She swallowed hard, but said nothing. I could practically smell the fear coming off her; I was sure he could, too.
"All that stuff before? I see how wrong I was. You and I were meant to be together."
"Get out," she said in a low voice. "You aren't welcome here."
He reached over and grabbed a freshly frosted cinnamon roll from the rack by the door. He took a slow bite and chewed. "I always did like your cooking." He grabbed two more and then sauntered to the door. "I've missed you, Quinn. I'll see you around. Very soon."
Jed left the way he'd come. When the door shut behind him, I scurried over and turned the deadbolt, then watched out the window as he sauntered over to his truck and got in. He gunned the engine a couple of times, then peeled out of his parking place, leaving a cloud of exhaust in his wake.
I turned to Quinn, who had sagged against the wall, and hurried to her side. "Are you okay?"
"No," she said. "I can't believe he just walked in here like that."
"I think you need to make sure that restraining order is still in place.”
"I guess I do," she said. "Once he was put away, I just didn't worry about it."
"I think you're going to have to start worrying again, unfortunately." I squeezed her shoulder. "Do you need a hug?"
She nodded, and as I put my arms around her, she burst into tears.
"I've got your back," I said.
"I know," she said, wiping her eyes. "I'm just not sure it will be enough."
"You can come and stay with me if you want," I offered.
"It didn't stop him last time."
"I know. I just thought not being alone..."
She pulled back and wiped her eyes. "I've got Pip. Besides, I refuse to let that man dictate how I live my life. He's caused me enough pain already."
"I just don't like the idea of you being here alone," I repeated. "It's nice to have someone who has your back. In fact, I'm happy to stay here for a few days."
"No," she said. "Thanks, but I've got Pip."
I nodded. "If you change your mind..."
"I'll tell you," she said, and the subject was closed.
Opal was right about the deputy; when I walked into the station at three, she was standing in the front office, talking with Opal.
"You've met Deputy Shames, right?" Opal asked, indicating the fit young woman standing next to the desk.
"No, I haven’t," I said. "I’m Lucy Resnick. And I'm glad you're here. Quinn's ex, Jed Stadtler, walked into the kitchen of the Blue Onion and threatened Quinn today."
Opal's eyes hardened. "He just can't leave that poor woman alone, can he?"
"She doesn't want to report it, but if you could have someone keep an eye on the Blue Onion, I'd really appreciate it."
"Doesn't she have a restraining order?" Deputy Shames asked. She had long brown hair scraped back into a ponytail, dark eyes, and an air of quiet competence about her. Where Rooster's uniform frequently sported barbecue stains, hers looked like she'd pressed it before getting dressed that morning. "That might be a parole violation."
"It would be, if it hasn't expired," Opal said.
"If it's still in force, we can arrest him. If it isn't, she needs to get the judge to renew it," the deputy informed me.
"How do I find that out?"
"If she doesn't still have a copy, she'll have to go to the court to find out," Opal said. "And it may be in the terms of his parole. I'll look in to it."
"Thanks," I said. "By the way," I added, addressing the deputy, "I forgot to mention it at the time, but there was a twist of paper with a dead bee in it on the front seat of Bug Wharton's truck. It wasn't crushed, so it seems to me that someone must have put it in the car after Bug and Mitch got out of it."
"Is that in evidence?" Deputy Shames asked Opal.
"It is, but I don't think Rooster's done anything with it."
"Can we make sure we get it checked for fingerprints?" she asked. "It may be nothing, but it's best to be thorough."
"Happy to," Opal said.
"I'm impressed," I said. "When did you join the force?"
"Six months ago," she said. "I finished the academy in Houston and they assigned me here."
"Quite a change from Houston," I said. "I used to live there, too; I was a reporter."
"What brought you to Buttercup?" the deputy asked.
I smiled. "My grandmother's farm. And the so-called quiet life."
Opal snorted. "Shoulda stayed in Houston."
"Also, I heard there was an incident out at the Whartons' place a couple of days before Bug died. Do you know if Rooster's got that in mind?"
"I don't—he's managing the case—but I'll see what I can find out."
"I've got the lady's info right here," Opal said. "If you want, I can get you the address."
Deputy Shames sucked air in through her teeth. "I don't want to step on any toes. I'm low woman on the totem pole around here."
"I get it," I said, thinking a trip to Houston might be in my upcoming plans. "Do you know if Rooster's looking at any other suspects?"
She shook her head. "From what I hear, he's decided he's got the perp."
"What do you think?" I asked.
She glanced at the door and then at Opal before answering. "I think there may be more to the story than he's aware of," she said diplomatically.
That made two of us.
"He's sure it's murder?" I asked, as if I hadn't seen the autopsy report.
She nodded. "It's pretty clear it was, actually."
"Why does he think it's Serafine, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Because of that blowup they had at the Witches' Ball," Deputy Shames said. "Practically the entire town saw it, and then she threw his cup into the fire."
"Are they thinking she poisoned the mead? If so, the whole town could have been poisoned."
"Only if they were allergic to bees."
"Did anyone else have a reaction?"
She shook her head. "Of course, she could have poisoned just his cup."
"I was thinking... the paper said he died from anaphylaxis, right?"
The deputy nodded.
"Maybe it wasn't anything in the cup. If I'm right, and someone put that bee in Bug's truck after he and his brother parked, then it might not be a bad idea to find out if Serafine ever left the cauldron. When we walked into the ball, right after Bug did, she was there serving mead; she was still there when we left the fortune-teller's booth and saw the argument with Bug."
"How long was that?"
"Not long at all. Fifteen, twenty minutes."
"Assuming the bee is the source of the allergic reaction—and that's not a given, because she burned the cup—if she stayed at the cauldron the whole time, there's no way she could have put the bee in the truck."
"Exactly." Of course, I knew the EpiPen was the likely cause of death, but there must have been something that sparked the allergic reaction. "Most of the town was there; if she'd left, someone would have seen her.
Deputy Shames's eyes brightened. "Was anyone else working in that general area?"
"The fortune-teller," I said. "Aimee. She was facing the cauldron while she was working."
"Who else?"
"I don't know," I said, "but just about all of Buttercup was there. If she left, someone would have seen her; with that gigantic black hat, she was hard to miss."
"Unless she took it off," Opal pointed out.
"Maybe," I said. "Think Serafine has a list of everyone who attended? Maybe we could ask folks what they saw."
"That sounds like a lot of work. I'm not even on the case."
"I could do some asking around and let you know if I hear anything."
"It's not really part of police procedure," she said.
"I know. But arresting a woman and not considering other suspects is also not part of police procedure. And I'm not crazy about the idea of an innocent young woman going to prison for a crime she didn't commit."
"Point taken," she sa
id.
"Lucy here was an investigative reporter in Houston," Opal piped up. "She knows what she's doing."
I smiled. "Thanks for the vote of confidence. If it's okay with you, I'll see what I can find out."
"You can poke around, I guess."
"Also... any way to run a background check on both of the Whartons—and the Houston woman?"
"I'll see what turns up," she agreed. "But it's an off-duty, unofficial kind of thing. If Rooster finds out I'm nosing around in his case..."
"He won't like it one bit," Opal said. "We'll have to be quiet about it. But he's got it wrong so many dadgum times, I don't know that we've got a choice."
"Thanks," I said. "I know in my gut she's not the one who did it." But I still wasn't quite sure about her sister. I almost asked Opal to do a background check on her, but something held me back.
I wanted to do a little more poking around on my own. I had a bad feeling Aimee was into something her sister wouldn't like. I just hoped it didn't involve murder.
15
Evelyn Crowley lived in an older area of Houston, a mix of old houses and shopping centers; with no zoning, Houston was always a grab bag.
The address was on Branard Street; it was a cute brick cottage with an arched front door and one lone pumpkin for autumnal decor. A few bedraggled rosebushes flanked the front porch, and the grass didn't look like it had been mowed in several months, but the house had potential.
I got out and walked up the bedraggled path to the front door, still trying to decide what I was going to say. I wasn't going to lead with "Did you murder Bug Wharton?"
I'd figure out something. Assuming she was home, I thought, as I pushed the glowing doorbell button. Fortunately, I seemed to be in luck; a moment later, I heard the tap-tap of high-heeled shoes on hardwood floors, and then the door opened.
"I don't need any cleaning products," she said, and started to close the door.
"I'm not here to sell you anything," I replied, and put my foot in the door, an old trick from my days as a reporter. "Do you know what happened to Bug Wharton?"
She blinked at me. She was a tall woman, around forty-five, in a fashionable shift dress with a chunky bead necklace. She jutted out her chin. "I don't really care what happened to Bug Wharton."
"He's dead," I said.
Her tan face paled and her chin dropped. Evidently she did care what happened to Bug Wharton. And unless she was a very good actress, the news was a surprise. "What? What happened? Was it a heart attack? I told him he needed to cut back on the brisket..."
"It wasn't a heart attack," I said. "Can I come in?"
"Of course," she said. "I'm so sorry. I'm just... so shocked. Come in, come in," she said, and I followed her into the little house. The inside was tidier than the outside, although the place could use some updating. The front hall was tiled in what looked like frosted gingersnaps, and yellowed grass paper covered the walls. I followed her into the small living room, which was furnished with a sagging green sofa and two mismatched leather armchairs. She gestured to the couch, then sat down across from me, hugging herself. "I can't believe he's gone," she said, her eyes tearing up.
"I'm sorry to surprise you like that. I'm Lucy Resnick. I live in Buttercup, not far from the Whartons'."
"I'm Evelyn, but I'm guessing you figured that out or you wouldn't be here." She swiped at her eyes. "What happened to him?"
"He died under suspicious circumstances," I told her. "I was wondering if you had any idea who might have wished him ill."
"Suspicious circumstances?"
"Anaphylactic shock," I clarified.
"And they think someone did that to him?" she asked. "Oh my God. I can't believe it. Someone killed him?"
"I'm not totally privy to what happened, but that seems to be the theory." I decided not to tell her that Serafine was in custody. "Did you know Bug well?"
"Bug," she said, shaking her head. "What a stupid nickname. I don't know why he couldn't be Buddy, or Bubba, or something more normal. I always called him Bruce."
"Bruce?"
She nodded. "It sounds so much better than Bug. Although I guess I won't have to say his name anymore, will I?" She dissolved into tears again. I waited until the sobs had subsided before continuing.
"You were close, weren't you?" I asked in my softest voice.
"Yeah," she said, reaching for a tissue and dabbing at her eyes. "It was a roller-coaster ride we were on, that's for sure. I just broke up with him last week, and now... this."
"I'm so sorry," I told her.
"I guess I figured we weren't getting back together again after what happened, but now... I guess that option really is off the table, isn't it?" She sounded bereft.
"How long were you together?"
"Well, I don't know how long we were actually together—it was on-again, off-again—but we started dating over two years ago," she told me. "When we were together, it was awesome, but it never lasted long."
I'd heard of tumultuous relationships, but never one that had involved electric cattle prods. "I understand you two had a falling-out last week. What was that about?"
She gave me a sheepish look. "You heard about it, eh?"
"Buttercup is a small town," I reminded her.
She sighed. "I guess so. So, you heard about... the incident?"
"The cattle prod?"
She blushed through her tears. "It was a tough night."
"I hope you don't mind my asking," I said gently, "but what happened?"
"I found out he was seeing someone else," she said, and burst into tears all over again. "We were supposed to be getting married in June. And then... I saw his phone, and there were messages from this other woman. I was so mad I just... well, you know."
"I know," I said. "I've been there, too. I hate to ask... but do you know who the other woman was?"
"No," she said. "But whoever it was was talking about meeting late at night, and how excited she was about it. I threw his phone in the pond. I have a bit of a temper. It can be a problem sometimes."
Enough of a problem to kill him? I wondered. But poisoning him with an EpiPen seemed more of a premeditated type of thing. "Did he have a lot of allergies?" I asked.
"Bees, mainly," she said. "He got stung last year and spent a week in the hospital. He wasn't at all afraid of those stupid animals he imported, but he wouldn't get anywhere near a beehive."
"How did he decide to open an exotic game ranch, anyway?" I asked.
"He had a thing for hunting," she said. "The bigger the better. He was talking about getting some big cats in, but I talked him out of it."
"Big cats? Like lions?"
"Tigers, I think," she said. "They were super-expensive, though. And dangerous."
I'll bet, I thought, thinking about the wounded oryx. "Did he go ahead with it?"
"Thankfully not. Some places feed them frozen guinea pigs." She shuddered. "No, carnivores are scary."
"When was he talking about it?"
"A month or two ago," she said. "Knew some guy in Katy with a bunch of tiger cubs, I think. I hate the whole idea of raising animals just to kill them, but endangered tigers?"
"So, you knew him before he bought the ranch?"
"I did," she said. "He was still working."
"Where did he work?" I asked, making a mental note of it.
"Some tech company," she said. "I never got the details. He did really well when they sold it."
"Why do you say that?"
"He told me. A couple of years ago, he was living in an apartment in Dallas and driving a beater car. Now he's got... or had... a huge luxury ranch. I've heard those tech companies make a lot of money when they go public."
"Must be nice," I said, although I couldn't imagine working for a tech company. "Were things going well with the ranch?"
"It was going okay, but I don't think it was the moneymaker he expected it to be. I think the drought kind of made it more expensive than he thought it would be to keep all those animals."<
br />
"I can believe that," I said. With the drought, temperatures had soared the past few months. "Did he ever talk about selling it?"
"No," she said, "but he was looking at alternate income streams. He told me once if he could hold on until December, he'd be okay."
"What was going to happen in December?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe some investor or something." She grew teary again. "I just can't believe he's gone."
"I'm so sorry," I said. "Was the night you had the argument at the ranch the last time you saw him?"
She sniffled and nodded, but cut her eyes away. "Yes. Yes, it was."
"So, you broke off the engagement?" I asked, although I noticed she was still wearing a silver ring with a big diamond on her left hand.
"It was still... in process," she said awkwardly. "Look, I've got an appointment in a half hour."
"I'll go," I said. "But one more question: Were there any Buttercup folks out at the ranch, ever?"
"What do you mean? Like, working there?"
"That, or visiting," I said.
"Well, he hired some guy named Jack or Jeb or something to help out with the animals a week or two ago," she said.
"Jed?" I asked, my hackles rising.
"That's it," she said. "Tall guy. Good-looking."
"Right," I said, feeling my stomach curdle. "Anyone else?"
"I saw one of those hippie women from that mead place a couple of times," she said. "I think she might have been sweet on Mitch."
"Oh?" I asked. "Why do you say that?"
"I was walking, and I caught them kissing down by the creek."
"How long ago?"
"Two weeks ago," she said. "I cleared my throat and they jumped away from each other like they were burned."
Interesting. "Did Bug and Mitch get along?"
"They did, for the most part, but I know Mitch was worried about money. Bug didn't like his plans, though. Said they were too risky."
"In what way?"
She shrugged. "I didn't pay attention to that stuff. Some scheme of Mitch's, I guess. I didn't get involved. He probably spent too much at one of those riverboat casinos he likes to go to."
Deadly Brew (Dewberry Farm Mysteries Book 3) Page 13
