01 - Playing with Poison (7 page)

Karen let out a hoot. “Candy Poppe strikes again. If it makes you feel any better, he’d find about the same in my dresser.” She tilted her head. “Maybe I should invite him over sometime?”

“Yeah, right. Don’t take this wrong, Karen, but you don’t strike me as a woman who’s hiding anything more than a few pairs of cotton waist highs in her underwear drawer.”

“But you’re forgetting I’ve been neighbors with Candy for three years.” She tapped her tool belt. “You simply can’t imagine how much lace is lurking under here.”

I mumbled that I had a vague idea.

Karen rested her elbows on the table and looked at me. “So, like, you didn’t happen to watch the news this morning?”

“I will not give Jimmy Beak the satisfaction.”

“That’s probably for the best.”

Something in her tone revived my headache. “What?” I had to ask. “What did he do this time?”

“He read an excerpt from one of your books.” Karen waited to see if I would explode before continuing, “The one with that picture of you on the back cover. You know, with the grey hair?”

I closed my eyes and prayed for strength.

“They put a picture of Stanley on the screen, too, and Jimmy read your description of some character named Lance Votive.”

I groaned and dropped my head onto the table. “Votaw,” I said to the Formica.

“Huh?”

“Lance Votaw,” I repeated. “He’s the hero of
Windswept Whispers
.”

“Yeah, well, anyway. Jimmy implied that you based this Lance Votaw guy on Stanley.” I started banging my head as she continued, “Because you were obsessed with Stanley.”

She reached over and lifted my chin. “Can I get you some more drugs, Jess?”

I sat up. “You know what’s really absurd? Jimmy Beak and Wilson Rye both stayed up last night, reading my books.”

Karen shrugged. “Hey, maybe they learned something.”

I glanced out the window and watched the lunch crowd file into The Stone Fountain.

“Umm, Karen?” I ventured. “Did Stanley ever approach you?”

Her shoulders stiffened. “What about?”

“About making some investments?”

She groaned and reached for the Advil.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Did you give him any money?”

“What do you think?” She swallowed a pill. “How about you?”

“My father taught me never to gamble on anyone’s talent but my own.”

“That rules out Stanley then.”

“Did he visit you?” I asked. “When Candy wasn’t around?”

She got up to refill our water glasses, and I apologized for being so nosey. “I’ve gotten so used to Rye’s rude questions, I’ve forgotten my manners.”

“Stanley came over once or twice.” She handed me my glass. “But I always kicked him out. The guy was way too slick for my taste.”

“Can’t you just see it?” I asked. “He’d bug you, get nowhere, and then come upstairs to bother me. Lord help me, I actually served him tea!”

Karen shook her head at me. “You need to get over that southern manners thing, Jess. You’re way too hospitable.”

“And you’re not?” I pointed to the plate of Oreos she had set before me, and she told me to eat a damn cookie.

“At least I didn’t offer Rye any tea today,” I said in my own defense. “You know, when he was serving me the warrant?”

“Way to be tough, girlfriend.” She pointed me toward another Oreo and took two for herself.

We spent a few moments eating cookies and gazing out her window. Bryce was crossing Sullivan Street on his way to work.

“I wonder if Stanley bothered him, too,” I said.

“What for? Bryce can barely pay his rent most months. Stanley had bigger fish to fry.” Karen turned back to me. “Does Rye really still suspect you, Jess?”

“He says he’s ninety percent sure I’m innocent. Reassuring, no?”

“But that’s great. He’s looking into other possibilities, then?”

“Candy Poppe,” I said.

“Oh boy.”

I thought about Candy. Okay, so she wasn’t exactly the epitome of the grieving girlfriend. And then there was Stanley’s will to consider. And the twenty-seven thousand in cash, and Candy’s extra-long dinner break on Saturday night.

I caught Karen’s eye. “You don’t think she could have done it?”

“No way.” Karen seemed confident. “But she did have a motive.”

“What!?”

“Think about it, Jess. If Stanley had lived, and Candy had married him, our little Kiddo would have gone through life as Candy Poppe-Sweetzer.” She took the last Oreo and twisted it open. “It’s enough to drive any woman to murder.”

Chapter 7

And where was Candy anyway? I called her several times that afternoon to no avail, and tried her door one more time on my way down to get the mail. Still no answer.

I was sorting through my junk mail in the lobby when Mr. Harrison’s door opened and out popped a piano student. The pretty teenage girl thanked him and he reminded her to continue practicing her Chopin piece.

“It needs work, Miss Taylor,” he said. “Work.”

Miss Taylor shrugged and waved a handful of fingers at me as she skittered across the lobby and out the front door.

I glanced up just in time to see Peter Harrison’s door slam shut.

Once upon a time—like a week ago—that kind of thing would have discouraged me. But a week ago I wasn’t looking for a murderer. I tossed my trash in the waste basket and knocked on the door. When it opened again, I was ready with my friendliest smile.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Harrison,” I lied.

Mr. Harrison glared with about as much encouragement as I gave Captain Rye every time he appeared unannounced at my own doorstep. “Is there a problem?” he asked.

There were all sorts of problems, the most immediate being I had no idea what I was going to say next. But then I spotted the huge piano inside.

“I’m, umm, I’ve been thinking of taking piano lessons,” I said. I turned my gaze from the piano back to Peter Harrison. “And I was wondering if you offer lessons to adults?” I opened my eyes wide and feigned great interest in his response.

“Have you ever played?”

I confessed that I had never touched a keyboard in my life. “But I’m quite curious to try.” I smiled broadly and tried looking eager.

Much to my dismay, Mr. Harrison did not instantly invite me inside to give it a whirl. Indeed, his glare was now joined by a most discouraging frown.

“I have had enough strange people knocking on my door over the past few days,” he scolded. “And I am not in the mood for charades. What is it you want, Miss Hewitt?”

I gave up the charade. “I want to figure out who killed Stanley Sweetzer,” I said. “As I’m sure you know, Candy Poppe’s boyfriend died on my couch the other night.”

“And created quite a ruckus in the process.”

Mr. Harrison seemed to expect an apology about that. I gave him one, but this only encouraged his self-righteous indignation.

“Boyfriends traipsing the hallways at all hours of the day and night, policemen coming and going, Jimmy Beak and his news crew.” He pursed his lips and continued frowning at the same time. “When I sold the third floor unit to a middle-aged woman who writes books for a living, I did not expect this sort of thing. I trust this will not become a habit?”

“Umm, noooo,” I said, perplexed. Did Old Man Harrison really expect a steady contingent of men to be dropping dead on my couch? On a regular basis?

He offered yet more frowning, glaring, and pursing of lips. If I had needed to practice my Chopin piece, I am sure his disapproval would have inspired more earnest effort.

“Mr. Harrison,” I pleaded. “I just want to find out what really happened on Saturday. Did you see anything?”

“I most certainly did not. I was asleep until the police arrived. Sleep, Miss Hewitt. I’m 78 years old, take 9 prescription medications every day, and teach 18 unruly piano students every week. I need my rest.” He made a show of looking at his watch. “And now, it is well past my nap-time. If you’ll excuse me.”

He tried to shut his door, but I put my foot out and stopped it from closing.

“There’s a good chance either Candy or I are going to get blamed for the murder.” I, too, spoke firmly. “But whatever you might think of us, sir, we are not killers.”

I removed my foot and stepped back. The door remained open.

“So then,” I continued in a softer voice. “Even if you were home in bed, maybe you heard something unusual? Anything?”

Mr. Harrison tore his gaze away from my foot and looked up. “I hear rather a lot of unusual things around here, don’t I? Considering the number of boyfriends Miss Poppe has, this kind of thing was bound to happen.” He tut-tutted for effect. “I only wish I had evicted her long before now.”

“Have you tried to evict Candy?” I am sure I sounded shocked and dismayed.

“I know the law,” he snapped. “The girl pays her rent on time and she’s quiet. I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.” He smiled for the first time. “Mr. Dixon, on the other hand.”

My head was reeling. “Have you tried to evict Bryce?”

“He plays loud music and his rent’s always late. Since you’re so concerned, why don’t you tell him I’m considering it? You are bound to run into him, aren’t you? At that bar you spend half your life in?”

He looked down, ascertained that my foot was not in the way, and shut the door.

***

I stood riveted to the spot and blinked at Old Man Harrison’s door. Eventually, I recovered enough to climb the stairs to my own place. I dropped the mail on the coffee table and went out for a walk. I needed the exercise, I needed to shake off the sheer hostility of my encounter with Mr. Harrison, and most of all, I needed to think.

But the weather had turned since my rooftop rendezvous with Rye, and a storm was brewing. Despite the growing cloud cover and rising winds, I hastened down Sullivan Street toward Hamilton. I almost hoped to get caught in a downpour. The shock might jolt my imagination—and my imagination could use a jolt.

First of all, I had no idea what further perils awaited Rolfe Vanderhorn and Alexis Wynsome now that Alexis was safe from the clutches of Maynard Snipe.

And even more pressing than the plot of
Temptation at Twilight
, was the plight of Candy Poppe. Were Peter Harrison’s insinuations about her many boyfriends valid? And where had she been the night of Stanley’s murder? Where was she at the moment, for that matter? And if Candy didn’t kill Stanley, and I was ninety percent certain she hadn’t, who did?

I trudged up the steep incline of Hamilton Avenue and pondered the possibilities. Where did that random twenty-seven thousand dollars in Stanley’s apartment fit into all this? Was it connected to his murder? Or maybe his job?

Stanley’s job. I turned right onto Summit Street and headed into the wind. Had Stanley been cheating some of his clients? Even though Karen and I hadn’t squandered our hard-earned cash with him, someone likely had. Captain Rye must have thought the disgruntled client theory had credence, too. Why else would he have Densmore checking into my finances and talking to Ian?

Ian. I groaned out loud, and a street musician playing a really, really, bad rendition of “Mr. Tambourine Man” stopped singing to ask if I was all right. I put a dollar in his cap, he grabbed it before it blew away, and I kept walking. How the heck had Stanley known about my divorce settlement?

Back to Stanley’s job, I reminded myself. A list of his clients would be mighty handy. But how in the world would I ever get hold of something like that? Rye might be flirting with me, but I doubted I could charm him out of that kind of information.

I stopped suddenly. But maybe I didn’t need Rye. I turned around and headed for home armed with one clear fact—Stanley had either been poisoned in my building or at The Stone Fountain. Whoever killed him had been at the bar on Saturday night. I was sure of it.

I climbed the stairs to my condo with a plan in mind and a smile on my face. I lost the smile when I almost tripped over Jimmy Beak.

***

He and his cameraman were sitting cross-legged on the floor at my doorway looking quite comfortable indeed. Jimmy glanced up and snickered, and I was reminded of the evil Lord Snipe.

“Go away,” I ordered.

He turned his head right and left, pretending to search for something. “Oh dear,” he said with another snicker. “Where is that pool table when you need it most?”

“Now, Beak,” I said, veritably channeling Captain Rye. “You can leave now, or I’ll have you arrested for trespassing. Take your pick.”

Jimmy made a show of standing up and brushing off his suit, which was a weird, almost metallic, shade of blue. He straightened his bow tie and combed his greasy hair while I tried not to be physically ill. The cameraman had also stood up. Instead of attending to his personal grooming needs, he worked on getting the camera up and running.

“Here she is,” Jimmy began as soon as his microphone was in place. “Jessica Hewitt, in the flesh.”

I wish I could report he was speaking into the camera, but I was well aware that the lens was directed at me.

“Jessica Hewitt,” he continued. “A.k.a. Adelé Nightingale, the prime suspect in the ongoing Stanley Sweetzer murder investigation. Let me remind our viewers that Mr. Sweetzer expired right here, behind this very door.”

You guessed it—he banged on my door.

“We’re here at the scene of the crime, where Miss Hewitt has finally agreed to answer a few questions.”

“Go away,” I repeated.

“So tell us, Jessica, why was Captain Wilson Rye here again today? Along with the entire team of investigators from the Clarence police force? Did he have a warrant? Did he find the drugs you used to kill your young lover?” Jimmy wiggled the microphone under my nose. “The public has a right to know.”

I contemplated my options and considered throwing him down the stairs. He was taller than I, but I was confident I could take him. The cameraman was another issue, however. He was a lot more bulky than his boss, and I doubted I could toss him anywhere. He was also apt to capture the whole episode on film.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Jimmy scolded me. “Just tell our viewers what happened here, behind this very door, last Saturday night.” He again banged his fist on my door, and the camera took an all-too-brief hiatus from filming me. “After all, Jessica.” Jimmy shoved the microphone back in my face. “If you’re as innocent as you claim, you have nothing to hide.”