Murder in a Nice Neighborhood

by Lora Roberts

Claudia limped over and put a glass of orange juice on the little table next to the bed. “You’ll live. Do you want to go back to sleep?”

  “No!” I shivered, and sat up, trying to move my head as little as possible. Bridget hopped up, and by the time I was halfway through the orange juice, she’d brought me some aspirin. Claudia took her place on the bed, patting my hand a little awkwardly. I blinked fast.

  “Look,” I said, not meaning to sound so gruff, “I’m not an invalid.”

  “Of course not.” Bridget looked at her watch. “I just stopped in for a minute. Moira has a checkup before the party, so I have to get going. Can I get anything for you two non-invalids?”

  “No.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed. “After a shower, I’ll be perfectly fine. No need to worry, Biddy.”

  “And my ankle feels much better.” Claudia’s glare dared us to contradict her. “I’ll be in the garden today.” She grinned at me. “Can’t put off the hybridizing much longer, or it will be too late. Will you have time to work with me on it tomorrow?”

  “Sure.” I held my head in my hands for a few minutes to clear it, and when I looked up Bridget had brought me some clean clothes from my bus. That meant I didn’t have to see the mess the cops had made of it until I was better fortified to face it. I would have to do laundry soon, too. There was the party at the preschool later, and the receding goal of finishing my article for Smithsonian. The deadline was still a month away, but I needed time to assemble all the information for the fact-checkers, and time to let the writing sit for a while. Then all the clinkers would sink to the bottom, where I could strain them out with little effort.

  Hot water is a wonderful thing. I don’t see how humanity survived all those eons without showers.

  When I got out to the kitchen, Bridget was gone. Claudia had a bowl of corn flakes in front of her, eating absentmindedly while reading a glossy journal from the American Society of Historians and Historiographers. She waited until I’d helped myself to corn flakes and brewed a cup of tea before she shut the journal.

  “Detective Morales took away the bag you found in your cooler,” she mentioned.

  “The seeds or whatever?” I poured milk on the cereal and choked down a bite. I wasn’t hungry, but experience had taught me that a person needs fuel to be ready for life.

  “They were probably some kind of poisonous seed.” Claudia pushed the journal away and set her cereal bowl on top of it, so she could lean both elbows on the table. “Might even be yew seeds. Yew is pretty common around here.”

  “Yew seeds.” I crunched another bite and thought about it. “How would you get them—collect the berries or something? Why not just use those?”

  “The seeds are really powerful.” Claudia regarded me intently. “When I was in high school, a girl who was trying to give herself an abortion drank tea made from yew seeds and died. The old wives used to use it for that, you see, but they must have made it pretty weak.”

  I put my spoon down. “Claudia, are you saying someone harvested their ornamental shrubs and planted them on me?”

  “Looks that way.”

  I thought about that bag. It had been an ordinary plastic bag, such as people can buy anywhere. Not me, though; they cost way too much. I use the same plastic bags over and over, to save having to buy them.

  “So I guess that must be what killed Alonso,” I muttered, watching the corn flakes grow soggy in their milk bath. One crispy little devil had the nerve to float. I picked up my spoon again and pushed it under. “I’m being set up for that.”

  “And don’t forget your Pigpen,” Claudia said briskly. Her eyes were bright with interest. “Wasn’t he supposed to have been poisoned first? I’m not real clear on the symptoms of yew seeds, but I believe they start pretty quickly after being eaten.”

  I pushed the bowl of drowning corn flakes away. “Can I use your car, Claudia? I’m going to the preschool for the party.”

  “It’s only nine,” she pointed out, heaving herself to her feet. “I thought it didn’t start till ten. And you’re not driving yourself anywhere with a broken head. I’ll drive you. Meanwhile, why don’t you rest?”

  It occurred to me that Claudia hadn’t been out of the house in days. She probably had cabin fever. So I didn’t protest her plan.

  The tea was hot and steaming and made me feel better. I carried a cup of it out to the bus.

  The chaos wasn’t so great this time around. The uniforms had tossed it with more sensitivity or something. My underwear still occupied the little drawer under the backseat, instead of being festooned all over the place. It only took fifteen minutes to get everything in place, find my notes on the Smithsonian article, and cram the dirty laundry into an empty pillowcase. It would be a boring morning for Claudia, but speaking for myself, I could use more boredom in my life.

  Chapter 23

  I called Vivien when I came back in to tell her we were on our way to pick her up for the party. There was no answer. I didn’t worry about it too much—she works in her yard and doesn’t even try to get the phone if she’s very far away.

  There was no answer again when I called just before we left.

  “I don’t like it,” I said, putting the receiver down.

  Claudia looked up from a plate of toast, which she ate, in the way solitary people have, while reading her historical journal. “Maybe she went to the Senior Center instead—got confused or something.”

  It was a good thought. I called the desk at the Senior Center, but the woman on duty didn’t know Vivien by sight and had no idea if she was there.

  “Listen.” I grabbed my bag. “You don’t need to drive me around. I feel perfectly fine now.”

  “I’d enjoy it.” Claudia managed to look hurt. “What’s the matter—would my driving make you nervous?”

  “Not at all,” I fibbed politely. “I wanted to swing by Vivien’s place, that’s all. Maybe her phone’s out of order.”

  “Fine with me.” Claudia crammed the last bite of toast into her mouth. “You don’t mind if I tag along?”

  I didn’t mind, which surprised me. A week ago I would have felt uncomfortable with so much companionship. Making conversation is a tremendous strain when you’ve grown accustomed to solitude. Claudia’s company was acceptable partly because she didn’t put out any kind of demand. She said what she had to say and didn’t care if you answered her or not. But underlying my acceptance of this was an uneasy feeling of violent change taking place deep inside, where its mutation would be barely perceptible until it burst forth in some unexpected way.

  Claudia drove. Her approach to this was intuitive, making every journey breathtaking, like a reality-based roller coaster. We pulled up outside of Vivien’s house with a flourish and, on my part, a sigh of relief.

  The shades were still pulled down. When I knocked, no one answered. Because I was uneasy, I turned the door handle. It was locked.

  Everyone with an elderly parent or friend would get the same picture—a slip, a fall, a helpless old person on the floor with a broken hip or head. Remembering what Ted Ramsey had said, I called her name a couple of times, listening carefully, but heard nothing.

  “She must have left for the party already.” I slid into the front seat next to Claudia.

  “If she’s not there, send your tame policeman to break into the house,” she advised, starting the car with a lurch. We careened through the streets north of University, fortunately encountering little traffic. I could have kissed the curb in front of the church where the preschool was located when we got there safely.

  Vivien wasn’t mingling with the group of elderly ladies and men who ladled punch and dispensed orange-frosted cupcakes. Bridget, who was flying around sticking on Band Aids, hosing off frosting, and mediating arguments, hadn’t seen her. I told Bridget I’d be back in a few minutes and went to the phone in the tiny office.

  Drake wasn’t too interested in my elderly lady friend. “Does it have some bearing on the case?”

  “H
ow could it?” I gripped the receiver. “Look, I can just break into her house myself.”

  “Don’t do that!” He sounded alarmed. “At least, don’t tell me about it.” A heavy sigh came over the line. “Okay, I’ll send someone to check it out. But this sort of thing isn’t really the province of the police, you know.”

  “It’s just something humans do for each other,” I said, holding the door shut to drown out some of the incredible noises from the party. “Thanks a bunch. I’m at the preschool, in case she’s broken her hip or something and needs help checking into the hospital.”

  Drake didn’t sound happy when he said good-bye. I, however, felt much better when I rejoined the party. Claudia had taken one look at the mayhem and retreated to the car with her papers, and Vivien would be taken care of. I settled into a circle with Mick on my lap and joined an enthusiastic rendition of “Six Little Witches.”

  We went on to “Five Little Pumpkins,” and were just starting “Chicken Lips and Lizard Hips and Alligator Thighs” when Drake pushed through the door. Claudia was behind him, her face for once shaken out of its impassivity.

  I had risen to my feet before anyone spoke, summoned by the intensely bad vibes that came into the room with Drake. Mick, dumped on the floor, looked indignant, but Bridget beckoned him, watching Drake with a worried frown. Claudia sank into a tiny chair by the door. “I’ll take over for you,” she whispered, fanning herself. “Go with Drake.”

  I shut the door on the rousing chorus and followed Drake out to his car.

  “It’s Vivien, isn’t it?” I didn’t wait for him to stick me into his battered Saab. “‘Is she—she isn’t dead?”

  “Not yet.” He faced me on the sidewalk. “It’s bad, Liz. I’m taking you to the station.”

  “I want to see Vivien.” I dug my heels in when he took my arm. “Where is she? What happened?”

  His breath hissed out in an impatient sigh. “I’ll tell you in the car. Come on.”

  The passenger seat was covered with papers and legal pads and file folders. He heaved them into the backseat and pushed me in. I stared out the dusty windshield while he settled himself behind the wheel. He didn’t start the engine.

  “Your friend Vivien was unconscious. The officer I sent to check her house managed to unlock the door with a passkey and found her in the living room.”

  “Did she fall? Was it—”

  “It wasn’t a fall, we’re pretty sure, or at least if she fell, it was because she was already very ill.” He darted a glance at me. “There were—unmistakable signs.”

  “Signs of what?” I pictured Vivien’s head beaten in as Pigpen’s had been, her skin blue and cold like Alonso’s. Inside me was a vast sinking, like being in an elevator at the top of a very tall building, going down very fast.

  “Signs of poisoning.” He glanced at me again. “Same as Alonso.”

  Horrified, I met his eyes. “Alonso—but how can that be? She didn’t have anything to do with him—with any of that—are you sure? It wasn’t just a stroke or a seizure?”

  He shrugged and started his car. “We’re checking. The medical examiner is, anyway. But I’m pretty sure, yes. That’s why I’m taking you to the office.”

  My elevator hit bottom with a terrible thud. “You think it’s me,” I said dully. “That I’m the common thread. That I’m poisoning people all over town—sweet people, people I like.”

  He pulled up in front of City Hall. “I haven’t told you what I think. That would be against the regulations.” He came around and opened my door, hauling me out of the car when I didn’t move fast enough to suit him. “But I will tell you this. You may not be the common denominator. But you know where it is.”

  I began to protest, but he kept hustling me up the stairs.

  “You may not know what you know,” he grumbled in my ear, whisking me down the hall. “But there has to be something we’ve overlooked, something that ties that old lady to the other deaths. Otherwise—”

  He didn’t finish the sentence. I dropped into the chair beside his desk and finished it for him. “Otherwise, it comes down to me.”

  “‘Fraid so.” He picked up his phone and growled into it, and moments later Bruno Morales popped in through the door. “Now,” said Paul Drake, tipping back his chair and flashing his granny glasses at me. “Let’s get down to it.”

  Chapter 24

  “We wanted to question your ex-husband, but he doesn’t seem to be at his address in Fort Collins.”

  I was already wrung out by the time Drake made this scary announcement. I had gone through my movements for the last twenty-four hours, a task made easier because Drake witnessed some of that time. We had discussed the mysterious bag that had been found in my bus, and I had said right up front what Claudia suspected, that they were yew seeds. This raised a few eyebrows, and necessitated more phone calls to the labs, endless time on hold, lots of half-voiced cursing and finger-tapping at the bureaucratic delays. During this time, I went off with a couple of female officers for a very complete search of my person and effects.

  After it was over, I wanted some intensive privacy, preferably accompanied by soap and hot water. What I got was another one of those Styrofoam cups of Red Zinger and a little downtime in the ladies’ room, reflecting while I occupied a stall that being a lady would be pretty easy if everyone else in the world was also required to consult Miss Manners. I had created a pleasing fantasy where attorneys were replaced by etiquette mavens, when my companion, one of the female officers, indicated that I should wrap things up. She was apologetic, and also a little embarrassed by the whole process.

  “They’ve got new technology that’s going to make that kind of stuff obsolete,” she assured me earnestly as I washed my hands and splashed warm water on my face.

  “The sooner the better.” I blotted my face with paper towels. The coarse brown paper felt abrasive against my hot forehead. “Do you do this often?”

  She looked away from the mirror, where we’d been conducting our conversation. “There’s not much call for that around here,” she muttered. “Usually anyone who requires a thorough search would be taken to the county for booking.”

  There was still something to be thankful for—I wasn’t being booked. I was simply an involuntary consultant, for the time being. More than anything, I wanted to unearth some fact, some inference, that would avert the forfeit hanging over my head. It’s so much easier to convict someone the second time.

  Drake told me about Tony when I got back to his office.

  I had expected something of the sort—had been waiting for the past few days for them to let me know that Tony was in the neighborhood. My life had gotten to such a point that I would almost have welcomed the news as giving the police a fresh new suspect to run around after.

  “He’s coming after me. He found out the Palo Alto police were making inquiries about me, and now he’s on his way.” I looked at my hands to avoid looking at Bruno Morales, and especially at Drake. This time, I thought, when Tony showed up, I would stop running away. I wouldn’t fight it anymore. I would just let him kill me.

  “We’ll be doing frequent patrols past Mrs. Kaplan’s house.” I looked up in time to catch Drake’s thin smile. “She’ll enjoy that, no doubt.”

  Thinking of Claudia, I remembered why I was there. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten Vivien, although a strip search will take your mind off almost anything. “How is Vivien? Can I go see her? Would you take me to see her?”

  They glanced at each other, avoiding my eyes. “She’s dead, isn’t she?” I pressed the heels of my hands hard against my eyes. Images of Vivien swam against my closed eyelids—making tea in her kitchen, pressing me to have a slice of cake, chiding me gently because I didn’t find a nice man and settle down. She had done so much for me, and I hadn’t been there to help her when she needed help.

  The silence in the room told me all I needed to know. “If I had gone by sooner—if she’d had help right away— would she have lived?”
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  Drake cleared his throat. “Probably not. Once she’d ingested the poison, it would damage her system. She was old. Her chances weren’t good at all.”

  I wouldn’t cry there in front of them. Instead, rage filled me. “Why don’t you do something, then?” Drake’s blank face and Bruno Morales’s sympathetic one were the targets of my anger. “Why don’t you get out there and find whoever’s doing this? It isn’t fair that bums and old ladies are taken out, and you can’t think of anything better to do than turn your damned bureaucracy loose on me. Why? Why would anyone kill a sweet, quiet lady like Vivien? Why don’t you find out?”

  They were silent for a moment. “We’re trying to,” Drake said, pushing his glasses up on his nose. I had a momentary glimpse of those steel-gray eyes. They looked weary and vulnerable. “That’s what we need from you. The reason.”

  “I don’t know it!” In despair, I sat down and hid my face in my arm. “I don’t know anything about it.”

  “You knew her,” Morales pointed out in his soft voice. “You knew the other victims, too, or at least knew of them. Something links it all.”

  I was barely listening. Once I got my face under control, I had a sip of the cold Red Zinger. “My class is going to need new members,” I muttered, thinking of Vivien’s autobiography ending so violently. “First Eunice, and now Vivien.”

  “Someone else in your class died recently?” Drake leaned forward, his voice sharpening.

  “Eunice? She was pretty feeble, too.” I glanced from him to Morales. “She was in a wheelchair, had a stroke or something. I don’t really know the details. She was doing a great job writing poetry, though.”

  Once again the men exchanged glances. It made me nervous. “You don’t think I’m going around knocking off the members of my workshop, do you?” I gripped the arms of my chair. “For one thing, I need the income. If I killed everyone, I wouldn’t get paid for the workshop.”

  “It’s a link.” Bruno scribbled down Eunice’s full name and went off to get some information.