Chocolate Most Deadly (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 2) by Mary Maxwell Page B

of
moving parts. I didn’t think to ask earlier, but do you have a key to Tim’s
place?” She held up an assortment of silver, brass and gold keys looped
together with red string. “I made him give me a copy. For exactly this type of
situation.”
    We walked up a short flight of
concrete steps and along a gently curving sidewalk. A man dressed in white bib
overalls, a long-sleeved black T-shirt and paint-spattered steel-toed boots was
on a ladder painting the window trim on the second floor. He glanced down as we
approached, giving us a silent nod before turning his attention back to the
brush in his hand.
    “I’m kind of freaking out right
now,” Viveca said. “What if we find something bad?” I reached down and squeezed
her hand. “No matter what,” I said, releasing her fingers. “We’ll get through
it together.”
    The entrance was tucked beneath a
small overhang that protruded from the building.
    “Tim’s place is on the top floor,” Viveca
said, unlocking the front door. “Up the steps and in the back.”
    I followed her inside. As we headed
for the staircase, a guy came around the corner.
    “Afternoon, ladies,” he said. “You
new in the building?”
    He was tall and slender, with a
dark Fu Manchu mustache and bald head. His mouth was small, his lips slight and
there was a mole on his left cheek the color of molasses. Two gold hoops clung
to his left earlobe and mirrored aviator sunglasses perched on his hairless
dome like safety reflectors on a double-wide.
    “We’re just visiting,” I said,
continuing toward the steps. “We know someone who lives here.”
    The man came closer. I detected the
unmistakable aroma of earthy, pungent patchouli mixed with stale whiskey. He
was dressed in faded jeans, a John Deere T-shirt and motorcycle boots that were
badly scuffed and nicked.
    “Oh, yeah?” he said. “Who’s that?”
    “My brother,” Viveca answered. “He
gave me a key so I could come and check on things when he’s away.”
    With a subtle nod, the guy stepped to
one side so we could continue toward the staircase. As he shifted into a shaft
of sunlight, I got a clear look at his eyes: bloodshot, suspicious and hooded.
    “Have a nice day,” he said in a
tone that was far from friendly.
    I smiled, but didn’t say anything
as we began climbing the stairs to the third floor. I could feel a whirl of
anticipation in my stomach; the jittery omen that we were approaching something
potentially troublesome.
    At the top of the steps, Viveca
turned left and walked quickly to the last door on the right. “Okay, this
doesn’t make me feel any better,” she said, pointing at her brother’s
apartment. “The door’s not even closed all the way.”
    I moved up beside her, quickly
appraised the situation and reached into my bag. When she saw the barrel of my
Glock 36, her face went slack and her eyes climbed quickly to meet mine.
    “Just in case,” I said.
    She covered her mouth. “You brought
a gun?”
    I nodded. “Force of habit from my
days in Chicago,” I said quietly. “Any good PI is going to take precautions.
Since what we’re doing here is kind of like—”
    A sudden noise came from inside the
apartment. It sounded like a heavy object slamming against a solid surface. I
instinctively raised my arm and gently nudged Viveca to the side.
    “Stay behind me,” I said in a
hushed voice. “And don’t say a word once we get in there.”
    She nodded, gulped in a breath and
wrapped both hands around the strap of her purse.
    “Should we call the police first?”
she whispered.
    I shook my head, put a finger to my
lips and gently pushed against the bottom of the door with my right foot. It
opened slowly, emitting a muted creak and surrounding us with the stench of
sour cigarette smoke.
    “Follow me,” I said, inching
through the open doorway. “And stay close.”
    As we moved into the apartment, I
swept the room with a quick series of side-to-side glances. Tim wasn’t much of
a