The Poison in the Pudding Page 11

I felt a little guilty about not asking first. But I was worried about my friend. My friend who could go to prison for life if I didn’t help her.

  “Annabelle’s mother is on her way up from Arizona. She’ll be here in a few hours. Until then, he’s staying with a neighbor.”

  “Oh, that’s good. Annabelle’s mom is a sweet woman. She went to school with my mom,” Cheryl said.

  I breathed a sigh of relief that the kid would be fine. Well, not fine. But at least cared for by someone who loved him. Now I could focus on Portia without feeling guilty. Although I did. What if Annabelle had been killed because of the information she gave me? Then it would be my fault she was dead.

  “Do you know why Annabelle was murdered?” I asked the detective.

  “I know as much as you know at the moment. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work.” He turned and started toward the dock.

  “These murders are connected,” I called out to him over the bark of the sea lions. “I’ll bet you anything.”

  He paused and turned back, his face expressionless. “Then find me proof.”

  As he continued his stride down the walkway, I stared after him, grim thoughts swirling in my mind. “You better believe I will. If it’s the last thing I do.”

  Chapter 18

  Stuck in the Window With You

  “YOU KNOW...” I STARTED as Cheryl and I climbed back in the car.

  Cheryl groaned. “I’m not sure I can handle this without a drink.”

  “Too bad. No drinking and driving. As I was saying, I bet we could find some answers at Annabelle’s house.”

  “Maybe. But I’m sure the police have it under control.” She started the car.

  I snorted. “If by ‘under control’ you mean they’re happy to pin The Louse’s murder on Portia...no. We need to find out all we can before the police get there.”

  She banged her head against the steering wheel. “What if we get caught?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when it starts burning.”

  “We don’t know where she lives.” She was desperate now.

  “Ah ha! Leave that to me.”

  A quick call to our bunco friend, Agatha, and not only did we have the address of Annabelle’s apartment, but the name and apartment number of her onsite landlady.

  Annabelle lived in nearby Warrenton, across the bridge and down the highway from Astoria. Painted in whites and blues, the tidy units were perched on a stretch of land across from a small park. It would have been peaceful if not for the busy main road zipping between the apartments and the park.

  We found the landlady’s unit easily and rapped on the door. It swung open to reveal a plump, older woman, perhaps sixty or so, wearing a purple and orange housedress with her hair wrapped up in a matching turban and fluffy pink mules on her feet. It was so stereotypical, I wanted to laugh.

  “Hello, Mrs. Forrest?”

  “That’s me.” She peered at me through thick-lensed glasses that made her hazel eyes appear larger than they were. “Who are you?”

  “My name is, uh, Viola....Smead. I’m Annabelle’s cousin.”

  “Oh, my dear,” she said, reaching out to squeeze my hand. It was supposed to be a sympathy squeeze, but she nearly broke my fingers in her enthusiasm. “I am so sorry to hear about Annabelle. Such a shock. I didn’t know she had a cousin nearby.” I was surprised she’d gotten the news so quickly. Then again, small town grapevines could beat the Internet any day of the week.

  “We were on our way for a visit,” Cheryl blurted, “when we got the news. So terrible.”

  Mrs. Forrest frowned as she gave Cheryl the once-over. “You’re not a cousin, too, are you?” Doubt dripped heavily in her voice as if she’d never heard of a multi-racial family before.

  “Oh, no,” Cheryl chirped. “I’m Viola’s best friend. But Annabelle was a sweetheart, wasn’t she? The news was such a shock.”

  “Oh, it was.” It was Cheryl’s turn to receive the sympathy death grip from Mrs. Forrest. “Sorry, how can I help?”

  “Well, as you probably know, Annabelle’s mother is coming into town,” I said.

  “For Timmy. Yes. Poor little guy.” Mrs. Forrest clucked in sympathy.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “I was wondering if you would let me into Annabelle’s apartment to gather a few things for my aunt to take with her. We’ll get the rest later, but there were some items she needed right away, and I told her I’d stop by. I don’t think she can handle it, you know?” I gave Mrs. Forrest a conspiratorial nudge.

  “I understand completely. I normally would insist on coming with you, but I’ve a party tonight and I need to get ready.” She blinked as a thought struck her. “Is that terribly insensitive of me?”

  We assured her it wasn’t and, after several reassurances that we would be quick and return the keys promptly, she let us go and disappeared inside. Cheryl almost wilted with relief.

  “I can’t believe that worked,” she whispered as we scurried down the stairs and across the parking lot to the building where Annabelle’s apartment was.

  “It only did because this is a small town and the police haven’t arrived yet. We need to make this snappy.”

  She nodded in agreement as we stopped in front of Annabelle’s first-floor apartment. The key was a little sticky, but we managed to get the door open and get inside without anyone noticing.

  The place was neat as a pin. I pulled out two pairs of rubber gloves and handed one to Cheryl.

  “Are you kidding me? You carry these things around with you?”

  “I do now. Can’t be muddying the waters by leaving our fingerprints lying around, can we? The last thing we need is to join Portia in jail.”

  “Good point.”

  I glanced around trying to figure out where Annabelle would hide something incriminating. “I’m guessing she would keep anything sensitive either in her computer or tucked away somewhere like her bedroom or the flour canister. You’re better with computers, so why don’t you check her laptop?” I pointed at the machine on the dining room table.

  “Am I looking for anything specific?”

  I shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, but I’m betting it’ll have something to do with the museum.”

  Cheryl nodded and sat down, flipping open the laptop. The sound of tapping filled the room as she got lost inside the computer.

  I made my way first to the bedroom. With a small child in the house, it seemed the most likely place to hide something important.

  Annabelle’s bedroom was surprisingly...purple. Purple walls, purple and pink Persian rug at the foot of a bed with a purple, ruffled bedspread. Everywhere I looked there was so much...purple. Now, I like purple, but it was a bit much.

  Next to the purple bed was a nightstand that had probably had its heyday in the seventies. At some point it had been refurbished with a white, shabby-chic paint job and fancy, purple glass drawer pulls. On top it was a lamp (purple shade, naturally), an alarm clock/docking station (ordinary black), and an e-reader (with purple cover). There was also a glass with about an inch of water in the bottom, a bottle of painkillers, and lip balm in a round tin.

  Inside the single drawer was all the detritus people usually kept by their beds: phone charger, random change, throat lozenges, hairpins, and a pack of tissues. I swung open the door beneath it to reveals stacks of books, mostly romances.

  I had no more luck under the bed. She had one of those long, plastic tubs on wheels stuffed full of winter clothes. Other than that, the area was a breeding ground for dust bunnies. A quick look through her chest of drawers was no more fruitful.

  The final hiding place was the closet. It had one of those double fan-folding slatted doors. I kind of liked the dramatic effect of whipping them open at the same time.

  I stared in shock. Annabelle’s closet was a hot mess. The rest of her place might be neat as a pin, but it looked like a tornado had ripped through the small space, clothes and shoes shoved willy-nilly in every available space until it
looked as if they might explode out into the room in a blazing attempt to escape.

  I grinned. This was it. If Annabelle had a dirty secret, it would be here.

  I pawed through inexpensive dresses, faux-leather handbags, and boxes full of cheap jewelry. Nothing looked out of place. I gave a grunt of frustration and dove in, digging deeper all the way to the back of the shelves until I felt something cold and metallic. I carefully pulled it out, narrowly avoiding an avalanche.

  I stared at the thing in horror. It was an antique bookend, and it was spattered in a reddish-brown substance.

  “Oh, my word what is that?” Cheryl gasped. I glanced up to find her standing in the bedroom doorway, hand on her heart.

  “I think it’s blood.”

  Before either of us could say another word, the sound of police sirens echoed outside. A little too close for comfort.

  Cheryl let out an expletive. “What now? Bat is going to be furious.”

  “Not if he doesn’t know we’ve been here.”

  “And how are we going to manage that, Viola?” she snapped.

  I glanced around. Annabelle’s bedroom window faced the front, which meant we’d be easily spotted from the parking lot. We couldn’t go back to the living room for the same reason.

  I poked my head into the bathroom. A small window above the toilet led to the back of the building, totally out of sight. “We go out there,” I said, pointing at the window.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Not even a little.”

  With a huff, Cheryl stomped into the bathroom, climbed up on the toilet, and slid the window open. A screen stood between us and freedom, and she gave it a good push. It went clattering to the ground.

  “Hurry it up,” I hissed. I could hear the police cars screech to a halt outside. Cheryl pulled herself up and wiggled through the window with ease. My turn.

  I dumped the bookend on the bed where Bat would be sure to see it, then I jogged into the bathroom and climbed up on the toilet. It wasn’t easy hoisting myself onto the window ledge. The frame cut into my belly and ribs rather painfully. I managed to wiggle my shoulders through, but then my hips got caught in the narrow window.

  “Cheryl,” I hissed. “Help.”

  She looked up at me. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m stuck.”

  She sighed. “What do you want me to do about it?”

  “Grab my hands and pull.”

  She did what I asked, but I didn’t budge. My hips were firmly wedged in the window with my head poking outside and my backside in full view of anyone who walked in the bathroom. Maybe the police wouldn’t notice. Maybe they’d walk right by the bathroom without looking...

  “Well, well. What have we got here?” Bat’s voice came through muffled behind me.

  I closed my eyes and let out a string of words that would have had my mother reaching for the soap.

  Chapter 19

  It’s Not Like I’m Dead

  “I SHOULD ARREST YOU.” Detective Battersea was not amused. Not that I blamed him.

  We were sitting in Annabelle’s living room. Bat and one of his officers had managed to get me unstuck and dragged me back through the window. It had been embarrassing to say the least. Cheryl hadn’t even made an attempt to get away and was sitting primly beside me on the couch with an “I told you so” expression on her face.

  “Hey, the landlady let us in. Nothing illegal here,” I said stubbornly.

  Detective Battersea glanced heavenward as if angelic beings might flit down to save him from my shenanigans. Good luck with that. “You knew very well that we would want to inspect the victim’s home.”

  “I knew no such thing.” I crossed my arms and matched him glare for glare. Liar, liar! Whatever. He couldn’t prove I had known and, therefore, couldn’t arrest me. Probably.

  After finding the bloody bookend in Annabelle’s closet, I’d planned to call the police. It was crucial evidence in a murder investigation. No getting around that. Unfortunately, I hadn’t counted on the police getting there before I could do so. Now we undoubtedly looked guilty instead of snoopy.

  “Ms. Roberts—”

  “Viola. Now listen, Detective. I admit that maybe I let my curiosity get the better of me.” He let out a loud snort which I ignored. “But the fact of the matter is, the moment I found anything of importance, I was going to call you. Wasn’t that nice of me?” I all but batted my eyelashes at him, trying to play the innocent. “You just got here first, and I panicked.”

  Detective Battersea turned to Cheryl. “That what happened?”

  “Yes, sir,” she chirped dutifully.

  “What I should do is arrest you and throw away the key.” He sighed heavily. “Fine. Both of you get out of here before I change my mind.”

  We got. Just as fast as our legs would take us. Cheryl, being taller and fitter, made it to the car and had the engine roaring before I was halfway across the parking lot.

  “Geez,” I huffed, practically jumping into the car as she peeled out of the lot. “Good way to make us look guilty.”

  “I don’t care. I do not want to spend the night in the slammer.”

  “Yeah. Does anyone actually call it the slammer anymore?”

  She shot me a death glare.

  “Okay, fine. Maybe this wasn’t my most brilliant idea,” I admitted.

  “Actually, it may have been.” I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

  “Right before you found that bloody bookend, I discovered something on Annabelle’s laptop.” She gave me a smug smile as she backed out of the parking space.

  “Go on.”

  “I found a string of emails. I think she was blackmailing someone.”

  My eyes widened. “She was emailing the person she was blackmailing?”

  “No. Not that. She was emailing a friend and made some comments about how she knew some things about a local murder.”

  “August Nixon!”

  She nodded. “That’s my guess. The first mention of it was after his death. Then she made comments about how her life was going to be better soon.”

  I mulled that over. “Sounds like blackmail to me. But no mention of who she was blackmailing?”

  Cheryl shook her head. “Nope.”

  “Of course not. That would be too easy.” I sighed and leaned back in the seat. Rain was still coming down, turning the world outside into a muted blur of color. “I’m willing to bet that whoever it was, it was August Nixon’s killer, and he, or she, also murdered Annabelle.”

  “That’s a sucker’s bet.” Cheryl took a hard left toward the bridge leading back to Astoria. “Now what?”

  “Now I think you better slow down,” I said, gripping the edge of my seat. She’d taken the turn a little too fast for my liking. And as we barreled toward the narrow bridge, I could suddenly see us careening out of control and plunging over the side into the Icey bay.

  Cheryl shook her head. “Can’t.” Her voice was grim. “That jerk behind us is practically up my tailpipe.”

  I turned to glance behind us. Sure enough, a big, black SUV with tinted windows was so close behind us he was practically in Cheryl’s trunk.

  “Tap the breaks,” I suggested. “That ought to get him to back off.”

  She did as I suggested. No luck. He seemed determined to drive over the top of us.

  “Why doesn’t he pass us?” Cheryl asked, voice tight.

  I didn’t answer because it was obvious. The two-lane bridge was heavily trafficked at this time of day. He had no room to pass even if it had been legal. Instead he was being a jerk face.

  We both breathed a sigh of relief as we exited the bridge. The highway expanded into four lanes as it entered a roundabout. Cheryl took the inside lane, circling left toward Astoria. The SUV roared around to the right. Then, without signaling, it veered into our lane and smashed the front end of Cheryl’s car with an ear-piercing shriek of metal on metal.

  We jerked heavily in our seats, my headache roaring to li
fe, as our car careened into the middle of the roundabout, jerking and bumping over shrubs and flowers until it came to a stop against the “Welcome to Astoria” sign. The SUV roared off, fishtailing as it went.

  “DIDN’T YOU JUST GET out of the hospital?” Detective Battersea eyed me as I sat in the back of the ambulance. I’d insisted I didn’t need medical attention. They’d ignored me. My head hurt too bad to argue.

  I shrugged, wincing a little as the action jarred my head. “I like to live on the edge.”

  He snorted. “More like survive by the skin of your teeth. She okay?” he asked the EMTs.

  The female EMT, who had been taking my pulse, nodded. “It’s a miracle, but she’s good. They both are.”

  “I can’t believe this.” Cheryl was stomping back and forth next to the ambulance, her face a thunderstorm. “That car was practically new, and now look at it.”

  It was messed up, for sure. The entire front end was crumpled beyond repair, and there was a huge scrape along the passenger’s side. Other than a seatbelt bruise across her chest, Cheryl was fine. Grumpy, but fine.

  “What happened?” Battersea poised his pen over his pad of paper. I glanced at Cheryl. She was still fuming, so I quickly and succinctly told the detective what had happened.

  “You get the license plate?” he asked Cheryl.

  “What?” She looked confused for a moment. Then her expression cleared. “Oh, no. It happened so fast I didn’t have time to react, much less think. It was deliberate, I tell you. I’ll bet you anything this was another attempt to kill Viola.”

  “You’re exaggerating,” I assured her. Actually, I didn’t believe that for a moment, but she was working herself up into a tizzy.

  “I’m not. Every time you get mixed up in a murder, you end up nearly dead yourself!” It came out as a wail.

  “You’ve gotten mixed up in a homicide before?” Detective Battersea’s eyebrow went way up.

  I shifted uncomfortably. “In Florida. It was no big deal. I happened to be at a conference where someone got killed. That’s all.”

  “No big deal!” Cheryl squawked. “Two people got murdered. Not one. Two. And someone tried to push you down the stairs. And then the killer—”