by Vicki Vass
Chapter Forty-Nine
Anne took the Mason jar out of her large orange Prada bag. With a syringe, she extracted a sample and put it into the VIS/NIR spectrometer. The results came back instantly, displaying a mixture of isopentyl acetate, butyl acetate, 1-hexanol, n-butanol, 1-octanol, hexyl acetate, octyl acetate, n-pentyl acetate and 2-nonanol. She put the results in her chemical database looking to match the components. “Honeybee alarm pheromone,” she read. “Alarm pheromones are released when a bee stings another animal and attract other bees to the location, causing them to attack and sting the source of the threat.”
“Ohmigod!” she said. She speed dialed CC. “The stuff from the mister mimics honeybee alarm pheromone.”
“No wonder the bees went crazy,” CC said. “Why would Nancy Packwall have honeybee alarm pheromone in a water mister?” CC flipped open her laptop and Googled Nancy Packwall. “There’s a story in Variety, Anne. She died at age 70 of anaphylactic shock. She was allergic to bees. She was stung by a bee and didn’t have an EpiPen on her at the time.”
“Ohmigod! Banning killed Nancy Packwall, too!” Anne said.
Anne hung up with CC, grabbed the test results and the Mason jar. She drove to the police station. The desk sergeant cradled a phone receiver in his ear and held up one finger, instructing Anne to be patient. He turned his back to her, sipped his coffee and nodded his head to the voice on the other end of the phone. Anne was losing patience. When the sergeant got off the phone, Anne was a bit curt. “I need to see Detective Towers right now!” she demanded.
“Excuse me, ma’am, who are you?” the sergeant asked.
“I’m Anne Hillstrom. I have information for him about a case he’s working on.”
The sergeant said, “I can see if Detective Towers is in.” He picked up the phone and turned his back to Anne again. She strummed her fingers on the top of the desk; this was getting very old. The sergeant hung up the phone. “Detective Towers will be down in a minute. Have a seat over there.” He pointed at the wooden bench that flanked the wall.
Anne sat down, watching the schoolhouse clock tick away and police officers come and go. Some had bad guys in tow; others were on their way out to catch bad guys. She started biting her nails, a habit she’d broken and then unbroken with all the stress of their recent adventures. She was just thankful that CC hadn’t started smoking again. She wouldn’t let her know about the nail biting or she’d get an earful.
“Anne.” Detective Towers walked up to her. His warm smile cooled Anne’s temper. She stopped biting her nails and hid her hand behind her back.
“Nigel.” She stood up.
“Is there someplace we can talk? Somewhere not quite so open?” Anne looked around, trying to make sure no one was listening.
“Certainly, come with me.” Nigel led her up the stairs to the second floor. “We can talk in here.” He walked into a small room with a wood table and a couple hard wood chairs. “Can I get you anything? A cup of coffee?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Please, sit down,” he said, holding her chair out.
“I want to thank you again for your help with arresting Banning,” she said.
“I’m sorry that I didn’t believe you,” he said, sitting across from her.
“That’s okay. That’s not why I’m here.” She took a deep breath. “Where do I start?” She reached into her large orange Prada bag, pulled out the Mason jar and the lab results. “CC and I were at another sale at Nancy Packwall’s house the other day and CC bought this lovely garden mister, an old-fashioned metal one with a pump handle. I thought she got a great deal.”
Nigel smiled patiently, waiting for the point to come around.
“CC brought it home, was misting her pepper plants when she was attacked by a swarm of honeybees. She ran into the kitchen and we both watched through the window as the bees attacked the mister. Of course, as you can imagine, I wanted to know what was in that mister that upset the bees. Here’s what I found.” She pushed the paper across the table toward him. “I ran a chemical analysis.”
Nigel read silently, moving his lips and then looked at Anne. “What is this?”
“It mimics honeybee alarm pheromone. A bee emits this when it’s in danger. It drives the other bees crazy. Nancy Packwall died of anaphylactic shock. She was allergic to bees. I think Banning killed Nancy Packwall, too.”
“Where’s the connection? If he killed Whitmore, which we’re not even sure of yet, it was probably because Whitmore discovered that Banning was stealing from him. As far as I know, Banning had no relationship with Nancy Packwall.”
“I saw him at the first estate sale at her house. He must have known her.”
The revelation struck Nigel. “Banning’s out on bail,” Nigel said, grabbing his gun. “I’ll find him.” His warm expression turned suddenly cold. He glanced at the clock. “I’ll call you.”
Chapter Fifty
CC and Tony met John Hayward, the groundskeeper at the Kirby estate. He led them to the boat. “Mr. Kirby loved this boat. He had it restored. Shame what happened. It was a terrible thing. He was a good man. Feel free to look at the boat. I’ll be up at the rose garden if you have any questions.”
“Thanks,” CC said as Hayward walked away.
Tony walked around the boat, touching the wood. “She’s a beauty all right,” he said. He crawled under the dry docked powerboat to look at the keel. “The structure’s in good shape.” He examined the two-foot hole. “You said that Mr. Kirby hit some rocks during a storm on the lake.”
“I believe that’s what I heard happened.”
“That doesn’t make sense because Lake Geneva’s one of the deepest lakes in the area. It’s hundreds of feet deep so there aren’t any rocks offshore. Also, this hole isn’t very jagged. It almost looks like someone knocked the planks out with a hammer. There’s no splinters; run your hand along the edge here.” Tony pointed to the hole in the boat’s hull.
CC obliged him. “It’s smooth.” She stood back and looked at the boat.
A short while later, CC sat in the passenger side of Tony’s car––a white F100 as Tony drove and fiddled with the radio. She gave out a big yawn and popped her eyes open quickly trying not to fall asleep.
Out of the corner of his eye, Tony caught her. “It’s okay. You can close your eyes. It’s been a long day. We have a little drive ahead of us.”
“Are you sure? I feel bad. I wanted to keep you company,” she said, holding back another yawn.
“You get some rest.” He smiled at her. He turned the radio off and kept his eyes on the road. The whine of the engine and the monotonous scenery lulled CC to sleep. She dreamed she was swimming on Oak Street Beach. The waves kept pulling her further and further away from the shore; the harder she struggled, the more the beach disappeared from view until she was floating on her back looking up at the sky.
The truck suddenly squealed to a stop, waking CC up with a start. She’d fallen asleep on Tony’s shoulder. With a foggy head, she remembered something about swimming. She looked out the passenger window and noticed that they were in front of her house.
“Do you want to come in?” CC asked, reaching for the door handle.
“I’d love to, but I have an early morning and a long ride. Thank you for showing me the boat.”
CC couldn’t wait any longer. She leaned in and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Tony took her face in his hands and kissed her on the lips. CC smiled and flew out of the car like a teenage girl on prom night. She watched Tony drive off. As the tail lights faded, she said, “I know. Brian Kirby was an Olympic swimmer.”
Chapter Fifty-One
“We haven’t found Banning yet,” Detective Towers said as he poured Anne a fresh glass of wine. He’d invited her to dinner at the Italian Village restaurant in downtown Chicago.
“Should I be worried? Is he going to come after me?” Anne replied.
“Anne, I don’t believe he killed anyone. He’s a thief but not a murderer,” N
igel said. “Both Whitmore and Packwall are not homicide cases.”
“What about the honeybee alarm pheromone and the arsenic on the spoon?”
“Anne, if it puts your mind at ease, I’ll have both of them analyzed by our lab, but I have to give everything to homicide.”
“Thank you so much.” She reached across the table, took his hand and gave it a squeeze.
The waiter came over and placed a garden salad in front of Anne. Her latest diet was the paleo, which meant sticking to plants and animals that cavemen would have eaten, and avoiding dairy, grains, and processed oil and sugar. She’d been on it for a few weeks and was already sick of salads. She’d eat a caveman if she could spread butter on him.
The waiter then placed a large appetizer plate filled with fried calamari, chicken fingers and potato skins in front of Nigel. Anne’s mouth started to drool as she eyed the potato skins. Nigel put a potato skin on his plate and smothered it in butter and sour cream. “I’m sorry, Anne, would you like some?” Nigel pushed the appetizer plate to her.
“I wouldn’t mind one potato skin,” Anne said. After Anne and Nigel finished off the appetizers, the waiter brought over two cedar plank grilled salmon entrees.
“Anne, how’s your friend, CC?”
“She’s fine. She’s actually with her new––I don’t know if you could call him her boyfriend––her friend Tony,” Anne said. “He’s an interesting guy. He’s a shipwright. He restores vintage wooden yachts, lived in Italy or something. He’s a nice enough guy.”
“That sounds interesting,” Nigel said, his mouth full of calamari.
“In fact, they were in Lake Geneva looking at an old powerboat or something. She and I had gone up there earlier for a preferred customer presale.”
Nigel finished swallowing his large bite of salmon. “Excuse me. A what?”
“Mr. Ripley, who held the Whitmore estate sale, occasionally has a presale for preferred customers. Select customers. A friend of ours, Betsy, told us about the sale. We went up to take a look around,” Anne said.
“Are you on the list?”
“No, it’s more Chicago’s hoity-toity, North Shore. Tim Whitmore was on it and Nancy Packwall was on it.” She put her fork down. “And Brian Kirby was on it.”
“Brian Kirby?”
“He owned the mansion we went to in Lake Geneva.” Anne believed Nigel knew his job and knew it well. If he believed Banning didn’t kill Tim Whitmore, then he didn’t. She dismissed the thoughts that were creeping into her head. They split a slice of peanut butter chocolate cake. Anne didn’t even bother checking her Fitness Pal app to see how many carbs it was. She knew she was probably already in triple digits. Nigel paid the check and walked Anne to her car. He hunched over her with his polite question mark stance. She just loved his accent and he was wearing that tie that matched her pants. It had to be intentional.
“Nigel, I had a nice time,” she said, opening her car door.
“Anne, it was lovely. I hope we can go out again sometime.”
Anne blushed a bit. “I think that would be really nice.”
He leaned down a bit further, kissed her on the cheek. Anne grabbed Nigel by his bony face and kissed him hard on the lips. He smiled and then held the car door open as she got in. He watched her drive off, arching his back and stretching.
Chapter Fifty-Two
When she pulled up in front of her house, CC was sitting in her car, smoking. She caught a glimpse of Anne in her rearview mirror. She put the cigarette out in the ashtray but it was too late. She waved the smoke away with her hand but she was caught.
Anne stuck her head in the window. “Don’t bother CC, I saw you. When did this start again?”
“You know it’s been pretty stressful. It’s the first one I’ve had in a year.”
Anne gave her a disapproving look. “How was your date?” CC asked.
“It wasn’t really a date. Nigel just wanted to update me on the Banning investigation.”
“What did he say?” CC followed Anne into the house.
“He hasn’t found Banning yet. But the police are still convinced that Packwall and Whitmore died of natural causes”
“I can’t believe it.” CC sat at the kitchen table as Anne pulled the Sherlock Holmes teapot out and filled it with water.
“He said the cases are closed. There’s nothing that would cause them to reopen them.”
“I don’t know, Anne, things just aren’t adding up. Tony looked over the Kirby boat and he believes that the ship never hit rocks. The hole was manmade. Someone tampered with it.”
“Why would someone do that?” Anne poured the steaming tea into two cups and set one in front of CC.
“They said they never found Kirby’s body. They just assumed he drowned when they found the boat washed up on shore.” CC stirred some sugar in her tea.
“That’s strange because Mr. Ripley said Kirby loved the water. His Lake Geneva house was his favorite,” CC said.
“There was a picture in his study of him on the 1963 Yale swim team,” Anne said.
CC reached for her iPhone. As she typed, she said, “You bought the 1964 Olympic stamps there, right?”
“Yes, I showed them to you.”
She flipped the phone around to show Anne. It was a picture of the 1964 US Olympic swim team, one of the names in the caption was Brian Kirby. Anne and CC looked at each other. “Even in a bad storm, I believe he’d be able to swim to shore,” CC said.
“When I was talking to Nigel,” Anne said. “I realized that Whitmore, Packwall and Kirby all were clients of Banning’s.”
“That’s it!” CC said. “That’s the connection.”
“Betsy’s on that list, too. Banning could be after her!” Anne said. She pulled her cell phone out and dialed Betsy Buttersworth. The phone went straight to voicemail. She tried a couple more times with the same result. She looked worried. “That’s not like Buttersworth. That phone is always glued to her ear.”
“Let’s take a ride,” CC said, getting up.
When they pulled up to Betsy’s house, it was late. It was too important not to wake Betsy, Anne thought. Anne looked at CC. “Hurry!’ she said, trying to call Betsy again.
Anne rang the doorbell. They could hear movement inside the house. “She probably looked out the window, saw it was you and is hiding,” CC whispered behind her.
“Be quiet,” Anne whispered back, knocking on the door. There was no answer. “Betsy’s probably still upset with me about the vase.” Anne tried the door again and it opened. The house was dark except for a glimmer coming from down the hallway.
“What are you doing?” CC hissed.
“She’s obviously home.” Anne and CC walked into the foyer. Anne’s phone vibrated and she showed CC the text message from Nigel, “We arrested Banning, and he was carrying the authentic spoon.”
“Great! Betsy’s safe. We can go now before we wake her.” CC grabbed Anne’s arm and pulled her toward the door.
From down the hallway, they heard a chair scraping along the floor. Anne turned around. “We don’t want to scare her. Let’s tell her it’s us. Betsy!” Anne called out, “It’s Anne!”
Anne tiptoed down the hallway, followed by CC. Entering the kitchen, Betsy was sitting motionless, her face illuminated by the full moon shining through the skylight. Her eyes were wide. “Betsy, what’s wrong?” Anne asked.
Betsy didn’t answer, her hands remained folded in her lap. From behind the shadows, Mr. Ripley stepped out, holding a hypodermic needle. He grabbed Betsy by the hair and put the needle to her throat. Anne screamed. CC grabbed her arm.
Anne stifled her scream. Mr. Ripley said, “One word and I stick her. This needle is filled with ricin.”
“I remember seeing castor bean plants in Nancy Packwall’s garden. I didn’t think anything of it,” CC said. She turned to Anne. “Anne, ricin is a deadly poison which is made from the castor bean seed.”
“Not now,” Anne squeaked.
“Very goo
d,” Mr. Ripley said. “You know your poisons.”
“And you know yours,” CC replied. “It’s not a Russian accent, is it? It’s Bulgarian.”
Mr. Ripley relaxed his grip a bit.
“You had me fooled with the whole Russian drinking tea through the sugar cube routine.”
“That’s right; I’m Bulgarian.”
“Ricin is the weapon of choice for the Bulgarian secret police. It’s undetectable in autopsies,” CC said.
“Not now,” Anne said with barely enough wind to get the words out.
“Very good again,” Mr. Ripley said.
“Why? Why are you doing this?”
“It’s not hard to understand. It’s just about the money. I sell all these rich people overpriced antiques and then they all go on the list. When I need more money, I kill them and sell their stuff again. More rich people buy it.” He waved the needle at the other two chairs. “Now you two sit down.”
Anne and CC pulled out the kitchen chairs and sat in front of Betsy who was too terrified to speak. She closed her eyes and waited for the needle to plunge into her throat. “You know,” Mr. Ripley said. “I should have killed you that day when you bought the pants. They’re hideous. You should die just for wearing them. And you!” He looked at CC. “That perfume I smelled was hyacinth. You were in the greenhouse, weren’t you that day?”
CC nodded her head.
Mr. Ripley laughed, continuing. “You’ve saved me lots of trouble, haven’t you? It all ends here tonight.” He put the needle back against Betsy’s throat.
The whole time Mr. Ripley was enjoying his triumph, CC was desperately trying to reach into her purse behind her. “Yes, that’s right, I was in the greenhouse. We know about the water mister. Pretty clever filling it with the alarm pheromones.”
“I thought that was very clever.”
Her purse snapped open. She had to keep him talking. “But what about Brian Kirby?”
