A Zest for Murder (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 5) (3 page)

CHAPTER
6

I stood on the stone walkway, my
heart beginning to gallop in my chest and a chill spreading down my spine.

“Don’t panic,” I whispered. “Take a
breath.”

As I filled my lungs with the icy
winter air again and again, I gave the surrounding area a quick glance. I
didn’t see anything in the snow or on the dark stones underfoot, so I finished
the trek along the back of the house.

When I reached the small cement pad
outside the kitchen door, I repeated the process to ensure that I wasn’t
stepping on anything that might be a helpful clue if I needed to call the
Crescent Creek Police.

“If,” I said. “If they need to get
involved.”

As I shifted the bakery boxes in my
arms and leaned toward the window in the backdoor, my mind raced with a few
innocent explanations.
Maybe she was cooking something that involved red
meat. That could be blood from a roast. Or maybe it isn’t even blood. Maybe
it’s strawberry jam. Or beet juice.

Despite the hopeful and optimistic
speculation, my gut was telling me something entirely different. If it wasn’t a
household accident caused by a sharp knife or broken glass, the relatively
fresh blood on the backdoor was more likely the result of a wound caused by
some type of violence.

“Please let it be okay,” I said in
a hushed, trembling voice.

But as I peered through the
pristine glass, I saw instantly that it wasn’t going to be okay.

On the far side of the kitchen, two
legs extended into the room from the hallway that ran through the center of the
house. They were dressed in Tipper’s favorite pair of bleach-spattered jeans,
accessorized with fur-lined moccasins and the zebra print trench coat that she
bought at Becca Hancock’s vintage clothing store a few weeks earlier.

“Oh, Tipper…”

I quickly leaned down and put the
Sky High boxes on the ground. Then I used my elbow to ease open the door.

“Tipper?” My voice split the frosty
silence. “Are you okay, hon?”

I glanced down at the white tiled
floor. A zigzag trail of crimson drops led from the doorway to where Tipper was
sprawled on her back. As I stepped carefully around the reddish spots, I
reached into my purse and found my phone. After pausing long enough to dial the
three digits, I crossed the expansive kitchen.

“Police Dispatch,” a man said
calmly when the call connected. “What’s the exact location of your emergency?”

“This is Kate Reed,” I said. “I’m
at Tipper Hedge’s place on Hanover. I’m not sure what’s happened, but she’s on
the kitchen floor…and there’s…quite a lot of blood.”

“Is she breathing?”

“I don’t know yet,” I answered.

“Okay, when you’ve checked, let me
know.”

I didn’t say anything as I took the
last few steps. The kitchen counters, usually immaculate expanses of lustrous
white marble, were littered with beer cans, potato chips, bloody wads of paper
towels and what looked like mud.

“Ma’am?”

“Yes?”

“Is she breathing?”

“Let me check,” I answered. “Is the
ambulance on the way?”

“They are,” the emergency operator
said. “And they should be there in about two and a half minutes.”

Tipper suddenly groaned from where she
was sprawled on the floor. I noticed a pool of blood on her left side,
radiating out in a crimson arc. She was wearing her long strand of faux pearls,
and the end of the necklace had rolled into the slowly expanding puddle of
blood. A pair of wraparound sunglasses and tangled locks of hair partially
obscured her face, but her chest was rising and falling with a series of
shallow breaths.

“She’s still alive!” I told the
operator before leaving my phone on the marble countertop and kneeling down to
check for the strength of her pulse.

“Tipper?” I reached for her wrist.
“Sweetheart, can you hear me?”

There was another muffled groan and
her legs twitched slightly. She was still warm to the touch, but the beat of
her heart was weak. I carefully put her arm to one side and grabbed my phone.

“She’s bleeding profusely,” I said,
glancing at the blood on the white linoleum. “But I don’t see—”

Tipper moaned.

“—where it’s coming from.”

The phone crackled with static.
“…just turned onto Hanover from Garrison,” the man was saying when the line
cleared. “They’ll be there in less than a minute.”

“Okay,” I said. “Please make sure
they know to come around back. We’re in the kitchen.”

I held the phone to my ear and
leaned forward to brush the hair from Tipper’s face.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” I said,
carefully removing the sunglasses. “I’m with you. And help is—”

I felt another surge of adrenaline
as I discovered that the woman on the floor wasn’t Tipper Hedge.

It was someone that I’d never seen
before.

And she was staring right at me as
two paramedics and three police officers scrambled into the kitchen.

CHAPTER
7

“You’ve never seen her before?”

I slowly shifted my gaze from the
tepid cup of coffee in my hands to Trent Walsh, the Deputy Chief of Police for
the Crescent Creek PD.

“I’m positive,” I said. “I don’t
know her. I thought it was Tipper, but…”

We were sitting in Trent’s SUV at
the end of Tipper’s driveway. An hour had passed since the woman with the
gunshot wound had been rushed to the regional medical center. The time had
passed in cloudy fragments of chaos and noise: the metallic clatter of
walkie-talkies, the paramedic’s monotone as he calmly related what he
discovered to the police officers, the screech of sirens on the street outside.

When Trent arrived, I was standing
in one corner of the kitchen, my eyes pinned to the woman’s face as she was
lifted onto a stretcher. She looked to be in her early twenties, with full
lips, a heart-shaped face and a small rose tattooed on the inside of one wrist.
I was struck by how much she resembled Tipper. They had the same hair color,
nearly identical cheekbones and comparable body shapes. Since she’d been
wearing the sunglasses, jeans and zebra print coat, I’d assumed it was my
friend when I first came through the door. But the shock of realizing that
someone else had been shot in Tipper’s house had sent my mind reeling.

“Kate?”

I glanced down as Trent wrapped one
hand around my wrist.

“Hmmm?”

“You okay?”

I nodded, blinking away the misty
images in my mind. “Sorry…” I smiled, but it was fleeting. “I’m sorry, Trent.
What did you say?”

“I wasn’t saying anything,” he
answered, removing his hand. “You were beginning to tell me why you thought it
was Tipper.”

I narrowed my gaze. “Didn’t I
already do that?”

“Yeah, but it seemed like…” He
checked the notes he’d taken a few minutes earlier. “So, you were coming to
deliver something. Tipper didn’t answer the door. You went around back and saw
someone on the floor, figuring it was Tipper because she was—”

“Yeah, right,” I cut in. “Because
of the clothes. Those are Tipper’s jeans and nobody else in town has a zebra
trench coat.”

He started to say something. I
could tell it was going to be one of his thickheaded attempts at humor, so I
was glad he stopped himself. Instead of making a snide remark, Trent asked
about the last time I saw Tipper.

“Yesterday. She came by just after
six.”

He scribbled a note. “What for?”

“She wanted something from Sky
High,” I explained. “For Blanche Speltzer.”

Trent looked over. “What’s wrong
with Blanche?”

“Nothing. She’d invited a few
people to her house. Tipper wanted to take a hostess gift.”

“Okay, so…” He grinned. “Tipper
came by…” The smile quivered as he bit the end of his ballpoint. “A
what
kind of gift?”

I wasn’t surprised by the conversational
detour; I’d known Trent for years and he was always jumping from one subject to
another without warning. He and I had dated in high school, but our brief
romance ended one night when he dumped me for Dina Kincaid. Although they
married after graduation, the union didn’t last long. Despite the divorce,
they’d forged a unique friendship that allowed them to work in perfect harmony
at the Crescent Creek PD, where he was deputy chief and she was the lead
detective.

“A hostess gift. It’s a way to thank
someone for their hospitality when they invite you over for dinner.”

“Gotcha.” He rolled his eyes.
“Although I don’t see why just saying it in English isn’t good enough.”

I clenched my teeth. After the
disturbing discovery in Tipper’s kitchen, I wasn’t in the mood for Trent’s
opinions about etiquette. Or, for that matter, anything else. The adrenaline
that had slammed through my body was beginning to dissolve, leaving me feeling
drained and achy.

“Do you mind if I head home?” I
asked.

He shrugged. “And miss all the
excitement?”

I gritted my teeth even more. “Yep.
I’ll leave that to you, Deputy Chief Walsh.”

“Well, well,” he said. “If we’re
going to be all formal about—”

“Trent!” I steamed. “Would you
please
stop?”

His eyes were wide with surprise
and his mouth gaped open.

“Somebody was
shot
here
today,” I said. “It wasn’t Tipper, but it could’ve been.” I took a breath. “And
where
is
she anyway? Has anyone spotted her in town?”

Trent swallowed hard. “Uh…”

“I’m sorry that was so harsh,” I said,
feeling my cheeks burn. “I just think we should have some respect.”

His shoulders softened and he
sagged forward in the seat. “You’re right, Katie. I didn’t mean to…” He sat up
and looked over. “I’ve been awake for two days straight, so I guess maybe I’m
not thinking as clearly as I should.”

“Well, I just…” The shift in tone
had left my throat tight. “You know what? It’s okay. Unless you need me for
something else, I’m going home to pour a glass of wine and soak in a hot bath.”

He managed a weak smile. “Couple
more questions?”

I nodded.

“Does the name Kyle Gallagher mean
anything to you?”

I thought for a moment. With a
steady stream of tourists coming through Sky High Pies every day, I met quite a
few people once and then never again. But I didn’t recognize the name.

“Who’s Kyle Gallagher?”

Trent checked his notes. “According
to Tipper’s neighbor, Kyle is the guy that she’s been dating for…” His eyes
returned to the pad. “…uh, for the past few weeks or so. I guess they met at
some kind of art gallery thing.”

As he recited the statement made by
Tipper’s neighbor, I remembered Blanche Speltzer’s comments from the night
before.

“I think he was with the DEA,” I
said.

“Right,” Trent agreed. “He was a
field agent out of Denver until about a year ago.”

“Do you think he had something to
do with…” I glanced at the front of Tipper’s house. “I mean, why are you asking
me about him?”

“Following a lead, Katie.”

“Involving Kyle Gallagher?”

“We found his wallet in the hallway
a few feet from the shooting victim,” Trent answered. “And we’re waiting to see
if he’s a match for the prints on the backdoor.”

A series of scattershot images
flashed through my mind: blood on the brass handle, smudged fingerprints,
bleached jeans, a widening crimson pool on the white kitchen floor.

“Maybe he and Tipper were
abducted,” I suggested.

Trent pursed his lips. “Maybe.”

“What else?” I asked.

“Do you know what Tipper drove?”

“A black BMW,” I answered, suddenly
realizing that the car was no longer parked near the garage. “And I’m guessing
that Kyle drives the old pickup that Zack and I saw last night in the
driveway.”

Trent shook his head. “Not
according to the DMV. They’ve got Gallagher as the owner of a Jeep Grand
Cherokee.” He tapped his ballpoint against the steering wheel. “The very same
one that’s in Tipper’s garage right now along with a Ford F-150 bearing New
Mexico plates.”

CHAPTER
8

The air hummed with tension as my
imagination skittered in every direction at once.
Tipper had been kidnapped.
Her car was missing. A woman had been shot in her kitchen and
—

“Katie?” Trent sounded faraway and
hazy. “You still with me?”

I nodded, but the questions and
fractured images kept coming.
Who was the woman in the kitchen? Blood on the
doorknob. Was Tipper already dead? More blood on the white tile floor. Where
was Kyle Gallagher? Did he do this? Tipper’s face last night as she was leaving
Sky High: happy, flighty, beautiful, animated.

“…whether or not he did,” Trent was
saying as I pushed aside the frantic questions. “I left a message for my buddy
Pete Swann at the DEA. Did you ever meet him?”

I shook my head.

“Well, you’ll like him if you do,”
Trent continued. “Funny as hell. He’s got a really sweet wife, too. Becky.
Bonnie. Something like that. Cute blonde with—”

“Tipper’s BMW?” I asked.

Trent nodded. “Gone. I’ve got a
BOLO out, of course. Freddy Morrow’s checking security cameras around town. And
a couple of houses down the block have them, too. We’re talking to those
neighbors as we speak to see if they captured anything useful.”

I swiveled in the seat to get a
clear view of the driveway. The spot where I’d seen Tipper’s car earlier was
now occupied by a Crescent Creek PD patrol car.

“The BMW was right over there,” I
said.

“When?”

“When I arrived. Last night, it was
parked behind the F-150. And this afternoon, like,
literally
when I got
here, it was right there.” I glanced back at the driveway again. “So, between
the time that I went around back and when the first responders arrived, someone
drove away in Tipper’s car.”

Trent pursed his lips. “Maybe it
was her.”

The suggestion seemed absurd, so I
told him as much.

“Is that right?” His voice bristled
slightly. “You think it’s ridiculous?”

I nodded. “Yes, I do. Why on earth
would Tipper drive away when my car...” I stopped, reconsidering the scenario.
“That’s not even the point, Trent. Why would Tipper leave if someone had been
shot in her kitchen?”

He shrugged.

“And how’d that happen anyway?” My
pulse began to spiral again as I thought about the woman that I’d discovered
earlier. “Tipper doesn’t own a gun. She and I had that conversation a few weeks
ago after there was another school shooting.”

Trent held my gaze before reaching
over and taking my hand. “Katie? Do you want me to have someone drive you
home?”

I shook my head.

“You sure about that?” His tone was
softer and slower. “You seem kind of rattled by this one.”

“It was just…well, it was a shock,
you know? But I’ll be okay.”

He pulsed his fingers around my
hand a few times before letting it go. “I know you’ll be okay. That’s never
been a question. I just thought maybe since it was Tipper. And with you guys
being such good—” A walkie-talkie squelched somewhere nearby. “—friends and
all, maybe this hit you a little harder or something.”

I swept one hand across my face.
“No, I’m okay. I’m fine. I’m just…” I paused, taking a quick breath and
straightening my back. “Did you check the hospitals? Maybe she’s been admitted
or...”

Trent shook his head. “We’ve
checked already; neither Tipper nor Kyle Gallagher have been treated or
admitted.”

I processed the information slowly,
thinking about cases I’d worked as a PI in Chicago. Then I remembered Trent’s
comment earlier about someone with the DEA.

“And your friend Pete? He knows
Kyle Gallagher?”

“I’m sure they’ve met,” Trent
answered. “But I won’t find out how well Pete knows the guy until he calls me
back. Pete’s been in the Denver office for about eight months. Before that he
was in Houston. I’m just hoping he either knows Gallagher well enough to help
or can put us in touch with someone who does.”

“I can talk to Blanche,” I
suggested. “She met Kyle one day at the store. If I’m remembering the
conversation correctly, Blanche said the guy was polite and sweet.”

Trent grunted. “Kinda like me, huh?”

I ignored the remark. “Maybe there
was more to their conversation,” I said. “Blanche is pretty astute for someone
her age.”

He smirked. “Again,” he said. “Like
me?”

“Trent?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Drop the clown act,” I said. “I
know you’re trying to make me smile, but this is serious.”

“I know it’s serious, Katie. But
you’ve got that look on your face again.”

“What look?”

“Like you’re going down a rabbit
hole to try and save the day.”

I swatted at him with one hand. “No,
I don’t. If I have any type of look on my face it’s one of concern for my
friend.”

He stopped smirking. “I know that,”
he said quietly. “But you also know that we’ll do everything possible to find
her.”

We sat without talking for a few
minutes. Voices drifted down from the house; two uniformed officers talking
about the weather as they stood near the front door. Trent’s phone buzzed
again. He checked the display, but put it on the dashboard without answering.

“Has there been a call?” I asked
finally.

“You mean somebody asking for
ransom?”

I nodded. “Lots of people know
about Tipper’s mother,” I said. “It’s public knowledge that she’s a very
wealthy woman after the divorce from her second husband.”

“Nothing so far,” Trent said. “At
this point, we’re going to handle it like a home invasion that went sideways. I
remember one case a couple of years ago that—”

His phone vibrated on the dash. He
scooped it up, answered the call and exhaled loudly as the person on the other
end spoke. I could hear the woman’s voice, but couldn’t understand anything she
was telling Trent. While they talked, I turned to face Tipper’s house again.
Amanda Crane and Denny Santiago, two Crescent Creek PD officers, were searching
the front yard with slow, precise movements. One of the CSI techs stood in the
driveway beside a white panel van. And a small group of neighbors hovered at
the edge of the yard, staring silently at the unfolding scene.

“Well, that’s not what I wanted to
hear,” Trent muttered as he plunked the phone back onto the dashboard.

“What is it?” I asked.

He turned and shrugged. “The woman
you found in there,” he said in a flat, weary tone. “She didn’t make it.”