Chocolate Most Deadly (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 2) (9 page)

CHAPTER
17

An hour later, Viveca and I sat in
the back of a patrol car as it idled at the curb. When the first responders
learned earlier that she was related to someone connected to the Delmar Singer
case, they asked if we’d be willing to take a drive to the precinct for a
conversation.

“But we didn’t
do
anything,”
Viveca told the bulky cop sitting in the passenger seat. “We came here today to
talk to my brother.”

The guy ignored her, so she tapped
on the partition between the seats.

“Did you hear me?”

Without looking up from his
clipboard, the man told Viveca to sit back and keep quiet.

She moaned loudly. “We’ve got
rights, sir!”

“Viv?” I said, taking her hand.
“Just try to relax, okay? This is all standard procedure.”

“Seriously?” she snapped. “This is
the second time in as many days that I’m having to deal with the lunacy of this
kind of
standard
procedure.”

I shook my head. “You don’t want to
make them mad,” I advised. “It really would be best if you could just keep it
together until we have a chance to talk to someone.”

The driver’s door opened and a slim
woman wearing sunglasses climbed in behind the wheel. Her skin was the color of
a café au lait and her tightly braided dark hair was tucked beneath her hat.

“Sorry for the delay, ladies.” She
smiled at us in the rearview mirror. “I’ve been advised that one of you asked
the dispatcher to contact Detective Caldwell.”

“That would be me,” I said.

“I was talking to him just now,” the
officer said, sliding the car into gear. “We were trying to figure out if he
was coming over to the scene or if we’d meet at the station.”

“And since we’re moving,” I said,
“I guess the answer is we’re talking to him at the station?”

The woman confirmed my comment with
a silent smile. Viveca  began nervously tapping her fingers on the seat
and mumbling under her breath. I tried to resist the temptation, but a couple
of blocks later I pulled out my phone and checked messages. There was one from
my parents, three from my sister and two from Blanche Speltzer. They would all
have to wait until we’d had our meeting with Caldwell and headed back home to
Crescent Creek.

“Do you know who the dead guy was?”
Viveca suddenly asked, leaning forward.

The cop in the passenger seat
glanced back. “Probably best for you to wait and ask the detective,” he said.
“The deceased’s identity hasn’t been substantiated, ma’am. I wouldn’t want to
comment on an active investigation.”

Viveca glanced at me. “Can you
believe this, Kate?” Her hands were trembling and the muscles in her neck
twitched wildly. “We help them find a poor dead guy and they won’t tell us who
he is. What’s the deal with that?”

“It’s like I already explained,
Viv—standard procedure. Nothing to get worked up about.”

She sighed loudly and fell against
the seat. “I’m not worked up, Kate. I’m worried about my brother.”

“I know you are,” I said, giving
her hand a second squeeze. “Anybody would be. Let’s hang on until we have a
chance to talk to Detective Caldwell. Maybe he can help sort out a few things
for us.”

CHAPTER
18

Adam Caldwell was standing at the
end of a long table in a conference room at the precinct when Viveca and I
arrived. One of the officers from the patrol car escorted us to the door,
knocked and waited until the detective waved us inside.

“We meet again,” he said, sliding a
stack of papers into a folder.

I followed Viveca into the room and
sat beside her after she’d pulled out a chair.

“Do you know where my brother is?”
she demanded. “And do you know who killed that poor man in the hospital?”

Caldwell’s face remained impassive
as he shook his head and told us that he didn’t have a clue about Tim’s
whereabouts. “As far as Delmar Singer,” he added, “we’re working every possible
angle—at the hospital as well as the apartment building. And that means your
brother’s still a person of interest.” Caldwell’s phone rang, but he kept his
attention on Viveca. “I know this must be an impossibly stressful experience
for you, Miss England. And I can appreciate the confusion you must feel. But
we’re doing everything we can.”

From the way she clutched the edge
of the table, I could tell Viveca was getting ready to explode. Before she
could make a scene, I put one hand on her shoulder and looked over at the
detective.

“Did you find Delilah yet?”

He shook his head and settled into
a chair across the table. “Who’s that?”

Viveca sighed. “My brother’s
girlfriend!” she said. “The dead guy was in her apartment!”

Caldwell shrugged. After Viveca
repeated everything that she’d just told him, he carefully opened the folder,
studied the top sheet and cleared his throat.

“According to the notes I have
here,” the detective said, “our officers didn’t find anyone by the name of
Delilah at the scene when they arrived.”

Viveca stared at me blankly; it was
the dazed and confused look of someone ready to burst into tears.

“What about the man we just found?”
I asked.

Caldwell’s eyes flickered briefly.
“What about him?”

“Did you find his ID?”

“We didn’t find a wallet,” answered
Caldwell. “But his prints were in the system, so we know his name is Toby
Wurlitzer.”

The first name got my attention.
“Did you know that a guy named Toby rents the apartments to Tim and Delilah?” I
said. “I guess his name is on the paperwork, but he subleases them or
something.”

“That makes sense,” Caldwell said.
“And it dovetails nicely with what we’ve uncovered so far about Mr. Wurlitzer.”

“Is he related in any way to Mr.
Singer?” I asked.

Caldwell shook his head. “We’ve
just started working on that. Why do you ask?”

I smiled. I’d played this game
before. And I knew why it was necessary. I’d worked closely on more than one
occasion with the Chicago PD when I was a private investigator. I was well
aware that I had no official capacity in Caldwell’s investigation, but I also
knew that he was juggling plenty of cases at the moment. Although he’d probably
welcome anything Viveca and I might find, his hands were tied when it came to
sharing evidence that he and his team had already uncovered.

“Why do I ask?” I repeated his
question to emphasize the fact that I knew what he was doing. “I ask because
it’s pretty rare when two residents of a small apartment building are murdered
in the same year, let alone the same week. I ask because Tim and Delilah seem
to be involved somehow and they’ve both gone missing. And I also ask because
I’m really just trying to help my friend…” I squeezed Viveca’s shoulder as I
gave her a quick sideways glance. “…so she can find her brother and figure out
what’s going on here.”

Caldwell nodded glumly. “That’s all
well and good, Kate. But we don’t generally divulge sensitive information from
ongoing investigations.”

The last comment left a chill in
the air. Viveca shifted nervously in her chair. I managed to smile at the
detective. Then I asked if he and I could speak outside for a moment.

“Sure thing,” he answered. “Miss England?
Would you like anything to drink while you wait?”

Viveca shook her head and reached
for her phone. While she checked messages, Caldwell and I went into the
hallway. There was an empty bench nearby, so he walked over and sat down.

“First of all,” I began, sitting
beside him, “thanks again for taking time to talk with us.”

He nodded.

“I know Trent arranged for you to
do this as a personal favor, and I’m really grateful. But I’d like to ask again
if you have anything at all that might connect the two victims.” His mouth
opened, but I kept going. “I don’t know if Trent mentioned this, but I no
longer work as a PI. I run my family’s bakery café up in Crescent Creek, and
I’m just doing this to help my neighbor.”

When I finished, Caldwell raised
one eyebrow. “Trent was right,” he said. “You’re a live wire.”

“That’s me,” I said. “A real live
wire.”

“And I think it’s admirable what
you’re doing, Kate. Helping friends and neighbors is a very good thing. Like
maybe giving them a ride when their car is in the shop. Or lending a cup of
sugar when they’re out. But this kind of thing—the murder of Delmar Singer a
couple of days ago and now the new guy? Those are times when it truly is best
to leave it to the professionals.”

“I don’t disagree,” I said. “But
Viveca’s basically having a complete meltdown over this. Her brother is the
only family she’s got left. And even though I’ve never met the guy, I
absolutely believe her when she says that he isn’t capable of committing these
crimes.”

Caldwell looked down at the floor
and chuckled. “Where have I heard that before?”

“I know, okay. Nearly everybody
says that about family members. But I feel it in my gut that it’s true this
time, Detective Caldwell.”

He flashed a grin. “You can call me
Adam, Kate.”

As we sat and nodded at one
another, I felt the urge to be ornery.

“Actually,” I said, sitting up a
little straighter and doing my best to appear aloof, “you can call me Miss
Reed.”

The little shudder of anxiety that
raced across his face was worth the subterfuge. As he swallowed and fidgeted on
the bench, I reached over and lightly punched his shoulder. “I’m just teasing,
Adam. You can call me Kate.”

The nervous quiver in his eyes
vanished. “Well, that’s a relief,” he said. “For a second there, I thought I’d
actually offended you or something.”

“Me? Offended?” I smiled warmly. “I
always roll with the punches. That’s what you have to do when you’re selling
slices of pie to cantankerous retirees, worn-out tourists and everybody in
between.”

He nodded. “Trent told me the name
of your place, but…” He winced. “What was it again?”

“Sky High Pies,” I said. “You
should drop by the next time you’re in Crescent Creek.”

He laughed. “The
next
time?”
he said. “How about the first time?”

“Oh, you haven’t had the pleasure
of visiting our thriving metropolis?”

“Not yet. But there’s a chance I’ll
be up soon. Trent, Dina and I are working on something together. I think we might
get more accomplished up there than down here in the city.”

I smiled. “Get more accomplished,”
I said. “And enjoy a nice slice of pie!”

Caldwell’s eyes—light green flecked
with brown—twinkled as he laughed again. It was nice to see that a guy who spent
all day chasing criminals could still enjoy a lighthearted moment.

“Trent told me that, too,” he said.
“From the way he raved about—”

His phone rang—the clanging chirp
of a robotic bird—and the moment was gone. He shrugged, got up from the bench
and accepted the call.

“This is Adam,” he said, walking
toward a bank of windows. “Yeah, you bet, Phil.” He quickly glanced at his
watch. “I can do twenty minutes. Am I coming to you or…”

He waited briefly for an answer to
the unfinished question. “Okay, cool. That works. See you then.”

He tapped the phone, checked
something on the display and turned around.

“Duty calls, Kate. I’m sorry to cut
this short, but I don’t see what more I can discuss at the moment with you and
your friend.”

I pushed up from the bench. “I just
appreciate the opportunity to talk with you at all,” I said, cringing slightly
when I realized how that might sound. “I mean,
we
appreciate it; Viv and
I do. And if you hear anything about her brother that isn’t completely hush-hush
and super secret, would you mind giving me a call?”

“Not at all,” he said, turning
toward the conference room. “I’m just going to duck in and say goodbye to Miss England.
Then I can walk you guys back downstairs.”

I shook my head and followed behind.
“That’s not necessary,” I told him. “I can tell you’re busy. We’ll go grab a
coffee from the vending machine before we head home.”

“Traffic will be a beast right
about now,” he said. “There’s a semi jackknifed on the interstate going west.”

I groaned. “Well, that just made my
day brighter. Thanks again, Adam.”

CHAPTER
19

The drive from Denver back to
Crescent Creek was a long and torturous nightmare. Between Viveca’s mood
swings, the sluggish traffic and my growling stomach, I was a bundle of twisted
nerves when I walked through the kitchen door at Sky High Pies. Julia had left
a note on the whiteboard—
Welcome back, Kate! Have a cup of tea and relax!
Everything’s ready for tomorrow!—
along with
a single daisy in a bud
vase beside my favorite mug. I dropped my purse on the counter, sent her a
quick thank you text and grabbed a clean plate from the shelf.

“What’s it going to be?” I said
rhetorically, heading for the display case behind the counter in the dining
room. “Key Lime Cooler? Very Berry? Cocoa Loco?”

I knelt down and peered at the
assortment of pies, cookies and cupcakes. When I was a toddler, I used to press
my face against the cool glass and ask Nana Reed if I could eat every last
crumb. She would always pinch my cheek, tell me not to be greedy and then end
up giving me tiny slivers of several things on a plate. It was paradise; a
child’s dream come true. But now, at the age of thirty and with ready access to
a gazillion sweet calories whether day or night, I had to be very selective
about how much I ate. I was learning to love nibbles and crumbs just as much as
I adored the endless buffet that my grandmother prepared for me when she ran
Sky High.

After settling on a small piece of
Nana’s Banana Cream, I sat at the end of the counter. The first bite was a
blast of sweet perfection: slices of fresh banana blended with buttery custard,
toasted almonds and meringue that was light as a feather and dusted with a
whisper of cinnamon.

When the last few bits of pie were
melting in my mouth, I carried the plate and fork into the kitchen, washed them
quickly and fixed a cup of tea. Every bone in my body was screaming for a hot
bubble bath, a glass of wine and a few more pages of
The Body in the Library
.
But I knew that my desk in the office held a different trove of treasures:
invoices to process, bills to pay, food costs to calculate and recipes to
transpose.

My Nana Reed created nearly every
original formula through trial and error in the early days of Sky High Pies.
She recorded all of the successful recipes in a series of leather-bound
notebooks before writing them on index cards that fit snugly in the oak boxes
that my grandfather crafted in his workshop. And even though Nana Reed was a
gifted chef, a remarkable hostess and a tough businesswoman, her penmanship
left a lot to be desired. I’d been deciphering her loopy-curvy handwriting for
years, but I still had to stop and interpret things from time to time.

After I took over the business from
my parents, I promised Julia that I would transcribe everything into
easy-to-read printed versions that would leave nothing to guesswork.
Unfortunately, between juggling daily prep tasks, helping Harper in the dining
room during peak hours and trying to have some life-work balance by going
upstairs to my apartment before nine o’clock every night, I hadn’t quite
honored my pledge.

For the next hour, I battled
fatigue and cavernous yawns to tackle a handful of recipes, including one of my
personal favorites: Death by Dark Chocolate, a sinfully decadent six-layer
cake. We hadn’t featured it at Sky High lately, so I left my office and
returned to the kitchen to leave a note on the whiteboard.

As I stood in the silent, shadowy
room, I closed my eyes and pictured Nana Reed scurrying from the stove to the
sink to the pantry. She was a powerhouse during those days; a strong and
vibrant woman who taught me half of what I know about being independent, proud
and courageous. The rest of the lessons came from my mother and father. And
now, as the third generation to operate our family business, I knew the
inspiration and education I received from my grandmother and parents would
carry me through all of the late nights and early mornings that were ahead.

With a final yawn, I made a quick
circuit around the first floor to check the locks on all the doors and windows
before slipping out the back and up the exterior staircase to my apartment. The
alarm would trumpet another new day at four-thirty the next morning, so it was
finally time for a sudsy soak, one glass of chardonnay and a few minutes with
Agatha Christie.