by Cathy Tully
“Maybe you’re the one who should be running to and fro,” Susannah blurted, anger at the woman’s arrogance bubbling up from inside, “looking for someone who is growing poison.”
The second the words left her mouth, she regretted them.
Then the detective laughed, not the wheezy, rasping laugh Susannah had expected but a full-out guffaw that shook her shoulders and loosened a few more strands of kinky hair from her bun. “Are you finally confessing?” she asked, fingering her handcuffs.
“Of course not,” Susannah forced through gritted teeth. “I’m telling you you’re missing something important. Tina is still in the hospital. First, she was diagnosed with a heart problem and now there is concern about her kidneys. Why haven’t you insisted she be tested for poisons?”
The detective’s smile faded. “That’s a very interesting question coming from a suspected poisoner. Do you need to get something off your chest, Doctor? Did you poison your assistant because she found out something that could incriminate you? Did you get to her before she could get to me?”
Susannah’s heart froze midbeat at the accusation and then pounded so hard against her sternum that she became nauseated. How could she have been so stupid? She had been so wrapped up in discovering where the digitalis in Anita’s blood had come from, she had let herself play right into the detective’s hands. Detective Withers had to know by now that foxglove was available at any garden center. Did she suspect that Susannah was brewing up batches of poison and spoon-feeding them to her friends? A chill wracked her body. Sweat bloomed across her back and slimed the palms of her hands.
Just then, a black SUV charged down Piney Grove Road and careened into the lot, stopping hard next to Susannah’s Jeep. The detective moved back, scowling at Bitsy as her passenger window descended.
“Morning, Detective.” Bitsy smiled, nodding at Susannah. “I didn’t know you did breakfast interviews. Dr. Shine and I were on our way to Waffle House, but we can just as easily go to the donut shop if you’d like to join us.” She pressed a switch, and the door locks sprang open. Susannah took the opportunity to exit the Jeep and enter Bitsy’s Explorer.
Without waiting for an answer, Bitsy gunned her engine and left the lot, waving at the detective in the rearview mirror.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Susannah pulled her Atlanta Braves cap down low and scanned the dairy case. She had made it through another day in the office without Tina. It had been almost three weeks since Anita’s death, and her patient base was dwindling. Staring into the dairy case, she wondered if she was coming undone. Her need to make a peach cobbler resulted from a craving, which she was sure Bitsy had subliminally planted in her brain. Her friend’s chatter about peaches was ceaseless.
Everything had looked perfect for a bedtime snack, then the smoke alarm was screaming, and a luscious-looking gluten-free peach cobbler was smoldering. She hung her head. Her inattention to details had intensified as she worried about Tina and pondered Anita’s death. Not to be deterred, she had begun a fresh batch, only to discover a deficit in the shortening department. A simple stick of butter, and the cobbler would be melting in her mouth soon enough. Now, she grabbed the nearest brand, determined to exit the market before someone saw her in her baking clothes, disheveled and sticky with peach juice. Squeezing between a shopper and her buggy, she smiled at the ease of her escape. But at the corner of the aisle, flanked by stacks of egg cartons, she found herself blocked by a figure in the uniform of the Peach Grove Police Department.
Great, she thought, reluctant to look the officer in the eye. What now? Resolved to avoid confrontation and get home to her cobbler, she tipped her head down, using the brim of her cap to shield herself from any eye contact and sidestepped the dark figure. The officer would not cooperate and blocked her move.
She looked up.
It was Randy Laughton.
“Oh,” she said, stepping back and bumping the cold case with the back of her knee. The other shopper moved her cart down the aisle.
“Susannah. I—”
“Excuse me.” She frowned and tried again to step past him, but he moved, his heavy work shoes scuffing the tile floor. She sneered. “Either move or arrest me.”
“Now hold on. You don’t have to be so ugly. I only wanted to have a word.”
“Here?”
“We could step outside.”
Her eyelids fluttered at the thought of how much gossip would be generated if anyone saw her being escorted outside by Randy. Where would they talk? In his patrol car? She held her ground.
He said, “I wanted to ask about Tina.”
Susannah was startled. She assumed that he would get updates from the detective. “There’s no change. I expected the detective to keep you updated.”
His face got that pink tinge that she knew meant he was rattled. “I haven’t seen her.”
Susannah snorted. “I guess she’s out trumping up charges against someone else.”
“Susannah, I know you have some experience with law enforcement, but that was a long time ago. You have to trust us to do our job. Detective Withers is a professional.”
“I don’t think it’s professional to assume things that you can’t prove while ignoring other key aspects of the case.”
“How would you know about key aspects of the case? I don’t have to remind you that interfering with an investigating is a crime.”
Susannah clenched her teeth and stepped away from the refrigerator case. She had said too much, but she didn’t care. This was her life. “I’m not interfering. I’m talking common sense. Detective Withers thinks I sold Anita some herbal mixture that interacted with a medication she was taking,” she blurted, “only I never sold Anita anything, and there’s no proof that I did. Besides, she wasn’t taking any medication.”
A look of wariness crossed Randy’s face, then vanished, replaced by a hard stare. “How do you know what medications Anita took?”
Susannah chewed on the inside of her lip. Tread carefully, she thought. She arched an eyebrow in mock offense, hoping it made her look wrongly accused. “I spoke to Dolores and Pilar at Anita’s memorial luncheon. They told me she wasn’t taking any medication. They also told me that Detective Withers didn’t believe them, which is par for the course with that woman. She’s a sloppy investigator.”
It was Randy’s turn to shake his head. “You know that’s not true.”
Susannah stiffened, pushing back her cap. Her fingers dug into the cardboard packaging she held, and she resisted the urge to wave her hands in Randy’s face. She had to remain calm. She didn’t want to get carried away and be charged with battery against a police officer using a pound of butter. Would that be considered butter battery? The silly thought calmed her, and she faced him.
“No, it is true. Her theory of the crime is that I met Anita at my office, in secret, to sell her herbs that caused her death. Only you both know that I wouldn’t have been at the office that day, except that the alarm company called me. I know you checked on this.”
He didn’t interrupt, and she took that as agreement.
“If I wanted a secret rendezvous, why did I park my Jeep in front of the building, in full view of anyone driving by? Why even go to the office? She could have come to my house.”
Randy opened his mouth to answer, then shut it.
“Oh, I forgot, I was selling her the deadly herbs.” She watched his face for any reaction, but his expression gave nothing away. “Well, you know what I think? Detective Withers is uneducated about herbal medicines and can’t admit it. I also think Anita was meeting someone in secret, but it wasn’t me. I think it could have been a man, someone she was in a relationship with.”
“How can you say that?” This time, the color changed in Randy’s face, and she knew she had hit a nerve. Had the investigators come to the same conclusion? Or maybe he had made this suggestion to Detective Withers and been ignored.
“Let me walk you through it. I know Anita wasn’t there to see me, s
o I’ve been asking myself: Why was she there? If she was there for a legitimate reason—for example, she wanted to make an appointment—she would have parked in the front of the building and tried to go in the front door. Right?”
He nodded.
“When she realized the office was closed, she would have left. Or, if she was really determined to contact us, she would have called the office phone and gotten forwarded to Tina. She didn’t do either of those things. Instead, she went around back to the staff parking lot, which can’t be seen from the road.”
Randy rubbed his chin. “That’s exactly what makes it suspicious.”
“Of course it does. But the detective is suspicious of the wrong person. She should ask herself why Anita was there, not why I was there. It’s like she thinks up a theory and tries to prove it, instead of following the evidence to uncover the crime. Just like with Colin.”
“What do you mean?”
“Colin told me she suspected him because of what Tomás said. She’s trying to make the circumstances fit him.”
“Susannah, you need to stay out of this investigation. You shouldn’t be talking to Colin.”
She realized her fingers were sinking into the butter and tried to relax. “I am not involved with your investigation. I went with Bitsy to get her truck inspected, and Colin was locked down tight. His assistant was a nervous wreck because they’re being harassed. We saw the damage to the building, and he told us that someone broke into his shop and trashed his computer. And the police don’t care.”
Randy shook his head. “Susannah, don’t take what Colin says too seriously.”
“Why not?”
He lowered his voice. “Colin Rogers has a major drinking problem. He’s called us many times before, but there’s never been any evidence that anyone other than him caused the problems. He gets so liquored up, he passes out in that back room. You ask me, he wrecks the place himself, but he’s too drunk to remember.” A thin, red-haired woman appeared at the end of the aisle and then turned away, dragging her toddler with her. “Course, we can’t prove that either, so he walks around with a chip on his shoulder.”
Susannah glowered at him. Who wouldn’t have a chip on their shoulder when they know they are the subject of gossip?
Randy lowered his voice. “You would do well to stay away from him. His credibility is already low. You don’t want to be painted with that same brush.”
Susannah appreciated that the police had to be objective, but Randy’s dismissive tone made her question that objectivity. Colin might have a drinking problem, but she had seen the empty parking lot and the dent in the bay door. “You think this is all in his imagination? What about the vandalism to his property?”
Randy shook his head. “We’re looking into it.”
“Stevie told me he saw two men in a pickup vandalize the garage door, and I saw the dent. The paint didn’t match Colin’s car. And why would he do that to his own shop?”
“We don’t know what to make of it. A squad car was at his shop within five minutes of his call. Colin didn’t see the car, and Stevie couldn’t give us any details.”
You mean, Detective Withers scared him out of his wits, Susannah thought.
Randy looked her in the eye. “Susannah, we’re well aware of Colin and Stevie. Colin’s been very good to Stevie, but Stevie would not make a good witness for him. Everyone knows that Stevie is not quite right.” He tapped his temple and tried but failed to make a sympathetic face. “He would say anything to keep his job, and everyone knows it. As for Colin, he’s a talented mechanic and except for his battle with the bottle, he’s a decent sort.”
Susannah relaxed. This was probably the closest to an apology she would get.
Randy continued, “Nice people commit crimes all the time. The prisons are filled with them.”
Susannah stiffened. “What does that mean?”
“It means you should stay away from him until we catch the killer.”
With that, he leaned past her, picked up a dozen eggs, and, after offering a somber nod, turned and left.
Susannah stared at the butter in her hand, the hankering for cobbler gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Pilar Alvarez flicked her wrist. A silver demitasse spoon clinked on the porcelain cup, sending the bitter scent of coffee wafting to Susannah. The afternoon light streamed through the blinds and fell on Pilar, illuminating a wide swath of gray hair. Susannah stood in the house that Pilar had shared with Anita and observed her as she stopped stirring long enough to place a plate of cookies on the kitchen table. She fixed her dark brown eyes on Susannah, who sipped from her own porcelain cup, suppressing the urge to stick out her pinky. The coffee’s pungent smell and dense flavor curled her toes.
Pilar inhaled evenly, pulling her eyebrows together, and said, “What do you think?”
“Delicious.”
“Ah, Doctora, you sidestep the question.”
Susannah inhaled. She could detect the cinnamon, but an unknown essence enriched the aroma and deepened the taste, giving it a barely noticeable twist of freshness. This coffee tasted superior to anything Anita had ever made. “Yes,” she replied, feeling like she had betrayed Anita’s memory. “It is the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had.”
Pilar smiled, her smooth face revealing a few creases. “Anita and I tried to outdo each other in the kitchen. It was all in the name of sabor.” She used the Spanish word for flavor. Susannah had heard Anita use this to express her joy in creating a new dish, and Susannah considered whether competing with this intense woman could ever be considered anything less than intimidating.
Susannah thought back on the phone call from Dolores confirming her visit this afternoon. She had not expected to see Pilar, but she welcomed the opportunity to learn more about Anita’s private life. She was dying to ask if Anita had any enemies but held her tongue. When Pilar had welcomed her into the kitchen and tempted her with her own version of café, Susannah had readily agreed. She raised her cup to Pilar. “I can see that this is the kitchen of someone who loved to cook,” she said, motioning around the room with the cup. She observed that Anita’s colorful personality burst from every corner. There seemed to be little room for anyone else in it. Had this been Anita’s way of overcoming Pilar’s powerful personality and claiming the space for her own?
Pilar sipped, watching Susannah over her delicate cup, eyes twinkling with pleasure. “Ah, mi Anita put her heart into this room.”
The kitchen had an expensive European feel to it. The wall that held stainless steel appliances boasted hand-painted tiles whose deep vivid yellows and burgundies contrasted with the white floor and countertops. The espresso maker shamed the one Susannah’s family had bought her when she graduated from chiropractic school; she recognized it as an imported Italian model with solid copper fittings. Professional-grade saucepans hung from a gleaming metal rack. The floors, too, were tiled, and the cabinets were handmade.
“She was a perfectionist, and this was the room she was proudest of.” Pilar gestured with a gnarled finger that encompassed the entire house with a small sweep. “In fact, she lived here alone the first few months before she let us move in.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that.”
“Yes, she opened the Cantina Caliente first and spent many months commuting back to Atlanta where we were living. When she was sure that the restaurant could support them both, she built this house so that Dolores could come and live in the country.” She smiled, and for the first time, her features softened. “She spent many sleepless nights worrying about the details.”
Susannah recalled her conversations with Anita. “She made it look easy. I thought she enjoyed running the restaurant.” The sounds of Anita shouting at Tomás resounded in her mind. Chalk up another white lie. “Did she ever mention any problems?”
“Problems?” Pilar waved her hand. “There are always problems in the food business. Servers quitting, suppliers running out of items, inspectors asking for bribes, deliveries
gone wrong.” She leaned in. “Which piece of gossip have you heard?”
Susannah sat back, flustered. She had underestimated this woman, who apparently had her own sources of information. She tapped her cup, her nail eliciting a pleasant ring from the porcelain. “All right. Yes, it’s true, it is gossip. I heard that there was a problem with the inventory of the bar.”
Pilar emitted a dismissive hiss. “Even I know this answer. Anita, mi hija, was a stickler. Wanted everything to balance to the penny. She didn’t like that Tomás sometimes gave one or two of the laborers a little bonus drink.”
“Laborers?” Susannah echoed.
“Oh, not the staff. Not the servers, they are only children, most of them.” She waved again, this time with a sideways flick of the wrist. “You are a business owner. You understand that sometimes you need help after hours. Moving equipment, fixing the plumbing, or patching a leak in the roof where the rain comes in. Things tradespeople help you with. Sometimes you are there late at night after customers have left, or you must come in early in the morning before the day starts. So what if Tomás shared a shot of mezcal with one of these workers or slipped them a beer to drink at home?” She rapped her fist angrily on the table, and Susannah blinked. “That is a way to show your thanks and appreciation. That is not stealing.”
“I understand.”
“Anita was wrong about this, but it was an unimportant thing.” She sipped at her coffee, her mood now somber. After a moment, she put down her cup and moved to a wooden shelf, which held two picture frames. She picked one up and showed it to Susannah. Anita smiled out at them, her white chef coat pristine with its double row of buttons and long capped sleeves. She was surrounded by a group of grinning faces dressed in identical coats, every head topped with a white cap.
“Who would want to hurt my daughter? Opening her own restaurant was a dream come true. She worked hard, barely had any time for herself.” Her lips curled into a tight smile. “At first, she drove home every night. She would come in late, stinking of grease, and exhausted. Sometimes, I would find her curled up in Dolores’s bed, fast asleep.”