Murder for Millions (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 7) (8 page)

CHAPTER
17

An hour after Trent left, I was
back in the Sky High kitchen, sifting the dry ingredients for a batch of cranberry
walnut scones when Harper twirled through the swinging door.

“Call for you,” she said. “It’s a
foxy older woman in Florida.”

I put down the measuring spoons.
“Did she say what she wants?”

Harper made a face. “It’s your
mother,” she said. “I’ll bet she’s calling just to say she loves you.”

I glanced at Julia, giggling as she
rolled a batch of pie dough on the marble pastry board.

“Not a peep,” I warned. “I’m tired
of you guys teasing me about how often my parents call.”

Julia shrugged. “We’re just
jealous, Katie. We wish our mom and dad called us eight or ten times a day.”

Harper scoffed. “Speak for
yourself, Jules. If my mother calls once a week, it’s a miracle. She’s too busy
for her own kids now. Between book club, the bridge group, volunteer shifts at
the hospital and auditing lectures at the junior college, the old girl’s barely
got enough time to squeeze in dance lessons and Spanish class.”

“Your mom’s learning Spanish?”

“She and dad are going to Barcelona
and Madrid this fall,” Harper said, pushing on the door. “Retirement is
treating them very well.”

After she swooshed into the dining
room, I walked to my office and punched the blinking light on the phone.

“Well, heavens to Betsy!” my mother
exclaimed. “I’ve been waiting so long I nearly forgot who I’d called.”

“Hello, mother of mine. What’s
going on?”

“Well, your father’s snoring in his
chair and it’s raining cats and dogs. I feel like a caged animal.”

“Can’t you go out and sit on the terrace?”

“I suppose so,” my mother said.
“But then there wouldn’t be anything to complain about.” She paused and her
feathery laughter filled my ear. “Anyway, I was thinking about our last chat
and thought of something to tell you about Boris Hertel.”

I flopped into the chair and put my
feet on the desk. “I’m listening. What did you remember?”

“Betty Ford,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Boris Hertel went to that Betty
Ford place in California to stop drinking.”

“When was that?”

She made a little humming sound as
she tried to remember the date. “I think it was between your freshman and
junior year, sweetheart. Edith came by Sky High one afternoon. It was obvious
from the look on her face that something wasn’t right. When I asked, she
changed the subject. But eventually she opened up about it; Boris had flown out
to Rancho Mirage to the Betty Ford place.”

“It’s a clinic,” I said. “The Betty
Ford Clinic.”

My mother heaved a sigh. “Well,
whatever it’s called, that’s where Boris went. And he never touched another
drop of liquor.”

“But I heard he’s drinking heavily
again.”

“Who told you that?”

“Becca Warren,” I answered. “She’s
the bookkeeper at Poke-A-Dot. When we were talking about him the other morning,
she said that Boris is in the bar nearly every night of the week.”

“So? You can go into a bar and
order something besides alcohol, Katie.”

I considered the remark. She was
right. But it seemed that Becca would know if Boris was ordering club soda with
lime instead of scotch on the rocks.

“Okay,” I said after a moment.
“I’ll give you that. Maybe Boris doesn’t drink when he goes to the Poke-A-Dot.”

“It’s not a question of ‘maybe,’”
my mother said. “I trust Blanche Speltzer. And when I asked her last night if
Boris had fallen off the wagon, she seemed to suggest that he is most
definitely still dry as the Sarah Desert.”

“Do you mean the
Sahara
Desert,
mother?”

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

I knew better than to engage her in
a discussion about the subject. Besides, her point about Boris Hertel being
sober was far more interesting.

“Did you ask Blanche about his
drinking?” I said.

“It came up in conversation when
she called this morning,” my mother answered. “I like to keep in touch with a
few of our old friends in Crescent Creek even though we live down here now.”

“Keep in touch with your friends?”
I said. “Or talk to them so you can keep tabs on me?”

My mother laughed. “They aren’t
mutually exclusive, sweetie. Your dad and I just want to make sure you’re doing
a good job of carrying on the family tradition at Sky High.”

“And?”

“And what?” she said.

“Does Blanche Speltzer think I’m
doing a good job?”

I heard another warm, lighthearted
laugh. “Don’t you worry about it, doll. I wouldn’t want to put pressure on you
about being the third generation to run the place.”

“Uh-huh. And if I believe that, you
probably have a bridge to sell me, right?”

The line was quiet.

“Mother?”

“I’m still here, sweetie. I was
just trying to figure out what you were talking about.”

“Never mind, mom. It was a silly
joke.”

She groaned. “More like a lame one,
but that’s just one meager mother’s opinion.”

It was my turn to laugh. When I
finished, my mom told me to call Blanche Speltzer about Boris Hertel’s
sobriety. “Or,” she added, “you can also go right to the horse’s mouth.”

“You mean I should ask Boris?”

“If you don’t believe Blanche.”

“I’d never do that,” I said. “Seems
kind of tacky.”

“Hasn’t stopped you before.”

The barb came out of left field,
stinging slightly. “Ouch,” I said. “What was that about?”

“It’s nothing,” my mother said. “I
was just thinking about the time you called Dina Kincaid a few choice names
that should never cross the lips of most decent folks.”

“Yeah, because I was a teenager,” I
said. “And because she stole my boyfriend.”

“Look how well that turned out for
her.”

“I know, I know. But…” I heard
metal clattering on her end. “What’s that noise?”

“Silverware drawer. I’m looking for
my wedding ring.”

“Why’s it in with the silverware?”

“I took it off when I was doing the
dishes,” she told me. “If your father finds it on the counter, he puts it with
the soup spoons so it doesn’t get lost.”

I smiled at the image of my father
carefully stowing my mother’s diamond in the drawer instead of walking through
the condo and slipping it back on her finger.

“I’m going to have to hang up in a
sec,” my mother said. “I think the rain is stopping, and I’ve got a busy rest
of the day.”

“Okay, I won’t keep you.”

“I just wanted to let you know
about Boris,” she said. “According to my sources, he’s still sane and still
sober.”

“Then why did he smell like booze
the other morning?”

“Well, Katie,” she said. “There’s
at least one good way to solve that mystery.”

“Ask Boris?”

She laughed. “I was going to say
you should ask Blanche. She knows the old guy pretty well on account of they go
to the same shrink.”

“Oh, my goodness. That woman really
does have loose lips.”

“Not loose, dear. She’s very
careful who she shares things with.”

“Like you?”

“And you, Katie. I know you’ve
talked to Blanche about sensitive things a time or two.”

“That’s true,” I agreed. “Maybe I
should
ask her about Boris.”

“Well, then,” my mother said. “It
sounds like my work here is done. If you need to know anything at all about
Boris Hertel, give Blanche a call. Just don’t ask her any indelicate
questions.”

I suddenly understood what my
mother was talking about, and the realization left me speechless.

“Don’t judge,” she said.

“I’m not, but…isn’t he, like,
twenty years younger?”

My mother sighed. “Love is
timeless,” she said. “And it’s also ageless, Katie. Haven’t you heard of
May-December romances?”

“Sure, but I never…” I pictured
Blanche Speltzer in all of her eighty-year-old glory. “I guess that the
combination of Blanche and Boris never crossed my mind before.”

“Why should it?”

“You’re right. But I see Blanche at
least once or twice a week. She’s never mentioned that she was dating Boris
Hertel.”

“Have you asked her?”

“If she was dating him?”

She sighed again. “No, not
specifically. Have you asked if she’s dating anyone?”

“Oh, I get it. Because of her age…”
I left the rest of the thought unspoken. “I will though. I’ll stop by later and
take her a loaf of blueberry bread.”

My mother laughed softly. “Oh,
she’ll adore that! Blanche Speltzer and blueberry bread go together like—”

“Blanche and Boris?”

She laughed. “Alright, daughter of
mine,” she said. “I love you and I’ll talk to you soon!”

“I love you, too, mom. I’ll call
you in a couple of days.”

CHAPTER
18

It had been a long day: wave after
wave of lunch customers; three last-minute special orders for the next afternoon;
and, much to my amusement, an unannounced visit by the health inspector.
Luckily, we passed with flying colors, and I sent the overseer of all things
clean and sparkling on his way with a trio of banana cupcakes slathered in
cream cheese frosting.

I was in the walk-in cooler around three-thirty,
doing a quick inventory and listening to the gentle drone of the unit’s motor.
There was something comforting about the mechanical hum; the steady, smooth
rhythm always helped me concentrate on more mundane tasks like counting crates
of eggs, pounds of butter and containers of milk. As I prepared to tally the
remaining cartons of heavy cream, I heard my phone ringing on the kitchen
counter. I dropped the clipboard on a box of romaine lettuce, scooted out of
the walk-in and answered the call.

“What’s with all the heavy
breathing?” asked a man with a French accent.

I checked the display:
Deputy
Chief Walsh, CCPD
.

“What’s going on, Trent?”

The Pepé Le Pew imitator grumbled
something about fingerprints.

“Can you please speak English?”

He chuckled. “Where’s the fun in
that?”

“I don’t know about fun,” I said,
“but I’ll at least be able to figure out what the heck you’re talking about.”

“I already told you, Katie. I’m
talking about fingerprints.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“The prints we found on Jacob
Lowry’s suicide note,” Trent explained.

“I hope it’s good news.”

“Depends on how you look at it,” he
said. “The prints belong to a guy named Chuck LaMarche. He worked at Ira
Pemberton’s body shop for…” Papers ruffled in the background as he searched for
the details. “Okay, here it is. LaMarche was a mechanic at Ira’s place for
eleven years. He worked there from right after he came back from Afghanistan
until about six months ago when he left to open his own repair shop.”

“He’s a war vet?”

“One of our country’s finest,” Trent
said.

“Then why were his prints on the
forged suicide note left with an apparent murder victim?”

“Because LaMarche also handled some
of the paperwork for Ira,” Trent answered. “He didn’t do the actual books, but
he supervised orders, processed customer surveys and took care of other
administrative things like that. The sheet of paper was from the office in the
body shop, and his prints are in the system from his military service as well
as a bank teller job he had during college.”

“How does that relate to Jacob
Lowry’s murder?”

“It means we can rule out LaMarche
as a suspect,” said Trent.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “You
don’t think he did it because he quit working at the body shop six months
before Lowry was killed?”

Trent laughed. “No, Katie. I don’t
think he did it because the guy’s got an airtight alibi for the time of the
murder.”

“Good for him. Where was he?”

“Playing poker down in Frisco with
Denny Santiago and a couple of guys from the Colorado State Patrol.”

I smiled, picturing the look of
victory on Trent’s face. “Well, that’s pretty darn airtight. But it doesn’t do
much for the case.”

“We’re still working a few leads.
Dina’s following an anonymous clue that came in last night on the tip line, and
Tyler Armstrong’s about halfway through interviews with body shop customers.”

“You think one of Ira’s customers
might’ve killed Jacob Lowry?”

“Won’t know until Tyler’s
finished,” said Trent. “In the meantime, any chance you’ve got some of that
chocolate lava cake lying around?”

I laughed. “As a matter of fact, Julia
made a fresh one this afternoon before she left for the day.”

He whimpered with delight. “
J'adore
le gâteau au chocolat
,” he said in the phony Parisian twang.

“Yes, of course,” I said.
“Everybody knows you love chocolate cake, big guy. Do you want me to drop off a
piece later so you can scratch that itch?”

“
Mais bien sûr
!” he said.
“But of course!”

After I stopped laughing, I asked
why he was spicing up his usual act with choice French phrases.

“Our sister city’s sending a
delegation over for a visit next month,” he said. “I’m just practicing a few
things that I learned online.”

I’d never heard that Crescent Creek
had a sibling on the far side of the Atlantic. When I asked Trent to explain,
he promised to do so when I stopped by later with the chocolate cake.

“I’ll be there around six,” I said.

“
Mais bien sûr
!” he said
again. “
Mais bien sûr
!”

CHAPTER
19

Blanche Speltzer was watering the
potted geraniums on her front porch when I pulled up later that afternoon. I
climbed out of the car, called her name and brandished the loaf of blueberry
bread.

“This has your name on it!” I
called.

She waved for me to join her on the
porch. After I climbed the steps and presented the gift, Blanche invited me in
for a dirty martini.

“I’ll pass on the cocktail,” I
said, following her through the door. “I’m out running errands and need to keep
my wits about me. But I would love to chat for a few minutes if you can spare
the time.”

She smiled warmly. “What’s on your
mind?”

“Boris Hertel,” I said.

“You must’ve talked to your mother.
She’s the only person who knows that Boris and I are an item. I figured you’d
want the skinny on us at some point.”

We went into the living room and
sat at opposite ends of the sofa. Blanche kicked off her garden clogs and began
rubbing her feet.

“My dogs are barking,” she moaned.
“I’ve been running around the house all day, working on this and that. Not a
moment’s rest or anything to eat.”

I pointed at the blueberry bread.
“Want me to slice this for you?”

She shook her head. “Thanks, but
I’ll wait until later. I’ve got my mind made up, Katie. A dirty martini first,
something to snack on after that and then Boris and I are going to Luigi’s for
Italian.”

“Sounds lovely.”

She murmured softly, her eyes
closed and a faint smile on her face. “Boris is a real sweetheart. I promised
Edith before she died that I’d keep an eye on him. I never imagined that we’d
become anything more than friends.”

“I think it’s sweet. I mean, you’re
both single, so what’s to stop you?”

Blanche smirked. “Well, his
drinking for one thing. I’m sure your mother told you that Boris has struggled
with an alcohol problem for much of his adult life.”

I nodded. “She mentioned it, yes.
And she also told me that Boris had been to Betty Ford to get treatment.”

“That’s true. Edith sent him away
after a particularly bad episode. She told him it was either sobriety or
divorce.”

“And he chose sobriety?”

Blanche nodded sadly. “For a long
while, but he’s relapsed a time or two. I’m just grateful that he remained sober
during the rest of Edith’s days.”

“How recently did he relapse this
time?”

Blanche winced. “What are you
talking about?”

“You just said that he’s fallen off
the wagon more than once. And when he came to Sky High the other day, he asked
for scotch on the rocks.”

She smiled. “He’s a sweet man,” she
said. “And like a lot of people, he’s plagued by demons and doubt. That’s no
excuse for the drinking, but it does explain why he overindulges now and again.
During the past few months, he’s barely touched a drop until the business with
the—” She glanced down at her hands, twined together at her waist. “I shouldn’t
speak unkindly about him, Katie. He’s a good man who’s faced more than his fair
share of bad times.”

There was conviction in her voice
and a look of determination on her face. I’d known Blanche since I was a young
girl; she never lied and she wasn’t easily hoodwinked. If she said Boris Hertel
had barely had a drink, then it was the truth. As Blanche continued on, telling
me her beau’s dedication to AA meetings and church on Sunday, I thought about my
most recent encounters with Boris.
Why was he drinking the morning he
visited Sky High? Why did he deliver a copy of the anonymous threats to me? And
what did the cryptic remarks mean that he’d whispered at the Poke-A-Dot Lounge?

I was lost in thought when I felt
the touch of Blanche’s slender hand on my arm.

“Are you feeling alright,
sweetheart?”

“Yes, I was just…” I sat up and
took a breath. “I was thinking about Boris. It seems like he’s been through quite
a lot in the past few years.”

“More than you can imagine. The
drinking and then losing Edith were bad enough, but the recent business with
his son has been especially stressful on him.” Her expression darkened. “I was
terrified when Boris told me about it. But late last week he said that it would
all be resolved very soon.”

“What would be resolved?”

Blanche shrugged. “I know enough
not to meddle if someone doesn’t want to share,” she said. “Whatever Boris was
talking about involved his son along with two or three other folks. Boris was
in a terribly sour mood for a very long time, but he told me they’d found a way
to straighten it out. I didn’t ask about it again after that.”

“Okay, so…can I ask a question,
Blanche?”

She smiled. “I’m an open book,
sweetheart. What do you want to know?”

“Why would Boris put on the act?” I
asked.

“What act—the tipsy, forgetful
codger?”

“Yeah, that one.”

Both of her eyebrows lifted. “Just
between you and me?”

“Pinky swear,” I said, holding out
one hand. “Whatever you tell me is our secret.” She wrapped her little finger
around mine. “Unless, of course, it involves criminal activity.”

Blanche scowled. “A pinky swear is
a pinky swear, Katie!”

“I know, but I can’t condone or
cover up illegal behavior.”

Her frown flipped into a dazzling
grin. “I’m just teasing! I fully agree with that idea. As law-abiding residents
of Crescent Creek, it’s our duty to inform the local authorities if we learn
about someone doing something improper.” She paused and giggled. “That’s why I
called 911 when I saw Herbert Tucker getting his mail in the other day. He was
wearing his wife’s bathrobe and his twig and berries were on full display.” She
made a face. “And, let me tell you, that is
nothing
the public needs to
see. It was indecent exposure of the highest order, Katie. Just a horrendous
thing to witness!”

I patted her hand. “You have my
sympathy,” I said. “Seeing Herbert fully dressed is difficult enough. I don’t
know why he thinks plaid shirts look good with plaid pants.”

We shared a mischievous laugh
before I asked her again about Boris pretending to be drunk in public.

“Why does he do it?” Blanche said
rhetorically. “Because it’s given him a peek behind the curtain to try and help
his son.”

I frowned.

“I’m sorry, Blanche. I don’t
follow.”

“It allows him to overhear things
he might not otherwise be privy to,” she explained. “If people perceive him as a
drunken old fool, they don’t think twice if he’s nearby when they’re whispering
in the shampoo aisle at CVS.”

“Okay, I’ll buy that. What did he
overhear?”

Blanche’s head tilted forward and
she lowered her voice. “Something about a blackmail scheme to squeeze a huge
amount of money from a man named Devane,” she whispered. “It’s got something to
do with spreading rumors about who actually came up with the original idea for
his company’s product. Apparently, the official history lists Carter as the
sole inventor, but there are rumors that he had help. If the truth comes out,
he could potentially be sued by the people that just bought his business for a
pretty penny.”

“And Boris really heard that in the
store?”

Blanche nodded. “The man and woman
he heard were in the shampoo aisle,” she explained. “By the time he strolled
around the corner to see who he’d been listening to, the conspirators were long
gone.”

“Did you tell the police about
this?”

She shook her head. “There’s been
nothing concrete to report until now,” she explained. “And Boris didn’t want me
to get involved. He’s worried that I might be in danger if the reprehensible
goons find out that I know about the plot.”

“Well, what about Boris? Isn’t he
concerned for his own safety?”

She nodded, frowning slightly.
“Yes, but I couldn’t persuade him to take a different course, Katie. He
insisted on getting involved in some sort of peripheral way.”

“By delivering the letter to me the
other day?”

She shrugged, but didn’t say a
word.

“If he isn’t careful,” I said,
“Boris could end up charged as an accessory to murder.”

Blanche’s mouth fell open. “Why on
earth would that happen? These men are talking about legal battles, not actual
physical violence.”

“Is that what Boris believes?”

She nodded. “That’s what they were
talking about—a legal fight involving documents that prove which one actually
conceived of the idea first.”

“Well, I guess you haven’t heard
the news,” I said. “There was a fire at Ira Pemberton’s last night and they—”

“Oh, I heard about that. Hazel
called after she ran into Belinda at the MiniMart.”

“Did she tell you the rest of the
story?”

Blanche shrugged. “Well, I don’t
know,” she said. “Hazel told me that someone conked Ira on the noggin and then
set fire to his body shop.”

“There was actually more to it,” I
said. “The first officers on the scene also found a body in back of Ira’s place.”

Blanche gulped in a breath. “A
body? It wasn’t Boris was it?”

“No, it wasn’t him.”

She collapsed back onto the sofa
with both hands over her heart. “Oh, thank goodness! I haven’t talked to him in
a couple of days. Just a text or two telling me that he was busy helping his
son.”

I decided not to mention that I’d
talked to Boris at the Poke-A-Dot Lounge. I was thinking about an appropriate
follow-up when a timer buzzed in the next room. Blanche jumped up from the sofa
and hurried across the room.

“I’ve got a casserole in, Katie!
Give me a second and I’ll be right back!”

I stood and followed her into the
kitchen. “That’s okay,” I said, watching as her hands disappeared inside
enormous quilted gray oven mitts. “I should get going. I need to stop at the
bank and then Food Town before I head home.”

“Oh, I was going to ask you to
stay.” She carefully lowered a covered dish onto a trivet. “It’s my world
famous Salmon Surprise!”

My nose detected the aroma of
seafood along with sauerkraut. “Doesn’t that sound delicious?”

She tugged off the mitts and
dropped them onto the counter. “It’s an award-winning recipe, Katie! I took top
prize at the Crescent Creek Food & Wine Festival five years ago with this
one!”

“Well, it smells yummy, Blanche.
But I really need to scoot. I’ve got many miles to go before I can put up my
feet, pour a glass of wine and relax.”