Too Rich and Too Dead (30 page)

Harriet really played me for a fool, Mallory thought bitterly. She
is
the murderer—yet she was crafty enough to talk me into investigating the murder and trying to pin the blame on someone else.

She held the steering wheel tightly, furious with herself for being duped. Still, as preoccupied as she was, she made a point of checking her rearview mirror every few seconds to make sure no diabolical
pickup trucks were following her down the narrow, twisting road.

She was still gripped with rage as she turned on Harriet's street. She purposely parked half a block away from the house she identified as the accountant's, glad that rental car companies specialized in the blandest vehicles imaginable. Then she walked down the street, trying to act casual. When she reached the house, she saw there was no fence around the property, no BEWARE OF DOG signs, and no other obstacles that might make it difficult for her to approach the front door.

The small, two-story Victorian house was modest but well maintained. While its owner hadn't exactly gone overboard with making it seem homey, there were a few personal touches that made it welcoming. Half a dozen flower pots edged the wooden steps that led to the front porch, where a wooden swing with what looked like a fairly fresh coat of paint swayed gently in the early afternoon breeze.

Mallory recognized the Ford Escort parked in the driveway as Harriet's. But there was another car right behind it, one she didn't recognize. That one also had Colorado license plates. The fact that it blocked Harriet's car led Mallory to believe that the visitor didn't expect to stay long.

As she lingered in front of the house next door, planning what she would say once she rang the doorbell, the front door suddenly swung open, banging against the shingles loudly. Mallory slipped behind the thick trunk of a large tree, her eyes widening as she peered around the side.

“A deal is a deal!” she heard Harriet cry.

“Not when the terms change,” a man grumbled.

He was stocky and dressed in clothes so wrinkled they looked as if they'd spent the night balled up on the floor. His head was completely shaved, and he wore a single gold earring. The glint of the metal matched the glint in his eyes.

“Keep your voice down,” Harriet insisted. “Or do you want every one of my neighbors to hear us?”

“I don't give a rat's ass what your stupid neighbors think,” the man growled. “I want more money. This job turned out to be a lot dirtier than I thought. I had no idea this was going to end up all over the news!”

Mallory grabbed onto the tree trunk to steady herself. Was it possible that Carly's murder had been the result of a contract killing? Had Harriet
hired
someone to kill her employer?

Her head was spinning from what she had just seen and heard.

But she was sure of one thing: Confronting Harriet to find out what she could learn about either Carly's real drug of choice or the lawsuit no longer seemed wise.

If Mallory was going to find out what it was all about, she was going to have to do it herself—
without
Harriet knowing.

The other times Mallory had come to Tavaci Springs, the secluded spa had seemed like a glamorous enclave for those who possessed too much
time, money, and vanity. Now that Mallory was here alone, however, it struck her as downright eerie.

The isolated grounds were silent except for the chirping of birds, and the large windows that linked the indoors with the outdoors seemed to be staring at her blankly. As she walked through the property, her shoes crunched loudly against the gravel, causing her to look around nervously, hoping no one was watching her.

From what she could see, she was completely alone.

She held her breath as she tried the door of the back building, hoping that the events of the past few days hadn't prompted the staff to change the security codes. But as soon as she punched in the numbers she remembered Harriet using, 5–5–2–2, she heard a beep. When she tried the knob, it turned easily in her hands.

She hurried through the dark hallway, glancing from right to left. But the building was even more silent than the outdoors, with no birds singing and no gravel colliding against the soles of her feet.

As she stole into Harriet's office, her heart pounded so hard she felt nauseated. She could hear the blood throbbing in her temples as she prepared to do something she found painful.

I really like Harriet, she thought miserably. The last thing I want is to find out that she actually is a murderer.

But not only did she want justice to be served. She was also desperate to know whether she had been set up from the very start.

Mallory was reluctant to turn on any lights, so she was glad there was enough natural light coming through the window. Her goal was to find out what Harriet had been so anxious to hide the day before—and to get out before anyone spotted her. Then, once she had seen enough to convince her that Harriet was indeed the killer, she planned to go to the police. As for the details of how she would convince them, she had yet to work that out.

At the moment, however, she had a more immediate concern: how to break into the metal file cabinet. Unlike the front door of the building, it didn't open with a code. It required a key. And the only key Mallory had seen was the one Harriet had slipped into her pocket.

But she figured it was unlikely that Harriet carried the key to her file cabinet with her at all times. It was more likely it had a special place right here in the office.

Still, while the room wasn't very big, it was extremely cluttered. Just glancing around at the stacks of folders, office supplies, boxes, envelopes, and all the other accountrements required to run a business made her feel as deflated as a balloon the day after the birthday party.

How will I ever find that key? Mallory thought, remembering how tiny it was and contemplating the thousands of places Harriet could have stashed it.

She wondered if there was a simpler way to open the drawer. After all, in books and movies people were always picking locks using hairpins.

Desperately she glanced around, even though she
was aware that it was unlikely that she'd find a hairpin on Harriet's desk. After all, fussing with her hair didn't exactly strike her as Harriet's style.

Yet she was heartened when she noticed an item that struck her as close enough: a paper clip. She grabbed a large one that had been left on the desk, pulled it apart to turn it into a thin metal stick, and plunged it into the lock.

“Come on, come on…” she muttered as she poked it around inside the tiny hole.

The truth was that she didn't have a clue as to what she was supposed to be doing. All she knew was that in the movies, this technique always looked so easy. Then again, it was possible that hairpins possessed some magical property that paper clips just didn't have.

When she heard a click, it was all she could to keep from crying out in triumph. That is, until she realized that what she'd heard was the sound of the paper clip snapping in two.

“Great,” she mumbled, tossing it into the trash.

She decided to return to Plan A, which was hunting down the key. She began by opening drawers, feeling under stacks of papers and rifling around in containers filled with more paper clips, pennies, and erasers. Then she ran her finger along shelves and even the top of the door. Finally, in a last desperate attempt, she dumped out the contents of the pencil mug sitting on the desk.

Mallory let out a cry when there, among all the pens and pencils, she actually spotted a small silver key that looked very much like the one she'd seen
Harriet use. Still, it wasn't until she shoved it into the lock and felt the perfect fit that she realized she had, indeed, found exactly what she was looking for.

She glanced around furtively, remembering Harriet saying that she sometimes thought the walls had ears. For all Mallory knew, they also had eyes. But once she had assured herself that at least it didn't appear that anyone was watching her, she pulled the drawer open.

Mallory's heart pounded furiously as she peered inside. Despite all the chaos outside the cabinet, inside this particular drawer there was only one thing: a thick manila folder.

Written neatly on the outside in large capital letters was a single word:
LAWSUIT.

Surprise, surprise, she thought wryly. Juanita was right.

Tentatively Mallory opened the folder and read the top page:
Harriet Vogel, plaintiff
, v.
Rejuva-Juice Corporation, defendant.

It's backward, Mallory thought, puzzled.

But her cloud of confusion cleared as she realized that while Juanita had been correct about the lawsuit, she'd apparently gotten the details wrong. Carly wasn't suing Harriet; Harriet was suing Carly.

So much for Juanita's supernatural eavesdropping powers, she thought wryly.

But
why
was Harriet suing Carly? she wondered. And if it was Harriet who had initiated the lawsuit, why would that make her angry enough to kill Carly? It should have been the other way around.

She sat cross-legged on the floor and perused the
contents of the folder, page after page of dense legalese. She stopped when she came across a thin notebook with a soft cover and stapled sides. As soon as she flipped it open she realized it was a journal of some sort. Actually, it was more like a log, one in which somebody had recorded events in a straightforward, factual way.

How am I ever going to make sense of all this? she thought with dismay.

But she forced herself to focus on the first page, holding the tiny, handwritten notes close as she tried to decipher them.

“April 12, 2004,” the first entry began. “Realized I could use the Internet to pursue my interest in health tonics after finding an article about nontraditional treatments. Decided to explore possibilities.”

Mallory scanned down the page, glancing at the entries that followed. One read, “Found more than ten articles on health benefits of folic acid. Must learn about its mechanisms in the body.” Another said, “Exciting new developments at Life Sciences Institute in Amsterdam. Contact for permission to visit.” A third said, “Set up appointment with Dr. Marilou Moschetti re: discoveries about body's ability to rebuild.”

As she read on, Mallory wondered if perhaps she'd stumbled upon a log that Carly had kept.

After she'd skimmed several pages, she turned over a page and found a single sheet of paper, folded in half and stuck inside the book. Frowning, she opened it. Carefully printed on top were the words “HEALTH DRINK.”

Below, written in the same handwriting as the journal, was what looked like a recipe.

As Mallory skimmed it, she immediately recognized the names of some of the ingredients. Açaí berries, goji juice… she remembered that those had been mentioned in that
New York Times
article. She seemed to recall Carly being quoted as saying that they were well-known as restorers of youth and vitality. The other ingredients that were listed had equally strange names.

A wave of intense heat ran through her as she realized what she was looking at. It was the recipe for Rejuva-Juice. The original recipe.

But why would Harriet have the recipe and Carly's journal? Mallory flipped through the other pages in the folder, various notes and letters, some with Harriet's scribbled signature. And that's when the truth dawned on her. The recipe was written in
Harriet's
handwriting and stuck into
her
journal.

Almost as if Harriet, and not Carly, had developed the magic potion that had given birth to a multimillion-dollar enterprise. One for which Carly, and not Harriet, had received both accolades and lots of money.

But Mallory was still confused. If Harriet is the real inventor of Rejuva-Juice, she thought, then why is everyone acting as if Carly invented it? And if Carly stole it—and if Harriet actually initiated a lawsuit over ownership—why would Harriet have worked for her all these years, cheerfully going along with the charade?

She was still puzzling over what she had found and
what it meant when she heard another click. A loud click, one that had nothing to do with a paper clip snapping in two.

In fact, she had seen enough movies in her day to know exactly what she was hearing. So she wasn't all that surprised when she slowly turned her head and saw that the click had come from a gun.

Or that the person holding the gun was Harriet.

H
ello, Harriet,” Mallory said, trying to sound matter-of-fact instead of letting on that she felt as if her heart was about to explode in her chest. “I see you have a gun.”

Harriet nodded. “I've had it for years. I got it ages ago, just in case I ever felt threatened.”

Mallory found herself unable to stop staring at it. Somehow, letting it out of her sight seemed unwise, given the fact that it was pointed right at her.

“But It's only me,” she said, her voice catching. “Surely you don't feel threatened right now.”