by Mary Maxwell
“Actually, I was going with something doesn’t smell right about this one.”
She laughed; a thin, cheerless sound that betrayed the vivacious façade. I could hear the fatigue and frustration between each word. While Dina said a few more things about Doris Linklater, I tried to remember if she’d told me how many cases she was juggling at the moment. Although Crescent Creek was a small town, Dina and her fellow detective, a charming guy named Tyler Armstrong, stayed busy with an array of cases that frequently involved vicious crimes like stolen lawn ornaments, shoplifting at the drug store and identifying the artists responsible for the new graffiti on the gazebo in the town’s main public park.
“I’ll talk to Doris,” I said. “She should be working tonight, so I’ll drop by after we close here and I take a quick shower.”
“Busy day?”
“Insanely busy day,” I said. “I also accidentally dropped a jar of minced garlic, so I smell like a bowl of the white bean soup at Luigi’s.”
“Oh, I love that stuff!” Dina said. “But everyone hates when I have it for lunch.”
“You know, an apple, lemon juice or green tea help cut the tang of garlic on your breath,” I said. “My grandmother used to tell us little tips like that when we were helping her in the Sky High kitchen.”
“That’s sweet,” Dina said. “Did she offer any advice about interviewing uncooperative eyewitnesses in a murder investigation?”
“Oddly, that never came up,” I said with a laugh. “Who are we talking about?”
“Confidential,” Dina said. “But I hope to be able to tell you sooner rather than later.”
“Do you have any other suspects besides Ken Ballard?” I asked, detecting a slight uptick in the cadence of her voice.
“Not yet,” Dina said. “But we will soon. I feel it in my bones.”
“I know most people think of him as a completely unruffled, pokerfaced guy,” I said. “But Ken seemed really genuine this morning. He actually shed a few tears while we were talking.”
“Really?”
“Yes, he was sincere. I don’t actually know much about their relationship, but he seemed truly sad that it ended the way it did.”
“And how did it end?” she asked.
“I heard that Amelia broke the guy’s heart by calling it quits,” I said. “The person that told me didn’t get into the nitty-gritty details, but I’ve heard a few other things around town that contradict that explanation. According to the grapevine, Amelia was pressuring Ken about getting married and buying a house and giving her a promotion at his firm.”
“Doing what?” Dina asked.
“I don’t have that info,” I said. “And I only heard that from one source. But everyone mentioned the demands that she was making about getting married and moving in together.”
“Maybe she really loved him,” Dina said.
“And maybe it was because she’d filed for bankruptcy a couple of months ago,” I replied.
“I’ve heard the same stories,” she said. “I just don’t see Amelia being that cold and calculating about things.”
“You never know. Remember the adage about not judging a book by its cover.”
“Unless the cover is a flashing neon sign that says, ‘Desperate for money. Will do anything it takes.’”
“Detective! I don’t think that I’ve heard you sounding quite so cynical and dispassionate about a victim before.”
“Well, we haven’t had a case like this before,” she said. “One person in the morgue, one in the hospital and the potential for more poisoned cupcakes out there.”
“Are you starting to believe in the possibility that the Strychnine Stalker will strike again?”
Dina muttered into the phone. “Please don’t say that again, okay? It’s bad enough listening to people around town using that name. I don’t need to hear it coming from you, too.”
“I stand corrected,” I said. “I’ll do my best not to use it again.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “Even the small things can be monumental in a case like this.”
“Like silly nicknames?”
“Especially that,” she said with a sigh.
CHAPTER 10
I hadn’t seen Doris Linklater in several weeks. When I called the lingerie store that she owned, they told me that she’d left a few minutes earlier to do her weekly grocery shopping. I quickly drove to Food Town, rushed inside and scrambled around the store until I spotted her in the produce section. I was immediately struck by how much younger she looked after a recent trip to a chichi health spa in Tucson. I walked up to her slowly, discreetly clearing my throat before I called her name.
“Doris?”
She nearly dropped the cauliflower in her hands. “Oh, my word! Katie, you just about sent me to my grave!”
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She gulped in some air. “It’s okay. I’ve been so scattered since I heard the news about Amelia. You know that she and I were roommates when we were in college, right?”
I shook my head. “I wasn’t aware of that. So you and she were pretty close?”
Doris put down the cauliflower and twined her hands together, forming a tight nest of slender fingers. “Like this!” she said. “As close as two women can be without sharing a mother and father.”
While I listened to Doris relate a quick story about Amelia from their first semester in school, I wondered if there would be a graceful way to make the leap from somber recollection to precise inquiry about her romance with Ken Ballard. Although I didn’t have any solid information beyond the tip that Rebecca Carney had given to me when we talked earlier at her nail salon, I wanted to take advantage of my time with Doris to see if I could learn anything meaningful that I could pass along to Dina Kincaid.
“You’re thinking about something,” Doris said when she finished describing an especially harrowing weekend that she and Amelia spent in Breckenridge with two other college classmates. “What is it?”
I took a breath. “Well, it’s a little bit…sensitive,” I said. “Are you okay if I broach the subject? I can always get back in touch at a later date.”
She reached out and grabbed my arm. “There is no time but now,” she said. “Carpe diem, baby! If we learn nothing else from Amelia’s passing, it should be the importance of seizing the moment.”
“Okay, if you’re sure…”
She made a face. “Katie! Just get to it, okay? I’m a big girl.”
“Alright,” I said. “I’ve heard that you were dating Ken Ballard after he and—”
Her hand shot out, gripped my arm again and squeezed. “Who the hell told you that?” she demanded. “I barely know Ken Ballard. In fact, if he walked in here right now, you’d have to give me an elbow in the ribs and tell me which cheating, lying, filthy pig you’re talking about!”
During the brief rant, her face had turned a lovely shade of crimson. Before the wheels came completely off our spur-of-the-moment conversation, I apologized to Doris and promised to never again mention the matter.
“That would be best,” she said. “I can’t tell you how many times I was on the phone with Amelia late at night, listening to her go on and on about that man. He pretended to be honorable and loyal and loving. But then she saw him swapping spit with some hussy in a dress made out of two thimbles and a cocktail napkin.”
“Oh? Who was that?”
“Miss Trampity Tramp Tramp,” Doris said curtly. “And I don’t mean to be spiteful. I believe a woman should dress in whatever way is comfortable for her. If she wants to wear a kaftan that covers her from floor to chin, that’s her right. And if she wants to dress like a Barbie doll whose entire wardrobe would fit in a tea cup, so be it. But when Ken Ballard took Amelia to Fort Collins for a little weekend getaway, and she came out of the ladies’ room at a restaurant just in time to see him checking to see if the floozy still had her tonsils, well…” She formed a fist and waved it overhead. “In that case, the tramp crossed
a line. You know, girl code! Don’t flirt with another woman’s man. Don’t flutter your eyelashes, shake your hips or jiggle your juggs.”
I smiled at the last one. Then I asked if she could tell me about Amelia’s state of mind during the past few weeks.
“What about it?” she said.
“Was she on edge or irritable?” I asked.
“Just when her brother rolled into town,” Doris said. “She told me that Hugh had come to try and talk her out of something big. I’d heard that she was having money trouble, so I figured maybe that’s what she meant. But when I went over for the housewarming party at her new place, he was fully supportive of his sister.”
“Was it nice?” I asked.
“The party?”
I shook my head. “Amelia’s new apartment.”
She hummed under her breath. “It was okay. You know what I mean? When I heard how much it was every month, I figured that there would be gold faucets in the bathrooms and a butler serving martinis on the veranda. But my first visit left me a little…underwhelmed.”
“No butler?” I smiled.
Doris laughed. “And no gold faucets either. But you know something? If Amelia was happy there, that was all that mattered. She’d been through so much heartache with Ken Ballard that a new apartment seemed like a very fitting way to completely upend her life and make a big splash.”
“That’s true,” I said. “Did Amelia tell you that’s what she had in mind? Upending her life and making a big splash?”
“Not in so many words,” Doris said. “But she was ready to shake things up. It was like that song from the Broadway show about washing a man right out of your hair.”
“I’ve heard that one,” I said.
Doris smiled. “Well, Amelia lived that one. At least, until some cold-blooded monster took it all away.”
CHAPTER 11
“We’ve got another one,” Dina said.
“Another one what?” I asked.
We were in the Sky High office the next afternoon around one. I’d been working on a catering proposal when she rushed through the door looking tense and fretful.
“Another strychnine victim,” she said. “Ken Ballard collapsed earlier today during a meeting.”
For a brief moment, time stopped. I understood what she’d just told me, but it seemed beyond comprehension. Two cases involving poison in less than one week. The first incident ended with the death of an otherwise healthy 35-year-old woman, and the second involved a 40-year-old triathlete. As I watched Dina settle onto one of the guest chairs, I studied the telltale furrow of her brow and the way she was biting the inside of her cheek. After nearly twenty years as friends, I’d learned that both tics accompanied particularly upsetting news.
“But this time the outcome is different,” she went on. “Ken’s in Intensive Care at the Regional Med Center. The next few hours are critical.”
I nodded, feeling a faint ripple of appreciation for the hopeful news.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “Do you think that we have a serial killer in town?”
She leaned back in the chair. “Don’t say that again, okay? The thought obviously crossed my mind, but I can’t really fathom what that would do to Crescent Creek.”
As I listened closely, Dina shared a few more details about Ken Ballard’s current prognosis. The doctors were cautiously optimistic that he would recover. Apparently, there was a thin line between surviving a toxic substance and going in the other direction. It depended on how much poison the victim ingested compared to their body size, age and general health.
“Okay, so this is as close to inconceivable as we’ve been in a while,” I said.
Dina nodded. “It’s a nightmare, especially now that gossip is spreading through town and the national media has the story.”
“Really? Who did you get a call from?”
She dismissed the question with an icy glare. Then she looked at her phone as it began chiming and vibrating. I waited quietly until she’d finished replying to one of the new messages.
“How did it go when Ken came to talk with you about Amelia?” I asked.
Dina looked up from the phone. “What do you mean?”
“Ken was here yesterday,” I said. “After he mentioned that Amelia had accused him of stalking her, I suggested that he tell you everything so you could factor it into the investigation. I’m guessing that he didn’t pursue that idea.”
“I haven’t talked to Ken in ages,” Dina said, slipping the phone into her pocket. “We live fairly close to one another, and I drive by his house about a dozen times a week. But it’s been months since I’ve seen him around town or out in his yard.”
“That’s strange,” I said. “He seemed sincere about coming to see you.”
Dina shrugged. “Maybe he got cold feet,” she replied. “After all, we’re talking about a volatile situation.”
“Where did he collapse?”
“In his office,” Dina said. “He was getting ready for a staff meeting when a box of four cupcakes was delivered to the front reception desk. There’s a little confusion as far as where they came from, but someone carried them back to Ken. Shortly before the meeting, he ate one of the cupcakes and then collapsed about fifteen minutes later. We recovered the other three and sent them to the lab. Initial testing revealed no strychnine in the remaining cupcakes, but we also found a poem.”
“Come again?” I said, trying to interpret the meaning of her statement from the puzzled expression on her face.
Dina pulled out her phone again, worked the screen with a few taps and then put it on my desk.
“We found this inside the bakery box,” she said. “It’s a little clunky, but the author’s meaning is clear.”
While she waited, I leaned closer and read the short verse:
A game of chance that four will play
The pain will burn thru nite and day
The prize that you shall never win
This is the wage for all your sins
When I finished, I looked at Dina. “It’s not exactly Emily Dickinson, is it?”
She glared silently.
“Sorry,” I added with a reticent shrug. “It was the first thing that crossed my mind.”
“What was the second?” Her smirk had melted into a hopeful grin. “I know that you noticed it, too.”
“‘A game of chance that four will play,’” I said. “Amelia, Ken and who else?”
“We don’t have any solid leads,” Dina replied. “And what little evidence we do have is inconsistent between the two crime scenes. Amelia died at home; Ken collapsed at work. They’d both ingested cupcakes tainted with strychnine. There was a bakery box in Ken’s office with a smudge of something on the bottom, but Amelia was found with only an empty Ziploc bag containing a few crumbs.”
“You’re right,” I said. “That’s not much to go on.”
She glanced back at her phone. “There was also something very interesting attached to the box in Ken’s office.” Her eyes rose again and she smiled. “A delivery ticket from QuikFlash Couriers. The package was delivered that morning around nine.”
“That’s huge,” I said. “What did they tell you at QuikFlash?”
Her optimistic smile fell flat. “Nothing much,” she said. “The package was logged into their system a couple of hours before it was delivered. There wasn’t anything on the slip about the sender, which account it was charged to or if it was even paid for at all. Apparently, the box was in the designated staging area for that day’s deliveries and one of the couriers grabbed it without a second thought. No one at the company seemed to know where it came from, as if it just magically appeared.”
“That’s pretty random,” I said. “But there is a connection; Amelia works at QuikFlash. Did they find a box of cupcakes on her desk?”
Dina shook her head. “No cupcakes on the desk, in the drawers or in her locker. But I hoped that you might stop by and take a look through Amelia’s office. It would be good to h
ave another set of eyes go over the desk and filing cabinets.”
“I can do that,” I said. “What about the smudge on the box found in Ken’s office?”
“We’re still waiting for the lab to identify it,” she said.
“Okay,” I said. “Thus far, we have a nearly blank delivery ticket, an unidentified smudge on the box and this poem. Is that about it?”
“In a nutshell,” Dina said.
I quickly read the poem again. I’d noticed the odd spelling of the word night, but it didn’t register on first glance. It was the same abbreviated version used on the Family Flair Bakeoff entry that Blanche Speltzer showed me earlier in the week.
“I saw that treatment of the word night the other day,” I said.
Dina shook her head. “What treatment?”
I pointed at the photograph. “That one,” I said. “Where they’ve spelled night with four letters instead of five.”
She smiled. “I’m listening.”
“Blanche judged the Food Town charity auction on Monday,” I said. “She came by the next morning with pictures of the top entries, and one had this bizarre shade of purple icing plus the four-letter spelling of night.”
“N-i-t-e,” Dina said.
“That’s right. It was ‘A N-i-t-e to Remember.’”
“Did Blanche know who baked that particular cake?” asked Dina.
“No, the competition is truly anonymous,” I said. “Only Phyllis Hartley and her assistant know who submitted each cake. Why don’t I ask her to identify the contestants that made that particular entry?”
“That would be a big help,” Dina said. “And we’ve got special circumstances; if they don’t give you the name, we’ll get a warrant to seize the contestant data from the competition.”
“Well, somebody’s in a mood,” I said.
She smiled. “Damn right, Katie. I can respect confidentiality when it comes to doctors and lawyers, but a cooking contest isn’t exactly on the same level. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I would,” I said. “And as soon as I can talk to Phyllis, you’ll be the first person to hear what she has to say about the n-i-t-e cake with the strange shade of frosting.”
