by Mary Maxwell
“Thanks, Kate. I’m sorry to burst through the door in such a state, but my brother thinks somebody tried to kill him two days ago.” She sighed again as her mouth settled into a quivering frown. “And now, as if that isn’t bad enough, I had a dream last night that it was all true.” Her voice trembled and dropped in volume. “And in my dream,” she whispered, “the murderer actually got away with it!”
The bombshell announcement shattered any hope that tea and cookies would remedy my neighbor’s frantic state. After years as a PI in Chicago, I’d seen it all before: the tears, the smeared eyeliner, the fractured sentences spinning in haphazard loops from one incomplete thought to the next. I knew that the best way to manage someone in such a state was to stay calm and ask simple questions.
“Okay, Viv,” I said, offering a serene smile. “Let’s take it slow. I want to try and understand what happened.” I waited for her to nod before continuing. “What’s your brother’s name?”
“Timmy,” she whispered. “Well, Tim. I mean, he’s a grownup and so…” She pulled in a long, slow breath. “His name is Tim England,” she said, managing a cheerless smile. “Same last name as me.”
I nodded. “When was the last time you saw him?”
She squinted. “Um, maybe a couple of months ago.”
“Did he seem okay?” I asked. “Was anything going on in his life that might’ve been out of the ordinary or—”
“Tim’s whole life is strange,” she said. “It always has been. He’s a free spirit, like someone who…” She paused, tilting her head slightly. “What’s that saying? Someone who drums to the sound of…”
“Marches to the beat of their own drum?”
“Yeah, that’s it. My brother’s like that.”
“And Tim thinks someone tried to kill him?”
She swallowed hard and gulped in a breath. “With poisoned cupcakes.” Her voice was a frayed murmur. “The police already determined it was cyanide.”
I kept my gaze on her face as she recounted the story. When Tim returned to his apartment three days earlier, he found four chocolate cupcakes in a white paperboard box beside the door. His first name was written in the center of the lid—three carefully printed letters surrounded by a heart-shaped border. There were a few pale green smudges on the box—faint traces of paint, chalk or dye—but no other distinguishing marks. After looking inside, Tim knocked on the door across the hall and offered the baked treats to his neighbor.
“Why would he do that?” I asked. “It seems like the box was intended as some sort of anonymous gift for your bother.”
Viveca shook her head, sending another cascade of bangs into her eyes. “Tim never eats sweets,” she said, tucking the hair behind one ear. “And he’s horribly allergic to chocolate.”
“Maybe the cupcakes were from a secret admirer,” I suggested. “Or one of his friends.”
“That’s impossible. Anybody that knows my brother would also know that he never eats chocolate.”
I thought about the comment for a moment. “Then maybe they don’t,” I said.
She frowned. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t really know him.”
The suggestion elicited a murmured agreement.
“And if that’s the case,” I continued, “the person that put cyanide in the cupcakes was almost certainly trying to harm your brother.”
Viveca closed her eyes and shuddered. “I know, I know,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about that nonstop since Tim called.”
“How did he find out they were poisoned?”
“The police.”
I waited while she sipped her tea. Then I asked if she could elaborate.
“One of the detectives told Tim they ran tests in the forensics lab,” she explained, slumping forward and closing her eyes briefly. “The preliminary results showed lethal levels of cyanide in the frosting they recovered from the cupcake papers and the inside of the box.”
“And how’s your brother handling all of this?”
One hand slowly covered her mouth. “I don’t know really,” she sighed through her fingers. “It’s just all so impossible to believe, Kate.” She took a deep breath, lowered the hand and tried to smile. “I mean, my little brother? He’s the nicest guy in the world.”
“I’m sure he is,” I said. “But it sounds like someone didn’t hold the same opinion.”
She nodded as the frail grin on her face dissolved into a frown. “I just don’t know—”
“Viv?”
She looked up.
“What else did your brother tell you?”
She blinked. “About the poisoned cupcakes?”
I nodded.
“Well, he found the box, looked inside and decided to give them to his neighbor. A few hours later, like, in the middle of the night basically, the guy was pounding on Tim’s door, gasping for air and choking. Tim called 911 and the ambulance took him to the hospital. I guess the paramedics alerted the police after they saw the symptoms and heard what my brother had to say.”
“Meaning they suspected something fishy was going on with the cupcakes?”
“Uh-huh. I guess EMTs see it more often than we’d ever imagine. You know, people that get poisoned and the like. After the police came and Tim told them what happened, they found the bakery box in the neighbor’s apartment and took it to the lab.”
I considered what I’d learned so far: Viveca’s brother was allergic to chocolate; someone left an anonymous cupcake delivery at his door; he gave the sweet treats to his neighbor; the neighbor was rushed to the ER; and, the police suspected it was cyanide.
“And you said this happened three days ago?”
She answered with a quick nod. “Tim found them on Saturday afternoon,” she said. “The neighbor went to the hospital early Sunday morning.”
“Why didn’t your brother call you right away?”
“He was at the police station for a really long time,” she said. “And when they allowed him to use the phone, he called his new girlfriend. She was supposed to let me know, but the situation got her so rattled that she lost the piece of paper where she’d written my number.”
“Okay, but they had to release him at some point, right?”
She smirked. “They did,” she said angrily. “And he went straight to the nearest liquor store, bought a bottle of vodka and drank himself right into another relapse.” The look in her eyes was a swirl of irritation and sorrow. “My brother’s got a bit of a drinking problem,” Viveca said, confirming what I suspected after something she’d told me a few weeks earlier. “He’d been sober for nearly a year until all of this happened.”
I listened as she shared a quick recap of his greatest hits: a drunk driving arrest in Seattle; two broken ankles after jumping from a third-floor hotel room while inebriated; three nights in a Wisconsin jail after being arrested for public intoxication; getting fired from countless jobs when he arrived for work smelling of booze after all-night benders.
“There’s a whole lot more,” Viveca said. “But I think you get the picture.”
I nodded. “Tim’s younger or older?”
“He’s twenty-four,” she answered. “Five years younger than me.”
“When did he call you?” I asked.
“Late last night,” Viveca replied. “But I also got a call from his girlfriend about fifteen minutes ago.” Her eyes closed and she pulled in a deep breath. “The police picked Tim up this morning for more questioning.”
I nibbled on a cookie, waiting for more. When she sat quietly with her eyes closed for a couple of minutes, I prompted her again.
“Huh?” She looked at me, blinking repeatedly. “What was that?”
“You were telling me about your brother,” I answered. “He was arrested this morning.”
“Not arrested,” she said. “They just wanted to talk to him again about the guy that lives across the hall.” She drank more tea and then pushed away the cup. “I’ll wait until that cools a little,” she continued.
“But anyway, uh…” Her eyes were blank and motionless, locked on an indistinct point in the distance. “Tim’s a good kid,” she said finally. “He didn’t do so well in school. And he’s really struggled with the drinking. But his band is starting to take off. They opened for somebody famous a couple of months ago in Albuquerque.”
“That sounds promising,” I said. “I take it he’s a musician?”
She smiled. “Guitar and keyboards. And he can sing like nobody’s business.”
The shift in her expression suggested that she was replaying a fond memory in her mind, so I let her daydream for a moment. After I took a few sips of tea and finished my cookie, I asked her to continue telling me what she’d learned from her brother’s girlfriend.
“Well, he was at work earlier,” she said. “He’s got a day job at a coffee shop in Cherry Creek. And then the band plays gigs at night and on weekends. I tried talking him into going back to school, but…” She smiled and shrugged. “Sorry, that’s not exactly relevant. I just can’t quite focus at the moment, you know? I’m pretty freaked out and—”
I took her hand and squeezed it tightly. “Viv? It’s okay. I get it. Anybody would be upset if they found out someone tried to murder their brother.”
A sigh slipped from her lips. “But me being freaked out won’t do anything for Tim,” she said quietly. “I hoped you might have a suggestion about what to do next.”
CHAPTER 3
My work as a private investigator in Chicago was common knowledge. Since I’d moved back to Crescent Creek, I wasn’t surprised when someone asked me to regale them with my previous sleuthing adventures or suggest the best surveillance camera to catch their duplicitous spouse in compromising positions. I usually deflected the inquiries by launching into a description of how my childhood love of detective novels foreshadowed my decision to spend ten years as a PI before leaving it all behind to take over Sky High Pies from my parents. In Viveca’s case, however, I was prepared to make an exception and offer whatever advice seemed appropriate.
“Let’s keep talking,” I said. “What else did his girlfriend tell you?”
“I hate to take advantage of your expertise,” Viveca added. “But do you think I should call a lawyer?”
“Why would you do that?”
She sighed. “I don’t know. I’ve got a bad feeling about this…” She stopped, deep in thought. “I get premonitions sometimes—when people are sick, if somebody’s in trouble, the night before my father died.”
“And you feel something like that now about your brother?”
“Yes. And I think a lawyer might be helpful.”
“Do you know someone?”
She thought for a moment or two. “Only back in Idaho.”
“I could put together a list if you’d like.”
“Delilah said they’d probably…” She smiled and rolled her eyes. “Sorry, I’m going a million miles a minute. Delilah’s my brother’s girlfriend. She said that if Tim did get arrested the city will probably assign a court-appointed attorney if he can’t afford to hire one. Is that true?”
“Generally,” I said. “Does he have the resources to hire a lawyer?”
She shook her head.. “He’s got an old Subaru, a cat named Bad Dog and an apartment that he subleases from some shady guy named Toby.”
I smiled. “Bad Dog?”
“My brother’s got a twisted sense of humor. When we were kids, our parents got us a Lab from the city pound. Tim and I flipped a coin to decide who’d name him. I won. And Good Dog was my constant companion until he died in his sleep one night.” A shadow of sorrow darkened her gaze. “But those twelve years were awesome!” she exclaimed, coming out of the sad remembrance. “He lived up to his name each second of every day.”
“And so your brother named his cat Bad Dog to get back at you for winning a childhood bet?”
She laughed. “Another telltale sign about Tim’s personality. He’s a stubborn rascal, a crafty scoundrel and the sweetest guy you’ll ever meet.” She reached for one of the chocolate cookies. “These look pretty lethal, Kate. Are you trying to distract me with hot tea and yummy sweets?”
I smiled. “Is it working?”
“Kind of.” She took a small bite and hummed while she chewed. “But not really. I’ve got to figure out what to do about Tim.”
“An attorney might be a good place to start,” I suggested. “Just in case.”
“I know, but I’m not sure how we can afford it,” she said. “I don’t have much money after closing the bookstore in Boise. That’s the main reason I came to Crescent Creek; my uncle died and left us the house next door and a small amount of money in the bank.”
I remembered Viveca’s Uncle Chester. He was a former railroad engineer, a kind and generous old man who loved football, spicy food and teasing Blanche Speltzer after she lost at bingo. Whenever I worked at Sky High for Nana Reed, Chester always left a separate tip on the table in an envelope marked with my name. During the last two years before I left for college in Chicago, when Chester was too hobbled to walk over for breakfast or lunch, I delivered a slice of pie to him nearly every day. When I heard that he’d died and his property was being left to a niece and nephew, I had no idea what to expect. In the end, Viveca had proven to be a delightful neighbor and a wonderful addition to Crescent Creek. I was thinking about the first time we met when she started whimpering quietly and blotting her eyes with a paper napkin.
“What am I going to do, Kate?” Her voice cracked and she stifled a sob. “How in the world can I help my brother with this?”
“I’ll tell you what,” I said, squeezing her hand again. “I’ll check with Trent and Dina at the Crescent Creek PD to see if they—”
“Please don’t!” she blurted. “I don’t want anyone to know about this.”
The loud outburst and wild-eyed stare told me she wasn’t in any shape to have a truly rational conversation about her brother. And I needed to get back to work. After thinking for a few seconds, I decided to ask a couple more questions to see if talking might help quell her immediate distress.
“Did you try to reach your brother after his girlfriend called?”
She blinked. “Yes, but it just goes to voicemail. I tried calling all through the night.”
“Is that unusual?”
“What—that it goes to voicemail?” There was an edge of irritation in her voice; the predictable result of fatigue and frayed nerves. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
I waited for a moment. “That’s not what I mean, Viv. Is it unusual for your brother to not take your calls? You know how some people turn off their phones and forget? Or maybe the battery needs to be recharged?”
“I guess so,” Viveca said. “But I’m worried. I’m thinking about driving down to check on him.”
“Okay, but why don’t we go together?” I suggested. “I planned to drive down tomorrow for some specialty items anyway. I could ask Trent if he knows someone at the Denver PD who’d be willing to talk to us about your brother’s situation.”
A faint smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “You’ll do that for me and Tim?”
“I’ll do whatever I can,” I assured her. “My mornings and afternoons are devoted to Sky High, but I can do a few things after we close for the day.”
She jumped up from the stool and gave me a hug. I could smell her perfume—a gentle blend of lilac and rose—along with the distinct odor of furniture polish. I guessed that she was dusting when the call came about her brother.
“That’s amazing!” she cheered. “And you don’t mind me tagging along?”
“Not at all. It’ll be nice to have the company.”
“What about this afternoon?” she suddenly asked. “Could we do it then instead?”
“I shook my head. “I have a couple of things that I can’t reschedule. And there’s a photographer coming from the paper to—”
“Oh, no!” Her eyes went wide. “I would never ask you to change your pl
ans, Kate! I’m just grateful for any help you can give us. We’ll go down tomorrow and see what we can learn. In the meantime, I’ll keep in touch with his girlfriend and make some calls about borrowing money in case we end up hiring an attorney.”
“That all sounds like a good idea,” I said.
“Well, you’re helping me get focused!” Her eyes crinkled with a smile. “I really appreciate you being so kind and patient.” The smile trembled and it looked like she might cry again. “But I should probably get out of here so you can…I don’t know, make some pies or something.”
As we moved into the hallway, I asked if she knew the latest on her brother’s neighbor.
“He’s in the ICU at one of the regional medical centers,” she said. “Delilah overheard someone at the police station talking about him.”
“Well, at least he’s hanging in there.”
“I suppose. But it doesn’t make sense really. I always thought that if someone gave you poison, like cyanide or whatever, you’d drop dead right then and there.”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “It depends on several factors—the type of poison, how quickly you get medical attention, what kind of health you’re in and a few other critical factors.”
“I didn’t know that,” she said. “I just figured that cyanide or whatever would kill you right then and there.”
“Not at all. Do you remember Alexander Litvinenko?”
She stared at me blankly.
“He’s the Russian guy that was poisoned a few years ago in London.”
She winced. “I’m sorry, Kate. I didn’t really follow the news when I was running the bookstore. I worked around the clock trying to keep it afloat.”
While Viveca listened, I told her about Alexander Litvinenko’s case. I explained that he died three weeks after eating sushi that had been tainted with Polonium, a rare and highly toxic radioactive substance.
“And you’re serious?” she asked. “He really died from it?”
“Yes,” I said quietly as we stepped into the kitchen. “It’s probably safe to say that polonium is way more toxic than whatever your brother’s neighbor ingested.”
