Dial P For Poison (Movie Club Mysteries, Book 1): An Irish Cozy Mystery

by Zara Keane

  “That’s not true.” Paul squirmed under my steady gaze, and his shoulders sagged. “All right, Maggie. I’d had a few disagreements with my mother-in-law, but nothing out of the ordinary.”

  I dropped into the chair opposite and leaned forward, pinning him in place with the intensity of my stare. “Come on, admit it. You hated Sandra.”

  A pained expression flitted across Paul’s handsome features. “‘Hate’ is a harsh word.”

  I sat back and folded my arms across my chest. “Then how would you describe your feelings for your mother-in-law?”

  Paul’s face underwent a series of contortions before settling into resigned apathy. “Fine, you win. I hated Sandra. Satisfied?”

  “Not yet.” I whipped my notepad and pen from my purse. “Apart from the usual family bust-ups, was there a particular reason?”

  Paul winced. “Is the notebook necessary?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Would you prefer me to record our conversation?” Actually, I was pretty sure audio recordings were beyond the capabilities of the half-broken cell phone Noreen had given me for my time on the island, but I wasn’t about to let Paul know.

  “Okay,” he said finally. “Keep the notebook.” He picked up one of his fancy office toys—a metal take on a Rubik’s Cube—and fiddled with it before continuing. “Last summer, I started a relationship with a hotel guest.”

  I whistled. “Talk about pooping in your backyard.”

  “You have a way with words, Maggie,” he said dryly. “I know it was stupid. I fell for her hard. Melanie and I haven’t been happy for years, but we had the kids to consider. This was the first time I seriously thought about leaving.”

  “And Sandra found out?” I prompted.

  He inclined his neck. “Yeah. One of the hotel staff must have let it slip. I’m pretty sure a couple of them guessed about the affair.”

  “Did Sandra confront you?”

  “Yes. I told her not to bother flying into a rage. I’d tell Melanie everything, and we’d file for a divorce.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “I’ll bet that didn’t suit Sandra.”

  “No.” He gave a bitter smile. “She liked having her daughter married to the son of Whisper Island’s ‘wealthiest’ family.” He made air quotes with his fingers. “It didn’t matter to Sandra that my parents don’t have as much money as people think, at least not anymore. She was all about keeping up appearances.”

  “What hold did Sandra have over you, Paul? It can’t have been revealing your affair to Melanie. If you wanted to leave your wife for another woman, she’d have found out anyway.” Would he confess to the embezzlement Sean Clough had alluded to? Or something even worse?

  He blew out a breath. “Sandra had a knack for ferreting out people’s secrets. A nose for trouble, I guess you could say. She discovered I’d borrowed from the hotel to settle my debts.”

  “‘Borrowed’ being synonymous with ‘stole,’” I said dryly.

  Paul ran his hands over his slicked-back hair. “Look, I was desperate. By the time Sandra figured out what I’d done, I’d replaced a chunk of the money I’d taken.”

  “But you hadn’t replaced all the money?” I prompted, leaning forward in my seat, my pen poised.

  Paul stared at his manicured fingernails. “No.”

  I scribbled a few notes. Once I was done, I glanced at Paul. “Why didn’t you ask your parents for help? It’s their hotel you borrowed from, after all.”

  “If it were just my parents, the issue wouldn’t be so serious.” Paul didn’t meet my gaze. “During the economic crisis, my father lost a lot of money and, well, he had to make changes.”

  “Changes that included seeking outside investors,” I filled in. I smiled at his shocked expression. “It’s a small island, Paul. Everyone knows a silent partner owns the majority share in the hotel. And while your parents might forgive you for taking money from the accounts, the silent partner wouldn’t.”

  “Exactly.” Paul squirmed and loosened his tie as though it were choking him. “When the other guy bought into the hotel, part of the deal was keeping me on as manager. But if he knew I’d played fast and loose with the accounts, I’d be out of a job. Despite what people on Whisper Island think, I’m paid a regular hotel manager’s salary. Yes, I have a nice house on the hotel grounds and access to the hotel’s fleet of cars, but they’re tied to my position as manager. I don’t have much money of my own.”

  “Sandra must have had plenty of money after she sold that land,” I pointed out. “Why didn’t you turn to her if you were having cash flow problems?”

  He looked up and gave a bitter laugh. “Sandra was tight with her money. She’d buy nice presents for the kids, but she didn’t believe in handouts.”

  “But now that she’s dead, it’s pretty convenient for you, no? Melanie will inherit half of Sandra’s fortune, and you’ll have every reason for sticking around.”

  “After probate, yes.” His eyes pleaded with me. “But I didn’t kill her, Maggie. I swear.”

  “You swore to me that you hadn’t slept with Melanie. Forgive me if I don’t place much faith in your word.”

  He sneered at me. “Are you still sore about that? That happened years ago. Time to move on.”

  I resisted the urge to stab the arrogant slug with my pen. “Oh, I’ve moved on, but I’m not going to forget. Lies come easy to you, Paul. They always did, and in a variety of situations, not just your cheating with Melanie. I know you too well to believe a word you say.”

  “If you’re not going to believe me, why bother questioning me?” Paul’s mouth formed a sulky line. “You’ve obviously already made up your mind what to think.”

  “I can learn a lot from what a person doesn’t say.” I twirled my pen between my fingers. “Saying you’ve been evasive is an understatement. I don’t know why you took the money, but I intend to find out.”

  Sweat beaded on his upper lip. “Okay, wait a minute. I’ll tell you. I lost money on the horses. I couldn’t tell Melanie. She’d have been furious. I’d done it before, and she’d told me she’d cut me off without a euro if I did it again.”

  “You just said you lived off your manager’s salary,” I pointed out. “And Melanie runs a restaurant that apparently doesn’t attract many customers. What money does she have coming in that you didn’t mention?”

  He squirmed in his chair. “When Sandra sold her land, she gave her son, Jonathan, a lump sum of money but insisted on setting up a trust fund—or whatever those things are called—for Melanie. Melanie received money each quarter, but she couldn’t touch the capital.”

  I gave a crack of laughter. “Sandra didn’t trust you.”

  He reddened but chose to ignore my jibe. “Melanie was furious. She felt Sandra was treating her like a child and playing favorites.”

  “With Sandra dead, does Melanie now have access to all the money in the trust?”

  Paul nodded. “Yes. Plus half of Sandra’s estate.”

  Thus giving both Melanie and Paul a strong motive for wanting Sandra out of the way. I looked him straight in the eye. “How did you react when Sandra threatened to expose your embezzlement?”

  He looked startled. “I was furious, of course. My mother hasn’t been in the best of health, and she’d be horrified. And I couldn’t afford to let my parents’ silent partner find out, or I’d lose my job and my home. She told me she’d keep silent if I stayed with Melanie and tried to make our marriage work.”

  “Paul, did you kill Sandra? Or ask someone to do it on your behalf? Melanie, perhaps?”

  He jerked back in his chair, horror written across his face. “No, of course not. I’m a liar and a cheat, fine. But did you ever know me to be violent?”

  “No, but we haven’t had anything to do with one another in years. For all I know, you’re a closet serial killer.”

  “That’s absurd. I’ve never been in a physical fight in my life, not even at school.”

  All of which might be true, but it didn’t ru
le out poison. Poison was a sneaky weapon and didn’t require murderers to assault their victims, or even be near them when they died. I stared across the desk at the man who was my first love. Paul had been a fun-loving kid, if easily influenced. He’d grown into a charming but weak man. Sandra had him backed into a corner, and Paul was exactly the sort to snap when put under pressure.

  I stood and slid my pen and notebook back into my purse. “Call Jennifer Pearce and tell her to represent Noreen if she needs legal representation on the island.”

  Paul’s face underwent a series of contortions. “Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll call her now.”

  I turned on my heel and walked out of Paul’s office for what I hoped would be the final time.

  19

  Early the following week, Noreen and Sister Pauline traveled to Cork for a couple of days to liaise with my aunt’s solicitor and the barrister who’d represent her in court. I was left in charge of the café with Julie, Philomena, and Lenny pitching in to help when they had time.

  Sandra’s funeral was held on Monday, and both the wake and the burial were kept in a small circle.

  “Sandra would have hated that,” Miss Murphy said on Thursday evening, sipping her tea and scanning the latest edition of the Whisper Island Gazette. “Murdered or not, she’d have wanted a big affair with the whole island in attendance.”

  I glanced up from where I was polishing the glass display counter, behind which was an array of cakes, scones, muffins, and other sweet treats to tempt customers we didn’t have. “I doubt Melanie and her brother are in the mood for crowds at the moment,” I said. “And I don’t blame them.”

  “Jonathan won’t stick around long,” Miss Flynn interjected. “He never does. He’s some hot-shot stockbroker in London, you know.” She sniffed as though this was synonymous with being a pimp or drug dealer.

  Joan laughed. “Sandra always played favorites with her children. However trying Melanie can be, I always found Jonathan insufferably arrogant.”

  “He was Sandra’s favorite?”

  “Oh, yes.” Joan stirred her tea before taking a delicate sip. “Jonathan was in school with Nick and bullied him rather badly.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, eh?”

  “It’s a dreadful thing to say,” Miss Flynn said, “but Whisper Island is more peaceful without Sandra.”

  “I’ve spoken to Sean Clough,” Joan added, “and I’m delighted to say he’s discontinuing the blind gossip column. The item that ran last month about Philomena was outrageous.”

  “The one referring to her sneaking around at night with a man who wasn’t her husband?” I asked. “She says it’s nonsense.”

  “I’m sure it is.” Joan wrinkled her nose. “Although I have seen her out late at night on a couple of occasions, both times near the school. I have no idea what she’s doing, but I can’t imagine it involves cheating on John. They’re a devoted couple.”

  My stomach lurched. So my aunt truly was sneaking around after dark? What was she up to? It had to be something she wanted to conceal, or she’d have told me straight out when I’d asked her about it at the library. I sucked air through my teeth. What was I going to do? Follow her? Conduct a stakeout with my aunt as the target?

  It was absurd, but I kept running into dead ends. If I’d been back in the U.S., I’d have put family considerations aside and treated everyone who had a motive or acted suspiciously as a potential suspect. Why should I act differently here? I swallowed a sigh and formulated my plan of campaign. I’d follow Philomena after work. Ten to one, she’d go straight home, or make an innocent late-night run to the ATM.

  I loaded dirty cups onto a tray and took them into the kitchen. There was very little to wash up, unfortunately. Now that the initial drama surrounding Sandra’s death and Noreen’s arrest was dying down, I’d hoped trade would pick up, but many people were still boycotting The Movie Theater Café. Even the various clubs that used the premises in the evenings had lower-than-usual attendance, and Philomena let slip that the Historical Society had asked her permission to use the library for their meetings. I put down my polishing cloth and checked the cash register. I sighed at the figure on the display. If our takings remained this low, my aunt would be out of business long before her case came to trial.

  The bell over the café door jangled. I stiffened the instant I clocked who was standing on the threshold. “Noreen’s not here,” I said to Sergeant O’Shea.

  He muttered something under his breath and lumbered into the café.

  “Is your investigation not going well?” I inquired in a sarcastic tone. “Not finding sufficient concrete evidence to convict my aunt for a crime she didn’t commit?”

  His eyes flashed. “I’m only doing my job. I’ve got nothing against Noreen personally.”

  “Maybe you don’t have an issue with my aunt, but as for doing your job…” I let my words trail off, and noted his reddening cheeks with satisfaction.

  “You don’t need to worry about me doing my job anymore, Ms. Doyle. That fancy solicitor of Noreen’s has been causing trouble.” He grunted. “She’s persuaded the district superintendent to send some young fella out to take charge of the case.”

  Finally. I breathed a sigh of relief. There was no guarantee that the “young fella” would prove any more competent than Sergeant O’Shea, but at least there was a chance that the police would start to take other suspects seriously.

  Sergeant O’Shea must have interpreted my expression correctly, because he guffawed and treated me to a sneer. “Don’t get too excited. Noreen is still charged with the murder. I don’t know what the new fella is going to do, apart from causing trouble for me.”

  “I see.” I crossed my arms over my chest and fixed him with a knowing stare. “And you’re telling me this because…?”

  The man sniffed, suddenly finding his polished loafers fascinating. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bad-mouth me to him.” Sergeant O’Shea looked up at me and attempted to disguise his blatant dislike of me with a rictus of a smile. “It’s true that I don’t have much experience of murder investigations, but I’ve done my best. You can’t expect more than that.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’ve done your best to get back to the golf course as quickly as possible each day.”

  Rage burned in his eyes and he opened his mouth to defend himself. Before the man could utter the blustering denial that I knew was on his tongue, the bell above the door jangled a second time, and the handsome motorcycle guy walked in.

  My heart skipped a beat. And then I registered what he was wearing.

  “Oh, heck,” I said, raking him from head to foot. “You’re the policeman from the mainland?”

  “Indeed I am.” He grinned at me and extended a hand. “Garda Sergeant Liam Reynolds.”

  I cringed at my fiery cheeks. Of all people to be O’Shea’s replacement, did it have to be the guy I’d nearly killed and then yelled at? “Maggie Doyle,” I squeaked.

  Sergeant Reynolds turned to O’Shea. “Ms. Doyle and I have already met. I didn’t expect to meet you in here, Colm. Are you two pals?”

  Reynolds shot me a wicked grin that set my pulse racing. Oh, yeah. He remembered my offhand comment about the Whisper Island police.

  “I was just, uh, ordering a cappuccino to go.” O’Shea looked at me, a desperate appeal in his eyes. He knew as well as I did that his request for me not to express my opinion on his police work wasn’t kosher. He’d had plenty of time to regret his decision not to bag Sandra’s cocktail glass as potential evidence, or to perform even a cursory check of the movie theater for anything that could point to her death not having been natural. What he didn’t know was that I’d inadvertently let slip to his replacement just what I thought of his shoddy police work.

  I smothered a laugh and fixed O’Shea’s cappuccino. When I handed it to him, he paid me with a comical reluctance that wasn’t lost on Reynolds. I had the impression that Sergeant Hottie missed very littl
e.

  After the door had shut, I met his teasing blue eyes. “So you’re in charge of the Sandra Walker murder investigation.”

  “That’s right,” he said cheerfully. “I believe you’ve been doing some sleuthing yourself.”

  I cocked my head to the side. “Did you come in here for a coffee or to warn me off?”

  “Both.” His lips were a straight line but his eyes twinkled with amusement. “I’d like a double espresso to go, and a quick word with you.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I grabbed a takeout espresso cup and ground fresh beans. “What do you want to know?”

  The man laughed. “You get straight to the point, don’t you, Ms. Doyle?”

  “You strike me as a straight-to-the-point kind of guy, Sergeant Reynolds.” I pressed the double espresso button, and delicious brown liquid dripped into the cup. “I guess you want to know what my sleuthing has unearthed.”

  “Exactly.” He gave me a mock salute.

  “Hmm…” I slid his coffee across the counter. “Can you guarantee me that you’ll investigate suspects other than my aunt?”

  “I can guarantee nothing, but I can promise you that I’ll look at the case notes with fresh eyes and go over all the evidence. Sound fair?”

  “It sounds vague,” I quipped, “but I’m willing to bargain with you. I’ll email you some of my notes. In return, you do what O’Shea should have done from the start.”

  “You do realize I’m the police, don’t you?” He’d dropped his voice a notch but kept his tone playful. “I could drag you in for questioning and demand you present me with all you know.”

  I leaned forward on the counter, balancing on one elbow. “You could do that. Or you could play fair and give me a chance to drip-feed you information on a need-to-know basis.”

  Reynolds grinned and reached for his wallet. He extracted a couple of coins and dropped them into my outstretched hand. For an instant, his fingers brushed against me, sending a jolt of awareness skittering over my skin. I swallowed hard. Now wasn’t the time to lose my head over a man.