by Libby Howard
“He still could be our killer,” I said, desperate for it to be anyone but the man I suspected.
“No, he’s not our killer. Now why are you here to see me on this fine Monday morning?”
I took a deep breath. “I know someone who had motive to want Spencer Thompson dead. He also has plants in his back yard that are poisonous and could kill someone in the manner that Spencer Thompson died.”
“And,” Detective Keeler prompted.
“And he’s a ninety-year-old man who has six months to live and gets around with a walker and an oxygen tank.”
The detective blinked. “That doesn’t sound like someone physically capable of murder.”
“He gets around just fine, only a little slower than most. He’s a Master Gardener. He knows plants and he knows poisonous plants in particular. He’s one of Michael Oak’s fraud victims. He lost his house to foreclosure, and Spencer Thompson bought it at auction. The man was being evicted. He’d spoken to Spencer Thompson on the phone several times, begging him for a stay on the eviction, telling him that he wouldn’t sue to get the house back if Thompson just let him live out the last six months of his life there.”
“Was his name on the list of clients that Thompson saw? The list of visitors to the firm that day?”
I squirmed. “No, but the name on the list before mine, Ralph Stephens, is his neighbor and his friend. Maybe this Ralph is in on it, or maybe the man I’m thinking of used his name to get in.”
“I confirmed the visit of every name on that list, so I doubt someone got in using a fake name. Ralph Stephens in particular has been a client of Fullbright and Mason for over a decade, and he wasn’t even there to see Spencer Thompson.”
“He still could have slipped something in Thompson’s coffee on his way to meet with a different advisor,” I countered. “Or maybe his friend was with him and didn’t sign in up front. Maybe he snuck in.”
“The receptionist already admitted that every elderly man coming through the door looks the same to her. I doubt she could pick one over the other in a line up. But still, I’m pretty sure she would have noticed someone hobbling by with a walker and an oxygen tank.”
“He doesn’t always need the oxygen tank,” I protested. “And maybe he doesn’t always need the walker. He’s the only suspect with motive, opportunity, and the knowledge to kill Spencer Thompson. And you already said the receptionist probably wouldn’t notice one additional elderly man heading through the office doors.”
“What sort of poisonous plant do you think this man used?”
“Tall buttercup and/or larkspur or delphinium. They’re both highly toxic alkaloids according to my expert, and the manner of death from ingesting a concentrated dose is consistent with the way you said Spencer Thompson died.”
“Buttercup? Like the stuff that’s in every median and field in the county? You’re seriously expecting me to haul a ninety-year-old dying man in here because he’s got buttercups in his back yard? What’s next, arresting people because they’ve got dandelions in their grass?”
“Not just any old buttercup,” I protested. “Tall buttercup. Some buttercups are more toxic than others. That particular variety is very toxic. It blisters on touch. Swallowing it would lead to severe blistering of the mucus membranes and gastrointestinal tract. Swelling of the throat and airways due to the reaction. Asphyxiations. And if that didn’t kill them, the bloody diarrhea probably would.”
“A lovely image just before lunch, Mrs. Carrera,” Detective Keeler drawled. “Imagine for just one moment what would happen if I arrested an elderly, terminally ill man who had been the victim of identity theft and fraud and accused him of murder just because he was one of the hundred people who would have motive to see Spencer Thompson dead, and just happened to have some lovely flowers in his back yard. Imagine what the local newspaper journalists would do to me. I’d be a viral Twitter sensation by the end of the week. I’d have people sending me hate mail and writing nasty things on my car. My boss would pull me into his office and yell at me. And the prosecutor, because she’s a smart woman, would absolutely refuse to bring charges against the man.”
“But if the toxicology report comes back that the cause of death was larkspur or tall buttercup—”
“It’s still not enough for me to commit career suicide by accusing a ninety-year-old dying crime victim of murder. You get a picture of this man standing over Spencer Thompson’s coffee cup, pouring a vial of something into it, and we’ll talk. Actually, make sure that picture is time and date stamped, and then we’ll talk.”
I walked out of the police station, a bit humiliated, a bit frustrated, and, I’ll admit, more than a bit relieved. Was Melvin Elmer the murderer? Just because the facts were pointing his way didn’t mean he was guilty of murder. And even if he was, did I really blame him?
Chapter 21
“Thank you. This looks wonderful.” Melvin Elmer beamed at me and sat the espresso-chip pound cake on his kitchen table. “Can I offer you anything? Coffee? Tea?”
“No, thank you. I just came by to see how you were doing and if there was anything I could help you with. Anything I can pick up at the courthouse for you? Groceries?”
That wasn’t why I was there, but if Mr. Elmer did need something, I’d be happy to help him out.
“I actually just got back from the courthouse. Took your advice and went in to see about getting that eviction canceled. And I spoke with a very nice lawyer on First Street that said she could help me with the house title for a very reasonable fee. I might actually come out a bit ahead after the mortgage company settles.”
“That’s wonderful news. Guess you’ll be unpacking then?”
He nodded. “My friend Ralph from down the street is coming over later to help. Luckily I don’t have much to unpack.”
I glanced out the huge kitchen window into his back yard, admiring the daisies swaying in the early fall breeze. “Mr. Elmer, there’s something I have to ask you. Where were you Thursday around twelve-thirty when I came by to drop off those papers from the courthouse?”
“Hmm?” He looked at me with raised brows, then smiled slightly as he glanced out the window. “Oh, I had some errands to do. A few financial matters to take care of. The bank, things like that.”
“Your friend Ralph drove you?”
“Yes, he did. He had a few errands of his own to run as well.”
“So the two of you didn’t go to Fullbright and Mason?”
Mr. Elmer shrugged. “I really don’t know. Ralph had a quick meeting, and I waited in the car. It was a nice day and I get worn out walking.”
“You didn’t go in with him to confront Spencer Thompson?”
“No, of course not. Why would I do that? He made it quite clear over the phone that he wouldn’t hold off on the eviction.”
“Perhaps you thought that if he were dead, he wouldn’t be able to evict you?”
His smile turned tolerant. “The eviction had already been granted by the court. His death wouldn’t have stopped it. And who’s to say there wasn’t an heir or other owners at Brockhurst Properties who would continue on with the eviction even after that man’s death?”
“Then maybe you wanted revenge,” I pressed. “Tall buttercup. Larkspur. It wouldn’t have been too difficult for someone who knows their flowering plants. You made the poison, and your friend Ralph dumped it in Spencer Thompson’s coffee.”
“Goodness, that would be quite the friend, poisoning someone for me while I rested in the car. I’m sure if you were to speak to Ralph, he’d tell you how ridiculous an idea that is.”
“There are a lot of things people will do for their best friend,” I told him. “And murder for revenge isn’t all that ridiculous an idea.”
“Would you kill for your best friend, Mrs. Carrera?”
I hesitated, wondering about the answer to that. My initial impulse was to deliver a vehement “no”, but I knew in my heart there might be circumstances where I put my morals aside. If someone hurt
Daisy or Judge Beck, I’d want to see them in jail, but if someone were to hurt Madison or Henry…. Yes, I most certainly was capable of murder if the circumstances justified it.
Mr. Elmer sighed and leaned against the kitchen counter, suddenly appearing every bit of ninety years old. “I wasn’t interested in revenge, Mrs. Carrera. All I want is to stay here in the comfort of my home, and hopefully live long enough to see my lilacs once more.”
It was clear I wasn’t going to get a confession out of the man, and I wasn’t exactly sad about it. What the heck would I have done if he’d confessed? Watch them haul him to jail? I was so conflicted about this whole thing, but I couldn’t see taking any more of this man’s time.
“You’re looking a bit tired,” I said. “I’ll let myself out. You’ve got my number. Please call if you need anything.”
He nodded. “Thank you again for the pound cake. I’ll definitely enjoy it. I’m sure Ralph will too, if I decide to let him have a piece.”
I headed for the door, hesitating as I heard him call my name.
“Mrs. Carrera?”
I turned to see him standing in front of the kitchen window, haloed by the afternoon sun behind him.
“I’m not someone who would kill for revenge, but I’m glad that man is dead, because now he can no longer harm helpless people.” He nodded. “Or people he assumes are helpless. No one else will ever lose their home because of that horrible man. In my eyes, justice has been served.”
“Your hair looks nice,” Judge Beck told me.
I reached up a hand to pat the slightly blonder locks that I’d attempted to style in the same way the lady at the spa had. The judge and I were home alone this Monday night, the kids having gone to their mother’s for her week of custody. That usually meant late nights for the judge and lots of dinners alone for me, but tonight he’d breezed through the door promptly at six o’clock, bringing take-out lasagna from a new place across from the courthouse. I appreciated the dinner. And I especially appreciated the compliment.
“Thank you. I might make this spa day a regular thing.”
“You should.” He reached over to gather up my plate. “Did you bring home work for tonight, or dare I suggest a movie?”
Oh, definitely a movie! And ice cream!
“I’ve got a few skip traces I was going to work on, but they can wait for tomorrow,” I said.
“All done with your divorce case and the hidden assets?” He started rinsing the dishes and I watched. A man doing housework had to be one of the sexiest things ever.
“All done, although I feel like there were a lot of loose ends.” I sighed. “Loose ends don’t make me happy. I’m sure her lawyer will find the other banking accounts, but I don’t know if we’ll ever know how complicit Spencer Thompson was in those mortgage frauds or prosecute his murderer.”
Judge Beck turned to eye me over his shoulder. “Prosecute? So you have your suspicions?”
“I do, but it’s very circumstantial. I told Detective Keeler everything I knew, put it in his lap, and he said that unless I found the proverbial smoking gun, he wasn’t going to proceed. I know this man did it. In a roundabout way, he hinted that he did it. But it’s not enough to send him to jail.”
“Do you think this man will kill again?”
“No. In fact, I’m positive he won’t.”
“Then sometimes you have to be satisfied that someday, somehow justice will eventually be done, Kay,” Judge Beck told me.
But what really was the definition of justice in this case? Even with a smoking gun, Melvin Elmer would be dead before they brought him to trial. Even if he lived long enough to stand trial and was convicted, he’d not live long enough to serve out his sentence. Would his punishment be not seeing the spring blooms and lilacs one last time? Somehow that punishment seemed more severe than the crime warranted. A man’s life had been taken, but that man had been a thief that had cost at least six people their homes, had stolen from his partner, and had cruelly denied a man the dignity of dying in his home. I wasn’t sure that meant he deserved to die, but I didn’t see where causing Mr. Elmer more pain than he’d already suffered would be the right thing to do.
Besides, I didn’t have any hard proof that he’d actually done it. Or that his friend Ralph Stephens had been involved—either knowingly or not.
Last week Judge Beck had told me that sometimes a person had to be happy with partial justice. That’s what this was. Partial justice. I’d done all I could, and those whose responsibility it was to find and arrest a murderer had declined to act. I guess I had to be satisfied with that. Partial justice. And maybe somewhere down the line, there would be another judge to play King Solomon. Maybe that judge would be Saint Peter at the pearly gates. And if so, part of me hoped he opened those gates wide and let Mr. Elmer inside.
“Chocolate or vanilla?” I asked the judge as he loaded the rinsed plates into the dishwasher.
He shot me a boyish grin that made my heartbeat pick up a notch. “Why choose? Let’s have both. And I’ll even let you pick the movie tonight.”
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Lyndsey Lewellen for cover design and typography, and to both Erin Zarro and Jennifer Cosham for copyediting.
About the Author
Libby Howard lives in a little house in the woods with her sons and two exuberant bloodhounds. She occasionally knits, occasionally bakes, and occasionally manages to do a load of laundry. Most of her writing is done in a bar where she can combine work with people-watching, a decent micro-brew, and a plate of Old Bay wings.
For more information:
libbyhowardbooks.com/
Also by Libby Howard
Locust Point Mystery Series:
The Tell All
Junkyard Man
Antique Secrets
Hometown Hero
A Literary Scandal
Root of All Evil
A Grave Situation (November 2018)
