Killer Cheesecake Tart Read online

  “Hey, you’re the queen of the theory, aren’t you?” Shiv pointed out, remembering how a simple theory on Bert’s part had led to the eventual confession and arrest of a few other criminals.

  “Carla is much better at coming up with wild and unruly theories than I am. I try to keep my conclusions based on some sort of fact and reality related to the case. So, unless we found some clue to believe that Vera’s son may have fathered a child, let’s stick to what we know.”

  “I suppose, but rich men are often playboys.”

  “Yes, that’s true. Still, let’s try and examine some routes that are closer to home first.”

  “Is there a note or anything inside? Maybe a card saying who it’s from? That would clear up a whole lot of questions fast,” Shiv pointed out, leaning forward and sticking her hand in the box. “Ah, ha!”

  “Did you find something?” Bert asked.

  Shiv removed her hand, presenting a small white card.

  “Smart thinking. It must have been under the train. What does it say?”

  Turning the card and looking at it, Shiv raised an eyebrow. “I thought you loved me.”

  “Huh? Is that all it says?”

  “That’s all it says,” Shiv confirmed, flipping the card over to check if there were any other clues. It was blank. She handed it over to Bert for further inspection.

  “You’re right. That’s all it says.”

  “It isn’t exactly helpful, is it?” Shiv complained, slumping her shoulders. Picking up her fork she took a bite of the tart to help comfort herself.

  “No. If anything it raises more questions, I’d say.”

  “No secret grandchild then.”

  Suddenly, Bert had an idea. “Wait a minute. Don’t you see? This was a warning to Vera. It’s the threat before the storm.”

  “You think the killer sent it?”

  “I’d stake my business on it. It only makes sense, after all. Someone felt angry and betrayed by Vera. So, they sent this over. Then, when it was clear nothing was going to change, they killed her.”

  “Seems a bit drastic.”

  “It’s always drastic when murder is involved,” Bert pointed out.

  “So, why the clay train, then?”

  Bert looked over the two halves with a curious eye. “Who knows? It could be just symbolic, but more likely, it is a piece of some significance. Maybe a child made it for Vera and the big socialite rejected it.”

  “That makes sense.” Shiv snapped her fingers as an idea popped into her head. “Maybe, the child who made this is now an adult.”

  Bert could feel her pulse quicken as the first piece of the puzzle came together. “I think you’re exactly right. Someone made this as a child and felt betrayed. That betrayal never went away through the years, so they killed her.”

  Shiv smirked. “It’s gotta be her son, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe it is someone else completely. Someone who looked at her as a mother figure but was ultimately rejected.”

  “But who?” Shiv pressed.

  “If we can find out who sent this package, we’ll know the answer.”

  Shiv slumped over again. “How are we going to do that? Anyone could have sent this over?”

  Leaning forward again, Bert pulled back a layer of the shiny paper and realized there was a logo printed on the underside. “Ah ha. We can start by talking to the company the wrapped the box.” Bert pointed at the name, Wicked Wrapping.

  Chapter 9

  * * *

  “I heard we’ve got another murder case on our hands to solve,” came a friendly voice as the front door of Pies and Pages dinged to announce someone’s entrance. Bert turned from her work in the kitchen, making a classic apple pie with cinnamon and crystal sugar topping, to spot her best friend, Carla.

  “Carla, I didn’t expect to see you until this afternoon. Didn’t you take the night train from Denver?”

  “Yes, I did,” she declared happily, taking a seat and brushing back a piece of permed hair. She’d gotten an auburn dye job, to cover the gray, and a stiff curl in her hair for her visit with family over the weekend.

  “Aren’t you exhausted?” she asked.

  “I slept like a log on the train. Those seats are actually a lot more comfortable than a plane.”

  “Really? I would have never thought so.”

  “Yep. It was a smooth trip.” Leaning forward on the table and clasping her hands, she smirked at Bert. “Now, spill. I heard there was another murder and you were on the scene. Are you investigating?”

  “What makes you think I’m investigating some stranger’s murder?” Bert asked, bringing her best friend a cup of coffee and a slice of the tart from the day before.

  “Is this the tart?” she asked.

  “You bet it is.”

  Excitedly picking up a fork, she cut into the white chocolate rose and took a bite. “Anyway, you always investigate. It’s in your blood,” she noted out of the corner of her mouth. She chewed the bite and swallowed, closing her eyes as if she had just entered nirvana. “Oh my, Bert. That is good.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Also, how can you resist helping a church member who might be implicated in the murder?” she asked, quickly returning to the topic at hand.

  “News travels fast, huh?”

  “You’ve got that right. Especially in a church community. Now, I know you’re investigating, so tell me everything,” she demanded.

  Bert put up her hands. “You’ve caught me, officer. I’m investigating the murder of Vera Blackwell.” Bert grabbed a cup of coffee for herself and took a seat, jumping into the events from the day before and slowly revealing everything she’d found. By the end of the story, her coffee was empty, and she decided she needed another. “Anyway, the gift wrap shop was closed yesterday when Shiv and I stopped by. So, I was planning on going today while she watched the store.” She had stood up and poured another cup from the dark pot, the aroma of smooth Indian coffee beans filling the air with their steam.

  “Too bad Shiv can’t go along. Sounds like she was pretty invested.”

  “You could always stick around here and help out,” she teased.

  “Are you kidding? I’m going with you,” she insisted.

  “Okay, you can come, but this really is Shiv’s case. She’s gotten invested.”

  “You’ve passed her the sleuthing bug, have you?”

  “You could say that,” she admitted, leaning on the counter and sipping from the mug. “in any case, what can you tell me about Vera Blackwell's son?” Bert knew her friend, an avid tabloid subscriber, would have the answers.

  “Her son? Cory Blackwell? You think he came into town and killed his own mother?” she asked, jumping to the most logical conclusion in her mind.

  “Not necessarily, but it’s an avenue worth looking at, don’t you think? I mean, that clay model is a bit odd.”

  “I just don’t think that the son of a very rich socialite would do craft projects like that.”

  “Why not?” Bert pressed.

  “It just seems almost too low of an activity for him, you know?”

  “Perhaps the boy had a private tutor who encouraged involvement in arts as much as in academics.”

  “That’s true, but I’m just not sure,” Carla admitted.

  Setting down her mug on the counter, Bert folded her arms. “Okay. How about this? Do you think her son may have fathered a child somewhere along the way and that child might now want to meet their grandmother?” she asked.

  At this new question, Carla beamed from ear to ear and in the next second burst out laughing.

  “What? What is so funny?”

  “Nothing. Just the idea of Cory Blackwell fathering any unknown children.”

  “Rich young men are often playboys, aren’t they?” Bert asked, not knowing much about the kind of life someone with that much money might lead.

  “Being a playboy has nothing to do with it.”

  “What do you mean t
hen?” she insisted, frowning because she didn’t like being laughed at.

  “I mean, Cory Blackwell is gay,” she said.

  Bert couldn’t help from blushing a little with embarrassment. It wasn’t that she expected to know that sort of piece of information, it was just that she’d been so off base. “Ah, I see.”

  “I’m sorry, Bert. I don’t mean to laugh at you.”

  “No, it’s okay. I’ll just push that thought from my mind and forget all about him as a potential suspect.”

  Carla shook her head, taking another bite of the tart and following it with coffee. “No, don’t do that. While I still think it’s unlikely, don’t count him out just yet.”

  Bert raised an eyebrow as she made her way back to the table to take a seat. “Go on.”

  “He moved all the way out to New York to play the stock and trade game, and also to experience the nightlife there in the big apple.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “However, a big reason he moved is that his mother didn’t approve of his lifestyle choice. Vera Blackwell may have been a rude and domineering woman, but she was pretty traditional in her ideas.”

  “I guess.”

  “In fact, it may not seem so at the outset, but she cared deeply about family. She was always giving to orphanages and charities to help children who were without parents. She and her husband, when he was alive, held a fair number of charity galas and the like. Growing up, she never had much contact with her own mother who traveled around the world, so it was her way of making up for it I guess.”

  Bert sighed, realizing what this meant.

  “What’s wrong.”

  “If what you’re saying is true, it also means that there could be countless orphaned children who looked to her as a mother figure. If just one of those kids turned out to be unstable, they could have sent that package and killed her.”

  Carla’s mouth made an O shape of realization. “I see. That does complicate things.”

  “I guess I could try and see if any of the organizations she donated to throughout the years have any info on kids who were attached to her or something.”

  “Bert, she donated to countless organizations across the country. Tracking all of them down to ask about kids who were young enough while she was still doing all that charity work would be like looking for a black grain of sand on a white sandy beach.”

  Bert let out a quiet little groan of despair. “I guess you’re right. That brings me back to where I was before we started chatting.”

  “No, not quite. We know that there was some tension between Vera and her son. It’s mostly died down over the years since he has gone on to live out his own life to the fullest, but it could still be a deep-seated anger somewhere inside.”

  “You’re right.”

  “No hurt runs deeper than a family hurt. You’ve seen how things can carry on for generations if they aren’t addressed.”

  Bert knew what her friend meant.

  “Then, there is the present you found in the wastebasket. That is still something big to go on.”

  Bert stood up, planting her hands on the table. “You’re right. It is something to go on.”

  Just then, the door dinged again, and Shiv stepped in. “Morning, Bert. Hi, Carla. I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

  “I decided to pop over early,” she smirked.

  “Any new developments?” Shiv inquired, obviously itching for answers now that she was involved.

  “We have a few smaller clues that Carla gave us.”

  “Based on her tabloid reading?” Shiv said with a mischievous smile.

  “That’s right, hon. Keeping up on the social gossip pays off,” Carla announced.

  “And more than that, now that you’re here, we are going to head off to the gift wrap shop to be there when they open,” Bert said.

  “Gotcha,” Shiv said, walking behind the counter and putting her apron on over her head.

  “I’m sorry you can’t come along right away.”

  “It’s okay. We open here in just a few minutes and I’m sure we’ll have some hungry customers wanting brunch. Just make sure to report back here right away if you find anything out. I don’t want to be left out.” She smiled, leaning on the counter with her hands. “This is better than reality TV.”

  “You’ve got a deal,” Bert agreed, all too grateful for her wonderful and hardworking employee.

  Chapter 10

  * * *

  Driving into the area of the city where the gift wrap shop was located, Bert instantly felt out of place all over again. “Wowie. Fancy shops they’ve got down here,” Carla commented, leaning over in the passenger seat to get a better view of the sleek, shiny storefronts outside.

  “Nowhere we could ever afford to shop,” Bert commented, taking in the shopping center with a watchful eye. The parking lots seemed to be filled with only the newest and most expensive cars.

  It was a wonder to her, seeing people dressed in designer labeled clothing—most of them in their teens or twenties—rushing about from store to store with bags in their arms. Fine jewelry, casual and formal clothing alike, and high-end electronics were all up for offer.

  However, there was one shop that stuck out to Bert as they passed it by. A ceramics and pottery store. If their killer still enjoyed making clay items, maybe they had paid a visit there. She made a mental note to come back to the shop a little later.

  Right now, she and Carla were on a specific mission.

  “There it is,” Bert’s passenger pointed out. The building was gleaming and had a large metal strip going up the side that was painted red to look like a ribbon. The structure itself, as a result, looked like a gift box. “Sheesh, do you think they’ll even allow us inside?” Carla joked, looking down at her sea green blouse and jeans.

  “I’m sure they won’t care how we look,” Bert lied, parking in a spot directly in front of the shop.

  Carla rolled her eyes and chuckled. “Riiight. They only serve a very specific clientele of the upper middle class.”

  “If they are really so picky as to turn two nice old ladies like us away, they are losing out.”

  “Speak for yourself, old lady,” Carla returned. “We’re not old, we’re only in our sixties. We’re practically the new twenty-five.”

  Bert laughed quietly. She had to agree. She didn’t feel old in the least bit, except for the occasional ache or pain that wasn’t normally there. On the other hand, she also saw how people who were in their teens and twenties looked at them. Shiv and Gabriel didn’t, but others did. “You know what I mean. Heck, you even wore a blouse. You look downright classy.”

  “I’m sure that’ll tide them over,” she said, climbing out of the car.

  Bert quickly followed, and the two women stepped through the front door. The inside of the shop was even more impressive than the outside. The walls were lined with roll after roll of wrapping paper and ribbon, ready to be dispensed on command to tie up a package. Rolling ladders, like the ones you might see in a library, were mounted on runners along the walls.

  The front of the shop was lined with wrapping stations, each manned by an employee ready to serve. Behind those stations were all sorts of boxes and gift bags available for purchase. Bert had never seen anything like it. In fact, it surprised her that there was a store solely geared to gift wrapping.

  Getting over her initial awe, she noticed a young man with perfectly slicked back hair and a well-fitting work suit walking their way. His upper lip was decorated with a perfectly shaped handlebar mustache. His plastered-on smile looked fake as a three-dollar bill. “Hello, ladies. Welcome to Wicked Wrapping where we make your gifts look like magic. Were you looking to get some presents wrapped today?” He blinked a few times, showing that he was wearing mascara. His expression, despite genial, had hidden ticks that revealed he was putting on a grand show—like a stage actor.

  Bert and Carla looked at each other before speaking. “Actually, I had a friend give me a gift recently and i
t had the most beautiful wrapping paper on it. I saw that it was one of the exclusive patterns that only your store sells and I wanted to come in and see if I could maybe pick some up,” she said, reciting her well-crafted lie she had planned for the occasion.

  “Of course. Do you have a sample of the paper with you?”

  “I do,” she declared proudly, digging into her oversized purse (which clearly made the salesperson uncomfortable) and producing the paper.

  “Ah, yes. The eggshell veneer. A beautiful shade of white that shimmers like a mirror,” he said, waving his hands in front of his body like a mime. “With Mother’s Day being this last week, we probably wrapped over a thousand gifts in that color alone.”

  Bert and Carla’s jaws dropped. “So, there isn’t any chance that you might be able to tell us who wrapped our gift?” Bert asked.

  The man did the frantic butterfly blink again. “I thought you said a friend gave you the gift, hon.”

  “Yes, but it was sort of an anonymous friend, you see. I’m trying to figure out which of my friends gifted it to me.”

  The man nodded. “I see. Unfortunately, that would be near to impossible. We wrap so many gifts.”

  Bert hummed quietly, disappointed at that answer. Adjusting her purse on her shoulder and feeling the clay train roll over in the box, she had another idea. “Do you guys always see what you are wrapping?” she asked.

  “Well, generally to wrap a gift we would have to see what was inside, wouldn’t we?” he asked in passive-aggressive tone.

  Ignoring his demeaning tone, Bert dug into her purse, opened the box, and took out the clay train. Holding it out for him to see, Bert watched as the man’s eyebrows raised. “Did you wrap this?” she asked.

  The shop attendant’s mouth hung open in shock. “You were the one who received this gift?”

  “That’s right.”

  “My, oh my. Someone must not like you much. A broken child’s toy. The note in the box . . .” his voice trailed off. He looked up at her with a sideways glance. “This has nothing to do with wrapping paper, does it?” he accused her.