by Jaye Maiman
It took ten minutes, but I finally convinced Dean that I was well enough to return to my cabin. He agreed only after making me promise to rest in bed for the rest of the day. I had no intention of keeping that promise.
Outside, sitting in his car, he rolled down his window and asked how my search for Maggie was progressing. I felt guilty telling him I had barely started. For an instant, he looked as if he were about to explode in rage. I was getting ready to defend myself—I’d had the case for one damn day! We stared at each other for a second, communicating without language, then he nodded glumly and pulled away in his Audi. I climbed into my car and rumbled onto the road. My tail swerved on the packed snow, but I straightened quickly and headed downhill. By noon, I was home.
I felt as if there were ice in my veins, so the first thing I did was change into thermals, thick corduroys, turtleneck, and a quilted flannel shirt. Then I popped a container of faux chicken soup into the microwave, watched the counter tick off time as it nuked the chemical-rich brew, then reluctantly dialed K.T. at the restaurant.
The soup tasted like freshly mown grass leavened with roach spray. But it burned on the way down and right then that’s all that mattered. Beads of sweat formed on my upper lip as I waited for someone to pick up. The receiver finally lifted on the other end, then crashed into something hard. In the background, K.T.’s soft drawl tangled around a few choice curse words. Inexplicably, my eyes began to burn. I swallowed hard and said, “You sound busy.” Cool, very cool.
“Robin?” she asked, her excitement clear and unaffected. “It’s so good to hear your voice. You wouldn’t believe the zoo I’m managing. I’ve been away from here so long, the chef thinks he owns the damn place. Can you believe he altered my Thanksgiving Day menu without consulting me? If Jonathan hadn’t been in that fender bender —” She broke off suddenly and shouted something that sounded like “ginger, not curry, you possum-headed idiot.” Her voice carried over the sound of clanging pots, hissing grills, and heated multilingual arguments. I could picture her standing amid the frenzied prep staff, bellowing orders with all the grace of a tugboat captain, her hair damp with steam and perspiration, her green eyes flashing ire. Without question, she would look gorgeous.
I smiled grimly. Somehow, K.T. had already come to mean too much to me.
“K.T.?” I tried to attract her attention. She answered the third time.
“Sorry, Rob. We’ll have to make this short. But tonight,” she said, lowering her tone seductively, tonight, you will have my undivided attention...and all the time you can stand.”
“That’s why I’m calling, K.T. We have to call this off.”
All I heard on the other end was what sounded a Cuisinart on full power.
Suddenly she blurted, “Damn, Selmo, the pan’s on fire!” Then to me, “This is the wrong time for this conversation. We’ll talk tonight.” Her intonation was pure business.
“No, K.T. I don’t want you here. This is going too fast for me. I need—”
A twisted sound, like a sob hacked off just before intake of a breath, exploded in my ear. “If you dare say either ‘space’ or ‘time’ to me, I will come there and strangle you with the damn phone cord. You’ve had more space and time than God.”
She was right, of course. But when did that ever matter?
“There’s just too much going on. I can’t explain.” I stopped myself abruptly. My breathing was changing and I knew I was close to breaking. “I’m sorry about the last-minute notice and all, but—”
“Shit. You are the damnedest creature. Look, I’ll stay away, just give me Carly’s number.”
It was an order. “Why the hell do you need her number?” I answered, puzzled and irritated by her demand. Why couldn’t she disappear quietly? So many others had.
“She invited me to dinner tomorrow. That was pretty gracious. I want to at least apologize for not showing up.”
I had never heard her tone so sharp. “I’ll explain,” I said.
“The hell you will. Give me the number, Rob.”
A second away from hysteria, I blurted the phone number and hung up. Just in time. The phone wasn’t back in the cradle before I started bawling. I wanted her so much, I felt sick to my stomach.
I grabbed the phone again and crashed it against the wall. I was out of control and furious at myself for letting K.T. in.
I replaced the phone, jerking back as it rang under my hand. Maybe it’s K.T., I prayed spontaneously. Maybe she sees through all this crap. I lifted the receiver, fear and hope braided together like a two-wick candle, both emotions in full flame.
“You should have an answering machine up there, oh captain mine.” It was Jill Zimmerman, my office and research manager.
My sigh was heavy.
“Trouble in paradise?” she quipped in response. When I didn’t answer, she continued in a serious tone. “You blew it again, didn’t you?”
I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture, especially from a newlywed who still acted as if she were on her honeymoon. I slurped down the rest of the soup and said, “Save it for someone who cares.” Sometimes, the brilliance of my repartee is blinding.
“Rob, you’ve been dreaming about this woman for months. What happened?”
I gave her a rundown of the day’s events.
“Got it.” I could almost picture her nodding smugly. “You came down with the heebie-jeebies. That ‘Robbie, the Death Master’ thing you go through. Honey, it’s time to shelve that phobia. You are a fine—”
“You have anything to report on Maggie Flynn, or have you been taking psych courses while Tony and I fork over your weekly paycheck?”
It was a slap in her face, and I knew it. Jill deserved to be a full partner in the business, but Tony didn’t trust her skills yet. Underscoring her employee status was a cheap shot, but as my therapist once explained with annoying accuracy, self-sufficiency was one of my oldest defenses. And one of the surest ways for me to get there was by being a downright bitch. Cats know the strategy well. When someone realizes you have teeth, claws, and a mean hiss, they think twice before approaching you again.
The tactic worked as well now as it had in the past. “No, ma’am, that’s why I’m calling,” Jill snapped back.
Tapping into a computer network that regularly made mincemeat of the individual’s right to privacy, she had run a trace using all the identifiers I had provided — Social Security, bank account, and credit card numbers. “No large cash withdrawals and no credit card purchases. I checked with the airlines, Amtrak, local bus lines, and came up empty. So how do I proceed from here?”
“Have you tried to locate her car?”
She harumphed indignantly into my ear. “I tried to contact your cop friend Zack McGinn. But he’s in the Bahamas. My own search turned up nil.”
I picked up a pen from the kitchen table and started doodling on a napkin. “Have you run down the identifiers for Noreen Finnegan yet?”
“No. And I didn’t start on the DeLucas either. I’ve been focusing strictly on locating Maggie. It was a judgment call, Rob. From what you told me, she has to be the prime suspect.” She was sounding defensive now. “And before you ask, no, I haven’t begun calling up those nine numbers you gave me. I’m assuming that the murder investigation takes precedence over the adoption search. Besides your odd vacation diversions, I’m bogged down with background work for four of Tony’s cases. You know, the jobs that actually bring in money — the money that, as you so graciously reminded me, pays my salary.”
The barb hit its mark. I knew she was right. From an economic perspective, my investigations were low priority. Unfortunately for Jill, the fact only heightened my irritation. “Fine. Silly me. For a moment, I thought a murder investigation was more pressing than combating business fraud. Look, Jill, just do what you can on your end. Whatever computer work you can’t manage, pass on to the Roach.” Michael Flanagan — a.k.a. the Roach — is an old friend of mine who crawls around computer networks and data banks with the arro
gance of that infamous insect. “I’m sure Michael will be able to plug me into some solid leads in less than an hour.”
With that parting shot, I hung up. Five minutes later, I tried to call her back to apologize. The line was busy.
Annoyed with myself for letting my frustrations splatter over Jill, I headed gingerly into the den with a second cup of soup. My laptop was still set up from yesterday. I sat down and attempted to sort through recent events. I retrieved my notes on Noreen’s murder and adjusted the tilt of the screen.
The basics of any investigation are means, motive, and opportunity. The test results weren’t in yet, but there was now a strong possibility for the means. Someone had tampered with the sciatica treatment prepared for Noreen. I tried to remember the word Dean had used.
Aconite.
I called up my on-line dictionary and typed in the word. The drive rumbled as the definition popped on screen.
aconite (a-kuh-Nit)
noun
1. The monkshood.
2. A medicinal preparation made from the roots of monkshood.
[< Greek akoniton.]
The word monkshood tripped a switch in my memory. Fred DeLuca’s greenhouse. Suddenly I remembered the gorgeous blue-hooded flowers that he had seemed so reluctant to identify. Just an hour earlier, Amy had defiantly informed Dean that Fred would confirm the fact that aconite was a traditional element in herbal remedies.
I would have snapped my fingers if they hadn’t been frozen on the keyboard. Fred was Amy’s supplier.
Impulsively, I dialed his home number. When no one answered, I called information and obtained the number of their garden center. An obviously harried Camilla answered. “Green Promises. What can I do for you?”
She sounded anything but helpful, but I wasn’t about to let that stop me. “It’s Robin Miller. Can I speak to Fred?”
“Robin who? Oh. You. Sorry but Fred’s occupied right now. You don’t know how crazy people get around the holidays. I just saw two women practically wrestle each other to the ground over some squat blue pine—”
Impatient with small talk, I aimed and fired. “I’m calling for Amy. She needs to stock up on some herbs.”
“Damn her. We just delivered a shipment to her last week. What is she doing? Medicating all of Japan? Tell her it’ll have to wait. We’re shorthanded enough without taking on more work. That damn doctor’s wife just took off and left us—”
Zing. The nerve endings in my brain were sizzling. I didn’t bother listening to the rest of her tirade. “Are you talking about Maggie Flynn?”
“You got it. I know the woman’s been depressed about her miscarriage...and seeing me pregnant probably just made it worse. But still, she didn’t have to pick Thanksgiving week to tear off to God knows where. Days like this, I’d rather be back in New York waiting tables.”
I couldn’t have agreed with her more.
She promised to have Fred call me, then shouted a price to someone as she hung up. With Camilla’s “Fourteen-fifty for the mini-wreath” still echoing in my ear, I typed in the new information and continued mulling over the case.
Noreen Finnegan died early Sunday morning, possibly as a result of consuming a tainted herbal remedy. If the sciatica treatment was in fact the cause of death, there were at least five people who could have known how to transform a medication into a murder weapon: Amy, Dean, and now Camilla, Fred and Maggie. All of them could have easily gained access to Amy’s lab, especially since she rarely locked her front door.
But who had a motive?
In my eyes, Amy seemed a distant possibility. The fact that she was my friend made me doubt my instincts for less than half a second. Friend or not, Amy simply had no reason to kill Noreen—or at least as far as I knew.
Dean had a motive only if the relationship between Noreen and Maggie was more than just a friendship. Although I didn’t think that scenario was likely, I couldn’t rule it out.
Fred and Camilla had a solid reason for wanting Noreen dead—the pending lawsuit. I had already asked Jill to run a full background check on the couple. With information on the business’s financial status, I’d be able to better judge whether they were desperate enough to kill. Camilla was an obnoxious lout, with a style unique to native New Yorkers, and she grated on my nerves like a backfiring truck. But she was part of the landscape of my youth. In a strange way, I liked her.
After seeing Fred’s decapitated-head gallery of death, I knew he was capable of killing. But when he said he only killed what he could eat, he sounded pretty damn credible.
Which brought me to Maggie.
As Jill had surmised, her disappearance made her the likeliest suspect— that role now compounded by the fact that she occasionally worked at the garden center. But what reason could she possibly have had for murdering Noreen?
I stared at the blinking cursor, stumped. Was it possible that a sexual advance from Noreen had sent Maggie over the edge? The idea was so farfetched, I almost chuckled. Lesbian sexual energy was a powerful force, but not that powerful. Then I caught myself. Remembering a few bizarre cases from my past, I warned myself: Don’t rule anything out.
Finally, I had to consider Helen and Manny. Each had classic motives. Revenge and greed.
Aside from Maggie, Helen was my top choice, for obvious reasons. Who knew what had really occurred during her alleged alcoholic blackout? She had opportunity and she certainly had cause. Since she hadn’t known that Noreen’s will named Manny as sole benefactor, her motive could have been sheer avarice. But when I tried to imagine her plotting to kill Noreen just so she could repossess the house, my confidence dissolved. The scenario wasn’t consistent with what I knew of her. A sultry, passionate woman, Helen was more likely to murder for revenge than money. For some reason, this line of conjecture didn’t comfort me.
Manny inherited the house and whatever estate Noreen had left. She certainly could use the money. On more than one occasion, Manny had complained about the cost of supporting her mother and brother, and she hated the fact that she couldn’t afford to move them out of that Bronx tenement. I tapped the keyboard then scrolled back through my notes. From what I had learned since questioning her, I was positive that she had lied to me about finding Noreen drunk when she arrived home at midnight. And Manny had as much access to Amy’s lab as anyone in the community.
I scrolled again through my notes, hoping I had missed some obvious lead. There was nothing. The more I read them, the more confused I became. Why had Noreen’s body been doused with booze, and who had ordered her cremation? How come there was conflicting information about her level of intoxication? The authorities, including Douglas Marks, had been quick to gloss over her death. Was their haste due to more than just incompetence and prejudice? And why had Noreen been so interested in locating her siblings?
I put in a call to Douglas and got his machine. I left a message, and then considered picking up the adoption search again, but when the laptop screen melted into a gray haze in front of my eyes I gave in to exhaustion. I lumbered into the living room and dropped onto the couch. I had just nodded when our phone rang.
“Honey, you are going to love me.” The tone was so jubilant, I barely recognized Jill’s voice. “The Roach just taught me some tricks that would make your toes curl. The man’s a genius.”
I tried to interrupt, but she gunned past me. “We did a trace using the information you gave me on Finnegan. Seems the lady’s alive and well and charging up a storm in Atlanta, Georgia. Matter of fact, she’s staying at one of your favorite locations—the Hotel Nikko in Buckhead.”
There was exactly one seat left on a seven-ten flight leaving from Newark, New Jersey, that evening. On a clear day, driving a steady seventy, the trip to the airport would take an hour and a half. Today, in the midst of the early snowstorm, I’d need every minute of the three-and-a-half hours I had left.
After confirming that “Noreen” was still checked into the Hotel Nikko, I called Dean and received his go-ahead for a f
irst-class ticket to Atlanta, then I dialed Carly’s number. Helen answered.
“Amy came by my house,” she said. The hasty explanation unnerved me. “She was too upset to drive home alone, so I came back with her. She’s really devastated about what happened.”
I didn’t want to speak to her, and I wasn’t up for Amy either. Curtly I said, “Put Carly on.”
Her hesitation worried me. After a beat, she said, “She’s not back yet.”
I didn’t know which troubled me more: the prospect of Carly being stuck on a snowbound back road or Helen being alone with Amy. “Where’s Ame?”
“Lying down. We saw your car buzz by my place a few hours ago. She lost it then. Said she was afraid your friendship would never be the same.”
I was worried about the same thing. But I wasn’t about to convey that to Helen. Instead, I asked her to tell them that I had to take an unexpected business trip to Atlanta, but I was still planning on joining them for dinner the next night. It was the last thing I wanted to do, but I couldn’t stand the thought of further upsetting Carly. Or Amy.
I packed an overnight bag, then headed for the door. The phone rang. I hesitated, then ran back to the kitchen.
“Hi, it’s Douglas.” He started to talk about the weather in the laconic Pocono fashion I suddenly had no patience for.
“Look, I’m trying to catch a flight to Atlanta, so let’s make this fast. I need to know who ordered Noreen’s cremation.”
“I’m sorry, Robin, but that’s confidential.”
“The hell it is. I’m investigating a death and you’re withholding information.”
He laughed. “So what? You have no authority here. But I’m feeling generous today on account of the holiday. So here’s a little gift. A family member came forward and ordered the cremation. Now, as a special treat, if you tell me where you’re staying, I’ll even check with the party in question and see what I can do for you.”
I hated coyness, especially when I was losing a power battle, but I needed answers. I gave him the information and hung up. The phone rang again instantly. Great. Now that I was running out of time, everyone wanted me. I picked up the receiver and said, “Yeah,” with as much belligerence as I could muster.