by Sofie Ryan
I gave a snort of laughter. Generally it was Jess who did the heart breaking, not the other way around. That was another reason—aside from the deception itself—that I wasn’t crazy about their pretend relationship. Even though it was pretend, I didn’t want my brother to somehow get hurt.
Jess turned to look at me. “I see someone I need to talk to. Do I have time before we leave?”
I was giving her a ride home. I nodded. “Go ahead.”
She smiled at Liam. “Don’t miss me too much,” she said. She headed across the room. Liam watched her go and shook his head.
I stood up as well. “Do you need a ride back to Nick’s?” I asked.
“What? No,” he said. “I think I’ll walk.”
“Gram mentioned having supper with her and John sometime soon,” I said. “Maybe this weekend?”
“Yeah, let me check my schedule. I’ll text or call you.”
“Sounds good.” I gave him a hug. “Think about what I said. It would be great to have you here all the time.”
“I will,” he said. He pulled on his jacket and headed for the door.
I glanced over at the bar. I saw Cassie the bartender speak to someone and gesture at the overhead rack of wineglasses. She was about to take a break, I realized. Before I could decide whether it was a good idea, I was on my way across the room. She’d just come around the bar and I touched her arm to catch her attention. “Cassie?” I said.
She turned to look at me and I saw a flash of recognition in her dark eyes.
“I’m Sarah Grayson,” I said. “I was at the party last night.”
“I remember you,” she said. Her expression was guarded.
Suddenly I didn’t know what to say. Did you see anyone poison Christopher Healy? Did you poison him? I should have thought it through. “I . . . uh . . . I saw you talking to Mr. Healy. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m on my break right now. Excuse me.” She was gone through the door to the kitchen before I could say anything else. I stood there feeling stupid. I wasn’t sure exactly what I’d been trying to accomplish, but I hadn’t learned anything.
Rose was much better at this kind of thing than I was.
Chapter 7
The next morning when Elvis and I came out of the apartment Rose was waiting in the hall, her blue and gray tote bag over her arm, hands folded in front of her, fingers laced together.
I jumped at the sight of her. I’d made myself get up early and go for a run and my thoughts were all on the breakfast sandwich I’d made that was tucked in my messenger bag.
“I’m sorry, dear,” she said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” She smiled down at Elvis.
“It’s all right,” I said. “I just didn’t expect to see you. I didn’t think it was your morning to work.”
“Oh, it’s not. I have a couple of things to do at the office.” I knew she meant the Angels’ office. “You don’t mind if I ride in with you, do you?”
“Merow,” Elvis interjected. It seemed he didn’t mind.
I smiled. “As my friend says, we’re happy to have you.”
Elvis led the way out to the SUV and hopped up to sit in the middle of the seat as soon as I opened the passenger door for Rose.
“How was the music last night?” she asked as I pulled onto the street. We both waved at Tom Harris, who was out in his front yard with Matilda. Elvis pointedly studied his feet.
“It was great,” I said. “Sam and the guys just keep getting better.” I glanced over at her. “You should come sometime.” Rose had been at the jam once when we were celebrating the end of a case, but that was quite a while ago.
Her eyes narrowed as she considered the idea and her head tipped from side to side. She reminded me, as she often had, of a tiny, inquisitive bird. “Maybe I will,” she finally said.
We drove for another minute or so in silence, then Rose said, “I want the Angels to take on Christopher Healy’s murder.”
“Okay,” I said. Her head snapped in my direction. Elvis was staring at me as well.
“Okay?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“You’re not going to tell me that we don’t even know yet whether Christopher Healy was murdered?” she asked.
“I am not,” I said. I kept my eyes fixed on the road in front of me.
“You’re not going to point out that we wouldn’t have a client, which means we’d be doing this pro bono?”
“I’m not doing that, either.”
“Well my stars, this is not the response I was expecting,” she said.
I came to a stop at the corner and looked over at her. “I like to mix it up once in a while to keep you on your toes.” I raised one eyebrow at her a la Spock from Star Trek.
She smiled then. “As Avery would say, are you messing with me?”
I tried to stifle a smile of my own but didn’t succeed. “No, Rose, I’m not.” I exhaled slowly. “I think you might be right.”
“So none of this sits well with you, either?”
I shook my head. “It doesn’t. Christopher Healy was a young man and I don’t believe he had a heart attack or a stroke. When Nick and I were working on him, it was already too late. Something else killed him.”
“You think he was poisoned, too?”
“That I don’t know.” We turned up the hill. “You’re doing this because of Mr. P., aren’t you?” I said.
“Yes, I am,” she said. “They may not have seen each other in a long time, but Elliot Casey is important to Alfred and Alfred is important to me.”
“Mr. P. is important to me, too.”
“Mrrr,” Elvis said. Alfred Peterson was important to all of us.
“Have you talked to Charlotte and Liz?” I asked.
“Last night,” Rose said.
“I take it they’re in agreement.”
“Everyone’s in agreement.”
“So where do we start?” I turned into the shop’s parking lot.
“I don’t exactly know. I thought you were going to take a lot more convincing.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” I said, smiling at her. “As for where to start, you know what the king said in Alice in Wonderland: Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end: then stop.”
Rose smiled back at me. “You do like that quote, dear, don’t you?”
“Alice in Wonderland is one of my favorite books and that happens to be very good advice.”
“So we start at the beginning,” she said. “Who wanted Christopher Healy dead?”
“Exactly,” I said.
Mac had made coffee as usual. He brought a cup to my office. “How was the jam last night?” he asked.
“Fantastic, as always,” I said. That reminded me that I hadn’t told Rose what I’d learned about Cassie, the bartender. I made a mental note to go down later to the Angels’ office and bring her up to date on what little I’d found out. “Tell me what the boat was like.”
Mac had gone to look at a sailboat with one of the guys he crewed with fairly regularly.
He made a face. “The expression ‘needs a little TLC’ wasn’t exactly accurate.”
“That bad?”
“Two words: carpenter ants. They were everywhere belowdecks. The guy who owns the boat tries to tell us that a little bug spray will fix the problem. He actually grabs a can and starts spraying it and we realize it’s not bug spray at all.”
“Air freshener?”
“Cooking oil spray.”
I laughed. “You’re making that up.”
“I’m not,” Mac said, laughing himself. “I wish I were, but I swear I’m not.”
I fished the sandwich I’d made out of my bag. “I’m going to warm this up and I need more coffee.”
“I could use a
refill, too,” he said. We headed for the stairs.
“So the Angels have a new case and I need you to tell me if I’ve lost my mind,” I said as I leaned against the counter in the staff room with my breakfast.
Mac smiled. “Are the two connected?”
I nodded. “They are.”
“All right, first, tell me about the case.”
“It’s Christopher Healy. Rose thinks someone poisoned him. She wants to investigate because he’s the stepson of Mr. P.’s old friend. When we were driving home Mr. P. said he wished there was something he could do for Elliot. I think taking this on as a case is her way of doing that.”
Mac didn’t seem the slightest bit surprised. “What do you think?” he asked.
“That’s where the ‘have I lost my mind’ part comes in,” I said. “I think she might be right—at least that Healy didn’t die of natural causes.”
“What makes you say that?” He leaned against the counter beside me and took a sip of his coffee.
I explained why I didn’t think Healy had had a heart attack, how evasive Nick had been and the questions he’d asked, even how I’d gotten nowhere trying to talk to Cassie. “Usually I’m the voice of reason, trying to reel Rose in. This time I’m actually encouraging her. Am I crazy?”
He shook his head. “No, you’re not. Just the fact that Nick didn’t answer your question makes me think you might be on to something. He was a paramedic. He knows when someone is having a heart attack.”
I licked a bit of mayo off my thumb. “That’s what I thought. When we were doing CPR I don’t remember Nick ever saying Healy was having a heart attack or even a stroke.”
“But none of that matters in the end,” Mac said. “This is about Alfred. We’re going to find out who killed Christopher Healy for him.”
I turned to look at him. “We?”
He smiled. “Yes, we. Why should you get to have all the fun every time Rose and her cohorts have a new case?”
“I’m going to remind you that you said that,” I told him, gesturing at him with the last bite of my sandwich before I ate it. Then I pushed away from the counter and started for my office.
After I’d checked the store’s website and taken a second look at the photos of the toys Avery had taken—they were even better than I’d expected—I pulled out my phone and called Nick. “I just called to warn you that Charlotte’s Angels have a new case,” I said.
“Christopher Healy’s death. I know.”
“You know? How?”
“Rose called me about half an hour ago. She thought I should know.”
I rocked back in my chair. “That’s because you’re part of the team now.”
“I am not part of the team.” He sounded a little huffy.
I closed my eyes for a second and pictured the canvas tote Rose had been carrying when I stepped into the hallway. There had been a plaid cookie tin at the top. “Did she or did she not tell you she made oatmeal cookies and you should stop by around ten thirty and have a couple?”
“I’m part of the team,” Nick said. He sounded . . . resigned.
I didn’t even try to hide my laughter.
“It’s not funny, Sarah.”
“From my perspective, it’s hilarious,” I said. “All that time you spent trying to convince Rose and your mother that they shouldn’t be in the private investigation business and now you’re Team Rose.”
Nick made an exasperated sound in my ear. “How did I get into this mess?” he asked.
“You stopped being pigheaded and admitted that they’re actually pretty good detectives.”
He laughed. “That was my mistake. I was just trying to be reasonable. See what I get for listening to you?”
“This case is important to Rose,” I said. “Christopher Healy is—was—the stepson of one of Mr. P.’s old friends.”
“Elliot Casey.”
“Yes.”
He muttered a word his mother would have raised an eyebrow at.
“Look, Nick,” I said. “I’m not asking you to reveal any private information or do anything that will compromise your job. And I’m not going to give you the speech about how good Rose has always been to you.”
“You’re just asking me to be reasonable.”
I smiled even though he couldn’t see me, picturing him making a face when he said the word “reasonable.” “Yeah, I am.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll help if I can.” It was impossible to miss the emphasis on the word “if.”
“So is the autopsy done?” I asked.
“It is.”
“Healy didn’t die of a heart attack, or a stroke or anything like that, did he?”
For a long moment there was nothing but silence. “No, he didn’t,” Nick finally said.
“So what did kill him?” I knew I was pushing it.
“I don’t know, Sarah. Honestly, I don’t. Toxicology results take time. When I know something that I can share, I will.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
“And the next time I see you, you better have at least three of those cookies.”
I promised I would and we said good-bye.
I set my cell phone on the desk. Nick had told me more than he’d realized. Or maybe he hadn’t. Toxicology results take time. Was that something he felt he could share? His words suggested Christopher Healy might have been poisoned.
Which meant Rose could have been right from the very beginning.
Chapter 8
I headed downstairs just before ten o’clock. Charlotte was packing a set of encyclopedias into three cardboard boxes. She looked up and smiled at me.
“Don’t tell me that you sold those old encyclopedias?” I said.
She nudged her glasses up her nose with her arm. “Yes, I did,” she said.
“I can’t believe these books finally have a home.” The entire set of books, from A to Z, had been packed in an old tea chest we’d discovered in the garage when I’d bought the property. We’d used them in a couple of window displays and filled more than one bookcase with them, but no one had been interested in buying even one of the books, which were early 1960s vintage.
I picked up one of the volumes and turned it over in my hands. It was bound in red leatherette with the lettering stamped in gold. There was very little wear on it or any of the other twenty in the set. “Book collector?” I asked. There wasn’t much market for old sets of encyclopedias.
Charlotte shook her head. “A collage artist. She’s heading back to Rhode Island tomorrow morning. She’ll be back to pick these up this afternoon.” She closed the flaps of the box and pushed it to one side.
I looked down at the text I was still holding. “These encyclopedias have been here since the store opened. I think I’m going to miss them.”
“I can cancel the sale,” Charlotte said, giving me a teasing smile.
I immediately set the book on the counter and stuffed my hands in my pockets. “I’m not going to miss them that much,” I said.
She laughed. “When I was a girl—back when dinosaurs roamed the earth—I think every second house had a set of encyclopedias just like these.” She tapped the cover of the book lying on the counter. “I’m not sure how many kids ever read a page—well, other than my brother, who was looking for bad words.”
Behind me I heard the front door open. I turned around as Liz walked into the store. “I’m here,” she said. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
Elizabeth Emmerson Kiley French had presence, that indefinable quality that drew people to her. She was confident, smart and beautiful but it was more than that. You had the sense that whatever was happening or going to happen, Liz would be at the center of things.
I walked over to join her. She was holding a small gift bag, which she handed to me. “You brought me a present?” I said.
“Elspeth sent it to you,” Liz said. “They’re samples from a line of foot care products that she’s thinking of carrying.” Elspeth was Liz’s niece. She ran a high-end spa called Phantasy here in North Harbor. “She was looking for testers and I thought of your knobby feet.”
I took a tube of foot cream from the bag and unscrewed the cap. It smelled like vanilla. “My knobby feet say thank you.” I leaned over and kissed her cheek.
“How are you?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” I said. I knew she meant after what had happened Wednesday night.
“That was a good thing you did—helping Nicolas try to save that man’s life.”
I swiped a hand over the back of my neck. “I wish we had saved him.”
“You did your best,” Liz said.
“That’s what I told her,” Charlotte said, looking over the top of her glasses at us.
“I’m sorry the reception was ruined.”
Liz waved away my words. “Nonsense. Nothing was ruined. And I happen to know that the hot lunch program has received four checks in the last couple of days.” She smiled. “And we aren’t done yet.”
“I have no doubt about that,” I said.
“Is the tea on yet?” she asked.
I looked at Charlotte, who shrugged.
“I’m not sure,” I said.
“The tea is made,” a voice said from the vicinity of the stairs. Rose was standing there carrying a tray that held the teapot in its knitted cozy, along with a tiny pitcher of milk and a bowl of sugar cubes.
“Let me take that,” I said, hurrying over to her.
“Thank you, dear,” she said, handing over the tray.
“I didn’t know you were making the tea. I could have brought this downstairs.” I eyed her suspiciously. “You were very quiet.”
“I’m little and stealthy. Just think of me as a geriatric ninja.” She pointed at the gift bag hanging from my left arm. “What’s in the bag?”
“Foot stuff. Liz brought me some samples from Elspeth.”
