by Bobbi Holmes
Adam sat up in the chair and snatched his pen off the desktop. “If you want to get this rolling, we could sign the papers now. Faster we get it on the market, the faster we’ll get it sold.”
“That’s probably a good idea.”
Adam was alone in his office, reviewing the listing contract Baron had signed thirty minutes earlier, when Bill Jones walked into his office, clipboard in hand. Without waiting for an invitation, the handyman made himself comfortable on the chair facing Adam. Tossing the clipboard on the desk, he pulled an open pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his work shirt.
Glancing up from the listing contract, Adam eyed Bill as he tugged a cigarette from the pack. “Don’t even think of lighting that in here.”
Letting out a sigh, Bill shoved the pack back into his pocket, yet continued to hold the unlit cigarette, fiddling with it in his hand. “It’s for later.”
“Yeah, sure it is.” Tossing the contract on the desk, he picked up the clipboard and skimmed over it.
“What’s that? You sell something?” Bill nodded to the contract.
“Not yet. It’s a listing for the Huxley house.”
Bill frowned. “Huxley?”
“It’s down the street from the Gusarov Estate. I sold the guy the house about a year ago. I think you did some work for him.”
“That guy who was into kickboxing?”
Adam paused a moment and then said, “That’s right, I forgot about that.”
Bill let out a low whistle. “No kidding? He’s selling that place? That’s going to be one fine commission. I think you need to start paying me more.”
Adam rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right.”
“So what’s he asking?”
When Adam told him the price, Bill frowned. “I thought the houses went for a lot more over there.”
“Yep. But he wants to move it fast.”
“With that price, I imagine he will. Still a good commission for you—and fast. Does he owe much on it?”
Adam shook his head. “No. He paid cash, never took out a loan. In fact, I suggested he might want to carry paper. But he wasn’t interested. He also doesn’t want a long escrow.”
“Sounds to me like he needs the money—and fast.”
Tossing the clipboard back on the desk, Adam picked up the listing contract again. Flipping through it, he said, “I have to agree with you. I wonder why.”
Twenty-Three
Joe and the police chief stood in the office next to the interrogation room, looking through the two-way mirror. Carla sat alone on the other side of the window, sitting at the table, waiting for Brian. She had abandoned her rainbow look and had recently dyed her hair dark burgundy. With her purse sitting on the table in front of her, she fidgeted nervously with a lock of hair while continually glancing to the door, waiting for someone to come in.
When Brian entered the interrogation room a few minutes later, Carla nervously removed her purse from the table and set it on the floor by her feet. Sitting up straight, she folded her hands on the table and watched as Brian silently took a seat across from her, a notepad and pen in his hands.
“Thanks for coming in this afternoon, Carla.”
Carla nodded. “Sure.”
“I need you to think back to Thursday night, when Steve came in to Pier Café to order coffee. I’d like you to go back and tell me exactly what happened from the first time you saw him that night to the last time.”
Shifting nervously in the chair, Carla shrugged. “Not much to tell. He just came in and ordered coffee, then left.”
“Did you talk at all?”
Carla shifted in her chair again and then leaned forward, propping her elbows on the tabletop. She shook her head. “Not really. In fact, it sort of pissed me off. Which kind of makes me feel crappy now. I mean, Steve is dead, and I was pretty snotty to him that night. But in all fairness, he acted like he barely knew me. Like I was just a nobody.”
“So you didn’t have any type of conversation? You didn’t talk about the weather, what he was doing down there, anything?”
Carla shook her head. “No, he just came in, said, ‘I’d like a large decaf coffee to go.’ That was it. No please or how are you tonight, Carla. Nothing. He didn’t even thank me when I gave him the coffee. But I guess that sounds kinda petty now, considering everything.”
“Then what did he do?”
“He took the coffee and left. I didn’t see him again.”
“He just left? Right after you gave him the coffee? When you say he left, did he go out to the pier to go fishing, or did he use the restroom first?”
Biting her lower lip nervously, she squirmed in the chair. “Umm…I guess he used the bathroom first.”
“Where was his fishing equipment? I know he had a chair with him, tackle box, fishing pole. Did he leave that outside?”
Carla shook her head. “Umm…no. He left all his stuff on the bench right inside the door.”
“Did he leave his stuff there while he went to the restroom?”
“Umm…yeah…I guess.”
“Did anyone touch his fishing equipment when he was in the bathroom? Maybe look through it? Take anything? Did you?”
Carla stared blankly at Brian, her eyes wide. Finally, she let out a groan and threw her head down on the table, pillowing her face in her arms.
“What happened, Carla? What did you do?”
Carla lifted her head slightly and peeked up at Brian. “Someone saw me, didn’t they?” She groaned again and re-pillowed her face as she rocked her head from side to side, moaning, “I am such an idiot!”
“Tell me what happened, Carla.”
After a moment, she lifted her head up and sat up straight in the chair, her hands once again folded in front of her on the table.
“Steve just really pissed me off when he came in. He didn’t even say hello.”
“Did you still love him?”
Carla frowned. “No!” She let out a sigh. “To be honest, I never did. I know that sounds horrible. But it’s true.”
“What happened that night?”
“Steve hates sugar in his coffee.”
Brian arched his brow. “And?”
“I put sugar in his coffee.” She shrugged. “I figured if he was going to act like nothing ever went on between us, then screw him. So I put sugar in his coffee.”
“That was it?”
“Not exactly.” Carla slumped down in her chair. “When he went to the bathroom, I started to regret putting sugar in his cup. I figured that was kind of a lame thing to do, and I didn’t want him to think I cared that much. You know, like I was brokenhearted or something and lashing out. So when he went to the bathroom, I poured another cup and switched it with the one I put sugar in.”
“You took the coffee? You didn’t open his tackle box, take anything else?”
Carla frowned. “Just the coffee. I told you that.”
After Carla left the police station, Brian met with Joe and the chief in the break room.
“I think she was telling the truth,” Brian said when he sat down at the table with them.
“Aside from what Earl saw and Carla admitted, no one has put those two together that night. It probably was just about the coffee,” the chief agreed.
Brian looked from Joe to the chief. “The problem with Carla being the killer, what did she have to gain? It’s not like Steve’s the first guy to dump her or that she was madly in love. Women who’re vengeful toward their ex-lovers usually have a pattern of past behavior. I’ve never heard any talk about Carla being a stalker type. A bit of a gossip maybe, but not vengeful.”
MacDonald leaned forward and absently tapped his fingertips on the table. “The coroner insists there was no way Steve accidently consumed that amount of crabmeat. I don’t believe he intentionally ate it, so that leaves us with someone playing with his food. As far as we know, the only thing he ate that night was two tamales. There’s no way Carla had time to put crabmeat in his food while Steve was in the bath
room. She would have had to have unwrapped them, inserted the crabmeat without him noticing, and rewrapped them. No, the only way she could have poisoned him with tamales would have been by replacing them.”
“Unfortunately, we didn’t find the paper sack Beverly told us Steve took with him, or the aluminum foil the tamales were wrapped in. That might have given us some clue,” Joe noted.
“They obviously blew off the pier,” Brian said.
“Or someone removed them,” the chief suggested.
“It’s possible Carla took the EpiPen, but how did she know he was going to eat shellfish?” Brian asked.
“If the killer put the crab in the tamales and removed the EpiPen from his tackle box, then Beverly is looking like our prime suspect,” Joe said.
“She had motive and opportunity,” the chief said. “Not just the affair, assuming she knows about it, but I imagine Steve had a large insurance policy. I’d be surprised if he didn’t.”
“How about the guy who gave Steve the tamales? What do we really know about him?” Brian asked.
“What’s his motive? He and Steve go way back. He mentioned he’d been fishing with Steve before, so he’d probably know Steve kept an EpiPen in his tackle box. I imagine removing an EpiPen from the box would be easier than shoving crabmeat in a couple of tamales so someone wouldn’t notice,” Joe said.
The chief let out a sigh. “Carla isn’t totally off the hook. It’s remotely possible she switched his tamales with fish tamales and took the EpiPen. But then we’d have to figure out how she knew he’d have tamales.”
Brian stood up and glanced at the clock. “I think we need to call it a night. As for motives, I vote for the widow.”
“I guess we won’t be going to Hillary’s memorial service,” Danielle told Ian and Lily when she walked into her library on Thursday evening. They had returned from Portland thirty minutes earlier. Sadie, who had been napping at Ian’s and Lily’s feet, lifted her head and looked at Danielle, her tail now wagging.
A moment later Walt appeared in the room, sitting in a chair directly across from the sofa. Seeing Walt, Sadie started to stand, but when Marlow House’s resident ghost pressed his finger against his lips, telling her not to bark, she stilled. The golden retriever stared at him a moment and then dropped her chin back on her front paws and closed her eyes.
Lily reached down and patted Sadie and then asked Danielle, “What do you mean?”
“I just got off the phone with Melony.” Danielle took a seat in the empty chair next to Walt and flashed him a quick smile.
Lily glanced at the clock. “Isn’t it kind of late in New York right now?”
Danielle shrugged. “I think it’s about three hours ahead of us. Anyway, they’ve decided to have the memorial service a week from tomorrow, in New York.”
“Why New York? She lived in Vancouver, Washington.” Lily glanced to Ian. “Do you know if she was from New York?”
Ian shook his head. “I don’t think so. But I could be wrong.”
“I guess she didn’t have any family in Vancouver. Her estate was left to some niece she has in Rhode Island. Her publisher and agent are in New York. They want to have it there. I got the feeling it has more to do with promoting her last book. From what Melony told me, the publisher is paying for the memorial service, and it sounds more like a prerelease party.” Danielle looked at Ian. “Do they call it a prerelease party?”
Ian shrugged. “Close enough.”
“What about Hillary’s friends in Vancouver?” Lily asked.
“I imagine the publisher figures her friends will be buying the book anyway, so they probably don’t care.”
“I suppose we could fly to New York.” Lily grinned over at Ian. “I’ve always wanted to go. And for once in my life, I can actually afford to buy the ticket.”
“This late, it would cost a fortune,” Ian told her.
“So? I can afford it. I’ll even buy yours. The only thing I’ve spent money on since my settlement is paying off the medical bills and a new car.” Lily grinned.
“I wouldn’t rush out and buy any plane tickets right now, big spender,” Danielle told Lily. “A week from Friday is also the date of Steve’s funeral. I got off the phone with the chief right before Melony called. They’re releasing his body tomorrow, and Beverly has already called the funeral home and set the time.”
“Why is she waiting so long?” Ian asked. “I understand Hillary’s situation. After all, sounds like they’re trying to make her service into a promotional event.”
“Has something to do with Steve’s family. If they have it earlier, it’ll be difficult for his sisters to get here. While I wouldn’t mind going to New York—and we don’t have any guests scheduled, so we actually could go—I think if we have to choose between attending Hillary’s or Steve’s service, we need to go to Steve’s.”
Lily let out a sigh and leaned back, propping her bare feet on the coffee table. “You’re right. A funeral isn’t for the person who died, it’s for those they left behind. We wouldn’t know anyone at Hillary’s service. It won’t matter if we go or not.”
“Yeah. I wouldn’t feel right not going to Steve’s. I consider Beverly a friend. And Steve and I did work together at the museum.” Danielle glanced from Lily to Ian. “There’s also something else.”
“What?” Lily asked.
“Even though they’re releasing his body, his death is still under investigation.”
“Are you saying they suspect foul play?” Ian asked.
Walt looked at Danielle and frowned. “According to Hillary, Steve fell off the pier on his own. No one pushed him. That’s what he said himself.”
Glancing briefly to Walt, Danielle looked back to Ian and Lily. “I guess it’ll be in the paper tomorrow. They’re releasing the coroner’s report. According to the coroner, Steve’s body had all the signs of going into anaphylactic shock prior to hitting the water. Crabmeat was found in Steve’s stomach. He was allergic to shellfish, and they don’t believe he would have intentionally eaten it. Which means someone slipped it in his food.”
“Steve was murdered?” Ian asked.
Twenty-Four
Taking her time, Joanne Johnson reverently moved the damp dust rag over the mahogany frame surrounding Walt Marlow’s massive portrait, paying special attention to the intricate carving along the frame’s edge. When she reached the top portion, she stood on her tiptoes. After she finished the frame, she shoved the rag in her apron’s pocket and pulled out the feather duster, the handle of which she had tucked under her apron’s belt. Using the feather duster, she gently swiped the surface of Walt’s portrait and then Angela’s.
After completing the task, she stepped back a moment and studied the paintings—focusing her attention primarily on Walt’s, not Angela’s. Joanne smiled.
Thinking back on her history with Marlow House, Joanne imagined she must have been about Walt Marlow’s age—at the time of his murder—when she first came to work for Danielle’s aunt. That had been almost twenty-six years ago.
When she first had accepted the job, she assumed it would be a little eerie, taking care of a house that had been empty for decades. She had always known Walt Marlow had died in the attic, but back then, she heard it was a suicide, and now she understood he had really been murdered. As it turned out, there was nothing spooky about tending Marlow House.
She had always thought Walt Marlow was an exceptionally handsome man, and she wondered if his eyes were as blue as the artist portrayed them. In the days before Danielle Boatman’s arrival—when she believed his death had been a suicide—Joanne had often stood in front of the portrait and wondered what demons had driven such a beautifully handsome man to end his own life.
Now, when she looked at his portrait, she thought it so tragic his wife’s greed had ended his life. Shifting her gaze over to Angela’s portrait, she frowned. If Joanne had her way, she would burn Angela’s painting. It didn’t deserve to be displayed next to the man she had plotted to kill
. While it was all just speculation—no one could prove Angela had really conspired with her brother to murder her husband or that Angela’s twin brother had been the one to place a noose around the unconscious Walt Marlow’s neck, and some in the historical society still clung to the old story that Marlow had ended his own life—Joanne preferred to believe it was murder.
“Here you are,” Danielle said as she walked into the library and found Joanne standing before the two life-size portraits.
“I was just finishing up,” Joanne said as she tucked the handle of the feather duster back under her apron’s belt.
“Everything looks spotless.” Danielle smiled.
“I thought they were supposed to be here today to work on the furnace?”
“They called me this morning, something about a part on back order.”
“I suppose you were wise to wait until the work’s completed before you start taking guests.”
Danielle handed Joanne a sealed envelope. “I wanted to give you this.”
Without comment, Joanne accepted the envelope and opened it. Inside was a check. She looked from the check to Danielle and frowned. “I thought you wanted me to come in just on Fridays until you start taking guests again in May?”
“Consider it a paid vacation.” Danielle smiled.
Shaking her head, Joanne tried to hand the check back, but Danielle wouldn’t accept it.
“I want you to take it. It’s not your fault the furnace went down and we had to close up until we get a new one installed.” Danielle glanced around. “And if this house wasn’t so old, installing a new heater and air conditioner wouldn’t be such a production.”
“Air conditioner? I didn’t know you were putting in an air conditioner too.”
Danielle shrugged. “I know it’s something we won’t use very often, but I figure this is the time to do it since we have to install a new furnace. And hey, with global warming, we might start experiencing warmer summers. Might as well be prepared.”
