by Shéa MacLeod
“I got it,” a voice floated from behind the flowers. I recognized the voice instantly and so did Cheryl. She pursed her mouth.
“What are you doing here, Duke?”
He placed the bouquet carefully on the bar next to her. “I came to apologize,” he said gallantly.
She swallowed. “For what?”
“Let’s talk.” He took her hand and, surprisingly, she went with him. He seated her at a corner table and then sat down across from her. Nina and I watched avidly while they began to talk. Well, mostly Duke talked, but as he did, I could see Cheryl melting like a s’more over a campfire.
“Now there is something you don’t see every day,” Nina said with a tone of wonder.
“What’s that?”
“A man apologizing. It’s like finding a unicorn in your bathtub.”
I laughed. “Not entirely true,” I disagreed. “Lucas has been known to apologize.”
She glanced at me. “What on earth would that dreamboat have to apologize for?”
“He ordered bad wine.”
Her eyes widened. “Say it isn’t so!”
We both laughed. “No, seriously, though. The man rarely does anything that needs apologizing for, but when he does, he’s the first to admit he’s wrong.”
“Yep,” Nina said. “Unicorn.”
I nodded to where Duke and Cheryl huddled, heads nearly pressed together. Every now and then they’d touch each other. It was unconscious which made it more interesting. “Guess there’s another unicorn. Guess they’re not so rare, huh?”
“Guess not,” Nina said with a sigh. “Think there’s another one around here?”
I glanced at her. “For you?”
She shrugged. “Why not?” Her tone was almost defensive.
I grinned. “If anyone deserves a unicorn, it’s you.”
She smiled and we both turned back to spy on Cheryl and Duke. Maybe it was time to dust off my old matchmaking skills.
Chapter 6
One Suspect Down
“Well, at least you know that Lucas wasn’t trying to poison you,” Cheryl said reassuringly, her voice blasting out of my car speakers. I turned down the volume a bit.
“True. But don’t you think it’s odd that someone sent a bouquet to Petula LeMar right before she ends up in the hospital?”
“Not really. I’m pretty sure whoever sent the flowers had no idea she was going to be poisoned.”
I actually wasn’t so sure, but I couldn’t explain the feeling I had. “Well, I’m at the paper,” I said as I pulled into the pitted blacktop parking lot in front of the Gazette building. The sixties architecture looked straight out of an episode of Perry Mason. “I’ll let you know what Ashley says.”
“You’re seriously going to interrogate her?”
“Not interrogate,” I insisted. “Just question.”
Cheryl snorted derisively and hung up. Really, she should have more faith in me.
The Astoria Gazette offices weren’t exactly jumping. In fact, there were just three people sitting at desks that had probably seen the Reagan administration. Overhead the fluorescent lights flickered ominously—I can’t even tell you how much I hated those things—while underfoot the carpet...crunched. That was the only word for it. I wrinkled my nose at the faint tang of burnt toast and scalded coffee. Not good coffee, either. The cheap kind that my grandmother used to buy in giant metal cans.
Ashley sat at the very last desk closest to the window. She had her feet kicked up on her desk as she scrolled through something on her electronic tablet. Her hair was up in a ponytail and she looked annoyingly young and fresh.
“Hey, Ashley.”
Her eyes, as she glanced up, were old and world weary. Nothing like the perky exterior she showed to the world. She smiled sardonically as if she knew I’d noticed. “If it isn’t our local celebrity.” Snarky much?
I stopped in front of her desk. There was nowhere to sit, and she didn’t offer, but I refused to feel intimidated or embarrassed. I figured as the subject of her less-than-kind article, I deserved to be there.
“Saw your article. Interesting take.”
She lifted an eyebrow but otherwise didn’t move. “You think?”
“Yes, in fact, it got me wondering.”
A pregnant pause. “About what?” she finally asked.
“If perhaps a young, struggling reporter decided she needed something juicy in order to keep her job.”
She did sit up then, twin pink spots staining her cheeks. “Exactly what are you implying?”
“That you’re the one who poisoned the food in order to get a good story.”
“Why would I do that?” she snapped angrily, slapping her tablet on the desk.
“Look around you,” I gestured to the open room. Most of the desks were empty. At one of them an elderly man drowsed, moustache drooping toward his lower lip. I didn’t recognize him, but assumed he wrote articles of some kind. The only other person in the room was Miss Martha, the local agony aunt and gossip columnist. She also did births, deaths, weddings, and any other announcement deemed of interest to the population of Astoria. She was brushing powdered sugar from her purple floral blouse. A box of donuts sat at her elbow. “The Gazette isn’t exactly in its heyday. I’m surprised it hasn’t gone under already. Then what will you do? A story like this could mean keeping your job. For now.”
She scoffed. “Are you kidding me? The only reason I took this job was because Randall over there,” she jabbed a finger in the direction of the napping man, “has a great-niece that works in Los Angeles.”
I frowned unsure what that had to do with anything. “So?”
“So,” she said slowly as if talking to an idiot. “I figured I could use that to my advantage. Randall would make a great reference when I applied at her company. She happens to run one of the most successful online magazines there is. And I was right. I already have a job. I start next month.”
“Oh.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“Yeah, there goes your motive, huh?” She gave a harsh laugh. “Sorry, but I have no reason to poison anyone. I don’t give a flying monkey about this Podunk town. I can’t wait to get to L.A.” With that she picked up her tablet and proceeded to ignore me.
“Thanks for your time,” I said awkwardly.
“Whatever.”
With a mental shrug I turned and strode out. I’d really hoped I’d found the poisoner, but I still had Bakeology. Since it was about four blocks from the paper, I decided to walk. It was a nice day, sunny and unusually warm for Christmas time. I shrugged off my cardigan and stuffed it into my cross-body bag. I’ve never been a sun worshipper, but I had to admit the warmth on my shoulders felt good. I added an extra swing to my hips, feeling sassy.
The lampposts lining the streets were wrapped with swags of fir and Christmas lights. The Flavel House Museum—a massive Victorian—was decked out for the season with wreaths and garlands galore. Nearly every display window held something festive and cheerful from Christmas trees to snow people.
I was about halfway to the bakery when I felt like there were eyes burning a hole in the back of my neck. I whirled around. Nothing.
I breathed a sigh of relief. I was being ridiculous. Why would anyone follow me?
Then I turned around and nearly let out a scream of shock. There, inches from my face, was a woman I vaguely recognized. She was about my age and, in her cream-colored heels, came up to my nose. Her hair was cropped close to the skull showing off amazing cheekbones. Chunky gold earrings that matched the belt on her cobalt blue jacket dangled from her lobes. “I want to talk to you.” Her voice was a snap, full of accusation.
“Sure,” I said warily. “Who exactly are you?”
She gave a long-suffering sigh. “Adele Rigby. I was at the mayor’s Christmas party.”
Now I remembered her. Sort of. She’d complained about the lack of gluten-free options (Which was nonsense as there were plenty of options including one of my puddings), demanded dairy-free creamer fo
r the coffee (Which was already on the table right next to the regular creamer), and insisted that she could only eat kosher eggs. I was pretty sure she was having me on with that last one.
“Of course,” I said with false cheer. “What can I do for you, Ms. Rigby?”
“I want you to know that I’m thinking about suing you.”
“Oh, yay.”
She frowned, a heavy line appearing between her brows. She was older than she first appeared. Closer to sixty. “Your sarcasm is not appreciated, Ms. Roberts.”
“You’ll forgive me if that means little coming from a person who just announced she plans to sue me. Why, by the way?”
“Clearly your negligence caused that horrible catastrophe.”
Catastrophe was overstating it, but curiosity got the better of me. “Did you become ill?”
“Well, no,” she admitted. “But it was such a shock. It caused permanent emotional distress. My therapist says so.”
“I see.” My tone was dry as dust. “I’ll see you in court, then. With the mayor.”
Her dark eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“The mayor is a close personal friend of mine.” That was overstating the matter by quite a bit, but a girl had to do what a girl had to do. “Besides which, it was his party. So I’m assuming you’re suing him, too?” I fluttered my lashes at her innocently.
Adele Rigby made an irritated sound before she brushed past me, her shoulder bumping mine hard enough to knock me back a step or two. I shook my head as I watched her go. Some people.
The vibe in Bakeology was exactly the opposite of the Astoria Gazette offices. The wooden tables were crowded with telecommuters hunched over their laptops, oblivious to the gorgeous day outside the wide windows trimmed in silver garland. Holiday jazz played softly over the loudspeakers, and the heavenly aroma of fresh roasted coffee and sweet sugary vanilla mixed with cinnamon wafted under my nose. My stomach gave an embarrassing rumble.
“What can I get you?” A dark-haired boy of about twenty gave me a wide, guileless smile, bracing himself against the counter. He was wearing a green-and-red elf hat in deference to the season, and his chocolate eyes twinkled at me flirtatiously. I didn’t take it personally as he was about half my age. He’d make an excellent salesman one day.
“I’d like to talk to Sandy, please. Is she in?”
He scrunched up his face, looking ridiculously adorable. “Um, well, who are you?”
“Viola Roberts. She did the cookies for the mayor’s holiday party for me.”
His expression cleared and the twinkle returned. “Oh. Right. Gotcha. Hang on a sec.” He did the little finger gun thing before disappearing into the backroom. A moment later he returned trailing Sandy. She looked a little harried. Her salt and pepper hair was slipping out of its neat bun, and she had a streak of flour on her left cheek.
“Viola. How nice to see you. Everything okay?” she asked, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Sure,” I said, “just wanted to chat for a minute.”
She waved me over to an empty table in the corner. “What’s up?”
“Did you see the paper this morning?” I asked, sliding into one of the chairs.
She sighed heavily as she sat down. “It’s got me so worried. I mean, I can’t believe they’re blaming you. Ridiculous.”
“Why are you worried?”
She leaned forward and dropped her voice almost to a whisper. “What if they decide to start blaming me? It could ruin my business. We’re just starting to turn a profit for the first time this year. I can’t afford a scandal now.”
I patted her hand in sympathy. I inhaled a deep breath. She smelled wonderfully of cookies. “I totally get it. There’s no reason to blame you. How could anyone get food poisoning from baked goods?”
“Is that what it is? Because Agatha said it was poison, not food poisoning.”
Agatha was in my bunko group and also the biggest gossip in Astoria. “I’m not sure where she got her information, but the police haven’t determined the cause yet. They’re still waiting for the lab results.” Likely she’d read that stupid article Ashley had written.
“I’m not sure whether to be relieved or not.” A worry line marred her forehead. Not that I blamed her. Her whole livelihood relied on her reputation and tasty baked goods. If people thought she was lacing those goods with poison...well, it wouldn’t look good for her. Not to mention the whole prison issue. The authorities tend to frown on attempted murder.
“Is there anyone who would want to destroy your business? Competition maybe?”
She shrugged. “There really isn’t much competition. There are the coffee shops. They have baked goods, but one of them gets their food from me.”
“And the other?”
“They make their own.”
“Interesting.”
She eyed me warily. “I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. Their scones and muffins are excellent, but they can’t handle the volume I do. They’re not competition. Not really.”
“Any place that can handle the volume?”
“Only the grocery store.”
Since it was one of those big chain stores, I seriously doubted they gave two bits about Bakeology. Certainly not enough to go around poisoning Christmas cookies at the mayor’s party. I stood, determined to buy cookies before I left. “Okay, Sandy, thanks for your time.”
“I hope you figure this out before I’m out of a job.”
I did too.
Chapter 7
Lloyd Helps Out
“So I have news,” Nina said teasingly as she poured me a glass of Viognier. Since it was warmish outside, I’d chosen a white even though I usually only drank it in the summer. Chilled wine was just what the doctor ordered.
“Spill,” I said, taking a sip of the fruity, slightly tart wine.
“Come on,” Cheryl coaxed. “Don’t keep us on pins and needles.”
“It was poison after all.” She set the wine bottle behind the counter, all the while giving me the eye. She’d lined her eyes in black liner with big wings. Very 1960s. It matched her vintage black cocktail dress.
“Let me guess,” I said dryly, “Agatha.”
“No, actually. It was Bilson. The officer that mans the desk down at the police station. She called me the minute she heard.”
I remembered Bilson. She was young, cute, and had a habit of blabbing information she shouldn’t. In my book, that made her good people—especially since she usually blabbed about Bat’s investigations. “I didn’t know you guys were such good friends.”
She shrugged. “The girl likes her Cabs. She cleaned me out of Russell Creek last week.”
“Did Bilson happen to mention what kind of poison it was?” I asked, taking another sip of my Viognier.
“Easter lily bulbs. Isn’t that strange?”
Interesting that I was surrounded by lilies all of a sudden. It’s what Venus had sent to Petula before the party. I frowned, trying to figure out how somebody would poison someone with a flower as obvious as Easter lilies. Even the bulbs would be super obvious. “Like what? Mashed up or something?”
Nina shook her head, her golden hair tumbling around her shoulders. She made an annoyed sound and quickly swept the mane up into a quick bun, emphasizing the sixties vibe. For the first time I realized she was wearing candy cane earrings. “She made it sound like it was an extract or something. No idea where that would come from. You can’t just pick that up at the store.”
“Nope,” I agreed. “You’ve got to take time to make that stuff.”
“And you’ll never believe what it was they poisoned.” She looked way too perky.
I gave her a baleful look. “Give me a hint.”
“It was the Christmas puddings.”
My eyes widened. “My persimmon puddings? Are you kidding me? I worked hard on those things. Are you telling me somebody poisoned them?”
Nina gave a cluck of sympathy. “Seems like it.”
Anoth
er thought struck. It probably should have been my first thought. “Oh, crap. Bat’s going to think I did it.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Cheryl assured me. “No one’s going to believe you poisoned your own puddings.”
“Bat will,” I said.
“I guess you’ll just have to prove him wrong.” Cheryl took a determined sip of her wine.
“What did you find out?” Nina asked.
I gave them a quick rundown of my chats with Ashley and Sandy. “Ashley would have totally had a motive if it weren’t for L.A.” I might have been a little disgruntled over that, but I was trying not to let it show. Professionalism and all. Although I wasn’t entirely sure if amateur sleuths were required to be professional.
“And Sandy would be a great target,” Nina mused. “If she had enemies.”
“Yeah. If.” I sighed and took another sip of wine. “Who else could it possibly be? I can’t figure out who the target is, either. Maybe if I could figure that out... And why use a non-lethal poison?”
“The poisoner didn’t want to kill anyone,” Nina stated the obvious.
“Right. Since when have you heard of a poisoner not killing anyone?”
“I don’t know.” She picked up a labeling machine and started sticking prices on wine bottles. “Never met a poisoner.” She gave me the eye. “Or have I?”
I glared at her and she and Cheryl laughed.
“What about the pics?” Lloyd, one of Sip’s regulars, piped up from the end of the bar. We both stared at him. He stared back from under thick, beetled brows, his white shock of hair sticking up in seventeen different directions. Today he was wearing an honest to goodness Ugly Christmas Sweater complete with a reindeer on the front. He was holding his smart phone inches from his face, clearly in the midst of playing some kind of game. “What? They post that stuff on the book of faces, right?”
I smacked myself on the forehead. “Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?” I pulled out my phone and brought up the social media event page for the mayor’s Christmas party. Sure enough, lots of people had posted photos of the event. I scrolled through them, following the timeline from the moment the first person entered until people started heaving up their appetizers. “Nothing,” I said, frustrated, slapping my phone down on the bar.
