Chapter 24
Sean looked at the clock on the wall. It was nine at night and he was not happy. He was not happy because Ada’s aunt, Sheryl, was sitting on the sofa between his daughters. Taking up quite a bit of room, he could have added had he been asked. Which he hadn’t been.
“I know this is late,” Sheryl was saying to him. “I know I should have called first, but I was afraid if I did you wouldn’t see me.”
Sean grunted. She was correct. He wouldn’t have. Especially at this hour.
“So, I’m going to make this short.”
Sean crossed his arms over his chest and waited.
Sheryl opened her coat and began. “I know we haven’t been in touch for a long time.”
Sean nodded. Also true. “Go on.”
“And I know that that’s my family’s fault. They took advantage of Rose.” Sheryl bit her lip. “And I’m really sorry about that.”
“Is that why you’re here?” Sean asked. “To apologize? Because a card would have sufficed.”
“No,” Sheryl replied. “I’m here to ask you to help find Ada . . . and help straighten out any . . . mess she’s gotten herself into. She tends to be”—here Sheryl paused for a moment—“somewhat overreactive. She tends to make things worse for herself, and while I know your daughters are involved in this I was hoping that you could lend a hand as well.” Sheryl swallowed. “I hope you don’t think I’m out of line for saying this but I think Rose would have wanted you to. She always had a soft spot for Ada. Well, think about it,” Sheryl said in the face of Sean’s silence. Then she stood up and walked out the door, leaving before Bernie and Libby could ask her any questions.
For a moment, everyone was silent. The only sound in the room was the clink of the furnace in the basement and the crack of the house joists protesting against the cold. Then Sean spoke.
“That was interesting,” he said, more a pronouncement than anything else.
“Well?” Libby said.
“Well what?” Sean asked her.
“Why didn’t you tell her?”
“Tell Sheryl what?”
“That you are helping.”
Sean shrugged. “I suppose I just wanted to see her eat a little humble pie. She was never that nice to your mom.” Sean made room on his lap for the cat, who reclaimed her seat, having vacated it when Sheryl had walked in. “But what she said was true about your mom having a soft spot for Ada.” He glanced down at the piece of sour cream chocolate cake sitting on a plate on the side table next to his armchair and rubbed his hands together. “Let’s talk while we eat,” he said.
Which they did. This was Bernie and Libby’s go-to chocolate cake recipe. It was their mother’s, but Bernie and Libby didn’t love it just for that reason. They loved the recipe because it turned out a cake that was both moist and chocolatey and not overly sweet, and it didn’t hurt that it was simple to make, basically fail proof, and open to a host of variations.
This time Libby had flavored the buttercream icing with raspberry liqueur and used strawberry preserves between the layers, but the cake worked equally well with Grand Marnier or coffee or cinnamon or bananas, or plain with a dusting of powdered sugar and/or vanilla-flavored whipped cream.
While they were eating, Sean told his daughters about Clyde’s call. According to his old friend the presence of a toxic substance—in this case cyanide—on the needle in the popper had been confirmed. Officially.
“So, I was right,” Bernie said.
Sean nodded. “It was a good guess on your part.”
“It certainly took them long enough,” Libby grumbled.
Sean shrugged. He knew from his time as the Longely chief of police, the labs were always backlogged.
“Although I’m still having trouble believing that the amount on the needle would be enough to kill someone,” Bernie observed.
“Evidently it is if you’re taking antiseizure medication—which Peggy was,” Sean told her “The two substances do not combine well.”
“Who knew,” Libby said.
Sean took a sip of milk. No matter what anyone said, he still liked milk and chocolate cake. “Evidently, the murderer did.”
Libby licked a smidge of buttercream off her fork and rolled it around on her tongue, contemplating the marriage of chocolate and raspberries. The tart and the sweet. It always worked in the culinary world.
“So where did whoever killed Peggy get the cyanide from?” Bernie asked. “It used to be fairly common—exterminators used it all the time. You could buy it at the local hardware store—but not anymore.”
“It’s simple,” Sean said. “Just grind together millions, maybe billons of apple seeds and peach pits and bitter almonds and there you go. Cyanide.”
Bernie laughed. “I’m being serious, Dad.”
“So am I,” Sean replied.
“How do you know that?” Bernie demanded.
Sean chuckled. “I arrested someone who did that.”
Bernie put her feet on the floor and leaned forward. “Did you tell us that story, because if you did I don’t remember it and I think I would have.”
“I didn’t,” Sean told her. “Your mom was on one of her campaigns when it happened.”
Bernie and Libby both leaned forward. They loved their dad’s stories. Their mother, however, had not.
Sean took another sip of milk and began. “This guy—Ralph Edwards, if I recall his name correctly—was trying to make cyanide so he could poison his wife. He had a whole lab set up in the basement of his house because he’d read somewhere that crushed apple seeds are a good source of cyanide. Which is true.”
“Did he succeed?” Libby asked.
Sean took another sip of milk and a bite of cake. “No, but not for want of trying. He did manage to extract the poison from the apple seeds. However, his wife figured out what was going on before he could slip the cyanide into her food.” Sean took another bite of his steadily dwindling piece of cake.
“Lucky her,” Bernie commented.
Sean nodded. “And how. At first, she couldn’t figure out why her husband was buying all these apples and carting them down to the basement. When she asked him, he told her he was making vodka, which she believed. But she got suspicious when she was looking for something in the garage one day and found a book called Nature’s Poisons: How to Identify and Use Them hidden in her husband’s tool chest.”
“That would have given me pause,” Libby remarked.
“Me too,” Bernie agreed.
“It definitely gave his wife pause, I can tell you that,” Sean remarked. “Of course, there were other signs as well, like the huge life insurance policy her husband had just taken out on her, the affair he was having with his twenty-year-old assistant, and the fact that she’d almost been in a very bad accident because someone had tampered with the brakes on her car. P.S. Her husband was an automotive engineer.”
“Why didn’t he just hire someone to shoot her?” Bernie asked.
Sean laughed. “Funny thing, I asked him the same question when I arrested him. You know what he said?”
Libby and Bernie shook their heads.
“He said he didn’t want to spend money on something he could do himself.”
“Sometimes it doesn’t pay to be cheap,” Bernie observed.
“So, what you’re saying is all we have to do is find someone who is cornering the apple seed market and we’ll be all set,” Libby said.
“Exactly,” Sean allowed.
“Or,” Bernie suggested, “maybe cyanide makes your hair grow. Maybe it’s the secret ingredient in Sinclair Enterprises’ new product. So what if there are a few unfortunate side effects.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Sean huffed.
“I was kidding, but people used things like that all the time. Like I said, until fairly recently, exterminators used cyanide to get rid of mice. Sometimes they got rid of the family instead. And back in the day they put arsenic in face powder because it made women’s complexions paler,�
�� Bernie continued. “And they used arsenic in eye drops, because it made women’s eyes shine. And let’s not forget the people who put tapeworm larvae in capsules and sold them as diet pills until the FDA pulled them off the market. That happened fairly recently.”
“Were they effective?” Libby asked.
Bernie nodded. “Very much so.”
Sean shook his head. “Amazing what people will do.”
“Isn’t it, though. Women used to have their lower ribs removed to make their waists smaller.” Bernie tapped her fingers on the edge of her mug while she thought. “Realistically speaking, whoever killed Peggy probably got the cyanide on the dark web.”
Libby turned to Bernie. “Do you know how to access the dark web?” she asked her sister.
“No. Do you?”
“No.”
Libby leaned forward. “Do you know anyone who does?” she inquired.
“I don’t know. I never asked.”
“But what do you think?”
“I think probably not.”
“That’s my point.” Libby sat back up. “Most people don’t.”
“But that doesn’t mean someone in the Sinclair family doesn’t know how,” Bernie countered. “A negative doesn’t prove a positive.”
“Then it would have to be one of the kids,” Libby observed. “The adults are too old.”
Sean laughed. “Talk about making assumptions.”
“Libby, you don’t know that for sure,” Bernie was saying when her cell rang. She picked it up and looked at the displayed number. It wasn’t anyone she knew so she didn’t answer. It had been a long, frustrating day and she wasn’t in the mood for a chat about insurance rates or some such thing. A moment later, the message icon came on and Bernie picked up her phone again and listened to the voicemail. Then she cursed.
“Damn,” she said. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Chapter 25
“What’s wrong?” Libby asked her sister, although she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer because judging from the expression on her sister’s face whatever was going on wasn’t good.
“That was Ada,” Bernie told her.
Libby let out a groan. “What’s the matter this time?”
“I have no idea, but evidently she’s on her way over to Kate Silverman’s apartment and she wants us to meet her there right away.”
“Now?” Libby asked, her voice rising.
“Yes, now. Isn’t that what I just said?”
Libby gestured to the clock on the wall. “It’s almost ten, Bernie,” she pointed out. “We have to be up at five.”
“Believe me, Libby, I’m well aware of when we have to get up,” Bernie told her sister.
“Did Ada happen to say why she wants us there?”
In answer, Bernie played Ada’s voicemail message for Libby. No reason was stated.
“Great,” Libby muttered, handing Bernie’s phone back to her. “Can you call and ask her.”
Bernie did, but Ada didn’t answer. A moment later a text appeared on Bernie’s phone. Can’t talk. Come. Urgent. She showed it to Libby, who groaned louder.
“Just because Ada says it’s urgent doesn’t mean it can’t wait until tomorrow, Bernie,” Libby told her.
“Evidently Ada doesn’t think it can.”
“That’s because she’s paranoid,” Libby replied.
“Even paranoids . . .”
“. . . are right some of the time,” Libby said, finishing her sister’s sentence for her. “I know. I know. But what’s the point of going? She’s just going to run away again anyway,” Libby said, recalling their last encounter at the service area.
Sean looked from one daughter to the other and back, following the conversation with interest.
“That wasn’t her fault,” Bernie retorted.
“Then whose fault was it?” Libby demanded.
Bernie stood up. “Ours for letting ourselves be followed. You have to admit, she did sound scared.”
“She always sounds scared,” Libby pointed out. Actually, if she were being honest, Ada had sounded terrified. Which, Libby decided, was probably why Ada was using a burner phone. No. It definitely was why she was. That way no one could track her. Something must have spooked her. Libby couldn’t argue with that. She just wasn’t sure that she wanted to know what that particular something was. Or maybe not. Maybe she was imagining it. Maybe Rachel was right. Her sister was exhausting. “Why can’t she call the police?”
“Good question,” Sean commented. “Indeed, why can’t she?”
“Because according to Lori Scheu she thinks the police are in cahoots with whoever wants to harm her,” Bernie replied.
Sean rolled his eyes. “That’s ridiculous.”
“I’ll tell her that when I see her,” Bernie said to her dad. “I’m sure that will make her feel better.” Then she turned to her sister. “Listen,” she said to Libby, “you can stay here if you want, but I’m going.”
“At least let me finish my cake,” Libby replied.
“Then you’re coming with me?” Bernie asked.
“I just said that, didn’t I?” Libby answered.
“Okay. But eat fast,” Bernie replied as Sean took another sip of his milk.
“Ah, the drama,” he intoned after he swallowed. “I’m glad I’m not getting called out in the middle of the night anymore.” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, wait. I remember. When I did it was because it was my job. Something I got paid for.”
Bernie turned toward her father. “What do you always tell us about sarcasm being the refuge of a weak mind, Dad?”
“Number one, I didn’t say that; number two, I wasn’t being sarcastic,” Sean told her. “I was being accurate.”
Bernie flicked a cake crumb off the front of her black cashmere turtleneck sweater. “Okay, Dad. I get it. You won the bet. You were right about the Sinclairs. They have a penchant for drama.”
“If I’m right, then why are you going?” Sean challenged as Cindy bumped her head against his hand to signal she wanted him to keep rubbing her ears. “You know this is probably nothing.” It was one thing for him to be out at night, but he wasn’t keen on his daughters being out there. Especially in bad weather. Not that he’d say that. If he did that would just encourage them to do the opposite.
“The same reason you’d be going if you’d gotten the call,” Bernie told her dad as she headed for the door.
“I wouldn’t be going,” Sean called after her.
Bernie stopped and pivoted. “Yes you would.”
“No I wouldn’t,” Sean insisted.
“Yes you would,” Bernie told him. “You want to know why?”
“I’m all ears,” Sean told her.
“You’d go because Ada needs help and you’d go because you couldn’t stand not knowing what was going on.”
“So, you’re telling me I’m a sucker?” Sean asked as Cindy began to purr.
“I think more like a hard candy with a soft center. A bonbon,” Bernie replied.
Sean laughed and shook his head. “Somehow bonbon sounds worse than sucker,” he told her.
Bernie walked over to her dad and kissed him on the forehead. “It does, doesn’t it,” she told him. Then she gave Cindy a quick scratch under the chin before turning and heading back toward the door.
Libby sighed as she finished her last bite of cake and cleaned the plate off with the tip of her finger. She’d been looking forward to an early bath and bed, not going on some wild goose chase, she thought as she licked the frosting off her finger. On the other hand, family was family and it was possible that Bernie would need some help. No. Not possible. Certain. Her sister always leaped before she looked.
“Stay safe,” Sean told Libby as she put down her fork. “And look after your sister.”
“Definitely,” Libby replied. Then she stood up and kissed her dad on the forehead, after which she headed toward the door. “You’re going to owe me for this big-time, Bernie,” Libby called out as sh
e followed her sister down the stairs.
“More cake for us,” Sean told Cindy the cat as he listened to his daughters’ footsteps on the stairs.
Cindy meowed her agreement and licked up the drop of milk that had spilled on Sean’s shirt. He scratched around Cindy’s ears. Her purring intensified, filling the room. He remembered seeing Ada when she was two years old when he’d gone over to her mother’s house with Rose. Which was the first and last time he’d been at Linda’s place, the place in which she was still living.
Ada had pitched a fit then, and evidently from what he was hearing she’d been doing that ever since. He remembered getting the feeling that she was the designated “bad child” of the family. The one who was always in trouble.
Was that dynamic still in play? he wondered. After all, family dynamics didn’t change all that much. Not really. Rose had thought Ada was the misunderstood one, the one who had gotten the short end of the straw, but then she was the one who thought all juvies were merely misunderstood. And they certainly weren’t. But there was a middle ground. Now, he wasn’t saying Ada was a saint, but he couldn’t see her killing someone, either. Especially the way Peggy had died. That took foresight and organization—two characteristics he was pretty sure from what he’d observed that Ada didn’t possess.
Sean took another sip of milk, cut himself another sliver of cake, and sat back in his chair and thought about the next step in shedding some light on this mess. That was easy. It entailed finding out about Peggy Graceson. Always start with the victim. That was his motto. And while Bernie and Libby were out on their wild goose chase, Sean decided he might as well do something constructive, which in this case meant picking up the phone and calling McCready and hearing what he had to say about Peggy Graceson. A question he should have asked when he was out there the last time.
“I’m definitely slipping, Cindy,” Sean told the cat. “And that’s the truth.”
Cindy continued purring.
Chapter 26
While Sean was on the phone with McCready, Libby and Bernie were driving to Kate Silverman’s apartment. It had started to snow again, the flakes drifting down like confetti, lightly coating the tree branches, buildings, and cars, brightening and softening their outlines.
A Catered New Year's Eve Page 17