The Poison in the Pudding

by Shéa MacLeod

  “Okay.” I sat down on a wooden chair across the hall from her. There was a red velvet cushion on it to match the loveseat and chairs clustered up and down the hall. “I was hoping you could help me.”

  “Me?” She seemed surprised.

  I nodded. “I’m trying to help Portia, and I was wondering if you knew anything. Anything at all. About the murder, I mean.”

  “Oh, no. The police asked, but I don’t know anything. I have no idea who would murder Mr. Nixon or why.”

  “Other than the fact he was a letch?”

  Her cheeks blazed. “He was, rather unfortunately, not a nice man in that area, but I can’t imagine someone murdering him over it.”

  Other than his wife, maybe. Wives were often displeased by philandering husbands.

  “Good point,” I said, going along with her assessment for the moment. “What about the night he died? Did he have any visitors? Appointments?” Maybe Annabelle knew who the pink-lipstick wearer was. I noticed she wore a nude shade of lipgloss, so it likely wasn’t her. If the salon girl thought I’d look bad in pink lipstick, she should meet Annabelle.

  “Oh, yes, he had an appointment that night at six. I don’t know who, though. He put it on the calendar himself. We all sync our calendars, but we’re responsible for our own appointments.”

  “Can you look?”

  She shrugged. “If it will help Portia.”

  “It will.”

  She nodded and pulled her cell phone out of her purse. A few swipes on the screen later, she gave a triumphant smile. “Here it is. Six p.m. Mrs. A.”

  “Do you know who Mrs. A is?”

  “Sorry, I don’t.” She looked ready to cry.

  “It’s okay. I’ll figure it out.” Maybe. I rubbed the bridge of my nose, trying to think. “So, were you here the night of the murder?”

  “Oh, no. My son was ill. I stayed home that day to take care of him.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Hope he’s okay.”

  She gave me a tremulous smile. “He’ll be fine.” She didn’t sound convinced. I felt badly for her, but I was more concerned with Portia at the moment.

  “Anything else? Did Mr. Nixon have an argument with anyone recently?”

  She blanched again. “The police asked that too. And I’m sorry, but I had to tell them.”

  “Tell them what?”

  Annabelle swallowed. “That the day he died, Mr. Nixon had a violent argument with someone and that person threatened to kill him.”

  A feeling of dread pooled in my stomach. “Who was it?”

  “Portia Wren.”

  “HOW DO YOU KNOW ANNABELLE is telling the truth?” Cheryl asked as she scooped up a forkful of salad. She’d agreed to meet me for lunch, even though she was on a deadline for her latest thriller. Like me, Cheryl was a novelist. Unlike me, there was no bodice-ripping in her books, and she wasn’t cursed with writer’s block. “She could have lied, you know.”

  “She could have,” I admitted. “It would be an easy enough thing to fake. And with only the kid to corroborate. But still, I got the feeling she was being genuine.”

  “You and your gut feelings. What was it this time?” She munched on the rabbit food with gusto. I couldn’t stand salads. Even if they were smothered in hunks of bleu cheese and slices of fried chicken.

  I set down my turkey Reuben and ruminated on it. “Her reaction when I asked her about anyone who might have threatened Nixon. When she told me about Portia, she was practically in tears.”

  “Could have been faking.”

  I shrugged and took a sip of root beer. “I suppose, but I honestly think she was telling the truth.”

  “Okay, so maybe she was.” Cheryl switched into devil’s advocate mode. “It’s possible she was trying to make Portia look bad. Shift the blame. I mean, Annabelle could have had a motive herself, you know.”

  I frowned. “You think The Louse was harassing her, too?”

  “It’s a possibility.” She took another bite of her salad. It was peppered with slivers of almonds and chunks of dried cranberry. If they put that in a muffin, I’d be all over it.

  “Okay, I can see that. She’s pretty, and Nixon was, well, a louse. Plus she’s super mousey, and he delighted in bullying people he deemed weaker than him. But I can’t see her killing him over it. She’s timid. Not like Portia.”

  “Not ballsy, you mean?” Cheryl said dryly.

  I cleared my throat and held back a laugh. “Exactly.”

  “She could have another motive. Something that was worth killing for.”

  I chewed a big bite of the Reuben. “I’ll bite. What sort of motive would Annabelle have that would get a timid thing like her riled enough to kill a man?”

  “Is she married?”

  “Nope. No man in the picture, as far as I can tell. Just the kid.”

  “And she said he was sick?”

  I nodded. “If I recall correctly, Portia once mentioned the kid was sick a lot. Something chronic maybe.”

  “So, what if she wanted time off and he wouldn’t give it to her?”

  I snorted. “Wouldn’t she just quit?”

  “Maybe. Unless she was too afraid of not having a job.” I shook my head. “I can’t picture that one. What about money? Maybe he wasn’t paying her for some reason?”

  “That would make me murderous,” Cheryl said, wadding up her napkin and tossing it on the table. “What if the money she was making wasn’t enough?”

  I frowned. “To take care of her and her son, you mean?”

  “Right. Illness is expensive in this country. A single mom with a sick kid and probably the most basic insurance? Bound to get spendy.”

  “You think she killed him because she wanted a raise?”

  “Well, no, of course not, but money is often a motive, right?”

  She was right about that. “I guess she could have been doing something illegal to make money, and he caught on. She killed him to shut him up.”

  Cheryl frowned. “But what, though? Pot brownies maybe?”

  I laughed. “Not exactly illegal anymore.”

  “Yeah, but she probably isn’t licensed, and I doubt you can sell them out of a museum.”

  “But still not worth killing over. I think you’re on to something, though. I’m going to look into the money angle some more. After my next stop.”

  “Where are you off to next?”

  “Roger Collins, assistant director of the Flavel House Museum. I’d like to hear what he has to say about The Louse.”

  “Good luck. I’m off to hunt down a serial killer.”

  I grinned. “I think you’re the one that needs the luck.”

  “No kidding,” she sighed. “You have no idea how hard it is to leave a trail of bodies interspersed with red herrings.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that. I was getting far too familiar with both of those things.

  AS SOON AS I LEFT THE bakery, I dialed the number Annabelle had given me for Roger Collins. According to her, he’d called in sick to work that morning, leaving her to run the place alone. Not exactly a glowing character recommendation in my book. Still, it would hopefully make it easier to question him, since he would be relaxed on his own turf and not distracted by work.

  The phone rang several times before an automated voice instructed me to leave a message. I didn’t bother. This was something better done face to face anyway.

  Collins lived mere blocks from the bakery in a Craftsman cottage halfway up the hill. It was painted an unfortunate shade of peach which clashed with the red brick of the chimney. A porch swing swayed slightly in the light spring breeze, and a few daffodils and crocuses bravely lifted their heads toward the early afternoon sun. Or what was left of it. Clouds had begun to scuttle in from the north, and the air had taken on a slight chill.

  I rapped on the front door. Not so much as a whisper from inside. Maybe he hadn’t heard. I rang the bell. Still nothing.

  There was a garage to the side of the house, so I made my way do
wn the porch steps and walked around the house. Standing on tiptoes, I peered into the garage. Dim shapes huddled under bright-blue tarps. I couldn’t tell if it was furniture or what, but it definitely wasn’t a car. Apparently the terribly sick Mr. Collins was off running around somewhere.

  I’d have to catch him later. Preferably when he least expected it.

  I returned to my car, frustrated but determined. Something white fluttering on the windshield caught my eye. With a frown, I plucked the piece of paper from under the wiper blade. Surely it wasn’t a parking ticket. There wasn’t a sign anywhere on the street.

  As I read the note, my eyes widened. It wasn’t a ticket. It was a message. Block letters spelled out:

  BE CAREFUL. CURIOSITY KILLED THE CAT.

  Chapter 6

  The Prohibition

  THE PROHIBITION WAS an ironic name for a bar and restaurant known for its pre-Prohibition cocktails. It thoroughly embraced the aesthetics of the era in every aspect. From the fire glowing in the hearth to the twang of the old-timey music, the Edison light bulbs, and the American flag draped off the corner of one of the shelves behind the bar. Shelves crammed with liquors I’d never even heard of like Boodles British Gin. There was even an absinthe dispenser, which I found interesting, but I never touched the stuff. Black licorice is one of the most disgusting flavors on Earth, as far as I’m concerned.

  Lucas and I perched ourselves at the bar, so we could get the scoop from the cheerful bartender. She greeted us with a smile and answered our questions about the drinks. I chose Rival #7. Mostly because it involved maraschino cherries, which are delicious, and rye whiskey, which is almost as good as blackberry bourbon. Lucas chose a Lightship #50, which sounded good because of the apple brandy, until the bartender informed us there was a “splash of absinthe.” Thanks, but no thanks.

  I grinned happily to myself, enjoying the chill atmosphere and the fact that Lucas was back in town. I didn’t want to admit to myself that I’d missed him. Just a little. Friday evening hadn’t come fast enough.

  I hadn’t told Lucas or anyone else about the note on my car. It wasn’t a threat—not exactly. Okay, so it was a threat, but not a specific one. Probably some nosey neighbor or something. Sure. And I’ve got a bridge in Arizona for sale. I didn’t want anyone freaking out. I could handle this myself. Until I knew who left the note, there was no point getting everyone riled up.

  “So, catch me up on what’s been going on?” Lucas asked, sipping his Lightship.

  I sighed. “Well, I’ve been struggling with this scene in my book. Scarlet lied to Rolf and he found out. Was totally pissed, of course, but I’ve no idea what the lie was. Ridiculous really. It’s what I get for not plotting everything out ahead of time.” Some authors were “plotters.” They planned out the whole book before they even started writing. Some were “pantsers.” They wrote randomly whatever spewed out of their brains on a given day and worried about tying it all up later. Me, I was somewhere in the middle. I’d have a plot, more or less, but would wing a lot of it. Which potentially led to a conundrum now and then. Like the one with Scarlet and Rolf. “I actually switched books and started working on something else, hoping it would jar the old creative juices. No such luck. Got stuck on that one, too.”

  “I’m sorry you’re stuck, but you know that isn’t what I meant,” he said, giving me a look.

  I heaved a sigh. Of course I did. I took a fortifying sip of whiskey-flavored goodness and dove in. I told him about my search for the lipstick, my visit with Annabelle, and the fact that I hadn’t been able to find Roger Collins.

  “Maybe he’ll be at the memorial service tomorrow. I can question him then.”

  Lucas shook his head. “I don’t know why you think the police can’t handle this.”

  “Because it’s pretty obvious they can’t. Portia did not kill anyone. She’s just not the type.”

  He eyed me carefully. “Everyone’s the type, Viola. You know that. Given the right motive, even you could commit murder.”

  I snorted. “Yeah, but I’m not nearly as nice a person as Portia.”

  He grinned. “I enjoy your sassy ways.” Then he sobered. “I just worry.”

  “I know you do. And I appreciate it, but everything is under control.”

  He looked dubious, but didn’t say anything more. I took that as a good sign.

  “You could help me, you know.”

  “If I can, I will. You know that.”

  I did, but I wasn’t used to this “being able to rely on a man” business. Most of my adult life had been spent on my own, and I liked it that way. I hadn’t expected Lucas to throw a monkey wrench into the situation.

  He ordered another round, and we chatted about mundane things: our books, deadlines, upcoming travel. He was headed to Phoenix in two weeks for a thriller writers’ convention. I was going to San Diego in the summer for a romance novelists’ conference. We talked about attending a conference in Florida again, but this time together.

  As the night stretched on, the whiskey went to my head, despite the addition of marinated olives, hush puppies, and a charcuterie plate. I had no idea if the food was pre-Prohibition, too, but I doubted it. In any case, it was delicious.

  I started thinking about ways to free Portia. Maybe if I could get Bat’s focus off Portia and on to someone else...

  Yes, that was it.

  Lucas interrupted my train of thought. “What is your devious mind planning now?”

  “Oh, nothing,” I said tipsily. “But I think it might be time to head home.”

  He nodded and paid for dinner and drinks before helping me with my coat. He walked me home but didn’t ask to come in, and I didn’t invite him. It wasn’t that I didn’t want him to, but I wasn’t quite ready for that. Plus I had plans.

  “See you tomorrow, Viola,” he said softly before bending down to kiss me.

  It was a thorough kiss. A swoony kiss. I very nearly lost my balance and toppled off the porch. I stood there for a long time watching him as his car disappeared into the night. Then I shook my head. I had plans to see to. What did old Sherlock say?

  The game is afoot!

  THE NEXT MORNING, I woke rather fuzzy-brained and disoriented. The pale-blue ceiling came swimming into view, the ornate medallion in the middle from which the chandelier hung finally pulling into focus. My head was throbbing slightly, and my mouth felt like cotton wool. I rarely overindulged—moderation and all that—but apparently those cocktails were stronger than I realized.

  I wondered if I should have invited Lucas in after all. I’d hate for him to think I wasn’t interested, but I refused to bow to pressure just because of someone else’s time scale. I wasn’t even sure Lucas cared about time scales. We were doing our own thing, and he seemed fine with it. I think.

  I groaned. Thinking hurt my brain. I needed coffee. Lots of it. And then I needed to sit my butt at my computer for a couple hours and get some work done before the memorial service...

  I froze.

  Memories of the night before flooded my mind. Lucas walking me to the front door. Lucas kissing me. Lucas driving away. Me going inside the house...

  No, I didn’t go inside. Instead I drove to Detective Battersea’s place and left a note on the windshield of his car. A murder confession.

  “Oh, crap.” I rolled over and buried my face in the pillow. I’d lost my ever-loving mind. Why did I think leaving a murder confession on a cop’s car was a good idea? Granted, it was anonymous, but still. He could totally do a handwriting analysis or fingerprint it or something, and he’d figure out it was me.

  No, wait. He’d have to have a sample to compare it to, which he didn’t. And my fingerprints would have to be on file, which they weren’t. So, there was no way he could know I did it, right?

  Cheryl would know what to do. Maybe.

  I staggered from bed, threw on my fuzzy, blue bathrobe, grabbed my phone, and headed to the kitchen. I needed, like, a thousand gallons of coffee—stat! Unfortunately, standing on m
y back porch was Detective James Battersea. He was wearing the same yellow and blue tie, and he was holding up my note. With a groan, I tightened my bathrobe belt and swung open the door.

  “Viola, you’ve got some explaining to do.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I tried to look innocent and no doubt failed miserably.

  He tapped the note right on the spot where my website was printed along the bottom. I’d used my author stationary? I had lost my mind.

  I closed my eyes and let out a huge sigh. “Are you going to arrest me?”

  “Maybe not. If you can explain this. And if you have coffee.”

  “I was about to make some. Come on in.”

  While Bat sat at my kitchen table and I made coffee for both of us, I explained my thought process regarding the note. “It was stupid. Really stupid,” I admitted. “I literally can’t believe I did it. But at the time...” I trailed off.

  “At the time, it seemed reasonable?”

  I sighed. “Yeah. It did. I’m sorry, and I promise I’ll never do it again. It’s not like me at all. I was just so worried about Portia, and I thought if you had a reason to look elsewhere...” I shrugged and handed him a large mug of black coffee, then I sat down with my own sweet and light.

  “You’re worried for your friend. I get it,” he said, surprisingly sympathetic. “But you’ve got to let the police handle this. Believe it or not, we do know what we’re doing.”

  “I know. I’m an idiot.”

  “I’m going to let this go this once, as long as you promise not to do it again. And to let me do my job.”

  “I promise.” It wasn’t a lie. I would let him do his job, but I had zero intention of leaving the investigation solely in his hands.

  Chapter 7

  Kerfuffle at a Funeral

  “YOU DID WHAT?”

  “I know,” I admitted as Lucas parked the car on Franklin. “It wasn’t my brightest move.”