Murder Melts in Your Mouth

by Nancy Martin

  “We’ll be right over.”

  I told Lexie that Michael and Crewe were on their way.

  Instead of exploding, she went back to her bedroom to get dressed and dry her hair.

  I took that as a good sign.

  Twenty minutes later, I turned off the security system and opened the door to Michael and Crewe, who were laden down with take-out bags marked with the logo of a restaurant that required ordinary citizens to wait weeks for a reservation.

  “What’s all this?” I asked.

  “We ordered dinner before I got the phone call,” Crewe explained. “So we decided to bring it here. There’s plenty to share. The chef heard I was in the dining room and sent out extra food. I hope that’s okay.”

  “You’re a lifesaver. We were just about to scrape out the bottom of the peanut butter jar. Why don’t you take it all to the kitchen, Crewe? You know the way.”

  He had regained his color and looked positively jaunty as he carried the food to the kitchen.

  I held Michael back, and we lingered in the hallway. I said, “Let’s give them a minute alone.”

  “You sure that’s a good idea?”

  “I’m afraid all I’m doing is helping her stay under control. It might help if she could blow off some steam.”

  “By yelling at Crewe? Well, it can’t hurt.” He leaned against the newel post. “What about you? Have you been in touch with…the rest of your family?”

  I put my back against the opposite wall, creating as much distance between us as possible in the small space. “I called Rawlins a little while ago. He’ll make sure everything’s under control.”

  “You sure about that?” He smiled a little.

  “No,” I said ruefully. “But my parents managed to raise three daughters without endangering our lives, so I think they can manage a few grandchildren for one night.”

  Michael shook his head in wonder. “I guess everybody has parents, but somehow I never pictured yours so—well—”

  “Outlandish?”

  “Crazy, I was going to say. You sure you’re from the same gene pool? I mean, your sister Libby fell right out of your mother’s apple tree, and Emma’s the spitting image of your dad. Come to think of it, the twins—”

  “Okay, okay, I get the point.” I smiled, too, but it faded quickly.

  A moment passed while we kept our distance. There was something new between us now. Something painful.

  Although I’d never been happier with anyone in my life, I suddenly found it too hard to look into Michael’s face. Last night after he’d left the farm, I had struggled to put a name to the feeling I had inside. In the middle of the night, I figured it out.

  I couldn’t help feeling betrayed.

  And humiliated.

  Why did he have to choose Emma, of all people? The one woman who could make me feel the most inadequate. And now she was the fertile one, too.

  During the most tumultuous time of our relationship, Michael and I had deliberately tried to have a baby together. And we’d failed. Maybe it was for the best, I supposed, because it would have been wrong to bring a child into an unstable home.

  But here was Emma, impregnated in a matter of weeks.

  So I hugged myself and avoided Michael’s gaze. I found my voice and tried to sound neutral. “How’s Em?”

  “She’s been better.” He shrugged. “You okay?”

  “No, but I—”

  I wanted to say I’d get used to the situation. But I doubted it.

  So I said, “Lexie just told me the whole story of what happened in her office. It’s bad. Very bad, Michael. She could lose the firm. And she—she’s never been like this—all emotionally shut down. Not since she was a kid. Not since her cousin raped her. Back then, Lexie was too young to cope. Now she seems just as distraught and unable to voice it.”

  “Whatever happened to the guy? The cousin?”

  “Why?”

  “No reason. Just curious.”

  “Her family decided she shouldn’t have to go through an unpleasant trial. They sent him to Arizona, I think. He’s a real estate developer or something now.”

  Michael kept his face impassive. “Interesting.”

  I shivered suddenly. The house’s air-conditioning had finally chilled me.

  Michael took off his suit jacket and slung it around my shoulders.

  His hands lingered there, and he squeezed me. “Don’t worry. You need to hear what Crewe’s learned.”

  He took me by the hand, but I pulled away. I turned and led him to the kitchen, where Crewe had just told Lexie something that sent her plunking into a chair.

  I hurried to her side. “What’s going on? Lex, are you okay?”

  “The police,” Crewe said triumphantly, “have just issued a warrant for the arrest of Tierney Cavendish.”

  “Tierney! Why? How? What did they learn?”

  “Somebody must have told them that Tierney was in the Paine Building at the time his father died. But get this—he can’t be found. He’s disappeared.”

  “Why would Tierney kill his father?” I asked.

  Almost gleeful, Crewe said, “He must have been angry with Hoyt for not giving him the money to stabilize Amazon Chocolate! So he killed him.”

  “But,” I said, “there wasn’t enough time, was there? Crewe, we saw Tierney at the restaurant just a few minutes before we ran up the street to see Hoyt’s body on the sidewalk. How could Tierney have—”

  “He must have moved fast,” Crewe acknowledged. “But the important thing is that Lexie’s no longer Public Enemy Number One.”

  I frowned. “I can’t believe he’d kill his own father.”

  “He ran away,” Crewe said. “That’s incriminating, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Lexie’s in the clear,” Crewe insisted. “The police believe Tierney killed Hoyt. Isn’t that fantastic?”

  “Sure.” Michael defused the tension by reaching for the take-out containers. “It’s a good development for the moment.”

  “For the moment?” Crewe’s tone was tense.

  “Relax,” Michael said. “This is good. The heat’s off Lexie while the cops hunt for Cavendish’s son.”

  “In other words,” Lexie said to Crewe, “down, boy. I’m not off the hook yet.”

  Crewe flushed.

  Michael began opening containers. “That’s not what I mean. Maybe he killed his dad, maybe not. You know the family dynamic better than I do. The cops are grabbing at anything because the case is high profile.”

  “So they’re busy chasing down any suspect that looks possible,” I said.

  “Right. Let them focus on the son for a while. Meanwhile, the rest of you can keep asking questions. With all those people involved, there’s bound to be a lot more information floating around. The game isn’t over yet. And you guys know the players better than anyone.”

  Crewe said, “You don’t think Tierney did it?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. Only what the cops are thinking.”

  “But surely you have a theory.”

  Michael popped a plantain chip into his mouth and spoke around it. “I dunno. It wasn’t premeditated. Nobody had enough time to figure out the logistics.”

  “So it was a crime of passion,” Crewe said.

  With a grim smile, Michael said, “Sure, call it that if you like. Does the son have that kind of passion in him? Or does he do drugs? Have a violent history? A short fuse?”

  “We don’t know him well enough,” I said.

  “So the cops needed to start someplace. They are probably thinking he’s got the best motive. He needs money, right? That’s always a good one.”

  “Hoyt doesn’t have any money left,” I said. “I think he gave it all away.”

  “Did the son know that? Do the cops know now?”

  “Probably not.”

  “So until they do…”

  I said, “We try to solve the case.”

  “How do we do that?” C
rewe asked. “Nobody’s going to confess.”

  “You talk to people,” Michael said. “Finesse them.”

  I said, “Hoyt’s personal life was obviously more complicated than it appeared. That’s a place to start.”

  Lexie handed her empty wineglass to me for a refill. She had dressed in a pair of skinny jeans and a sleeveless white T-shirt that showed off the muscle in her toned arms. She still looked tired, but more composed than before. And definitely more glamorous. She’d taken time to brush on some makeup. But she kept her distance from Crewe.

  She said, “I could look at his day planner. I’d like a few answers myself.”

  I poured her another glass. “You have his day planner?”

  “Sure. It’s on the Paine Group computer system. I have the override code.”

  “Will the police let you back into your office, I wonder?”

  “I don’t need to be at the office,” she replied. “I can do it from here. Come with me.”

  “Can we eat first?” Michael asked. “I’m starving.”

  “Bring it along,” Lexie said over her shoulder, already on her way to her home office.

  Pulling Michael’s coat around me more securely, I followed her.

  Lexie’s desk faced the windows, and we could see the river and shapes of the trees on the opposite shore, thanks to the outdoor lights and the moonlight. She flipped on the Tiffany-style desk lamp and slid into her chair.

  Behind her desk hung a triptych by an emerging contemporary Chinese artist. The half-human, half-machine figures on the canvas seemed to twist over a fiery red lake that burned with color. Fleetingly, I wondered why Lexie had chosen to place such a tortured piece over her work space.

  The laptop computer blinked awake as soon as Lexie touched the keypad.

  She said, “Unless the police have shut down the system, it should only be a matter of moments before I can—ah, yes, still up and running. I knew I could count on Carla. She would keep the system up in the event of nuclear war.”

  “Lex,” I said. “About Crewe.”

  “Yes?”

  “He’s only trying to help.”

  “Of course, sweetie. Okay, here we go.” She peered at the computer screen. “Into Hoyt’s day planner. Let’s see, shall we?”

  I leaned over her shoulder and watched the computer screen as Lexie clicked expertly through the calendar. It took me several pages before I caught on enough to follow the information.

  Lexie said, “Hoyt only worked two days a week, see? And he saw a few clients—mostly over the lunch hour. Good thing his assistant was so meticulous. She’s got every six-minute segment accounted for.”

  “Every six minutes?”

  “So we can calculate how many hours we devote to each client, sweetie. Standard procedure. Oh, and his out-of-the-building appointments are in red, too. Look.”

  I followed her finger and saw the names clearly typed. “Murusha and Donaldson?”

  “Yes, Hoyt had an appointment with them last Wednesday.”

  “Can’t be the Murusha and Donaldson I know. They’re OBGYN oncologists. Todd did a research project with them.”

  Lexie laughed drily. “Okay, must be a law firm with a similar name. We do a lot of business with trust lawyers, and I’m not familiar with them all. Look, on this day Hoyt had lunch with Elena Zanzibar at the Palm. And a meeting at three with Brandi Schmidt. A four o’clock with someone else. I never took him for a ladies’ man. He certainly didn’t look the part.”

  “I don’t think Hoyt and Brandi had that kind of relationship.”

  “Me neither.” Lexie scanned the screen quickly. “The rest of these names are clients and coworkers. Ah, here’s the crucial meeting with that damned accountant I was telling you about.” She planted her forefinger on the screen. “I wonder if this is the day Hoyt paid him off. I’ll check the transaction records.”

  She skipped to another screen, and I gave up trying to follow. I said, “I never realized how easy it would be to steal money from a company like yours, Lex.”

  “It isn’t easy at all. It requires two people who are willing to jeopardize their entire lives for—usually—very little money. Hoyt gave his accomplice just two million. Is that enough to subsist on for the rest of your life? While evading extradition? Not unless you’re willing to live in a shack in a Third World country. Life on the run is expensive. Michael, dear, would you run away from your life here on two million bucks?”

  Michael preceded Crewe into the office, both of them juggling plates. He said, “Not alone, I wouldn’t, no.”

  Lexie smiled without taking her steely gaze from her computer. “How romantic. Does that mean you’d do it with Nora? An idyllic life in a cottage by the sea for the rest of eternity together?”

  “She gets sunburned,” he said.

  Lexie laughed, then got a whiff of the aroma rising from the take-out containers. “Good heavens, Crewe, what are we eating?”

  “Cuban sandwiches.”

  As far from Lexie’s desk as he could manage, Crewe cut the pressed sandwiches in half and put them on plates. He handed one to Michael, and he picked up a sandwich for himself. “They’re a delicacy, Lexie. Some pork that’s been marinated in garlic and citrus, then roasted for hours, add some cheese, pickles and a dash of mustard. Then you press it in a double-sided grill. It’s called a ‘midnight sandwich’ because Cubans ate them after working all day in the sugar refineries. It doesn’t look like much, but—” He kissed his fingers.

  She took a careful peek between the halves of the bread on her plate. “It looks messy.”

  “Life is messy,” Crewe said. “Think of this meal as a metaphor.”

  She got up from her desk chair and carried her meal to the sofa. Sitting down at one end, she crossed one long leg over the other and said, “I do like the literary side of you, Crewe, darling. Better than the protective, alpha-male side, perhaps. It’s more authentic somehow.”

  Crewe smiled at last and sat down cautiously at the other end of the sofa.

  I took Lexie’s desk chair. Michael slid a plate across to me and leaned on the far edge of the desk. Unconsciously, he glanced up at the abstract Chinese painting behind me. I thought I saw him flinch at Lexie’s choice in art. He popped another plantain chip into his mouth. “What have you found?”

  “That Hoyt Cavendish was either seeing an obstetrician or a law firm with the same name.” I smiled wryly. “Other than that, it’s going to take Lexie more time to make sense of Hoyt’s appointments.”

  “What about his phone records? That’s usually golden.”

  “His calls aren’t listed here.”

  “Next screen,” Lexie said. “Go up to the top and click on the little telephone icon. It’s blue.”

  I obeyed, and immediately a long list of phone numbers popped up with names and notes in an adjacent column. Every column flashed with a different color to help make the information more readable. To me, it just seemed more confusing. So I concentrated hard on the screen and barely heard what the others were saying as they ate.

  I interrupted them once. “You’ll have to read through this, Lex. It makes no sense to me. Wait—here’s the Murusha and Donaldson name again. And the number.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Nora. Have some dinner. You must be starved.”

  Michael nudged my plate closer to the computer keyboard, but I sat staring at the screen and trying to think.

  “Delicious,” Lexie said after a bite of sandwich. “You say you know the chef?”

  “Only by phone,” Crewe said. “I’m still incognito.”

  “I don’t suppose he’d give you this recipe?”

  “It’s not hard to make a Cuban sandwich.”

  “No?”

  “No,” Crewe said. “It only takes time. We could try it sometime.”

  “I don’t really care for your fancy cuisine,” Lexie said. “It’s getting ridiculous these days. Piling all the food in the middle of a plate like an edible Eiffel Tower? All
those Asian, Latin, French flavors fused into something unrecognizable? It’s as if some chefs are trying too damn hard to impress, and we have to swallow the swill they force on us. It’s an assault on the palate. An assault…”

  Her voice wavered on the word, and suddenly her eyes filled with tears.

  I stood up to go to her, my heart aching. But Michael sent me a look that stopped me.

  Crewe slid across the sofa and gently disengaged the sandwich from Lexie’s hands. He put it on the desk and gathered her up into his arms.

  Lexie wept then. She put her face into his shoulder and cried. Hoarse sobs wracked her throat and shuddered through her body.

  Crewe held her, rocked her, said nothing.

  It took all my strength to sit down again. I was relieved to see Lexie finally show some emotion. She would need time to recover from her ordeal with the police and from her partner’s terrible death. Maybe Crewe was a better friend for her than I could be right now.

  But it was hard to see her suffer.

  Michael watched her, too, looking thoughtful.

  Fighting down my own tears, I found a fat yellow phone book in the desk drawer. I flipped through the pages until I found the lists of physicians. I compared the number in the book with the number on the screen. The same.

  “Huh,” I said.

  Michael turned to me. “Something interesting?”

  “Why would Hoyt see a gynecologist?”

  “Maybe one of the doctors was his client.”

  “That’s probably it. Would I be violating twelve different laws if I printed out the information on these screens?”

  “Yes. You don’t want to become an accessory.”

  “You think I should use more finesse, right?” I hesitated. “How do I do that?”

  “Depends,” he said around a mouthful. “Who do you want to learn about?”

  I considered the possibilities. “Brandi Schmidt, for one. She lied to me about her relationship with Hoyt. But I can’t just ask her why she lied.”

  “What else do you know about her?”

  “She works in television. She’s disabled, in a wheelchair. She’s on the board of the Music Academy.”

  Michael shook his head. “I mean a weakness.”