate that,” I said. “Anything
more on Boris Hertel?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. It seems pretty
obvious that he’s involved, so…” I heard the unmistakable rustle of a potato
chip bag on the other end. “…so maybe we should see if he knows Jacob Lowry.”

Trent chomped in my ear for a
moment. Then he said, “
We
, Katie?”

I knew that he was doing his due
diligence to remind me that I wasn’t an official member of the Crescent Creek
Police Department. But I also suspected that he wouldn’t mind the thoughtful
contributions of a supportive and vigilant citizen if they happened upon any
evidence or eyewitnesses that might help solve the case.

“I’m just offering my services,” I
said after he inhaled another handful of salty snacks. “I know there’s a line
that I can’t cross.”

He laughed again. “Can’t?” he said.
“Or won’t?”

“How about this? If I hear of
anything that I think might be consequential, you’ll be the first person I tell.”

“I’m just giving you a hard time,
Katie. I know you’ve got a handle on these things. With your background as a PI
and the time or two that you’ve already helped us, I’d be happy to hear about
anything constructive that you come across.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Deal,” Trent said. “We’re most
interested in finding three things: the arsonist, the shooter and the gun that
was used to drill a hole through Mr. Lowry’s noggin.”

“Wait a sec. I thought you found a
SIG P228 in the car with the dead guy.”

“Well, we did,” Trent said. “But it
can’t be the gun they used because it hadn’t been fired lately.”

“No GSR?” I asked.

“Nope,” Trent said. “No gunshot
residue. Even more importantly, a steel insert had been welded into the
chamber.”

“Who would do something so
obvious?”

“A dodo bird,” Trent sniped.
“Clearly, whoever killed the guy didn’t really think through the details and
finer points of homicide. I’d guess it was an impulsive act and not premeditated.”

“This thing just keeps getting more
and more peculiar,” I said.

I waited while Trent ate another
mouthful of chips.

“Sorry about that, Katie,” he
mumbled finally. “I haven’t had anything since breakfast, so I’m pretty well
famished.”

“No problem,” I said. “Why don’t we
say goodnight? You can find something to eat, and I’ll try to get some sleep.”

“Happy snoring!” he said with a
laugh. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

I suddenly realized that I hadn’t
told Trent about Boris Hertel’s cryptic remarks at the Poke-A-Dot Lounge, but
before I could utter a sound the line was silent.

“Oh, well,” I said, sending him a
quick text summarizing the comments. “That—and everything else—will have to wait
until tomorrow.”