Annabelle parked herself on the little wooden stool Miss Felicia had used when polishing her gear. “Surely there’s some way to prove this one, Edmund.” She cocked her head to one side and looked at her dead friend. “You aren’t saying much. You were the one who first mentioned poison, remember?”
“Yes, I remember. I’m not saying anything because I haven’t had a chance!”
“Sorry”, Annabelle said, grinning sheepishly, “but I’m really excited about this. Can you blame me?”
“No, of course not,” said Edmund, seating himself on a similar wooden stool, “but we have to think this through.” He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “In the first place, if Miss Felicia was poisoned, the autopsy will reveal that fact.”
“I don’t know. What if they used something very difficult to detect? Doctors won’t be looking for poison— they’ll just be checking to see if she had a heart attack. Besides, maybe some poisons cause a person to have a heart attack.”
“Well, I guess that could be.” Edmund sat with his arms crossed again, silently moving his mouth back and forth as if considering a topic of great importance. Finally he spoke. “I haven’t wanted to involve the police in this. I haven’t thought we had enough evidence to convince them. I’ve been afraid of making you lose your credibility.”
“You didn’t mind me telling Nick,” Annabelle interrupted.
“That’s different. He’s your husband. And besides, at the time I thought your life was in danger. I can’t do much to protect you, myself, anymore.”
Annabelle reached out to pat his arm which was still elegantly clad in its scarlet wool sleeve that was showing a spot or two here and there. “Thank you, Edmund.”
“Anyway, I think it’s time the police were brought in. There’s no other way to make sure Felicia’s body is checked for poison.”
“And,” said Annabelle, rising to her feet, “that flask should be checked before the murderer realizes he needs to remove it.”
“Exactly,” Edmund nodded in agreement. “Why don’t you tell Nick tonight?”
Annabelle raised her eyebrows at him. “I believe I’m capable of talking to the police myself,” she said with a frown.
“Annabelle,” said Edmund firmly, “you don’t know these southern law enforcers. They’re still not likely to listen to a woman. Just tell Nick everything we’ve discussed and let him go to the Hill County Sheriff.
“Nope!” said Annabelle, looking him in the eye. “I’m sorry you don’t have confidence in me, but I’m going to the police myself, right now. By tonight, someone may have tampered with the evidence.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Annabelle, this isn’t an episode of Forensic Files. Just wait until Nick gets home.”
But, Annabelle had left the barn and had sharply shut the door behind her, allowing the flask to remain where she’d kicked it.
“You can come with me if you want to,” she said over her shoulder as she headed toward the Mercedes and the Hill County Sheriff’s Department.
The Hill County Sheriff’s Department was in the town of Bedford, which was even smaller than Guilford. It consisted of a Sheriff who was elected by the good people of Hill County, and a Deputy hired by the former Sheriff who remained employed by his successor.
These two Officers of the Peace worked out of a small building constructed of concrete blocks which also contained the jail—one cell with some bars on its window.
There were two late-model patrol cars (the pride and joy of the County Commission), one of which was parked out front when Annabelle pulled up. It was marked with a big gold badge and the words Hill County Sheriff’s Department – Deputy in blue letters. Not being familiar with the Sheriff or his second- in-command, Annabelle felt she had no basis for knowing whether she was in luck or not.
The metal door in front had a half-glass window suitably inscribed. She opened the door to find herself face to face with Deputy Perry Waldrop. He spit a long stream of brown liquid into a paper cup before addressing her respectfully. “Can I help you, Ma’am?”
Annabelle smiled her most engaging smile. “I hope so, Officer. I have some information to relate regarding the death of Miss Felicia Blackwell.”
“Oh, yeah—the old lady—have a seat, please, Ma’am.” Annabelle sat down in the plastic chair facing his desk.
She noticed he sported a blonde flat top, was a good fifty pounds overweight, and had the remnants of his breakfast in his skimpy blonde moustache. The corners of his mouth appeared to be stained with the same brown goo he had deposited in the paper cup.
Annabelle tried valiantly to hide her distaste. “Don’t be judgmental,” she said to herself. “Give the man a chance.”
“I have reason to believe Miss Blackwell was murdered,” she said, getting right to the point.
Deputy Waldrop looked at her blankly. “Murdered,” he echoed, as if pronouncing the word for the first time.
“Yes—murdered,” said Annabelle, beginning to feel like an actress in a bad play. “I believe Miss Blackwell was poisoned by someone who wanted to make it appear she’d had a heart attack.”
Deputy Waldrop spit into his cup again and pursed his lips as if considering what he’d heard. “Doctor said it was a heart attack. Remember, she was pretty old. Why’d anyone want to kill somebody that old?”
“Well, I’m not sure about that,” said Annabelle patiently, “but I do think the one performing the autopsy needs to be told to check for poison.”
The Deputy shook his head negatively. “Oh, no,” he said without hesitation. “We don’t never get involved with the autopsy ‘til after it’s done. Autopsies ain’t done here in Hill County, you know. They’re done up at the state capitol. They’ll let us know what they find. I ‘spec she just had a heart attack.”
Annabelle stared at him in exasperation. “Please,” she said, “just come out to her barn with me. There’s a flask there that I believe she was drinking out of just before she died. I bet if we check its contents there will be some evidence of poison.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said the Deputy. “No one’s said anything to us about poison.”
“I’m telling you about the poison,” said Annabelle. “Please, just at least go out there and take the flask into evidence, or whatever it is you do. Please… before the murderer has sense enough to realize how incriminating it is.”
Deputy Waldrop continued to shake his head slowly back and forth, his face a study in disbelief with a little disinterest thrown in for good measure.
“Told you so,” said Edmund in Annabelle’s right ear. “Oh, shut up!” said Annabelle loudly.
The Deputy’s eyebrows shot up into his closely cropped hairline and placed both hands down on his desk in surprise. “There’s no need to be rude, Ma’am,” he said with a hurt tone in his voice.
At that moment the front door swung open, and in strode a man in his late fifties wearing jeans, cowboy boots and a beautiful leather vest with a gold badge pinned to it. A rather portly figure, he took one look at Annabelle and his face broke into a welcoming smile. “Hey, there,” he said, as if he’d been waiting for her visit for at least several weeks.
“Who’s this?” he asked his Deputy.
Without waiting for the answer, he reached out to shake Annabelle’s hand and introduced himself. “Sheriff Cedric Noah”, he said, firmly encasing Annabelle’s fingers in his large paw. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
CHAPTER XV
SHERIFF NOAH ON THE CASE
Cedric Noah was only a few months into his first term as Sheriff. He had won the election by a landslide despite running against the young son of a local farmer. Surprising as that sounded, if one knew all of the facts, his new post made sense.
Noah was a native of Kentucky where he’d grown up hunting, fishing, and shooting—all skills admired by Hill County voters—so even though he wasn’t really a native son, he was the next best thing. Even more important was his spectacular resume. Noah had been the FBI�
��s Special Agent in Charge of the Middle Tennessee Office for ten years until he retired at the age of fifty-five. He had chosen to retire in Hill County because of its sporting opportunities, and because he was a good friend of the former Sheriff who had served in that capacity for twenty years before deciding not to seek re- election. The other candidate never stood a chance.
Noah was enjoying his post-retirement career as a local Sheriff, but found he missed the glamour and excitement of his former career. As soon as he laid eyes on Annabelle he immediately leapt to the conclusion she was a ‘damsel in distress’, so perhaps the morning wouldn’t be a total loss after all.
As Annabelle shook his hand a glimmer of hope flickered in her mind. Here, at last, was another chance to try convincing someone to help her. She didn’t feel she’d been having much luck with the intrepid Deputy Waldrop.
“Glad to meet you, Sheriff,” giving him her most winning smile. “My name is Annabelle Farley. I’ve come to talk to someone about the recent death of my friend, Felicia Blackwell.” She glanced over at the Deputy. “We’ve just been discussing my theory that she was poisoned.”
Deputy Waldrop decided to speak up. “Boss, I told her the doctors thought it was a heart attack, and that we wouldn’t know anything else until after the autopsy.”
“Hmm, poisoned, you say? What makes you think that?” asked the Sheriff, still holding Annabelle’s hand and effectively ignoring Deputy Waldrop’s comment. “Come into my office and tell me about this.”
Annabelle rose to her feet, extremely pleased to have found a willing audience, even if he did seem a little too willing.
“Sheriff, it’s really imperative that you or your Deputy come out to Blackwell Farm with me as soon as possible. I’m afraid there’s a vital piece of evidence that may be removed if we don’t act quickly.”
Sheriff Noah finally acknowledged the presence of his faithful junior officer. “Waldrop, can you hold down the fort while I go with Ms. Farley—is it Ms. or Mrs.?”
“It’s Mrs.” Annabelle was glad for the excuse to clarify her status. “I’m Mrs. Nick Farley.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” said Noah, deflated only a little. “Ready, Mrs. Farley?”
Sheriff Noah held the office door open for her as they went outside. Noah continued to display his courtly manners, opening the patrol car door for Annabelle and even adjusting the seatbelt for comfort.
As they headed for Blackwell Farm, Annabelle told him details of the suspected poisoning at Waterford on Wednesday, and about finding Miss Felicia’s flask on the floor of her tack room. The Sheriff appeared to be listening intently, saying, “Oh, I see,” and, “Oh, really?” in all the right places.
As she was explaining about the significance of the cleaned saddle and the not-yet-cleaned bridle, she noticed a formally dressed presence in the back seat. Edmund, in his now-besmirched red tailcoat and sitting in a police car, looked as if he had been picked up for some liquor-related misdemeanor after the Hunt Ball. Annabelle suppressed a giggle. His face wore an expression of pained indignation which further added to his appearance of being under arrest. She was amused by the contrast between the two men. They were both more like characters from a movie set than actual people, but any commonality ended there. Sheriff Noah, in his jeans and fancy vest with his gold badge prominently displayed, looked like a stand-in for Heath Ledger who had put on just a little too much weight to do any action scenes. Edmund, still slim and elegant despite the grime around the edges of his colorful attire, could have been the leading man in a Merchant Ivory film.
They pulled up in front of Miss Felicia’s barn where the Sheriff exited and walked around to open the door for Annabelle.
“I would question that man’s intentions if I were you, Annabelle,” said Edmund, leaning forward against the protective grille separating the front and back seats.
“Oh, hush-up, Jailbird,” said Annabelle wickedly. “You’re just mad because you were wrong about no one listening to me.”
“Hmmph,” said Edmund. He sat back in the seat and crossed his arms firmly. “I don’t see he’s been listening as much as he’s been salivating,” he said with a sneer. “We’ll see if he actually does anything about all of this.”
Annabelle accompanied Sheriff Noah up the walk toward the barn.
“She was found about here, if I recall correctly,” said Noah, indicating an area on the grass less than halfway to the house.
“Oh, my,” said Annabelle, the excitement of sleuthing waning as she contemplated the reality of her friend’s death. She stood still for a moment. Sheriff Noah preceded her into the barn where everything was just as she had left it less than an hour earlier, with one notable exception. The pewter flask Annabelle had kicked into the corner was gone. Sheriff Noah surveyed the tack room obligingly, hands on his hips, not realizing that a most important clue was missing.
“Sheriff, it’s not here anymore,” said Annabelle, who was expressing a mixture of anger and embarrassment that made her blush bright red.
“What? The flask you mentioned?” asked the Sheriff, appearing annoyingly unconvinced in Annabelle’s opinion.
“Don’t you see? The killer must still be around here, close! He must have realized how damning the flask would be and came here to remove it!”
“Calm down, calm down, Mrs. Farley—are you absolutely positive what you hit with your foot was a flask?”
Annabelle’s frustration increased another notch. She almost told the Sheriff Edmund Evans had also seen the flask, but caught herself just in time. Instead, she took a deep breath and tried to answer him as calmly as possible. “Yes, I’m positive. A flask is something I have no difficulty recognizing.” Annabelle heard Edmund snicker somewhere in the vicinity of her left ear.
Sheriff Noah smiled indulgently. “I understand, Mrs. Farley, but think about what you are saying. You found the flask, came to my office, then, during that short time while you were there, someone retrieved the flask. The timing would be very coincidental, you must admit.”
The Sheriff sat down on one of Miss Felicia’s wooden stools as if making himself comfortable for a long siege of talking Annabelle out of her imaginary murder.
“Sheriff, I know I saw a flask—not just any flask—but the one I shared with Ms. Felicia on Wednesday. I spotted it right there,” she said, pointing to the floor in front of the doorway. “If it were still here we would almost have had to step over it to get into the room. Anyone coming in here would have seen it immediately.”
The Sheriff eyed Annabelle intently. “So what do you think happened, Mrs. Farley?” he asked after a moment.
Annabelle was heartened at this sign of at least temporary cooperation. She moved over to the saddle rack where a metal hook hung just above it and to the right. A clean saddle was occupying the rack, but the bridle hanging from the hook was covered in mud.
“I believe she had finished cleaning the saddle and was starting to work on the bridle when whatever she was given to drink took effect. If she’d been drinking from the flask during the entire time it took to clean this saddle, and given the thoroughness of the job, it would have been around thirty minutes.”
The Sheriff stood up and looked at the half-cleaned tack. He shook his head slightly. “She could have had a heart attack and dropped the flask.”
“Yes, but…” Annabelle started to interrupt, but the Sheriff continued talking.
“…but that doesn’t mean what was in the flask caused the heart attack.”
“I drank out of that flask and got sick myself, remember?” said Annabelle. “That’s what made me think of poison in the first place.” She left out the fact that poison was Edmund’s theory, not her own. “Besides, before it was just a hunch that the flask could contain something incriminating. Now I’m sure it did.”
“Why’s that?” asked the Sheriff, a split-second before he realized the point Annabelle had made.
“Because someone came here and removed it,” she said firmly.
This time, he didn’t disagree.
CHAPTER XVI
DINNER AT FOXFIELD
Annabelle was disappointed with the outcome of her investigation of Felicia’s death. Even though he had given the appearance of believing her theory, Sheriff Noah really had no evidence without the missing flask. The investigation was essentially over before it had begun. Before they parted, he had assured her he would stay alert for any information that could possibly relate to Miss Felicia, but Annabelle didn’t place much faith in his continued interest unless she could turn up another clue.
As for Edmund, he was sympathetic with Annabelle’s frustration. He regarded both her hunch about Miss Felicia’s death and the portly Sheriff as unwelcome distractions. “Get back to proving I was murdered by Randall Dodge!” he hissed at her.
Annabelle had been so caught-up in her new hobby that she almost forgot she’d asked the Fitzpatrick’s and Robertson’s for dinner that evening. Edmund, who wasn’t much of a shopper, disappeared while she paid a visit to the nearest large grocery chain located in Pulaski, a town in the next county. One of the few times Annabelle missed city life was when she was forced to drive thirty miles to buy more than just the most basic of items. Milk, bread, and coffee could be obtained in Guilford, but little else. The ingredients for Annabelle’s gourmet creations were sometimes hard to come-by in Pulaski, as well. She had learned to compromise by substituting ingredients and growing her own fresh herbs. However, as she looked out over her herb garden, there was little still usable at that time of year. The oregano, thyme, and sage had all died- back for the winter, leaving only rosemary and savory to flavor the meal. Luckily, she had dried tarragon on hand from her last pilgrimage to Nashville.
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