“Never assume, Couviyon,” Quinn said.
“So what did you find?” Nash asked.
Quinn looked insulted. “What? No ‘thank you, Quinn, for the extra hours and being brilliant? For breaking a date with the cutest creature to walk in this town in six months?’”
“Oh, yeah, who?”
“Kate Holling. Lisa’s employee.”
Nash frowned. He didn’t remember the woman beyond blond hair and gold lipstick with dark liner. Kate didn’t seem like Quinn’s type. He usually went for the more exotic. “So was it worth the overtime?” He gestured to the lab.
Quinn flicked on all the lights and Nash winced at the fluorescent glare as the man moved to the coffeemaker and started a pot. “You could have been gracious and done this, you know.”
“With all these chemicals? I’d kill us.”
Quinn flipped the switch and faced him. “I found the exact cause and the method.”
“No kidding?”
Quinn slid a faintly insulted look to Nash, then said, “It wasn’t digitalis.”
“Good thing I didn’t quote you, then.”
“It was similar enough to be mistaken for causing heart failure, though.”
Impatient for coffee, Quinn pulled the pot out, shoved a cup under the drip, then reversed them. He sipped, making a face. “Field rations,” he murmured.
Quinn inclined his head, and the pair moved to the computer at the rear of the lab. The coroner tapped a few keys, calling up the results, and as they flicked and spread on the screen, he slipped into his lab coat.
“You owe my assistant Jarred for this. He’s the one who did a baseline for flowers.”
Flowers. Nash felt his heart slowly sinking to his stomach. Resigned, he settled into the neighboring chair and listened.
“The poison wasn’t ingested and here’s your murder weapon.” He dropped the evidence bag on the table in front of Nash.
Nash simply stared, feeling any hope drain away like rain down a gutter. It was the bath tea.
“That teabag in the hot water released the flower and herbal properties. Mostly the essential oils. Good for mood therapy and fragrance.”
“What was in it?”
“Lavender, rosemary.” Quinn met his gaze and added proudly, “Lily of the valley.”
“And?” Nash made a rolling motion for more.
“Convallaria majalis, better known as lily of the valley, is highly toxic, especially the leaves. Steeping it released the oils from the leaves, which are more toxic than the petals. The poison is a glycoside called convallatoxin, which works similarly to digitalis.”
“So you weren’t far off.”
Quinn snorted. Nash knew that wasn’t good enough for Quinn, in or out of the lab.
“All it has to do is seep into an orifice or a wound, and it starts working. Winfield had a couple of cuts on his back that look like scratches to me.” Quinn showed him pictures, pointing. “Other than that, the man had skin like a baby. If he dunked under the steaming water, got even a fraction of oil in his nose or mouth, he was as good as dead if he didn’t get help immediately.”
“Judging by the burned-down candles, I’d say he soaked for a while.”
“Didn’t have to,” Quinn said. “This works fast, and although dosage would be hard to judge, there was enough in that bath tea to kill him. He’d have felt too warm first, a headache, tense, instead of feeling relaxed. I imagine he stayed in the bath for a while, hoping that would go away, but in doing so, he just made it worse by giving the toxin more opportunity to get inside him.” Quinn tapped a spot on the pictures of Winfield’s body. “Remember the red patches? That’s part of the reaction, then hallucinations. He had dilated pupils, excess salivation—proved from the residue and stains—and then pop, heart failure.”
“How long did it take?”
Quinn hit print on the computer. “From the exact time of death, I’d say an hour, maybe less.”
“God.”
“His heart wouldn’t have seized, but just slowed to a stop. He would’ve been too weak to talk. Then to even breathe.”
Quinn leaned back in his chair, fingers wrapped around his mug. “The teabag did him in.” He stared into his mug, his voice soft, his lilt deeper. “I’ve seen men go down before with some hellacious wounds, but never for taking a bath.” Quinn met his gaze. “Whoever did this knew about toxins.”
“And knew Winfield would use the teabag.”
“Oh, yeah, just not when. So timing would have been everything. The killer could have left this, counting on him to use it that evening, and then left him to die while he created a great alibi. This stuff works fast.” Quinn sipped. “Poor man was done before he hit the bed.”
Nash cursed.
Quinn’s gaze speared him over the rim of the mug. “And here I thought you’d be warm and fuzzy all over, Couviyon,” he said dryly.
Lisa didn’t have an alibi. “Just how common is lily of the valley?”
“The flower? Fairly.” Quinn leaned back in his chair, straining to reach a case of books. He slid his fingers over the spines, then plucked one out. He thumbed, spread the pages and handed it to Nash.
He stared at the picture. “I see this all the time.”
“Now ask me how many people would know what it can do.” He held up a finger for a second. “Personal opinion, not professional. I would never stake my rep on statistics.”
Nash arched a brow.
“I’d say one out of seventy would know what it can do. Some would know it was poisonous, like most mothers of small children, and florists, horticulturists. Gardeners.”
Nash’s expression fell further.
“Your prime suspect is Lisa, isn’t it?’ Quinn’s voice was soft.
“Yes.”
Quinn collected the report and slid it into a clean folder. “I don’t believe it.” He held out the report.
Nash took it, fingering the edges. “Me neither, but the evidence against her is stacking up.”
“It’s too obvious.”
Nash’s gaze shot to Quinn’s.
“She’s a gardener, horticulturist and the victim’s ex-wife. If she wanted to kill the man, then she went about it the wrong way. And she’s not stupid.”
“I’ve considered a setup,” Nash said, insulted.
“All right, so where’s your motive? She left him quite a while ago, wanted to cut the ties enough to not take anything from him.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Bought some plants from her a couple of months ago and I took her out for lunch. Great lady. Dynamite legs. Wish she’d have fallen all over me, but…”
Nash’s expression shifted from surprise to anger in a matter of seconds.
“I didn’t tell you because it never really came up. Besides, you two had only dated four years ago. Nothing serious.”
Well, if that isn’t the kick in the pants, Nash thought as Quinn stood and went back to the coffeemaker to pour himself a fresh, less-lethal cup.
“Yeah, right.” Nash stood, gripping the report, and walked to the door.
“She’s gotten to you again, eh, lad?”
“Shut up, Kilpatrick.”
Quinn laughed, a deep, rich and damn annoying sound that followed Nash out to his car.
On the way into his office, Nash’s cell phone rang. He flipped it open.
“Detective Rhinehart, NYPD,” said his caller. “Winfield’s lawyer said the man was insured out the ass.”
Nash frowned. “How much?”
“Two million.”
“Was he worth that much?”
“Not a chance. His wife, Lisa, is the sole beneficiary, too.”
Nash felt ice drip down his spine. “But she’s divorced from him.”
“Yes, now. But she was married to him when he died.”
Nash scrambled for a theory to dispute that. “That’s a matter of hours, and according to the coroner, the poison took at least an hour. That’s pretty sketchy timing if she
wanted to be married at the time of death so she’d get his death benefit.”
“As long as it was before midnight. And married or not, I believe she gets the booty.”
“I don’t buy it.”
“Got anything else?”
“Not yet.”
Nash questioned the man further, asked for a copy of the policy, then hung up. His chest felt suddenly too tight for his lungs. Damn.
Now he had motive, method and opportunity.
He was angry enough to spit nails, but he didn’t want his emotions to get in the way. The motive was thin, as was the timing of the toxin. Lisa had left the hotel by nine-thirty. Quinn said the victim died between eleven-thirty and midnight. If it took an hour for the toxin to bring Winfield to death, then he had to have used the bath tea after Lisa left. But had it been in the room all the time, before she arrived, and she just didn’t see it? And if the divorce left Lisa without a cent, was this a way to finally make him pay?
Two million reasons were hard to ignore.
Chapter Four
The next evening, Nash approached Lisa’s house, dread running down his spine in slow rivers. He knew he was breaking the rules about getting personally involved with a suspect, but reasoned that he did have to question her. Man, that’s weak, he thought, and the fact that she’d refused to speak with him about anything without her lawyer got pushed to the wayside. Besides, her lawyer, Trisha Flynn, was aware of the two-million-dollar policy that just recently made Lisa a rich woman. Winfield’s attorney had called Flynn. Nash had been on the phone with the woman half the afternoon. Flynn argued that Lisa was not aware of the policy. Nash had to be sure.
He stopped on the porch and rang the bell. The light above his head glowed bug-burner yellow, and like comforting arms closing around him, jasmine made a slow crawl over the white-railed porch. The fragrance was faintly sweet, the vines falling around potted plants and wicker furniture. With his brother Temple being a landscaper, he recognized begonias blooming alongside casual mums, partnered with willowy calla lilies and fat gerbera daisies. As porches went, Lisa’s was homey and welcoming, and so was her low-country-style bungalow. He couldn’t help but wonder if things had turned out differently, would they have had a place like this?
He didn’t have time to think more on that before soft footsteps sounded from inside, and when she flung the door open, he was surprised to see she was crying.
Lisa groaned and snapped, “What do you want?” She dashed at her wet cheeks with the back of her hand.
“What’s wrong?” He stepped closer and instinctively glanced past her into the house. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, gee, I’m a murder suspect, my ex-husband is dead, and my former boyfriend is trying to send me to jail. What do you think, Detective?”
He met her gaze, then pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and handed it to her. “I’m trying to keep you out of jail. I know it’s rough, Lisa.”
His tender tone sank into her like a hot little arrow. “Like you’re making it any easier?” Lisa stared at the folded hanky. He’d always had one, neatly folded and ready to offer. It was a gentlemanly gesture, and she’d missed it.
“It’s not my job to make it easy. I investigate and gather the facts.”
She wiped her eyes and nose, then met his gaze. “Yeah, well, you’re not digging deep enough in my opinion.”
“I figured that.” He was trying, he thought.
“Is this official? Because if it is, I’ve taken all the copspeak I can for the day.”
“Half and half.”
She eyed him. “I suppose you want to talk about this insurance policy.”
“Yes. If you’d like your lawyer with you, I can wait.”
She snickered under her breath. “It would serve you right to come head-to-head with Trisha, but no. Come on in. She told me and I’ve nothing to hide.” Lisa stepped back, her sweeping gesture drawing him inside. She closed the door and flipped on more lights. “Want some decaf coffee? A beer?” She headed deeper into the house.
“Coffee’s fine.” Nash hadn’t expected her to be so amiable, and he felt his guard slip a little. He followed her, his gaze moving over the comfortable traditional decor of the house, then to the woman who owned it. Her red hair spilled to mid-spine and gleamed in the low light. Wearing a snug-fitting rust-colored top and brown Capri pants, she moved around the kitchen, slipping the carafe under the faucet and grabbing a pair of mugs. While coffee brewed, she pulled out a ribbon-tied box and placed cookies onto a plate.
“Have a seat, Nash.”
He slid onto a stool. “Your house is great, Lisa.”
She paused to glance at him, and Nash felt electrified by the single look. “Thanks. Me and the bank are quite pleased with ourselves.”
He smiled and set his notebook on the counter. “Did you do it all yourself?”
“No,” she said. “Hoisting the ceiling supports and shingling the roof were a little out of my skill range.”
“Very funny.”
She turned and placed the plate on the counter. “I try.” She added cream and sugar containers, then hunted down spoons. “The house is fairly new, but the design is old.”
“You sure snap out of a bad mood quickly, but then, you always did.”
Lisa didn’t want to be reminded of how it had been between them. It had been good, but not going anywhere. And would have ended faster than it had if he’d known she had been pregnant with his child. “I wasn’t in a bad mood, just feeling sorry for myself.”
“Why?”
“Other than the obvious, I got a call from the funeral home in New York and Peter’s lawyers. He didn’t have any family left, so I guess I’m the closest thing to that. Anyway, I asked if they’d like me to come to New York to make the burial arrangements, and the director said it wasn’t necessary.” She stilled, then shook her head and filled two mugs. “Peter had made the arrangements down to the last detail. Even the flowers, where they’re to be placed, the music.” She turned from the window counter and faced the island, sliding a mug in front of him. “I know it’s a wise thing to do, but it all seems so calculated.”
“Its not a time that people want to make decisions like that.” And why had Winfield done all this at such a young age? Was he expecting an enemy to take him out?
She lifted her gaze and said quietly, “He had one for me, too, Nash. I didn’t even know this. He didn’t consult me, and according to the funeral director, he even had the dress I’m to be buried in already stored.”
Nash’s brows rose. “Okay, that’s to the right of creepy.”
“Isn’t it? And our plots are in the same spot, one on top of the other.”
“Eternally yours, huh?”
Suddenly she covered her heart, her eyes wide. “He used to say that. All the time.”
“I’m sorry.”
She waved dismissively. “No, don’t be, but it just makes me angrier that he did this behind my back.” She took a sip of her drink, then grabbed the plate. “Let’s go in the living room where it’s more comfortable.”
Nash nodded, grabbed his notebook and followed her. Placing the plate on the coffee table, she settled into a corner of the sofa. He sat down on the other end, but instantly knew it was a mistake. Her perfume, a light scent of jasmine, reached out its tendrils and wrapped around him. Suddenly he recalled all he’d shut out of his mind—the taste of her, the feel of her skin beneath his hands, his mouth. The way she moaned in the back of her throat when he pushed inside her. Don’t go there! a voice shouted in his head, but he let the images play in his mind.
His gaze moved over her as she nestled like a kitten against the cushions, drawing her knees up and resting the mug there. She was beautiful, and just seeing her up close and not feeling the anger she often shot in his direction made the muscles in his chest tighten and his body hum with want. The images clouded.
“Okay, Detective, shoot. I mean, ask away,” she corrected with a small smile.
&nbs
p; When he didn’t, she looked at him, frowning. “What?” Oh, those eyes are dangerous, she thought. His expression was dangerous. Lisa felt her stomach pitch with old sensations again. Her gaze lowered briefly to his mouth, and in one hit dead center of her heart, she remembered what his slow kisses did to her. Toe curling. Bone melting.
“I’m wondering why you’re not biting my head off like last time.”
She tamped down the feelings galloping through her body and said, “Trisha, my lawyer, made me see reason. You’re just doing your job. The fact that you haven’t charged me with anything speaks for itself.”
Nash couldn’t say that in his heart he didn’t believe she was guilty, only that he was doing everything he could to find out who wanted her husband dead. He had to remain objective so no one would accuse him of crossing the line because he and the prime suspect had seen each other naked. In various positions. He shifted on the sofa. “I have to deal with the evidence.”
“Which is enough to convict me.” Her tone was flat. Hopeless.
“It’s pretty strong. Especially adding this insurance payout.”
“I didn’t know he had the policy.” When he looked skeptical, she said, “We’d been legally separated for nearly three years, so why would I know this? Did the lawyer have the policy all this time?”
“He possessed a copy, along with Winfield’s will. But the original was in a fire safe.”
Lisa frowned. “A safe in his office?”
Nash shook his head and wondered if she was playing him. Because if she was, she was damn good. If she wasn’t, she was innocent as a newborn lamb. He prayed for the sheep theory. “The NYPD said it was in his apartment.”
Her brows shot up and he had his answer. “Our apartment. We didn’t have a safe. Where was it?”
“Behind a false wall in his closet.”
She lowered her legs and propped them on the table. “I cleaned that place a zillion times and never knew. But then, I didn’t have to clean his closet.”
“I’m not surprised.”
She paused mid-sip and arched a brow.
“Sheriff Walker did a profile on him. He was a neat freak,” Nash said.
Under His Protection Page 5
