by Bobbi Holmes
“Like I told you before, there’s no one staying here right now, so we have plenty of rooms. The fact is, we’re going to be closed until May.”
“Why? You’ll be missing spring break…oh, is it because of Hillary Hemingway? I was so wrapped up in myself I forgot, she died here, didn’t she? The same night as Steve’s accident?”
“Yes. It was a heart attack. She went peacefully in her sleep, so I suppose that’s to be considered a blessing. But no, her death isn’t the reason. We’d already planned to close down for about a month.”
“Why, are you taking a vacation?”
“We’ve been having issues with the furnace; it has to be replaced. I want to do it before next winter, but I don’t want to do it in the middle of the summer season, so we had already decided to close down after Hillary left. I’m not really sure how long it’s going to take. This house is old, and it’s going to involve a little more than just replacing a unit. I didn’t want to risk being in the middle of repairs and having clients checking in.”
Fifteen
A while later, after the conversation had shifted directions, Danielle asked, “Umm, Beverley, you know that friend of Steve’s who was at your house on Sunday?”
Beverly looked up at Danielle. “Baron? What about him?”
“His name sounded familiar. I remember reading about a murder case in Portland, and the woman who was killed had the same last name.”
Beverly moved her saucer and tea to the side table and nodded. “That was Baron’s wife, Melissa. Such a tragic story. They never did find the killer.”
“That’s awful. Was she a friend of yours?”
Beverly shifted her position in the chair, making herself more comfortable. “More of an acquaintance. I met her a few times socially. We were already living in Frederickport when she was murdered. She wasn’t really a friend of mine—in fact, neither is Baron. And if I want to be completely honest, I don’t think he and Steve were on the best of terms.”
“What do you mean? I got the impression they were good friends.” Danielle sipped her tea.
“The two used to work together. I’m not really sure what happened, but Steve wasn’t thrilled with some of the things that were going on back then. I don’t really know what it was all about, and Steve wasn’t big on bringing his work home. I think he preferred to think of home as his sanctuary.”
“Right, while having a little something on the side,” Walt scoffed.
“I just know Steve wasn’t happy, and when he decided to apply for the job as bank manager here, I thought it was a good idea. Of course, my reasons were probably a little selfish. We were living on the outskirts of Portland back then, and I loved the idea of moving to a beach community. Of course, they still worked on some projects together even after Steve took the job at the bank. But over the last five years or so, they really haven’t worked much together.”
“When I met Mr. Huxley, it sounded like they were good friends.”
“Oh, I’m not saying they weren’t still friends, exactly.” Beverly picked her teacup up off the end table. “Baron bought a house here about a year ago, and he and Steve would go fishing when he’d come to town. But a couple months ago, their relationship seemed to get a little strained again. I asked Steve about it, but he said it was no big deal. Maybe he was right; Baron did bring him tamales.”
“Tamales?” Danielle leaned forward, one hand holding Max so he wouldn’t roll off onto the floor while the other hand set the now empty teacup on the coffee table.
“A friend of Baron’s, his wife makes homemade tamales. He always brings some to Steve. I’m not really fond of them myself, but Steve loved them. Anyway, Baron stopped in to see Steve the other day and brought him some tamales. So I guess whatever issue they had must have been resolved.”
“So he never remarried?” Danielle asked.
Beverly shook her head. “No, but I have the feeling he enjoys playing the part of the tragic widower. From what Steve used to tell me, Baron never had a problem finding female companionship.”
“That must have been pretty devastating for him, losing his wife in such a violent and senseless way.”
Beverly shrugged. “I suppose it was. But frankly, he didn’t seem that broken up about it at the time. Of course, the spouse is always the first one they suspect, so I guess it was lucky for him he was a couple hundred miles away when she was murdered.”
“You think they suspected he was involved?”
Beverly set her cup back on its saucer. “Steve told me they questioned him for hours. But they never could find anything to link him to her murder, plus she was seen leaving that restaurant with another man. Not just leaving with him, witnesses said they were arguing.”
“I read that,” Danielle muttered.
“Can I tell you something, just between you and me?”
Danielle nodded. “Certainly.”
“Should I leave the room?” Walt asked with a chuckle, making no attempt to leave.
“I got the most unsettling feeling when Baron stopped by to give his condolences.”
“How so?”
“He was much too—well, touchy. I’ve never really considered him anything more than a friend of my husband’s. He just made me uncomfortable.” Beverly shivered.
“Like he was trying to hit on you?”
Beverly sat up straight. “Exactly! But it sounds so—well, self-absorbed of me to even consider something like that. After all, he and Steve have been friends for years, and I’m sure he only came over to give his condolences. Hitting on me was probably the last thing on his mind—but still…”
“It has nothing to do with being self-absorbed, more like self-aware. When my husband died, I was shocked at the number of friends—married friends—men who were married to close friends of mine—who hit on me.”
Walt looked over to Danielle and frowned. “You never told me that.”
“Really? You mean I wasn’t imagining things?”
Danielle shook her head. “No. In fact, Lily said something about how Baron kept looking at you—seemed a little intimate.”
“I’m glad to know I’m not crazy! What is it with men? Can’t they for two minutes behave like a civilized adult without that little guy in their pants calling the shots?”
Danielle glanced briefly at Walt, stifling a grin.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Walt said. “I don’t even have anything in my pants.” Walt paused and frowned. “Wait a minute…that didn’t come out right. I just meant…you know…” Flustered, Walt vanished.
“He said he didn’t have anything in his pants?” Lily asked with a giggle after Danielle finished telling her about her afternoon with Beverly, and Walt’s parting comment. The two sat on the front porch swing at Marlow House.
“I knew what he meant. What we see is nothing but an illusion—smoke and mirrors. So technically speaking, there really isn’t a body under the suit he wears.”
“Was Beverly here a long time?”
“A couple hours. I made her a sandwich. We had a nice visit. I like her. Most of my dealings with Steve—aside from being a bank customer—was museum business. I really haven’t talked to Beverly that many times. We discussed the open house.”
“What about?”
“About my arrest for Cheryl’s murder and then, later, for Stoddard’s.”
Lily shook her head. “Nothing like making small talk over one’s murder arrests.”
Danielle smiled. “Yeah, well, she said she was impressed at how I put all that behind me and how I now have a good relationship with the Frederickport Police Department in spite of it.”
Police Chief MacDonald sat behind his desk, reading the autopsy report, when Joe and Brian knocked at his open door. He looked up and waved them in, gesturing to the two chairs facing his desk.
“What is it, Chief?” Brian asked as he took a seat.
“I just got the autopsy report back on Steve Klein. The corner says he was in anaphylactic shock when he wen
t over that rail. He was allergic to something. So allergic that he was probably disoriented when he fell off the pier. The coroner believes it was probably a food allergy.”
“What was he allergic to?” Joe asked.
“I don’t know,” the chief lied. According to what Steve’s spirit had told Hillary, he was aware of his allergy to shellfish. So aware that he normally kept an EpiPen with him. But he didn’t have one with him that night.
“Do they have any idea what caused it?” Brian asked.
“According to the coroner, he had crabmeat in his stomach.” There goes the theory Danielle suggested that he touched something with shellfish and transferred it to his food.
“I know a lot of people are allergic to shellfish,” Brian said. “My cousin is so allergic to fish that she can’t even stay in the house if someone’s cooking it. She breaks into hives.”
“If it was the shellfish, then he obviously didn’t know he had an allergy,” Joe said. “Not that uncommon for someone to develop an allergy to a food they’ve eaten all their lives.”
“I’d like to keep the contents of this autopsy to ourselves for now. We need to find out a few things.”
“What do you need, Chief?” Joe asked.
“First, I want to find out if Steve knew he had a food allergy. Second, I want to know what he was allergic to. And then I want to find out who knew about his food allergy.”
Brian frowned. “Do you suspect foul play?”
“If it turns out he was allergic to shellfish which he knew about and he had crab in his stomach, I don’t see Steve as having a death wish.”
“If he knew about his food allergy, it probably isn’t shellfish,” Joe said.
“Why do you say that?” Brian asked.
“Lots of other allergies out there. Take peanut allergies, for example. I know that can be deadly. Bite into a muffin that has a nut you don’t know about and then, pow, you’re a goner.”
The chief stood up. “Let’s not waste our time speculating. I need you to find out what he was allergic to.”
Brian stood up. “That’s if he was even aware of the allergy. As Joe said, it’s possible to go all your life eating something before it decides to kill you.”
Joe Morelli sat with Carla in a booth at Pier Café. “You doing okay, Carla?”
Carla shrugged indifferently, her fingers tugging nervously on a stray lock of purple hair. “Just getting used to the fact Steve’s really dead. I still can’t believe it.” Wearing her waitress uniform, she shifted nervously and glanced over to the counter.
“I need to ask you a few questions about Steve.”
Carla shifted again on the bench seat. “Yeah, I figured that. What do you need to ask me?”
“Do you know if Steve was allergic to anything?”
She absently twisted the lock of hair around her finger. “He said he was allergic to lobster, but I think he just said that because he didn’t want to take me to the seafood restaurant in Astoria.”
“He said he was allergic to lobster?”
“Well, not that exactly. He said he was allergic to fish.”
“Did you ever see him eat fish?”
“Steve?” Carla laughed. “He was strictly a burger guy. He told me his wife was always griping at him to stop eating red meat. But he’d eat a burger for lunch every day if he could get away with it.”
“Do you know if he carried an epinephrine auto-injector with him?”
Carla frowned. “You mean one of those pins you stick yourself with to stop an allergic reaction?”
Joe nodded. “Yes.”
“I know he always had one in his car. He showed me where he kept it. Told me if he ever had an allergic reaction when he was at my house, I was to run to his car and get it for him.”
Joe jotted down a note on his pad of paper.
Carla studied Joe for a moment and then released the strand of hair she had been playing with. “Why are you asking me all this?”
“We’re just trying to figure out why he may have fallen off the pier.”
Combing her hand through her hair, she leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table. “You know, Joe, you’re a good guy. How come you never asked me out?”
Joe froze a moment and glanced up, noting how Carla was leaning over the table toward him. “Well…I have a girlfriend.”
Carla let out a snort and then plopped back in the seat. “Joe Morelli, I know for a fact you didn’t have a girlfriend a couple months ago. How come you never asked me out back then?”
“Carla, can we stick to business, please?”
She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. I really need to get out of this town. What’s wrong with me? I’m not a bad person. Sure, maybe I did get too close to a married man, but was that my fault? Can I help who I fall in love with?”
Joe arched his brow. “You were in love with Steve Klein?”
Carla let out a sigh. “No. But I could have fallen in love with him.”
Sixteen
Officer Brian Henderson pulled the squad car up in front of Beverly Klein’s house and parked. He sat in the vehicle, his hands still on the steering wheel, and studied the house a moment before getting out. It was one of the nicer homes in town. Of course, nothing like Stoddard’s house—which was actually Chris’s now. But Brian’s modest home looked like a shack in comparison to the Klein home.
Beverly Klein was a good-looking woman. He couldn’t understand why Steve had strayed with someone like Carla. It’s not that Carla is unattractive, but why forfeit filet mignon for a hamburger? Brian frowned at the thought. I imagine someone might jump down my throat if I said that out loud, comparing women to food.
He got out of the vehicle and slammed the door shut behind him, making his way to Beverly’s front door.
“So the coroner’s report is really done?” Beverly asked Brian a few minutes later as she led him to the living room.
“Yes, they sent it over this afternoon.”
“Have you read it?”
“No. The chief has. You can call and talk to him about it if you want.”
“Does this mean his body will be released, and I can plan his funeral?” She gestured to the sofa for him to take a seat.
“I believe it does, but you can call down to the station and get the details.” Holding his baseball cap in his hand, he sat down on the sofa.
“I can’t believe you came all the way over here just to tell me the report is in. You could have called me for that.”
“No, I have a few questions for you.”
“Of course, can I get you something to drink, Officer Henderson?”
“No, thank you.” Tossing his cap on the cushion next to him, he pulled his small notepad from his pocket.
“Then how can I help you?” Beverly asked as she took a seat facing him.
“I was wondering if your husband had any kind of food allergy?”
Wearing designer jeans and a turquoise silk blouse, Beverly settled back in the chair and crossed her legs. Her feet were bare, showing off a recent pedicure and polish. “Why, yes. Steve had a severe allergy to shellfish.”
Brian looked up from the pad. “So he never ate shellfish?”
Beverly frowned. “Of course not.”
“Did he keep an epinephrine auto-injector with him?”
“We keep one in the house, and he always keeps one in the car. He also kept one in his tackle box.”
Brian frowned and then flipped through his notes. He looked back to Beverly. “There wasn’t one in his tackle box when we found it on the pier.”
Beverly shook her head. “I’m not sure what to tell you, unless he moved it for some reason. He always keeps one in there. But then, I never go in his tackle box.”
Brian nodded and jotted something down in his pad.
“Officer Henderson, what is this about? Why do you want to know about Steve’s allergy, about his EpiPen?”
Brian closed the pad of paper and looked up at Beverly. “We’re just trying to
figure out why your husband fell off that pier. Did something happen to him that made him lose his balance and fall? Maybe he had an allergic reaction to something.”
“I’ll admit it used to make me a little nervous when Steve would go fishing off the pier. People touch things; we put our hands in our mouth without thinking. Cross contamination in something like this could be deadly. That’s why I always nagged him about keeping an EpiPen with him.” Beverly paused a moment and then stood up abruptly, staring at Brian. “Oh my god, you don’t think that’s what happened, do you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did he touch something down there? Did he accidently put his hands in his mouth? Oh my god!” She turned abruptly from Brian and started pacing.
“Please sit down, Mrs. Klein, we don’t believe his allergic reaction—if he had one—was caused by him putting his hands in his mouth.”
She turned and looked at Brian a moment, studying him. “How can you know that?”
“I just do. Now please…” He motioned to her chair.
Reluctantly she sat down.
“Do you have any idea what your husband might have had to eat that day?”
“He had breakfast that morning, cereal and toast, I think. I don’t know what he had for lunch. When he got home that night, I was getting ready for the bridge girls.”
“Yes, you told us before you play bridge every Thursday.”
“Well…” She shifted in the chair. “To be perfectly honest, we don’t actually play bridge.”
“I thought you said it was bridge night?”
She shrugged. “I don’t even know how to play bridge. Some of my friends started this group about five years ago. It was a way for us to get together once a week and not have to make dinner. The person who hosts the party makes the food, and we take turns. It was my turn last week.”
“Did Steve eat here before he went fishing?”
“Like I started to say, he had breakfast here that morning—but that was it. I don’t know what he had for lunch. I made quiche that night; it was still in the oven when he left. So no, he didn’t eat anything at home that day except for breakfast.”
