The Poison in the Pudding

by Shéa MacLeod

  “I didn’t break,” I said stubbornly. He gave me a look. “Okay, I did break, but it was necessary.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Of course it was.”

  I’d spent the last couple of hours being poked, prodded, and scanned half to death. The doctor determined that I had a concussion and would be fine, but he wanted me in the hospital overnight “for observation.” Which was annoying. The hospital bed was ridiculously uncomfortable, and nurses arrived every five minutes to take my blood pressure and assure themselves I wasn’t dead. How anyone could get any rest was beyond me.

  “Have you found the notebook?” I asked, ignoring the detective’s snarky attitude. Not that I blamed him. Much. What I’d done was sort of illegal, and I really could be a pain in the backside. Ask my mother. I’d been annoying her for more than forty years.

  “Not a trace of it.”

  “That means the person who hit me over the head and took it must be the killer.”

  He pressed his fore and middle fingers of each hand to his temples as if his head ached. “That is speculation, Viola. It could have been anyone who took it.”

  “But why would ‘anyone’ take the notebook unless it implicated them?”

  “A lot of reasons,” he said with exasperation.

  “But after the threat...” I bit my tongue.

  One eyebrow went up. “What threat?” he bit out.

  “Um, well, the other day I was at Roger Collins’s house. I wanted to ask him some questions.” Bat rolled his eyes, and I ignored him. “He wasn’t home, but when I got back to the car, there was a note on it.”

  “I don’t suppose you still have the note.” His tone was dry.

  “Of course I do. I’m not an idiot. Hand me my purse, will you?” He did, and I dug around in my wallet until I found the note. I handed it to him with an air of triumph.

  Bat looked over the note and gave an exasperated sigh. “Why didn’t you tell me about this? This is serious.”

  “I realize that. I’m telling you now.”

  He tucked the note inside an evidence bag. “I’ll have to turn this in. We’ll do what we can to find out who wrote it, but it’s unlikely we’ll find anything.”

  “Fine. Whatever. What do you want to bet the person who put that note on my car is the same person who hit me on the head and stole the journal?”

  “It’s impossible to say,” he said. “Do you recall anything that was in the journal?”

  I dredged up a memory of the few pages I’d seen. “He kept detailed records from what I could tell. Names and descriptions of the artifacts along with their value, who he’d sold them to, and for how much. That sort of thing. Also how he’d covered up the theft. Faked paperwork mostly, from what I could tell.”

  “You remember any of the items or names?”

  I rubbed the side of my nose, trying to remember details that were more than a little fuzzy. “I remember that one of the items was a statuette. It had some kind of number alongside the description. Like a serial number or something. He sold it for two hundred fifty dollars, I think.”

  Bat leaned back and crossed his ankles. “Any idea who the buyer was?”

  I shook my head and winced as pain knifed through my skull. “Ouch. Um, no. Those were in some kind of code, from what it looked like. I’m guessing there was a key somewhere, but if there was, I didn’t see it.”

  “Or it was in Nixon’s head.”

  “Or that,” I agreed, pulling the blanket up a little higher. I felt vaguely uncomfortable lying around in skimpy hospital garb in front of Bat, despite the fact he didn’t seem to notice.

  “You remember the code?”

  I scrunched up my forehead, trying to remember the string of letters and numbers. “I don’t remember the entire code, but the first three letters were WTF.”

  He gave me a look. “You’re kidding.”

  “I am not,” I assured him. “It’s why I can remember.”

  “Any idea who that is?”

  “None at all. You could ask Roger Collins.”

  He nodded and scribbled in his notebook.

  “Or Annabelle.”

  He glanced up. “The girl in the gift shop?”

  “Yep. She also gives tours of the museum. She seems to know a lot more than anyone gives her credit for.” I didn’t bring up my previous conversation with her. I figured he didn’t need to know. “It was the killer, wasn’t it?” I asked, changing the subject. “That was who bashed me over the head.”

  He sighed. “I doubt that. Portia is locked up.”

  “Portia is not the killer,” I snapped, barely refraining from adding “idiot” to the end of that sentence. Why he insisted on blaming her was beyond me. Okay, so there was the matter of the fingerprints, but still—that could totally be explained by any decent lawyer.

  “I’m afraid all the evidence we have points to her. I know she’s your friend, but I have to deal with facts here.” He stood up, as if to leave, when his phone rang. “Battersea. Uh huh. Where? When? Be there in ten.” He shoved his phone back into the holster on his belt. “I have to go. Something’s...come up.”

  “Who’s dead?” I asked.

  “I never said anyone was dead.”

  “You’re the lead detective in a homicide. It stands to reason.”

  He gave me a long look. I couldn’t read his expression. He’d have made a great poker player. “A body was discovered down by the marina. Killed sometime last night.”

  “Who?”

  “Annabelle Smead.”

  Chapter 17

  Sea Lions Don’t Eat People

  THERE WAS NO WAY I was lying around the hospital while there was a mystery to solve. The minute Battersea was gone, I managed to hoist myself out of the bed, find my clothes, and get dressed. All without falling on my face. Kudos to me.

  My head was throbbing so hard I couldn’t see straight, and I didn’t have my car anyway, so I called Cheryl. “I need you to rescue me.” I explained what had happened and where I was. The abridged version, of course.

  “Are you nuts?” she snapped. “You need to stay right in that hospital where they can watch you and keep you from doing anything stupid.” She paused. “More stupid.”

  “If you don’t come pick me up, I’ll walk to the marina.” It was an idle threat. I’d be more likely to pass out before I’d taken a dozen steps, but Cheryl didn’t know that.

  She sighed. “Fine. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Do not go anywhere.”

  The last thing I wanted was for a nurse to catch me and force me back into one of those awful hospital gowns and into bed. I did not appreciate having my backside hanging in the wind. What I could use was coffee and lots of it. I collected my purse from the cupboard and poked my head out the door. There was a nurse at the end of the hall having a conversation with a doctor. They had their backs toward me, so I figured it was as good a time as any for a getaway.

  I stepped into the hall, closing the door softly behind me, and walked calmly toward the exit like I had every right to be there. Or not there. Whatever. I pushed open one of the big double doors and exited the ward without anyone so much as glancing my way.

  Once I’d escaped the ward, I found a map of the hospital on a wall near the elevators. There was a coffee shop on the ground floor. Perfect. I stepped into one of the open cars and pressed the button for the lobby.

  My phone rang, and I dug it out of my purse. Lucas.

  “Hello.” I tried for cheerful and chipper, but it came out a bit flat.

  “What are you doing in the hospital?”

  “Let me guess,” I said, leaning against the wall of the elevator as it slid toward the ground. “Cheryl.”

  “You got it in one.”

  The elevator pinged as it came to a stop. The bitter scent of burnt coffee grounds permeated the air as the doors slid open and I entered the lobby. I grimaced, but decided bad coffee was better than no coffee at this point. I was also in desperate need of a painkiller. “Listen, Lucas,
I’m fine. It’s no big deal. Honestly.”

  He sighed. “I’m surprised you didn’t get arrested. Or dead.”

  “Don’t be so melodramatic,” I said, striding into the coffee shop. Well, more like staggering. I must have looked a fright.

  The middle-aged woman behind the counter took my order with an air of boredom. I wondered if I would actually get the caramel latte I’d ordered. Unlikely.

  “Melodramatic?” His tone was deadly calm. “I think that’s a little rich, don’t you?”

  I sighed. “Okay, so investigating without backup probably wasn’t my brightest idea.”

  “You think?” he said.

  Pretty sure he was being sarcastic. I ignored it.

  “But I’m fine. I really am. The doctor says I’m fine.”

  “According to Cheryl, the doctor wanted you in overnight.”

  “He was being overly cautious. I can’t stay in the hospital. I’ve got stuff to do.”

  “Snooping, you mean.”

  “That. And writing.” Not that I’d written anything in days.

  He sighed. “I’ve got an appearance on the news tonight, but then I can be down there by ten.”

  “Don’t be silly. You’re leaving for Phoenix in a few days. You do not need to babysit me.”

  “You sure about that?” he said dryly.

  The barista called my name. Or rather, she called out “Ebola,” which was probably not the brightest thing to do in a hospital.

  “I’ve got to go, Lucas. I appreciate you worrying about me, but I’m fine. Honest.”

  He grumbled a bit, but I’d convinced him. More or less. It was awfully sweet of him to worry, but I needed to focus on finding the killer. And getting rid of this headache.

  I snagged my coffee from the counter and sat down at a table with a good view of the front door. Sure enough, my first sip told me there wasn’t a spot of caramel or any other syrup in the thing. Rather than get into it with the barista, I dumped in a crapload of sugar and called it good. Then I rooted around in my bag for painkillers. There were still two pills left in the bottle, thank goodness. I made a mental note to restock as soon as possible. I was going to need them. Apparently, crime solving involved a lot of bodily damage.

  The minute Cheryl entered, I waved her down. She stomped toward me with a worried frown on her face.

  “What are you doing down here? I thought I told you not to move.”

  “Clearly I have a listening problem. Let’s go.” I all but dragged her from the hospital, still a little worried I’d be spotted and hauled back to bed.

  “Are you sure you should be out of bed?” Cheryl asked as she put her car in gear and headed for the marina. She drove a rather boring import that was half a dozen years old. I kept telling her she should get a newer car, but she ignored me. “You don’t look so good.”

  “Gee, thanks for your glowing report.” To be honest, I didn’t feel so good, but she didn’t need to know that. “Seriously, Viola, you look a little peaky.”

  I raised an eyebrow which set my head to throbbing again. “Peaky?”

  “It means—.”

  “I know what it means,” I interrupted. “I just didn’t expect to be insulted after narrowly escaping a plot to murder me.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

  What was with people telling me I was dramatic lately? “Somebody bashed me over the head and stole The Louse’s secret journal detailing his nefarious shenanigans. If you don’t call that attempted murder, I don’t know what you call it.”

  “I rest my case,” she said.

  I gritted my teeth, but that made my head hurt, so I gave up and stared morosely out the window. It was raining. Again. Spattering on the windshield in a haphazard manner. The sky was a swirl of gloomy, gray clouds edged in black. We were in for a storm. Hopefully the police could gather enough evidence from the murder scene before it all got washed away.

  Cheryl pulled off the highway into a graveled parking lot off 36th Street. A large sign pointed the way to the piers. There were several other cars in the lot including three police vehicles and Mr. Voss’s mortuary van. As I swung open the car door, I could hear the loud barking of the sea lions that gathered on the empty docks below to sunbathe. Not that there was any sun to bathe in, but they didn’t seem to mind.

  I didn’t bother with an umbrella. For one thing, it was far too windy. For another, I didn’t have one on my person. I ignored the raindrops splashing on my head. Maybe it would hide the bedhead disaster that was my hair. The cold certainly made the massive goose egg on the back of my head feel better.

  “Are you sure about this?” Cheryl asked as she locked the car. “I don’t think the police are going to be thrilled with you poking around their crime scene.”

  “Tough cookies. If the police insist on blaming poor Portia for everything, despite the obvious, I’m going to have my nose in their business 24/7.” I pondered the lack of sleep that would result in such dedication. “Well, maybe 12/7,” I amended.

  Cheryl shook her head. “Well, I’m going with you to make sure you don’t fall into the bay or get eaten by a sea lion.”

  “Sea lions don’t eat people.”

  “They might if you collapse right in front of them. Might mistake you for a tasty fish and take a nibble.”

  “Seriously?”

  She shrugged. “It could happen.”

  “No. No. It really couldn’t.”

  She ignored me and tromped across the gravel toward the paved walkway leading down to the docks. I followed her, still exasperated.

  Nearby, clusters of people gathered to watch the excitement down on the pier. The usual looky-loos, tourists, and locals, no doubt. I frowned. Was that Blaine Nixon?

  Whomever it was saw me and dodged out of sight. I was pretty sure it was Blaine, but I hadn’t gotten a good look. How interesting that he was at Annabelle’s murder scene.

  Down below, I could see the police clustered on one of the wooden docks. Crime scene tape was strewn everywhere, and Battersea was shouting orders as the rain picked up. Mr. Voss and his minion had already collected the body, and the assistant was trundling it up the walkway in a black body bag. I shuddered at the thought of Annabelle in there. Poor thing.

  “Mr. Voss,” I called, flagging him down. “Is she really dead?” I gave what I hoped was an appropriate look of concern.

  He gave me a sorrowful look. “Poor Miss Smead.” He shook his head morosely. “Just a young thing. And with a sick child. What is this world coming to?”

  “She is dead then? Annabelle?”

  “I’m afraid so, my dear.” He heaved a sigh and folded his hands in front of him. “Gone too soon.”

  “What happened?”

  He glanced around to ascertain that the three of us were more or less alone. His assistant had disappeared into the parking lot with Annabelle’s body.

  “I heard the doctor say ‘blunt force trauma.’ Of course, I could have told you that myself.” He shuddered delicately. “Poor thing. Half her head was caved in.”

  My stomach turned at the visual. “So, she was killed the same way August Nixon was?” He nodded. “Bashed her right in the head with something heavy. No weapon though. Likely at the bottom of the bay by now.” His whole face sagged as if the sorrow was too much to bear. “Well, I shall leave you ladies to it. Good day.” He lifted his trilby before striding off after the assistant.

  “Couldn’t have been the same weapon, though. The police have that locked up,” Cheryl pointed out with maddening logic.

  “Of course not,” I agreed. “But it could easily have been the same killer. Whoever murdered The Louse used a weapon of opportunity. The killer could have easily done the same with Annabelle. Poor thing.”

  “Out here? What on earth would they hit her with? A rope?”

  “Fine. They could have brought something from the museum or something. Or maybe the body was moved.” I stared walking toward the docks, determined to find out wh
at I could.

  “What do you think will happen to her little boy?” Cheryl asked. “Poor little mite. It’s got to be terrible losing your mother so young.”

  “I’ll ask Bat. He’ll know.”

  She grimaced. “You just want to find out what else he knows.”

  I grinned. “Darn Skippy. Now,” I rubbed my hands together, “let’s get on with solving this thing, shall we?”

  “MS. ROBERTS, WOULD you please stop annoying my people and get out of my crime scene. Why aren’t you in the hospital?” Detective Battersea came roaring up the ramp, expression as stormy as the clouds overhead.

  “I’m a fast healer.”

  He rubbed his temples with his fingers—a gesture he made often around me, I realized. “Ms. Roberts...”

  “Viola.” I was getting tired of his formality. Plus I figured it would throw him off a little. “I heard Annabelle was murdered the same way as Nixon. This means you’ll have to let Portia go, right? She clearly didn’t do it.”

  “One does not necessarily follow the other Ms. Ro—” I gave him a stern glare. “Viola. Just because the same method was used does not mean it was the same killer. Evidence still points to Portia Wren as August Nixon’s killer. I’m sorry, but that’s how these things work. With evidence.”

  I all but growled in annoyance. The man was getting on my last nerve. And my head hurt like the dickens. It did not put me in a good mood. “Portia is innocent.”

  “So you keep saying. I’ve yet to find proof of that, but there’s a whole lot of proof she’s guilty.”

  “Circumstantial,” I said stubbornly.

  “People have been convicted on less.”

  “Doesn’t make it right.”

  “I agree.”

  That surprised me. As did Cheryl’s sudden appearance at my side. I’d thought she’d stayed back.

  “Hi, Bat,” she said a little breathlessly.”

  “Cheryl.” Battersea gave her a nod. Interesting. He seemed to have such a difficult time using my first name.

  “What about Annabelle’s little boy? What’s going to happen to him?” Cheryl asked.