Chocolate Dipped Death (19 page)

“Why?”

“Because Karen’s not supposed to drink. It’s against doctor’s orders.”

“Karen’s been seeing a doctor? Why?”

“I told you, she’s been under stress. The point is, I was trying to find her. She told me about the argument between Savannah and Evie, and she said you asked her to take Evie out and calm her down.”

“Only because I didn’t know that might cause a problem.”

He waved away my protest with one beefy hand. “I know, Abby. It’s all right. I didn’t do anything at first. About eleven o’clock I called Karen, only she didn’t answer her cell phone. I didn’t know if she couldn’t hear it or if something was wrong, so I decided to go looking for her.”

“And you ran into Savannah.”

He nodded unhappily. “I saw her before she saw me. I thought about leaving—which is exactly what I should have done—but what if Karen was inside? Savannah was sitting at the bar talking to somebody, and I convinced myself I could sneak into the club without her seeing me.”

“It didn’t work?”

“Not even close. I wanted to avoid her, but she seemed . . . I don’t know . . . different. She’d had a drink or two already, so maybe that was it.”

“Maybe,” I said uncertainly, “but I saw her about an hour before that. I don’t think she’d been drinking when I saw her, but she seemed different to me, too. So what happened then?”

I think Sergio’s cheeks actually grew flushed. “I didn’t want to seem childish, so I asked about her husband and the big job in New York. She said she didn’t want to talk about it.”

“About her husband or about the job?”

“About either, I guess. I got the feeling they were having some kind of trouble.”

I nodded slowly, trying to remember exactly what I’d overheard when I passed them in Candlewyck’s doorway. “I think they had an argument just before I saw them,” I said. “I didn’t hear much, and Miles walked away a minute later, but Savannah told me that everything was okay.”

“Maybe she lied.”

“Maybe. Or maybe Karen’s right, and Savannah was making a play for you. Some men have trouble resisting a damsel in distress, you know.”

No question this time. He glanced down at his too-soft middle, and color flooded his cheeks. “Twenty years ago, yeah. We all know what happened then. But look at me. I’m not exactly Antonio Banderas.”

“But she had drinks with you.”

“A drink. One.”

“And whose idea was that?”

“Hers. She said she was waiting for someone, and she didn’t want to be alone.”

“Waiting for someone? Do you know who?”

Sergio shook his head. “We ordered. The drinks were delivered. I leaned too hard on the table and spilled drinks everywhere. We were laughing about what a klutz I am when Karen and Evie came in.”

I wanted to believe him, but I wasn’t going to jump to conclusions. I’ve heard more convincing stories that turned out to be lies. “What did Karen do?”

“What do you think? She freaked out in front of everybody.”

I could almost see it happening in front of me: the bar filled with noisy patrons, music blasting over the speakers, a Nuggets game playing on the overhead television sets. How many people would have heard the commotion? Probably not many except those at nearby tables. “Where were you and Savannah sitting?”

“One of those little round tables on the floor by the bar.”

“Who else was there?”

“The bartender. The waitress. Some of the other ladies from the contest. Why?”

“The police consider Karen a ‘person of interest’ in Savannah’s death. But what if somebody overheard her at O’Schuck’s—somebody with a grudge against Savannah? What if that person decided that Karen’s hysterics were the perfect opportunity to get away with murder?”

Sergio stared at me, uncomprehending. “What are you talking about?”

“Somebody killed Savannah, right? And I think we both agree it wasn’t Karen.”

“Of course it wasn’t, but are you saying that you think somebody set her up?”

“It’s better than thinking she stole a car and killed Savannah in cold blood, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes, but who would have done a thing like that?”

“I don’t know. Who else could have overheard her? Which ladies from the contest were there?”

He shook his head slowly, trying to remember. “Meena Driggs. Nicolette Wilkes, I think. Yes, I’m pretty sure she was there. Rachel Summers.” Voices in the hallway filtered in through the closed door, and he scowled with irritation. “Talk to them. See if they can remember who else was there. I have a partners’ meeting in ten minutes, and I’m not ready for it.”

I might have argued, but I’d been an attorney myself, and I knew the kind of pressure he was under. I stood and crossed to the door. “You’ll call me if you think of anything else?”

“Of course.”

I started to open the door, but stopped when I realized there was one question I still didn’t have an answer for. “What is Karen seeing a doctor for, Sergio? Be honest with me, please. I can’t fix what’s wrong between us if I don’t know.”

He stood slowly and spent an annoyingly long time pulling files from the credenza behind his desk. “She doesn’t want everyone to know,” he said after what felt like a year. “She’s clinically depressed, and she’s on medication for it.”

“That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“You know that, and I know that, but Karen has a real problem with it. You know how her parents are.”

My aunt and uncle were old-fashioned, but not unreasonable. “They have a problem with it?”

“They don’t know, and if Karen has her way, they never will. She does okay most of the time, but occasionally she needs her meds adjusted, and sometimes when things have been going well for a while, she stops taking them. That’s when the real trouble starts. You saw the house today. That’s only part of it. It’s like . . . like all the cylinders aren’t firing. She makes rash decisions. She does stuff without thinking. She takes off and leaves me with the kids for a day or two, doesn’t bother to tell us where she is, and then is shocked and hurt to discover that we were worried.”

“So what do you do?”

“Get her to the doctor. Adjust her medication. Make sure she’s taking it. Once everything gets adjusted, she’ll be fine.”

“How long does that take?”

“She starts getting better within a few days once she sees the doctor. It’s getting her there that’s the problem. She doesn’t always want to go when she needs to.”

Well, now,
that
sounded like Karen. It was the first thing I’d heard all day that did. But I wondered as I was driving away just how far off-kilter her “cylinders” became when her depression got bad. I just hoped it wasn’t bad enough to hurt someone.

I didn’t get a chance to think about Karen and
Sergio again until nearly noon when, blessedly, Bea showed up to handle the store while I focused my attention in the kitchen. I needed to make samples of candy for my meeting with Ruth Cohen, and I’d convinced Bea—with some effort—that I couldn’t be two places at once.

Trouble was, she felt compelled to keep an eye on me as I worked. Even though I knew that Karen’s anger with me was being fueled, at least in part, by her medical condition, my argument with her had either made me paranoid or more attuned to the disapproval I could feel radiating from my older cousin.

Between customers she hovered, watched my every move, checked the recipe over my shoulder, scowled a great deal, and made an occasional tsking noise with her tongue.

It wasn’t easy, but I tried not to let her bother me. Aunt Grace had always found comfort in the kitchen, and if ever I’d needed comfort and a little peace of mind, I needed them today. Ignoring Bea, I focused on the steps that were becoming familiar again: stirring together sugar and corn syrup, bringing it to a boil, brushing down the sides of the pan when crystals began to form. In the past few months I’d been training myself to work slowly and carefully, to find joy in the process, not just in the results.

We danced around each other for most of the morning—Bea disapproving, me pretending not to notice—until the front door opened a little before noon and Rachel Summers breezed inside as if it were an ordinary day.

Rachel might run Candlewyck, but she’s determined to make a life for herself as a plus-sized model, and never a day goes by that she isn’t ready to be discovered. She wore a bright red satin blouse untucked over satin pants, stiletto boots that would have resulted in a broken neck if they’d been on my feet, and more silver jewelry than I’ve ever seen on one person.

“Hey Karen,” she called out even before she was all the way inside. “Fix me a Coke, would ya? Extra large. And give me a couple of those chocolate-covered mints—the milk chocolate, not the dark.” She plucked a maple cream from the free sample dish, popped it into her mouth, then stopped in her tracks when she saw Bea behind the counter. “Karen’s not back yet?”

Bea transferred two mints to a paper plate and passed it across the counter. “She’s still not feeling well,” she said, running an assessing look along Rachel’s ample figure. “
Diet
Coke?”

“No, make it a regular. I can’t stand the taste.” Rachel leaned across the counter to wave to me, then sat at one of the wrought iron tables and put her feet up on an empty chair. “It’s been unbelievably busy on our end of the street today. How’s it been up here?”

“It’s been a good day,” Bea said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have a medium? It’s much easier to carry.”

Apparently oblivious to Bea’s thinly veiled insults, Rachel shook her head. “I’m
dying
of thirst. I’m going to need the big one to get through the afternoon.” She leaned up from her chair and studied the glass display case. “What’s your featured candy today?”

Bea turned away, her opinion of Rachel’s order written all over her face. “Rocky Mountain Cherry Bars.”

“Ooh.” Rachel ran her tongue along her glossy red lips. “Those are so good. You’d better give me a couple of those, too.”

Bea’s face froze. “You want those
and
the mints?”

Rachel must have felt the sting that time, but she merely shrugged. “I’ll get on the treadmill later. I haven’t had a Cherry Bar in months.”

Bea’s expression clearly said,
not long enough
, but she wisely kept the thought to herself. “Aunt Grace’s bars are the best around,” she said with a prim smile. “They’ve always been popular.”

I’m sure it was only my argument with Karen that made those words resonate. Even
I
thought of all the candy at Divinity as Grace’s. But Aunt Grace hadn’t made a batch of Rocky Mountain Cherry Bars in more than nine months, and I suddenly wanted all the cousins who thought Aunt Grace had been wrong to leave me the store to know it. I just didn’t know how to say so without appearing childish.

Rachel munched happily, oblivious to the undercurrents raging around her. “So what’s going on with the murder investigation, Abby? Have they arrested Delta yet?”

The abrupt change of subject caught me by surprise, and it took a minute to make the mental shift. “Delta?”

“She’s the one who did it, isn’t she?”

“I have no idea. Is that what you think?” Silly question. Of course it was. I guess if I had to pick a prime suspect, Delta would have been it—but I was still scrambling to shift gears.

Rachel stopped chewing and turned so she could see me better. “Well, sure. Who had the strongest motive for killing Savannah? I know Evie’s upset about the contest, but we’re just talking about a few hundred dollars in prize money. Hardly worth committing murder for. If you ask me, Delta’s the one. She’s trying to hang onto an entire estate.”

Bea blew out a sharp breath. “An
estate
? That’s a bit of an overstatement, isn’t it? Mrs. Vance wasn’t worth much when she died.”

I didn’t have time to stop working, so I spoke over my shoulder as I pulled molds from the supply cupboard. “She wasn’t?”

Bea shook her head firmly. “There’s the house, but it’s not worth much. Someone told me she had only about ten thousand in the bank, and they had to cash in her life insurance a couple of years ago to help pay her medical expenses.”

Rachel licked chocolate from her fingers. “Ten thousand might be a lot of money to Delta.”

I agreed. “People have committed murder for a lot less.”

Bea sniffed and slipped out from behind the counter. “It would be a lot less after you take out funeral expenses, attorney fees, and then divide it in half. I don’t know why we’re talking about this anyway. The police will figure it all out.”

Rachel and I both spoke at once. “Oh. Yeah. Of course.” . . . “Naturally. Nobody’s suggesting—” . . . “We’re just tossing out ideas, really.”

Bea picked up something from the counter and tossed it into the trash can. “Abby, you of all people should know not to get involved in something like this. Look what almost happened to you last time.”