by Jane Hinchey
It was a bittersweet moment and as I sat in my car I opened my fist and looked at the keys nestled in my palm. My future. My very own bookstore. Butterflies swirled through my belly and a thrill of excitement shot through me. Today was the day the rest of my life started, and I couldn't wait. Despite what had happened with Whitney, I was still excited to find out where this new future would take me.
It took me twelve hours. Twelve short hours to identify what had killed Whitney. I seriously hadn't thought I'd find anything. After all, what did I have that a modern lab didn't? A hundred-year-old book on herbs, apparently. I'd initially been incredibly disappointed when I'd scanned the shelves of the bookstore and discovered Mr. Dudley no longer stocked the old books I'd loved. That disappointment had turned to elation when I found them carefully packed away in a box in the storeroom, each book wrapped in a special, moisture resistant paper. I'd carried the box out to my car and taken it home. I'd much rather sift through the pages in front of a roaring fire on Gran's sofa than in the still chilly bookstore.
"Got you!" I yelled, startling Gran who was dozing in an armchair. A beam of magic shot out of her wand, bounced off the wall and zapped me on the foot. I yelped in shock. "Oops," I said, clutching the herb book I'd discovered to my chest, "sorry about that."
"Lord almighty, child!" Gran protested, stroking her wand as if to soothe it and placing it carefully on the side table next to her. "Serves me right for dozing off with that on my lap."
I rubbed at the top of my foot where my skin tingled from the shock. "You're okay," Gran assured me. "There's was nothing but static electricity in the charge. Now tell me, what did you find?"
"Look, here." I opened the book and pointed. "Borrio bud. It looks like a hybrid between nightshade and hemlock. While nightshade contains atropine, which paralyzes muscles, hemlock contains conium, which paralyzes the respiratory system."
"So what does borrio bud paralyze?" Gran asked.
"The heart. It specifically targets the heart. And while nightshade and hemlock will produce other symptoms such as nausea, and the onset is gradual, with borrio bud it looks like if you ingest it you won't know about it until your heart stops. About an hour later."
Gran leaned back in her chair. "Perfect if you want to kill someone then. But if it's such a perfect poison, why have we never heard of it? Why aren't people using it all the time?"
"It only grows in the Amazon jungle."
"So how did someone in Whitefall Cove get their hands on a toxic plant that only grows in the Amazon jungle?"
"That's a very good question. One that is going to take a lot more research." Closing the book, I yawned, glancing at my phone to check the time. "Gran! It's two in the morning! Why didn't you go to bed?"
"Because I dozed off in the chair," she replied, levering herself up with a creak of her bones. "But now that you've solved one part of the mystery, I'm going to bed. You should do the same."
Gran shuffled off, but I stayed slouched on the sofa, staring into the dying flames in the fireplace. Whoever wanted Whitney dead had knowledge about plants, specifically borrio bud. What I needed was a list of suspects. Pulling out my notebook, I turned to a new page and started my list. Who had I seen in the office the morning I met with Whitney? The receptionist, Christina. And Whitney's husband, Bruce, had dropped in to deliver her phone. Then there was her boss, Mike Palmer. I pondered the list before putting a number one next to Bruce's name. How many times had we seen it in the movies, in books, and even in real life—when a woman was murdered it was almost always the husband. I needed to talk with him, and I had the perfect cover. He was Whitefall Cove's bank manager and I needed to open a business account for The Dusty Attic. In the morning I'd call and make an appointment, but for now, I needed sleep.
"Good to see you again, Harper." Bruce Sims shook my hand and ushered me into his office. He was a big man, older than Whitney, with laugh lines fanning out from his eyes. His skin was darker too, like he'd just returned from a Florida vacation.
"I wasn't sure you'd be at work." I took the seat he indicated and watched while he seated himself behind his big desk.
"I'd rather be busy than sitting at home twiddling my thumbs and driving myself crazy wondering who did this to her." His words were tinged with sadness, but something was missing, something I couldn't quite put my finger on.
"I guess." I nodded. "I'm sorry about Whitney. I mean, I know we weren't the best of friends but..."
"Yeah, I understand. And thank you. The truth is, Whitney was mean to you because she was jealous." His revelation surprised me.
"What? Jealous? Of me? Pft, I cannot fathom why. My life is a wreck!"
"At school she wanted to be like you, smart, friendly, pretty. Slim. And the more she tried, the more it backfired, and she turned into the mean girl because it was easier to get what she wanted by bullying everyone else into giving it to her." He stood and looked out the window. "She mellowed, somewhat, over the years."
"Wow," I said quietly, "I never knew that. That's kinda..." I trailed off.
"Sad?" he supplied, his voice grim. "Isn't it though." He sighed. "She was anxious to have you as a client. Even though she was delighted that your life in East Dondure imploded, she was nervous that you'd returned home. And then you bought The Dusty Attic."
"I don't get it," I admitted. "High school was a long time ago. Why would she be nervous that I'd moved back home? My being here in Whitefall Cove would have very little impact on her life."
He shrugged. "To Whitney, everything is—was—a competition. Everything. You coming home, buying a bookstore, that reminded her of her own failure."
"Failure?" I quizzed.
"To open her own realtor business. Mike was good enough to allow her to run it part-time through his office, but it had been her dream to open her own place."
"Why didn't she?"
He shrugged. "I think she was so afraid of failing that she failed to launch. I'd done the numbers for her. There's demand. She could have made it a success. But in the end she was too scared to try, so she stayed in her comfortable rut as office manager for Palmer Construction."
We both lapsed into silence, pondering the enigma that was Whitney Sims. I'd no idea she'd felt that way about me and I would never have pegged her as a non-starter.
"She was happy though, wasn't she?" I asked. "She had friends. And you. And hobbies? The two of you must have done stuff together, you know, gardening and the like?"
"Gardening?" He barked out a laugh. "Hardly. Whitney and I both have black thumbs and zero interest in gardening. We pay someone to mow our lawn." Damn. It was hardly likely that Bruce had been cultivating borrio bud. I got the sense that he genuinely missed his wife, but he wasn't as heartbroken as I'd expected. I recognized the signs. He was sad, for sure, but not brokenhearted, not an incomprehensible mess. And turning up to work the day after your wife was murdered was not what I'd consider normal behavior.
"So what brings you in today?" Bruce broke the silence, leaning back in his chair and directing the conversation back to the business at hand. I explained that I needed a business account for my bookstore. And an electronic banking system to accept payment from customers since I knew nothing about how they worked. I'd only ever been on the consumer side of the transaction and this “owning my own business” thing was a whole new world to me.
"How much working capital do you have?"
"Working capital?" I frowned and he smiled. "How much cash do you have to get you started? That will determine if you need an overdraft account where you can dip into extra funds as and when you need to, or a basic checking account if you don't require an overdraft facility."
For the next half hour, we talked business and it was enlightening. Bruce Sims knew his stuff. He recommended a bookkeeper to me, a woman who kept the books for several of the bank's customers and wouldn't steer me wrong, he promised. I settled on an overdraft facility since I'd borrowed the money from Gran to purchase the store outright but left myself wi
th no working capital other than my personal savings and the ten thousand from selling my engagement ring. I'd wanted to put that toward the purchase of the store, but Gran had insisted she'd cover the cost and I could pay her back in installments when I could afford to.
I left the bank armed with all I needed to open my business but none the wiser as to who killed Whitney.
Chapter Five
"She said what?" Jenna, Monica and I met at The Dusty Attic and I filled them in on what Officer Miles had said to me when I'd dropped into the police station to discuss my findings with Jackson.
"She said that suspects that insinuated themselves into an investigation are psychopaths," I repeated, nodding my head and agreeing with their outrage. It was outrageous. Clearly, Officer Miles was ticked off at me in a major way—if only I knew why. Did she really think I was a murderer? That I was responsible for Whitney Sims death?
"Did you tell her Detective Ward asked for your assistance?" Monica said, snagging a straight-back chair from the storeroom and straddling it, crossing her arms across the back. Jenna and I sat on the sofa in the reading corner of the store.
"I did. He did too and that seemed to make matters worse. What is it with the women in Whitefall Cove?"
"I know," Jenna said smugly, eyeballing me, "it's because a gorgeous, suddenly single woman has moved back to town. They're jealous."
"Threatened, you mean," Monica added. "They're scared you're going to steal their men."
"What? No way! Gah, I don't want their men...I don't want any man. I'm through with men," I protested.
"I didn't say it was true. But it happens a lot. Women can be best friends one minute and then one of them suddenly becomes single and the other woman is threatened, thinks her friend is going to target her man. Makes up all sorts of ridiculous bullshit in her head."
I snorted, shaking my head in bafflement. "Well, they can't have very strong relationships then. I am not interested in any men in Whitefall Cove."
"Not even Detective Dreamy?" Monica teased.
I shook my head. "Not even. He's nice. I like him. But I'm not interested in him romantically—and he's not interested in me that way either," I pointed out. "You know," I pondered, tapping my chin, "Bruce said something similar. About Whitney."
"You've been talking with Bruce Sims?" Jenna asked.
Shrugging my shoulders to loosen the tightening of knots gathering, I nodded. "I went in to arrange accounts for this place. I met with Bruce and he's pointed me toward a bookkeeper who can help out. And the right type of account I need. I don't mind admitting I'm in a little over my head with this."
"What did he say? About Whitney?" Monica asked.
"That she was jealous of me and that's why she was so mean when we were teenagers. And that she was nervous with having to deal with me when I came home."
"That's weird," Jenna said. "Like, why would she feel threatened by you? She and Bruce have been married for over ten years. Why would she think he would stray? With you. No offense," she tacked on to the end.
"None taken. And I've no idea why Whitney felt that way. Or if she really felt that way at all. I've only got to go on what Bruce told me. Which brings me back to why I called you here." Struggling up out of the old sofa, I crossed to the wall where a map of the world was suspended from a roller. With a tug it rolled up, revealing a pinboard hidden behind it.
"What's this?" Monica asked.
"A crime board." I smiled. "I'm going to get to the bottom of Whitney's murder and you two are going to help me. You know how I told you Jackson asked for my help identifying the poison that killed her? Well, I found it. A rare plant that only grows in the Amazon. It's a combination of nightshade and hemlock called borrio bud and it specifically targets—and paralyzes—the heart. And get this…it looks a hell of a lot like mistletoe."
"Neat," Monica said and I smiled a little. She'd always been macabre, but I figured that came hand in hand with being a vampire.
"Not only in the Amazon," Jenna said, looking at the Post-it note I'd pinned to the board with the word borrio bud written on it.
"Oh? You know about the borrio bud?" Damn, I wish I'd thought to go and ask Jenna —a gardening genius and a reporter—instead of spending hours bent over an old book.
"I grow it. In my greenhouse," she said.
"What?" My mouth dropped open in surprise and she scowled at me.
"Oh please, I don't grow it to poison people. I harvest the berries, crush them into a paste and add soda and urine. I then use that as fertilizer on my lilies. Not only do they produce more flowers, but they also stay in bloom longer. The combination of carbonation, sugar, urea, uric acid and creatinine take out all traces of poison."
"Whose urine?" Monica asked, her gaze drilling into Jenna, who blushed. "Oh gross. It's yours, isn't it? You're peeing on your plants!"
"I am not peeing on my plants!" she objected, her cheeks red. "I pee in a pot and then store it in a jar in the fridge."
"Remind me not to eat or drink anything from your fridge ever again," Monica teased.
"Well, now I feel...deflated," I said, perching on the arm of the sofa and looking at my forlorn crime board. My borrio bud discovery hadn't been a major breakthrough like I thought.
"Hey," Jenna protested, rubbing my back, "you did good. Not many people know about the borrio bud, and for good reason. It is seriously toxic. And I'm not sure if anyone knows how to use it the way I do. I certainly haven't told anyone; this is my little secret. Well, to be honest, I learned it from my fellow Fae, but we certainly don't share the knowledge around outside of the Fae community. It's a dangerous plant after all."
"We should go and check your plant is all safe and sound and not missing any stems," Monica pointed out. "Because unless you're the murderer, I'd say someone used your plant to kill Whitney. I mean, what are the chances someone else in this town knows how to grow an exotic toxic plant?"
"Other members of the Fae community?" Jenna pointed out but then frowned. "However, I'm pretty sure I'm the only one growing it. But I'll check with them."
"Before we do that, I want your help on something else," I told them. "I've made up a suspect list of who was in the Palmer Construction office the morning she died. Jenna, you can see their office from the Tribune. Did you see anyone else enter the day of the murder?"
"Who have you got?" she asked.
I pinned four names on the board.
"You, Christina. That's Christina Wallace if you're wanting more detail," Monica pointed out. "Bruce Sims and Mike Palmer. So, what are you wanting here? Opportunity? Alibi?"
"Anything really," I said. "I was standing next to Whitney when Christina came in with take-out coffees. She put them on the reception desk. Whitney didn't take hers, not when I was there. Mike took one and left. Bruce came in, gave Whitney her phone, and left immediately. I don't see how anyone could have poisoned her at that point."
"Borrio bud has to be ingested? Taken orally?" Monica asked Jenna, who replied, "Touching the plant with your bare hands, even having the leaves brush your skin, can lead to skin irritation, but it's the berries that are deadly."
"Are you thinking the poison was in the coffee?” Jenna asked.
I shrugged. "It could have been. Now that the police know what they are searching for I'm hoping Jackson will keep me in the loop with whatever the lab finds."
"Hmmm." Jenna played with a strand of her hair. "Let me think. The takeout coffees came from Bean Me Up, correct?"
"Yes. I remember seeing the logo on the side of the cups."
"So we can't discount whoever made them—the barista—that's another suspect."
I scribbled the word barista on a Post-it and added it to the board. "Anything else?"
"I'm pretty sure I saw Wendy Haley outside the office that morning," Jenna said, "carrying a basket of baked goods—well, I assume they were baked goods. She does that a lot, whips up massive batches of muffins and what not and drops them off to Whitney or takes them to work with her."
"So she and Whitney are still best friends then? Where does she work?" I asked, adding her name to the board.
"She's a nurse. She arrived as Bruce was leaving. I saw them talking out front."
"I didn't see her at all so she must have come in after Whitney and I had gone into her office." I tossed a marker at Monica. "Monica, can you start a timeline for me?"
"Sure. Got paper? Because I am not sticking a hundred Post-its together."
"I think I saw a roll of brown wrapping paper in the storeroom, left over from when Mr. Dudley used to hand wrap the books he'd sold."
Within seconds Monica was back with a long sheet of brown paper that she taped to the wall below the pinup board. Having vampiric speed certainly had its advantages.
"Start at me finding her dead and work backward," I instructed, watching as Monica drew a line along the paper and at the end wrote “Whitney dead ten a.m.”
"Now what?" she asked.
"We add in the things we know. I met her at nine. Put that in the middle. Christina came in with the coffees around the same time. And then Bruce dropped in and then Mike turned up. We need to find out her movements before she came to work and if she drank or ate anything, and what she was doing between nine and ten."
"And the other little mystery within the mystery," Monica muttered, diligently writing all the information on the timeline.
"Oh?"
"The keys to this place. She should have given them to you at your meeting at nine, but they were missing, which is why you arranged to meet her here later. Was that part of the plan? To make sure Whitney died away from the office and not at her desk?"
"Good point!" I scribbled the word keys on a Post-it and added it to the board.
