by Linda Reilly
Cigars.
Some intact, some half-rolled, others sliced down the center.
Other objects had also tumbled out—a spray bottle, an odd-shaped mold, metal cutting tools Lara had never seen before.
Ohmygod, ohmygod…
Felicia slammed the box shut and glared at Lara. “Mercy, but you’re clumsy. Don’t you ever watch where you’re going?”
Lara stared at her, almost in disbelief, but then her gaze drifted to the table. The leaves—what did they remind her of? “Felicia, do any of these leaves come from lily of the valley?”
Slowly, her knees creaking, Felicia rose to her full height and plunked the box on the table, leaving the cover open. “Good guess. You’re very observant, aren’t you? It’s a beautiful flower—my favorite, in fact. They don’t blossom for long, maybe three or four weeks out of the year, but when they do, they’re spectacular.”
Lily. Of course. She probably named her dog after them.
Oh God. Lily of the valley were deadly—not only to cats and dogs, but to humans. They were the same flowers Amy had torn out of her flower beds after her dog had gotten sick.
Lara stared at Felicia, and in the next horrifying instant, light dawned. She tried to rearrange her expression into one of bland innocence, but it was too late.
Felicia gave up a regretful smile. “Oh, Lara, I can tell from your face that you’ve already figured it out. Too bad,” she whispered, under her breath.
“Figured what out?” Lara asked, lifting the carrier again.
“Please. I’m not a fool.”
No, you’re not a fool. You’re a murderer.
But why? Had she done it for Karen, so that they could become business partners? Or to release Karen from her marriage to a philandering oaf? Maybe both.
“I know how to Google people, too, you know,” Felicia continued, moving toward the sideboard. She reached into the box that held the cigar makings and pulled out a gleaming knife. “I read all about you and your famous crime-solving escapades.”
“Felicia, most of those articles were written by our town reporter. He’s always exaggerating stories to make the paper look interesting.”
Felicia waved the knife at her, not buying a word. “If you’ll stop playing games with me, I’ll tell you how I did it.” She looked away, her gaze growing distant. “You deserve that much.”
Lara remained silent. Where was her cell phone?
Oh no, it was in the car, on the front seat.
“Truthfully,” Felicia said, growing animated now, “I’ve been dying to share it with someone because…well, honestly, it was just so inventive. Karen told me that her husband went outside every evening to smoke one of his disgusting cigars. So, I bought some, and I experimented. I even watched instructional videos on cigar making. I spent weeks learning to roll cigars—how’s that for dedication?” Her brow creased, and her eyes took on a demented sheen.
A lump of fear gathered momentum in Lara’s throat. She forced it back, willing herself to breathe.
“The cigar that killed Wayne?” Felicia went on. “It was wrapped in lily of the valley leaves, masked by tobacco leaves,” Felicia went on. “I also blended the tobacco with crushed leaves from the plant—belt and suspenders, if you will.” Her eyes glittered. “Wasn’t that clever?”
“Very clever,” Lara said quietly. Still clutching the carrier, she inched slowly backward, toward the doorway to the kitchen. “But who delivered them? How did you pull that off?”
“I paid a local teenager fifty dollars. He left them on the Chancers’ doorstep early that morning, before dawn. The kid had no idea who lived there. The package was beautifully wrapped, little hearts all over the paper, with a card that said, ‘from a special friend on your birthday.’ I’m sure the blowhard thought it was from one of his sleazy girlfriends. Or ex-girlfriends.”
Inside the carrier, the trapped kitty had gone quiet. Thank heaven. But Lara had to get herself, and the cat, out of there.
Then she remembered—Felicia had a landline. Lara had spotted it on the wall in the kitchen. She needed to get to it, fast, and call nine-one-one. Even if she said nothing, the dispatcher would send an officer to check it out.
“I guess now Karen can buy in to the gourmet shop,” Lara said. “Worked out well for her, didn’t it?”
Felicia shook her head. “Don’t be stupid. This had nothing to do with Karen.” She lifted the framed photo from the sideboard and held it up. “Do you see this child?”
Lara nodded.
Felicia’s eyes misted. “This boy was my entire world, Lara, the light of my life. He was kind and funny and talented—the most wonderful boy a mother could ask for.” Still clutching the knife, Felicia hugged the photo close to her chest. Her mouth twisted, and her eyes glistened with rage. “Until one day three punks decided to have a little fun and throw a rock off a bridge. One of their lawyers called it ‘a childish prank that took an unfortunate fatal turn.’ How’s that for lawyer-speak?” she spat out. “That rock went through the car passing below and crushed this beautiful boy!”
Lara’s heart jackknifed in her chest. She was talking about Jarrod Dandreau.
“I’m so sorry, Felicia. I didn’t know.”
Felicia turned and lovingly set the photo back down, running her finger along the top. “I’ve waited a long time, but I’m finally getting justice. Two down, only one to go.”
“Two…down?” Lara almost choked on the words.
“The first one was easy. Despite what his mommy dearest claimed, he was a druggie, always looking for a fix.”
The first one…Richard Mulhaney?
“Well, I gave him a fix—laced with a good dose of chlordane. Can you believe I kept some of that stuff? It’s outlawed now, but back in the day I used it to kill those horrid earwigs.” Felicia clasped her hands with glee. “Oh, you should have seen his expression when he opened the door that day and saw me standing there. Sheer panic, at first. Then I smiled and assured him I only wanted to talk. He made the mistake of turning his back on me after he waved me into his hallway. I shoved that needle in his arm so fast he didn’t know what hit him.” She laughed, a grating sound that chilled Lara’s blood. “The chlordane was symbolic more than anything. To me he was lower than an insect. He fell to the floor, and while he screamed in pain, I shoved another needle in his arm—a whopping dose of fentanyl. That did the trick. Once he was out, I made sure his fingerprints were on the second hypodermic needle. I took the one with the chlordane with me and got rid of it.”
In Lara’s head, a memory clicked into place. She thought back to her exchange with Megan a few days earlier, when Megan admitted having eavesdropped on Wayne’s cryptic phone call not long before she was fired. She’d overheard him mutter the word “overdose,” but he’d also scrawled it on a yellow pad—O period, D period, as if to emphasize it. Megan had found the pad on his desk after he’d stormed out of the office.
Felicia sighed and turned to the sideboard, then opened the top drawer. “I know the police are close to figuring it out, but that’s okay. I expected that. I just need to get the ringleader. After that I’m done. Lily and I will both be gone.”
The ringleader. “Chad Walford?”
Her hand in the drawer, Felicia whirled on Lara. “How…did you know that?”
Lara didn’t respond, because another thought struck her. Why hadn’t Felicia checked on her beloved dog? Hadn’t she claimed Lily suffered from anxiety whenever they were separated?
Terrified of the answer, Lara asked gently, “Felicia, where’s Lily?”
Felicia smiled and shook her head. “You needn’t worry about her. She’s sound asleep, and I do mean sound. After today we’ll both be in a better place. We’ll both be with Jarrod.”
Lara’s heart clutched. “Oh my God. Felicia, you didn’t—”
In a flash, Felicia’s hand flew
out of the drawer. The knife gone, she pointed a small handgun at Lara. “You don’t stop, do you? You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you? I’m sorry I ever trapped that cat now. I wanted it to be my final good deed—rescuing a homeless creature before he succumbed to exposure. But you—you’re like a terrier. You had to keep digging…”
Slowly, Lara set down the carrier. I can get through this. I’ve been through worse. Heart slamming her ribs, she said, “Please, Felicia, show me where Lily is.”
Felicia shook her head. “She’s at peace, Lara. Leave it alone.”
Lara swallowed. “Did you give her an overdose, too?”
Wait a minute. Overdose…
O period, D period. If the letters stood for ‘overdose,’ why the periods?
Because they didn’t stand for overdose.
They stood for Olive Dandreau.
Felicia Tristany was Olive Dandreau.
The woman identified in the article about the rock-throwing incident as Jarrod Dandreau’s mother.
* * * *
“How are you planning to kill Chad, Olive?”
Olive’s eyes shimmered with hatred. “I have something special planned for him. I found him on Facebook—oh, how proud of himself he is! After he got out of prison, he found religion. Isn’t that convenient? Now he shoves it down everyone’s throat like some prairie preacher. Like that makes up for killing my child.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Jarrod was like the lily of the valley, Lara. His life blossomed for only a short time before it was snuffed out. It’s my job to see that he gets justice.”
Lara felt beads of sweat popping out on her forehead. Was the house that warm, or was she perspiring from sheer terror? “Wh–what are you going to do?”
“Walford bragged on Facebook about how he switched booze for tea, and how it saved his life. But that gave me the idea. I created a phony Facebook page, using my engagement photo for my profile pic. You might not believe it, Lara, but at one time I was quite beautiful. My sister Felicia was so jealous of me. She dumped her husband and stole mine. He even moved to Ohio to be with her, but by that time I didn’t care. I had my son—my wonderful boy. I was almost forty when he was born—I’d tried for so long to get pregnant. He was my world, Lara. My life.” She gave out a harsh sob. The gun wobbled in her hand.
In a split-second decision Lara started toward her, but Olive was too fast. She aimed the gun at Lara’s chest. “Sit,” she ordered. “Since you’ve forced my hand, the least you can do is listen.”
Panic rising in her throat, Lara lowered herself onto the dining room’s only chair. She pictured Olive sitting at this very spot, concocting her deadly poisons…
“My ex died first—heart attack—then Felicia from pancreatic cancer. Her pitiful belongings were shipped to me from Ohio, including all her IDs. That’s when I saw how Olive could disappear and reinvent herself as Felicia.”
“How did you happen to live so close to Chancer?”
“That was by design, my dear. He wasn’t hard to find. When I saw that the gift shop in town was closing, I took over the lease and opened my gourmet shop. You can imagine my delight when Karen Chancer asked to sell her fruit bits there. I knew, then, that it was my destiny—that this was all meant to be.”
“Was it you who left the note, Olive? The one that said, ‘I know who you are’?”
Olive smirked. “I’d stopped at Karen’s that morning to pick up some of her jars for the shop. On my way out, I tucked it under a shrub. It was probably risky on my part, but it sickened me that his juvenile records were sealed so no one would ever know what he did. Not that it mattered, but I thought the police might find the note once the area became a crime scene. Sure enough…”
She thought of everything.
“Olive, please let me check on Lily,” Lara begged.
“Shut up. I haven’t finished telling you about Chad. I friended him on Facebook—we’re practically best buds now. Of course, he thinks I look like my profile pic. We messaged each other, chatted endlessly about our favorite teas. I told him about the gourmet shop in my town, how they blended custom teas to suit the occasion. Tomorrow he’ll be receiving a package from me—a very special birthday gift. He’ll be thrilled when he sees my custom blend—strawberry tea with a hint of currant. He won’t know, of course, that it’s laced with a shocking dose of lily of the valley.” Her eyes glazed over. “It won’t take very long. One or two sips, and he’ll be joining the other two in hell. I only wish I could be there to witness it.”
Desperate, Lara glanced over at the photo of Jarrod. “Olive, you said Jarrod was a wonderful, kind boy. If that’s true, he wouldn’t want you to do this. He’d tell you to stop, right now, before someone else dies—”
Olive shook her head, and then a sudden thump from the sideboard made them both jump. A Ragdoll cat that only Lara could see had knocked over Jarrod’s photo. In the next instant the picture toppled to the floor, shattering the glass.
“No!” Olive cried, tossing the gun aside. Her face contorted, and she dropped to her knees, clutching the broken picture to her chest. Her body racked with sobs as she called out Jarrod’s name, over and over. A jagged shard of glass sliced her hand, and a stream of blood trickled toward her wrist.
Blood on her hands…
Lara didn’t hesitate. In two strides she reached the gun and scooped it off the floor. With her free hand she grabbed the pet carrier and raced outside to her car. After setting the carrier on the back seat, she locked the gun in the trunk and retrieved her cell phone. She punched in nine-one-one and gave the dispatcher as much information as she could. Then she ran back inside the house.
Chapter 35
Lara raced through the house, checking every room, but the downstairs was empty. When she reached the top of the stairs, she found the door on the left locked. She rattled the doorknob.
No response. Not a sound.
From outside came the wail of a siren, and then the sound of car doors slamming. After a few moments, voices drifted from downstairs. “Up here!” Lara called.
Footsteps clomped up the stairs. “Are you the person who called nine-one-one?” said a tall uniformed officer with curly black hair and a striking, angular face. His nameplate read “Elliott Jackson.”
“I am. This door is locked, and I’m worried that Olive might have harmed herself—and her dog.”
He unclipped the radio transmitter from his belt and spoke in a crisp, urgent voice, while his partner, a petite woman with wispy blond hair and dark brown eyes said, “Who’s Olive? I thought Felicia Tristany lived here.”
“She does. Please, we need to get in there.”
“Ambulance is on the way,” Jackson said.
“She had a gun,” Lara said, “but when she dropped it, I grabbed it. It’s locked in my trunk.”
“Good. Let’s hope that’s the only weapon she owns.”
Without missing a beat, the female officer stood back about a yard, lifted her right foot, and kicked the door hard with the sole of her boot. The door cracked but held firm. On the second try it crashed open. “You stay out here,” she ordered Lara.
Guns drawn, the officers rushed into the room. Hovering in the doorway, Lara saw Olive lying on her bed, her eyes closed, her skin the color of flour. Lily lay resting on her chest, still as a stuffed toy. On the table beside the bed was a bottle of prescription pills and some loose pink tablets.
“Denise, take the dog,” Jackson told his partner.
The woman lifted Lily off Olive’s chest and set her gently on the floor. While her partner performed CPR on Olive, the officer—Denise—massaged Lily’s head and chest. Lara couldn’t stand it any longer. She rushed into the room to help.
“I think she’s breathing,” Denise whispered to Lara.
Tears filling her eyes, Lara nodded. Please let her be okay. “What about Olive?”
&
nbsp; “Also breathing, but very shallow,” Jackson said grimly. “And you were told to stay out of this room.”
Everything happened quickly after that. The ambulance arrived, and Olive was lifted onto a stretcher and whisked out the door. One of the EMTs took the pills off the bedside table and placed them in a plastic bag.
Lily hadn’t stirred, but her body was warm, and she was still breathing.
“Please—I need to take the dog to a vet,” Lara begged. “And I have a rescue cat in the car. He can’t stay out there in the cold much longer.”
Jackson blew out a sigh, his face looking strained from anxiety. “I’m sorry, miss, but you’ll have to wait downstairs for one of the detectives. Can’t let you go just yet.”
“But—”
“I’ll take them,” someone said quietly from the doorway. “I’ll take them both.”
Lara turned toward the source of the voice and took in a sharp breath.
The person standing in the doorway was Tina Tanaka.
* * * *
By the time Lara was permitted to leave the Bakewell police station, it was after four o’clock. The sky was nearly dark, the cold was biting, and her spirits were at an all-time low. One bright spot: The officer named Denise had graciously driven the Saturn to the parking lot behind the station, so at least Lara still had wheels.
She had to get home.
She had to check on Lily—and on the cat.
Before they’d begun questioning her, they’d allowed her to call Gideon to let him know what had happened. He’d listened silently as she’d given him a summary. When she was through and he didn’t respond, she said, “Gideon, are you still there?”
His response had been almost inaudible. “I’m glad you’re all right, Lara. I’ll let Fran know you’re okay,” he’d said before disconnecting.
Buttoning her coat against the chill, Lara hurried out to her car. She was grateful to see that the parking lot was well-lit.
A sedan with its engine running sat next to the Saturn, a figure hunkered in the driver’s seat. Lara hurriedly unlocked her own door. She started to slip inside her car when someone emerged suddenly beside her. She gasped, and in the next moment Tina Tanaka was encasing her in a hug.
