“Sorry, but you don’t know your father the way I knew him. He was a man with needs, and I bet Victoria didn’t mind filling them—for a price.”
Nicole hung her head. “I don’t want to hear this right now.”
I did. “What price?”
“The house, the store, all the stocks and bonds, plus everything he inherited from his father earlier in the year.” Darlene turned to her daughter. “You told me yourself that your dad changed his will to leave her almost everything.”
“You’re overstating it. It’s half the store. Jeremy and I split the other half.”
Darlene’s unpainted lips tightened into a sneer. “Whatever. The fact remains the same—she’s getting quite the windfall for her twelve months of service.”
I could practically taste her sour grapes. Not that Nicole would be any less biased, but I wanted to hear what she had to say on this subject. “Do you agree with your mom that Victoria was after your father’s wealth?”
Shoulders slumped, she shook her head. “Maybe. All I know is that he used to joke that he was more worried about her poisoning him than having another heart attack. That she was trying to slowly kill him.”
I leaned forward so that I could get a better angle on her face. “How?”
“She created a special tea blend that was supposed to help with his joint pain. He’d been drinking it for the last few months. Said it tasted nasty.”
“Cutting back on the cheeseburgers and losing fifty pounds would have helped more,” Darlene muttered as if reading my mind. “He might even still be alive.”
Nicole swiped at a tear running down her cheek. “It never occurred to me that there might be something in that tea that could actually hurt my dad. But after hearing him retching in the bathroom…” Her breath hitched. “He was so sick.”
Nothing in her expression made me doubt she was telling the truth. Quite the opposite in fact, my eyes burning with unshed tears as I observed Nicole.
“Did he have some of that special tea last night?” I asked, trying to rein in my emotions.
She nodded. “At least I think it was tea. One of the guys had bought him a bottle of scotch for his birthday, so he might have been having a drink to celebrate.”
I made a note about the drinks. If there were anything in them to make Marty McCutcheon sick it should show up in the crime lab’s toxicology report. “Did your dad eat anything special that you noticed? Anything that you didn’t eat?”
“Victoria made his favorite cheese enchilada casserole. I don’t do cheese and didn’t touch it.”
“I don’t imagine Jeremy did either,” Darlene said. “My kids take after me—no dairy.”
“Dad spread some sort of extra hot green chili sauce on it—something that someone in the office gave him for his birthday. I didn’t have any of that either.”
“Who gave him the hot sauce?” I asked in case I needed to speak with the person.
Nicole’s puffy eyes welled up with more tears. “Phyllis. She and my dad were close.”
Darlene snorted. “That’s one way to put it. She was an old girlfriend of Marty’s. Compared to Victoria put some emphasis on old.”
It sounded like good ol’ Marty got around a little bit more than I would have imagined, but I found it difficult to believe that a former girlfriend would intentionally try to hurt him. Assuming, of course, that there had been no recent attempts to rekindle that relationship.
I locked gazes with Nicole. “Anything else that your father ate or drank last night that you didn’t?”
“Maybe something from the taco salad bar that Victoria set up.” She wiped her eyes. “Honestly, at the time I wasn’t paying that much attention.”
Ordinarily, any sentence beginning with honestly would set off my liedar, but since the emotion behind her words was real, I believed her.
I looked across the table at Darlene. “Anything you want to add?”
A crease between her dark brows deepened. “That woman did this. I have no doubt. Marty might have had his faults, but he was a kind and loving father, and deserved a helluva lot better than what he got last night.”
Or it was just his very bad luck to have a massive coronary on his birthday.
I pushed back my chair. “I think I have everything I need for now. If you think of anything else you’d like to add to your statement, don’t hesitate to give me a call.”
Darlene frowned up at me, her arms folded across her ample chest. “What happens next?”
I planned to interview the other witnesses, type up a report for Frankie, and then wait up to two months for the crime lab’s toxicology results to come back. Since I figured both these women wouldn’t be happy with any response that didn’t include a mention of Victoria McCutcheon’s imminent arrest, I decided that it was in my best interest to end this conversation on a vague note.
“I’ll get the statement of everyone who was at dinner last night and then…” Don’t make it sound like this is an official investigation. “…I’ll turn over that information to the Coroner.”
Perfect. Short and sweet with no promise of anything I couldn’t deliver.
Still frowning, Darlene blinked. “Will she keep us informed of any developments during the investigation?”
I couldn’t leave letting her think she’d be hearing from Frankie sometime next week. “These things can take some time.”
“When do you think we’ll hear something?”
In six to eight weeks. “I can’t speak for the Coroner, so I really don’t know.”
Darlene heaved a sigh.
In the silence that followed I stepped toward the door. “Thank you again for your time.” I met Nicole’s gaze. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
I was three feet from making my getaway when Darlene called out my name.
Turning, I planted a pleasant smile on my face.
“I have your grandmother’s yarn order ready so we might as well save her a trip,” she said as she led me down the stairs. “It’s in the yurt.”
“The what?”
“My fiber store.”
I followed Darlene to the round tent looming like a giant marshmallow on the north side of the house. Opening the flap she disappeared. “Where the heck did I put it? Sorry, give me a minute.”
Catching a whiff of something floral, I followed my nose to the back of the yurt and saw purple clematis and iris dwarfing a plant that had only a couple of purplish-blue blooms. At least it fit into the purple theme Darlene had going.
“Where’d you go?” she asked, coming into view with two small plastic sacks.
“I was just admiring your flowers.”
“They seem to do well back here. Must be all the light that the yurt reflects.” She patted it like a proud mother. “Marty made fun of me when I first bought it, but it comes in very handy.”
Whatever.
Darlene handed me one of the sacks. “Five skeins along with the invoice. Tell your granny she can write me a check or pay me in a couple of weeks, when I get my next shipment from the mill.” She dangled the other plastic bag in front of me. “And if you wouldn’t mind dropping this one off, this is for Estelle Makepeace. The woman has to be at least eighty-five—one of my best customers, but the last time she was out here she backed into my fence. I don’t need the aggravation, especially this week, and I doubt I’m going to be getting to town anytime soon.”
I didn’t need to add yarn delivery girl to my job description, but since Mrs. Makepeace, one of Gram’s mahjong buddies, lived a couple blocks from the courthouse, I couldn’t say no without coming off like a bitch.
“I’d be happy to.” I took a step toward my car, the bags swinging from my hand. “Again, if you think of anything else you’d like to add to your statement, be sure to let me know.”
“I do have one thing, but it’s more of a question.”
Based on the intensity of her stare I had the distinct feeling that I wasn’t going to like hearing it. “Okay.”
“You haven’t said anything about Marty having an autopsy.”
No, and I didn’t intend to. “I believe the Coroner has all the physical evidence she needs to proceed with…” Don’t refer to this as an investigation.
Darlene stepped closer. “The investigation?”
Crap! “I wouldn’t call this—”
“That’s what it is, right?” she asked, her eyes narrowing as they searched mine.
“In a very preliminary way.” I swallowed the curse I wanted to utter because no matter how I guarded my words, I was still making it sound like Marty McCutcheon had been murdered instead of being a casualty of the heart ailment that would eventually be recorded as his cause of death.
Darlene blew out a deep breath. “Well, at least she’s launched an investigation. You’ll keep me posted?”
I nodded.
Crap. Crap. Crap!
Chapter Three
After a bumpy thirteen-minute drive on the county road to Clatska, I headed north on Gibson Lake Drive and took the first right. Halfway down the narrow lane bordered by fir trees, I came to a clearing where Marty McCutcheon and his wife, Victoria, had been living in a well-maintained two-story home in the center of a wooded acre.
Lace curtains fluttered at the bay window as I climbed the steps to the front porch. The door swung open before I had the opportunity to knock.
I smiled at one of the most beautiful faces I’d ever seen. With her creamy complexion, delicate nose, high cheekbones, and gleaming, shoulder-length raven hair, Victoria McCutcheon reminded me of the porcelain Chinese doll my mother had brought back with her after filming a movie in Hong Kong. Only the dark almond eyes of the woman in front of me detracted from her physical attributes. Not just because they were smudged with what I guessed was yesterday’s mascara, but because they looked like that doll’s eyes—lifeless.
Since this long-legged, exotic beauty looked even younger than the woman I had expected to see, I thought I’d better make sure I was speaking with the right person. “Mrs. McCutcheon?”
She nodded. “Yes?”
“I’m Charmaine Digby from the County Coroner’s office. I’m sorry to intrude at a difficult time, but I’d like to ask you a few questions about what happened last night.”
“Of course.” She stepped back to let me in. “I just made some tea. Would you like some?”
I wasn’t much of a tea drinker, but since I’d given away my coffee at Darlene’s house, my caffeine addiction was in no mood to be denied. “That would be great.”
I followed her into a spacious kitchen with walls painted in a warm winter wheat, stainless steel appliances, and a terracotta floor, all bathed in sunlight streaming in from an arched window that stretched the length of the room.
Victoria waved a slender hand at the round white table in front of a set of French doors that afforded an excellent view of the manicured back yard. “Please, have a seat.”
A minute later she joined me with two steaming mugs. “Do you take anything in your tea?”
Thinking about what Nicole and Darlene had told me about Victoria’s special blend, I knew what I didn’t want in my tea.
I held the mug she’d offered under my nose and sniffed it. Other than steam nothing registered. “What kind of tea is it?”
“A green tea. Sorry, I don’t remember which one. I know I bought it at the Chinese herbal store in Port Townsend.”
Good enough for me. I took a sip. “It’s fine just as it is. Thank you.”
She sat ramrod straight, staring across the table at me. “You said you had questions.”
I pulled out my notebook. “Yes, I understand you had a small birthday party here for your husband last night.”
She didn’t blink, didn’t flinch at what should have been a painful memory. “Yes.”
From what little I’d gleaned in mystery novels, black widows typically poisoned their victims, and a dinner party with some spicy food might provide the perfect opportunity to eliminate a rich husband.
“Who prepared the food?” If she really were the black widow type that Darlene and Nicole tried to make her out to be, Victoria would probably want to cast some suspicion on as many people as possible.
“I did.”
So much for casting a wide net of suspicion. “All of it?”
The corner of Victoria’s mouth tugged into a hint of a smile. “Every bit of it.”
I didn’t know what to make of the smile. It seemed incongruous with her otherwise solemn demeanor, but I didn’t get the sense that she was telling me anything that wasn’t true. “Can you describe everything that you think your husband ingested?”
She listed the casserole and green chili salsa that Nicole had mentioned along with chips and dip, and jalapeno poppers. She also confirmed that Marty had poured himself a scotch.
“Any other liquid? Coffee? Tea?” I asked, watching carefully for a reaction.
I saw no emotional response.
“He only drank tea in the morning,” she calmly stated.
“What kind of tea? Green tea like this?”
“No. A special therapeutic tea to ease his joint pain.”
“Was this also from the Chinese herbal store?”
“Actually, my father practices herbal medicine in Santa Barbara and prescribed this treatment for Marty’s arthritis.”
“Anything in it that might be considered dangerous?” Or lethal?
Her brow crinkled, but her gaze was unwavering. “I think I understand what you’re asking. I wasn’t trying to slowly kill him contrary to what he used to say. He just didn’t like the taste of it.”
That statement led me to believe that either Victoria McCutcheon was one of the most skillful liars I’d ever met or Nicole’s suspicions about this tea were totally without merit.
I wrote tea? in my notebook. “Did your husband consume anything that you didn’t see anyone else eat or drink?”
“Other than the scotch that someone might have helped themselves to while I was in the kitchen, maybe the salsa. Marty poured that over the enchilada casserole. Don’t know what that said about my cooking other than the fact that my husband liked a lot of spice in his life.”
I assumed that included her since she was twenty years his junior.
She reached for her tea. “He was in the middle of eating it when he said he didn’t feel well.”
“Then what happened?”
“He rushed to the bathroom and became violently ill.”
“Did anyone suggest calling for an ambulance?”
“No, because I told Marty I was going to take him to the hospital, but he refused to get into the car. Said it would pass.” She shook her head. “It was his stubborn male pride talking, and I was a fool to listen for as long as I did. When I saw how much worse he was getting I called nine-one-one, but it took almost an hour to get him to the hospital. Minutes later his heart stopped, and he was gone.”
She didn’t seem too broken up about it, but everything she’d said rang true. “That must have been a tremendous shock.”
She blinked as if she were processing my words. “It still is.”
“Had your husband mentioned anything about not feeling well prior to sitting down for dinner?”
“No, he seemed fine. I think he ate something that made him sick. Possibly the salsa.”
“Do you still have the bottle?” Not that I knew exactly what Frankie might do with it, but on the offhand chance that some toxin actually showed up in Marty McCutcheon’s blood and urine, I’d be stupid not to take it as evidence.
“Of course.”
“What about the enchilada casserole?”
Victoria McCutcheon set down her mug with a steady hand. “I have everything just as it was when we left for the hospital last night.”
Because she couldn’t bear to deal with it just yet? Doubtful. So far she’d impressed me as someone who had no difficulty compartmentalizing her emotions. “Could I take a look?”
With a nod she rose fro
m her chair. Grabbing my cell phone, I followed her into the dining room where, if I hadn’t known better, it appeared that a dinner for six had just been interrupted.
She placed her hand on the back of the chair facing the window. “Marty sat here.”
From the unappetizing greenish-yellow mound on his plate, it looked like he had been working on the salsa-covered casserole when he started feeling discomfort, supporting what both Nicole and Victoria had told me.
Using my cell phone camera I took a close-up of Marty’s plate and then stepped toward the doorway behind me to get a longer view of the entire table. “Where did you sit?”
“In front of you, to Marty’s right. Across from me, Marty’s daughter, Nicole, and her husband. At the end of the table, Marty’s son, Jeremy. Then Cameron sat next to me.”
All I knew about Cameron was what I had read in Frankie’s notes—that he worked at Marty’s store. Seemed a little unusual that he’d been invited to the birthday party since everyone else was family.
“Who’s Cameron?” I asked.
“Marty’s son from a relationship he had when he was still married to Darlene.”
Another son? I met Victoria’s gaze. “I spoke with Nicole earlier. She gave me the impression that she only had the one brother.”
“She doesn’t know. Marty only found out two weeks ago and had been waiting for the right time to tell her about her half-brother.” Victoria took in a shaky breath, the first chink I had seen in the emotional armor she’d been wearing since I’d arrived. “Jeremy, too.”
Wow. Keeping that kind of secret from his family had to have been a weighty burden to carry around. It made me wonder if it had added to his stress level last night. “Did Marty seem nervous, or did he say anything about breaking the news during dinner?”
“No, he wanted to talk to his kids privately—tomorrow or the next day, so last night seemed like any other dinner party we’d had here.”
“Even with Cameron here? That didn’t seem odd to Nicole or Jeremy?”
Victoria shook her head. “Everyone who worked at the store was invited.”
And yet only Cameron—the son Marty hadn’t known existed until two weeks ago—had taken his father up on the invitation. Something about this dinner party didn’t pass my sniff test.
There's Something About Marty (A Working Stiffs Mystery Book 3) Page 2