Death by Vanilla Latte

by Alex Erickson

  He opened a drawer beneath the exam table. “Go ahead and strip down to your underwear and put this on.” He set an ugly blue gown down next to me. “Take off your shoes, but you can leave your socks on for now. It can get cold in here.” He gave me a sympathetic smile.

  “Sure thing.”

  “Doctor Lipmon will be with you shortly.” And then he was gone.

  I quickly got changed, shivering as the layers fell away. The thin gown did little to warm me as I slid it on. I climbed back onto the table and swung my feet as I awaited the doctor’s arrival. I wondered if Will’s friends, Carl and Darrin, were in today, or if one of them was working at the hospital in Levington. I hadn’t seen their names on the sign-in sheet, but that didn’t mean much since I hadn’t really been paying attention.

  I was perusing a chart about diabetes in women my age when there was a quick knock at the door. A heartbeat later, it opened and the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen walked in. Dark flawless skin. Hair black as night. I sucked in a breath, thinking I’d somehow been transported into one of those medical dramas where all of the doctors and nurses were drop-dead gorgeous. Even Bea had looked pretty good for an elderly woman.

  “Ms. Hancock, I’m Doctor Paige Lipmon. Your appointment was scheduled to start over thirty minutes ago.”

  “I know, I’m sorry,” I said, forcing myself to stop staring. “Something came up at the last minute and I thought I could get it done before I needed to be here.” I smiled weakly and shrugged. “I was wrong.”

  She eyed me, dark eyes searching, before she gave me a strained smile, exposing brilliantly white teeth. She moved to the computer and scanned my file before glancing at me again.

  “My time is valuable, Ms. Hancock. I expect you to be on time for our next visit. You’re lucky today. The person after you canceled, so you aren’t holding anything up. If one person is late, it sets everyone else back, something I do not approve of.”

  “I understand.” I lowered my head. I felt like a middle schooler getting lectured by her teacher for being tardy.

  Paige stepped around the computer to stand in front of me. “Will vouched for you,” she said, voice softening. “So, I’ll let it slide this time.”

  Something about the way she said his name caused something primal and quite jealous to stir inside me. “Do you know Will well?” I asked, which was a dumb question, considering this was a small practice and they were near the same age, but I couldn’t help myself.

  “We came out of college together.”

  My eyes instinctively went to her finger, which was surprisingly bare of rings. I’d have thought someone that gorgeous would have men falling all over themselves to marry her. Was she truly unmarried? Or was she simply cautious? It had to be risky wearing jewelry in a place like this.

  “Were you close?” I was trying hard to not sound like a jealous girlfriend, but was failing miserably. “In college.”

  Paige smiled knowingly. “We are good friends, nothing more. You have nothing to worry about.”

  I flushed, knowing how silly I was being, yet this was a new experience for me. My last real boyfriend wasn’t what anyone would consider a winner, so now that I was dating a real hunk, I didn’t know quite how to handle myself.

  “Will is a good man,” Paige went on. “You’re lucky. They’re hard to come by.” There was a faint sense of longing in her tone, but I don’t think it was directed toward mention of Will, but, rather, at something else in her own life.

  Even though prying is what I was used to doing, I managed to keep from asking her questions about her love life. I mean, for one, it wasn’t any of my business. And secondly, she was likely going to be my doctor for as long as I lived in Pine Hills. I didn’t need to start poking around in her life, no matter how interesting it may be.

  “I really like him,” I said.

  Paige nodded and then gave me a serious look. “He told me a little about you. I don’t much care for how you keep putting your life at risk. From what I’ve heard, you sometimes get yourself hurt doing things you probably shouldn’t. Is this an accurate statement?”

  “Sometimes,” I admitted. “But bad people get put away when I do, so it’s worth it.”

  “I see.” She jotted something down on a notepad she’d pulled from her pocket, and then she glanced at the computer screen. “You’ve been treated for a broken toe and a few scrapes and cuts over the last year or so, but not by this office.”

  “Nothing major so far,” I said, crossing the fingers of both hands in front of me, and giving her my best innocent smile.

  Paige sighed. “Are you planning on getting involved in this recent tragedy?”

  My smile froze on my face while I tried to come up with something to say that would set her mind at ease. Paige might be beautiful, but I was quickly learning I shouldn’t take it for a sign of weakness. Many people think that a pretty woman doesn’t have a brain cell in her head, thanks to the way most women are shown on television and the movies. Paige was smart. Real smart. She was also very observant. I had a feeling there were quite a lot of men—and women—who were intimidated by that. She wasn’t to be trifled with.

  “I may be looking into it,” I said, slowly. “I knew the victim. He was close to my dad. I can’t just let it slide, not when there might be something I could do to make sure his killer is put behind bars.”

  She eyed me a moment and then nodded as if she completely understood. “I heard he wasn’t a very nice man.”

  “Who? Mr. Wiseman?”

  Paige tapped her pen against the edge of the counter. “My friend went to see him at a meeting of some kind. She came back upset, saying he wouldn’t give anyone, let alone her, the time of day. She’d worked hard on her novel, and yet he acted like she was just some leech, trying to take advantage of him.”

  Interest piqued, I sat forward on the table, careful to keep my gown closed. “Your friend is a writer?”

  “She is. This was the first time she’s ever gone to the group, however. She doesn’t really like the woman running it.”

  “Rita,” I said. “I know how she feels sometimes.”

  “When she heard the agent was murdered, Amy was beside herself. She’d given him her manuscript just that night, left it outside his room, I think she said. I wasn’t clear on what happened exactly.”

  “Amy is your friend?” I asked, thinking back to the manuscripts I’d seen under the bed. I did remember Rita mentioning someone named Amy at the meeting, but I don’t recall seeing her name.

  “Amy Goldstein,” Paige said. “But she doesn’t use her real name when she’s writing.” A wry smile crossed her lips. “She writes detective novels, the kind with the hard-boiled cops and what have you. Male protagonists, dames, and so on.”

  I nodded. Dad had written a few of those in his time.

  “Well, when she first started writing and submitting them, they were all rejected. She kept getting told that no one wanted to read a detective novel written by a woman.”

  A lightbulb went on in my head.

  “So, instead of taking one man’s suggestion and writing romance, she changed her name.”

  Before Paige could say it, I did: “Tony A. Marshall.”

  She looked surprised. “That’s right. She used her dad’s first name, her mom’s maiden name, and then slapped her initial in the middle.”

  No wonder I hadn’t been able to find anything on Tony Marshall. He wasn’t a he after all, but rather, a she pretending to be a he, just so she could find a home for her novel. I’d heard about that sort of thing before. Even popular authors often wrote under a pseudonym in order to have success in a genre that might not be their norm. It helped avoid confusion.

  I had a million questions I wanted to ask Paige about her friend. Could she have seen something the night of Rick’s death? What was her temperament like? Was she the type of person who acted before she thought?

  But before I could even think to start asking questions, Paige’s face went s
erious. She glanced at her watch, straightened, and removed a pair of gloves from the box beside the sink.

  “Now,” she said. “Sit up straight. It’s time I had a look at you.”

  20

  Embarrassed, but with a seemingly clean bill of health, I left the doctor’s office feeling pretty good. Not only had I gotten to see Will and meet one of his colleagues, I’d also landed myself another lead, albeit a small one. But I’d take anything that would help me find Rick’s killer before Buchannan found a way to pin it on my dad, even if it might be a long shot.

  I got into my car and considered driving home to tell Dad what I’d learned. I quickly nixed the idea, however, realizing that if I went home, he’d want to come along. While I had told him we’d investigate together, I was thinking he might be better suited to research on the couch, rather than fieldwork. I would never forgive myself if I took him somewhere and he got hurt.

  I fished out my phone and brought up Chrome. A quick Google took me to Amy Goldstein’s Facebook page, but it was set to private, so I couldn’t see anything other than her profile picture, which was of a flower—not exactly helpful. I tried a few more links, hoping I could figure out where I could find her, but came up empty. Finally, I went to the white pages online and found her phone number. Calling her sounded much more appealing than a face-to-face meeting, especially after my encounter with Kari Collins, so that’s exactly what I did.

  “Hello?” The voice on the other end was male.

  “Hi, can I speak to Amy Goldstein, please?”

  “Who’s calling?” While there was an overtone of curiosity to the man’s voice, he sounded friendly enough.

  “Krissy Hancock,” I provided, before prepping myself for yet another little white lie. “I’m calling on behalf of the Wiseman Literary Agency in regard to her recently submitted novel.”

  A pause. “I thought the agent was dead?”

  “He did pass.” I put as much solemnity into my voice as I could manage. “But his assistant is attempting to take on his clients, as well as any prospective ones who have recently approached him. I’d like to discuss her novel with her before she makes any sort of decision as to what her next step might be.”

  There was a scratchy sound, like the man on the other end of the line was rubbing his hand over stubble. “Amy’s not here right now.”

  “Is there somewhere I could reach her? It’s important I talk to her as soon as possible, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Goldstein.” Married, then. “She works at Flower Power on Oak Street. You should be able to reach her there.”

  “I know the place.” In fact, it was only one street away from Death by Coffee.

  “Have you read her novel?” Mr. Goldstein asked. He sounded hopeful, which made me feel bad.

  “I haven’t,” I said. “I don’t work with the books directly.”

  “Oh.” Slight pause. “What did you say your name was again?”

  Uh-oh. “Thank you for your time.” I hung up before he could ask any more questions. It was likely only a matter of time before he realized who I was and put two and two together. I’d been all over the news during the last year or so, meaning it was likely he’d heard my name more than once before now. If his wife was somehow involved in Rick’s death, I was hoping he wouldn’t figure out where he’d heard of me until after I’d talked to her.

  Putting the car in gear, I headed for Oak Street. My usual method of investigation was to walk up to someone and bluntly ask them whatever I wanted to know. It worked more often than you’d think, but didn’t make me very many friends. I remembered seeing Amy at the writers’ group meeting, but only a glimpse. I didn’t know if she was a nice person or not, but I didn’t want to make her hate me on sight, so I thought trying a little more tact in my questioning might be in order.

  Of course, tact and I aren’t the closest of friends, either. By the time I pulled up in front of Flower Power—a one-floor square building decorated in flower art done by local art students, if the sign out front was to be believed—I was at a total loss as to how to attack the conversation without simply walking up to her and blurting out whatever popped into my head. How did regular detectives do it?

  I mentally prayed my good luck would hold out as I got out of my car. Not only were the walls of Flower Power painted in flowery designs, but the bricks near the base had flowers carved into them. Arrangements sat in the windows, though I couldn’t tell one flower from the next. I didn’t have a green thumb, and gave up trying to keep live plants long ago. Everything either died from inattention, or Misfit ate it. And while I wasn’t exactly allergic, anytime I’d tried to grow flowers, the smell would overwhelm my senses to the point where I didn’t want to bother.

  An electronic bell chimed as I opened the door and stepped inside. It was like walking into a wall of aromas that, while not unpleasant in smell, had an adverse effect on me. My eyes instantly started to water, and I felt a nearly uncontrollable urge to sneeze, which I somehow managed to sniff back.

  Okay, so forget about not being allergic. One step inside, and my throat was starting to feel scratchy.

  Through my tears, I was able to make out three people in the room with me. Two were obviously employees, dressed in flowery aprons and gardener’s gloves. The other was a man who looked as if he was looking for a way to dig himself out of the doghouse. He looked to be at a total loss as they showed him from one bouquet to the next. The middle-aged woman with curly red hair smiled, even as he shook his head at an arrangement of tulips, and then she led him to the next arrangement—this time roses.

  The woman who followed behind them was Amy Goldstein.

  I hadn’t gotten a good look at her back at the group meeting, but that fleeting glimpse was all I’d needed to know it was her. She kept her hair short, cut to her chin, bangs just above her eyebrows. She looked light as a feather, but didn’t look unhealthily skinny like so many young women these days. I placed her age at just under thirty, but then again, I was never great at guessing people’s ages, especially when they took care of themselves, and from the look of things, she did.

  I walked slowly into the room and pretended to look at a few of the displays without actually getting too close to them. I was sniffing incessantly by now and was beginning to wonder if this was what Todd Melville felt like every time he stepped into Death by Coffee when Trouble was around. I was going to have to start serving him his coffee outside to spare him the itchy, watery eyes, because no one should have to suffer this.

  Doghouse settled on a pretty collection of flowers that ran the gamut of colors. He was led to the counter by the redhead. Amy turned my way, and her eyes widened in recognition before she heaved a sigh and headed my way.

  “You’re Krissy Hancock, aren’t you?” she asked, coming to a stop in front of me.

  “I am,” I admitted, glancing around the room. “I, um, thought I’d have a look at a few flowers for the store.” I wanted to slap myself upside the head for my lame excuse.

  Amy snorted a laugh. “Damon called and told me you were coming.”

  I winced. I assumed Damon was her husband, and that meant she’d already gotten wind of my little white lie.

  She crossed her arms and shifted all her weight to her right foot. “I remember you from the meeting the other night. You’re the daughter of the writer.” A coy smile lit the corners of her mouth. “And you have a tendency to investigate local murders. Or am I mistaken?”

  “You’re not,” I said, guiltily.

  “You’re here about that agent’s death, then?”

  So much for me trying to not be blunt. It was a relief, actually, because I’d had no idea how I was going to go from flowers to dead guy without sounding like I was fishing for information. I’d have to leave the subtle snooping to someone else.

  “I am,” I said. “You write under a pseudonym, correct?”

  Amy looked impressed. “I’m surprised you figured it out. Most people don’t even consider that the name on the book migh
t not be the author’s actual name. And when I submitted my novel, I didn’t put my real name on it anywhere, just to see if he responded to it differently than others.”

  I didn’t want to get Paige into trouble by tattling on her, so I simply tapped the side of my nose and winked, like I’d figured out her secret identity all on my own.

  “Well, I’m not sure what I can tell you,” Amy said, fishing into her apron. She removed a tissue and handed it to me. “You look like you could use it.”

  I sniffed, wiped my eyes, and then my nose. “Thanks.”

  “We could step outside for a few minutes if you want?”

  “Thank you.”

  I followed Amy out of Flower Power with a sigh of relief. As soon as the door closed behind us, I sucked in heaping lungfuls of air untainted by pollen. It was better, but I was still suffering.

  “Allergies can be a pain,” she said. “I’m allergic to shellfish. Can hardly smell it without breaking out into hives.”

  “Sounds horrible.”

  “I don’t like the taste of fish, so I don’t mind.” She shrugged. “I’m not sure what I can tell you about Mr. Wiseman. I barely talked to the guy.”

  “Seems like a lot of people are saying that.”

  Amy produced a toothpick from her pocket and started chewing on it. “Habit,” she explained. “Terrible for my teeth, but it’s better than chewing gum.” She shuddered. “I tried to talk to Mr. Wiseman at the meeting, but he refused to listen to a word I said. He blew me off, just like he did everyone else.”

  “That had to make you mad.”

  She rolled her eyes and smiled. “I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “It’s not.” I reddened slightly. It had just sort of slipped from my mouth, having heard it from nearly every detective on television. I hadn’t even considered how she might take it.

  “Well, just to be safe, I’m telling you now: I didn’t kill him. I was mad, sure. Everyone was. The guy flat-out ignored us like we weren’t worth his time. I get it. He probably thought we were all just a bunch of hacks trying to capitalize on his presence. Admittedly, some of us were. But I worked hard at my craft, spent hours editing the damn thing. It’s frustrating when someone who is supposed to be interested in literature blows you off without so much as a glance. It’s rude.”