Detective Bishop shifted back a step to give me some room. Maybe he regretted that he’d gone too far, although I doubted it
“How about we stick to the reason I called you outside with me,” he said. “It looks probable that the tea Ms Daggon drank that morning was laced with cyanide. I’ll have to check the reports to confirm whether the Rowan Circle tea was on the inventory sent to our forensic unit, but we do know that everything came back clean. Which means the tea might have been doctored after it’d been poured.”
The grin was gone along with the amused drawl.
He was all serious and professional now, right down to the concern creased at his brow. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Ms Storm?”
I shook my head, no. I had no idea where he was going with this.
“No guests were registered, there was no sign of forced entry and the ME report indicates a quick death, within minutes of ingesting the cyanide,” he explained. “We have to consider the possibility that Mr Burns and Mr Hollow both knew about the vic’s preference for Rowan Circle tea and they had the perfect opportunity.”
“That’s preposterous,” I exclaimed. “Opportunity isn’t everything, Detective Bishop, and they have absolutely no motive.”
“You sure about that?” he said. “You said yourself, you’ve only just moved in.”
“I’ve known Mr Hollow all my life!”
“Well enough to know all his secrets?” he challenged. “And what of Mr Burns? How long have you known him?”
I nudged my chin high and glared at him.
He raised a hand, backing down. “I’m not convicting either man.”
“You couldn’t if you wanted to,” I said, my head spinning at the implication. “You don’t have any proof. And I hope you’re not concentrating all your efforts on two old, innocent men while a killer runs amok.” I pointed toward the valley road and beyond to emphasize my point. “Out there.”
“I’m not, I assure you,” he said. “They’re not even top of our list. And I don’t want to alarm you, Ms Storm. This was a targeted murder and we have no reason to believe the man—or woman—will kill again. But I wanted you to be aware of all the aspects of this investigation, in case you wished to make alternate living arrangements.”
“I don’t wish.” I folded my arms and gave him a stubborn look.
An accident with the rat poison was one thing, but lacing tea with cyanide was the mark of a cold, cruel mind. I refused to give the detective’s insidious suggestions any credence whatsoever.
∞∞∞
It was naively optimistic of me, I suppose, to think I’d get any sleep that night. I tossed and turned for hours, too jittery to settle. It wasn’t a scared type of jittery. I wasn’t expecting Burns or Mr Hollow to sneak into my room in the dead of night with a carving knife.
Trust me, if I thought for one second either man had done the dastardly deed, I’d already be tucked into my bed at home with my dad standing guard by the door.
Nevertheless, Detective Bishop’s accusations had contaminated my brain. His pointed facts jumbled with my own limited snippets and everything rolled together inside my head like twitches on a hamster wheel.
The tea was laced with cyanide.
No sign of forced entry.
I never saw her drink any other tea while she was here.
She was graphic about what she’d do to anyone who touched it.
A quick death.
They had the perfect opportunity.
She had the tea shipped in special from Dublin.
The one thing the detective and I agreed upon was that Ms Daggon was a targeted victim. Not an accident. Not a random break-in gone bad.
Someone had wanted her dead.
Someone with a real, honest-to-God motive.
I was no detective, but I was pretty sure that meant it had to be someone she knew. Someone she’d peeved off horrifically.
I finally gave up on sleep and reached over to switch on the bedside lamp and grab my phone. I wasn’t really planning anything stupid, just a little browsing to put me back to sleep, but oops, look at that You Tube video: Three easy steps to break into a locked room.
This was going to need a bigger screen.
I climbed out of bed to turn the overhead light on and collect my laptop from the bottom drawer of the bachelor chest.
A short while later, feeling very much like a master thief with my phone torch to light the way and my Swiss Army Knife in hand, I crept down the staircase to the ground floor. Once I was in the back passage by Ms Daggon’s bedroom, I flipped on the hallway light and tucked my phone into the pocket of my robe.
My gaze blurred over the official police sticker on the door in my effort to not read the order. Sometimes ignorance was just as good as innocence.
I snapped open the blade accessory from the small red compact and scraped at the edges of crime tape until I could peel it carefully off the door frame. I had every intention of leaving the scene exactly as I’d found it.
Next, I simply had to slide the blade into the crack and pop the lock mechanism.
The blade was far too thick.
I flicked through the various tools and tried the nail file. It was a tight fit, and I worried I was filing down the wood, but it was all for a good cause. I honestly didn’t think Detective Bishop was quite as motivated as I was to find and apprehend the real murderer.
He’d said Burns and Mr Hollow weren’t top of his list, but so far none of his suspects impressed me. Two old women and two old men. In all seriousness, I was a much better contender than any of them and he’d scratched me off. Who did that leave?
I jiggled the nail file up and down, put some extra muscle into it, but all I seemed to be doing was giving the lock an ugly manicure.
Sitting back on my haunches, I stared at the brass plate and handle while contemplating my options. Giving up wasn’t on the menu. Neither was kicking down the door. I didn’t have the steel-tipped boots or the brawn.
There were four tiny screws on the plate, though. My master class hadn’t mentioned screws, but I was an actress and putting myself into other people’s shoes came naturally.
What would a locksmith do in this situation?
Remove the lock.
My Swiss knife had three different sized screwdrivers and I had the screws off in no time. Unfortunately the entire assembly came apart as soon as I removed the plate. A piece of metal dropped into the cavity. I tried to dig it out, but the door had swallowed it. I wasn’t sure it mattered anymore. There was no way I could put this lock together again.
The door opened to my touch and, since the damage was done, I decided I might as well get what I’d come for.
Ms Daggon’s bedroom was cluttered worse than my parents’ basement and trust me, you couldn’t swing a rat in there.
A narrow bed was wedged in between the wall and the stacks of overflowing cardboard boxes. Clothes, shoes, linen, pots, pans and coats littered the place.
I assumed the mess was courtesy of our fine police department. I also assumed Ms Daggon hadn’t actually moved her entire house into this bedroom, but it sure looked as if she’d made a gallant effort.
I stood there a long moment, unable to comprehend the madness of this woman. To give up her home at her age, waste all her money on a silly law suit she didn’t have a hope in hell of winning.
Did she not have anything better to do with her golden years?
Maybe not.
A shadow of regret settled on my shoulders, weighed down with a flash of insight that came, I was afraid to say, from recent personal experiences.
I’d always concluded Ms Daggon was alone because she was so mean. But maybe she was so mean because she was alone. I’d been alone and discarded for less than two weeks, and already I was a lot snarkier and harder than I’d ever been.
I shook off the shadow of her ghost and scuffed aside debris to make a path to the boxes. I was here to learn about Ms Daggon’s life, not analyze my own.
There wasn’t much of an intimate nature in Ms Daggon’s belongings. I waded through boxes, riffled in her closet and snooped under the bed. The most interesting thing I found was a set of psychedelic blue and yellow self-heating curlers and that was only interesting because I couldn’t fathom why she’d bother. I’d never seen her hair out of that pale pink net.
Then I stumbled across a lone photograph at the very bottom of a small shoe box buried in the mass of larger boxes.
At first glance, the only intriguing thing about it was that photos were memories and nothing else in this room was vaguely memorable of the life Ms Daggon had led. But when I held it up for a closer look, I noticed the green phosphoric blur.
I didn’t recognize the young man caught mid-stride and I wasn’t familiar with the building he’d obviously just exited, but I knew without a doubt that Mr Biggenhill had taken this black and white photo. And given the long-range shot, this was no selfie even if selfies had been a thing back then.
I wouldn’t have been surprised to find a photo of the man Ms Daggon had held a flaming torch for, but why on earth would she treasure a single, random picture that he’d snapped?
Taking the photo with me, I did what I could to camouflage my intrusion. The bits of broken lock went into one of the cardboard boxes. I pulled the door shut and adjusted the crime tape to angle over the gaping hole. It wouldn’t pass close inspection, but I was hoping no one would notice until after the case was closed and then who’d care?
NINE
My midnight excursion had raised more questions and provided no answers.
Needless to say, I didn’t sleep a wink all night. In no mood to mess around with bran or crunchy wheat, I called Jenna and we arranged to meet at eight o’clock.
I arrived before her and snuck into Cuppa-Cheeno from the boardwalk entrance. Lily and Cuppa-Cake would always have my undying loyalty, but sometimes a girl just needed an almond croissant.
Jenna was coming up the steps just as I reached the North Pier. The poor guy passing her on his way down stared so hard, he lost his footing and stumbled. I couldn’t say I blamed him. She looked like a ramp model, skinny jeans and a chocolate brown leather jacket and the breeze whipping her loose blond hair.
I grinned and waved her down with my bag of contraband croissants.
She took the coffee holder from me and cocked a brow. “What’s got you so bright and chirpy this early in the morning?”
“That reminds me.” A grimace wiped out my grin. “I have an appointment with a divorce lawyer on Tuesday.”
“You realize a psychiatrist would have a field day with your word association, don’t you?” She linked her arm in mine as we walked. “I say bright and chirpy and you think divorce.”
“My lawyer’s name is Mr Bright,” I said with a sigh.
We settled at the end of the pier, our legs dangling over the side. I slung my purse from my shoulder, breathing in the crisp air and admiring the view as we exchanged coffees and croissants
The Lazy Lady was making her way across the lake toward us. She was the Lakeview Spa Retreat’s old paddle steamer, the sort that belonged in the last century and a whole lot further south, like somewhere along the Mississippi. The giant wheel at the back was striped in white and blue and, true to her name, lazily churned the water on her slow journey. The Lazy Lady explored the lake on a dinner cruise each evening and acted as a private water taxi for the spa’s guests during the day.
Pedestrian traffic on the boardwalk thickened as the steamer approached the South Pier. Mainly tourists, hoping to catch a glimpse of some big name star. It didn’t happen often, but the slim odds were all part of the fun. Us locals took a more blasé approach. We waited until the gathering crowd erupted into excited twitches before we deigned to look.
“Have you spoken to Joe?” asked Jenna.
I brought my gaze in and picked at a sprinkled almond. “I’m not ready.”
“Do you think you might be ready before Tuesday?”
I sent her a look. “What are you getting at?”
“Okay, I was quite happy to set the lynch mob on Joe when I heard what had happened.” She pulled a face. “But you guys were so cute together.”
“Yeah, we were.” A slew of unbidden images came to me. I shook them off and bit into my croissant.
“You don’t suppose there could be some explanation worth listening to?”
I chewed slowly and looked into the distance while I gathered my thoughts.
There was no explanation that could magically wash this away and I wanted my best friend to understand so she could stop worrying that I may be making a mistake.
I wiped flour dust from my mouth and brought my legs up to cross them as I turned fully to her. “If I’d found out Joe was cheating on me any other way, maybe I could forgive him. But I walked in on them. I saw him. It doesn’t matter if he’d had one too many and forgot he was married. It doesn’t matter if Chintilly trapped him and took advantage or even if she’d pulled him in for a rehearsal of some new play she was auditioning for. I saw his hands all over her and I saw the look on his face, our look, slack with desire.
“I don’t know how to fix this, Jenna. If we gave it a second chance and he ever looked at me like that again, I don’t know how to make myself believe that look is just for me.”
“Oh, Maddie.” She blinked hard and gave a gruff laugh. “Now I want to set that lynch mob on him all over again.”
“Or we could just dig Lullu out.” I slapped a hand to my mouth and cringed the moment the suggestion slipped out.
Lullu was just a rag doll stuffed with straw and we weren’t voodoo priestesses, obviously, but the fact remained. We’d pretended she was Ms Daggon and we’d pricked her full of pins and now Ms Daggon was dead. Nothing to do with us, of course, but it did cast a sinister spin on our childish prank.
“Don’t give me that look,” Jenna said. “That was years ago and I don’t feel bad about it, not at all. She’d just made you wear that blouse with the sewed up armholes, remember? You spent the whole class waddling about like a stuffed sausage.”
I laughed. “Whatever you do, don’t say a word to anyone about Lullu. Detective Bishop already has enough ammunition to put me away for life.”
“He won’t,” Jenna said with a wicked smile. “Jack told me, your name’s been culled from the investigation. I think the dreamy detective likes you.”
“Then he has a funny way of showing it,” I scoffed. “He called me a gnat and a nuisance the last time we spoke.”
She fluttered her lashes at me. “That’s just him being a boy, tugging at your pigtails.”
“Well, he’s going to scalp me when he discovers what I’ve done.” I pulled the photograph from my purse to show Jenna. “I found this in Ms Daggon’s bedroom. Who do you suppose it could be?”
Jenna studied the picture of the clean-shaven young man, her face scrunching in concentration.
“It has to be important,” I said. “That’s the only photo I found amongst her things.”
“Mr Biggenhill?” she said, drawing the obvious conclusion. When I told her why it couldn’t be him, she shrugged. “Then I have no idea.” She frowned at me. “Why were you searching Ms Daggon’s room?”
“I had no choice,” I said defensively. “Detective Bishop actually thinks Burns or Mr Hollow could be guilty.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Jenna said. “Mr H wouldn’t hurt a fly. Burns, on the other hand… It’s always the quiet ones you have to be careful of.”
“First Mrs Biggenhill, now Burns.” I rolled my eyes. “You’re almost as bad as Detective Bishop.”
“Someone killed Ms Daggon,” she said softly, totally serious. “And we know it wasn’t you or me.”
“That’s why I went through her things. She didn’t have many friends, but I bet she had loads of enemies.” I looked down at the photo of the clean-shaved young man. “Has Jack said anything more about the investigation?”
Jenna’s blue eyes gleamed w
ith delicious gossip. “I’m not to say, naturally, but Jack should know by now that rule doesn’t apply to you.”
“My lips are sealed.” I stowed the photo back in my purse and grabbed my coffee, then gave her my full attention.
“Ms Daggon rented out her cottage for extra money.”
“That’s why she was staying at Hollow House,” I said, not really breaking Mr Hollow’s honor. That much had to be common knowledge, at least in the town one over where she’d lived.
Jenna leant in closer. “She needed the money to hire a private investigator.”
“She lied to Mr Hollow!” I exclaimed. “She told him it was for her lawyer and the suit she’d filed against the board of education.”
“Not a law suit, but she was getting the dirt on members of the board.”
I blew out a disgusted breath, not a bit surprised. “She was blackmailing them.”
Jenna nodded. “To persuade them to withdraw her retirement notice.”
As relieved as I was to learn Detective Bishop had a handful of legitimate suspects, I had a strong feeling I was onto something with that photo. Okay, maybe I just curious. But I had to know.
We discussed the various means at our disposal to uncover the mystery man while we sipped coffee and nibbled on croissants.
I ruled out Mrs Biggenhill. She’d want to know where I’d gotten the photo and the truth would only upset her. Plus, she’d probably demand it back. Asking around town would merely escalate into the same problem.
“Maybe I could swear my mom to secrecy,” I said doubtfully.
“If we go that route, we may as well go directly to the fountain source,” Jenna said. “If anyone knows anything—”
“—it’s Miss Crawley.” I scrubbed my brow and groaned. “That’s also the fastest way to get us spotlighted on her blotter.”
“Maybe we can trade for her discretion,” Jenna said.
I peeked up at her and groaned louder.
Jenna and I weren’t best friends for no good reason. Our minds were a pea split in the same pod and I knew exactly what she was going to say next.
Worst Laid Plans (A Maddox Storm Mystery Book 1) Page 10
