I interrupted her litany of the reasons that hadn’t brought me to the police department. “It’s about Ivy Donner.”
“Oh.” She pursed thin, fuchsia-painted lips. The lipstick had bled into thin lines around her lips, creating a fuchsia halo around her mouth. “He’s out on police business. The chief is here, though. I’m sure he can help you.”
I was faintly disappointed that I wasn’t going to get to see Detective Lindell Hart. I hadn’t been conscious of looking forward to seeing him again, and my disappointment surprised me. Before I could decide if maybe I wanted to wait to turn in the canister until Detective Hart was available, Mabel had pushed an intercom button and notified Chief Uggams that I wished to talk to him.
“CC to see you about the Donner situation,” she said. She looked up and explained to me, “CC is my own little code. It means ‘concerned citizen.’ Much more efficient than having to say con-cerned ci-ti-zen.” She drew the words out to their longest possible extent.
“Great idea.”
She nodded, satisfied, as Chief Uggams appeared in the doorway. About my father’s age, he’d been deputy chief until Chief Sanderson, Kerry’s ex, gave up the job about three years ago. He was a black man with short-cropped grizzled hair, a barrel chest, and a no-nonsense air. His khaki HPD uniform had sharp creases in the slacks and short sleeves, and his brown belt bristled with heavy-looking police paraphernalia, including a gun. I could see from a groove in the leather that he’d had to let the belt out a couple of notches. He and my dad used to play poker the last Thursday of the month with a group of other guys; maybe they still did.
“Amy-Faye.” He approached like he might hug me but offered me his hand instead. My hand disappeared into his fleshy palm. “What can I do for you? Boyfriend troubles? I heard that young man of yours has gotten himself engaged. Want me to harass him with parking tickets and jaywalking charges for not treating you right? Too bad there’s no law against stupidity or I could arrest him for not sticking with the nicest, smartest gal in town.” He chuckled and ushered me back to his office.
I barely refrained from rolling my eyes. Small towns were like Facebook without an Internet connection; once something got on the “wall” of collective memory, it was there to stay. No delete button. It was enough, sometimes, to make me want to move to Denver, or even out of state. “I appreciate the offer, but—”
“How’s Norm? Still cheating at Texas Hold’em? Since I took this job, I haven’t had as much opportunity to play as I’d like. You tell him ‘hey’ for me, okay?”
“Will do. Dad’s doing great. Mom, too. What I’m really here about, though”—I drew the canister carefully from my purse—“is Ivy Donner. I heard she was poisoned with oleander in her tea.”
The chief’s eyes narrowed and he sank into his desk chair, waving me to a sagging love seat with brown leather cushions scoured over the years to a pale tan in the middle by thousands of butts. I sat, holding the canister cupped in my hands. It felt like an urn and I blinked hard twice to dispel the image.
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Her brother. He said you think she committed suicide.” I waited for him to correct me, but he remained silent, regarding me with brown, slightly bloodshot eyes. “She wouldn’t do that,” I said. “I’ve known Ivy half my life and she was flat-out not the suicidal type. She was a ‘pick yourself up and get on with living’ kind of person. Even after her divorce. Even when her folks died in that crash. She wouldn’t kill herself over a breakup with a man, if that’s what you think.”
He didn’t tackle my points. “What’ve you got there?” He nodded toward the canister.
“I was at her office today. I’m setting up an offsite—but that doesn’t matter. I saw this in the break room and Kirsten Wiggins told me it’s Ivy’s special tea. I got to thinking that if someone meant to make her sick . . . well, it would be easier to slip something into her tea at the office than at her house . . .” I petered out under the weight of his stare.
“You got any reason to think someone might want to make Ivy sick?”
Good question. Lola and I had carefully avoided talking about possible suspects, and I hesitated to point a finger now. Ham was going to inherit her estate and he always needed money. Kirsten Wiggins was clearly PO’d that Ivy had gotten the promotion she wanted; she might have thought making Ivy throw up was suitable revenge. Clay? I needed to know more about who had broken up with whom and why. “Not really,” I said.
The chief shook his head slowly. “Amy-Faye.”
He stopped, gathering his thoughts, trying to find a gentle way to tell me to butt out, I could tell. I clutched the canister tighter.
“Amy-Faye, this is police business. It’s not for civilians to be messing with. The pathologist’s report said Ivy Donner died of oleander poisoning. We have no reason to suspect foul play and good evidence to suggest the poison was self-administered. That is, that she killed herself. I know it’s hard to accept that a friend might be that unhappy and we didn’t notice. But it’s not your fault. Some people are damn good at hiding their emotions. I’ve been a cop for more’n thirty years and I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard people say about their loved ones, ‘I never knew he was angry enough to shoot,’ or ‘He was always smiling—I can’t believe he slit his wrists.’ Take my word for it: It happens.”
My fault! That thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. Now that he’d planted it, however, it took rapid root. Had Ivy been depressed? If I’d made time to get together with her more often, might I have noticed her unhappiness?
“If you could just test this—” I proffered the canister.
“Let your friend rest in peace,” the chief said, shaking his head no. “The department has more important priorities—”
A footstep at the door brought our heads around. Detective Hart filled the doorway, gaze going from me to his boss. I’d forgotten how tall he was. “Mabel told me Miss Johnson was here with some information pertinent to the Donner investigation.”
“This.” I held up the canister, not quite ready to give up. “It’s Ivy’s tea stash from the office break room. I just want you to test it. What if there’s oleander in here? Someone else could have drunk it and gotten sick, which is why I took it. Partly why. If there’s oleander in here, it’ll prove she didn’t kill herself, right?” My eyes searched his face, looking for signs that he believed me, but I couldn’t read his neutral expression. “I mean, there’d be no reason for her to poison this batch and whatever she drank at home if she killed herself.”
To my great relief, Detective Hart reached out and took the paper towel–wrapped canister from me. His fingers brushed mine.
“Fingerprints,” I explained, gesturing toward the paper towel.
“You read too many mysteries,” Chief Uggams cut in with a frown. “Hart, I’ve been telling Amy-Faye—”
“It won’t hurt to test it,” Detective Hart said mildly. “We don’t want anyone saying we weren’t thorough with our investigation.”
“That Bell woman.” The chief worked his jaw back and forth. “Did you see what she had on her blog about the town council meeting? Saying the PTA president and the soccer coach bribed council members to vote in favor of annexing part of the old Duncan farm for a new soccer field. Saying they conspired to undermine the success of Heaven’s youth. Hogwash.”
Maud had discussed the vote with me and told me she had proof that two council members had been promised their kids would make the soccer team if the field purchase was approved. “That money should have gone to new math textbooks,” she’d said. “What are we coming to when the PTA president, of all people, is conspiring to elevate sports over academics? What has happened to our priorities in this country?”
“My wife says I shouldn’t read it, that it upsets my ulcer,” he said, rubbing his stomach. “I can imagine what Maud Bell would have to say about this: ‘Heaven P
olice Conspire to Bury Truth about Woman’s Death.’” He eyed the canister with disfavor. “I suppose we need to test it. All right, go ahead, Hart. And you”—he faced me squarely—“go back to organizing weddings and leave the policing to the police. You hear me?”
Happy to have achieved my goal, I stood and smiled. “Loud and clear. Thanks, Chief. Thanks, Detective Hart.” I knew he was the one who really deserved my thanks; Chief Uggams had been on the verge of denying my request when Hart walked in.
“I’ll walk you out.”
Surprised, I nodded. He stepped aside politely to let me precede him out the door, and I couldn’t help brushing against him in the narrow doorway. He had a warm, woodsy smell . . . very appealing. Leaving the canister on Mabel’s counter, he walked me out the door and onto the sidewalk. The day was lovely—the unseasonable heat of earlier in the week having receded—and I took a deep breath of the dogwood-blossom-scented air drifting from nearby trees.
“That was good thinking on your part,” he said. “Taking the canister. I doubt there’s anything wrong with the tea in it, but better safe than sorry.”
“Thanks.” I smiled, relieved that he wasn’t going to chew me out for meddling in police business. That seemed to happen more often than not in most of the mysteries I read where PIs or amateur sleuths got involved in murder cases. Not that the police even thought Ivy’s death was murder.
“I was wondering . . .” Detective Hart looked down at me with a smile creasing his lean face. “I was wondering if you’d like to get together sometime. For lunch? I’ve only been in Heaven a month and a half and I don’t know a lot of folks. You seem pretty plugged in—”
“I’ve lived here all my life, well, except for when I was at CU.” My inane comment covered my confusion, I hoped. Was he asking me for a date, or was he merely asking me to be a sort of tour guide to show him around the community? Lunch was neutral territory. A date would be nice, I thought wistfully. It’d been a long darn time since I’d had a date with someone who wasn’t certifiable, a total loser, or a felon (which, in my defense, I hadn’t known when I’d agreed to have dinner with him).
“Lunch sounds good,” I said when I realized Detective Hart was still waiting for an answer.
“Tomorrow?”
“Sure. The Munchery at twelve thirty?”
“See you there.” He lifted a hand in farewell and reentered the police station. I stared after him for a moment, a goofy smile on my face. A date with the good-looking new detective in town was just what the doctor ordered to help me get over the shock of Doug’s engagement and upcoming marriage. The thought made me remember my meeting with Madison Taylor. Scurrying back to the van, I zoomed the few blocks to my office, parked, and hurried in.
Al greeted me with raised brows and a minatory look. “Your four o’clock’s been here fifteen minutes.”
“Is she in my office?” I strode toward the door.
“Yes, but—”
Pushing open the door, I found myself facing not Madison, but her groom-to-be, my ex-boyfriend, the only man I’d ever loved, Doug Elvaston.
Chapter 7
I stumbled on the threshold and caught myself with a hand on the doorjamb. I hadn’t seen Doug in several months, and he looked as good as ever. Better, maybe. His hair, which had been wheat blond when we were in high school, had darkened a bit but was still thick and long enough to just graze his ears. His face was paler than I was used to—too much time in New York City—but his green eyes were still the same: fringed with pale lashes and full of laughter. He laughed now.
“Same old Amy-Faye,” he said, springing forward with the athletic grace that had won us the state championship when we were seniors. He was tall enough to spot receivers downfield, although I supposed these days his height only made it possible for him to dominate opposing counsel in court. He took my elbow to steady me, even though I was as stable as a starfish, clutching the doorframe like I’d be swept out to sea if I let go. Slowly, I made my fingers unclench.
“It’s good to see you, A-Faye,” he said with the smile that always made my stomach swoop. “It’s been way too long—what? A month or so, at least?”
Ninety-two days, but who was counting? “About that,” I agreed casually, crossing to my table desk and sitting behind it. Safe. The expanse of wood between me and Doug made it harder for me to lurch at him, grab him by the collar, and beg him to ditch Madison and the wedding and start over with me. “Where’s Madison?” I asked, flipping through a folder with the intensity of someone trying to locate a misplaced winning lottery ticket. “I thought I was meeting with her.”
“You were,” Doug said, seating himself in front of me, “but she had to fly back to Manhattan for an unexpected court date. So”—he spread his arms wide—“you get me instead.”
I wished. I bit my lip. “Well, uh, great. We were supposed to talk about the guest list and invitations.”
“I’ve got it right here.” He drew a page from his jeans pocket—he wore scruffy jeans like nobody’s business—and flattened it on my desk. “Mom and Dad wanted a cast of thousands—you know how they are—but Madison and I want to keep it simple. Only a hundred people. And here you are.” He put a finger on the neatly printed words “Amy-Faye Johnson + 1.” His grin invited me to share his joy in his upcoming wedding.
Plus one. Two of the most pitiful words in the English language. Shorthand for “doesn’t have a husband or boyfriend, even though she’s over thirty and probably owns a dozen cats.” “I’ll be there, of course,” I said in a businesslike voice, “to make sure things go smoothly, but—”
“No, we want you to come as a guest,” he interrupted. “You’ve got Al—let him do the organizing shtick. You just come and have fun.”
Fun, he said. Have fun. I’d have laughed if it hadn’t been so painful. What could be funner than watching the man you loved swear eternal fidelity to another woman?
“You’re one of my best friends,” he said in a more serious voice. “It’s important to me—and Madison, of course—that you be there.”
“Then I’ll be there.” What else could I say? I forced a smile I hoped didn’t look as stiff as it felt.
“Wonderful! Hey, I haven’t eaten since before I let my father-in-law-to-be trounce me on the golf course this morning. What say we get something to munch while we discuss the invitations? Oh, and Madison also told me to get your ideas about table favors—whatever those are—and to ask you to set up a small golf tournament for the guests who are flying in the Thursday before the wedding. There’ll be sixteen or eighteen of them golfing, she says.” He smiled apologetically. “We’re foisting a lot of work on you. Madison was hoping to do some of it herself, but now that her case has heated up, she just doesn’t have the time. I don’t know how that woman does it. Sometimes I’m amazed she has time to fit me into her schedule.”
“It’s what you pay me for,” I said, rising. “How about the Salty Burro?”
“Great idea. Some nachos and margaritas will make this wedding-planning stuff practically painless.”
* * *
Two hours and two margaritas later, I was in that pleasantly buzzed state where everything is amusing and the impossible seems possible. I couldn’t count how many times in the past Doug and I had sat in one of the high-backed wooden booths at the Salty Burro, alone or with friends, with a pitcher of margaritas between us and a smear of cheese and one lone jalapeño on a large plate testifying to our appetites. This felt familiar. It felt right. We had dealt with the invitations and other wedding-planning items before the nachos arrived and had moved on to discussing first my business, then his dissatisfaction with his law firm. He launched into an imitation of his managing partner, who was originally from Boston.
“‘Billable houahs, Elvahston,’” he mimicked in a wicked Boston accent. “‘Billable houahs are ouah raison d’être. If you so much as think about a case while youah
taking a dump, you bill it to the client.’”
I laughed so hard I snorted, and he grinned, pleased with my reaction. “I’ve missed you, Amy-Faye,” he said, leaning across the table to put his hand over mine. “Why don’t we see more of each other?”
His question effectively quenched my laughter. Could he really be so clueless? I thought about how I’d fought to hide my feelings from him, after he initiated the most recent “off” phase of our on-again-off-again relationship, saying that although he still loved me, he wasn’t “in love” with me anymore, that he wanted to be “just friends.” Maybe it was my fault he didn’t know how I felt. Should I tell him before it was too late, before he married Madison and was out of reach forever? I opened my mouth to tell him I still loved him, would always love him, but what came out was “We’re both busy, I guess. Eventful! takes all my time, and clearly you can’t get away from your job even in the bathroom.”
Signaling for the check, he smiled and said, “Well, we’ve got to make the time.”
I nodded my agreement, knowing it would never happen. He’d marry Madison and she’d be in charge of their social calendar. They’d see more of her friends than his . . . A thought occurred to me, a dreadful thought. “Where are you and Madison going to live?” I asked.
A wry look twisted his features. “That’s still up for debate. Madison’s got a great apartment in Manhattan, and of course that’s where her job is. I’ve got the house here, and I’m a partner in the firm. Madison will undoubtedly make partner at her firm in a couple of years, so it would be hard for her to start over in Heaven or even Denver, although any firm in Colorado would snap her up in a heartbeat. For now, we’ll probably keep both places and see how it works out. My work in New York will probably last another twelve to eighteen months, and then we’ll see.”
He sounded like he was trying to put a cheery spin on a situation he wasn’t very happy about. I thought starting a marriage off on a long-distance basis, with no shared home, was a recipe for disaster, but I wisely kept my mouth shut. “I’m sure you’ll make it work,” I murmured, putting twenty dollars on the table for my share of the check.
The Readaholics and the Falcon Fiasco Page 7