Waiting for Armando (Kate Lawrence Mysteries)

by Judith K Ivie

  At one point Ingrid hissed at me, “There’s Suzanne Southerland, the blowsy redhead coming up to Vera right now. She was Alain’s love interest before he started hitting on me, and boy, did she make a fuss when he got tired of her. He arranged to get her transferred down to trusts and estates just to get her off our floor. What a nerve she has showing her face here.”

  I refrained from commenting on Ingrid’s caustic characterization of the redhead, considering that very likely those around us were thinking the same about Ingrid. I retrieved my little notebook from my handbag and made a checkmark next to Suzanne’s name. As I bent down to return my bag to the floor beside me, I felt eyes upon me and looked up to see Karp staring at me from across the room. Quickly, I looked away and suggested to Ingrid that it was about time for us to meet Strutter and Margo.

  We reached the lobby and found an unoccupied cluster of four chairs in a quiet corner. Strutter and Margo had not yet arrived. I looked around to be sure I wasn’t being overheard. “Did you see Karp staring at me? He caught me writing in my notebook. I can’t imagine what he must think I was doing.”

  “Huh,” Ingrid said. “I thought he was staring at me. Alain wasn’t exactly discreet about his intentions toward me. I thought Karp was thinking I had probably just applied for the position on his support staff to divert suspicion.”

  “Well, whichever one of us he was staring at, he gave me the creeps,” I finished up as Margo and Strutter crossed the lobby to where we were. They sat, and Margo eased her feet out of her stylish pumps and wiggled her toes gratefully.

  We exchanged notes on our observations but had nothing of real significance to report. All of Girouard’s former girlfriends who still worked at BGB—Suzanne Southerland, Gail McDermott, and Shelby Carmichael—had been present at the service, and I ticked off their names in my notebook. No one had been observed doing anything suspicious, and no incriminating conversations had been overheard. It would have been difficult to top the discovery of Vera’s relationship with Grace Eckersley anyway.

  We agreed that the following morning I would place another call to Detective Diaz to see what, if anything, the toxicology reports had revealed, assuming she was inclined to share that information. Then we straggled out of the hotel and headed for our cars, which were parked on various side streets instead of the Main Street lot due to the light Sunday traffic. Before we parted I gave Ingrid, who was looking pale and woebegone, a motherly hug and said I would call her later.

  As it turned out, I didn’t have to. Emma came by for an early supper with her brother, who had prepared killer chili. I was in the kitchen drinking an Alka Seltzer surreptitiously on the pretext of loading the dishwasher when the phone rang. Emma, who was playing with Moses on the living room floor, answered it, then predictably yelled, “It’s for you, ‘Cita.” I rinsed out my telltale glass hastily and picked up in the kitchen.

  “Got it, thanks.”

  Emma clicked off, and I barely recognized Ingrid, who was clearly the worse for drink.

  “Kate, you have to help me. I don’t know who else to call, where else to go.” In her inebriated state, it came out “elsh.” After the day’s events, her grief and shock must be catching up with her, and she was self-medicating. I tried for soothing.

  “Of course I’ll help you. We’ll all help you. All for one, and one for all, remember? Tomorrow, I’m going to speak to Detective Diaz about the toxicology report, and then maybe we’ll all have a better idea of who we’re looking for.”

  An untidy slurping sound and the clinking of ice cubes met my ear. Then, “You were right about Bolasevich and Bellanfonte wanting me out of BGB. Karp left a message on my machine. Told me not to bother coming in tomorrow, told me to take a few weeks off. Said the firm would pay my salary, but I should stay home until this thing has been cleared up.” She snuffled self-pityingly and took another swig of her drink. “No wonder he wasn’t happy to see us this afternoon. Did you notice how he stood between me and my desk when he thought I wanted to check my messages from last Friday?”

  I had noticed, and I said so. “I’m sorry, Ingrid, but it’s not exactly a surprise, right? Try to think of it this way. Now you’ll have more time to dig up the information we need to help the police solve this thing. At least they haven’t suspended you without pay.”

  Another snuffle. “That’s not all. There was a second message. From that Detective Diaz.” More slurping and clinking.

  “Diaz called you? What happened? Did she catch you using an alias in the security logbook, too?” I joked in an attempt to get her off her pity pot. Alas, she was too far gone to respond to my feeble effort.

  “She says she has a few more questions, and would I mind coming down to the station tomorrow morning around 10:00. Said I should bring someone with me, if I’d feel more comfortable. Well, what I want to know is, how can I feel comfortable when I’m about to be arrested for murder?” She made unladylike whuffling noises into what I hoped was a tissue.

  I thought fast. Could that be possible? Was it kosher police procedure to ask someone to come to the station and then throw a net over her? “You are not about to be arrested for murder!” I said loudly, whistling in the dark but hoping Ingrid wouldn’t see through my bravado. Too late, I saw Emma and Joey staring at me from the doorway. “For one thing, Ingrid, they have no more reason to suspect you than they do to suspect at least five other women, and those are just the ones we know about. For another, you didn’t do it, so what evidence could they possibly have that you did?” I made shooing gestures at my offspring, and reluctantly, they left the room.

  “Then why does Diaz want to see me? She has something up her sleeve. The police don’t call you down to the station unless they want to scare you,” she hiccupped. “I’ve heard Alain say that a hundred times. If they knock on your door, it’s an information visit. If they yank you down to headquarters, they think you’re guilty—or you know who is.”

  I chewed on my lower lip as I considered my next words carefully. “Listen, Ingrid. I don’t know why Diaz wants to see you, and I don’t know if she seriously suspects you of murdering Alain. But you have been summoned, and she did indicate that you should bring someone with you. Isn’t it time you got yourself a lawyer? Just to be on the safe side?

  “A lawyer,” Ingrid wailed, “when the lawyers I’ve worked for, whose sleazy secrets I’ve kept, whose arrogant asses I’ve covered for years, just kicked me out into the street? The last person in the world I want with me in that police station tomorrow is a bloody lawyer, Kate. Would you come with me? Please?”

  I sighed heavily. “If that’s what you want, of course I’ll come with you, but I still think you should consider retaining a lawyer. As a matter of fact, I have a couple of things I want to discuss with Detective Diaz myself. Now put a cork in that bottle, and go to sleep.” I hung up the phone and trudged into the living room to fill in Emma and Joey on the unlikely events of the last week.

  Eight

  Early Monday morning I left a voice mail for Paula Hughes in HR indicating that I needed to take a few hours of personal time and would be at work in time to relieve Strutter for her lunch break. Then I left separate voice mails for Strutter and Margo to let them know where I really would be, with Ingrid. Their assignment was to chat up Girouard’s in-house ex-girlfriends for signs of glee, guilt, nervousness or other telltale emotions. I proposed that we meet in the thirty-ninth-floor kitchen for coffee mid-afternoon and compare notes on the events of the day.

  At 9:15 I pulled into the driveway of the two-story house in the Elmwood section of West Hartford where Ingrid rented a second-floor apartment. She was sitting on the front steps, fidgeting unhappily with the strap of her shoulder bag. After climbing into the passenger seat, she fumbled with the seatbelt clasp, then leaned back with a groan.

  “Headache?” I surmised.

  She nodded briefly, eyes closed.

  We made the fifteen-minute trip to the Hartford police station in silence, where an officer who to
my eyes looked about twelve years old directed us to the Detective Division. As we waited for the elevator to the second floor, I looked about with interest, but our surroundings were unremarkable. The lower level housed a large, raised desk that seemed to be the hub of the operation; a smaller desk off to one side which bore a sign reading “Community Relations Officer;” a long bench beneath some extraordinarily dirty windows; and a tiled corridor lined with closed doors. The elevator was on the internal wall just before the corridor. The color scheme was gray, brown and institutional green.

  The elevator finally arrived, and we creaked slowly to the second floor, where it jolted to a stop. We exited and followed signs down a short hallway to an area labeled “Detective Division.” It was packed with desks, most occupied by men of assorted sizes and ages who were either engrossed in paperwork or talking on the telephone. We spotted Leilani Diaz at a desk toward the back of the room. She wore an embroidered shirt in a vivid shade of red and spoke animatedly into the receiver tucked between her chin and shoulder, gesturing energetically with her hands. I noticed that her nail polish matched her shirt.

  A pleasant, but harried, young receptionist indicated unnecessarily that Detective Diaz was on the telephone and invited us to have a seat on a bench that was the twin of the one downstairs. We sat silently. I felt like a schoolgirl waiting in the principal’s office to be chewed out for passing notes in class. Ingrid looked pale and shaky, which I attributed to her hangover and hoped wouldn’t raise Diaz’ suspicions any higher than they already were.

  In a couple of minutes, Diaz rose from her desk and walked over to where Ingrid and I waited. As she approached I admired her polished toenails peeking out of low-heeled sandals beneath the hem of her slim, black skirt. I wondered if Armando preferred women who painted their toenails. Diaz looked surprised, but not displeased, to see me with Ingrid and ushered us both into a strictly utilitarian conference room off the reception area.

  “I would offer you some refreshment, but our refrigerator is out of commission, and I wouldn’t recommend drinking city tap water. However, there is a machine downstairs, if you would care for a soda?”

  We shook our heads and accepted two of the chairs that straggled around a small, heavily scarred table. Previous occupants had apparently killed time by carving obscenities into its surface. I didn’t understand some of them. I removed my hands from the tabletop and wiped them, I hoped unobtrusively, on my skirt as Sergeant Donovan eased into the room. Diaz remained standing, pacing restlessly.

  “Ms. Torvaldson. Ms. Lawrence.” Donovan nodded politely and seated himself, notebook at the ready. It was comforting to be in the presence of someone who knew his role in these proceedings. I wished I knew mine.

  “I’m glad to see you here, Kate,” said Diaz. “I had a feeling that you might be the one Ingrid asked to accompany her this morning, but if she had not, I would have been in touch with you next.”

  I glanced questioningly at Ingrid, but she merely shrugged.

  “I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked you to come here today, Ingrid.”

  Ingrid broke her silence. “I assume you have some reason to believe that I may have murdered Alain Girouard,” she said with admirable composure. “I didn’t, but I can understand why you might think I had a motive. You probably have more questions for me.”

  Diaz stopped pacing and perched on the edge of a chair. She regarded Ingrid kindly. “Actually, I have some information for you. For you, as well,” she said to me. “Some information and a request.”

  She jumped up and resumed pacing, the heels of her sandals clicking on the tile floor. “I received the results of the toxicology tests early this morning, and I thought you both might find them interesting.”

  She pulled a well-creased sheet of paper and chic reading glasses from a pocket in her skirt and reviewed what appeared to be handwritten notes. “The actual cause of death was respiratory failure. As we suspected the coffee on Girouard’s desk was laced with a cardiac glycocide, which he ingested sometime between 5:30 and 6:30 on Thursday morning. The specific chemical was oldendrin. That’s the drug doctors use to stop patient’s normal breathing so they can be put on respirators. It has a bitter taste, but the flavors of the coffee and the amaretto creamer would have masked that until he had swallowed enough to be lethal.

  Ingrid looked as confused as I felt. “But I wouldn’t know where to get a drug like that. I never even heard of it before this morning.”

  Diaz regarded her briefly over the top of her glasses. “We know that. There’s more.” She resumed reading. “Oldendrin wasn’t the only poison in that coffee. The lab also found evidence of coniine, which paralyzes the muscles much like curare. There were also traces of convallatoxin and aconine, both of which can cause heart failure.” She looked up from her notes and removed her glasses. “In short, there were enough poisonous substances in that coffee to drop an elephant. Somebody, or more than one somebody, wanted to make very, very sure that was Girouard’s last cup of coffee.”

  I shook my head in an attempt to clear it. Ingrid sat silently rubbing her aching temples. “What does this have to do with Ingrid, Detective, or with me, for that matter? We aren’t doctors or pharmacists. We have no access to any of the drugs that you’ve mentioned.”

  “Ah, but you do,” said Diaz with evident satisfaction, “and so do most of the other employees of your law firm. Everyone also has access to the refrigerator where the amaretto creamer Girouard used in his coffee was kept. That’s my point.”

  Ingrid and I waited to be enlightened.

  “BGB has a large and active horticultural society, does it not?”

  We nodded.

  “And even if they are not members of the club, I noticed that most employees have potted plants on their desks. There are also some very impressive specimens in floor pots in the reception area, as I recall.”

  Would this irritating woman never get to the point? I wondered in exasperation. Ingrid looked equally agitated.

  Diaz turned to Sergeant Donovan, waiting patiently with his notebook. “Sergeant? Please share with us the results of your research on botanical sources for these toxic substances.”

  We all looked at the sergeant.

  Unaccustomed to being the center of attention, Donovan flushed as he read from his neat pages of notes. “Oldendrin. Botanical source, oleander, commonly grown as a houseplant in the northern United States. All parts of the flower, and the water in which the flower is placed, are poisonous. Coniine. Botanical source, hemlock, commonly found in waste places around farm buildings in the eastern United States. Convallatoxin. Botanical source, lily of the valley, often grown ornamentally in sheltered areas of the Northeast. Aconine. Botanical source, monkshood, which grows wild in the eastern United States from Pennsylvania to Georgia.” He looked up from his notebook, and Diaz nodded approvingly.

  Ingrid and I looked at each other in dawning comprehension.

  “I have an oleander. At least I think that’s what it is. It’s in a pot right on my desk,” she volunteered rashly, then clapped a hand over her mouth.

  “We know that, too,” said Diaz dryly. “Kate has a lily of the valley on hers, although frankly, it doesn’t seem to be in very good condition.”

  I squirmed in my chair.

  “But no matter how angry you were with Girouard, Ingrid, or how loyal you were to Ingrid, Kate, it seems unlikely that you would use poison sources so easily traced to you.” She hopped up restlessly once again. “The fact is that Ingrid has an oleander on her desk, but so do Shelby Carmichael and the receptionist on the thirty-eighth floor. We suspect that it’s the same story with hemlock, lily of the valley, and monkshood, although the oleander is the only plant we’ve had an opportunity to check out so far. We don’t know why or who, but we believe that somebody who has been planning this murder for a very long time has turned the offices of BGB into a veritable nursery of poison plants in order to diffuse suspicion. Which brings me to my request.”

 
She paused, looking at Ingrid, then me, as if weighing the advisability of continuing. “Whoever planned Girouard’s death did so meticulously, possibly over a period of several years. It seems possible that such an effort might have been intended to facilitate the deaths of more than one victim. Now that the murder weapon, so to speak, is in place, other victims may be planned. It’s a tricky situation, and we want whoever the murderer is to believe that he or she has escaped suspicion. That’s why we would prefer to allow people to think that Ingrid is still our primary suspect.”

  She looked apologetically at Ingrid. “We are pursuing all of the conventional aspects of this investigation, checking backgrounds, questioning everyone who was in the office early on the morning of the murder, verifying alibis, and so on. But now that we know the probable source of the poisons used to murder Girouard, we need someone inside the firm who can move about freely without creating suspicion and take an inventory of all the plants, if possible.”

  Ingrid forgot her aching head and sat forward. “Do you mean us? You want us to help you investigate?” We exchanged looks of amazement. “Does that mean that you don’t think I killed Alain?”

  Again, Diaz regarded Ingrid kindly. She really could be quite pretty when she smiled, I decided.

  “You undoubtedly wanted to get away from him, gathering from his history of preying on pretty young women, but there were several others, inside and outside the firm, who had far more reason than you did to want him dead. I hope by working together, we can find out if one of them is responsible so that we can get your name off the suspect list altogether.” She touched Ingrid’s shoulder and looked at me. “And you, Kate? Are you willing to help as well? Two heads, and all that.”