Dior or Die (Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 2) (28 page)

"You think there might be poison in there?" She looked at the glass. "Come on. Why would the killer poison the honey instead of Vivienne's cocktail?"

"Think about it. It would be safer that way. He could slip the poison into the honey any time, knowing eventually Vivienne would drink it. He wouldn't have to be around when it happened." That completely changed the range of possibilities for the murderer. If the honey had been poisoned, it could have been anyone who visited the Norths between the time the honey was bottled and Vivienne's death.

They looked at the honey. It was in a small mason jar with no label. The blood drained from Joanna's face. The drip she hadn't wiped up earlier had attracted a stream of ants. But they didn't move, didn't march food back to the queen. The honey had trapped their black bodies like insects in amber. They were dead.

"You don't think—" Apple started. "They probably just got stuck there."
 

"You don't look so good. Your face is kind of white." Joanna bit her lip. How long did poison take to act? Apple had only had a few sips, but maybe that was enough.
 

"It's always white. Besides, I'm not used to drinking. Remember what happened last time I had one of these?"

"You fell asleep. You didn't get sick."

Apple moistened her lips. "I'm fine. I just need to sit down. Could you open a window?"

Joanna set a glass of water in front of her. "Drink that. It will dilute the alcohol."

Apple put her hands around the water glass, then pushed it away. Holding her stomach, she slumped in the chair. "Take me to the emergency room."
 

Apple lay in the hospital bed. The television suspended from the ceiling nattered a basketball game. Beyond Apple's curtained-off room, the emergency room bustled with moving gurneys and people in scrubs.
 

"I'm never drinking again. I'm sticking to tea for good," she said with a weakened voice. "God, I feel awful."

The curtain parted. Paul. Joanna rose abruptly from her plastic chair, dumping her purse from her lap to the floor. Paul glanced at Apple, then folded Joanna into his arms. She inhaled his aroma, a combination of soap and wood dust, and closed her eyes.

"What happened? I came as fast as I could," he asked.
 

"Apple was poisoned. She drank from a cocktail that had poisoned honey in it." Apple's red hair spilled over the pillow. "She could have died."

"I wanted to die when they were pumping my stomach, believe me," Apple said.

"What about you? You didn't have any of it?"

"I'd made the drink for myself, but Apple came by, and she likes them so much—really, it should have been me." Reluctantly, she left Paul's embrace. "Thanks for coming down to pick me up. I rode here in the ambulance."

"I'm glad you called."

"I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea—I mean, I wanted to, but you know." She stared at her feet.

"I insisted," Apple said.

The curtain yanked open. Gavin, Apple's husband, rushed to the bed. "Apple," he said, ignoring Joanna and Paul. He rang the buzzer for a nurse. "What happened? I was at the office late, didn't get your message until now."

"Poison," Joanna said. She told him about the Bee's Knees and Apple collapsing in the dining room.
 

Apple, although quiet and gray-skinned, seemed to be enjoying the attention. She’d insisted on extra pillows and now had them fluffed and arrayed behind her.

"Who did this? Did you talk to the police?" Gavin asked.

"They just left."
 

"Why don't you guys go get some dinner?" Apple said. "I'll be fine. Gavin's here to keep me company."

An orderly appeared, wheeling a trolley with instruments on it.
 

Paul took her hand and led her from Apple's room through the emergency room and to the street. The night air was crisp. While she'd been inside, the clouds had dissolved, leaving patches of starry sky. In the parking garage, Paul opened the passenger door for Joanna and held out a hand. She boosted herself to the seat and settled into the smell of diesel and old truck. Paul's coffee mug and a red paper rose sold to benefit the Veterans of Foreign Wars sat on the dashboard. This, at least, was the same.
 

Instead of starting the truck, Paul turned to her. The springs in the bench seat creaked. "What's going on, Jo? Why was the honey poisoned?" His voice was tender but insistent. What had he been doing the past few days without her?
 

With regret, she looked at the stubble on his face and the bit of chest showing above his tee shirt, under the plaid wool shirt. He wasn’t going to like this, but she was through avoiding it. She wasn’t going to lie to him again. She met his eyes. "I've been trying to figure out who killed Poppy." She ran through the last few day's visits yet again—her meeting with Tranh, the visit to Helena's, Oaks Park, and the Thrillmeister yard. "The poison that killed Vivienne must have been in the honey. What I can't figure out is who put it there—or why."

"I thought that after Poppy you’d leave things alone."

"Poppy was murdered. I can’t leave it alone." She dared him to meet her gaze.

He looked away and drummed a finger on the dashboard. "You told all this to the police tonight?"

"Of course." An officer had questioned her as the emergency room doctor hooked Apple to bits of medical machinery. Between worried glances at Apple, she had told the whole story as best she could. "They weren't in any rush to follow up. The officer said she'd get in touch with the homicide detective in the morning but couldn't do anything until then, and—" She switched gears. "Wait. The honey. We've got to tell Helena so she doesn't eat any by mistake."

Paul pulled his cell phone from his pocket. "Do you have the number?"

She dug through her purse until she found the scrap of paper Clary had jotted it on. Someday she'd consolidate all these and get them into an address book. "Right here." She pressed the numbers into the phone. It rang four times before clicking into voicemail. "Hi Helena, it's Joanna. Listen. I think the honey you gave me had poison in it—that's how Vivienne died. Don't eat it. In fact, set it aside. The police will probably want to test it. Give me a call to let me know you got this message." She pushed the "off" button and returned the phone to Paul.

"Better?" he asked.

"No. What if she's lost her phone or something and eats the honey by accident? I’m worried about her husband, too, that he might—"

"Her husband?"

Joanna nodded. "And Clary."

"Look," Paul said. "We don't even know for sure the honey’s poisoned. Is it at your house?" She nodded. "Let's get it and drop it by the police station. Maybe by then Helena will have called you back." He leaned forward to start the pickup.

Yes, that was a good idea. She could check messages at her house. The last thing she needed was two friends in the hospital.

As the truck crossed the Hawthorne Bridge, the Rose Festival's Fun Center came into view. Amusement park rides churned at the waterfront, their lights bright against the black river. The Rock-O-Plane, maybe even the one Whitey had worked on, began to rotate, and crowds thronged carnival and food booths. Anchored to the river's sea wall on the other side of the bridge were three Navy ships docked for Fleet Week.

A few minutes later Paul parked in front of Joanna's house. She unclasped her seatbelt.

"I'll come in with you," Paul said.

"It's all right. I'll go to the police on my own." She grabbed her purse and opened the door.

"No. I'm coming, too."
 

She stopped and turned, but he brushed past her on the way to the door. Wasn’t this what he’d been so dead-set against?

"Joanna, I get it. Besides, I’m not letting you get in deeper on your own. Grab the honey, and let's go."

***

Joanna clutched the honey jar, now sealed in a ziplock bag. The elevator opened into the lobby where she'd waited for Detective Sedillo the week before. She placed the honey gently on the ledge in front of the receptionist's window. "Detective Foster Crisp, please. It's Joanna Hayworth."

"What's that?" The receptionist squinted at the jar. He wasn't the receptionist there last time. His bright blue eyes were thrown into relief by a smattering of acne. Once his skin cleared up, he'd be a looker.

"Evidence," Paul said over Joanna's shoulder.

"It's for Detective Crisp. We called, and he said he'd meet us here."

"What case?" the receptionist asked.

What did it matter to him what case? "I worked with Detective Sedillo on a diamonds theft case, the one with Daniel Kay."

"That case is closed. It's an FBI matter now. Anyway, what does that have to do with your jar?"

"This has to do with Vivienne North's murder," Joanna said, increasingly frustrated.
 

"You mean 'homicide.' Vivienne North's homicide."

The elevator behind Joanna and Paul dinged as it opened. Crisp? Joanna glanced back, but it was just a janitor wheeling a large recycling container. He passed his keycard over the reader and entered the back offices.

"Fine, homicide. But the bottom line is that I just talked to Crisp, and he said to bring the evidence here, and he'd meet me." She leaned forward. "You're the receptionist, right?"

"I'm getting my degree in forensics, but for now, yeah, I guess I'm an office assistant."

"Then, assist. Please. Ring Crisp and tell him I'm here."

"Can't." He folded his arms. "He went home."

"What?" She looked back at Paul, who was studying the most-wanted list of criminals. She thought of Apple in the hospital bed. She'd surely have something to say about the criminals' auras.
 

"He left a message, though," the receptionist said. "I'm surprised he didn't call and tell you himself. He said to leave the evidence here. He'll get in touch with you later."

Finally the receptionist had deigned to give her some info. But Joanna didn't have a cell phone. If Crisp called her home number, she and Paul had already been on their way to the police station.
 

"Fill this out." The receptionist slid a form across the counter.
 

Joanna lifted a pen, chained to the counter as if someone would really steal a pen at the police station. "How long will it take to get back the results from the lab?"

"Depends on what they're testing for and what else is in the pipeline, but probably a week, maybe two. Without a rush, that is."

A week. Too long. Too much could happen in a week. She turned to Paul. "We have to tell Helena. She doesn't live too far, just up off Vista. Could you—?"

"Definitely. Let's go."

She remembered the blue dress hanging on the door of Helena's closet. "The Norths are supposed to go to a Rose Festival gala tonight, but maybe they haven't left yet. Come on."
 

After the bustle of downtown, the Norths' neighborhood was quiet and dark. Paul pulled his truck into a spot near the bluff at the end of the street. Patches of clouds shrouded the moon.

"Can you see?" he asked Joanna. "Not many streetlights out here."

"Sure. It's a little chilly."
 

"Take this." Paul pulled a rag wool cardigan from behind his seat.
 

She slid her arms into the too-big sleeves. The North's house was dark, and the porch light was on. "I think we missed them."

"Let's check anyway. We're here."

Joanna rang the doorbell. "Maybe they're at the back of the house, and we can’t see them."

Paul stepped down the brick-lined stoop and edged between the azaleas in front of the den window. He nimbly pulled himself up by the windowsill and with his toes resting on the lip of the foundation, peered into the room. He dropped instantly to the ground.

"Come here. Hurry." He clasped his hands for her to use as a step and hoisted her to the window.
 

"Oh my God." Wooden blinds sliced a chiffonade of moonlight over the den's inside wall, down a bookcase, and over the splintered remains of
Pacific Five
. The painting lay on the den floor, its canvas torn and frame cracked as if it had been stomped in a rage. Who could have done this? Her thoughts flashed to Tranh—and Gil. She leapt down from Paul's hands and scrambled up the stoop again. "We've got to get in there, make sure Helena's all right." She pounded on the front door.
 

A light came on at the house across the street, and the curtains moved.
 

"Come on. Let's try the back door. This way." He took her hand and led her across the front lawn. A light burned over the driveway, but it was dark around the side. He stopped at a small plastic box affixed to the side of the house. Its door was open. "Someone clipped the phone line to the security system," he said. "We should call the police."

"Open the gate," Joanna said. "What if they’re in there, hurt?"

Paul hesitated, then reached over the shoulder-high gate and unlatched it. Amber light glowed from deep within the house.

"Paul, look." A window pane in the French doors was shattered. Joanna tried the door. Unlocked.
 

"Don't go in there, Jo, someone might still be there—"

She shoved past Paul to the stairs, taking them two at a time to arrive, breathless, on the landing. The light she'd seen was the upstairs hall light.
 

She braced herself for another body and pushed open Helena's bedroom. It was dark. Her eyes adjusted and she scanned the room. Bed made with military precision, nightstands empty but for a frilled lamp and a treatise on herbal remedies. The dress on the door was gone, and a hint of lily of the valley hung in the air. No body on the floor, though. Her shoulders relaxed. Gil and Helena must have gone to the Rose Festival gala after all. She turned to find Paul in the hall behind her.
 

"I take it no one's here."

"No. Not in this room, anyway," she said.

"You shouldn't have charged in here. Someone could have been waiting with a gun." He looked around warily. "Correction. Could still be hiding. Stay here while I look around."