"You think I actually killed that man by giving him botulism?" she asked.
"Of course not." Even I could hear how weak my voice was.
"Well, that's just stupid, Sophie Mae. I'm surprised at you."
"I'm sorry. Please don't be angry. I'm just trying to find out why so many people were mad at Philip."
"Because he was a jerk. And you know what?" She stood up, and I rose to my feet with alacrity. "If I had decided to kill him, I'd have used a damn shotgun."
FIFTEEN
"MEGHAN CALLED ME," BARR said. He was wearing the rust-colored cotton pajamas I'd brought him. They'd been tucked into the bottom drawer of his dresser, and my bet was they were a gift. Barr was not a pajamas kind of guy. They looked good on him, though.
I paused in tidying his bedside table. "That's nice. She wanted to visit you, but she's had a hard time finding the time." I'd told her not to worry, as he'd had a regular stream of co-workers and friends stopping by to see him.
"So she said. But she also told me about your stalker. Allen."
"Oh, now why did she go and do that?" I sank into the chair set against the wall.
"Because she's worried about you. And because she knew you wouldn't want to bother me with it right now."
"Well, maybe she's right. But is that the craziest thing, to worry about you? Besides, this guy is probably harmless. I'll wait him out, and he'll get bored."
Barr gazed at the ceiling as if begging someone up there to give him patience. Then he looked back at me. "I need to tell you something. And when I'm done, you have to go tell Detective Lane about Allen."
I snorted.
"I mean it," he said. "She's pretty good, from what I can tell, and she's handling most of my caseload while I'm out of commission. Including finding the man who's been attacking women in Cadyville over the past few weeks."
"The `Cadyville Creep'?" I couldn't keep the sarcasm out of my voice. Why journalists gave cute nicknames to criminals was beyond me.
"He raped one woman, and beat another so badly she ended up in the hospital."
I blinked.
"And while that's bad enough, it's not the worst part. Sophie Mae, his attacks aren't random. All of his victims report getting odd phone calls for a few days before the attack. The next edition of the Eye will include that information, and it was in the Seattle papers today, in hopes of convincing anyone who has been getting strange phone calls to be on high alert."
Meghan had been reading that story over her morning coffee, but she hadn't said a word to me. Instead, she'd called Barr. She couldn't talk to me? She had to call my boyfriend instead?
"High alert," I repeated.
"Yes. Like you need to be on right now." His voice was stronger when he was talking about work, but a distinct note of frustration had crept into it as well.
"I'll be careful. Very, very careful. I promise."
"And you'll tell Lane about your phone calls?"
"I'll stop by the station on my way home."
He relaxed back against the pillow. "One more thing. They're letting me out of this place at noon tomorrow. If you can pick me up, we can stop by my place to pick up a few things before going home."
My puzzlement must have shown on my face because his eyebrows lifted, and he said, "You didn't know?"
"Know what?"
He licked his lips. "Meghan acted like you two had talked about it."
"About what?"
"My coming to stay at your place for a few days. She said it would make her feel better to have me there, and frankly, with all the strange things going on, I'd feel better, too."
"Well, of course you should stay with us. It's the perfect solution. You're not a hundred percent yet, so we can take care of you while you scare off any bad guys."
He allowed a small smile to cross his face, but still looked concerned. "This is all news to you?"
I sighed. "Meghan and I are a little off-kilter lately. I told her someone threatened Philip, and she's not very happy about it. Plus, that guy, Allen, keeps calling the house and hanging up. And she's pretty distracted with her new boyfriend."
"Boyfriend? The one she was with at the preserves exchange?"
I was surprised he'd noticed. "Yeah. Kelly something. O'Connell."
"But you guys are okay, right?"
"Me and Meghan? Oh, sure. We're good."
At least I hoped so.
Detective Lane paced the tiny conference room at the Cadyville police station while I told her about the phone calls I'd been getting from Allen. She wore black jeans and a white button-down shirt. Her auburn hair cascaded across the shoulders of a black leather jacket which looked old and worn but was no doubt brand new from Nordstrom and had cost a gazillion bucks. The jacket matched her black leather boots. She looked like she should be on a runway, not chasing nefarious characters.
When I'd finished, she paused and leaned her back against the wall. "What kinds of things has he described doing to you?"
"What? Nothing. He seems to want to talk, is all."
"About death."
I nodded.
"When he calls, does he give you a run-down of what you've done all day, so you know he's been following you, watching you?"
"God, no. He's really quite polite."
She frowned at that. Handing me a sheet of paper, she said, "Fill this out. I'll be back in a minute."
Kind of curt, I thought as I bent to my task. Soon, Detective Lane returned and took the form back, running her gaze quickly over it. She gave the distinct impression I'd provided the wrong answers.
Her tone was speculative, her forehead furrowed. "So you're Sophie Mae Reynolds."
"Yes"
Her eyes looked into a distance that wasn't there, like she was trying to remember something. "What kind of work do you do?"
"I'm a soap maker."
She removed a small black notebook from her jacket pocket, flipped through it. Stopped and scanned the page.
She looked up at me. "Ah"
"Ah?"
"Sergeant Zahn gave me a heads up about you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Seems you like to stick your nose into situations. Why are you really here?"
Stick my nose ... ? I felt myself flush.
"I'm here because Barr Ambrose insisted that I tell you about this nut job that's been calling and leaving me notes."
"Ah. Detective Ambrose. I see. He's your boyfriend, right?"
I nodded reluctantly. She made it sound like we were in the eighth grade.
"Well, better safe than sorry. Thanks for coming in."
"Can I ask you something?"
She smirked. "Go ahead."
"Are you investigating Philip Heaven's death at all?"
"He's the guy who died from botulism the other day? Hardly. The Health Department has that well in hand. I have bigger fish to fry, looking for the Cadyville Creep. I'm going to get him. And I'm going to get him fast."
"You don't think Philip's death was at all suspicious," I said in a flat voice. "And you think you're going to breeze in here and solve our cute little crime spree right away, even though Detective Ambrose has been working on it for weeks."
Her features turned hard, and she folded her arms over her chest. Neither of us said a word for several seconds, and I found myself growing increasingly uncomfortable. The seconds grew into what had to be minutes, even if they probably weren't. But by then there was no way I was going to be the one to break the silence. If she wanted to play games then she could very well just-
"Sergeant Zahn was right. You like to stir up trouble. Problem is, people who like to stir up trouble often find themselves smack dab in the middle of it."
I held up my palm. "I was only-"
"No, seriously. I can't have it. I assure you that I'm more than capable. They brought me in to handle things be
cause I'm good. I'm good, and I'm fast. You'll have to trust me on that, and stay out of my way."
"Out of your way."
"Yes. Out of my way."
I thought of Barr lying in the hospital bed. There because someone had poisoned Philip Heaven and gotten sloppy. It was enough to want to find Philip's killer-murder was wrong, plus I felt a strong desire to solve the puzzle. But I really wanted to find out who'd hurt Barr, who'd turned him from the strong confident man I knew into the faded husk currently inhabiting a hospital bed. Again, the possibility that he could have died crossed my mind.
I pushed it away.
What if this woman standing in front of me was as good as she said? She had a certain something, as the French say, only, you know, they say it in French. The way she carried herself. Proud, even a little arrogant, but quietlike, exuding confidence.
"Listen," I said. "There are a lot of suspicious circumstances surrounding Philip Heaven's death. It simply makes sense for the police to look into it further."
She smiled. "Just leave the investigating to me, and stop the small-town busybody thing, okay? Stick with making your little soaps.
Oh. She really shouldn't have said that. Small-town busybody, indeed. And the condescension in her tone when she referred to my "little soaps." I swear, I could feel the skin tighten across my cheeks, and I had to stop myself before my lips drew back to show my teeth. Her own expression became wary.
"Are you kidding?" I put on my best poker face, which, granted, wasn't much of one. "I can't even tell you how delighted I am that Chief Andy brought in someone from the big city to help the rubes figure out who did what to who out here in the sticks." My tone had taken on a slow western twang to accentuate my sarcasm, though in the back of my mind I cringed at the notion that Chief Maher might learn I'd called him something that sounded like we lived Mayberry. "I'm sure you'll manage to do a right nice job of it, too."
Her face flushed and her eyes flashed anger, but by then I couldn't have cared less. Thoughts of Philip and Barr, and the general good of society being served by a murderer being caught had fled my brain. I wouldn't be proud of it later, but all I could think of was how unbelievably rude this uppity woman from, excuse me, Seattle-not New York or Chicago or flippin' Paris-but Seattle, had managed to be in a matter of a few minutes.
She pointed a finger at me. "I'm not asking. I'm telling you. Keep out of it. All of it. And I'm not going to tell you again."
I smiled as sweetly as I could manage. "I understand"
I'd show her small town. I'd show her busybody.
My foot tapped as the coffeepot hissed and gurgled on the counter. I desperately needed an afternoon caffeine fix. Not much sleep the night before, and plenty yet to do this afternoon, including clearing out the guest room so Barr would have a place to stay.
Meghan came in and ran tap water into a glass, drinking it all down before turning to me with a sigh. "Four clients in a row." She reached her arms, sinewy from the regular workouts of performing deep tissue massage, up to the ceiling and arched her back like a cat. "I feel like I've been digging ditches."
"Why did you call Barr and tell him about Allen? And why did you invite him to stay here without even mentioning the idea to me?"
She looked surprised, and then sheepish. "I'm sorry. I called to see how he was and how he was planning on getting by alone at home, and as we talked I sort of spilled the beans about that Allen character. Then I got the bright idea that he ought to come stay with us and went ahead and asked him right then. I really didn't think you'd mind having him around."
"Of course I don't mind! It's a great idea, and I wish I'd thought of it, I really do. But it seemed like maybe you went around me on purpose, and I couldn't figure out why."
"I wouldn't do that!" Chagrin pinched her features. "I told you, it just kind of came up."
The conversation was taking a defensive turn. I put my hand on her arm. "Meghan, thanks for offering Barr a place here to recover. It's awfully nice of you."
Her face relaxed a little. Why was she wound so tightly lately? I mean, that was my frequent M.O., but she was usually zen personified.
I continued. "I'll clear out the guest bedroom." I knew Meghan wasn't comfortable with Barr staying in my bedroom, not with Erin around. But readying the fourth bedroom upstairs, which we primarily used for storage and junk, would be a challenge.
"Oh, don't bother," Meghan said. "The bed in there is terrible. Erin can move into my bedroom with me, and Barr can have her room.
"I like it," I said, reaching for the full coffeepot, "but won't she-"
The front door slammed. Her head jerked up in alarm, and I completely forgot about my coffee.
"Erin?" Meghan called.
Something heavy hit the floor. Brodie yelped. We both were out of the kitchen and in the foyer in an instant.
Erin knelt over the little corgi, petting him. His little butt wiggled, which is how he wagged the tail he didn't have, and he strained to lick her face.
"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"What happened?" Meghan asked.
But she didn't get an answer. Erin wouldn't look up. She bent over her dog and buried her face in his fur. I walked over and knelt beside her.
"Bug? Are you crying?"
Sniffle.
"You're going to get Brodie all wet. And then we'll have to blow-dry him like when he gets a bath. He hates that blow dryer, you know."
She sighed and leaned back and gave me a look designed to let me know just how stupid she thought that ploy was. She had, however, stopped crying.
"C'mon," I said, and got to my feet.
"Where" She sounded angry as much as sad.
"Kitchen"
"Spiced pears," Meghan said. "And you can tell us what's going on.
Erin sighed.
"And ice cream," I said.
She cocked her head and stood up. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Meghan shake her head. We trooped into the kitchen, Brodie's toenails clicking on the hardwood behind us.
We settled around the butcher block table and dug in. I stuck to ice cream, somehow not in the mood for pears right then. So, of course, I had an extra dose of ice cream while listening to Erin.
"Jonathan's dropping out of the bee," she said.
"He is? Why?" Meghan asked.
"His dumb friends think it's dumb. They started teasing him about hanging out with me and studying, called him a brainiac. And some other stuff."
"And he didn't like that."
"'Course not. But he just, like, totally gave in and dropped out. I mean, he didn't stand up for himself at all."
"And he didn't stand up for you, either," I said, taking a stab at why she might be so upset.
She shook her head. "He acted like he didn't even know me, all day," she whispered. "Wouldn't talk to me, or even look at me. Then when I asked if he wanted to come over after school, he told me to leave him alone."
"That wasn't nice." I said. Meghan gave me a look. "It wasn't," I insisted. "And I bet it made you feel pretty crappy, too."
Erin nodded, and her throat worked."
"It's not your fault if he's a jerk," Meghan said.
"Maybe he'll change his mind," Erin said, a glimmer of hope crossing her features.
"Maybe he will. Maybe he won't. Either way, you can go ahead and win that spelling bee yourself," I said.
"Oh, no. I'm not gonna do the bee without Jonathan."
"Well, I won't make you;" her mother said. "Of course I wouldn't do that, but I think you should still do it. The bee wasn't all about Jonathan, was it?"
"Well..."
"You were only doing it because of him?"
"No ... well..."
"Oh. Gosh, Erin." Meghan couldn't keep the disappointment out of her voice.
I jumped in. "It sure would be cool if you went ahead and did it by your
self. Especially if you do well. That'd kind of show him it's not dumb after all, wouldn't it?"
She bit her lower lip and glanced up at me. "Maybe"
"Well, think about it, okay?" Meghan knew when to back off, and I followed her lead. "How do sloppy Joes sound for dinner?"
Erin brightened. "With macaroni and cheese?"
Meghan smiled. "Maybe"
SIXTEEN
KYLA AND CYAN WORKED hard that afternoon, helping me wrap cocoa butter and jojoba soap with bands fashioned from torn banana paper and labels printed with the Winding Road logo. Kyla was a senior at Cadyville High, and spent most of the time we worked talking about the colleges she'd applied to. As she enthusiastically rambled on about moving out and living in a dorm, her sister rolled her eyes and made noises of disgust from the other side of the table. I imagined she'd heard it all before, and perhaps felt left out of things. In another two years she'd be going through the same thing, though.
In the meantime, maybe she'd have a friend who'd be interested in taking over Kyla's after-school job with Winding Road; I could already tell I'd be losing the older girl's help come summer.
That made me think about the second email Philip had received, the one from the mother whose daughter had called the Helpline.
"Hey, do you guys know a girl named Lisa Koller?" I asked.
Cyan snorted.
Kyla paused in wrapping a bar of soap, glanced up at me, then resumed her work. "Sure. She's in some of my classes."
"So she's graduating this year?"
"Yeah"
"Tell me a little bit about her. What's she like?"
Cyan looked horrified. "You're not thinking about hiring her, are you?"
"I take it that wouldn't be a very good idea," I said.
The older girl shook her head, apparently in agreement with her sister. "Cyan's right. She's bad news."
"How come? Trouble?"
She made a face. "Sort of. Not bad. But she's a royal pain in the you-know-what. Tries to boss everyone around, thinks she's hot stuff, acts like the whole world owes her."
"Does she have a lot of friends?"
"She used to. But after her dad died she started being mean to all of them, and after a while no one wanted to deal with her anymore. I mean, we all knew she was, like, traumatized, and it was real sad and all, but it got so it was like she didn't want anyone to be her friend, even when we tried."
Heaven Preserve Us: A Home Crafting Mystery (A Home Crafting Mystery) Page 11
