by Sofie Ryan
Charlotte shook her head. “No. The ones we just sold were from the last box we had under there.”
“I think there’s a box left out in the garage. I’ll go out and get it.” I looked at my watch. “Rose and Mr. P. should be here soon.”
“Alfred was supposed to have coffee with his friend last night. He may have learned a little more about our victim—assuming, of course, that Christopher was murdered.”
“He was,” I said quietly.
“So you have some things to share as well,” Charlotte said.
I nodded. “Yes, I do.”
I found the box of clay flowerpots on the shelf at the back of the garage work space. Mac had one of his pink benches lying on its back. Even the underside was pink.
“Not saying a word,” I said as I passed him.
“I appreciate that,” he called after me.
I was halfway across the parking lot when Nick’s SUV pulled in. Rose was in the front seat and Mr. P. was in the back. I waited while they parked and got out.
“Thank you, Nicolas,” Mr. P. said.
Rose reached up and patted Nick’s cheek. “Yes thank you,” she said. “And remember what I told you—coconut oil.”
“I will,” he said.
“I’ll be in in just a second,” I said to Rose. “I have a couple of things to tell you.”
“Take your time,” she said. “I’m going to put the kettle on.”
Nick walked over to join me. “What would happen if we ran out of tea?” I said.
He shook his head. “It’s too ugly. I don’t want to think about it.” He glanced in the box I was holding. “Can I carry your pots?”
“You can,” I said, handing over the box. “Coconut oil?”
“For my dry hands.” We started for the back door. “You talked to Michelle this morning,” he said.
I nodded. “She told me Healy was poisoned, murdered.”
Nick nodded. “He was. We retraced his steps for the entire day. He wasn’t anywhere that he could have encountered the poison by accident. This was deliberate.”
“Michelle told me it was aconite.”
Nick looked surprised at that information, but he made no comment.
“Did Rose tell you about Cassie Gibson?” I asked.
“The bartender? Yes. And Jess told me about seeing her and Healy arguing earlier on the day he was killed.”
“Cassie’s not the killer,” I said. I hadn’t bothered to pull on a jacket, but the sun was surprisingly warm on my back.
“I know. Alfred told me that he’d confirmed her alibi.” Nick shrugged. “It would have been so simple if it had been her or any of the other half-dozen workers who got laid off because of the lawsuit.”
“When have the Angels ever had a case that was simple?”
He shook his head. “They do seem to get involved in investigations that are kind of complicated.”
“Rose sort of has a knack for that,” I said.
“She would have made a good investigator and don’t you dare tell her I said that.” He pointed a finger at me in warning.
“Or what?” I teased.
“Or I’ll tell Sam that you want to sit in on a song at the next jam and you’re too shy to tell him.”
“Sam won’t believe the too-shy part.”
“I can sell it.” There was a challenge in his gaze. “Maybe I should try.”
“No. No. No.” I shook my head as I said the words. “You know I can’t sing and I haven’t touched my guitar in months.” I punched his left arm. “You play dirty.”
“First of all, you can sing and second, you know playing is like riding a bike.”
I laughed. “You’ve seen me ride a bike. It’s not exactly one of my strengths.”
We’d reached the back door. I took the box back from Nick. “Get your guitar out,” he said.
“I don’t exactly have a lot of time at the moment,” I said. “There’s the shop and—”
“And the Angels latest case,” he finished.
“Yes.” I sounded a little self-righteous.
“So the sooner this case is solved the sooner you can get up on the stage at the pub.” He nodded his head. He looked like a bobbleheaded dashboard doll. “A little extra incentive is good on any case.” He gave me a gentle punch in the shoulder. “I gotta go catch me a bad guy.”
I took the box of flowerpots inside and set it on the workbench. Charlotte was in the store showing a lace tablecloth to two young women. Rose was coming down the stairs. “Alfred is making the tea,” she said.
“I’ll be out in a couple of minutes,” I said. I headed for the storage cupboard under the stairs. Charlotte had sold two of the five cut-glass decanters that had been arranged on a small side table. I knew there was one more I could put out.
Charlotte had the tablecloth draped over two chairs when I came back, and the two women were studying it. The shorter of the pair frowned as she fingered a corner of the lace.
“Sarah, do you by any chance know anything about the history of this piece?” Charlotte asked. I walked over to join them and to get a closer look at the lace design.
“This one I do,” I said, smiling at the women. “It belonged to Mary Kenney. It was a wedding present when she married her husband, Jack. She was eighteen and he was twenty. She used it on the table the first time she made Sunday dinner for the two of them. The roast was still frozen in the middle. She burned the potatoes and the gravy was more lumps than liquid.”
The taller of the two women smiled. She was wearing a pile-lined denim jacket that Jess would have loved. “But he didn’t care, because they were in love,” she said.
“Not quite,” I replied. “Jack told her that her cooking couldn’t hold a candle to his mother’s. Mary dumped the gravy on his head.”
The two women exchanged a look. They didn’t seem to know whether to laugh or be disappointed.
“But they worked it out in the end,” I said. “They had seven kids.”
The women exchanged a smile. “You have to buy it now,” the woman in the denim jacket said to her friend.
The other woman nodded. “I’ll take it,” she said.
I helped Charlotte refold the cloth and wrapped it carefully in tissue paper while she rang up the sale. Mr. P. came down with the tea just as the two women were leaving.
“I won’t be very long,” I said to Charlotte. “Yell if you need me.”
“I will,” she said.
“I brought a cup for you,” Mr. P. said as we headed to the office.
“Thank you,” I said.
“I noticed the rest of Charlotte’s banana chocolate chip cake seems to have disappeared.” He studied my face for a moment. “Perhaps we have a ghost.”
I nodded in agreement. “Perhaps we do.”
“May I go first?” I said once we all had a cup of tea.
“Of course,” Rose said.
“First of all, you were right. Christopher Healy was poisoned. And not by accident.”
Mr. P. nodded as though that’s what he’d suspected all along.
“Did Nicolas tell you?” Rose asked.
I took a sip of my tea. “No. I talked to Michelle.”
“Does she know what the poison was?” Mr. P. said.
“Aconite.”
“Monkshood?” Rose looked taken aback.
“Yes,” I said.
“My grandmother used to have it in her side garden,” she said. “We were all given strict orders not to go near it.”
Mr. P. took off his glasses and reached for the little cloth he kept on his desk to clean them. “Where would Christopher have come in contact with monkshood?” he asked. “Especially at this time of year.”
“He wouldn’t have, which means he had to have ingested the poison without realizing it
—anywhere between two and four hours before he died. The police went over his entire day. So did you. There’s no way it could have happened accidentally.” I told them what I’d learned from Tom about the poison.
“So whoever killed that young man most likely stole the aconite or made it themselves,” Rose said. “And they would have had to have gotten close enough to him to put the poison in whatever he was drinking.”
I nodded. “It looks that way.”
“That suggests it was someone he knew, someone who could get close to his food in a way that wouldn’t look suspicious. A colleague. A friend.”
“Well, we know it wasn’t Cassie Gibson. For most of that window of time she was at her husband’s physiotherapy session,” Mr. P. said. “I checked with the clinic. As for friends, from what I can see of Christopher Healy’s social media, he didn’t really have any.”
“What about the other people on the crew with Cassie who got laid off?” Rose asked. She was holding her teacup but hadn’t taken a drink yet. “Maybe it was one of them.”
I sighed. “I don’t think so. When I was talking to Nick out in the parking lot just now, he let it slip that all of them have been ruled out.”
“We haven’t eliminated Mr. Roswell or Mr. Gorham,” Mr. P. pointed out.
“And I think that’s where we should concentrate our efforts,” Rose said. I recognized that determined look in her eye.
“I think you’re right,” I said.
Mr. P. nodded in agreement. “As do I.”
“Do you mind if I ask if you’ve learned anything more about Christopher Healy?” I said. “Even after talking to his old girlfriend, I still think it would help to know more about him.”
“Of course I don’t mind,” Mr. P. said. He turned in his chair so we were facing each other. “I spent some time with Elliot last night and we talked about Christopher and the lawsuit and the land at Gibson’s Point.” He hesitated. “It’s complicated. Christopher is Nora’s son, of course, not Elliot’s, but he did tell me that if it were up to him, he would settle the lawsuit and sell Joe Roswell the land.”
“But Nora doesn’t agree.”
“No, she doesn’t. She wants to continue with Christopher’s plan to turn the property into a nature preserve.” He picked up the gray cloth he had used to clean his glasses and folded it into a neat square. “The problem is, Nora isn’t well. She had skin cancer and now it’s spread to her bones. Elliot would like to take her to Europe for an experimental stem cell treatment.”
“And if they settle the lawsuit the money would pay for the treatment.”
He nodded. “Sadly, it seems that Rosie’s friend was right. Young Mr. Healy had some trouble finding his place in life. He tried a number of things but he didn’t stick with anything. He lacked . . .”
“Strength of purpose,” Rose said quietly.
“Yes,” Mr. P. said. “It seems this nature preserve was the first thing to hold his interest for any length of time. Elliot didn’t say so directly, but I suspect Nora has paid the bills for quite a few of her son’s . . . dalliances despite the inheritance he received from his father.”
“So there was a good chance that he would have seen the lawsuit through.”
He nodded again. “Based on what I learned from Elliot I think that’s correct.”
I grimaced. “That just gives both Joe Roswell and Robb Gorham even more of a motive to have killed him.”
His eyes met mine. “I came to the same conclusion.”
I heard the click of Liz’s high heels on the floor outside in the workroom. In a moment she appeared in the doorway. “Well, hail, hail the gang’s all here,” she said. She was wearing a gray skirt with a cerulean blue jacket and a gray-and-blue-tie-dyed scarf at her neck. I knew the scarf was one of Jess’s creations.
“No, the gang is not all here. Alfred and Sarah and I are here,” Rose said. “Charlotte is in the shop and Nicolas is at work.”
Nicolas was part of the gang? I wondered if he knew that.
“It’s a figure of speech, Rose,” Liz said.
“Well, it’s not a very good one since it doesn’t properly describe the situation,” Rose retorted.
Liz held up both hands as though she was trying to calm an angry mob carrying torches and pitchforks. “Fine,” she said. “But ‘hail, hail Alfred, Sarah and Rose are all here’ doesn’t have the same ring.”
I gave her my chair and leaned against Mr. P.’s desk. “What brings you here?” I asked.
“I’ve been asking around about Joe Roswell,” she said. “I thought you might like to hear what I’ve found out so far.”
Mr. P. smiled reassuringly. “Thank you, Elizabeth. We would.”
“He’s broke,” she said flatly.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “He’s been working on the hotel project for months.”
Liz tapped one French-tipped nail on the arm of the chair. “The only reason his business is still afloat is credit and goodwill. He built an office complex down in Portland and got very overextended on that. If he doesn’t win this lawsuit, it’ll be the end of his company.”
I laced my fingers together and rested both hands on top of my head. Liam hadn’t given any indication that his friend’s business was in this much trouble. Was it possible he didn’t know?
“That sounds like a motive for murder,” Rose said.
Liz shifted to look at her. “Oh, it gets better. Or maybe I should say worse; I guess it depends on your perspective. Mr. Roswell has an assault charge from several years ago that apparently was dismissed. I didn’t get the details.”
“I can,” Mr. P. said. Given his computer skills there was very little that he couldn’t find out.
I tipped my head back and stared up at the ceiling for a moment. “I’m having trouble getting my head around the idea that Joe Roswell might have killed someone over a piece of land. He let us have all the toys and the photos they found to auction off for the hot lunch program.”
“It isn’t just a piece of land, toots,” Liz said. “It’s also the man’s business. People have killed for a lot less. And by the way, do we know yet how Christopher Healy was killed?”
“We do,” Rose said. She quickly brought Liz up to date.
“Aconite?” Liz said. “You’re positive?” Two furrows had appeared between her expertly groomed eyebrows.
“Yes,” I said, dropping my hands onto my lap. “Why? Is there a problem?”
“For Mr. Roswell, maybe.”
“We’re not getting any younger, Liz,” Rose said impatiently. “Spit it out.”
“Fine,” Liz said. “Joe Roswell’s wife is a teacher.” She paused for a moment, probably to needle Rose just a little. “She teaches high school chemistry.”
I blew out a breath. I could hear Tom Harris’s words in my head when he’d explained about extracting the poison: Anyone with basic chemistry skills could have made it.
“I think it’s time we talked to Mr. Roswell,” Rose said.
Liz lifted the teapot and frowned. I was guessing it was empty. “That might not be so easy,” she said.
“Why do you say that?” Mr. P. asked.
“Because from what I hear, Joe Roswell is spending most of his time closeted with his lawyers trying to find a way to get this lawsuit settled in his favor.” Liz glanced at me. “Even your brother admitted the man hasn’t been around much in the past few days.”
“You didn’t tell Liam that we think Joe might have killed Christopher Healy, did you?” I asked. Liam hadn’t taken it well when he had thought I was implying that same thing.
“Of course not,” she said, making a dismissive gesture with one hand. “I said I wanted to know more about the apartment idea, which is true because I do want to know more.”
Based on what Mr. P. had told me, I wasn’t sure that was going to happen
.
“I can get us in to see Mr. Roswell,” Rose said as though it was a done deal. I’d been subject to her persuasive skills before so I had no doubt she’d find a way to make sure it was.
It was decided—mostly by Rose—that Liz would see if she could find out anything more about Joe Roswell’s business while Mr. P. looked into the assault charge. There didn’t seem to be anything that needed my skills at the moment.
I walked Liz out to her car. Mac was still working on one of the pink benches. “How long are you two going to keep dancing around each other?” she asked.
“We’re not dancing around each other,” I said. I felt my face getting warm, which took away some of the credence of my words.
Liz gave a snort of laughter. “Please. All you two need is tap shoes and top hats and we could sell tickets.”
I looked around the parking lot. Maybe a sinkhole would open up, swallow me and I wouldn’t have to have this conversation. I glanced down at my feet. No such luck.
Liz poked me with her elbow. “Make a move,” she said. “Walk over and lay one on him.”
“Lay one what on him?” I asked.
Liz gave a near eye roll. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! No wonder this—whatever this is—isn’t getting off the ground.” She stopped walking and jabbed my shoulder with one finger. Hard. “Kiss him.”
I stared wide-eyed at her. “I’m not doing that.” She sounded like Liam when he’d been trying to get me together with Nick.
She sighed. “I had two husbands—both good men. Both crazy about me. But if I hadn’t stoked the fire, so to speak, I’d still be Elizabeth Emmerson, not Elizabeth Emmerson Kiley French.”
I waved both hands in front of my face. “We are not talking about my love life. Not. Not. Not.”
We’d started walking again. Liz gave a snort of laughter. “You don’t have a love life, missy,” she said. “Rose and Alfred have a love life. Your brother is at least pretending to have one. And I’m not sure I want to know what Avery is doing. You, toots? Zippo.”
I put my fingers in my ears. That just made her laugh more.
