by Mary Maxwell
Detective Caldwell was standing near one of three flagpoles when we turned into the courtyard from the sidewalk. He was talking on his phone and gave us a little wave to identify himself. When we joined him beneath the fluttering Colorado state flag, he put the phone in his coat and extended his right hand.
“Adam Caldwell,” he said in a strong voice splashed with a faint Southern accent. “It’s good to finally meet you, Kate.” He smiled, revealing a collection of slightly crooked teeth. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Trent.”
I shook his hand, acknowledged the comment about my high school flame with a slight nod and then introduced Viveca.
“I’m really sorry to hear about the situation with your brother, Miss England,” Caldwell said as his smile shifted toward something between friendly and distant. “And I don’t know how much I can help, given the circumstances. But Trent’s a good guy, so I wanted to at least say hello since you’ve come down to the city today.”
I checked Viveca’s face. She looked dismayed and touchy. Before she could say anything regrettable, I thought it would be best to jump in.
“Thanks for taking a moment to meet us,” I said, smiling at Caldwell. He was a tall blond with broad shoulders, a trimmed beard and a deep tan that suggested he liked to be outdoors as much as possible. “We’re just trying to make some sense out of a fairly incomprehensible situation.”
He smiled. “That’s my daily challenge, Kate. But you probably know that world well, right?”
“I run a bakery café,” I said. “It’s not as complicated as what you do.”
“Okay, sure,” he said. “But Trent told me about Chicago; you worked as a PI for a few years after college, right?”
“Yeah, the art history degree seemed like a good idea when I was eighteen. But it didn’t exactly set me up for a rewarding post-collegiate life.”
Viveca sighed. “Can we maybe get to my brother?”
Caldwell shifted toward her. “Look, Miss England,” he said with genuine warmth. “As I’ve already told you, there’s not much I can do since Tim’s involved with an active investigation. I’m sorry that you’re caught up in this, but his alibi hasn’t been verified and we have an eye witness that places him in the victim’s hospital room just before Mr. Singer’s body was discovered.”
Viveca heaved another sigh. “I don’t care what anybody says! My brother is innocent, okay? There’s no way he would hurt that guy.”
“It’s gone past hurting Mr. Singer at this point,” Caldwell said slowly. “The man was murdered; suffocated in his hospital bed while being treated for ingestion of a poisonous substance. And we have an eyewitness who saw your brother entering Singer’s room a few minutes before the poor guy was found with a pillow over his face.”
Viveca’s head fell forward. “I will never believe those lies,” she said, her chin pressing against her chest. “I know my brother.” She slowly lifted her gaze to the detective’s face. “And you don’t, okay? Tim’s a good boy. He wouldn’t do anything like this.”
Caldwell nodded. “I can appreciate how you feel,” he said. “But we’ve got a job to do. And that is identifying the perpetrator with evidence and eyewitness testimony. At this moment, unless our team confirms Tim’s alibi or finds clues that point us in another direction, it doesn’t look very good for your brother.”
We stood in silence for a few seconds. I listened to the sound of the flags in the wind overhead and their metal grommets clicking against the poles. Caldwell pulled out his phone again. He squinted at the screen and started to swipe the display when Viveca suddenly reached out and took his arm.
“What about motive?” she asked. “And the poison? How would my brother get his hands on cyanide?”
The detective flinched at the unexpected contact. He looked down at the pale fingers looped around his wrist before smiling again at Viveca.
“Motive?” he said blankly.
“Yes, what’s the motive?” Her face had suddenly gone from tight and anxious to hopeful and bright. “Why would my brother kill his neighbor?”
“Viv?” I said, trying to intervene. “We should probably let Detective Caldwell go to his meeting.”
She ignored me and squeezed the guy’s arm tightly. “Tell me, detective,” she demanded, finally releasing the grip and lowering her hand. “If you’re so convinced that Tim’s responsible for poisoning his neighbor and then smothering him with a pillow, tell me why he’d do such a thing.”
Caldwell shrugged. “It’s way too early to know that, Miss England. Our team is working diligently to get to the bottom of the situation.”
The corners of Viveca’s mouth quivered slightly before her smile went flat. “Well, when they do get to the bottom,” she said, “they’ll find somebody else. Because my brother isn’t a murderer. And he wouldn’t have the first clue about where to buy something like cyanide.”
While Caldwell nodded silently, I put one hand on Viveca’s forearm. “I get that you believe in your brother,” I said slowly. “But your conviction isn’t enough to exonerate him.”
Her eyes drifted up to meet my gaze. “I’m not just talking about my conviction, Kate. I’m talking about reality. Where would Tim buy cyanide?”
“I don’t think any of us can answer that question at the moment,” Caldwell said. “But I can tell you that our forensics team determined that the cupcakes had been laced with an acetonitrile-based product, which is metabolized by—”
“Wait!” Viveca said urgently. “What kind of product? I don’t know what you’re talking about?”
Caldwell nodded again. “One example is the solvent that removes acrylic fingernails,” he explained. “I’m not saying for certain that was used in the cupcakes, but it’s one possibility. The lab’s still processing the samples to identify the actual source.”
Viveca sputtered a few garbled words before regaining her composure. “Sorry, detective. I’m losing my mind over this whole thing.” She paused, managed a feeble smile and continued. “Can you please explain that to me one more time?”
“About the acetonitrile in the cupcakes?”
She nodded, waiting for his reply. He glanced at me briefly.
“Want me to?” I asked. “Rodney and I ran into something similar on a case we worked in Joliet about three years ago.”
He shook his head and then glanced at Viveca. “Suppose that someone mixed fingernail remover into the cupcake frosting,” Caldwell began. “If they masked the taste with dark chocolate, your brother’s neighbor wouldn’t realize what he was eating. Once he ingested the frosting, his body would metabolize the acetonitrile in the solvent and it would become cyanide.”
Viveca listened carefully, narrowing her eyes as she sorted out the details from Caldwell’s explanation.
“My brother said the guy didn’t get dizzy or start convulsing until the next day,” Viveca said slowly. “How is that possible? Wouldn’t you have a reaction right away?”
I shook my head. “Not with acetonitrile,” I said. “It converts slowly to cyanide in the body, which explains why Delmar Singer didn’t end up in the hospital until the next morning.”
Caldwell nodded. “Because the guy ate all four cupcakes after he got them from your brother,” he added. “With the delayed toxicity of acetonitrile poisoning, victims can go about their regular routines—work, school, leisure activities—until they start to feel dizzy and nauseous. It generally takes around ten, eleven, maybe twelve hours before they notice the initial symptoms.”
“And then what—you just die?” asked Viveca.
“No, the dangerous cyanide blood levels can persist for up to twenty-four hours,” I said, watching Caldwell pull out his phone. “At least, that’s what the ER docs told us. In the Joliet case, the victim was in the ICU for a couple of days getting sodium nitrite and …” I paused, trying to recall the name of the other compound I’d heard nearly three years before. “Oh, shoot! I know there was something else they gave—“”
“Thiosul
phate,” Caldwell said with a wide grin.
“Smarty pants,” I said. “Did you just happen to have that tucked in the back of your brain?”
He shook his head and held up his phone. “Google. I’d never heard of this kind of poison until the medical examiner explained it to me.”
After a few more comments about the toxicity of acetonitrile, Caldwell politely explained that he needed to leave for his next appointment. He shook our hands, promised to keep in touch and suggested that we call him directly if and when we had questions and concerns.
“Questions and concerns?” Viveca fumed a moment later as we walked back to her car. “Did he really just say that?”
I draped one arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “Viv? I know you’re hurting right now, but Caldwell isn’t the enemy. He’s just doing his job.”
She jerked out of my embrace and spun around. “I am so tired of hearing that!” she screamed. “He’s just doing his job!” Her hands knotted into fists that she shook in midair. “Well, it’s my job to prove that Tim’s innocent! He didn’t do this, Kate. He didn’t kill his neighbor or anybody else and he never will!”
I waited for the fury to subside before gently cupping her elbow and helping her down the sidewalk.
“C’mon, Viv,” I said soothingly. “Let’s get back to Crescent Creek. We’ll go to Sky High and I’ll make dinner for you.”
She walked with her eyes on the ground for a few seconds before slowly looking up. “I’d like that,” she whispered. “Could we have waffles?”
I smiled. “You betcha! Waffles and eggs and whatever else you’d like.”
“Thank you, Kate. I don’t know how…” She paused to choke back a tear. “You’re a good friend,” she said. “And a great neighbor. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay this kindness.”
I pulled her in for a hug. “Let’s not worry about that until after we figure out what’s going on with your brother,” I suggested. “In the meantime, I’ll drive us home and then we’ll have waffles and eggs and maybe just one or two glasses of chardonnay.”
CHAPTER 13
At ten o’clock that night, after sending Viveca home with a basket of cookies, cupcakes and scones from the Sky High Pies display case, I locked the kitchen door and slowly trudged up the exterior stairs to my cozy warren of rooms. Four decades ago, when Nana Reed opened the bakery café, the second floor was used as guest quarters for friends and family members whenever they visited Crescent Creek. During the twenty-five years that my parents ran the family business, my father turned the upstairs apartment into his man cave, replete with hiking and camping gear stored in one of the bedrooms and a dart board on the living room wall. As the newest proprietor of the local culinary landmark, I’d decided to turn the space into my home.
I dropped my keys in the little rabbit-shaped ceramic dish on the table just inside the front door. Then I wandered around the living room, picking up the stray pair of socks and faded Rolling Stones T-shirt abandoned at some point on the sofa. As I headed for the laundry basket in the bedroom closet, my phone rang in my pocket.
“We’re closed,” I moaned to the empty hallway. “Please try us again tomorrow at…” I pulled out the phone and checked the name on the screen: TRENT WALSH. “Hey, you,” I said, accepting the call. “How’s it going in Grand Junction?”
He laughed. “Did you know that Bordeaux wine, spicy chicken wings from Hooters and drag racing do not mix well?”
I waited to see if there was more, but Trent didn’t add anything to the strange inventory. “You do realize that it’s after ten o’clock, don’t you?” I asked. “Not exactly the best time to try out your new comedy material.”
Another throaty chuckle came through the phone. “It’s not a joke,” Trent said. “I was roped into a six-hour tour of Grand Junction by a couple of the other guys. We went to one of the local wineries. Then Hooters. And then the Western Colorado Dragway for the races.”
I dropped the socks and T-shirt in the laundry basket before flopping onto my bed. “Doesn’t that sound absolutely irresistible?”
“Absolutely what?” Trent said. “I can’t hear you over the traffic.”
“Never mind,” I said. “Where are you right now?”
“The motel parking lot,” he answered. “Bixby puked all over the rental van, so Kenny took it to the car wash. I wanted to get some fresh air before I head into my room.”
“Well, it sounds like you’re spending the department’s dollars wisely,” I said. “I mean, this is an official business trip, right?”
“I’m off the clock,” Trent said with a yawn. “And I paid for all of the fun out of my own pocket.”
I aimed the remote control at the television. Pretty Woman was playing on one of the movie channels, and I wanted to catch a few minutes before I went to sleep. Once I saw Richard Gere’s chiseled jaw, I hit Mute before asking Trent if he’d heard from Adam Caldwell.
“Yep.”
“What did he say?”
A car horn blared on the other end of the line.
“Trent?”
“Yep?”
“Adam Caldwell,” I said. “What did he tell you about our conversation?”
“He said you’re nice-looking.”
For a split second, I considered hanging up. Then I calmly asked if Caldwell had commented on something other than my breathtaking beauty.
“He didn’t actually use the words ‘breathtaking beauty,’” Trent said cautiously.
“Oh, c’mon! It’s late. I’m tired. And you’ve got to be exhausted after giving a deposition all day and then gorging yourself on Colorado wine and spicy food all night.”
He snickered. “The wine’s actually pretty good out here, Kate. Have you been?”
“To Grand Junction?”
“Yep. There are twenty or so wineries and vineyards in the Grand Valley.”
“I didn’t know you were working for the tourism board,” I said, hitting the Pause button. As Julia Roberts shimmered on the screen, I listened to Trent blather on about how he was just trying to make conversation and why was I in such a bad mood.
“I’m not in a mood,” I told him. “I’m tired. I worked my buns off downstairs all day. Then I went to Denver with—”
“Adam said Viveca was a little firecracker,” Trent interrupted.
“Meaning what?”
“Feisty,” he said. “And pretty upset about her brother.”
“Who wouldn’t be?” I asked. “Viv truly believes that he’s innocent.”
Trent mumbled something.
“Sorry?” I said. “I didn’t catch that.”
“It’s okay, Katie. I just called to see how you’re doing.”
“I’m doing great,” I said. “But Viv’s pretty much wrecked by what’s going on.”
“I can understand that,” Trent offered. “But I don’t think you should get involved.”
I hit Play to continue the movie. The scenes with the hotel manager helping Julia Roberts’ character buy a dress and learn table etiquette were always my favorites, so I let them continue silently for a brief moment before pausing the action again with the remote.
“Kate?”
“I’m here,” I said. “What did you say a second ago?”
“That you shouldn’t get involved with Viveca and her brother.”
“It’s a little late for that,” I said. “Because I’m already involved. We’re driving down to Denver tomorrow afternoon.”
“I get it, Katie,” said Trent. “I really do. You’ve got a big heart. You want to help your friend. But you’re not a PI anymore. You make pies and cakes and—”
“Okay, stop right there,” I said firmly. “I’m not a damsel in distress, Deputy Chief Walsh. I’m an adult. I’m an independent woman. And I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”
The line was quiet. I could hear Trent breathing. And I guessed what he’d say next.
“Just be careful, Katie.”
I smiled, feeling
somehow victorious that I knew what he’d tell me. Our teenage romance was nearly fifteen years in the past, but we’d been so close back then that a few strands of our bond were still intact. Although my sister kept pushing me to give Trent a second chance, I was more than satisfied with the way things were at the moment. Having a good friend who knew your heart was more important than taking a second stab at love with someone who’d broken it.
CHAPTER 14
The next morning at eight, as I helped Harper manage a sudden swell of customers in the dining room, the front door bell chimed. A quick glance revealed the source of the sound: Blanche Speltzer, the oldest living resident in Crescent Creek and the most outspoken regular at Sky High Pies. She made her way across the room, stopping at two or three tables to greet friends with a delicate peck on the cheek and a few hushed words. When she lightly touched down on one of the padded stools at the front counter, Blanche twirled her watery blue eyes in my direction.
“What happened to you yesterday, Little Miss Busybody?”
The question left me momentarily speechless, a condition that Blanche always relished with delight because it allowed an opening for her follow-up stinger.
“I was under the impression that you and I had a business meeting at four-fifteen,” she said, pressing her thin lips into a solemn smirk. “But I guess something more important came up for the chief cook and bottle washer of this fine establishment.”
I finished pouring coffee for Homer Dillon, a quiet middle-aged man whose wife left him the previous year for a younger guy she met online. It was scandalous and shocking for Crescent Creek; a shameful subject my mother referenced every time she called me when I was living in Chicago. Now that I was back in Colorado, I’d talked with Homer dozens of times and he never once badmouthed his former bride. “I guess she needed somebody with more pizzazz,” Homer always said, pointing at his beer belly and stained coveralls. “And that sure ain’t this sad sack!”
After he thanked me and declined my offer to bring him another apricot scone, Blanche clamped one hand around my wrist.