Death Drops (19 page)

You got that right,
I thought. My mother did not have childhood pets and had never become fond of them. My father, on the other hand, loved our furry friends and had grown up with a procession of black labs, assorted mutts, and lots of cats. So did I. My mother tolerated them, but it wasn’t a warm and fuzzy relationship. “Where is she?”

“In your office.”

I reached out for Qigong, and Stephen put him in my arms. “Wish me luck.”

“Will you need it?”

“Oh, yeah.”

We headed inside, and Stephen peeled off for the kitchen while I went into my office, where I found my mother sitting in my chair, a disgusted look on her face. “There is dog hair everywhere!”

“I’m fine, how are you, Mother?” I put Qigong on the floor and he hopped onto the sofa.

“Why did you bring
that
back in?”

“This is Qigong. He’s my dog. He lives here. And so do I.”

She huffed. “So it’s true. You are staying here. Nick told me about your plans.” She crossed her arms over her chest and gave me the death-ray look. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

I sat in the guest chair and took a deep breath. Eckhart Tolle, the author of
The Power of Now,
says situations like this
can trigger the pain-body, a part of you that lives on negative energy, takes over your thinking, and makes you miserable. Kind of like that cloud of dust that follows Pig-Pen around in the
Peanuts
cartoons. I’d been with my mother for only a minute and already I wasn’t feeling too optimistic.

My mother drilled me with another look. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself? Now you’re going to run Claire’s store? You don’t know anything about how to do that. This is so typical of you, Willow. Always making the wrong choice.”

I realized in that moment how much my mother reminded me of Simon. Both of them made me feel bad about myself, which is probably why I chose him. It felt familiar.

My pain-body was having a field day. Anger, guilt, and shame rose to the surface. I took another deep breath, but it hurt, it really did.

“And what about Simon? You ruined that, too. A successful writer and producer and you dump him.” Her cheeks flushed bright red, and I became worried she’d have another “incident.”

“Calm down, Mom. Please.”

“I can’t calm down. He was perfect for you.” My mother was, let’s be blunt, a snob, so she actually liked Simon. She thought he was witty, urbane, and handsome, not to mention charming.

“Mom, Simon is actually out here. He’s working on a book. He stopped by a few days ago to offer his condolences.”

My mother smiled and clapped her hands with glee. “So it’s not over? You two are going to get back together? I knew you would come to your senses, eventually. I’m sure he can help you figure out what to do with your life. God knows I’ve tried.”

Shaking my head, I said, “No, Mother. Not at all. We are
not
getting back together and I
am
staying in Greenport. I’ll be
helping people here. It’s what Aunt Claire wanted. It’s what I want.”

She pushed herself away from the desk and got to her feet. As usual, she was dressed impeccably, in a lime-green sheath, pearls, and heels. “I wish your father were still alive. He’d know what to do. He could reason with you, at least.” She picked up her yellow Kate Spade bag. My parents hadn’t been wealthy by any means, but my father had indulged her tastes as much as he could. Now that he was gone, her preferences hadn’t changed, and she indulged herself. Putting her hand on the doorknob, she turned to me and said, “I just hope you know what you’re doing.” She opened the door and walked out.

Considering all that had happened, that made two of us.

Dear Dr. McQuade,

I just came back from a visit with my doctor. He told me that my blood glucose level was 104, making me prediabetic. Is there anything natural I can take to control my blood sugar levels?

Signed,

Too Sweet for My Own Good

Dear Too Sweet,

A good remedy to help control your blood sugar naturally is cinnamon. This exotic spice assists the body’s conversion of glucose into energy (rather than ending up as stored potential energy in the form of fat deposits), which can contribute to a healthy weight. Take one capsule after each of your two largest daily meals.

Signed,

Dr. Willow McQuade

I sat at my desk and took a couple of deep, cleansing pranayama breaths. No one, and I mean no one, could push my buttons like my mother. Qigong licked my face and gave me a quizzical look. “No, Qigong, you can stay right here; the nasty lady is gone.” He took this at face value, jumping onto the couch and snuggling up in the corner, his eyes closed.

I, however, had work to do. I just had to find that formula, Aunt Claire’s life’s work and the key to the success of the store and café. I was also really scared that whoever had tried to run me off the road would try again. I dialed Nick to see if he might have any new ideas about who took the formula and heard his phone ring. A moment later, he walked into the office.

“You rang, my dearest Willow?” Nick said, clicking his phone shut. He still didn’t look like his usual self. He hadn’t shaven and even now smelled like alcohol. He flopped into the guest chair and put his feet up on the edge of the desk.

I put the office phone down, surprised he was back in Greenport again. Had he gone to see Polly? I put that aside for now. “I’m still on the hunt for the Fresh Face formula. I was wondering if you knew anything about this Dr. Neville in Southold she went to see.”

“Not much, but it’s all bad,” Nick said.

“What do you mean?”

“Claire went to see him because he practiced at one of the top dermatology institutes in New York City. But pretty soon she just saw him out here. What he didn’t tell her is that the New York practice let him go because of patient complaints. She must have sensed something wasn’t right, though, because she did some checking, told him what she found out, and ended their professional relationship. He wasn’t happy. He’d call at all hours telling her that he wanted in on the formula, that he’d helped her and she had no right to cut him out.”

“Did he help her?”

Nick shook his head and took his feet off the desk. “No. They only met once or twice. Why, what are you thinking, that he stole the formula?”

I shrugged. “He’s a likely candidate.” I told him about the office visit.

“I know he was deeply unhappy at being cut out of the process. My advice? Follow your gut,” he said as he got up and headed for the door.

“Did you need something from me, Nick?” I asked, wondering why he was in the store.

“I came to get something for dinner, but not much appeals.”

“Try the homemade chicken soup. Merrily outdid herself. It will comfort you.”

He blew me a kiss and headed out the door.

Time to go through more Fresh Face e-mails. Were any from Dr. Arnold Neville? I clicked on the e-mail icon and the in-box flooded. The little envelope in the lower right corner opened and closed repeatedly. When it dinged to say it was done, I took a look.

Most of it looked like spam, but there in the middle of the new mail was another e-mail from Sue Polumbo, with a subject line that read:
I hate you!
I took a deep breath and opened it.

I’m taking the next step. SP,
I read.

What the heck? What next step?

Scanning the rest of the e-mail, I soon realized that it was part of an ongoing e-mail correspondence that had begun in January, after her son became so ill. I scrolled down. In the first e-mail, dated January 29, she said:
You are a hateful woman. This is all your fault and you are going to pay! SP
. Claire e-mailed back that she needed to calm down. The next exchange was more vitriolic, with Sue calling Claire a few
choice words and telling her she had gotten in touch with her lawyer. A few months went by and Sue was in touch again, saying that her lawyer had told her it wasn’t reasonable to sue but that she was going to get Claire somehow. Claire replied that she hoped she would consider getting professional help. Sue responded by telling her to mind her own damn business. Claire didn’t answer. The next e-mails were Tuesday’s message of “It’s not over” and now the one I’d just received.

While I was considering all this, a phone rang, but it wasn’t the office phone. What was it? It rang again. Qigong got up and put his nose in between the seat cushions. Turning to me, he gave me a look like,
Are you going to get that?

I dug between the cushions and plucked out Aunt Claire’s iPhone. I realized then that it had been missing. The battery was almost dead. “Willow McQuade.”

There was heavy breathing on the line, and then the call was disconnected. Sue Polumbo? I considered calling Jackson. Perhaps he could trace the call? But if she was smart, it was a disposable cell. I placed the phone on the desk, thinking, when the office phone rang. Hesitantly, I pushed Answer. “Willow McQuade.”

“Dr. McQuade, it’s Randy McCarty at Green Focus.”

“Did you just try to call me?” I asked.

“No, I’m calling you now,” he said, sounding frustrated. “The police contacted me because they needed to ask me some questions. They told me that Claire was murdered with cyanide. I’m absolutely shocked. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s been hectic here,” I said, putting it mildly. Not only was I trying to find Aunt Claire’s killer, I was also trying to locate the Fresh Face formula and run the store and café, not to mention dodge attempts on my own life. “I apologize for not calling you personally.”

This seemed to pacify him. “I understand,” he said. “You have my condolences.”

“Thank you,” I replied.

“The formula seems so insignificant in light of this.”

I took a deep breath to stop the tears I knew would come. Finally, I said, “The formula is important. It was the culmination of Claire’s life’s work. I’m making every effort to find it. Yesterday I talked to Arnold Neville, the dermatologist Claire consulted with. And just now I learned that they had a falling-out. I think he felt she owed him something for his help.”

McCarty pooh-poohed this. “Nonsense. Claire only met with him once or twice. Once we found out about his background, we let him go as a consultant. Any other leads?”

“Like I said, Mr. McCarty, I’m working on it.” I clicked on the Fresh Face e-mail folder.

He sighed. “Dr. McQuade, I can’t impress on you enough that we need to find that formula. This could be a case of industrial espionage. I’m beginning to think I need to send an operative out there to look into this.”

The office phone rang and I looked at the caller ID. Simon calling from his B and B. Wonderful. I let it go to voice mail. “I’m working with a retired cop already. He’s very smart and capable. I think someone else would just get in the way.”

McCarty was silent for a moment and finally said, “We are planning on launching Fresh Face in September. That’s why we need to know that the formula is safe. I don’t want anyone scooping us. Do you understand?”

“Completely. I’ll be in touch soon.” Before he could suggest sending his rent-a-cop out here again, I hung up. I thought for a moment and then picked up Aunt Claire’s phone. What if one of the contacts listed in her phone had stolen the formula? I found the charger in the top drawer and plugged it into
the power strip behind the desk so I could use it, opened the application and scrolled down. The usual names—me, Nick, Merrily, and Janice—were there, along with various vendors and suppliers, such as Betty and Helen and Randy McCarty. I checked for texts from him to her but didn’t find any. Perhaps Claire had purged her messages.

Next I scrolled to the
N
’s but didn’t find Neville. I did see several texts from someone named Sean Nichols about mowing and trimming the front lawn and walkway late last week. Not too exciting. Under
P,
I found Sue Polumbo. I switched over to the texts, most of which were short and sweet, like
F U;
that had been sent six months ago. I was interrupted by a knock on the door. “Come in,” I said, fearing what was next.

It was Mike, the roofer. “Miss, I’m all done up there. Didn’t take as long as I thought. Once I got a closer look at it, I realized that I could patch it in the places where it needed it most. You will have to think about replacing it before winter though.”

“That’s great, Mike. Thank you so much.” Then I asked the dreaded question. “Any idea about how much it’ll be?”

He pulled out a pad and checked some figures. “Fifteen hundred oughta do it.”

Oh, boy. “Mike, I’m having a little trouble with cash flow right now. Any chance I can pay you installments?”

He considered this. “If it was anyone else, I’d say no, but you know Jackson and he got me sober, so that’s fine by me.” He made a face. “Uh-oh, I’m not supposed to say that. I’m not allowed to say who is in the program. Please forget what I said.” He looked really embarrassed.

So Jackson was a recovered alcoholic? If so, he might be able to help Nick, who seemed to have a problem. “I’ll keep it between us if you’ll do the same about our payment plan.” I
went over to the desk and wrote out a check for five hundred dollars. I now had just fourteen hundred left in my account to carry me over. Very scary, indeed. “Will this work for now?”

He took it and looked at the amount. “Right as rain. I’ll bill you for the rest.”

I finished going through the
address book but found nothing interesting. Next, I checked her notes but there was just one that said, “Tell Neville no.” This confirmed what Nick had said. There were no voice memos. I checked Safari and found the last few websites she’d visited were pretty innocuous: The New York Times, Mother Jones, and Newswise.

Finally, I checked the photos. There were several of her and Nick, one of her and Janice in happier times and, of course, photos of her prized cats, Ginger and Gingko. I also found several shots of the bay and sound where I knew she liked to take her evening walks. The next to last photo was blurry. It looked like some sort of garden, but the flowers were reduced to swirling colors of red, purple, and blue. All in all, not much to go on.