That opened the floodgates. Bree stood silently by as the others hashed out all the conspiracy theories about the faked prescriptions. Wade kept looking expectantly at Bree, obviously thinking she had some inside information to add to the conversation.
She was dying to ask them about the extra little services they'd done, picking up the paper prescriptions, dropping them off at the pharmacy, and then delivering the medicines with the next meal deliveries. Had they witnessed any odd situations? Could they possibly have seen the person who left the fake prescriptions at Helena and Sophie's houses? It had to be someone who knew the routine, knew this was a common practice and that none of the delivery drivers would question it. Was it even possible that one of the three people standing in front of her had been the forger, and if so, for what reason?
But she just pressed her lips together. Now that it was clear the wrong medication wasn't just a mistake, and must be a forged prescription, the police were involved. She had already had a call from Captain Ryan of the local sheriff's substation, ordering her to stay out of it. Don't "taint the witness pool," he'd said in no uncertain terms.
She was still convinced Henry's heart attack was connected, but the captain had cut her off on the phone when she'd tried to bring it up. "I am in touch with Detective Graham in Sacramento," was all she could get out of him.
Until they got word from the coroner in Sacramento, Captain Ryan said this was not a murder investigation. But Bree was pretty sure it was only a matter of time before it became one.
If so, he had told her pointedly, that would be all the more reason to do this by the book. "Stay out of it, Ms. Taylor."
She had reluctantly agreed, though her desire for justice for Henry, for Helena and Sophie, and even for the attempted black mark on Nico's good name, was eating at her and making her want to work to solve the mystery. But she'd promised to stay out of it, so she tapped on the stainless counter with her fingernails to get everyone's attention. They stopped talking and turned to her.
"I know gossip is the number one hobby in Pajaro Bay, but I'm sure the sheriff's department will be interviewing each of us soon. We shouldn't talk together too much because it might confuse our memories. So I think for now, the best thing we can do is to think back on our own, and try to recall any details that might help the investigation."
They all nodded.
"And right now, let's get these meals to our clients before they all die of hunger."
They started to gather their assigned meals.
"I'd like to shadow one of you while you do deliveries today."
"You think you might see a clue to the crime?" Wade asked.
"No, nothing like that. It's part of the job. I want to get to know the clients so I can learn what to cook for them. So which one of you wants me hanging around with you today?"
Kim smiled. "You're welcome to come with me."
Fiona said, "I'd love to have you."
"Me, too," Wade said, but he seemed a bit reluctant. And that made her pick him.
"Okay, Wade, where to first?"
THE FIRST HOUSE was a little ranch style place on the outskirts of the village. In the yard there was a rusted swing set, obviously unused for many years. "His daughter and grandkids moved away," Wade whispered. He went up to the door and knocked firmly, then opened the door, which was unlocked, and went inside.
Bree followed.
The house was cheery and bright inside, with all the windows open to the back yard and that rusty swing set. The TV was blaring, and a very elderly man sat upright in a wheelchair in front of it.
Hi, Mr. Anderson!" Wade said.
"Hi, whippersnapper!" Mr. Anderson replied. "And who's this fine young lady?"
"She's the new cook for the senior meals program. She wanted to meet you."
Bree went over and shook his hand. "Hello, Mr. Anderson."
"Well, hello," he said. "Have a seat." He pointed to the sofa nearby and she sat, leaning forward.
Mr. Anderson turned his chair to face her. "So you're going to cook for us," he said. "We miss Nathan. At least he knew how to make mashed potatoes without lumps."
Bree noticed that he was dressed in a green plaid flannel shirt, and wore a bow tie. His sparse hair was slicked back, and she could smell a faint whiff of aftershave. She got the impression this was the highlight of his day.
"There's the lunch," Wade said, setting the tray on a table nearby. "We gotta go."
"We're not in that big a hurry," Bree said. She pulled out her cards. She wrote Mr. Anderson at the top of a new card. "Tell me, sir—"
"Steve," he said. "None of that sir."
Steve, she wrote on the card. "So, Steve, have you lived in this house a long time…?"
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Bree shook Steve's hand and said goodbye. Her card was full of notes from cherry pie with whipped cream, to granddaughter's name is Daisy—bring him a flower next time.
"So how do you do that?" Wade asked when they were out the door.
"Do what?"
"Get people talking like that?"
"I just listen to them. Henry taught me. He was my mentor."
"He was Helena Madrigal's brother."
"Yeah. He taught me that cooking isn't about making what I want. It's about figuring out meals that make other people feel good. It's sharing good food with people. So I'm going to try to do that with the senior meals, as long as I'm here."
"You're going to make him a cherry pie," Wade said with authority.
"You caught that."
"So will you make a pie just for him?"
She shook her head as they headed for Wade's car and the next stop. "I'm just gathering ideas. A lot of people probably like cherry pie. So I'll make it for everyone, and then see if anyone doesn't like it. Over time, I'll get to know people better, and should be able to come up with things most people will enjoy." She got into his car, stepping around the pile of books on the floor of the passenger side, and settled in. He got in the driver's side. "Cherry pie is messy, though," she mused as he started the car. "I might make little tarts that are easier for people to eat. Ooh! And those would freeze well, so I could make extras and serve them a second time in another couple of weeks."
"You get all excited about this stuff, don't you?"
She looked at him. "Yeah. I guess I do. It's my thing, cooking for people. Even if I'm just doing this kind of cooking, I want to do it well. Don't you have anything you get excited about?"
He glanced her way, and mumbled, "Yeah."
"So what is it?"
He shrugged.
He pulled the car over at their next stop, a tiny log-sided cabin set back from the road. They got out.
He got out the next lunch.
"So if you don't plan to be a chef, why did you take this job?" she asked.
"I needed a job. This one was here in my hometown, so I took it."
"So you're from here?"
He nodded. "Grew up in town. From Wharf Flats, originally. I left to go college, but somehow things didn't work out the way I planned."
"So you came back."
"Yeah. I'm trying to earn some money and get something going."
"So what do you want to do, if not be a cook?"
He looked down at the ground. "I want to be a tattoo artist."
"Really? Wow. That's neat."
"You want to see?" he asked, and there was a longing in his eyes.
"Sure I do. I'm interested."
He pulled up his pant leg, and she saw an intricate eagle tattoo on his calf.
"You did that to yourself?"
"Yeah. You have to practice on something, so I did both my legs first." He pulled up the other pant leg, and she saw Chinese symbols, a butterfly, and some swirly script lettering.
"So that's how you learned?"
"Yeah. I've done a couple—" He stopped. "I did a couple of friends. Don't tell anyone."
"Why not?"
"You gotta have a license to do it. But I needed to practice. And I
think I'm getting good enough to do it professionally now."
"Do you mind?" she said, pointing at his leg.
He shook his head.
She bent down and examined the eagle. "This is really beautiful. Where did you get the design?"
"I drew it."
"From scratch?"
"Yeah." He set the bag holding the lunch on the roof of his car and then opened the car door, digging around in a backpack there until he came up with a notebook.
She flipped through it. "This stuff is amazing, Wade. You really are gifted."
He stood up to his full height. "Thanks, man."
She looked at him. She'd assumed the worst when she'd first met him. She'd misjudged him. "I hope you succeed, Wade. I hope you can open your tattoo parlor."
"Thanks. I've got a year."
"So you plan to work here for a year?"
"That's the plan. Get as much money as I can for the next year. Then I can start my business. You ever hear that when you make a fresh start, you shouldn't make any radical changes until you've been at it a year?"
"I've heard that," she said dryly. "So how long do you have to go?"
He closed the notebook and tossed it in the car. "A long way. I've got a long way to go."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"YOU WERE CALLED, TOO?" Nico asked, opening the door to the sheriff's substation for Bree.
"Yes. Captain Ryan said he wanted to talk to me about something. About two things. actually."
"That's exactly what he said to me, too."
She watched him as they went in. It had been several days since she'd last seen him. She still felt the desire to be with him, but she was staying strong. Apparently he was, too, since he didn't even glance her way again.
"Detective Graham is a friend of mine," the captain said without preamble once they were seated in front of his desk. "He tells me, Ms. Taylor, that the autopsy on Henry Lassiter was your idea. Why?"
"I've been suspicious all along about his death," she answered. "And then when we found out Helena and Sophie had been given the wrong medication, I just thought it would be a good idea to make sure Henry's death wasn't connected."
"I see," Captain Ryan said cryptically. He wrote a note on a pad of paper in front of him.
"You can't suspect Bree," Nico said.
The captain turned to Nico. "About this medication mixup. I talked to Dr. Lil, and she says it's definitely not just an accident."
"No," Nico said. "I don't see how it could be an accident. Both Sophie and Helena just happened to be given prescriptions for the same, incorrect medicine. One prescription was written by Dr. Lil, and one by me. And neither one of us have any record of writing them. No, it's not a mistake. The prescriptions must have been forged. And the prescription pads may even have been faked, which means it's someone who may have done it before."
"We're looking into that now," he said, nodding toward another officer who was hunched over a computer screen on the other side of the room. "We'll get to the bottom of it." Then he turned back to Bree. "But I'm curious about you. What made you suspicious that Henry's death was connected? Did you have any reason to think he was murdered?"
"I—" She paused. How could she explain? "I just didn't think it was right. It felt wrong."
"Your gut told you something was wrong," he said with a smile.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to waste everyone's time. I deserve a lecture. I've caused trouble, and I'm really sorry."
He picked up a manila folder on his desk and flipped through it. "You didn't waste anyone's time. You were absolutely right. Henry Lassiter was murdered."
"What? How?" Nico exclaimed, while Bree just leaned back in her chair, shocked and yet relieved. She had known it all along. Now there was proof.
"He was poisoned," Captain Ryan said. "Or, more specifically, he ingested a drug that induced a heart attack."
He gave them a moment to absorb the news, then asked Bree, "how well did you know him?"
"I knew him for a year, but I felt, I mean, I think we were pretty close."
"That's what Graham said. So did you know he had migraines?"
"No. I didn't. Are you sure? He never mentioned that." She thought back. "That's weird. He never took a sick day in the whole year I knew him."
Nico spoke up. "He didn't have migraines."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because I looked at every detail of his medical record. He saw two doctors, Dr. Lil here, and a Dr. Singh in Sacramento. He had high blood pressure due to obesity. He had the earliest signs of cataracts. He had a scar on his right thumb from a fishhook he got stuck in it at the age of—"
"—nine years old," Bree finished absently.
"Yes. But no record of mig—." Then Nico stopped in mid-sentence, as if struck. "Triptans," he whispered.
Captain Ryan nodded.
"Triptans?" Bree asked, looking from one to the other.
"In their normal usage," Nico explained, "triptans are a kind of drug that stops a migraine headache. In large doses, or taken by a person with heart disease, triptans could be a murder weapon."
"Would Dr. Lil have prescribed a triptan to Henry Lassiter, Dr. Silva?"
"Never. Even if he developed migraines, he wouldn't be a good candidate for the medicine because of his history of heart disease."
"That's what Dr. Singh in Sacramento said. He said he would never have prescribed such a drug to Lassiter, and that his patient never expressed any need for a headache medication."
"So you're saying he took this drug, this triptan?" Bree asked.
Captain Ryan looked down at the folder on his desk. "Official cause of death: heart attack, likely induced by large dose of a tryptamine-based drug."
"Wow," Nico said. He ran his hand through his hair. "That's a really smart choice."
"A smart choice?" the captain asked.
"I mean, it's smart for the killer to choose."
"Why?"
"Well, I'm not a coroner, but I doubt that anyone would look for it on a tox screen unless they had reason to believe someone was taking the drug already. If a person shows signs of heart disease, and has a heart attack, it would appear normal. It wouldn't look any different from a normal heart attack. So that would do it. No one would be looking for that medication on a normal tox screen since it's not a narcotic or a normal kind of drug used to poison someone. It's not a poison, per se. It's a normal, useful drug that is given to millions of people for proper use. It doesn't get you high. There's no reason to believe someone would abuse it or overuse it under normal circumstances. It has no value on the black market. The only problem with it is that someone with a heart condition shouldn't take it, because—"
"—because it can give them a heart attack?"
"Exactly. It narrows the blood vessels. Temporarily. So it's never to be given to someone with a heart condition or stroke risk. But like I said, it's taken correctly by many people with no problems. It's not a poison. It's only a problem for someone already at risk for a heart attack."
"What if someone with no health issues took a big dose of the drug?"
"Definitely. If someone was given several times the normal dose, they could have a heart attack, no matter what their pre-existing health condition. But that would look suspicious."
"But if that person had heart disease already?"
"The coroner might never notice it was not natural causes."
"The perfect crime."
"Not at all. Once you know to look for it, it's very possible to find the traces of the drug. It's a risky and dangerous thing for a murderer to do, because they would have to count on the coroner making a mistake, or overlooking something. They'd be very likely to get caught. Eventually."
"Eventually. So how can we prove it?"
"Like you just did. Do an autopsy and have an on-the-ball coroner run the right tests."
Captain Ryan frowned. "How many prescriptions for triptans would you say are floating around in a village this size?"
&nb
sp; Nico shrugged. "I've only written one since I've been here. The pharmacist could tell, or you could check the clinic's records."
"But that doesn't explain what happened to Helena or Sophie," Bree pointed out.
"It might," the captain said. "Either the killer is poisoning Helena and Sophie to keep them from figuring out about the murder—possibly more than one murder. Or Helena and Sophie were the targets, and the killings are to cover up what happened to Helena and Sophie." He put the file away in a drawer. "We will be doing autopsies on anyone else associated with the village who died of natural causes recently. Just in case."
"But why would someone do this?" Bree asked. "That's what I can't understand. All of these people are so nice."
"Graham thinks you were right in the first place, that the fox fetish was Henry's message from the grave. It was a very valuable piece of Native American art, like all the art Helena and Bill Madrigal collected over the years. I want you, when Helena recovers a bit, to help her make an inventory of her house, to see what else might be missing."
"You think this is an elaborate robbery?" Nico asked.
Captain Ryan nodded. "We're just exploring possibilities right now, but it’s a very likely one."
"I don’t think his fox symbolized money to him," Bree said skeptically. The image of the fox on the door of Vixen cottage flashed in her mind. "The fox symbolized family. It symbolized his past."
The captain stood up. "We appreciate all you’ve done, Ms. Taylor. I know your heart is in the right place, but you need to let the authorities handle it from now on."
Nico and Bree stood also.
"So when Helena is well enough, I'd like you to help her make an inventory. And I'd like Sophie to do the same."
Bree nodded. "But you really think robbery is enough of a motive for all that's happened?"
He shrugged. "We won't know for sure until we find out if anything's missing. But just one of Helena's Navajo rugs is worth over $10,000. And she probably has dozens of them."
"How do you know that?"
"This is—"
"—Pajaro Bay," Bree and Nico both finished.
"Nothing's secret here," Bree said.
"That's not true," Captain Ryan said. "There's a killer here. And until you showed up, that was a well-kept secret."
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