by Cathy Tully
Symptoms of dizziness, shortness of breath, and coughing or wheezing would have been obvious. She chewed her cuticle again, this time drawing blood, and revisited her memory for the tenth time. They had shared a coffee. Anita had even stopped to mop up the floor before Susannah took a seat next to Bitsy. A few minutes later, Anita had appeared, fit as ever, and served her a plate of huevos rancheros, balancing the plate in one hand and pouring coffee with the other. No coughing, no wheezing, no signs of anything out of the ordinary.
Susannah smiled, remembering how pleased she had been to quiet her rumbling stomach with those eggs. A tear dripped onto her keyboard, and she sat up, still smiling, unable to stanch the flow of tears.
She would miss Anita.
Another twist of her gut chided her for being a poor friend while Anita was alive. She resolved to make it up to her family; the only way she could do that would be to question them discreetly about Anita’s health. But it was no longer a matter of rude comments from Randy. If Detective Withers found out, there would be trouble. She narrowed her eyes, shutting down her computer. For the first time since Anita’s death, she had a plan. She felt her body relax and headed to bed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Susannah opened the heavy wooden door of the Cantina Caliente and stepped into the paneled foyer. Bitsy followed, barely touching the door with her fingertips, letting the weight of the wood fall on Colin Rogers, who entered behind them. Bitsy sped past the wood panels, which were carved with the likeness of saints. Anita had commissioned the work from a Mexican sculptor renowned for his representations of the holy images of her homeland. Carved into one wall stood the Virgin of Guadalupe, her head covered by the traditional turquoise mantel emblazoned with hundreds of tiny stars, which had been painstakingly etched into the wood. Susannah thought that painting the stars gold was overkill, and Bitsy had long ago dubbed her “Our Lady of the Lightsaber.” “I know she got those Princess Leia buns hidden under that headgear,” she had told Susannah, giggling when Anita had thrown a scowl her way. But after that, Bitsy assiduously avoided looking at the image. “One thing I know from my strict Christian upbringing,” she told Susannah earnestly, “is that graven images will send you straight to hell. Catholics might be immune, but us nondenominationals are not.”
Susannah paused at the end of the foyer. The middle of the restaurant held two long banquet tables. Chafing dishes sat warming on either end. Most of the attendees congregated at the booths on one side of the room or at the bar on the other, leaving the area around the buffet tables empty. The spotless table linens, the wide-open space, and the subdued voices all gave the restaurant a distinct ambiance. She shivered. Anita’s absence was palpable.
At the front of the room, an older woman with gray hair held the arm of a teenage boy who wore a pair of black slacks and an ill-fitting sports coat. It had to be Anita’s mother; the resemblance was uncanny.
Susannah nudged Bitsy, pointing out Tomás. “There he is,” she said, keeping her voice low. He wore a black suit with a white carnation in the lapel. He bent at the waist, his suit unwrinkled and stiff, as he spoke to Anita’s mother.
“I see.” Bitsy, garbed in a somber black dress accentuated by a discreet orange-and-black scarf, smiled wide. She spoke without moving her lips. “You can’t start asking questions yet. Let everyone get liquored up first.” She gave Susannah a nudge and nodded at a group of Business Association members as she made her way to the bar.
Susannah watched her climb onto a stool, and Colin followed her lead. Nolan, the bartender, handed them both drinks. From the size of the glasses, Susannah knew they were imbibing té tamarindo. Tamarind tea was a tart concoction invented by Anita, who mixed the flavor of the Mexican tamarind fruit with the Southern staple beverage of sickly-sweet iced tea. It was a Cantina Caliente favorite.
Susannah examined the group of locals. Somber in their formal clothing, even lapsed members of the PGBA had made time for the memorial. They polished up nicely, Susannah thought. She moved away, casually studying the floral arrangements, looking for anything that resembled foxglove. When she had determined that nothing fit the bill, she felt foolish. Surely, if the killer worked at the restaurant, he or she would not have the nerve to put the poisonous plant on display.
She crossed to Tomás, who stood next to an easel that held a picture of Anita. Remembering the detective’s interest in what had gone on in the kitchen and the angry voices she had heard the last time she was here, Susannah was eager to question Tomás. He met her eyes, and his smile wavered. He walked away, stopping to give instructions to one of his servers. She caught up with him and placed her hand on his arm.
“Doctora,” he said, glaring at her hand.
She held on to his jacket. She didn’t want him to get away just yet. “Everything looks beautiful,” she said, nodding at the table. “Anita would be proud.”
He smiled wanly, glancing around the room. “Yes, she would be.”
Susannah couldn’t help herself. “These flowers are gorgeous. Was Anita fond of them?”
His eyes fell on the floral arrangements. “Anita loved flowers. She said they reminded her of home.” His gaze followed a server who carried a chair. He made a hissing noise, and the man looked over and immediately changed direction. “She liked everything just so. The only place she allowed a mess was on her desk. Papers up to here.” He raised his hand to his nose and then shook his wrist in a quick flicking motion; Susannah had seen Anita do the same to express displeasure. His smile faded. “But even there, she always had a small vase of flowers.”
Anita kept flowers in her office. Susannah knew Anita’s office was on the far side of the kitchen. Had they found poisonous flowers? Was the detective even looking? She cut her eyes to the kitchen and then back to Tomás.
“Tomás, I’m curious about something. Was Anita here the morning she died?”
Tomás smoothed his cuffs. “I work the opening shift on Friday, and Anita closes.” He twisted the button on his cuff, his fingers clenched. “But she might have been here and left. At least, I think someone was here. The light was on in her office, and Anita always shut off all the lights. Like I said, everything had to be just so.”
Susannah glanced at the archway where she had shared her last cup of coffee with Anita. “The last time I was here, it sounded like you and Anita had a disagreement about something.”
“No, that’s not right.” Tomás hesitated, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. “I, uh—”
Before he could finish, the door opened and Detective Withers and Randy entered. Randy and Tomás exchanged a glance, and Tomás hurried away, mumbling, “You are mistaken. I must go.”
Susannah watched him hurry off. A tap on the arm made her jump, and she turned to see Dolores Alvarez, Anita’s seventeen-year-old daughter.
“Dr. Shine, thank you for coming,” she said tentatively. “Can I speak with you?”
Susannah placed her hand on Dolores’s. Her hazel eyes were flecked with brown, and Susannah saw the weight of her grief in them. “Of course.”
“I’m trying to understand why the police say my mother had a heart problem.”
“Oh?” Susannah was amazed that the detective had taken the time to rule out a medication overdose. But it was logical. As Iris had said, a medication overdose could happen.
“Yes, a detective came to the house this morning and asked for a list of my mother’s medications. I told her she didn’t have a doctor and wasn’t taking any medications. She never got sick. But the detective insisted.” She frowned. “She said Mamá must have been taking heart medication. My abuela and I told her she never took any pills. The detective wasn’t very nice. Abuela got angry and threw her out.”
“I’m so sorry.” A familiar sensation gripped her gut. Guilt, mixed neatly with a modicum of fear and a dash of self-loathing. A recipe for an ulcer, but she still couldn’t divulge what she had learned from Iris.
“Did she ever mention this to you?” The girl looked
forlorn.
Susannah forced a weak smile. “No, she didn’t, but I don’t know if she would have shared something like that with me.”
Dolores nodded. “I know she trusted you.” A tear rolled down her face. “I thought she might have said something.”
“I’m sorry.” Susannah leaned in and gave her a hug. When she stepped back, Anita’s mother stood at her shoulder. Her gray hair accentuated her pale and drawn countenance. She fixed Susannah with deep black eyes.
Dolores said, “Abuela, this is Dr. Shine, the chiropractor. Mamá’s friend.”
The woman held out her hand, her expression softening. “Pilar Alvarez. Thank you for coming.” She spoke with the same melodic voice that Susannah had admired in Anita.
Dolores drew closer and lowered her voice. “I asked her if she knew about Mamá going to a doctor.” She swiped at a tear, and her grandmother took her hand.
Pilar narrowed her eyes, her face darkening. “I told that detective the only complaint mi hija ever had was a few days before she died.” She sniffed. “She complained of a headache. She said she wanted to see a doctor about that, but I don’t know if she did.”
Susannah leaned toward Dolores. “I’ll be glad to help you figure it out.” Pilar had given her the perfect opening, and her gut quietly agreed. “If she saw a doctor, you should be able to access her records and discover if she was taking any medications.”
Before Pilar could speak, a petite woman entered the restaurant. She took one look at Pilar, and a wail escaped her, which caused a hush to fall on the assembly. Susannah had never heard such a loud voice come out of such a small person. Pilar and Dolores turned as the woman, whose eyes were ringed with smudged eyeliner, made a beeline for them and threw herself on Pilar, gasping. A solemn-faced man, possibly the petite woman’s husband, caught up and stood to the side with his hands clasped, silently staring at his shoes.
Susannah pushed a business card into Dolores’s hand. “Call me when you have some time.”
Dolores rolled her eyes at the noise and forced a small smile. “I will, and thank you.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Susannah pulled Bitsy into the Cantina’s restroom, checked to make sure that all three stalls were empty, and locked the door.
“Why did you bring me in here? You know I hate public restrooms.” Bitsy crinkled her nose. “They smell funny and have germs.”
“Keep it down,” Susannah whispered, interrupting what was sure to degenerate into a lecture on cleanliness and the use of personal-sized hand sanitizer. “I need your help.”
“You could have asked me for help while sitting on a barstool,” Bitsy grumbled. “They’re not exactly being generous with the alcohol. How am I supposed to disinfect myself when I leave here, without no alcohol?”
Susannah picked up some paper towels from a pile on the sink and handed a few to Bitsy. “I have to get into Anita’s office,” she said.
“Now I know you’re losing your mind,” Bitsy replied, grabbing the door handle with a towel clenched between her fingers. It rattled but did not budge. “Now you’ve gone and locked me in a restroom.” A look of disgust crossed her face, and she rattled the door again for emphasis.
“You can’t go.” Susannah pulled her back. “You have to help me.”
“Do you hear yourself?” Bitsy crossed her arms. “I am helping you. By not helping you. That detective is out there, and you know she don’t like you. What’s gonna happen if she finds you snooping around Anita’s office?”
“What difference does it make? She already suspects me. I have to find out what’s going on in that kitchen. And I need to see her office. Maybe they missed something.”
“I know what you’re thinking. You want to find some poisonous flowers to prove that Anita wasn’t taking no medication for her heart. You want to prove you didn’t do it. You think the killer would leave poison flowers lying around, all nice and neat for you to find?”
“Of course not. I just need time to do some snooping. There has to be something the police missed, or they wouldn’t be investigating me.”
Bitsy took a step toward Susannah and scrutinized her, pursing her lips. “No. I can’t see you pulling this off. You’re a doctor—you’re supposed to be refined.”
“Who said that? Did you forget I used to be a transit officer?” Susannah folded her arms and scrutinized Bitsy in return. “I worked in the subway tunnels of New York City.”
Bitsy’s mouth was a resolute burgundy line. “Hmmmph,” she said. “So that’s how it’s gonna be?”
Susannah watched her expression soften.
“Okay,” she said. “But on one condition.”
“Whatever it is, I agree.”
“No criticizing my methods.” With that, she snapped the lock open with paper towel–protected fingers and left.
WEDGED BETWEEN A RACK piled with saucepans and a fire exit, Susannah stared into Anita’s office. With the chef and servers bustling in and out, slipping into the kitchen was easier than she’d imagined. Finding something that linked Anita to the killer would not be as easy. Sweat collected under her arms. She took a breath and stole into the unlit office and closed the door.
The office was a windowless box, white plasterboard walls peppered with scuffs and tinged with gouges where the doorknob had repeatedly hit. A time clock hung next to a bulletin board with the requisite Workers’ Comp and OSHA notices. Nothing out of the ordinary there. She searched a desk, finding nothing but a few pens, some paper clips, and a container of Tic Tacs. The desk held no family pictures or personal accoutrements. What did she expect? A day planner opened with the killer’s name penciled in?
Voices filtered through the door, and she edged along the wall and turned off the light. Opening the door a crack, she saw Tomás holding a white table linen over his arm. It had a large stain on it, and Susannah wondered if this was part of Bitsy’s method or if it was some other mourner’s faux pas.
“Why have you not arrested him?” he said. “He’s out there eating Anita’s food and drinking té tamarindo. He should be in jail.”
“Now settle down, Tomás.”
Susannah recognized Randy’s voice. She froze, as he moved into view frowning at Tomás. Afraid to close the door, she held her breath. Quiet as a church mouse, she thought.
“Don’t tell me to settle down.” Tomás pointed at Randy, and then he balled up the soiled linen and launched it into a bin with a grunt. “I gave you information about how he hurt Anita. I should have told you sooner, but Anita begged me not to call you, and now she’s dead.”
“We follow up on every lead,” Randy said, reaching out to put his hand on Tomás’s shoulder. “It takes time.”
Tomás shook Randy’s hand away, flicking his palm up in a back off motion, and walked out of the kitchen. Randy followed.
Susannah exhaled and eased the door closed. She stood for a moment, replaying the conversation. Tomás must be talking about Colin. She twisted the lock and flipped the light on, returning to Anita’s desk. She stared at an empty ceramic vase, remembering Tomás’s comment that Anita always had flowers on her desk. Susannah barely had room for the patient files that landed on her own desk, and there was no way she would keep a container filled with water near her computer.
Wait a minute. She looked around. There was no computer. She had often noted the electronic order system that the restaurant used. Wouldn’t Anita use a computer to review that data? She ran her fingers through her hair. Perhaps the police had taken her computer. What did that mean? She didn’t know, but she had no time to waste on worrying about that now.
Fiona said that Anita had billing disputes, so she searched for bills, sifting an assortment of papers in a wire basket. There were three bills for produce, one for meat, and one from a janitorial service. No magical a-ha moment there. She sagged. This was it? Some invoices and an empty vase? She jammed the invoices inside her blouse. Damn women’s suits. If I were a man, I would have pockets.
Voices
carried from the kitchen once more, and she berated herself for believing this was a good idea. She had found nothing, and now she was stuck in here. Tiptoeing to the door, she again shut off the light and stood, waiting. A deep voice shouted out orders. Were they still setting up the buffet?
She cracked the door. The chef directed his staff with a large stainless steel spoon, like a culinary maestro. Three men carried covered trays, and a tall, chubby woman loaded a trolley with two large coffee urns. Coffee already? Had she been here that long?
She glanced at her watch, grateful that she’d chosen to wear it tonight; checking her phone in a dark room might give her away. Mental note to self: when snooping around, wear a watch. Only ten minutes had passed. They must be providing self-serve té tamarindo with lunch. The chef followed the trolley out of the kitchen.
Now was her chance.
She stealthily exited the office, closing the door as she stepped into the kitchen. A sudden rush of footsteps sent her heart hammering.
“Don’t push me,” a young male voice squeaked.
She wrenched the doorknob behind her, but it wouldn’t give. She had locked herself out and had nowhere to go.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Susannah pushed through the rear exit and tripped down a single step, sliding knees first into a wooden pallet. A sliver of wood protruding off the pallet snagged the seam of her skirt, and she heard the fabric tear as she balanced herself. Clutching the door, she pivoted, flailing as it swung open. Vertigo descended upon her and she cursed her clumsiness, inhaling deeply and focusing on a point on the ground to regain her equilibrium.