The Princess and the Poison

by Carol E. Ayer

  My office door flew open, and a woman with carefully coiffed hair and way too much lipstick came rushing in with a camera operator behind her. I recognized her as the reporter who had interviewed Cameron. Dinah woke with a start and emitted a surprised "uurp." I may have made a similar sound.

  "Ashling Cleary?" The woman didn't wait for my answer. "Stephanie Johnston, Channel 14 News. May I ask you a few questions?"

  I stared at her open-mouthed.

  Stephanie plowed ahead. "We've just learned that Katrina Irvine most likely did not die of natural causes. Can you comment?" She thrust her microphone at me. Her pupils were big and black, probably matching Dinah's and mine.

  I shaded my eyes against the light of the camera. "Uh. Um. No, no comment. How did you get in?"

  She paid no attention. "The police have yet to name a suspect. Is anyone at StoryWorld being questioned in connection with her death?"

  "No comment. Please leave."

  "Did she argue with anyone the day she died?"

  "No comment!"

  Finally admitting defeat, Stephanie motioned to the camera operator to stop filming, and they left.

  I immediately dialed Cameron at The Castle. "Cameron! Did you let that reporter in? Stephanie Johnston?"

  "Well, sure, boss. Wasn't I supposed to? She asked to speak with you."

  "No! Don't you remember? No members of the media are allowed inside the park. And no talking to them either. Didn't we just have this conversation after you were on the news?"

  "Yeah, I remember now. Sorry, boss."

  "Listen, I want you to do me a favor. I'm going to go get Joaquin. Then I want the two of you to escort Ms. Johnston and her camera operator out of the park. I have the feeling they're not going to go quietly."

  "Dude. Awesome." He elongated the word "dude" so it stretched to several syllables. "We'll be bouncers. I'll be right there."

  "No, Cameron! You can't just leave the entrance unattended! I'll get someone to relieve you first."

  Ugh. This was going to be a very long day.

  * * *

  That evening, I made sure to set my alarm so I wouldn't oversleep. After the unwelcome visit from the pushy reporter, I'd called a staff meeting for the next morning at eight sharp. Not only would I need to reinforce the rule about not letting media inside the park, I felt we should talk about the fact Katrina had been murdered. The news that she'd been killed and hadn't simply died had spread swiftly among the staff.

  My employees gave me more than a little flak for the scheduled meeting. I heard all sorts of excuses, ranging from "I go to the gym in the morning, and I can't miss a workout. Do you think these muscles just appear out of nowhere?" to "I don't go to sleep until three, so I need to sleep late," to the simple "That's way too early, boss" from Cameron.

  But my employees managed to rouse themselves and straggle in one by one the following morning to meet up in the Poppy Field. At eight forty, I took a head count to find they'd all arrived. Although a cacophony of grumblings rose from the group at first, they soon availed themselves of the opportunity to lie out in the bright morning sun. They stretched out every which way on the grass, chatting, listening to music, and tapping on their smartphones. Some of the girls picked poppies to place behind their ears and took selfies in various poses. They all seemed to think they'd been invited to a picnic on a Hawaiian beach. It took more than a few yells to get their attention.

  Finally, they shut up and lazily focused their attention on me.

  "Okay, guys. A horrible thing happened here. If you want to talk about it, let's do that now, since we haven't had a chance yet. But I really need you to not talk about the murder outside of StoryWorld's gates. Also, most importantly, do not let reporters into the park." I eyed Cameron, who looked back at me, innocence personified.

  No one said anything.

  "Anyone?"

  Silence.

  Should I reassure them? Probably. "It was obviously a targeted attack. The police are working hard to find the killer. But we're safe. There's no need to worry it's going to happen again."

  I didn't tell them Donna was the prime suspect. Her name hadn't come out yet, and I wanted to keep it that way.

  Still no response. I gazed out to a sea of vacant looks. Had they even listened to me?

  "Doesn't anyone want to say anything?"

  All of a sudden, several of them spoke at once.

  "She was a bitch."

  "Serves her right."

  "No great loss."

  "Okay, okay," I said over their voices, waving my hands at them to shut up. "I get it. You're not too upset about this. Anyone want to say something nice about her? Anyone who is upset about it?"

  No answer. I called the meeting to a close. Another productive meeting with my top-flight staff.

  * * *

  The reporters kept getting closer and closer. Later that day, several news vans were parked along the staff access road, and I almost rammed into them when I returned from driving a deposit to the bank. Now it wasn't just local news teams camping out. Reporters for the national news stations had moved in too.

  I swung angrily around the Channel 14 van into my staff parking space. As soon as I parked, several reporters jumped out of their vans, camera operators in tow. One pair was Stephanie Johnston and her camera guy, which irritated me to no end. What nerve.

  "This is a private road. You need to leave."

  They just talked over me, asking about Katrina and her murder. They crowded around me, and I had to push through them to get to the gate. They were so close the aroma of their shampoos, soaps, and deodorants overpowered me. The scents mixed unpleasantly, and I subdued the impulse to pinch my nose.

  "Please go!" I locked the gate behind me. They didn't budge and just continued to throw out questions. I really needed to get better at this confrontation thing.

  I called the police when I got inside my office, and the cop who answered promised someone would be out to control the reporters. It couldn't be soon enough.

  * * *

  Another surprise awaited me when I stopped by the Pinocchio area after giving Joaquin a break. A shrine to Katrina had been erected on the grass in front of the stage, outside of the crime scene tape. Teddy bears, flowers, cards, and drawings of Katrina littered the ground, along with a few candles. I'd read in the articles trumpeting the news of Katrina's murder that her service had been held the day before in Hollywood. Clearly her Northern California fans were determined to pay their respects in any way they could. I decided to leave the makeshift memorial. Should I schedule something more formal?

  * * *

  Meanwhile, I had a murder to solve. The next day, as soon as I got the chance, I returned to my spreadsheet of suspects.

  After reviewing what I had so far, which wasn't much, I concentrated on the members of the theater troupes. Katrina had pressured Bradley to practice their kissing scene over and over. Had the sexual harassment escalated, making Bradley so mad he decided to get rid of his co-star forever? Maybe, although he seemed so shy. He didn't seem capable of asking a favor of anyone, let alone committing murder. Julie, the director, had had problems with Katrina too, saying she was more trouble than she was worth. And then there was Florence, who also didn't consider Katrina her BFF. I hadn't heard about any complaints from the rest of the actors, but that didn't mean there weren't any.

  Katrina's behavior made her a pain to work with. But surely that wouldn't drive anyone to murder, especially a cold, premeditated one at that. I glanced over at my blank Means column. Curare wasn't exactly available at CVS. Someone had to go to some lengths to obtain it, and I wasn't even sure how yet, other than to travel to South America and cut down a vine. Supposedly, Charlie had gotten his hands on some through his job and mixed it up into a special paste, and Donna had applied it to the spindle. She delivered lattes to Katrina two times a day, so she had access to the stage and the spinning wheel. Okay, that was opportunity and means. But what was the alleged motive? She'd had a shouting
match with the star? It seemed a stretch to me, but, in the absence of any other viable suspects, I supposed this was the best the detectives could do. At this point, I couldn't blame them.

  And Katrina's entourage? I had no information on them whatsoever. Were they even still in the area? Leaving X, Y, and Z on the list to represent them, I added a note to find out names later.

  I sighed and reached for my candy stash. Then I stopped myself. No more eating. I decided to slowly step away from the chocolate and go visit Donna.

  "Hey!" she greeted me when I leaned in the order window. "I'll bring out something to eat."

  I didn't object. So much for my resolve.

  A couple of minutes later, she came around the back of the restaurant carrying two coffees and two scones in one of the cardboard holders, and we settled into the slipper chairs.

  "Have the reporters been bothering you at all? They don't seem to have your name yet, or if they do, they're not publishing it."

  "I've been coming in the back gate to avoid them. Whether they know I'm the main suspect, I don't know."

  "Okay." I looked at my friend closely. Her eyes were red and swollen, her nose runny, and her skin an unhealthy pallor. Poor Donna. She was the strongest person I knew, but everyone had a breaking point. If I were the main suspect, I doubted I'd get out of bed. "I think you should keep using the back gate."

  She pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her nose. "All right, I will. Now spill. How's it going with Scott?"

  "Fine." I didn't meet her gaze.

  "Ashling, I don't believe you. Something's wrong. You know you can always talk to me. And, frankly, I need something else to think about. The murder is all I ever think about and all Charlie and I talk about now. I'm sick of crying too. I've got a headache and my throat is sore."

  "I'm really sorry." I patted her hand. "Is there anything I can do for you right now?"

  "Yeah, you can tell me about Scott."

  "Okay, okay. We have another date scheduled for tonight. At seven thirty. He called last night, and I couldn't think of an excuse, so I said yes. But I might cancel. I just don't think I want to be in a relationship. Maybe I'm supposed to be alone from now on. I already had the great love of my life. Unfortunately, it's over now."

  "Oh, hon, we've talked about this before. Are you sure you want to be alone for the rest of your life? That could be five or six decades! That's a lot of alone time."

  I shook my head. "The only thing I'm sure of right now is I have to clear your name. I know you don't want to think about it, but let's just talk for a bit, okay? Just for a few minutes?"

  Donna nodded.

  "I've been making a list of suspects and trying to figure out motives and opportunity. Did the spinning wheel come out for every rehearsal the week the props arrived, I wonder? Did Katrina go through the motions of sticking herself?"

  "She acted out the scene at least once. I saw her do it on Friday afternoon."

  "Okay. That means the plastic cover was over the spindle at that time."

  "Right. So the killer probably applied the curare either after that rehearsal before you locked the stage or the next morning after you unlocked it."

  "Yeah." I gnawed on a corner of my scone. "But almost anyone could have done it, then. The actors were there both days. And Julie and all of Katrina's entourage."

  "So now what?"

  "I'm going to talk to everyone. Interrogate them."

  "But, Ash, I'm sure the detectives already did that."

  She was right. What made me think I would do any better? Ashling, The Great Avoider of All Things Confrontational?

  "They might not have asked the right questions," I said thoughtfully. "And maybe everyone will feel more inclined to open up to me than the detectives."

  "You're not exactly known for your confrontation skills."

  "I know. But you need me. I have to help you. And I will."

  * * *

  That afternoon, I decided to start out easy by focusing on Bradley, who, in my mind, was the least likely name on my list of suspects.

  I typed Bradley's name into a search engine. A number of hits came up, including a few tournament results for the Springdale Tennis League and the website for the parish youth group at St. Isabel's Church. I clicked on the link for the youth group and discovered Bradley had been a member for the past four years, way before he presumably met Katrina. He'd also led a seminar on abstinence earlier that year. This gelled with what he'd told me about his beliefs, but, in the interest of thoroughness, I would talk to him.

  After much discussion, the theater troupes and I decided to go forward with the two remaining plays. But because the stage at StoryWorld was now a crime scene and because the actors felt—as Katie might say—"oogy" performing where Katrina died, they would be rehearsing at the Springdale Playhouse until shortly before the premiere of Snow White. At that time, they'd return to our stage to complete their rehearsals. So, I placed a call to the Springdale Playhouse to see if Bradley was there.

  The woman who answered the phone said Bradley had already left. She helpfully supplied the information that he usually played tennis at the city courts after rehearsals. Perfect. I could initiate a surprise attack.

  I drove over to Springdale Community Park and pulled my car into a nice shady space under an oak tree so I wouldn't burn myself on the hot upholstery when I came back. Hot weather and I were not friends.

  I found Bradley playing at one of the outer courts, and I stood outside the fence to watch. His opponent, around the same age as Bradley, was similar in build—tall and muscled. I was immediately impressed by their skill. They held marathon rallies, and almost every point was won by a winning shot rather than the opponent's error. It made me want to take up the sport again. I could play with Scott. An image of him wearing shorts and a polo shirt flashed across my mind. Mental head slap. Stop it, Ashling.

  Bradley caught sight of me when they had a changeover. He walked over, stuck his fingers through the holes in the fence, and leaned in. "Hello, Ms. Cleary. What are you doing here?"

  "Hi, Bradley. Remember, you can call me Ashling."

  "Right. Okay."

  "I wanted to talk to you when you get a chance."

  "That was sure a terrible thing that happened to Katrina." He chewed on the cuticle of his right thumb.

  "Yeah. That's what I wanted to talk about. When you get the chance."

  "We're almost done here. Why don't you come in and watch?" He opened the gate, and I went through.

  Bradley took his place at the baseline while his opponent served. They eventually reached a tie-breaker at 6-6, and Bradley came out on top, 13-11, winning the final point with a wicked overhead smash that almost hit his opponent on the head.

  I gaped. Was this another side to shy Bradley? The smash seemed particularly vicious.

  Bradley gathered up the tennis balls, the boys clasped hands at the net, and they walked over to me at the bench.

  Bradley introduced his opponent as Jaylen Thomas. We said hello. Then Jaylen and Bradley gave each other some complicated handshake, and Jaylen left, apparently unconcerned he'd almost been conked on the head. Bradley sat on the bench next to me but scooted over as far as possible, practically to the point of falling to the ground. Wow, he sure had a problem with girls. Or I had cooties, which was entirely possible.

  "So, Bradley. About Katrina."

  He gazed off toward the tennis court. A lone tennis ball sat in one of the corners, and I idly wondered if it belonged to one of the boys or if it was left over from the last players. "I couldn't believe it when I heard she had been murdered. It was bad enough that she died. Right on stage too! But someone actually killed her! I mean, we all had issues with her, but who would do such a really evil thing like that?"

  "My best friend, Donna, is the main suspect. She runs the restaurant at StoryWorld. But she didn't do it, Bradley. And I've got to figure out who did."

  Something flickered across his face. "No one liked Katrina, I
know. She wasn't very nice. I guess it goes to show you those Hollywood types might be rich and famous but not necessarily happy."

  I cocked my head at him. "You don't think she was happy?"

  "Heck, no. People who act that way always have low self-esteem. And they're unhappy."

  I never would have pegged Bradley as a psychological expert. But what he said made sense. Did Katrina lord it over everyone around her to bolster herself up? Maybe.

  "Do you have any idea who might have killed her?" I asked.

  "No. And I wouldn't want to make a guess." He shook his head rapidly. "I wouldn't want anyone to get into trouble. The detectives asked me too, and I said I didn't know."

  This wasn't especially helpful. I looked back at him, wondering how to get him to open up. He didn't seem to carry an ounce of fat, and his muscles bulged against his polo shirt. I had the feeling he didn't reach for a chocolate bar anytime something upset him, the way I did.

  "Bradley," I infused my tone with authority as best I could, "Katrina was murdered. This is serious. If you have any information you think could help us find her killer, you really need to come up with it."

  "Well…"

  "Yes?"

  "Okay. There is this one thing. I overheard the director, Julie, yelling at Katrina one afternoon after rehearsal. I'd left my script and came back for it. They didn't know I was there."

  "What was she yelling about?"

  "I don't know. I didn't understand it, but I got the idea they knew each other. Not just from the play. Like they'd known each other before. But it might not mean anything. Really."

  "Okay. Anything else?"

  Bradley looked up to the sky. I followed his gaze. Not much to see other than clear blue that stretched for miles. Typical California weather that seemed to never change as our drought years racked up. I would have given anything for thunder and lightning and pounding rain. The slight drizzle the day before the Sleeping Beauty premiere just hadn't done it for me.