Purls and Poison

by Anne Canadeo

  Suzanne thought it was an odd question. How did this have anything to do with Liza’s death? “I was right near the entrance to the highway, so I jumped on, and jumped off in Peabody. What route would I have taken?”

  “You’re sure that you didn’t travel down on 1A?” Oliver asked.

  “Who would do that from Newburyport? It’s like driving in a big circle. And so slow, going through all of the villages again.”

  “You’re sure that you didn’t pass through Plum Harbor on your way to the dentist? Take your time answering,” Charles advised.

  “I don’t have to take my time. I know how I got from A to B, okay?” Suzanne was getting annoyed at these cat and mouse games.

  “Was anyone in the car with you?” Oliver asked.

  “I was driving alone the whole day. As usual,” she added. “What is this about? Do you want to give me a clue?”

  Detective Oliver took out a photograph and pushed it across the table toward her. “Do you recognize this car?”

  Suzanne glanced at the picture. A white Mercedes SUV, with a long, jagged, black scratch running from the front bumper to the back. “I can tell you the model. And that Liza drives one just like it. Drove one, I mean,” she added quietly. “And I heard that her car was vandalized yesterday, so it must be hers. Right?”

  “Yes, that’s her car,” Detective Oliver replied. “We’re wondering if the same person who did that caused her death.”

  Suzanne felt her mouth grow dry.

  “I didn’t do it. I was nowhere near her car on Thursday morning.”

  The two detectives stared at her, neither of them answering.

  “Do you have a way of proving that, Suzanne?” Oliver asked.

  “If there was a toll booth, or security cameras on the highway between Newburyport and Peabody, we could verify your story that way,” Charles suggested.

  “But there aren’t any,” Detective Oliver added, squelching that hope.

  She could tell Charles was trying to be helpful. Even though the information he’d offered had not helped at all. But it did remind her of something that might.

  She clapped her hands together. “Wait a minute . . . I stopped at a drive-thru on the highway. I got some streusel bites and a coffee. I’m sure I saved the receipt, since meals during work hours are deductible for me. And I talked to Mr. Streusel,” she added, referring to the plastic dough man that hid the drive-thru microphone. “They probably have cameras in those things, don’t you think?”

  Charles was trying hard not to smile. Suzanne could tell.

  Detective Oliver had his head down again, making more notes. “Possibly. We’d like to see your receipt at some point. I’ll look into this to verify your story.”

  Suzanne sat back, feeling vindicated. She’d felt so guilty after being seduced by Mr. Streusel. Yet again . . . But thank goodness for that sugar craving. Her old pal was a solid alibi for the car thing.

  “All right. Let’s go on. Here’s another photograph we want you to look at. Can you tell me what you see?”

  Suzanne glanced at the next picture and recognized it immediately. “Liza’s desk? The way it looked last night?”

  “That’s right. Do you see what’s on it? Next to the lamp?”

  “A bottle of diet shake. I saw it there last night. She practically lives on that stuff.... Did live on it, I mean.”

  There was a lesson, Suzanne thought. The woman tortured herself to stay so lithe of limb. What good had all that deprivation done? Gather ye rosebuds . . . and yes, streusel bites . . . while ye may.

  “We actually drank the same brand,” Suzanne added. One thing they had in common. One tiny, little thing. “Though she definitely got better results.”

  Charles looked as if he wanted to chuckle again, but was holding it back. The humor had not registered on Frank Oliver.

  He showed her another photo, the inside of the office refrigerator where a myriad of take-out containers and convenience foods sat on the shelves, each marked with different names and initials. On the bottom shelf, Suzanne saw her pack of diet drinks—Dreamy Creamy Chocolate—with four containers left in the six pack. “Can you show us which bottles are yours?”

  Suzanne pointed to a photo. “That pack on the bottom. I mark them with my initials.” She looked up at Detective Oliver. “That’s the system we have in the office. Though food does disappear.”

  “Initials. Right.” Detective Oliver took out two more photos and turned them around so she could see them clearly.

  The diet drink bottle again, eight-by-ten glossies. Suitable for framing, Suzanne thought. The shots looked as if they’d been taken in a laboratory, the background in both stark and clinical looking.

  In one picture the focus seemed to be the white sticker on the front of the bottle, with initials L.D. scrawled in blue pen. The other showed the side of the bottle, where a “use by” date and some other numbers had been stamped.

  Suzanne looked down at the photos, then up at the detectives.

  “This is the bottle we found on her desk, which was empty,” Detective Oliver explained. “The autopsy and lab tests show that Liza Devereaux died of an allergic reaction to a substance that was added to that bottle.”

  Suzanne wasn’t sure that she’d heard correctly. “Added to the bottle? You mean someone put something in the drink that they knew she was allergic to?”

  Charles nodded. “That’s right. The drink was tampered with, tainted. Someone set out to deliberately elicit an allergic reaction, which they probably knew would be life threatening.”

  Suzanne took a breath and sat back, putting distance between herself and the photographs. “That’s awful.... I mean, if that’s what really happened. That means someone set out to . . . to kill her?”

  “That’s right.” Detective Oliver’s reply was clipped and quiet. He pushed the photos closer to her and pointed to the photo on the right that showed the side of the bottle enlarged. “The funny thing is, Suzanne, when we checked the serial numbers on the side of this bottle they matched up with your pack.”

  Suzanne felt a jolt. She pressed her hand to her chest. “My bottles? Are you sure? Maybe we bought them at the same store and all the bottles in that batch have those numbers.”

  Charles shook his head. “Part of the code matched, since the product was produced and shipped from the same location. But the last few digits are different. The numbers on that bottle match your six-pack.”

  Suzanne shook her head, refusing to accept what the detectives were implying. “All right. If you say so. But . . . I didn’t put anything in a diet drink and pass it off on her. Is that what you’re trying to say here? I didn’t even know she had allergies. I didn’t know that much about her. Honestly.”

  She turned her head back and forth, looking at each of the men who sat across from her. She could hardly believe this was happening. She could tell her voice was rising, but she couldn’t control her reaction.

  “Are you sure?” Detective Oliver persisted. “You never heard her say she was allergic to anything? You never heard anyone in the office talk about that?”

  Suzanne shook her head. “Never. She was a very private person. Even with people she was friendly with. Which didn’t include me.”

  Detective Oliver nodded. “I think we’ve established that, Suzanne. You two were like oil and water, weren’t you? The day that she died, she was stealing a huge commission from you. And it wasn’t the first time,” he reminded her, reading from notes he’d made earlier. “Lyle Croddy said you were ‘Wild with rage. And tried to attack her.’ You must have been very, very angry.” He paused and glanced at Charles.

  Charles had his notepad open, the one he carried around in his pocket. He flipped it back a few pages and looked up at her. “You know, Suzanne, when I first spoke to you at the crime scene, you seemed very distraught. You told me that ‘I never got along with Liza but I never meant to hurt her.’ ” Suzanne could tell he was reading her exact words off the pad now. He must have made n
otes after he left her. “‘I never imagined she’d end up like this,’ meaning her death, I’d assume.” He looked up at her again. “Isn’t that what you said? Or words to that effect?”

  Suzanne’s heart was pumping so loud she heard ringing in her ears. “I did say that. But later, when you asked me, I told you what I meant. I was worried that the argument at the meeting had made her sick somehow. Given her high blood pressure or something.”

  “You said that later. But maybe that’s not really what you meant at all when you first saw Detective Mossbacher,” Detective Oliver cut in. “You were very angry at her. You tried to assault her. So maybe you just wanted to teach her a lesson. Make her feel a little sick, a little scared. You had no idea it would go that far. Is that how it happened, Suzanne?”

  For one weird moment, there was just the sound of Detective Oliver’s voice, drilling into her head. The pale green walls in the room were dissolving, melting in on her. Suzanne squeezed her eyes shut, thinking she might faint. Or puke. Or make a run for the door.

  She gripped the arms of the chair, her sweaty palms sliding on the cold metal. She was suddenly struck by a horrifying realization—these men actually believed she’d killed Liza Devereaux. They were trying to say that she’d slipped some weird substance in a diet shake, something she knew Liza was allergic to—and planted it in the fridge with Liza’s initials on it, then waited for her to drink it.

  And die.

  “Suzanne? Can you answer us?” Charles’s voice sounded a bit softer. Almost concerned, she thought in some dim, distant part of her brain.

  But Charles Mossbacher was not going to help her. He was the enemy now. Much to her surprise. Wasn’t that painfully clear?

  Suzanne opened her eyes and took a deep breath. “I know my rights. I want a lawyer. I’m not answering another question until I have an attorney in here.”

  Detective Oliver glanced at Charles. He looked annoyed. Charles didn’t meet his partner’s gaze, just stared down at the table a moment. Suzanne had a feeling he felt relieved. As if he’d been waiting for her to say those words but wasn’t able to suggest it.

  Maybe I’m just projecting, she thought, still wanting to think of Charles as an ally, when clearly the lines were very blurred. To say the least.

  Detective Oliver’s eyes widened in surprise. “We’re just trying to understand what happened, Suzanne.”

  “Ha! That’s a laugh. How dumb do you think I am?”

  “I think you’re pretty sharp. Believe me.” Detective Oliver nodded, his words edged with double meaning.

  Suzanne glared at him. “I just told you, Detective. I’m not going to answer another question without a lawyer.”

  Before his partner could reply, Charles nodded. “You can call an attorney. That’s your prerogative.”

  “Okay by me,” Detective Oliver muttered. “I don’t punch out until six AM. Is that how you want to play it?”

  A sassy reply nearly left her lips. Instead, she shrugged. She pointed an index finger at her lips and did a pantomime of a zipping gesture. Then met Detective Oliver’s gaze with an angry smile.

  * * *

  Despite Detective Oliver’s warning, Suzanne did not remain in the small room answering questions until dawn. Though it did take nearly two hours for Helen Forbes to arrive and be briefed on Suzanne’s situation.

  The criminal attorney, who was about Maggie’s age, Suzanne guessed, quickly cut through the bluster and bluff of the two detectives. Jack Haeger, Dana’s husband, had reached out to make the connection. Suzanne knew right away she was fortunate to have Helen rush to her aid. Not to mention that she liked Helen’s style—the black, oversized eyeglass frames, which contrasted sharply with bright red lipstick and a shock of white hair.

  After Helen had settled in at the table next to Suzanne, Detective Oliver began talking again about the diet shake, explaining there were only two sets of fingerprints on the bottle. “Liza Devereaux’s and that of one other person. We believe the other set is yours, Suzanne. Of course, we can’t confirm that until we examine your prints. You can let us take them voluntarily. Or we can compel you.” His harsh tone alarmed her. But Suzanne reminded herself she was protected now.

  “Why wouldn’t they be Suzanne’s? You’ve already told us the bottle came from her package.” Helen ran her hand through her short, thick hair, then tossed her glasses on the table. “That doesn’t prove squat, gentlemen, and you know it. Nothing you’ve said so far will even squeak past the DA. No less stand up in court. Did forensics work hard on that shocking bit of evidence?”

  A DA? A courtroom? Suzanne stole a glance at her attorney. Was it really that serious?

  Charles showed no reaction to Helen’s words. His partner however, looked as if she’d insulted him personally. Maybe she had, Suzanne reflected. Touché, Helen. One for our side.

  “So, you agree that Suzanne Cavanaugh’s fingerprints are on this bottle. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I did not. I’m simply pointing out that it’s possible and, if so, would be no proof that she was the one who planted the bottle for the victim. The person who did that was probably wearing gloves. As criminals often do.” She glanced at Suzanne and then at her watch. “And no, my client is not going to give you her fingerprints, either. Unless you have a court order. Is there something else you want to ask? If not, you have nothing here to hold her on. . . .”

  “Not so fast, Ms. Forbes. We’re not finished,” Detective Oliver said curtly. He turned to Suzanne, paging through the folder again. She thought he looked rushed, set off his game, which was a good thing from her perspective.

  “Well, what’s the question? I think you’ve detained this woman long enough. Without any legal grounds, I might add.”

  Detective Oliver held up his hand, without making eye contact with Suzanne’s attorney. “Just a moment. I’m getting to it.”

  Helen Forbes let out a noisy breath, but didn’t interrupt him.

  “Did you and Liza Devereaux ever talk about Botox?”

  Suzanne could not have been more surprised by the question if the detective had asked her if they’d talked about their first boyfriends.

  “Botox?” Suzanne shook her head. “I just told you. We weren’t friends, in any sense of the word. We didn’t get all girly and talk about stuff like that. We didn’t talk at all, really.”

  “Are you sure? Did you ever hear her talking about it with anyone else in the office?” Charles asked.

  Suzanne thought about it a moment. She did remember something that related to this odd line of inquisition. But before she could answer, Helen leaned forward, holding up a hand to Suzanne like a school-crossing guard signaling to a child it was not safe yet to leave the sidewalk.

  “What’s the punch line, Detective? Where is this going?”

  Detective Oliver sat back. Suzanne could tell he didn’t want to show his hand.

  “If you don’t explain, she’s not going to answer.” Helen shrugged and glanced at Suzanne. “I guess it’s not that important.”

  Charles and his partner exchanged a glance. Then Charles said, “The medical examiner determined that Liza Devereaux died of anaphylactic shock, after ingesting Botox.”

  “Are you kidding? You mean, someone put that in her diet shake?” Suzanne didn’t mean to speak without Helen’s approval, but the news was so bizarre.

  Detective Oliver nodded. “That’s right. Normally, the substance is not poisonous and wouldn’t cause much harm if ingested. Even a good amount of it.”

  “Botox is derived from botulism, which is highly toxic, even in small amounts. But the brand name solution that’s injected into the skin by cosmetic surgeons is purified. So it’s not harmful, even if it gets into a patient’s eyes or mouth by accident,” Charles explained.

  “Except in rare cases, like Liza Devereaux’s. She was highly allergic,” Detective Oliver broke in. “According to interviews with your coworkers, this was common knowledge. Do you still insist you didn’t know?”


  Suzanne leaned her head back. She was exhausted. She could barely keep her eyes open. How would she ever get up for work tomorrow morning?

  She glanced at Helen, not sure what to do. Helen nodded. “I think you can answer that one.”

  * * *

  Suzanne did get up and staggered into the shower then dressed quietly while Kevin snored into his pillow. It was Saturday morning, her kids were sleeping in, and the house was blessedly quiet. Suzanne appreciated the silence as she crept down to the kitchen and started the coffeemaker.

  Their family dog, Barkly, nosed her hand. He was a gentle soul for such a big hound, part Bernese mountain dog, part Labrador, and Suzanne had always thought part polar bear. She let him out and sipped the strong coffee, standing at the counter.

  But she had to get to work. The office was open for business. And I have to show up and act as if nothing unusual is going on in my life—if you don’t count sitting in a police station and being interrogated all night.

  A text message made her phone buzz where it sat on the countertop. It was from Dana.

  Hope Helen Forbes was able to get you out quickly. Coming into town this morning? I have a yoga class but if you can meet at the Schooner, I’ll rally the troops. I told them you were at the police station last night and they all want to see you.

  Suzanne sent a text back quickly.

  The office is open today and I have to show face. But can definitely stop at the Schooner on the way. That will give me a reason to live.

  Helen was amazing. But can’t believe how the police treated me! Even Charles.

  She didn’t often use emojis, but put a sad face after his name.

  It wasn’t pretty. And I can definitely use a waffle.

  * * *

  A short time later, Suzanne sat shoulder to shoulder with her friends at their favorite local eatery, the Schooner Diner. As usual on a Saturday morning, the place was packed, but they had some pull since Maggie was good friends with the owner, Edie Steiber.

  Edie was always trotting across the street to Maggie’s shop, for first aid with her knitting mishaps or to buy yarn for her projects, which were mostly gifts for her many grandchildren and even great-grandchildren. The Steibers were a prolific clan.