The Poison in the Pudding Page 9

  I grinned. “You nailed me in one.”

  She set two more bottles of pinot noir on the counter. One was half the price, and one was nearly double. “These bottles are also decent.”

  “Because you don’t carry a bad wine,” Cheryl said confidently.

  Nina nodded graciously. “I try. The point is, pinot noir drinkers on a budget would go for this one.” She touched the neck of the cheaper bottle. “It’s not as good as the first wine, but it is good and it fits the budget conscious.”

  A.k.a, the broke.

  “The more expensive bottle is actually no better than the twenty-dollar bottle. It’s good, of course, but there’s no need to pay extra when the other wine is just as good. However, there is a certain prestige to being able to toss enough cash to drink a bottle of thirty-eight-dollar wine when everyone else is drinking the twenty.”

  “What does this have to do with The Louse?” Cheryl asked.

  Nina carefully put the wines away. “August Nixon has always been a thirty-eight-dollar drinker. He cared far more about appearances than quality or taste. About a year ago, however, he dropped to ten-dollar wine for about six months or so. Then suddenly he was back to the more expensive stuff. I assumed, you know, he’d gone through a rough patch and that he’d recovered. It happens.”

  “Now you’re thinking his financial upswing coincides with the museum thefts,” I guessed.

  She nodded. “That was my thought, yes.”

  “Do you remember when exactly that happened?”

  She stared at the ceiling for a moment, trying to recall. “Last summer is when he dropped to the cheap stuff. Three months ago, he went back to his old habits.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Tomorrow I’ll see if Roger can corroborate.”

  ROGER COLLINS WASN’T exactly what I expected. Not that August Nixon had been a prize, but I had figured that Mary Nixon would’ve had more exacting taste the second time around. Maybe even a younger man.

  In fact, Roger Collins was nearly a decade older than August Nixon and probably should have been retired years ago. He wore his white hair longish down the back, but carefully tucked into an orderly queue, and a neatly trimmed goatee, also pure white. He was like an aging hippie who hadn’t quite caught on to the rest of the world yet. I was horrified to find he wore socks with his sandals. My nose was equally horrified to discover he was overly fond of patchouli. If Mary was aiming for the opposite of August, she’d done it.

  “Won’t you come into my office?” he asked, ushering me up the stairs of the Flavel carriage house in a gentlemanly fashion. He had a slight drawl that was impossible to place. “Would you like a cup of tea? I’m certain we have some around here somewhere.” He paused looked around vaguely as if tea would suddenly appear in the middle of the stairwell.

  “We’re out, Mr. C,” Annabelle chirped from her position at the register. It was apparently her turn in the gift shop today. “I can go grab some at the coffee shop, if you want?”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.” I assured them both.

  Satisfied that I wasn’t about to expire with thirst, Roger continued up the stairs with me following close behind. The carriage house sat at the edge of the Flavel property and had been converted into a combination gift shop/ticket box on the main floor with offices and a small employee lounge on the top floor.

  We passed a closed door with a large sign declaring “August Nixon, Director.” A plan formed in my brain, but I shoved it aside. For now.

  Halfway down the short hall, Roger swung open a door with a sign that read “R. Collins - Asst. Dir.” I wondered if they had to pay per letter.

  His office suited him to a tee. It was like something straight out of a movie. The high-ceilinged room boasted a small, cast-iron chandelier and rustic wall sconces. Shelves of books and knickknacks took up every available wall. Heavy curtains turned the room almost gloomy. Heavy Victorian furniture and a wine-red carpet added to the gloom. The large oak desk was piled high with stacks of books and files which leaned precariously toward the edge, threatening to leap off at any moment and make a run for it.

  Roger hurriedly cleaned off a straight-backed chair and urged me to sit while he climbed over a stack of encyclopedias to get to his own chair behind the desk. It creaked heavily as he sank into it. He let out a heartfelt sigh. “Now, how may I assist you, Miss...Violet, was it?”

  “Viola,” I corrected.

  “What a lovely name. Were you named after the flower? Or the instrument?”

  “My great-grandmother.”

  “Ah.” He nodded sagely as if that explained everything.

  “I’m here because I’m helping the police with their investigations into Mr. Nixon’s murder,” I said. It was a bit of a lie. Bat would no doubt be furious if he found out I was claiming to be working with the police, but who would tell him?

  “Nasty business, that,” Roger said, expression grim. He glanced around, dug under some papers, and came out with a plastic bag of gummy bears. “Something sweet?” he offered.

  “No thanks.” With my luck, they were pot gummies. Totally legal now, but still not my thing.

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He popped one into his mouth and chewed lazily. “How are you helping, exactly?”

  He was sharper than he seemed. Not such a hippie pothead after all. “Just talking to people. Tying up loose ends. That sort of thing.”

  “How odd.”

  “They’re short staffed.”

  “Well, anything I can do to help.” He folded his hands neatly on the desk. “August was not my favorite person, but his family did not deserve to be put through that kind of loss.”

  “Did you know about Mr. Nixon’s gambling problem?”

  He stilled. “Unfortunately, yes.” His tone hinted at extreme displeasure.

  “So, you knew he was stealing from the museum.”

  He took a moment to answer and finally let out a sigh. “Yes. I caught him at it.”

  “And he was okay with that?” I couldn’t imagine August would be pleased that his underling could hold something like that over him.

  “Not really,” he said grimly. “He threatened to frame me for it if I told anyone.”

  “Sounds like an excellent motive for murder.”

  “It would be,” he admitted. “Except I have an alibi.” He popped another gummy.

  “And it is...?”

  “Oh, yes. I was at a pot party.” He chewed enthusiastically.

  Of course he was. “Of course you were. What’s a pot party?”

  “It’s like a potluck, but everyone brings pot to share. Edibles, smokes, whatever.”

  “That’s a thing?”

  “Sure. Has been since the sixties. Only it’s legal now. Police already confirmed my alibi.”

  Well, there went a great suspect. Darn it. “Out of curiosity, what exactly was he doing? And how did he pull it off? August, I mean.”

  “Well...” He chewed thoughtfully. “Like most museums, Flavel House has many items that have been donated throughout the years. Most of them aren’t even on display. It’s easy enough to liberate one or two items from storage and sell them on eBay. I’m afraid security around here is fairly lax. And this is a small-town museum with a small team. Mostly volunteers. Normally it would be years before the theft was discovered, if ever. So, it was fairly easy. Apparently he’d been doing it for months. A vase here. A first edition there.”

  “Do you know when he started?”

  “Not precisely, no. But from what I can extrapolate, for at least the last three or four months.”

  Which jibed with Nina’s observation that August had been able to afford more expensive wine again three months ago. I was surprised, knowing what I did of his lack of moral compass, that it had taken August that long to come up with the idea of stealing the museum’s artifacts.

  “One other thing, Mr. Collins.”

  “Roger, please.”

  Was it just me or were his eyes getting glassy? “Roger.
Rumor has it that you were having an affair with August Nixon’s wife.”

  “Mary? Oh, yes. For the last two or three years. But it’s all over now.” He gave a long sigh, his face turning into a sad, hangdog expression. “I miss her.” He popped two more gummies. “You have no idea.”

  Since I’d never had an affair with anyone’s wife, I supposed he was right about that. I gave him what I hoped was a sympathetic smile. “When did you end it?”

  “Oh, I didn’t. She did. About a month ago.”

  Which was interesting, since Mary Nixon had claimed they were still an item.

  Chapter 15

  Viola the Snoop

  MY PHONE VIBRATED IN my pocket as I parked my car a few blocks away from Flavel House. I pulled it out and glared at the screen glowing in the dark. It was nearly ten at night. I totally forgot that he’d promised to call. “Hello, Lucas.”

  “You sound put out.”

  Oops. I guess my impatience was showing. “Oh, no, I’m just, ah, busy. Distracted.”

  “Busy? Are you writing?”

  I didn’t think lying to Lucas was a good idea, but no way could I tell him the truth. He’d lecture me for sure. “More like research.”

  There was a lengthy pause. “Are you snooping, Viola?”

  “Why would you assume that?” I tried to sound offended, but it was difficult when he’d hit the hammer on the nail so thoroughly.

  “Maybe because it seems to be your favorite pastime these days. What are you up to this time?”

  I sighed. “I can’t tell you.”

  I could almost see him pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re breaking and entering again, aren’t you?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Just be careful, okay? Try not to get arrested. Or murdered.”

  I laughed. “Everything is fine. Stop worrying. I’ve gotta go.”

  He mumbled something about “worrying comes with the job description” before bidding me goodnight and hanging up. I shook my head as I stuffed my phone back in my pocket and climbed out of the car. The Flavel House loomed above me, a dark, spooky presence against the night sky. Everyone had long gone home, and the only light was the soft amber glow of the front porchlight.

  I double-checked my kit. Which was technically my cross-body purse. Gloves for preventing fingerprints? Check. Screwdriver for jimmying locked desk drawers? Check. Full charge on phone for photo evidence and flashlight? Check. Excuse for being in the carriage house long after closing? Well, I’d figure that one out on the fly.

  I quickly walked the few blocks to the museum and skirted around to the carriage house. I paused at the bottom of the steps leading to the main floor. It was one of those things where the sloping hill created an almost daylight basement effect with the bottom half of the basement exposed rather than underground. I’d noticed on my earlier visit that there were two doors into the basement. One a restroom for visitors and the other marked “private.” I was hoping the “private” door was connect to the main floor somehow.

  The lock was flimsy, and I made short work of it with help from a mini bolt cutter—why I had purchased the thing, I didn’t know, but it seemed a good idea at the time.

  I pushed the door open and stepped inside before shutting it carefully behind me. Using my phone’s flashlight app, I scanned the basement. Sure enough, there were steps leading upward to another door.

  Bingo!

  The door was unsurprisingly locked, but it was one of those little knob locks that anyone over the age of five can unlock with a screwdriver. And I just happened to have a screwdriver.

  Standing still in the gift shop, I tried to orient myself in the dark. The Louse’s office was upstairs on the right. I winced as the stairs creaked heavily under my feet. Not that it mattered. Nobody there but me and the ghosts. Not that I believed in ghosts, mind you, but it was certainly spooky enough.

  The Louse’s office was also locked, but again, I made short work of it. Honestly, they needed to invest in better locks. Not that it would have made a difference since the employees were doing the stealing.

  I shone my flashlight around, revealing an office even more luxurious than Roger’s. A plush, red couch sat along one wall with an expensive-looking oil painting hanging above it. The chandelier was crystal, and the wall sconces much more elegant than Roger’s. The books in here were expensive, leather-bound tomes that had never been touched instead of the cheap, heavily thumbed paperbacks in Roger’s office, and the desk looked like something appropriate for a man with a Napoleon complex.

  I figured the place to start was the desk, so I pulled open the first drawer and immediately made a face. Sure, there was the usual tape, stapler, extra pens, and whatnot, but there were also several foil-wrapped prophylactics and a large tube of lube. Gross. August Nixon was a bigger louse than I thought. His poor wife.

  The second drawer contained neatly labeled manila envelopes full of receipts, a flashlight with extra batteries, and a first aid kit. How practical. I pulled out some of the receipts, but there was nothing interesting. Mostly gas station fill-ups, business lunches, and the occasional stop for stationary supplies. There was certainly nothing to indicate how August Nixon had been robbing the museum blind.

  The final drawer was locked. Voila!

  Digging around in my purse, I brought out the yellow-handled screwdriver. It was one of those flat blade ones, perfect for jimmying open drawers. About five minutes, a lot of cussing, and several gouges into the wood later (which I felt rather guilty about), I managed to pop open the third drawer. I gave a sigh of disappointment. There was nothing there but more files.

  I pulled them out one at a time. One held research notes on possible future patrons. Easy to understand why he’d lock up such sensitive information. Another held personal bank records. Probably trying to hide the true nature of their finances from his wife. Or maybe he just liked to have an extra set away from the house, in case the place burned down or something. That was writer’s brain for you. I could come up with all kinds of interesting scenarios.

  I dug through the files until I hit the bottom of the drawer. Nothing. Now what?

  I dumped the files back in the drawer and frowned as something struck me as odd. I stared at the drawer trying to figure out what it was. Then I realized. The inside of the drawer wasn’t quite as deep as it should be.

  Pulling the files back out, I dumped them on the desk and knelt in front of the drawer. I pressed the bottom of the drawer gently. There was a bit of give. I wanted to cheer out loud, but that didn’t really jibe with this clandestine excursion, so I bit my tongue and felt along the edges of the drawer bottom. Sure enough, there was a little depression along the back. I pressed down, and the front of the drawer bottom popped up, revealing a secret compartment beneath the false bottom.

  Inside was a little, navy blue, leather-bound notebook. A red ribbon marked a page near the middle. I snagged the notebook, letting the false bottom fall back into place. After replacing the files in the drawer and closing it, I turned my attention to my new find.

  I grinned like a Cheshire cat as I flipped to the marked page. I had all the evidence I needed. How it would prove Portia’s innocence, I had no idea, but I needed to get this to Detective Battersea straight away.

  Standing up, I started toward the door when a shock of pain lanced my skull. The floor rushed up to meet me a split second before everything went dark.

  Chapter 16

  WTF

  “MS. ROBERTS? VIOLA? Can you hear me?”

  I swam slowly to the surface, consciousness taking over. I wished it hadn’t. My head throbbed like a marching band had taken up residence, and my stomach was a fraction of an inch from rebelling all over the carpet that my face was currently smooshed into.

  I swallowed and turned my head slightly. My tongue felt thick. “Wh—what happened?” I squinted as the man’s face zoomed in and out of focus.

  “You’ve had a bit of an accident, Ms. Ro
berts,” the man said. He had on a white shirt with some kind of patch on it. And was that a stethoscope around his neck? “We should get her to the hospital.” He turned to someone else standing behind him.

  The “someone else” moved, and I recognized Detective Battersea’s forbidding expression. “I need to question her.” Oh, that wasn’t good.

  “And you can,” said the man in the white shirt, “after a doctor’s looked her over. She’s likely got a concussion. Possibly a serious one.”

  Bat grimaced. “Fine. But I’ll be visiting her at the hospital.”

  I tried to drum up some irritation that they were talking about me like I was a non-entity, but I couldn’t manage. My head hurt too badly.

  The man in the white shirt, along with a woman in similar clothing, loaded me onto a gurney. EMTs. They had to be. I still couldn’t figure out what was going on. An accident? What accident? And why was the detective there?

  As they hauled me out on the gurney, I realized I was at the Flavel carriage house. It all came flooding back to me: the breaking and entering, snooping around The Louse’s desk, finding the notebook, and then getting hit on the head. I patted myself down, finding no sign of my discovery.

  “The notebook!”

  “Take it easy Ms. Roberts,” the woman shushed me. “You need to rest.”

  “What notebook?” Bat leaned over me, looking grim.

  I swallowed. “I found a notebook. It totally proved August Nixon was stealing from the museum. I was going to bring it to you.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “I don’t know. Probably whoever hit me on the head has it.”

  He gave a deep sigh. “Ms. Roberts, you are a pain in my backside. I’ll see you at the hospital.”

  “YOU’RE LUCKY ROGER Collins has decided not to press charges for breaking and entering,” Detective Battersea said sternly as he perched on the chair next to my hospital bed.