She pushed through the swing doors and entered the kitchen. Oscar wasn’t there. She glanced about her with interest. She hadn’t been in the kitchen since the renovations a few months ago. Everything was neat and tidy, the stainless steel work benches gleaming, the cooking equipment clean. Oscar ran a tight ship back here. The only thing on the bench in front of her was a notepad with a list of supplies.
“…enjoy your pumpkin pie,” Becky said.
Emma started and turned around, expecting to see her friend in the kitchen. But she was still alone.
“Thanks, I will,” another voice, equally clear, sounded.
The pass-through window, she realized. Every word from the front counter came in loud and clear. She might as well be standing out there. How odd. The recent renovations must have accidently produced these superb acoustics.
She was about to stick her head in the pass-through window when Becky spoke again, stopping her in her tracks.
“Hi, Hazel. Glad you could make it through the storm.”
“Oh, it’s just a bit of sleet,” Hazel said, her voice jerky. “I, uh, I hope you’re feeling okay.”
“Me? Yes, I’m fine, thanks for asking.”
“Er, I heard what happened to Nick. So awful.”
In the kitchen Emma held her breath. Did Hazel sound genuinely sympathetic? Or was she just putting on an act? Once more that bunch of flowers on Becky’s porch came to mind. Hazel Destefano, another of Becky’s admirers, and yet another with a history shrouded in secrecy. She could have spied on Nick; she could have broken into his house and staged the electrocution accident.
Emma’s gaze fell on the notepad in front of her. The looping script reminded her of the piece of paper she’d taken from Hazel’s office as a handwriting sample. She’d forgotten all about it. If she could match it to the letters sent from the mysterious Jamie—
A door clicked behind Emma. She turned and found Abigail staring at her. The waitress must have entered through the back door.
“Something I can help you with?” the young woman said as she slipped out of her parka. Flecks of snow clung to her hair and eyelashes, fast melting in the warmth of the kitchen.
“I was looking for something to eat,” Emma said, feeling like she’d been caught out. She waved at the pass-through window. “I didn’t realize the acoustics in here were so good. You can hear practically everything at the front counter.”
Abigail shrugged, reaching for a clean apron. “I guess so.”
Behind her the door opened again. This time it was Oscar who hurried in, blowing on his bluish hands. He stopped in surprise when he caught sight of Emma.
“I should probably get out of your hair,” she said, feeling like an intruder.
Abigail was studying her with suspicious eyes. “What did you want to eat?” she asked in a flat voice.
“A Reuben sandwich would be good. With a Diet Coke.”
Oscar was still staring at her. Discomfort rising, Emma edged out of their way and made her escape.
She cast her gaze around the diner. Hazel Destefano was sitting at the counter, gazing with rapt attention at Becky, who was plating up a brownie. The secretary glanced up, and her eyes met Emma. A fiery flush mounted in her face. Guilt, Emma wondered? But the other woman held her gaze, showing defiance. Last night when caught outside Becky’s house, she had been overcome with embarrassment, pleading for anonymity, but something had changed overnight, and today she was bolder, almost brazen.
Uneasy, Emma returned to her table and pretended to immerse herself in her work while keeping a surreptitious eye on Hazel. Becky set down the brownie in front of Hazel, and they exchanged a few words. The conversation seemed light, inconsequential, but to Emma every nuance in the secretary’s behavior seemed loaded with menace.
Emma’s thoughts returned to the handwriting sample. If she could get a copy of one of those letters that Kieran O’Reilly had received… Perhaps she could call Sherilee and ask her for help. She wasn’t exactly Sherilee’s favorite person, but this was for Becky, so it was worth a try. She dialed Sherilee’s number, and felt a surge of disappointment when it went straight to voicemail.
Sighing, Emma told herself to put a brake on her paranoia. Otherwise she would drive herself crazy. At this moment she had no solid proof that Hazel was the culprit, just like she had nothing concrete against Martinez. Or Abigail, for that matter. Although, the fact that she had probably overheard many a conversation from the kitchen was food for thought…
Then, as Emma cast her gaze across the diner once more, her heart lurched at the sight of Frank Lipperman on the other side of the diner. The dentist was sitting by himself at a table by the window, perusing the menu. As Becky approached him, he put down the menu and smoothed his slicked back hair before offering her a confident smile. After giving his order, he detained Becky for a while. They were too far away for Emma to eavesdrop, but Becky seemed at ease with him, nodding and smiling and adding her own comments. When she turned and walked away, Frank gazed after her, his expression appreciative, almost hungry. Apprehension washed over Emma as she absorbed his wolfish look.
Frank Lipperman… Now there was someone who exuded a definite air of menace. She could quite easily imagine him staging Nick’s electrocution, Wayne Goddard’s gassing, and Kieran O’Reilly’s death by train. He was strong, determined, and a keen admirer of Becky, though he hid it better than others. And what about all those drugs and sedatives he had access to? It would be a simple matter for him to slip a few tranquilizers into Kieran O’Reilly’s drink and then—
Her cell phone trilled, causing her to jump.
“Emma? I got your message.” Sherilee’s tart voice cut through, causing Emma’s nerves to steady. Wow, it wasn’t often she was glad to hear Sherilee’s voice, but today was one of those times. “Strangely enough, I was just going to call you myself.”
“Oh? Why?”
“I checked in with Martinez today. Seems you’ve been making a nuisance of yourself.” Sherilee’s tone turned distinctly dry. “Can’t imagine why!”
Emma grimaced. “I’m sorry for riling him, but he seemed a bit…weird.” She definitely could not admit to Sherilee that she held suspicions about her fellow officer.
“Huh. Well, it can’t be easy you pestering him for results when he’s suffering such a major crush on Becky. Yes, I know about it, and I’m just telling you to cut him some slack, okay?”
“Okay, but I’m only thinking about Becky.”
“As are we all. Now,” the officer continued briskly, “there was a reason why I called. I’m passing on some information to you, but you’ve got to handle this sensitively. And don’t go thinking that this will become a habit of mine. This is a one-time thing only, got it?”
“Got it.” Emma gripped the cell phone tighter. “What’s this new information?”
“The ME did the autopsy on Wayne Goddard yesterday. There were sedatives found in his system. Benzodiazepine.”
“Benzodiazepine?” Emma gasped. “The same stuff found in Kieran O’Reilly?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, God,” Emma whispered. “So it’s true, then. They were both murdered, and by the same person.”
“We don’t know for sure. It’s a common drug. Both of them could’ve taken it themselves for different reasons.”
“Come on, Sherilee,” Emma protested. “Two deaths in less than a week and the same drug found in both bodies? That’s too much of a coincidence.”
“Well, perhaps.” Sherilee let out a sigh. “I’m only telling you so that you can be on the lookout for Becky, although I don’t think she’s the target. It’s just everyone around her who is.”
“Like Nick,” Emma muttered. “Did Martinez fill you in on that?”
“He did, but it’s too soon to jump to conclusions,” Sherilee replied guardedly.
Of course cops would stick together, Emma thought, grappling with her impatience. It wouldn’t do to rail at Sherilee for the shoddy job that Officer Polk
had done. Drawing in another breath, she remembered her original purpose for calling Sherilee.
“Uh, I was wondering if you could get hold of some of those letters sent to Kieran O’Reilly by that Jamie character and fax them to me,” she tentatively asked.
As expected, Sherilee snorted. “Not a chance. Those letters are evidence.”
“But if I had a look at them, I might be able to figure out who sent them.”
“How?”
Realizing she would never be able to hoodwink Sherilee, Emma reluctantly told the truth. “I have a handwriting sample I want to compare.”
“Whose?”
“No, I can’t tell you that unless there’s a match, and I can’t do a comparison without one of those letters.”
“Well, I’m not letting them out of my sight!”
Emma rubbed her temples. Even when she and Sherilee were working together it seemed they couldn’t help clashing. After a moment she thought of a compromise. “How about this? I’ll take a photo of the handwriting sample and text it to you, and you can do the comparison. And if they match, then I’ll tell you whose handwriting it is.”
The officer thought for a moment before replying, “Okay, that sounds fair enough. Send me the photo and I’ll do the check, but it might take a while because I’ll have to get down to the local police station and get the letters out of evidence.”
“Sure. I’ll send you the sample in a minute.”
Emma hung up and started to hunt through her bag for the piece of notepaper she had filched from Hazel’s desk. As usual, her bag was in chaos. Where was that darn thing…? She pulled out a sheet of paper. Was this it? No, it was just an old shopping list she’d made. Pushing aside a comb, she tugged at a corner of paper. A letter appeared. Not the notepaper she was after. Placing the letter on the table, she was about to plunge her hand back in her bag when the writing on the letter made her pause.
Her brow scrunched up in puzzlement. How had a letter addressed to Frank Lipperman ended up in her bag? Then it all came back to her—her last visit to the dentist, the filling, the nitrous oxide, her clumsiness, her bag falling to the floor together with some of the dentist’s magazines. In her dazed state, she must have accidentally scooped up Frank’s correspondence.
Oh God, how embarrassing. How was she going to explain the situation? Sneaking a peek across the diner, she saw that Frank wasn’t at his table. A blue parka tossed over his seat indicated he hadn’t left the diner, so he had most likely gone to the bathroom. If she was fast enough, she could dash over to his table, drop off the letter, and hurry back before he returned. He’d be mystified at how the letter got there, but he wouldn’t be able to trace it back to her.
Before she knew it, Emma was out of her seat and halfway across the diner. Then, as she neared Frank’s table, she took a final glance at the letter, and her eyes goggled as she made out the red smudge at the top of the envelope. The letter had come into contact with some moisture, causing the ink to smear, but there was still enough to make out what the stamp said—Cottonwood Valley State Prison, Facility B, Building 3.
What the heck? Frank Lipperman was exchanging letters with a prison inmate? The return address in the top left-hand corner listed a Jake Harper as the sender. Completely flummoxed, Emma stood and stared at the letter as her mistrust of Frank intensified.
Frank wrote letters to people in jail. Frank admired Becky. Frank hadn’t liked her admirers—Wayne, Nick, even poor old Rusty. Frank had access to drugs. Frank was sharp and strong, and he possessed a dark streak in which he seemed to revel.
Drawing in a shaky breath, Emma became aware of Hazel sitting at a nearby table giving her a squint-eyed look. Gosh, if Frank was the culprit, then Hazel must be innocent. Confused, Emma turned and hurried back to her table. Her head was buzzing with wild speculations. She needed to sit quietly for a few minutes and get her thoughts in order.
Back in her seat, she stared at the letter and wondered who this Jake Harper was. Was he a serial killer? Had he committed a particularly gruesome murder? How did Frank know him? Perhaps Frank, like Abigail, read true-crime magazines and was fascinated by this criminal’s notoriety.
A plate clattered on her table. Emma started before she realized it was Abigail with the Reuben sandwich she had ordered.
“Here you go.” Abigail shoved the plate toward her. The young woman’s eyes were red, her cheeks were blotchy, and her hair was coming loose.
The waitress’s distress momentarily distracted Emma from the letter. “Why, Abigail, you’re crying. What’s wrong?”
Scowling, Abigail rubbed the back of her hand across her nose. “It’s nothing,” she grunted, sullen and resentful.
“It doesn’t look like nothing.” Emma glanced about the diner, wondering where Becky had gone. “Uh, did you have another argument with Oscar?”
The waitress sniffed derisively. “Oh, that stupid lunkhead! I’ve had enough of him! In fact, I’ve had enough of the lot of you. Here.” She thrust the sandwich right under Emma’s nose, knocking the letter out of her hands. “Eat that! I hope you enjoy it!” She stomped away, fuming and muttering under her breath.
What on earth was going on today? Was it the weather getting to everyone? Emma glanced at the windows and gasped in surprise at the thick snow tumbling from the skies, all but obliterating the view. From the forecast people had expected some sleet and a fine dusting of powder at the most, but this looked more like a blizzard.
She looked about the diner. In the far corner Hazel was hunched over her coffee. Abigail was clearing a table, her movements jerky, her face still red. An elderly couple sat by the window, pointing at the snow. They didn’t seem at all fazed at the prospect of being stuck in the diner for goodness knew how long. There was still no sign of Becky. But just as Emma was starting to worry, she caught a glimpse of her friend through the pass-through window, and relaxed. Becky was in the kitchen, most likely talking to Oscar and trying to sort out the baffling argument between him and Abigail.
The warm scent of corned beef, Swiss cheese, sauerkraut, and Russian dressing tickled Emma’s nostrils, reminding her that she was hungry. But where was Frank Lipperman’s letter? It had fallen to the floor during Abigail’s jostling of the plate. She reached down under the table, scrabbled about for a moment, and found the letter.
She was in the process of straightening up when someone rushed up to her table. She blinked in fright as Frank Lipperman loomed over her table. His breathing was rapid, and his eyes held a strange, fierce glitter.
“Don’t touch that!” he yelled.
Oh no. He knew about the letter! Emma gulped. “What…?”
He leaned over. A wisp of black hair had come loose, curling over his damp brow. “Damnit, woman! Get away from it!”
He drew back his hand. But instead of making a grab for the letter, he smacked the plate away from her, sending the sandwich flying. Corned beef and melted cheese splatted across the table, sauerkraut scattering like confetti.
Emma gawked in shock. Frank had gone insane. What was he going to do next? Give her a whack, too? Panicking and desperate to get away from him, she scrambled up onto the bench seat and flung a leg over the backrest, balancing her foot on the neighboring seat. Hand trembling, she held out the letter toward Frank.
“Here, t-take it.”
The dentist furrowed his brow. “What?”
“I—I took it by accident. It got jumbled in with my other stuff.” The letter quivered as she held it higher. “I—I haven’t read it, promise.”
Frank’s gaze finally fell on the letter, and his eyes bulged as he processed what he was seeing. He snatched the letter and stuffed it into his trouser pocket, his face stiffening.
“We’ll discuss this later,” he said ominously, “but I was referring to that.” Once more he jabbed a finger at the Reuben sandwich which now lay in soggy ruins on the table. “I didn’t want you eating it because it’s been poisoned!”
Chapter Twenty-One
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��Poisoned!” A light-headed sensation overwhelmed Emma. “With what?”
“Rat poison, I’d say.” Grim-faced, Frank pointed at the mushy mess on the table. “You can see some green stuff there. I’m betting that’s ground up rat pellets. You probably would’ve noticed before eating a fatal dose, but you never know. Rat poison works by thinning the blood. Internal bleeding can kill you if you don’t get to a hospital in time. Nasty stuff.”
“Rat poison!” Abigail exclaimed, rushing over to the table.
Emma gripped the back of the bench seat as nausea swamped her. She clambered down from the seat, her legs shaking. “You served me that Reuben sandwich,” she croaked out at Abigail.
The young woman’s jaw dropped. “I d-didn’t poison you!” she squeaked.
“Didn’t you?”
“No, it wasn’t her,” Frank interrupted roughly. “I saw him on my way back from the bathroom. He was crushing something up and scattering them over the corned beef. It looked like rat pellets to me, but I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t believe he was doing it.”
“Who?” Emma screeched.
“The cook, of course.” Frank looked mildly annoyed that she couldn’t keep up.
“Oscar?” Her head was ringing; nothing made sense. “It can’t be Oscar. Why would he want to poison me?”
The dentist’s black gaze drilled into her. “Why don’t we ask him?”
Emma took a deep breath. She spun on her heel and charged toward the swing doors that led to the kitchen, both Frank and Abigail hot on her heels.
It can’t be Oscar. It can’t be. The refrain echoed through her brain. And then died when she entered the kitchen and saw Oscar…with Becky. The lanky cook was standing against a counter, one hand gripping Becky’s arm, holding her in front of him like a shield.
“Becky!” Emma yelped. Instinct made her lunge forward, but the glint of the carving knife in Oscar’s other hand caused her to freeze.
Behind her, Frank and Abigail skidded to a halt, their gasps audible.
“Let her go!” Fury boiled in Emma, followed swiftly by nauseating fear.
In the Dead of Winter (an Emma Cassidy Mystery Book 5) Page 22
