The Poison in the Pudding

by Shéa MacLeod

  Son of a biscuit, that woman had a big mouth. “Yeah, yeah. But it was fine. We all survived.” Except those who didn’t.

  Bat cleared his throat. “I’ll put a BOLO out on the SUV, but without a plate, it’s going to be difficult.”

  Because there were probably a thousand identical SUVs in the area.

  “And if you do find it?” I asked.

  “Let me worry about that. You need to keep your nose out of this investigation before someone cuts it off.”

  Before I could blast him with my opinion, Bat turned and walked off, shouting orders left and right. You had to admire a man who knew how to take charge of a situation. Even if I did want to strangle him.

  “Lucas Salvatore,” Cheryl said in a sing-song voice.

  I blinked. “What?”

  “You’re dating Lucas Salvatore, remember? Stop drooling.”

  “I’m not drooling,” I snapped. “I’m merely admiring. It’s not like I’m dead.”

  Yet.

  Chapter 20

  The Bookend of Death

  CHERYL THOUGHT I SHOULD go home right away and get some rest. Personally, I needed something a little stronger than rest, so I convinced the police officer who was driving us home to drop us off at Sip instead. He was reluctant, but in the end I triumphed.

  “Good grief, what happened to you two?” Nina asked as we straggled in. She was in her usual spot behind the bar, wearing a black and white geometric dress that hugged every luscious curve. She had her hair up in a messy bun and wore dangly sapphire earrings to match her necklace and cuff bracelet.

  “Which time?” Cheryl asked morosely. “The time someone bashed Viola over the head? Or the time we got run off the road and nearly killed?”

  “We did not nearly get killed,” I snapped. “We just ran into the ‘Welcome to Astoria’ sign.”

  “What?” Nina sounded horrified. “The one in the roundabout?”

  “The very same,” I said. “We’ve had quite the exciting afternoon.” I managed to haul myself up onto a barstool, although it was dodgy-going for a moment there. My head still throbbed to the beat of an invisible drummer, whose butt I was going to kick as soon as I could think straight. “I need something stronger than the usual.”

  “I’ve got port.”

  “That’ll do.” What I could really use was a blackberry bourbon on the rocks, but I’d have to go elsewhere for that, and there was something so comfortable and homey about Sip.

  While Nina poured, we gave her the rundown. Midway through the tale my phone rang. It was Detective Battersea.

  “What have you got for me?” I answered without preamble.

  “Seriously?”

  “Time’s a wasting. Well?”

  He sighed. “I got results back from the note you gave me. No fingerprints.”

  “I figured,” I said with a sigh. “Anything else?”

  “Unfortunately not. Standard paper. Standard ink. And block letters are impossible to match.”

  I sighed, rubbing my throbbing temple. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “How about someone tired of you sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong?” he said dryly.

  “So you sent the note then?”

  “Very funny.” He did not sound amused. “We also found out who the WTF from the journal is. Or, rather, what.”

  “Really? What is it?”

  “Company out of Dallas that acquires items for museums and collectors. Totally aboveboard. They had no idea the items they purchased from Nixon were stolen. They contacted me as soon as they heard about the murder. I had them checked out. They’re in the clear. Do you remember anything else about the journal?”

  I sighed. “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Well, it was worth a try.” He paused for a moment. “You have to stop this nonsense, Viola. That’s two attempts on your life so far. Next time they might succeed.”

  They could try, but I wasn’t giving up. Not even a little. I hung up the phone, more determined than ever.

  “What note?” Cheryl glared at me as she clutched her glass of merlot like a life preserver.

  I told her about the note that had been left on my car and the results, or lack thereof, from the crime lab. “Obviously the killer left it,” I said. “And he, or she, thinks we’re getting close.”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this,” Cheryl said, her brown eyes narrowing. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t want you to worry.”

  She literally growled at me.

  “Sorry,” I said lamely, “but I didn’t take it that seriously at the time.”

  “Well, I hope you’re taking it seriously now.”

  “Believe me, I am.”

  “I don’t understand why someone would try to run me off the road, though,” she said in a sad tone. “It’s not like I’m the one investigating anything.”

  “True,” I admitted. “But you’re helping me.”

  “But how did they know we were at Annabelle’s?”

  “I’m betting they followed us from the docks. The killer had to have been there, seen us together, and realized we were in your car. Then they followed us to Annabelle’s.”

  “But who?” Nina asked. “Were any of the suspects there at the docks?”

  My brow furrowed as I thought it over. There’d been a small group of people gathered to watch the police do their thing. Most of them had disappeared when the rain started, but a few die-hard souls had stuck around. One familiar face stuck out from the crowd.

  “Blaine!”

  Cheryl looked up from her glass. “Who?”

  “Blaine Nixon. August’s son. He was there. I saw him. I’ll bet he saw us, too. He had to be the one who ran us off the road.”

  “Then you should call Bat,” Cheryl said firmly.

  “I will,” I assured her. “But not until I confront Blaine. I want to hear what he has to say.”

  I WANTED TO MARCH STRAIGHT over to the Nixon house and confront Blaine, but the late hour combined with fortified wine and a head injury convinced me otherwise. I hit the hay the moment I got home and didn’t move until the phone shrilled at eight the next morning.

  I glanced at the caller ID. Agatha. I considered not answering, but she’d just call back. Besides, she might have some juicy gossip for me.

  “Good morning, Agatha,” I said, trying to sound perky and awake and likely failed miserably. She didn’t seem to notice.

  “Viola. Good. I caught you.” As if she didn’t know my only phone was a cell phone and therefore “catching” me was pretty much guaranteed. “I was talking to Mavis Buchannan. Her daughter works with the police. You’ll never believe what they found in Annabelle Smead’s apartment.”

  “Do tell.” I tried to sound surprised and eager, although I knew very well what they found.

  “It was a bookend. From the Flavel House. Annabelle stole it.”

  “How shocking!” I tried to sound dutifully horrified.

  “Apparently she’d been stealing for a while. August Nixon, too, can you believe?”

  “Did you hear anything else about it?”

  “Funny you should ask. There was blood all over it. The bookend, I mean.”

  “Ew. That’s not good.”

  “Not at all. And here’s where it gets interesting.” She paused for dramatic effect. “The blood was August Nixon’s.”

  “That is interesting. You’re sure?”

  “Well, Mavis was. Got it straight from her daughter. And you know what that means.”

  I did. It meant that Annabelle Smead had been in August Nixon’s office the night he died. And she’d stolen the bookend after he’d been murdered. Which meant that either Annabelle herself was the killer, or more likely, she’d known who the murderer was. And if I had to guess, it was the latter, and that was what got her killed.

  Chapter 21

  An Appropriate Bribe

  THE NIXON’S LARGE VICTORIAN loomed against the gray sky, the green
s and yellows brightening up the neighborhood with cheerful abandon. Who’d have thought it would be a house of mourning?

  I climbed the stairs, my head throbbing slightly with each step. The lump on the back of my skull was smaller, but it still hurt like a son of a bee sting. I’d even iced it and everything.

  Chimes rang from the other side of the door as I pressed the button for the doorbell. That set off a frenzy of yappy barking and tiny paws scrabbling against the wood, trying to get out and viciously rip out my throat.

  “Tank, shut up.” The male voice had to be Blaine’s. The dog didn’t listen. “Quiet, Tank, or I’ll lock you in the damn basement.”

  Tank shut up. The door swung open to reveal a rumpled Blaine, who’d clearly just crawled out of bed, barely. He was still wearing pajama pants with his Iron Man t-shirt and his hair stuck out in several different directions. He squinted at me. “What?”

  “Good morning to you, too,” I chirped brightly. “I stopped by to see how you and your mother were doing.” I gave him an innocent smile and held out the white bag I was carrying. “And I brought you pastries.” To my mind, pastries were always an appropriate bribe.

  “We’re fine.” Ignoring the pastry bag, he leaned down and scooped up what I could only assume was Tank as the tiny dog made a break for freedom. I almost burst out laughing. Tank was a Chihuahua.

  “That’s good to hear.” I held the pastry bag awkwardly in front of me, not sure what to do. “I thought maybe yesterday might have been a bit of a shock for you. You know, bringing up old memories.”

  “What do you mean?” His expression was a total blank.

  “I saw you at the docks yesterday. Where Annabelle Smead was murdered.”

  “Oh, that.” He shrugged. “Just passing by. Wondered what the fuss was about.”

  “Interesting. Because someone ran Cheryl’s car off the road after they followed us from the docks. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

  “Why on earth would I?”

  “Well, you were there. You might have seen something. A dark-colored SUV with tinted windows?”

  “Well, I didn’t.”

  I gave him a long look. “Or maybe you’re the one who was driving the SUV?”

  His eyes widened. “You’re nuts. Why would I do that?”

  “Because you realized we were getting close to the truth.”

  He snorted. “And what truth would that be?”

  “That you killed your father.”

  He stiffened, his face turning an angry red. “I think you better go now.” He started to slam the door, but I stuck my foot in the gap. The door bounced off my shoe, and I tried not to wince. Believe me, it looked cool in movies, but in real life it hurt like a mother.

  “Actually, I think we better talk; otherwise, I’m going to let the police know everything.”

  He went a little pale. “There’s nothing to tell. I didn’t kill my father. I have an alibi.”

  “Really? Because that whole thing about being out with the band is pretty weak. You could have slipped out at any time. No one would have noticed.”

  He looked downright ill. “Listen, I didn’t want anyone to know before. But, um, I was with someone.”

  My eyes narrowed. “A female someone?”

  “Er, yes.”

  “And not Portia.” Obviously.

  He swallowed. “No.”

  “Who?”

  He sighed. “I really was out with the band. At the bar where they were playing, I ran into an old girlfriend. We talked. Had some drinks. One thing led to another.” He shrugged.

  “You cheated on Portia?” I didn’t have to fake my outrage.

  “I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”

  “What? You just tripped and fell into bed with another woman?”

  “Well, not exactly—”

  “Oh, shut up. You make me sick. I suggest you call Detective Battersea immediately and give him your real alibi.”

  “You’re not going to tell Portia are you?”

  I gave him an evil look. “What do you think?”

  I stomped back down the porch steps, livid, calling Blaine all sorts of names in my head. It was a good thing he had refused the bag of pastries, because I was either going to ring his neck or eat an entire bear claw.

  I SAT IN FRONT OF MY laptop and glared at the screen while I munched on a cherry danish. Rolf and Scarlet still weren’t cooperating. All I could think about was the murders and how I could help Portia.

  I needed to go back through the alibis of all the players. Especially those who had wimpy ones, like Roger Collins and Mary Nixon. Not that I believed either of them did it, but I didn’t know what else to do, and I couldn’t sit around doing nothing. So far, despite mounting evidence of her innocence, Detective Battersea was still convinced Portia was guilty. I had to help her.

  I closed my manuscript, opened up a blank document, and began taking notes. Roger Collins had claimed to be at a pot party, and the police had supposedly confirmed this. But was he actually there? Could he have slipped out while everyone else was dancing with fairies (or whatever happened at pot parties)?

  Mary Nixon had claimed to be at the movies with friends. Was that the truth? She could have convinced her friends to lie for her while she went and koshed her husband over the head. Didn’t they always say the most likely suspect was the spouse?

  I needed to find out who Mary’s friends were and question them. And then I needed to find out who was at that pot party. The police may have already questioned everyone, but in my experience, people will tell writers things they would never tell the police. Mostly because they all think they’ve got an interesting story to tell. Sometimes they’re right.

  I knew one person who might be able to help me with my inquiries. Agatha. She answered her phone immediately.

  “What do you know about pot parties?” I asked without preamble. Most people are shocked to hear little old ladies know anything about pot. I was not. I happened to know Agatha was a hippie back in her day.

  She chuckled. “Are you talking about that ridiculous club where everyone gets together and smokes each other’s pot?”

  “Apparently. Roger Collins claims he was at one the night August Nixon was murdered.”

  “Well, then you should talk to Jimmy Vargas down at the Green Apothecary. He’s got his finger on everything pot-related in this town.” She gave me Jimmy’s name, number, and the address for his pot store. Er, marijuana dispensary.

  “What about Mary Nixon?”

  “Oh, she’s not into pot.”

  “No, I mean, do you know who she hangs out with? Who her friends are?”

  “Darla Manes and Lisa Cutty,” Agatha said without hesitation. “Been thick as thieves since high school, those three.”

  The perfect friends to back up an alibi. The kind of friends who’d lie for you.

  After I’d collected their details from Agatha, I thanked her profusely, promised to bring pineapple upside-down cake to the next bunco night, and hung up.

  I knew Jimmy Vargas by reputation only, but I figured he’d be easy to find since he ran the local pot shop, The Green Apothecary. Yeah, I found the name amusing, too.

  The pot shop was located right downtown in one of the more historical buildings. A green neon sign shaped like a cross shone brightly out front. Once pot had been made legal in Oregon, those type of places had sprung up practically overnight. There were three of them on Marine Drive alone.

  The bell above the door jingled merrily as I pushed my way inside. A middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed goatee and little, round glasses stood behind a long, glass counter, labelling edibles with a price gun. He glanced up. “Can I help you?”

  “Are you Jimmy Vargas?”

  He grinned. “Sure, man.”

  “I’m Viola Roberts.” I stuck out my hand, and he gave me a firm handshake. “Nice place you have here.” It was cheerful with mellow-yellow walls and neatly stacked edibles in the glass cas
e, like we were standing in a pastry shop.

  “Thanks. I like it. What can I do you for, Viola?”

  “You heard about the recent murders?”

  He pulled thoughtfully on his lower lip. “You mean the one at the museum?’

  “Yes. And the girl who was killed down at the docks.”

  “Huh. Yeah, I heard something about that. Sad stuff, man. Sad stuff.”

  “Very sad. I’m investigating the murders,” I explained.

  He squinted. “You a cop? You don’t look like a cop.”

  “Er, no. More of a private thing.”

  “Cool. Never met a private eye before.”

  He still hadn’t, but I figured it didn’t hurt to let him keep thinking along those lines. “I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

  “Don’t see how I could be any help, but I’ll do what I can.”

  I leaned against the counter. “You know Roger Collins? Works up at the museum.”

  “Sure. Rog and I go way back. He’s been coming to my pot parties for years. Even before it was all kosher, if you know what I mean.” He winked.

  “He said he was at one of those parties the night August Nixon was murdered up at Flavel House.”

  Jimmy frowned. “What day was that?”

  “Last Thursday.”

  “Oh, yeah. Mariposa made the most epic pot cupcakes. Peanut butter cupcake with chocolate frosting. Totally brought edibles to a new level, man.”

  “Sounds delish.”

  “Bet I can get you the recipe,” he offered.

  “Maybe later.” I couldn’t imagine whipping up pot cupcakes in my kitchen. My drugs of choice were caffeine and alcohol. Both in moderation. “Do you remember if Roger was there that Thursday night?”

  “Oh, sure. He was there.”

  Dagnabbit. I’d thought for sure I’d be able to break Roger Collins’s alibi.

  “I mean at least he was there when the party started at six. After that, things got a little fuzzy, know what I mean?” He waggled his eyebrows.