Hemlock for the Holidays

by Paula Darnell

  I was still pondering that question when I arrived shortly before one. A few browsers were looking at paintings, and Pamela was talking to a woman at the jewelry counter while Ralph stood behind the cash register. I quickly stowed my coat and purse and joined Ralph.

  “Busy day?” I asked.

  “It's been fairly quiet so far. Maybe the big rush will come this afternoon,” he joked.

  The woman Pamela had been assisting at the jewelry counter left without making a purchase.

  “I guess we can't win them all,” Pamela said with a wry smile, after the prospective customer departed, “but Ralph, you've certainly had a good month.”

  “I've been lucky. It's feast or famine in this business.” Ralph's phone chimed then, and he excused himself, walking a ways down the hall. He was back in a minute with a smile on his face.

  “That was the mayor. She called to tell me how much she liked my painting that she bought for her husband's office.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. At least Melinda's anger with me hadn't extended to another gallery member. Perhaps she'd even intended for me to find out that she'd called Ralph, although that notion was probably a stretch.

  “That's fantastic, Ralph!” Pamela told him. “Amanda, wasn't Melinda interested in one of your paintings, too?”

  At first, I was tempted to blurt out the whole story, but I thought better of it. “She decided against it.”

  “That's too bad,” Pamela said sympathetically. She knew I was having a tough month. “By the way, I'm off this afternoon. Dawn's going to cover for me. I have to have a root canal, unfortunately. My mouth will be really numb, so I'm going to go home afterward.”

  A root canal didn't sound like anybody's idea of fun. We wished her well, and Dawn, accompanied by her mother Dorothy, arrived as Pamela was leaving.

  “I'm off, too, now,” Ralph announced. “See you ladies later.”

  After Dawn and Dorothy signed in, we all gathered near the counter. None of the browsers needed help, but we could keep an eye on the gallery and quickly respond if they did.

  “Amanda, you were right to have concerns about the Christmas party. Never in the world would I have imagined that a high school choir member would try to frighten us all by putting carrot bars on the dessert table,” Dorothy told me.

  “She did a good job of disrupting the party; that's for sure,” I said.

  “I think Dave actually feels sorry for her. In his job, he sees a lot of kids who are in trouble, and that girl's so jealous of her sister that evidently she'll do anything to get attention. I guess it's not the first time she's done something inappropriate. It seems her sister's kind of a star—band leader, swim team, straight-A student, president of her class. It's a case of sibling rivalry gone too far,” Dawn said.

  “Well, I wish she hadn't decided to involve the Roadrunner. You can't tell me a girl that age doesn't know the difference between right and wrong. Sibling rivalry or not, her parents need to take her in hand.”

  Dorothy's last statement was so vehement that a few of our potential customers turned to see the source.

  Dorothy clapped her hand over her mouth and muttered “sorry.” Then, she strolled over to the customers who'd exhibited some curiosity and engaged them in conversation. Soon, they were looking at one of her elaborately embellished ceramic vases that was displayed on a pedestal and protected by a clear acrylic cover.

  “Your mom has some strong opinions, doesn't she?”

  “She does,” Dawn chuckled. “She was so sure the Christmas party wouldn't present a problem. Of course, Dave would have to be the one cop on the spot at our party. Poor guy. He can't even go to an event without having to work. A week ago, we were at a basketball game at the high school when a fan got rowdy. He wouldn't quit, and Dave ended up having to arrest him. Last night, when we went out to dinner, he had to break up a fight in the parking lot.”

  “That's terrible. Whatever happened to the Christmas spirit?”

  “I do wonder sometimes. Of course, I suppose a lot of people in Lonesome Valley feel on edge about those poisonings, especially since the case hasn't been solved yet.”

  “Saturday, the chief mentioned that a group of high school students might be involved.”

  “It turns out they're not. They've all been cleared, so Bill wants to start over, looking at all the evidence and leads.”

  “Sounds like Lieutenant Belmont. By the way, I noticed he was really chowing down at the reception after Eric Thompson's funeral Saturday afternoon. You'd think, after all he's been through with his heart attack and bypass surgery, he might change his diet. I'm afraid, if he keeps it up, he may have another heart attack.”

  “I know. I've talked to him about it until I'm blue in the face, but I never get anywhere. It's like he's oblivious.”

  “Denial, I suppose.”

  “You pegged it. He doesn't want to be thought of as weak or vulnerable. He's being awfully bullheaded, if you ask me.”

  “Frankly, I'm surprised that he's back at work already.”

  “Me, too. I know the chief wanted him to stay out on medical leave, but, since Bill's doctor cleared him to work, he's back at it.” She glanced toward the gallery's front window. “Oh, speak of the devil. There's Bill now.”

  I turned around to look. Lieutenant Belmont was riding in the passenger seat of a patrol car stopped in traffic. I couldn't see who was driving, but chances were I wouldn't have known the officer, anyway. Mike Dyson had been the only patrol officer I was acquainted with, and he'd left Lonesome Valley for a job with the Phoenix Police Department a few months earlier.

  I recognized the man in the back seat, though, and he did not look one bit happy as he glowered at the cops in the front seat.

  Chapter 33

  “That's Kevin Frazer in the back,” I told Dawn.

  “Who?”

  “Eric Thompson's former partner. I saw him confront Eric outside that new restaurant on the highway about a week before Eric died, and they came to blows. Kevin claimed Eric owed him money, and he was furious that Eric had filed for bankruptcy.”

  “Is that the guy who tried to talk to Eric's nephew after the funeral? Dave told me there was an incident.”

  “Yes, he's the one.” I watched as the police cruiser moved down the street and turned the corner.

  “Could be he had something to do with the poisonings if he was that bent out of shape,” Dawn speculated. “He sure didn't look too happy.”

  “That's the third time I've seen the man, and he's looked angry every time.”

  “Must have been a lot of money he was owed.”

  “And he definitely has a quick temper.”

  Several people came into the gallery then, and we split up to greet them and answer their questions. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Dorothy was carefully lifting the clear top from the pedestal that held the ceramic vase. Later, I noticed that she had removed the vase and placed it on the counter. By the time Dawn and I finished talking to our prospective customers, the vase had gone home with its new owner.

  “Nice sale,” I told Dorothy.

  “Thanks. We need something to replace it now. Dawn, you don't happen to have any pieces in the trunk, do you?”

  “No, Mom, but it's not busy right now. I can run back to the studio and get one.”

  “How about that large platter you finished the other day—the one with the iridescent glaze? It's a stunner.”

  “All right. I'll be back shortly.”

  After Dawn left, I remembered that I'd intended to ask Pamela about whether any Roadrunner artists were represented by a gallery in Scottsdale. Pamela wasn't around, but Dorothy had been a member of the Roadrunner for years, and she knew everybody, so I decided to ask her.

  “Galleries in Scottsdale? Let's see. I know Susan used to display her paper mâché animals in one of them, but you're probably more interested in our painters. Actually, I can't think of anybody who's represented there now.”

  “I wonder wh
y Susan stopped.”

  “She said she couldn't keep up the pace. She likes to spend most of her time painting her watercolors. She could have hired some help to make more of her big paper mâché animals, but she wasn't interested in doing production work.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Are you looking for gallery representation in Scottsdale?”

  “I thought I'd check into it. Scottsdale has one of the best-known art districts in the Southwest, and it's only a two-hour drive from here.”

  “Well, I wish you luck. Dawn and I do fine with our ceramics business, but our Roadrunner sales wouldn't be enough to support us. Half our income comes from the classes we teach at our studio. You'd think there'd be a limit to the number of students in a small town like this, but we haven't found that to be the case. A lot of them buy a membership for open studio time, so they can work in our studio, rather than at home. We fire their work in our kilns, too, and give them storage space as well. Plus we sell the clay and glazes.”

  “I think that's fantastic.” I'd visited their studio several months earlier, and I remembered being impressed with how organized they were.

  “It works for us, but for an up-and-coming painter like you, displaying your artwork in a Scottsdale gallery would be just the ticket.”

  My talk with Dorothy bolstered my confidence, as did the fact that she thought of me as an “up-and-coming” artist. I knew seeking representation in Scottsdale wouldn't be easy, but, if I succeeded, I believed that it would be well worth the effort.

  Half an hour later, Dawn returned with her large platter, which she carefully placed on the pedestal where her mother's vase had been displayed. She replaced the protective top and logged in her new piece in the gallery's inventory.

  Dawn had returned in time to help with the sudden flood of customers, and we were busy the rest of the afternoon. I managed to sell one of my prints to a woman who admired my oil paintings but told me she couldn't afford an original. I suggested a print, instead, and, luckily, she liked the idea and found one that fit her budget.

  Even though it wasn't a big sale, at least it was a sale, and it lifted my spirits. When we closed the gallery for the day, I drove home, feeling a bit more optimistic and determined not to let Melinda's canceled sale get me down.

  After picking up Laddie at Belle’s, I went home and gave my hungry pets their evening meal. Before preparing my own dinner, I turned on the TV to watch the local news. The anchor reported that there were no new developments in the investigation of the poisonings, and he asked that anyone with any information call the police department’s special hotline. He noted that a reward was being offered for any information that led to the arrest of the crime's perpetrator. Finally, he added that there hadn't been any additional poisoning incidents since “local businessman Eric Thompson succumbed to hemlock poisoning last week.”

  Based on what Dawn had told me earlier, I hadn’t really expected a break in the case. I wondered whether the chief's initial suggestion that an evil perpetrator who got a sick thrill from poisoning people and who might strike again had been spot on. I didn't know how likely that scenario was, considering that there had been just one source of the poisonings—so far, anyway.

  After dinner, I removed my no-longer-sold painting from the back of my SUV and took it into the studio, hanging it in the same spot it had occupied before Melinda bought it.

  Emma would be arriving Thursday, so I spent the rest of the evening searching art galleries for us to tour in Scottsdale, making notes about the type of artwork they featured, and paying special attention to application procedures. I knew better than to walk in off the street and pitch my artwork. Gallery owners seldom appreciated an artist's employing such a strategy, so I considered our tour of the galleries to be mainly a reconnaissance mission. Even if I didn’t succeed in gaining representation at a Scottsdale art gallery, Emma and I would spend a fun day together, and I was looking forward to it.

  Chapter 34

  After walking Laddie the next morning, I buzzed around the house, cleaning and making sure everything was ready for Emma's arrival the next day. Sensing that something was up, Mona Lisa followed me. Laddie was normally the one to do that, but he hung back warily, letting Mona Lisa take over his routine.

  During Emma's summer break, Mona Lisa had slept with her every night on the hide-a-bed in the living room. I had no doubt my finicky kitty would abandon me and Laddie for Emma again.

  I was going through a stack of magazines, deciding which to keep and which to discard when Rebecca called. Although I often ran into her or Greg when I walked Laddie, I hadn't seen either of them since the reception.

  “Amanda, I have a favor to ask,” she said, after we exchanged greetings.

  “Sure, What is it?” I asked, hoping she didn't need help the next day because I'd be in Phoenix to pick up Emma.

  “Josh asked Greg and me to come over to Eric's house to select a memento before the auction house removes the contents. I think he feels bad that he had to borrow money for Eric's funeral from Greg, and he knows Eric himself owed Greg quite a bit of money. I'm guessing it was the only gesture he could think to offer right now. Anyway, Greg doesn't want to go, but I think I'd better put in an appearance, at least. I wouldn't want to hurt Josh's feelings, but I'd rather not go alone. I wonder if you'd come along with me.”

  “I can do that, depending on when you're planning to go.”

  “I was thinking sometime today, maybe even this morning, if it's convenient.”

  “That works for me.”

  “Say, in about an hour? I'll pick you up.”

  I had time to finish my magazine sorting task and tidy the studio before Rebecca arrived to pick me up. I didn't expect to be gone long, and I assured Laddie that I'd be back soon, before leaving him. Mona Lisa, seeing that I was about to depart, leaped to the top of her kitty tree and watched us from her perch.

  “I feel a little bit strange about this,” Rebecca confessed as she drove to Eric's place. “Looking through Eric's things—I don't know—seems kind of like an invasion of his privacy.”

  “Is that the reason Greg didn't want to come?”

  “No. He has mixed feelings about Eric. I mean, he's sorry about what happened, and he felt obligated when Josh needed help paying for the funeral, but, at the same time, I know he's still furious that Eric never made any effort to pay him back.”

  “Maybe, if the lawsuit against the helicopter tour company pans out . . . .”

  “I suppose so, but I'm not holding my breath. Josh told us all about it. What a weasel his lawyer turned out to be. He's going to look for a new attorney in Phoenix. And the mayor's husband—plain disgraceful. She won't ever be getting my vote again.”

  “Nor mine.”

  “Well, here we are.”

  Rebecca parked in the driveway at Eric's house.

  “It looks like Josh isn't here yet, unless Kayla's dropped him off,” I said.

  “Oh, he isn't coming. He had to go back to work. His boss wasn't too happy that he took longer than a week's bereavement leave.”

  “Where does Josh work?” I realized nobody had ever mentioned his employment, although I'd assumed he had a job.

  “At the Furniture Niche out on the highway. He's been there about a year, I think.”

  We got out of the car and walked up the steps to the porch. I waited for Rebecca to produce a key from her purse, but, instead, she lifted a flower pot with some greenery growing out of it that sat beside the front door and plucked a key from beneath it. I looked around to see if anybody was watching, and I caught a glimpse of a curtain fluttering next door at Sylvia Costa's house.

  “Did Josh leave that key there?”

  “No. He told me that's where Eric kept it.”

  “Hmm. Maybe you should give it to Josh when we're done. The neighbors could have noticed where you found the key. It's not a very secret hiding place.”

  “I suppose not,” Rebecca said, unlocking the front door. We steppe
d inside, and Rebecca closed and locked it behind us.

  “Let's go upstairs first,” Rebecca suggested.

  Before we started up the stairs, we heard a noise.

  “What was that?” Rebecca whispered.

  “I think it came from the kitchen.” We looked at each other and froze as the bumping noise we heard was followed by footsteps. We weren't the only ones in the house! I reached into my purse for my phone, but, before I found it, we heard sirens and, seconds later, the back door slamming closed. Now that the intruder had departed, we hurried to the kitchen and looked out the large window above the sink, just in time to see a man run around the corner from the back, into the side yard, and collide with a uniformed officer. His partner quickly grabbed the fleeing man as the other officer scrambled to his feet and clapped handcuffs on the intruder who'd run into him.

  One of the officers saw us watching from the window and motioned to us to come out. It wasn't until we were in the side yard that we had a good view of the man in cuffs. It was Kevin Frazer, and the last time I'd seen him, he'd been sitting in the back of a police car. Now, here he was, at Eric's house.

  “Did one of you ladies call in a burglary report?” asked the officer Kevin had run into.

  “No, we didn't,” Rebecca said. “We came in the front door a few minutes ago, and we were about to go upstairs when we heard a noise in the kitchen. That was right before you got here.”

  In the commotion, we hadn't noticed Sylvia Costa come out, onto her side porch.

  “I'm the one who called,” she announced, startling us all. She pointed to Kevin. “I saw that man trying to get in the back door. Then, I heard glass breaking.”

  “You have anything to say for yourself?” the cop asked Kevin.

  “I only want what's mine,” he said sulkily, “and I'm not saying another word without my lawyer.”

  “You can contact your lawyer when we get to the station,” the cop who'd handcuffed Kevin growled. “Terry, get the particulars, will you? I'm taking this guy to the car.”