Hemlock for the Holidays

by Paula Darnell

  Much as I hated to put everyday expenses, such as groceries or utilities, on my credit card, I'd very likely have to do that sooner, rather than later, despite my balance's creeping closer to my credit limit. Even though I'd known making my living as an artist would come with normal ups and downs in sales, adjusting to living with the reality of a roller-coaster income was more difficult than I'd ever imagined.

  Unlike Lieutenant Belmont, who wouldn't be going home from the reception hungry, I'd been busy helping Rebecca, and I hadn't eaten anything there. My rumbling stomach reminded me that I'd skipped lunch, too, not something I often did, so, by the time I arrived home, I was ready for dinner, and my pets were more than happy to eat a little earlier than usual. I treated myself to a slice of the chocolate meringue pie for dessert and didn't worry about being too full now that I'd traded my navy suit and tights for pajamas and a robe. My fluffy slippers felt much more comfortable than the high-heeled shoes I'd worn to the memorial service. It was hard to believe I'd spent years wearing high heels to work every day when I'd assisted Ned at his insurance office. Now, casual attire was my norm, and my footwear usually consisted of sandals, sneakers, or moccasins.

  Remembering that Emma had said she'd call me back today, I checked my phone, and, sure enough, she'd tried to connect with me during the memorial service. I called her immediately with apologies for not calling sooner. We chatted for more than an hour before she returned to studying. She had five final exams, all jammed into the first part of next week, and she claimed she wasn't planning on coming up for air until she'd finished them. I wished her luck, knowing that she'd do well. Emma had always been a good student, and she didn't choke at the prospect of taking a test. I couldn't wait to see her again. It would be only a few days before I'd be at Sky Harbor in Phoenix to pick her up. I called Dustin, but my call went to voicemail, and I realized that he was probably out on a date since it was Saturday night, so I decided to call him the next day. I always called my parents on Sunday, and I set the alarm on my phone to remind myself to call my son, too. Usually, that wouldn't have been necessary, but, as forgetful as I'd been in the last few days, I figured it couldn't hurt.

  The next morning, after I'd walked Laddie and made my phone calls, I got to work in the kitchen, making the vegetable casserole and apple pie that I'd promised to bring to the Roadrunner's Christmas party, which was scheduled to begin at six, an hour after the gallery closed for the day. After I put the casserole and the pie into the oven to bake and set the timer, I had several free hours to spend in the studio, although Laddie coaxed me outside for a game of fetch and Mona Lisa kept bringing me her stuffed mouse, dropping it at my feet and waiting for praise. Once I picked it up, she always seemed satisfied. Sometimes, I'd hide it from her, behind the sofa or in some other out-of-the-way location. She invariably found it and never tired of the game.

  I painted in my studio for a few hours, until it was time to get ready for the party. I dressed in a sparkly red sequined top and charcoal-gray, tailored wool slacks. Since the party was a pot luck in the meeting room of the Roadrunner, I thought that most members would dress casually, and, as it turned out, I was right.

  Like me, many of the women wore a top that sparkled or shined, and some of them wore jeans, rather than dressier pants. There wasn't a skirt or a dress in sight. Others wore Christmas sweaters or even holiday sweatshirts. A few of the men wore sweatshirts and jeans, too, while others sported Christmas ties. Ralph, our oldest member, wore a spiffy red plaid vest.

  Our utilitarian meeting room had been transformed for the party with swags of lights draped from hooks on the ceilings, holiday centerpieces on each table, and a huge Christmas tree in the corner.

  A long table laden with food stood at the back of the room. I added my casserole and set my pie on the dessert table. Several of the small easels that the Roadrunner provided for students who took classes here were set up in the front of the room, and about half of them displayed a painting to be judged in the Roadrunner's holiday small works competition. Prizes consisted of certificates of achievement and vouchers for dinners for two at various restaurants around town, tiered by cost so that the first-place winner would be dining at one of the swanky restaurants at Lonesome Valley Resort, while the artists who won honorable mention received pizzas from Chip's father's pizza parlor.

  Since I didn't normally produce paintings with dimensions of fourteen inches or less, I wasn't participating in the competition, but Susan had entered one of her small watercolors of yellow roses that looked like a winner to me.

  I looked around for Susan and saw that she was placing a large bread basket on one of the tables in the back, I caught her eye, and she joined me. In the meantime, the rest of the easels were filling up, as members set up their artwork on them, but I didn't see any other paintings that I thought deserved first prize more than Susan's, and I told her so.

  “Thanks, Amanda.” I guess we'll have to wait until after dinner to find out if our judge agrees with you.”

  “Judge? For some reason, I thought the members were voting for the winners.”

  “Not this year, although we have done it that way in the past.”

  “Don't tell me Brooks Miller is going to judge.”

  “Brooks? No. I think Pamela asked one of the art teachers from the community college to judge the contest.”

  “Oh, good. I wouldn't have thought of Brooks except that I noticed him sitting over there with Pamela and Rich, and I wondered what he was doing here.”

  “Just a goodwill gesture, according to Pamela.”

  “I'm kind of surprised he came.”

  When I'd first moved to Lonesome Valley, Brooks had owned his own exclusive gallery off Main Street, featuring his own truly awful abstract art, and his wife had managed the place while he managed the Lonesome Valley Resort, which his family trust owned. He'd made it a practice to drop by the Roadrunner regularly to criticize our members' artwork. He'd been arrogant and obnoxious to say the least, but he'd since closed his downtown gallery and opened a new one in the Resort's shopping mall. Reinventing himself as an influential gallery owner, he'd booked several famous artists for shows at his new gallery, and he no longer displayed any of his own paintings. Along the way, he'd realized that he wasn't the great artist he'd thought he was, something his wife had cruelly pointed out to him when she'd announced she was leaving him.

  The “new” Brooks was making an effort to get along with the rest of the art community in Lonesome Valley, and his gallery and the Roadrunner had participated in some joint events during the few months since he'd opened his current gallery. Even so, I couldn't imagine him as a judge of our contest, because his latest strategy depended on others' expert opinions. He offered gallery shows only to artists who were well established in their careers and widely acclaimed by critics.

  “Where's Chip?” I asked. “I hope he didn't feel too depressed to come.”

  “He's coming with Josh and Kayla. He persuaded Josh that he needs a distraction, but I doubt they'll stay very long.” She motioned toward the meeting room's rear door. “Here they come now.”

  Chip arrived, carrying a large covered pan, probably manicotti, a specialty of the pizza parlor, while Kayla carried a pretty, decorated cake that I was sure had come from the supermarket bakery, because I'd noticed one just like it there the last time I was grocery shopping.

  Josh surveyed the room while he waited for Kayla and Chip to find a spot for the food they'd brought. Brooks looked up from his conversation with Pamela and Rich, saw Josh, and nodded. Josh waved to Valerie, one of our board members, who taught art at the high school, and I wondered whether she, like Sylvia Costa, had been one of his high school teachers.

  Brooks had turned back to his conversation by the time Chip made room for the large pan of manicotti, but Rich had noticed Chip's arrival, and his face began to turn red as he started to stand up.

  Chapter 26

  Pamela tried to dissuade Rich by clutching his arm, but he leaned
over and spoke to her, and she turned red, too. Brooks, caught in the middle of a situation he didn't understand, said something to Rich, and he finally sat down, but he didn't look happy.

  Ever since Rich had insisted that Pamela resign as the director of the Roadrunner, Chip had gone out of his way to avoid being in the same room with her, so that Pamela could continue her job. Now, I feared their compromise might not survive the Roadrunner's party.

  Chip ignored Rich and moved away from the food tables, which were close to where Pamela and Rich were sitting. Josh and Kayla, unaware of the tension, followed Chip to a quiet corner where they claimed a small table for themselves.

  The incident hadn't escaped Susan's notice. “Maybe I shouldn't have encouraged Chip to come tonight,” she said. “Do you think I should say something to Rich?”

  “No, definitely not. Probably the less said, the better. Chip has every right to be here.”

  “I know, but I don't think he considered Rich when he decided to come. He's been so taken up with helping Josh since Eric died.”

  “Well, there's no reason for the situation to escalate. They can avoid each other for one evening easily enough.”

  Pamela had managed to compose herself by the time she invited us to help ourselves to dinner. She also introduced six members of the high school's choir, who'd been volunteered by their music teacher to sing following dinner.

  Members appeared reluctant to start the line, so Pamela went first, breaking the ice, and several artists lined up behind her. I noticed that Rich and Brooks didn't make a move. I figured they were probably waiting until things settled down a little and fewer people were in line. Susan and I hung back, too. It would be easier to negotiate the buffet without worrying about jostling elbows.

  Pamela helped herself to tiny portions of a few dishes before she took a quick glance at the dessert table and immediately dropped her plate.

  Rich jumped up to help her. “Are you OK?”

  She stared at the dessert table, while Dawn, who'd been standing behind her in line, scooped up the fallen plate and food and discarded them.

  “Look at that,” Pamela said. Her hand trembled as she pointed to something on the table, but, from our vantage point, Susan and I couldn't tell what it was.

  Dawn could obviously see it, though, and she motioned for her husband to take a look.

  He picked up a plate from the dessert table and tipped it enough so that we could all see the plate of carrot bars he held.

  At this shocking revelation, everyone began talking at once, but Dave quieted the crowd with a simple request. “Folks, I'd like to talk to whoever brought this dessert.”

  Silence followed.

  “I'm going to get to the bottom of this, one way or another. If you know who brought these carrot bars, speak up now.”

  “She did it!” a teenager said, pointing to the girl who was sitting across the table from him—a table occupied by six high schoolers wearing identical blazers.

  The girl shot daggers at her classmate, but she kept quiet.

  I thought she looked awfully familiar. I decided I must have seen her at the crafts fair the previous weekend.

  “Is that true, miss?” the sergeant asked.

  “What if it is? They're just carrot bars. It's not like they're poisoned or anything.”

  Admirably cool and collected as usual, Dave suggested the gallery members continue with dinner before he escorted the girl out into the hallway.

  We did as Dave had suggested, although the incident had put a damper on the festivities. I couldn't help but notice that Josh had followed them out of the room, and Chip had accompanied his friend.

  I could only imagine what was going on in the hallway. We heard raised voices a few times, but we couldn't make out what was said.

  Finally, Josh came back in, a disgusted look on his face, and returned to his seat next to Kayla. Chip showed up a minute later, and Susan waylaid him before he had a chance to rejoin Josh and Kayla.

  “What happened?” Susan asked.

  “The kid claims her grandmother made the carrot bars because she asked her to. She says her grandmother just got back from vacation and didn't know anything about the poisonings. For some reason, the girl thought it would be funny to scare everybody, or, at least, that's what she told Dave. I have the feeling there's more to it, like maybe a dare from her friends. Who knows? Anyway, by the time Dave finished talking to her, she changed her tune and started blubbering. I guess she's not as smart as she thinks she is.”

  “What's going to happen to her now?” I asked.

  “Dave's taking her home. He asked me to let Dawn know he'd be back later. Of course, he's going to have the carrot bars analyzed, too, but I could tell he doubts that they've been poisoned.”

  “What an incredibly stupid stunt!” Susan said. “Whatever was that girl thinking?”

  Chapter 27

  We might never know her true motive, but the damage had been done. The misguided high schooler's reminder of the poisoning zapped the vitality from the rest of the party. Despite Pamela's efforts to carry on, the event wrapped up earlier than usual, but not before I had a welcome surprise when Melinda Gibbs called me as the party was breaking up. It was so noisy in the meeting room that I hurriedly stepped into the hall so that I could hear the mayor.

  “Amanda, I'm so glad I caught up with you at last. I intended to come to your studio tour Friday night, but something came up. I'd love to see your painting in person. Could you bring it to the house tomorrow morning early, before I go to the office? Say eight o'clock?”

  Of course, I jumped at the chance to show Melinda my painting at last. She hung up before I thought to ask her directions to the ranch where she and her family lived, but I had a general idea of its location, and, since her husband's Equine Center was on the same property, I'd likely find a map on the Center's website.

  I was so excited I could hardly sleep that night. Since I wasn't getting much sleep anyway, I rose early and took Laddie for a morning walk. I wanted to tell Belle the good news, but it was way too early to rouse my friend.

  The landscape I was taking to Melinda's home was quite large, and I struggled to get it into the back of my SUV because it was so bulky.

  With the help of my phone's GPS directions, I had no problem finding the place. A sign marked the lane to the Equine Center that forked off from the gravel road to the house. I pulled up in front of the home, a typical southwestern style with stucco walls and red tile roof.

  Melinda met me at the front door. Although it wasn't easy to juggle the unwieldy canvas, Melinda made no attempt to assist me, as she ushered me through her huge living room to an equally large den, where I could smell the faint odor of fresh paint. The bare walls, painted a rich cream color, provided a perfect backdrop for dramatic artwork. Centered above the sofa, my expressionistic landscape would make an excellent focal point for the room. I hoped Melinda would come to the same conclusion.

  “Let's see how it would look above the sofa,” she said.

  I hoisted the canvas, making sure that the wire on the back of it caught firmly on the large screw centered above the sofa, but I could feel it give the moment I relaxed my grip slightly. Thankfully, I hadn't let go of the painting, or it would have come crashing down.

  “Oh, no. I'm afraid you're going to need a larger hook or screw that's anchored in a stud to hang anything here.”

  “All right. I can't tell how it would look there without seeing it in place. Can you just hold it steady so I can look at it from back here?”

  I attempted to do as she asked, but holding the canvas proved too much for me. “I'm sorry, but I need help. Maybe you could hold up the other end,” I suggested.

  “How am I supposed to see how it looks then? Oh, never mind. I'll go get Bob.”

  She stepped into the hallway, and I heard a faint knock on a door, followed by the murmur of voices and the sound of the door closing. Melinda returned to the den.

  “He's on a business cal
l. I'll have to get my son. He's feeding the horses. Wait here. I'll try to hurry him up.”

  She threw on a coat that had been draped over one of the chairs in the den. I watched from the large plate-glass window as she walked toward the equestrian center. I could see a man coming out of the stables, leading a horse. On second glance, I recognized him as Eric's neighbor, Jack. I wondered whether he boarded a horse at the Equine Center, but since I was beginning to regret having drunk an entire pot of tea, and, starting to feel desperate, I didn't take time to speculate further. I glanced into the hallway and saw an open door on the right. Luckily, it turned out to be a powder room, and I quickly availed myself of the facilities.

  The door across the hall was closed, but I could hear a man's voice, and I surmised that the room was the office of the mayor's husband. I wished the door were open so that I could see Ralph's painting, the one Melinda had purchased at the gallery the same day she'd indicated her interest in one of my landscapes.

  I would have returned to the den immediately, but I noticed that Bob's voice seemed louder than it had earlier. Perhaps he'd moved around the room while he was talking, but what caught my attention most was Bob's mention of Eric's name. I froze right outside the door.

  “You should have taken care of this. We can't have that Thompson kid finding out about it. Do the same as you were going to do with Eric. Tell the nephew you took the case in good faith but that, on further investigation, you've concluded it's a loser.”

  Evidently, Bob had changed the setting of his phone to speaker so he could move about the room because I could hear the response loud and clear.

  “I'm handling it,” a terse voice said.

  “See that you do. I'm paying you enough.”

  “Not nearly as much as I'd make from my contingency fee if I won the case.”

  “That won't do you any good if I'm bankrupt like Eric. Take what you can get and call it a day.”