The Poison in the Pudding Read online

  While we ate, I told her about Portia’s troubles with The Louse as well as our conversation about dealing with the situation. “She seems to think she’s stuck. That there’s nothing she can do.”

  Cheryl snorted. “Maybe she should go with Nina’s first suggestion. Consequences be hanged.”

  “Believe me, I’m tempted to do it for her.”

  We were waiting for the waiter to bring us our check when my phone started playing “Everybody Have Fun Tonight” by Wang Chung. I literally had no idea how my ringtone had gotten changed. Probably one of my nephews. They were always doing things like that as pranks when I visited my sister in Portland. I probably should have changed it back, but I liked the catchy tune. The caller ID told me it was Portia.

  “Hey, girl,” I shouted cheerfully over the din of the pub. Maybe she’d changed her mind. “We’re at Fort George. Want to join us?”

  “Viola, I’m at the museum. You’ve got to come quick.” She sounded panicked, which wasn’t like Portia.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked, digging around in my purse for bills. I threw some on the table, not caring if I was overpaying or not.

  “No, everything’s not all right,” she wailed. “The Louse has been murdered!”

  Chapter 2

  The Stiff in the Study

  I WAS GRATEFUL THE Flavel House had a burgundy carpet in the study. It made it harder to see the blood. And there was blood. Quite a bit of it. Some of it had splattered on the books lining the shelves and on the antique fire screen near the body. I winced inwardly. The body. I felt sort of badly for calling him “The Louse” now, but not too badly. The man had been a menace.

  August Nixon was sprawled on the carpet, sort of crumpled like a rag doll in front of the grand fireplace. He’d been a pudgy man, balding and pale from too much time indoors and not enough sun outdoors. Typical Pacific Northwesterner. He was wearing a sweater vest in an unfortunate shade of beige. I could see dark stains around the collar. My stomach turned.

  Next to the body lay a heavy, brass statuette of Eros. There was a sticky residue on one corner along with a few strands of hair. Obviously the murder weapon. I remembered seeing it gracing a hall table near the front door. Talk about abuse of artifact. The historical society would have kittens. It was obviously a weapon of opportunity. Did that mean the murderer hadn’t come here to kill Nixon? That it had been a spur of the moment thing? Maybe a crime of passion? Or perhaps the murder was planned, but the killer knew he’d have plenty of choices. No sense risking getting caught with a gun in your pocket.

  “What happened?” I asked Portia, who was hovering in the doorway, purse still clutched frantically to her chest. Her usually alabaster skin had gone pasty white. She should probably be sitting down, but that might mess with the crime scene or something, so I shoved her out into the hallway and urged her down onto a red velvet loveseat.

  “Ah, well, I headed home, like I told you, and as I passed the museum, I saw a light on.” Portia lived about three blocks up the hill from the museum in an ultra-modern condo building. It looked totally out of place in Astoria, but fitted her personality to a tee. “I figured I’d better check, just in case somebody forgot to turn off a light. But when I got here...” She shrugged as if what happened next should be obvious.

  “You called the police?”

  “Of course. Right before I called you.” I could see her hands shaking where she clutched her purse straps.

  Fort George was only a few blocks from the museum. It had taken me about five minutes to walk it, which explained why I’d gotten there ahead of the cops. Something I doubted they’d be thrilled about.

  “Did you touch anything?” It wouldn’t be good if her fingerprints were all over the crime scene. Though, of course, she worked there, so it wouldn’t be that odd.

  “Of course not,” she snapped, voice going shrill. “It was obvious he was dead, and I’ve seen CSI.”

  I heard voices out on the front porch. The police, no doubt. I quickly poked my head back into the study and glanced around the rest of the room. Besides the bookshelves, there were two large, comfortable-looking chairs with a table between them. On the table, a lamp glowed softly, and next to the lamp was a prosecco bottle and two empty glasses, one of them with a lipstick smear on the lip. Magenta, it looked like. I glanced at Portia. Her lipstick was a bright vintage red. I’d never seen her wear anything else. Besides which, Portia never drank anything but chardonnay. A woman had definitely been here, and I couldn’t imagine it had been long ago. There was still condensation on the bottle.

  I slipped my phone out of my pocket and snapped a picture of the lipstick for future reference. Just in case.

  The fact that Nixon would use the room and its priceless furnishings for some sort of assignation was repugnant. He was supposed to be protecting the historical building and its collections, not using them for his own ends. I guess they didn’t call him the Louse for nothing.

  The tromp of masculine feet in the hallway jarred me out of my thoughts. It wouldn’t do to let the cops catch me hovering around the body. I darted back to join Portia on the loveseat and wrapped my arm around her waist, just in time for the police to arrive.

  The first man was middle aged and dressed in a neat charcoal-gray suit with a plain white, perfectly pressed shirt and a blue and yellow striped tie. His black dress shoes were shined to high gloss. I recognized him immediately: James “Bat” Battersea. Although I’d grown up in Portland, I knew very well he was a big deal in Astoria. He was a hometown boy and had been a baseball star back in high school (hence the nickname “Bat”). Everybody thought he hung the moon and stars. He was a decent sort of fellow and did a lot of good things for the community, but I’d never run across him in a crime-solving capacity, so I had no idea of his experience with homicide.

  The other two were uniformed officers, both male. Were there no women on the Astoria force? Seriously, this was the twenty-first century.

  “Are you the ones that found the body?” Bat asked in a brusque, no-nonsense tone. The sort of tone that informed everyone that he was in charge and wouldn’t put up with any shenanigans. Well, tough. I was the Queen of Shenanigans.

  Portia hesitantly raised a hand. “I did.”

  He turned gimlet eye on me. “And you, ma’am?”

  I tried not to glare. I hated when people addressed me as “ma’am.” I wasn’t that old. “Portia called me after she rang the police. I’m here for moral support.”

  He gave an exasperated sigh and turned to the younger of the two police officers. “Chambers, take these two ladies outside and wait for me.”

  The cop nodded eagerly and waved us down the hall. Portia was all too eager to comply. After a parting glance through the open doorway at the crime scene, I followed reluctantly behind.

  Chambers led us out the front door and onto the wide, wraparound porch that hugged the massive Victorian. There wasn’t anywhere to sit, so I made myself comfortable on the top step. It was a little chilly, but not too bad. The porch had a good view of the town below as well as the lights of the ships hovering off the coast.

  Portia sunk down next to me and opened her mouth like she meant to say something, but I shook my head slightly. Chambers might look like an innocent, young newbie with his big hazel eyes and freckled nose, but I’d bet my last crumpled dollar that he was prepared to report anything we said to his boss. I reached over and squeezed her hand, which seemed to calm her slightly.

  At some point, the medical examiner arrived. Or what passed for one in Astoria. In actuality it was Mr. Voss, the local mortuary owner and funeral director over at Slumber Rest. He’d store the body until the state medical examiner could collect it and do a proper autopsy in Portland. Voss crept up the stairs like the shadow of death while his assistant wheeled a gurney up the walkway. One wheel squeaked loudly in the silent evening. They should see about fixing that. It was distracting.

  It felt like hours before Bat’s footsteps echoed down the ha
ll. He appeared in the front doorway looking as neat and orderly as he had before. His expression was a mask, giving nothing away. He’d have made an excellent poker player.

  He made his way down the steps so he could stand in front of us. He stared at us for a full minute. If he thought either one of us would break, he had another think coming.

  “Now, Miss—” He turned to Portia, one eyebrow lifted, waiting.

  She swallowed. “Wren. Portia Wren.”

  “You said you found the body? When was that?”

  “A little past eight. It was just getting dark.”

  “Bit late to be working.”

  She fidgeted, twisting her fingers in her lap. “I wasn’t.”

  “She’d been down at Sip with us all evening,” I barged in. Last thing we needed was the detective focusing on the wrong person.

  “And who is ‘us’?” he asked.

  “Nina Driver and me. Nina owns Sip—”

  “I’m familiar with Ms. Driver,” he cut me off rather rudely. “So, you left work for the bar at what time?”

  “Um, a little after five.” Portia’s voice was squeaky with nerves. I squeezed her hand again.

  “She arrived at Sip at precisely fifteen minutes past,” I injected.

  Bat gave me a look of annoyance. “And you know this how?”

  “I was on my computer at the time. I happened to look at the clock when she came in, of course.”

  He looked like he’d sucked on a lemon. “Of course.” He turned back to Portia. “And you left Sip when?”

  “Eight. Or maybe a little after.”

  “Eight-oh-five,” I interrupted again.

  “Ms. Roberts.” Ah, so he did know who I was. “Would you please refrain from interrupting?”

  “Just trying to help,” I said, leaning back against the step and crossing my arms. He ignored my glare.

  “Why did you come back to the museum after hours, Ms. Wren?”

  “I passed by on my way home. I happened to see there was a light on in the study, which there shouldn’t have been. I figured I’d better check it out.”

  “Why not call the police?”

  She gave him a confused look. “Why would I? It wasn’t like there was a break-in. I figured somebody accidentally left the lamp on. It happens.”

  “Was anyone here when you entered the building?”

  She shook her head. “Not that I could tell, but I saw the light was on in the study. I went to turn it off.” She looked a little faint. “And that’s when I found him.”

  The questions went on. Had she touched the body or the weapon? Of course not. Why had she called me? Because she was scared, of course. Did she and the victim have a relationship? That made her eyes pop.

  “Excuse me?” she nearly shrieked.

  “You heard me, Ms. Wren. Were you and the victim intimate?”

  She was beet red clear to the roots of her platinum-blond hair. “Of course not. The Louse? Are you kidding me? I admit I don’t have great taste in men, but please, give me some credit.”

  I winced at her tirade. Not a great way to convince the police she was innocent.

  “You called him The Louse?” Detective Battersea actually seemed amused by that.

  “We all did,” she mumbled defensively.

  “Why?” He stepped aside so Mr. Voss and his assistant could wheel the gurney by. I tried not to stare at the lumpy black bag sitting on top. Portia kept her eyes glued on Bat.

  “Because he was a sexist pig, that’s why. He was always grabbing the female employees and volunteers, propositioning them. Sometimes he’d even do it to tourists, which is no way to run a museum. He was mean to his wife, rude to his son, and a total jerk to Roger.”

  “Roger?” Bat asked.

  “Roger Collins. The assistant director here at Flavel House,” Portia informed him.

  I knew Roger. At least I knew of Roger. He sometimes frequented Sip on Friday evenings where he’d sit in the corner by himself nursing a glass of pinot noir. He was a sad little man with a hangdog expression and a fondness for tweed jackets with or without leather patches on the elbows. That The Louse would be mean to a man like Roger came as no surprise to me. Nixon had probably found him easy prey.

  “And what about you, Ms. Wren?” he asked.

  I narrowed my eyes. I didn’t like the tone of his voice.

  Portia looked confused. “What about me?”

  “Was he inappropriate with you?”

  She rolled her eyes. “He was inappropriate with everyone.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Fine!” she snapped. “Yes. He was sometimes inappropriate.”

  “In what way?”

  She grimaced. “Nothing too obvious. He’d make lewd comments and sometimes brush up against me and pretend it was an accident. That sort of thing.”

  I knew Portia was underplaying it, but I couldn’t blame her. Admitting The Louse had gotten handsy mere hours before his murder wouldn’t exactly make Portia look innocent. I mean, I knew she was, but the detective didn’t know her like I did, and I had experience with detectives jumping to incorrect conclusions where murder was concerned.

  After several more minutes of questioning, Bat turned to me. “How about you? Did you see or hear anything tonight?”

  It was my turn under the spotlight. “No. Like I said, Portia called me after she found the body. He was dead when I got here.”

  “And did you have any run-ins with the victim?”

  I propped my hands on my hips. “If you mean, did he make lewd comments or put his hands where he shouldn’t, then no. I only met the man once at a cocktail party. He was with his wife at the time, so I doubt he was willing to letch in front of her.”

  “Uh, sure.” He looked vaguely uncomfortable at my word usage. “Well, we’ll know more once we finish fingerprinting the crime scene. You ladies are free to go. For now.”

  He didn’t quite tell us not to leave town, but it was implied. As was the “or else” that would have naturally come after. I wasted no time dragging Portia down the stairs and out into the now dark streets of Astoria. The grand Victorian manor loomed above us in the dark, its single tower looking downright spooky.

  “I can’t believe he’s dead,” Portia whispered as we hustled toward her building. She was clearly still in shock. “Why would someone kill him?”

  “The Louse? You mean other than the fact he was harassing half the population of Astoria?”

  She let out a strangled laugh. “You exaggerate.”

  “Not by much. Come on.” I wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Let’s get you home before you fall down.”

  She glanced back at the museum. More windows were lit up now, and I could see figures going in and out. Crime-scene techs, no doubt.

  “That detective freaked me out. Do you think he believed me?”

  “Of course he did,” I assured her. “You were telling the truth. I’m sure he knows it.” I wasn’t sure of any such thing, but I didn’t want her worrying. She sighed in relief. “Good.”

  But deep in the pit of my stomach, I had a really bad feeling.

  Chapter 3

  What Happened to Portia?

  “PORTIA’S IN JAIL.”

  “Wh—” I rolled over and squinted at the clock. “Do you know what time it is, Cheryl Delaney?”

  “Of course I do. It’s six in the morning. Now, did you hear me?”

  I blinked blearily at the sunlight leaking around the edges of my blinds. I probably should get some curtains. I had pretty, lacy things, but they did nothing to stop the dreaded morning sun. I tried to focus on what Cheryl had said. Last night had been a late one. Portia and I had stayed up past midnight, chatting and laughing and sharing a medicinal bottle of wine. I’d only left after she fell asleep on the couch.

  I sat bolt upright in bed. “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure. Agatha called me. Said the police had been to Portia’s place and dragged her away in handcuffs.�
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  Agatha was Portia’s next-door neighbor. She also happened to part of the bunco group Cheryl and I played with every month. Not only that, but she was best friends with Cheryl’s mom, which is probably why she’d called Cheryl with the juicy gossip. She knew Cheryl and Portia were friends.

  I could hear Cheryl’s coffeemaker gurgling through the phone. Coffee. That was the ticket. I staggered out of bed, nearly falling on my face as my feet got tangled in the duvet drooping over the edge of the bed. I staggered through the house, floorboards creaking beneath my feet, intent on making the strongest caffeinated beverage humanly possible. To say I am not a morning person was to, perhaps, under-exaggerate.

  “Okay,” I said as I snapped one of those pod thingies into the coffeemaker. “Tell me everything.” I sank down at the tiny bistro table that sat in the breakfast nook just off the kitchen where my laptop lay neglected. I gave it a glare before turning my gaze to the window. It gave me a nice view of my backyard, which was in desperate need of some TLC. Although the riot of daffodils and hyacinths did distract one from the weeds somewhat.

  I loved my little Victorian cottage. It was the first thing I bought when I started making decent money as a writer. It had needed some work, but the place spoke to me, so I’d painted pale yellow with blue and pink trim exactly as it had been when the house had first been built. I had the floors redone and some windows fixed and generally made the place my own. It wasn’t as fussy as some of the houses, a little more on the simple side, but it suited me. Alas, I was not much of a gardener. I made a mental note to call one of the local guys to come over and work his magic.

  “There’s nothing to tell,” Cheryl insisted. “All I know is what I just told you.”