Lime Ricky (Romantic Suspense)

by Jill Winters

  Firmly, Rick shook his head. "Brett wouldn't tell anyone. He was too terrified of bad publicity. But it's a good question. Why bother to frame Brett for Misty's murder? What's the point? Unless whoever's behind it wanted to get rid of Misty and Brett all along."

  "Well, then, it can't be Ellie," Gretchen remarked with regret. (Ellie had been her best suspect up till now.) "Brett's her biggest meal ticket. It just wouldn't make sense. But who else?"

  They reconsidered Susanna, who might have had a reason to want Misty dead, but with her hopes for more co-hosting gigs, her incentive to bring Brett down went from unlikely to nil. Then they went through several different suspects—if you could call them that, since each smacked of more implausibility than the next. First, they pondered Abe Santasierra, who'd dated Misty a couple of months back, but they were hard-pressed to find a motive. He'd broken up with her. Plus, he'd left Brett's house on Friday night and given Marjorie Bass and some camera guy named Tom a ride back to the city with him. Misty hadn't arrived until Saturday. So when would Abe have had the opportunity to poison her food, or even known she was going to be coming the next day?

  Along the same lines, they had to dismiss Marjorie Bass, too, and the camera guy, whoever he was. Next they considered Kit. (That is, after Gretchen forcibly lifted her jaw off the floor, where it had plummeted upon learning that Kit and Brett were sleeping together.) According to Rick, Brett had been blowing Kit off for a couple of weeks now. Maybe she'd killed, Misty because she'd known about her affair with Brett, and then when Brett started acting aloof, Kit framed him for the murder to get back at him. Actually, Gretchen had to admit... that one wasn't all that implausible.

  The only specter of doubt was that—according to Brett—Kit hadn't been at the party.

  Next they waded through various crew members of Brooklyn Boy Makes Good... Food, but Brett didn't seem close enough with any of them to warrant a grudge, much less to gain them access to his agent. They considered his producer, Joel Green, but that made no sense for obvious reasons. Like Ellie, Joel had everything to gain financially from Brett's success. Then Gretchen said, "What about Juan Mirando? He was at Brett's party."

  "Who?" Rick said curiously.

  "You know, the desperate guy with the pork butt sweatshirt?"

  "Oh," Rick said after a momentary pause. "Right, I remember."

  (Since Gretchen was still adjusting to the idea of dating Rick, who seemed too good to be true, she braced herself for him to add, "Pork butt sweatshirt—damn, I gotta get me one of those!" Or something else that would ruin her bliss. Happily, it didn't happen.)

  Continuing on, she told Rick about how she'd "stumbled upon" Brett and Lupe Rodriguez making out. "Lupe works for Juan Mirando's show. Maybe he likes her—I mean, he's obviously desperate to be the big Latin lover."

  "That's obvious?" Rick said, grimacing skeptically. Hey, she never said Juan Mirando was good at it, but you had to read between the lines here.

  "God, I don't know. None of this makes sense!" Gretchen said, slumping against Rick with frustration. "It all happened so fast."

  "Yeah..." he said, suddenly distracted. "What is it?" she said after a long moment.

  "It all did happen fast," he said, "too fast." What had? She'd just been throwing a good cliché out there. Rick sat up straighter, still keeping her balanced in his lap. "Brett said that he brought Misty her food and an hour later, she was sick. An hour." Gretchen waited, eyes wide, searching. "Jay Bernbaum said that it takes five or six hours for the symptoms to show. He was emphatic about it. He said with the Destroying Angel, it could take anywhere from six hours to a day so how did Misty get sick so fast?"

  Mouth curved open, Gretchen thought quickly. "Maybe because it was such a concentrated amount of the mushroom. You said yourself it was ground up finely—like powder. Right?"

  "Yeah..." He still seemed troubled. But then, why wouldn't he be? His younger brother was in jail. The irony of this was that if only Brett had gone to the police earlier he could've avoided all this, or at the very least, looked far less suspicious now. But instead, he'd said nothing, had not come forward with what he'd known about Misty's death, and now...

  If they exhumed the body, and this time knew what to look for, it wasn't going to look great for him to have had a stash of the obscure poisoned mushroom that killed her.

  Poor Rick. She knew it was Brett she should feel sorry for, but looking at Rick's face, drawn with concern, his cheeks clenched, his shoulders tense, Gretchen wished she could make him feel better somehow.

  Soon after, he left. He said he'd try to get a hold of Brett's lawyer again on his way down to the police station. Then he told Gretchen to stay at his place and get some sleep, since it was nearly midnight, and when he kissed her softly he told her not to worry.

  But she did worry. She cared deeply about Rick, and she wanted this to all go away for him. She wanted his brother, slimy pimp lothario that he might be, out of jail and safe again. She wanted Misty's killer brought to justice. Maybe she was overflowing with clichéd wants and needs right now, but they drove her onward and firmed her resolve to learn all she could about the Destroying Angel. She'd been so focused on who might want to harm Misty and Brett that she hadn't paid enough attention to the means.

  Tomorrow she would discover that it had been the key all along.

  Tomorrow she would see the light just as she was plunged into darkness.

  * * *

  The following evening, Gretchen was working late in her office. Now that Susanna and most other people had gone home for the night, Gretchen could finally get back to the Internet search she'd started at lunch that day. If only it wasn't for all her damn "real" work, she could've gotten further by now. Rick had gone to talk to Brett again that morning. Apparently, the bail hearing wasn't for two days, so until then, Gretchen assumed Brett would pretty much be stuck in his holding cell. She hadn't been in touch with Rick since earlier today; she thought he still planned to go to the firehouse that night, but she wasn't positive. She would call him in a minute, but right now, she had to get back to her search results for "Destroying Angel."

  Much of what she found was repetitive and general, each link bringing her to the same basic information as the next: Its scientific name was Amanita virosa or Amanita bisporigera, its origin was North Carolina, its location was varied, its appearance was fairly generic, a white cap and a white or tan stalk—and it predominantly grew in forested areas. If ingested, it could be fatally poisonous. It wreaked havoc on the body, with a false recovery period between the first and final rash of symptoms. And, as Rick had said, it had an incubation period of several hours before symptoms occurred.

  She shook her head and scrolled farther with her mouse. It didn't make sense. Why had Misty gotten sick so fast?

  She searched for another hour, reading through online environmental journals, agricultural bulletins, botanical publications, and a slew of blogs, all of which she found when searching for "poisonous mushroom" and "kidney failure." Most of what she pored over was useless, with her keywords actually quite disconnected in the text. But then—finally—she found something.

  It was a link at the bottom of an article she'd skimmed about the Destroying Angel. That particular article had imparted the same factual information she already had—but the link was much more provocative. It read: The Destroying Angel Builds a Family, and it led to another article in The Tennessee Wildlife Ledger & Guide.

  As Gretchen read, her heart sped up; she chewed her lip, thinking: This is it! The piece was brief, but shattering. It detailed the recent discovery of a new mushroom that appeared to be so closely related to the Destroying Angel, scientists debated whether it was a hybrid or the result of a mutation that had evolved and spawned over time. This fungus, dubbed the Gabriel mushroom, had a shorter stalk and a narrower cap than its predecessor but possessed the same devastating effects once ingested. The big difference was: Its initial attack on the body happened at an accelerated rate. Misty was sick an hour la
ter. An hour.

  This was it!

  As Gretchen's eyes scanned wildly over the screen, she read the rest of the article, detailing the discovery of small bunches of Gabriel mushrooms that were popping up in various parts of Tennessee. And then the other shoe dropped.

  Tennessee.

  Where Ray Jarian spent much of his time. She recalled the way he'd talked about it at Brett's party, saying he'd been there recently. Of course—Ray was the killer! Why hadn't she seen it sooner?

  It all made sense now. His whole "drunk" bit had been an act!

  He'd probably acted drunk at Brett's party and made quite a show of it to be sure that whenever Misty showed up, he would have the perfect "alibi." He could pretend he was passed out drunk, when really, he would find his opportunity to slip the poisonous mushroom powder into her food. Gretchen recalled what Susanna had said, that Misty loved Brett's cooking, that she made a thing about how it was her "weakness." So Ray knew that when Misty was there, she would eat—and he would be lurking, waiting for an opportunity. He'd done his homework. He'd either read about the Gabriel or heard locals talking about it when he'd been in Tennessee last, but surely after learning about it, it hadn't been hard for him to get. All it took was a little research and determination—and a taste for revenge. So Susanna had been right after all. For all his good-ol'-boy act, Ray was disgruntled and bitter-filled with fury for the young woman who'd dropped him as a client so callously, who'd tossed him like he was trash the minute his career started to sink. Or maybe, Misty was the tip of the iceberg. He'd lost his restaurant, his show, he couldn't get a new cookbook contract, and then his agent dumped him cold. He must've wanted to make her suffer, to destroy her as he'd been destroyed by the vicissitudes of his career.

  Gretchen remembered now that he'd been lurking in the hallway on Saturday afternoon—after some others had mentioned that he'd left Brett's already. He must've left, then upon seeing Misty drive up, turned around and come back. When she hadn't come Friday night, he must've figured she wasn't coming to the party, but then he saw his opportunity and returned.

  When he'd been lurking in the hall, he must've been coming from her room. How had he gotten in and gotten access to her food? Maybe he begged her just to listen to him; maybe when she was distracted for a moment, he slipped the poison in—who knew? The point was, Ray Jarian got his revenge. And he almost got away with it!

  Frantically, Gretchen seized the receiver of the phone on her desk and dialed Rick's cell. It went right to voice mail. "Rick, it's me. Oh, God, I figured it out! It was Ray! Ray's the one! It's a long story of how I realized it, but the point is, he got the mushrooms last time he was in Tennessee—and it wasn't the Destroying Angel exactly. It was this kind of spin-off called the Gabriel. Anyway, call me when you get this. We need to go to the police and tell them!"

  Suddenly she heard a noise and she paused. It was like a clunk, right outside her office. She waited, but there was nothing. "Okay," she said, resuming her message, "well, I'll talk to you soon, but call me. And I miss you. And I hope everything's going okay. Bye."

  Whew. What a relief! She finally found the answer—then the lights cut out.

  Chapter 30

  With her heart in her throat, Gretchen froze. A moment ticked by before she had the courage to speak. "Hello?" she said tentatively, feeling like a horror movie cliché. "Hello..." Her voice trailed off; no, she would not be that girl. It was probably just the bulb on the ceiling fixture. Don't panic, she told herself. If you panic, it'll be something.

  Then her eyes adjusted to the light, which came solely from her monitor, so for the most part, the room was still cloaked in black. Still, she didn't see anyone, no silhouettes coming closer, and she heard no sounds.

  Slowly, she pushed out her chair, rolling the wheels silently on the carpet. She made her way toward the door; each careful, creeping step treaded through and cleared away more of the mured darkness, until she finally reached the door. And that's when she realized it wasn't shut all the way. It was ajar about half an inch. If someone had deliberately cut the lights, all they would've had to do is reach their hand in and hit the switch on the wall.

  Quickly, Gretchen yanked open the door, flooding her eyes with light from the hall. She stepped out into it, knowing that on either side of her and farther down would be the empty offices of network executives who'd gone home, but the common area where the administrative assistants' desks and filing cabinets were was well lit.

  Gretchen looked one way, then the other. No one was there. She was alone. Until she heard shuffling and some kind of swishing noise behind her. Whipping around, she saw a dark figure disappear past her before she could make out who or what it was. Curiosity unbound, she took off after it, chasing some amorphous darkness.

  The shuffling got louder. Whoever it was, was running from her.

  He was afraid. That kicked up her confidence. "Come back here!" she called. "Who is that?"

  When she rounded the bend, she heard a loud thump. Undeterred, she followed the direction of the sound, running until she saw Shawnee lying facedown on the floor. "Aww," she groaned, then rolled over and flopped gracelessly onto her back like a beached whale. "Look what you made me do."

  "What I made you do?" Gretchen echoed incredulously.

  "Shawnee, what are you doing here so late? Why were you running away from me?" She extended her hand to help her up.

  "Aww..." she groaned again, slowly sitting up, then begrudgingly took Gretchen's hand. When she was on her feet again, but off balance, Gretchen realized what she'd "done" to Shawnee. When Shawnee had tripped she'd twisted her ankle. Served the freak right.

  "What were you doing?" Gretchen demanded again. "Did you turn the light out in my office?" Shawnee mumbled something incoherent and Gretchen tipped her ear toward her combatively. "Excuse me? What was that?"

  "It was just a joke," she mumbled. "What's the big deal?" Wrinkling her face in confusion, Gretchen said, "But why would you play a joke on me?" And then she realized. With a gasp she said, "It was you!" Shawnee flipped her head, rolling her eyes like Gretchen was crazy, but Gretchen pressed on. "You're the one who's been doing all that mean stuff to me! You put the olive oil on the steps and frayed the blender cord. You loosened the wheel on my desk chair and put the spider in the refrigerator!"

  "Spider?" Shawnee said, flaring the nostrils of her bulbous nose as she insisted, "Gross. I didn't put a spider anywhere."

  Oh. Well... Gretchen supposed it could've just been in the fridge on its own. The point was, Shawnee hadn't denied the rest of the charges.

  "Why? Why would you do that to me?" Gretchen demanded. Shawnee shrugged. "I was bored. And I don't like you."

  Mildly affronted, Gretchen softened her tone and said, "Well, why not?" I'm damn likable! (Is it just me?)

  "You're a kiss-ass," Shawnee explained.

  Oh. Interesting. Gretchen preferred to think of it as reserved, quietly efficient, easygoing, adept at navigating diva-infested waters.

  "Gretchen?"

  Both she and Shawnee turned and saw Abe approaching them.

  "Oh, hi, Shawnee." He held out an envelope in his hand. "This came to my office by mistake." Gretchen took it from him; it was an invoice addressed to her, something she'd ordered for Susanna.

  "Thanks," she said, smiling warmly even as the shock of her confrontation with Shawnee still rattled her.

  "Sure. And—I'm not sure what you're doing now, but do you have a minute?"

  "Yes, absolutely," she replied, then eyed Shawnee warningly and added, "but you wait right here."

  "Fat chance, " Shawnee mumbled when Gretchen turned to Abe.

  And when she looked back, Gretchen saw Shawnee's ample behind getting farther and farther away. She'd never seen the girl move so fast—and with a limp, no less—but here she was, in the face of confrontation, rushing for an escape. What a coward!

  "Shawnee!" Gretchen cried, starting after her. "Stop—we're not done here!"

  Hobbling quick
ly, Shawnee cast a frantic glance over her shoulder after she'd shoved through the glass doors that led to the elevators and pounded a beefy fist against the button on the wall. Just as Gretchen reached for the door handle, she saw the elevator to Shawnee's right spring open and Shawnee hop inside.

  With her hand frozen on the cool metal of the handle, Gretchen watched through the glass as Shawnee smiled smugly and the elevator slid closed. Rolling her eyes, Gretchen puffed out a sigh of exasperation. What was she going to do, follow her down to the main floor and then chase her through the building? What would be the point? Just to yell at her some more? Forget it. She'd just deal with her tomorrow. Or better yet, she'd go straight to Susanna and tell her about all of Shawnee's "pranks." Gretchen had never been a tattletale, but enough was enough; obviously Shawnee had been excused and humored for far too long. It was time she took some responsibility for something that she did.

  Besides, to go after her now would be absurd; she was so unimportant in the scheme of things, and here was Abe, someone who was important at TCN (and a helluva lot nicer of a person), and he was waiting for her. As it was, he was probably supremely confused by the spectacle that was Shawnee's exodus.

  Turning back to face him now, Gretchen gave a brief, somewhat resigned smile. "Sorry about that," she said, waving off any questions before he could ask them. "It's a long story."

  On their way to Abe's office, he explained, "Listen, I don't know if she mentioned it, but Susanna's birthday's coming up. I'd love to do something nice for her, you know, a surprise with everyone. Well, I had some ideas I wanted to run by you..."