Book Club Killer (8 page)

I gave his nose a little tweak.
“More like two hours,” I said. “And I bet you were a patient little man the
whole time!”

Ben grumbled. “Hardly,” he said
under his breath. “He’s been counting the seconds since you left.”

“I want ice cream!” Sam said.
“That’s why!”

“Then let’s go,” I said, taking his
hand.

I hugged him as we got up from the
table. There was nothing better than the excitement of a young child to remind
you that, despite the evil and dark forces behind Rosemary’s death, there is
still hope and goodness in the world.

Chapter 16

“Good morning, Mrs. Sullivan,”
Detective Ford said after I answered the droning phone the next morning at
eight. “Hope I haven’t called too early.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m actually home
from work today, so…” I waved at Ben as he rushed out the door with his
briefcase and travel mug of steaming coffee. “What’s going on?” I continued.
“Have you figured out what killed Rosemary?”

“Yes, I’m afraid we have,” Ford
said solemnly. “The toxicology report came in late yesterday afternoon from the
lab. It looks like someone put strychnine in the dip that your friend sampled
at your house.”

I felt my lungs constrict and my
body go limp. I quickly pulled a chair from the kitchen table and sat down
before I collapsed.

“And you’re sure about that?” I
finally said in a quivering voice.

“Yes, the tests were conclusive; it
was a fatal amount of poison, enough to kill dozens of people.”

My mind flashed back to Sonja’s
brother delivering the package from Olive Street Café. I saw the red cap he was
wearing, the slack expression on his face, the paper bag in his hands.

“What did they say at the
restaurant?” I asked.

“One of our other detectives
interviewed the manager, kitchen staff and the person who took the order placed
by your husband,” Detective Ford answered. “None of the employees remember
spinach dip being included in any of the delivery orders that day. And I spoke
to your husband’s assistant, Rachel Fitzgerald.”

I conjured an image of Ben’s admin.
She was a short redhead with twinkling blue eyes and a calm, confident manner.
Since he’d already told me that Rachel had both placed and canceled the order
for the Brock Truscott dinner at our house, I interrupted the detective and
asked if he had any solid leads.

“About the person responsible?” he
asked.

“Yes, who do you think put the
poison in the dip?” I said. “And why did they bring it to our house?”

The silence that followed seemed to
be endless. But eventually Ford cleared his throat and asked if he could call
me back.

“Does that mean you don’t have any
ideas?” I asked.

“No, Mrs. Sullivan,” he said
slowly. “It just means that our investigation is ongoing. I can tell you that
the housepainter who allegedly stole money from Rosemary’s house is not
involved in her death.”

“How do you know that?”

“One of my partners went to
interview the man after Rosemary’s husband provided us with his name,”
explained Ford. “While the man confessed to sending a couple of aggressive letters
to Rosemary and her husband, there was—”

“How can that be?” I interrupted.
“You just told me that he isn’t involved in her murder?”

“That’s correct,” the detective
answered. “He sent the threats, but he didn’t have anything to do with the
poison. It turns out that the housepainter was arrested after a bar fight in Texas
a couple of days before Rosemary was poisoned. He couldn’t make bail, so he was
still behind bars in Houston at the time of the incident.”

I let the news sink in before
another name popped into my mind.

“Then what about Brock Truscott?” I
offered. “Maybe somebody at his company is upset that he’s selling. Or maybe
his wife is angry that he’s leaving her for a younger woman.”

“Brock Truscott?”

I sighed and repeated what I’d just
told Ford. “I know that I mentioned him on Saturday,” I said. “But maybe I told
the other two officers. It was all kind of a jumble to me, but I’m certain that
I explained about my husband’s business dinner that we were having catered that
night.”

“Tell you what,” the detective
said. “If you can hold for a minute, I’ll push back my meeting so we can talk
now.”

“That would be great. I know you’re
doing everything you can, but I want to make sure that whoever did this to
Rosemary is brought to justice.”

After Ford put me on hold, I went
into the bedroom, retrieved my laptop and went back to the kitchen table. As I
was checking the notes that I made on Saturday night, the detective clicked
back onto the line.

“Thanks for your patience, Mrs. Sullivan.
Now, where were we?”

“Brock Truscott,” I said. “I think
you should look into his company and talk to his wife and girlfriend.”

“He has one of each?”

“Yes, he’s getting divorced. And
from what I’ve heard, things are pretty contentious.”

“Between Mr. Truscott and his
wife?”

“Yes, the divorce is even rockier
than the marriage.”

“And how do you know this?” asked
Ford.

“My husband’s company is in the
process of acquiring Truscott’s business. And he’s heard things—from Truscott
and a couple of the guys involved with the deal.”

“Okay, so your husband has heard
things and he’s shared that with you?” Ford clarified. “But you haven’t
actually heard Mr. Truscott or his wife speaking about their marriage or
divorce?”

The question seemed odd, but then I
remembered that Detective Ford was working a murder investigation and
everything was under the microscope. I confirmed what he’d just said before
telling him that I had more to say about Saturday.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Well, I know who delivered the
poisoned dip,” I said hesitantly.

Ford was quiet for a few seconds.
Then he said, “How long were you going to wait to share that information?”

“I tried telling you yesterday,” I
said. “But you didn’t return my calls.”

“Who was it?” he asked, ignoring my
comment.

“My friend’s brother,” I said. “His
name is Warren Davis. But he isn’t the killer. He was just hired to deliver the
package that contained the poison dip. I don’t even think he knew what was in
the paper bag.”

The line was silent again. I felt
like Ford was annoyed at me, like I’d purposefully withheld critical
information.

“Look,” I said. “I’m sorry if you—”

“Pardon the interruption,” said
Ford. “But I think we should talk face-to-face. How soon could you come in? Or
would you prefer that I come to your house so we can go over things?”

I glanced at the clock on the
kitchen wall. It was half past eight. I told Ford that I would see him at the
police station.

“Perfect,” he said. “Before we
finish, can you tell me your friend’s name?”

“Sonja Anderson,” I said. “She’s in
my book club. Along with Rosemary.”

“Do you have her phone number
handy?”

I felt instantly guilty sharing
Sonja’s name and number, but I also knew it was the right thing to do.

“Thank you, Mrs. Sullivan,” Ford
said crisply. “I’ll look forward to seeing you at ten.”

Chapter 17

When a uniformed officer escorted
me to an interview room at the station, Sonja was already seated on the edge of
a chair. She was sipping a cup of coffee and twirling her phone idly on the
table.

“What did you tell him?” she hissed
as soon as we were alone.

“Detective Ford?” I asked.

She gave me a wordless nod.

“I just told him that your brother
delivered the dip. And that I thought maybe Brock Truscott was somehow
connected to Rosemary’s murder.”

“Brock who?”

“Truscott. He’s the guy that Ben’s
company is negotiating with.”

“My brother didn’t kill anybody.”
Her eyes were fixed on me, a fatigued stare edged with fury. “He’s a stupid
jerk maybe. And he makes really bad choices. But he’s not a murderer.”

“I’m on your side, Sonja.”

Her sigh was loud and dismissive.
“I thought you were,” she said. “But when the cops showed up at my door and
told me the detective was requesting my presence, I did the math pretty
quickly.” Her phone rang and she silenced it with one quick tap. “I don’t know
what kind of friend would tell the cops that Warren was involved.”

I took a breath. “The kind of
friend who believes in the truth,” I offered. “Because that’s what it was,
Sonja. And your brother
is
involved, whether you like it or not.”

“Come on, Jana! My brother may not
be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he would
never
kill anyone.”
Her face was red and her chest was heaving from the sudden surge of adrenalin.
“And I mean
never
!” she added harshly. “Warren’s made a lot of bad
choices in his life, but I know he’d never be capable of murder.”

“What if he wasn’t in on it?”

Her eyes blinked rapidly. “What’re
you saying?”

“Maybe your brother didn’t know the
dip was poisoned,” I explained. “What if somebody said, ‘Want to make twenty
bucks delivering a package?’ He’d jump at the chance, right?”

Sonja nodded grimly.

“And if they paid him more than
twenty,” I continued, “Like, say they gave him fifty or a hundred, he’d be even
happier to do the job. And as far as he could tell, just by looking at the
paper bag, it was food from a restaurant.”

“But he’s not an idiot,” Sonja
said. “And if that’s truly what happened, the person who got him to deliver the
poison dip would probably be kind of shady.”

“Chances are,” I said. “And I think
we should try to find out.”

Sonja winced. “Find out? What’re
you talking about?”

“See if we can find the person that
paid your brother to deliver the poisoned dip.”

Her face cracked into a grin. “Are
you joking?”

I shook my head. “I’m completely
serious. This happened to our friend, Sonja. To Rosemary. And I, for one, want
to find out who did it. And why. What reason did they have to kill her? I mean,
of all people, what could Rosemary have done that would deserve such a horrible
thing?”

Sonja turned her head slightly and
stared at the wall. Her fingers drummed softly on the table as the thoughts
tumbled around in her mind. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what she was
feeling. Her face clearly showed the fear and uncertainty of a family member
caught up in something as dark and merciless as murder. Before I could tell her
again that I wasn’t the enemy, Detective Ford came into the room and closed the
door.

“Before we get into it,” he said,
taking a seat across from us, “I’d like to thank you both for taking the time
to meet with me.”

Sonja glanced up from the spot
where’d she’d been staring. “Like I had a choice?”

“I know this is difficult,” Ford
said. “And I want you to know that we’re handling things as carefully as we
possibly can. But when new information is presented, we have to consider how it
may or may not be associated to our case.”

Sonja shot me a cold look. “New
information? You mean when a friend turns in another friend’s brother?”

Ford pulled a small black
leather-bound notebook from his coat. “What can you tell me about your brother,
Mrs. Anderson?”

“He’s an idiot,” Sonja said, biting
her lower lip. “But he’s my brother, so I love him.”

The detective nodded. “And what
about his whereabouts on Saturday?”

She winced. “His whereabouts?”

“I understand that he’s been
staying with you,” Ford said. “Was he at home with you on Saturday?”

Sonja pressed her lips together to
think. “Well, I was busy that morning,” she said. “Doing the usual weekend
things—laundry, shopping, cleaning the house. And Warren asked to borrow my
car.” She shifted in her chair and brushed some hair from her eyes. “But I had
book club that afternoon, so I…” Her voice grew faint and she leaned forward,
pressing the tips of her fingers against the table. “I gave him a ride,” she
said finally. “He was meeting some woman, somebody that supposedly was going to
hire Warren for odd jobs or something. I didn’t ask questions; that’s something
I stopped doing a long time ago if my brother was involved.”

I looked at Ford, but he was
concentrating on every word that Sonja was telling us.

“Where did you take him?” Ford
asked.

Sonja shrugged. “To a coffee shop,”
she said. “The one over on Royal Avenue.”

“Brenton’s?” I suggested.

“Yeah, that’s it,” she said,
turning to me with a watery smile. “I drove him over, he gave me a little peck
on the cheek and then he was gone.”

“Did you see who he was meeting?”
asked Ford.

Sonja shook her head. “Not really.
He got out of my car and walked over to a shiny black SUV. It had those tinted
windows, so I couldn’t tell who was inside.”

“Was it an Escalade?” I asked.

Ford turned to me. “If you don’t
mind,” he said.

“Oh, of course,” I gushed. “I’m
sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine, Mrs. Sullivan. I’d
prefer to conduct the interview, although I appreciate your enthusiasm.”

“I just want to find out who killed
our friend,” I said for what felt like the millionth time in the past few days.

“Yes, that’s quite clear,” said
Ford. “And more than a little understandable. If I was in your position, I’d be
doing the same thing.” He paused, made a quick note on his pad and then glanced
back at me. “Why did you ask if it was an Escalade?”

“Because we did a little…” I looked
at Sonja. She was nodding her head in encouragement, so I continued with a
brief account of our conversations with Brent at Rusty Red’s and Carter at the
tattoo place. “And that was it,” I concluded. “We talked to those two and then
I met Brock Truscott when I was out to dinner with my family. And I think his
wife is driving the Escalade.”

Detective Ford smiled. “I’m sorry,
but who’s Brock Truscott?”

I instantly realized that I’d left
out a sizeable chunk of information. “Now it’s my turn to apologize,” I said.
“Brock Truscott is a local entrepreneur. He owns several manufacturing
businesses, and he’s been negotiating with my husband’s firm to sell them one
of his companies.”

Ford raised one eyebrow. “Okay,
that’s all interesting, but I still don’t understanding exactly how—”

“Oh, sorry again!” I blurted. “Truscott’s
going through a very contentious divorce. My husband was told that he’s been
receiving death threats
and
his wife drives an Escalade!”

The detective snickered. “I can
tell you’re pretty amped up about all of this, but it doesn’t exactly—”

“And she was married to an ex-con
before she met Brock!” I added quickly. “Sorry to interrupt, detective. But I think
she might be a person of interest.”

He laughed again. “Sounds like
you’ve been watching your fair share of police procedurals,” Ford said. “You’ve
got the terminology down and seem pretty familiar with how we do things around
here.”

“We just want to help,” Sonja
interjected.

“Not to mention that it happened at
my house,” I said.

“Yes, of course,” said Ford. “But I
should caution you about actually conducting your own investigation. Witnesses
and other people connected to these kinds of cases aren’t as friendly and
cooperative in real life as they are on television shows.”

Sonja bristled at the remark.
“What’re you saying?” she demanded. “We have every right to find out what
happened to Rosemary.”

Ford nodded. “Absolutely. But I
don’t think it’s wise for you to go around town interrogating potentially shady
characters.”

“Like Brent and Carter?” I said.

He nodded again. “Exactly like
those two. Rusty Red’s is fairly notorious. And the guy that owns the tattoo
place did five years in prison for armed robbery.”

“Well, here we are,” I said,
gesturing at Sonja. “In one piece and completely unharmed.”

“This time,” said Ford. “And I
apologize if I’m not being very articulate. I just want you to be safe. And I
think it’s in everyone’s best interest if you let us conduct the investigation.
I promise to keep you apprised of any developments as soon as we have something
solid.”

“Then go talk to Brock Truscott’s
wife!” Sonja demanded. “See if she’s responsible for sending the poisoned
spinach dip to Jana’s house.”

Before Ford could reprimand us
again, I decided to share my theory. After talking to Brock’s girlfriend at
Russo’s, I’d started sifting the facts and clues through my mind. I wanted to
see if Ford was on the same wavelength.

“Do you want to know what I think happened?”
I asked.

Ford put his pen on the table. “I’m
all ears,” he said.

“I think Brock’s wife somehow
learned that he was having dinner at our house on Saturday night,” I began.
“Through her ex, she got her hands on strychnine. Then she ordered some carryout
spinach dip from Olive Street Café, dosed it with the poison and hired Sonja’s
brother to actually deliver the package.”

“Why would she want to kill her
husband?” Ford asked.

“Oldest story in the book,” I said.
“Greed. I have a source who told me that Brock plans to change his will once he
remarries. His current wife will end up with nothing from his estate instead of
the millions of dollars she’s been expecting all these years.”

A sideways grin bloomed on Ford’s
face. “A source?” he asked. “Does this source have a name?”

“It’s Amanda Winslow,” I answered.
“Brock’s girlfriend.”

Sonja leaned forward in her chair.
“How do you know her?”

“We talked a little bit at the
restaurant last night,” I explained. “Just long enough for her to confide that
Brock’s wife has been threatening her, too.”

Ford picked up his notebook and
tucked it into his back pocket. “Sounds like I should probably talk to Miss
Winslow then.”

I shook my head. “Can you start
with Brock’s wife?” I asked. “I mean, it really sounds like she’s behind the
whole thing.”

“Which makes her the killer!” Sonja
said. “She’s responsible for Rosemary’s death!”