“A player?” I asked.
“Yeah, you know, a guy who enjoys women fussing over him.”
“Sounds like we should chat with Betty and Vivian,” Emma Lou said.
“I agree.” I said.
Emma Lou and I thanked Mildred for her time and headed to the apartments of the two gold diggers. Mildred had given us their numbers.
“Still think Mr. Worthington was poisoned?” Emma Lou asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “But I’m guessing if he was allergic to an ingredient in your tarts, he wouldn’t have eaten it. He would know. After all, he was an Englishman, right?”
“Right.”
Betty Foster’s apartment was three doors down from Mildred’s place. We knocked several times, but there was no response.
“Suppose she’s already asleep?” I asked.
“Doubt it,” Emma Lou responded. “If she’s like most old women, she can’t sleep at night and likely stays up watching TV or reading a book.”
I glanced at my Betty Boop watch.
“It’s approaching nine o’clock,” I said. “Maybe we should check on Vivian.”
Her place was on the other side of the facility. It took us ten minutes to walk there. A huge Christmas wreath covered her door, making it hard to find a clear space to knock.
A minute went by before a tall woman with rust-colored hair opened her door and asked what we wanted.
“We want to ask you about Mr. Worthington,” I said. “Can we come in?”
Vivian invited us into her living room. Another woman was already sitting in a chair.
“This is my friend, Betty Foster,” Vivian said. “Who are you two?”
“I’m Candi and this is Emma Lou,” I said. “We helped serve you dinner tonight.”
“I thought you looked familiar,” Betty said. “What can we do for you?”
“You were sitting with Geoffrey Worthington and each offered him a mincemeat tart for dessert, is that right?” I said.
“So?” Vivian said.
“What do you think happened to Geoffrey?” Emma Lou said. I could tell she was still smarting from Mildred’s comment about her tart poisoning him.
“Poor Geoffrey wasn’t poisoned like Mildred thinks,” Vivian said. “She has an overactive imagination. She watches too many cop shows on TV.”
“What about you, Betty?” I asked.
She shrugged and didn’t say anything.
Emma Lou and I continued questioning Betty and Vivian, but they didn’t have any more insights into Mr. Worthington’s death. I wondered if they were hiding something. Emma Lou and I were about to leave when I asked Vivian if I could use her bathroom.
“It’s at the end of the hall,” she said.
After relieving myself, I washed my hands and looked in the mirror above her sink. I looked awful. Trudy Castle and I worked on clients until nearly five o’clock. Our boss, Madge Parsons, doesn’t believe in closing Tips & Toes early, even on Christmas Eve.
I was about to turn and leave when I was suddenly overcome by a desire to peek inside Vivian’s medicine cabinet.
The devil made me do it.
Amid several bottles of perfume, mascara, and tubes of lipstick was a small dark bottle. I picked it up.
“Sodium cyanide?” I said aloud as I read the label. “What’s Vivian doing with it?”
I didn’t wait to answer my own question. I needed to get back to the living room before everyone wondered why I was lingering in the bathroom.
“Is everything okay?” Vivian asked as I sat down on her couch next to Emma Lou.
“Fine,” I said, trying not to look too guilty.
Emma Lou and I stayed a few more minutes before we excused ourselves and left Vivian’s apartment.
“Find anything interesting in Vivian’s bathroom?” Emma Lou asked as we walked back to the facility’s dining room.
“Why’d you say that?” I asked.
“Vivian and Betty were wondering what was taking you so long in there,” Emma Lou said.
“I found a bottle of sodium cyanide in Vivian’s medicine cabinet,” I said. “She might have used it to poison Geoffrey.”
It was another five minutes before Emma Lou and I returned to the dining room. Mandy, Martha Rae and Margaret Sullivan were sitting at a table each enjoying a cup of coffee.
“Where have you two been?” Mandy asked. “We were worried about you.”
“Candi and I did a little detective work of our own,” Emma Lou said.
“What?” Martha Rae said.
I told them how after meeting Emma Lou’s old friend, Mildred McDonald, we ended up visiting Betty Foster and Vivian Appleton.
“Not those two,” Margaret said when I finished.
“Why’d you say that?”
“They’re the two residents who cause me the most grief.”
“How so?” I asked.
“They’re constantly competing to see which one can attract the most men in this place,” Margaret said. “They both viewed Geoffrey as a huge prize.”
“Who was winning?” Mandy asked
“Neither, I’m afraid,” Margaret said. “Geoffrey was still in mourning over his wife’s death and wasn’t interested in a female companion, and especially not Betty or Vivian.”
“What makes you so sure?” Martha Rae asked.
“He came to my office last week. Asked me to speak to them. He wanted to be left alone. I spoke to Betty and Vivian two days ago.”
“Maybe they were still angry at your meeting,” I said. “But, was that enough to want to see Mr. Worthington dead?”
“Hard to say,” Margaret replied, taking another sip of her coffee. “They’re very competitive and they don’t like to take ‘no’ for an answer.”
“Can I ask another question?” I said. “What did Vivian’s husband do for a living?”
“Her last one was a pharmacist,” Margaret said. “Owned his own independent pharmacy before he passed away.”
I stood up and started to walk away.
“Where are you going now?” Mandy said.
“I’m calling the cops,” I said. “I know who poisoned Geoffrey Worthington.”
“What’s going on?” Nate Sloan and Frank Turner asked after entering the Springs of Bartonsville dining room a half hour later.
“Candi knows who poisoned Geoffrey Worthington,” Emma Lou said.
“She does, does she?” Frank said. “Interfering in police business again, Candi? Hasn’t Chief Cobb already warned you to mind your business when it comes to police matters?”
“Yes,” I said. “But, I’m pretty sure I’ve got the right person this time.”
“Let’s hear it then,” Nate said.
I explained how Emma Lou and I visited Betty Foster and Vivian Appleton and how I accidently found a bottle of sodium cyanide in Vivian’s medicine cabinet.
“So, now you’re now convinced this Vivian woman poisoned Worthington,” Frank asked.
“Yup.”
“What makes you so sure, Candi?” Nate asked.
“Margaret says Vivian’s husband was a pharmacist before he passed away.”
“What do you think, Frank?” Nate said. “Should we check out Candi’s story?”
“Why not,” Frank said. “We’ve got nothing better to do tonight. It beats riding around town in a squad car with a busted heater.”
Emma Lou and I gave Nate and Frank directions to Vivian’s apartment.
“You should all go home and leave the police work to us,” Frank said as he and Nate walked away.
“Should we leave like they said?” Mandy asked.
“No,” the rest of us shouted.
It was another hour before Nate and Frank returned to the dining room with Betty Foster and Vivian Appleton in tow.
“Was I right about the murderer?” I asked proudly.
“No,” Frank replied. “You had the wrong person.”
“What?”
“As we questioned them about
Mr. Worthington’s death, Ms. Foster broke down and confessed to poisoning him,” Nate said. “She was afraid he liked Vivian more. And, if she couldn’t have him, Betty didn’t want Vivian to win his heart.”
“She stole the bottle of sodium cyanide out of my medicine cabinet,” Vivian said. “Here I thought we were best friends. And, she put it back tonight before you showed up at my apartment. Now that I think about it, you must have peeked in my cabinet, too.”
Vivian looked directly at me, but I began admiring her house slippers and didn’t say anything.
“What’s going to happen now?” Martha Rae asked.
“We’re taking Ms. Foster into custody tonight. We will meet with Chief Cobb and the coroner in the morning to decide if Mr. Worthington was in fact poisoned before we charge her with anything,” Frank said.
“Make sure Chief Cobb knows I helped solve your case,” I said.
“I’m sure he’ll want to issue you a citizen’s commendation once he finds out,” Frank said as he grabbed Betty Foster’s arm and headed for the main entrance.
“What should we do now?” Emma Lou asked after they left.
“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m going home,” Martha Rae said. “I’m beat.”
“Us, too,” said Margaret Sullivan and Vivian Appleton.
“What about us?” Mandy asked.
“I’ve got an idea,” Emma Lou said.
“What?” I asked.
“Let’s attend midnight services at First United Methodist Church,” Emma Lou said. “I was so busy making mincemeat tarts the past few days that I didn’t check on baby Jesus.”
“Speaking of mincemeat tarts,” Mandy said as we left the assisted-living facility. “Are there any left?”
Mincemeat Tart
Mincemeat
2 large sweet apples, peeled, cored and diced
1 large orange, zested, peeled and diced
1 cup raisins
1/2 cup golden raisins
1/2 cup dried apricots, chopped
1/3 cup dark brown sugar
1/4 cup lemon juice
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon allspice
1/2 cup brandy (Or, as Emma Lou reminds us: “Any strong liquor will do.”)
Pastry
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoons granulated white sugar
1/2 cup cold unsalted butter, cut into 1-inch chunks
3 to 4 tablespoons ice cold water
In a medium saucepan, mix diced apples, orange zest, diced orange fruit, and remaining ingredients except the brandy. Stir and simmer over medium heat, stirring occasionally for 30 minutes. Remove the mixture from the heat and stir in the brandy. Place the mixture in an air-tight container and store in the refrigerator for at least 2 weeks before using, to let the flavors meld. This will keep in the fridge 2 to 3 months.
In a food processor, place the flour, salt, and sugar and process until combined. Add the cold butter and process until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs (about 15 seconds). Sprinkle about 3 tablespoons of ice water over the pastry and process just until the pastry holds together when pinched. Add a little more water, if necessary.
Turn the dough onto your work surface and gather into a ball. Divide the pastry in half, flatten each half into a disk, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for 30 to 60 minutes, or until firm.
Preheat your oven to 400°F. Have ready a 24 mini muffin tin (preferably non-stick).
After pastry has chilled sufficiently, take one of the disks of pastry, and place on a lightly floured surface. Roll out each round of pastry until it’s about 1/8 inch thick. Using a round cookie cutter that’s slightly bigger than the muffin cups, cut the pastry into 24 rounds. (To prevent the pastry from sticking to the counter and to ensure uniform thickness, keep lifting and turning the pastry a quarter turn as you roll (always roll from the center of the pastry outwards).)
Gently place the rounds into the muffin cups and top with a heaping teaspoon of mincemeat. Gather up any leftover scraps of pastry and re-roll. Cut out 24 stars or other shapes using a small cookie cutter, and gently place the stars on top of the mincemeat. Brush the tops of the stars with a little cream and sprinkle with granulated sugar. Bake for about 10 to 15 minutes or until the pastry is lightly browned. Remove from oven and cool on a wire rack. Dust each tart with powdered sugar before serving. Serve warm, at room temperature or cold. They can be frozen.
Makes 24 2-inch tarts.
Killer Christmas
By Janet Williams
An out-of-key Jingle Bells ringtone jolted me out of a deep sleep and I flailed as I grabbed my phone from the nightstand. “Jake” flashed on the screen in my darkened room.
“What the hell, Jake,” I sputtered.
“Oh Annie, is it really you?” The voice was ragged and frantic, not sounding at all like my cool, always-in-command partner.
“Jake? What is it? What’s wrong?” I asked, anxiety rising as I struggled to sit upright.
“You’ve got to come down to the coroner’s office now and see this.”
“See what? What’s going on?”
“Just come. Doc and I will meet you here.” He clicked off, leaving me to stare at my phone for a long moment, trying to understand what just happened.
Jake and I had solved a string of murders, making the department and the chief look good. Really good. Our reward was two weeks off at Christmas. Didn’t we at least deserve to get through the holiday before the next big case? I checked the phone. It wasn’t even 4 a.m.
I threw on the jeans that lay crumpled on the floor and the sweater I had tossed over a chair after I got in from last night’s Christmas party. Ah, party. That’s why my head throbbed and my stomach churned. One too many glasses of holiday cheer.
After popping a couple of aspirin and brushing my teeth, I tied my straggly hair into a ponytail and left. I lived in downtown Indianapolis just a few blocks from the public safety building so I walked, hoping the brisk night air would help clear my head.
I used my ID to get through the electronic front door and made my way to the basement, home to the morgue. I pushed my way through the glass doors to see Jake in an animated discussion with Tracy Bottinger. Or Doc Tracy as we affectionately called her.
Jake’s eyes lit up as they caught mine and he rushed to me, wrapping me in a tight embrace. He pressed my face so tightly into his flabby chest that I could barely breathe but I could still catch the faint scent of cigarettes on his leather jacket. Smoking again.
“Thank God, thank God, thank God,” he gasped.
With one limp hand I patted him on the back and with the other I pulled myself from his hold.
“Jake, what’s wrong?” He was deathly pale and his eyes were puffy and red.
“See, I told you it couldn’t possibly be her,” he said, grabbing my arm and dragging me toward Doc like I was a mannequin.
“I can see that,” Doc said, a puzzled expression on her face.
I jerked my arm away from Jake. “You high or something?”
He sighed, looking from Doc and then back to me.
“You got to see this for yourself,” he said. Jake waited a second for Doc to nod her OK—this was her space, after all—and then ushered me through the thick metal doors.
I sprinted to keep up with Jake, who was a good five inches taller than me, as he loped down the corridor. He slammed through the doors leading to Doc’s autopsy chamber. I knew this route well, especially after that last case when Jake and I were here every couple of days as the bodies piled up.
Jake flicked on the lights, three overhead banks of glaring fluorescent bulbs. I squinted and took a moment to focus on the exam table positioned in the middle of the cavernous room as I breathed in that antiseptic scent.
The far wall looked like the drawers of a giant file cabinet, except they were refrigerated, holding bodies until they could be autops
ied, identified, or shipped off to a funeral home. A simple string of garland hanging over the wall of drawers and a small tabletop tree with blinking red and green lights gave the only hint that this was Christmas week.
“Looks like you almost got a full house,” I said to Doc as I noticed that of the six drawers five had tags on them indicating a body was inside. “Busy week? Killing spree?”
Doc sighed. “We almost always end up with more than we can handle around the holidays. And except for this one here, no new business for you guys.” She nodded toward the table where the body was covered by a white sheet.
Doc, who stood nearly as tall as Jake in her heeled boots, pushed ahead of him, reaching the body before he could lift the sheet.
“Let me,” she said, making it clear that Jake was overstepping his boundaries.
“Annie, you’re not going to believe…” Jake started to say before he was cut off by Doc’s angry glare.
“Anne, prepare yourself for this.” Doc’s tone was so grave that my stomach did a flip-flop.
I held my breath as she lifted the sheet gently, as if she were removing a sacred shroud to show me the body of a middle-aged… no, make that late middle-aged woman. She looked vaguely familiar, about my height of five-six and with a splotchy complexion and graying short-cropped hair. Her eyes were bulging out of their sockets and the deep bruising around her neck told me she had been strangled.
As I looked at the body, from her neck to the mid-section showing a bit of a bulge and to the bare feet, I wondered what the fuss was all about. Unless there was something about the unusual greenish gray two-piece polyester uniform. It had gold epaulets and an insignia on the left breast pocket that looked like the Indianapolis skyline hovering on the horizon, only the skyline had a tower with a flying saucer-like disc balancing on a needlepoint.
I pulled out my cellphone and snapped a photo of the insignia as Jake and Doc stared at me, expecting some kind of reaction.
“You guys know this person? Is this someone I’m supposed to know?” I asked, searching their faces to understand why they were behaving so strangely.
“You don’t see it?” Jake asked.
“You mean this weird uniform? I mean, who has an insignia like this?” I asked. “We know anybody who wears these things?”
Homicide for the Holidays Page 10