01 - Playing with Poison (3 page)

“Since you’re so sure it was murder,” he continued relentlessly, “what killed him? Your intuition tell you that?”

I stared at my bare feet and lamented my unprofessional appearance. Maybe if I were wearing a business suit, this cop would be less inclined to accuse me of murder. But there I was, impersonating Huck Finn yet again.

“Ms. Hewitt?”

I looked up. “Stanley Sweetzer was poisoned.”

Rye stared at me as if I had suddenly turned green and sprouted antennae from my forehead.

“Well?” I said. “He was, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, he was.” He kept staring. Apparently my antennae had started growing. “Now do you see the problem? How do you know all this?”

“What? You think I know because I’m the one who did it? Get a grip, Captain. What possible reason could I have for killing Stanley?”

Rye didn’t answer, so I insisted again, “I had no motive. You can’t arrest me without a motive.”

“I’m not here to arrest you.”

Thank you, God.

“However, someone who had a mind to might be able to argue a motive.”

I sat up and braced myself for who knows what. “Okay, enlighten me,” I said. “What is this supposed motive?”

“Jealousy.”

“Jealousy! Jealousy of what?”

“Of Ms. Poppe.”

I offered Rye the glare he so richly deserved. “That, sir, is absurd. Absolutely absurd.”

He held my eye. “It’s conceivable—conceivable mind you—that you were jealous of your friend’s love life.” I glared harder, but still failed to discourage him. “It’s happened before. A lonely woman—let’s say, a woman of a certain age—”

“I’m fifty two,” I interrupted. “And I am not lonely.”

Rye hesitated a moment before continuing, “—sees a younger woman with a rich and handsome boyfriend, and she gets jealous.”

I crossed my arms so as not to slap him. “Are you always this charming?” I asked.

The captain winced, which was satisfying indeed. That is, until Snowflake jumped onto his lap. He stroked the cat from head to tail, and she purred accordingly.

“I’m sorry,” he said to me, “but it looks bad. Especially considering your choice of career.”

“Excuse me? What are you talking about now?”

“Any prosecutor worth his salt would have a heyday with the kind of stuff you write. They would argue you have an overactive imagination when it comes to these things.”

“I’m a hack, Captain. A hack! I write stories just for fun. No one in their right mind takes them seriously.”

No response.

“Oh, for Lord’s sake.” I threw my hands in the air. “Now you’re wondering if I’m in my right mind, aren’t you?”

After enduring a few more uncomfortable seconds of silence, I decided to ask a few questions myself. “Okay, so how exactly was Stanley poisoned?” I held up my hand. “No, no, let me re-phrase that. How exactly did I go about poisoning the guy?”

Rye focused on the cat. “I’m not at liberty to tell you that,” he mumbled. “I will say, though,” he spoke up, “that homicide by poisoning is pretty uncommon nowadays. But for a nonviolent woman of a certain age—”

“Use that phrase one more time, Captain, and I will demonstrate homicide for you.”

Rye took a deep breath. “Can we have some tea?” he asked.

Tea! Was the man insane?

“Are you insane?” I didn’t wait for a reply. “You come in here and call me an ugly, old, bitch murderer, and then expect me to serve you tea?”

“I never said you were ugly.”

***

I closed my eyes and prayed for strength.

When I opened them again, I ascertained that Rye had not miraculously disappeared. I sighed dramatically and got up to make the damn tea as he took his barstool from the night before.

“Tell me about the other people who live here,” he asked as I put the kettle on.

“Karen Sembler and Peter Harrison live on the first floor.” I banged around getting our cups, et cetera. “This whole building used to belong to Mr. Harrison. When he retired he had it converted into condos to make some money. At least that’s my understanding.”

“You bought this place from him?”

“I did. I never dealt with him personally—the realtors handled it—but he was the seller.”

I poured the tea and shoved a cup in front of Rye. He offered an extremely polite thank you, but I continued to bang things around anyway. “That’s all I can tell you about Mr. Harrison. He’s very old and very reclusive.”

“He gives piano lessons down there?”

It dawned on me that Rye had already talked to my neighbors. I ceased all the unnecessary activity and tried to calm down. “The only time I ever even see Mr. Harrison is if I happen to be in the lobby when he opens his door and a piano student pops in or out.”

“And Karen Sembler?”

“Karen’s become a good friend.” I somehow sensed the need to defend her. “She works at home, too. She’s more or less converted her condo into a workshop. And she has a nice-sized private yard. She needs it to do all her welding and such.”

“She told me she’s a carpenter.”

“Karen’s an everything. She can build or fix anything. But mostly she builds fancy furniture for all the interior decorators down in Charlotte.”

“What about her personal life?”

“What about it?” I asked defiantly. “Do you think she was jealous of Candy, too? Maybe we were in on Stanley’s murder together? Is that it?”

“Answer the question, please.”

I petted Snowflake, who had jumped onto the counter and was pacing back and forth between us. “Okay, so I really don’t know that much about Karen’s personal life. She values her privacy.” I caught Rye’s eye. “As do I.”

“Is she involved with anyone?”

“You’re very nosey. Do you know that?”

“Yep. And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Are you involved with anyone, Ms. Hewitt?”

“That, sir, is none of your business.”

“I’m investigating a murder. Everything’s my business.” He pointed to my chest. “Where’d you get that?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your shirt,” he said. “It belongs to a man. So did the one last night.”

I rolled my eyes. “Would you give me a break? This stupid shirt is at least ten years old.”

“You remember where you got it?”

“Once upon a time, it belonged to my ex-husband, if you must know.”

“Oh, really?” Rye seemed far too intrigued.

“Read whatever you want into that, Captain. But I assure you—it’s just a shirt.”

“Mm-hmm.”

I drank my tea and wondered if the ordeal would ever end. Apparently not, since Rye insisted on hearing about my neighbors on the second floor. Oh well. At least we were moving away from the altogether depressing topic of my love life.

I explained that Candy Poppe and Bryce Dixon both rented from Mr. Harrison. “Bryce is in 2A above Karen, and Candy has 2B. You’ve already questioned Candy, correct?”

“I’ve talked to everyone here, but right now I’m interested in your perspective.”

“Well then, you know how much I care about Candy. I like Bryce, too.” I confirmed what Rye had already learned for himself—that Bryce Dixon is about Candy’s age, and a perpetual student.

“He just switched majors again,” I said. “Something to do with business this time. And he tends bar at The Stone Fountain. Candy, Karen, and I are over there a lot.”

“He ever involved with Ms. Poppe?”

I shook my head. “They’re just friends, as far as I know. As far as I know, Candy’s never dated Mr. Harrison, either.”

“Or Dixon?”

“No, Bryce hasn’t dated Mr. Harrison, either.”

“Ms. Hewitt,” he scolded. “Can’t you try to help me out here? Please?”

I rolled my eyes for the umpteenth time. “Okay, here’s the rundown on everyone’s love life.” I counted my neighbors off on my fingers, starting with my thumb. “I do believe Peter Harrison lives like a celibate monk. As does Karen.” I held up my index finger and kept thinking. “And you know what? So does Bryce.” Middle finger. I looked at the cat and raised my ring finger and pinky. “I suppose I better put myself in that category, too. And Snowflake.”

I slapped the counter. “There, so you see? Every single one of us must have been living vicariously through Candy Poppe’s love life.”

Rye ignored the sarcasm. “Bryce Dixon’s the only neighbor not from around here? Is that right?”

“Other than me,” I said. “Karen and Candy even went to the same high school. At different times, though. Karen graduated about ten years before Candy. And I assume Mr. Harrison’s family has been here since before dirt. Bryce is from some small town in Missouri. He was just home for vacation.”

“What about you?” Rye asked.

“I’m from South Carolina. But I’ve been a resident of North Carolina since college, and a law-abiding citizen of Clarence for over twenty years.”

“And you’re the only one up here on the third floor?” Rye scanned my condo yet again. “This is a big space for just one person.”

I waved a hand. “Alas, the lonely old bitch of a certain age.”

***

With heroic effort and even more patience, I finally got rid of Rye and got back to work. But I accomplished next to nothing. Alexis Wynsome got so bored she actually took a nap.

However, while Alexis tossed and turned on the narrow and lumpy cot chained into the mustiest corner of the turret, Rolfe Vanderhorn arrived on the Snipe estate. He emerged at the clearing at the edge of the forest and stood frowning at the formidable castle of the evil Maynard Snipe.

Something waving in the winds at the top of the north turret caught his eye, and he looked up. Could it be?

Yes! Yes, it was one of the lace hankies that the lovely Alexis was fond of dabbing her dewy brown eyes with. What a smart girl! To tie it outside her window like that, so he would know where to find her!

Suddenly, Rolfe resumed frowning. For our dear, dim, hero had nary a plan for scaling the walls of Lord Snipe’s fortress and rescuing his lady love. His horse had no clue either.

And if they were expecting any coaching from me, they were destined for disappointment. I was far too distracted by my own problems to offer any assistance. How irritating would it be if Captain Rye decided to drop by every day until this whole Stanley Sweetzer thing was resolved?

Speaking of irritating—while Rolfe was busy watering his horse, I glanced over at my bookshelf and noticed a gap where
A Deluge of Desire
should have been. That damn cop had stolen my book.

Chapter 3

I barely had time to enjoy my righteous indignation before someone else was pounding on my door. I muttered something about Grand Central Station and went to answer.

But thank God, Jimmy Beak is the impatient type. He announced himself just as I reached for the doorknob, and I froze. Captain Rye was right—that didn’t take long.

“Go away,” I said cordially.

“You need to answer a few questions about Stanley Sweetzer.” Jimmy Beak banged on the door with renewed vigor. “Open up!”

I double checked the deadbolt.

“The public has a right to know what happened here last night,” Beak argued. “One of Clarence’s finest young men has been murdered. Don’t you even care about that, Miss Hewitt?” He jiggled the doorknob. “Miss Hewitt?”

What to do? I gestured to the cat, and we tiptoed back to my desk. But even from behind the door and across the room, I could still hear Jimmy Beak, apparently reporting to the public, who apparently had the right to know.

“Channel 15 News has just learned that Stanley Sweetzer died right here!” Beak was getting excited. “Behind this very door! In the home of Miss Jessica Hewitt, a recent divorcée!”

He knocked yet again, and I was certain the cameras were rolling.

“We also know that Captain Wilson Rye, Clarence’s highest ranking homicide detective, has just left the premises. What do you have to say about that, Jessica Hewitt?” Jimmy directed his voice inside. “I know, and more importantly our viewers know, that if Captain Rye’s involved, it means trouble.” His tone grew even more menacing. “And this time it means trouble for you. You can bet on it.

“Whether or not Jessica Hewitt agrees to cooperate, our viewers can rest easy.” Jimmy must have turned back to the camera. “The entire Channel 15 News team will be following up on her involvement with Stanley Sweetzer. The public has a right to know what happened behind this very door.”

He rattled my doorknob one last time, and I whined at Snowflake. She hopped into my lap and squeaked back.

“Maybe Alexis Wynsome is on to something,” I told her. Being trapped in a nice, solid turret in a castle far, far, away suddenly seemed ideal.

***

“But what about Jimmy Beak?” Karen asked when I called her later.

“What about him?” I asked. “I’ve been hiding at home for the past twenty-four hours, and all I’ve gotten for it is a corpse on my couch, a cop in my kitchen, and a creep in the corridor. It’s time to go out.”

“And risk seeing Jimmy? He put that little scene outside your door on the news tonight, you know?”

I reminded her that I didn’t know, since I don’t watch TV.

“He’s out to get us, Jess. He showed a similar scene outside my own door. I refused to talk to him, too.”

“Then we deserve a night out.”

When I had decided on an evening at The Stone Fountain to commiserate with my friends, I expected Candy to be the reluctant one. But she had jumped at the chance. She said something about going stir crazy sitting around home and promised to be ready at eight.

Karen, however, was proving harder to convince.

“Come on, Karen,” I said. “Even Candy says she’s up to it.”

“Kiddo’s coming with us?”

***

We agreed to call it off at the first sign of Jimmy Beak, but at eight o’clock the coast was clear, and the three of us ventured across Sullivan Street. Despite the disconcerting circumstances, we had risen to the occasion and at least looked our normal selves. Candy may have been a little wobblier than usual, but she was still in stilettos. Karen wore jeans and a T-shirt, and I was also in my evening uniform—slacks, sweater, and pointy-toed flats.

Jim Morrison was singing “Light My Fire” over the sound system as we entered the bar. I took note of the happy fact that it was The Doors night at The Stone Fountain as Gina Stone scurried past us with a tray of drinks.