Playing with Poison: A Humorous and Romantic Cozy (Cue Ball Mysteries Book 1)

by Cindy Blackburn

  She, too, was impressive in a formal, business-like way. She wore a suit which was probably even more expensive than my own outfit, and had an equally expensive floral print scarf expertly arranged around her neck. Her makeup had also been expertly applied. And her hair? Well, you get the picture. Unlike Karen and me, Ms. Mayweather was a woman born to wear pantyhose.

  “Welcome to Boykin and Dent Associates, madam. How may I help you?” was her pat greeting, which matched her pat smile, bright white teeth beneath bright red lipstick.

  I gave my name, but when I mentioned I was there to see Vikki, I realized I didn’t even remember Vikki’s last name. Perhaps I should have planned this a bit more.

  “Fitkin.”

  I glanced down at Ms. Mayweather and blinked.

  “You want to see Vikki Fitkin,” she repeated.

  She pursed her perfect lips and directed me to a row of leather chairs. I sat down and obediently waited, trying to ignore the receptionist’s almost incessant stares. She wasn’t hostile, per se, but she did seem more curious than necessary. I checked my hose for runs. Finding none, I feigned interest in the decor.

  Boykin and Dent’s reception area was much more posh than the Clarence Police Station, but no less uncomfortable. I listened to some odd background music destroy a perfectly good Bob Dylan tune and wondered whether Karen Sembler might have built Ms. Mayweather’s desk. No one entered, no one left.

  I was back to admiring the view of the Blue Ridge when Vikki finally came out from behind the formidable looking door at Ms. Mayweather’s right. As she crossed the expanse of carpeting, I noticed she was not nearly as well groomed as the receptionist. Although she, too, wore a business suit, Vikki’s hair was tied back in a sloppy pony tail, her shoes were scuffed, and her nails were unpolished.

  “Jessica Hewitt, right?” She extended her hand and then turned to the receptionist. “Ms. Hewitt was a client of Stan’s, Roslynn.”

  I swallowed a cringe as Vikki guided me through the big, bad door.

  ***

  Another huge and intimidating space loomed before me. But I barely had time to orient myself before Vikki came up from behind and veritably propelled me across the central space. We moved along at a rapid clip, but I still managed to peek around a few open doors. I noticed the offices to the left boasted floor-to-ceiling windows similar to those in the reception area. The offices to my right seemed much more humble, which I verified when Vikki directed me into hers.

  She ushered me to a chair and took her seat behind the desk. “Now then,” she said. “You’re interested in some new investment opportunities?”

  No, that was not at all what I was interested in. But I kept up the pretense and nodded eagerly.

  Vikki cleared her throat. “You do have the—how should I say this—the means to continue investing, Jessica?”

  I giggled and waved a hand, and told Vikki not to let Jimmy Beak’s reports worry her. “I have plenty of money to keep going,” I lied. “And I’m keen on trying again. I’m quite sure that’s what Stanley would want me to do.” I smiled brightly. “By the way, Vikki. Do you happen to have my file?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Stanley’s file on me,” I elaborated. “I’d love to see it if you do?”

  Vikki frowned and informed me the police had confiscated Stanley’s files. “That African American guy took them all,” she said. “I understand yours was of particular interest.”

  She was still frowning, but I myself wanted to stand up and give a great big cheer for Lieutenant Densmore. If he had my file, that meant Vikki did not. And that meant I could likely bluff my way through this whole interview with no pesky repercussions.

  I sat back and relaxed, and encouraged Vikki to tell me all about the financial opportunities still awaiting me at Boykin and Dent.

  Unfortunately, she did just that. Thus I endured a mind-numbing explanation of the various and sundry ways I might invest my remaining fortune. With each new option, she set before me a mound of brochures and forms. I kept my eyes on the paperwork, hoping she wouldn’t notice my yawns.

  “What would you say are the riskier options?” I asked when she came up for breath. “Like the ones Stanley had me in?”

  Vikki skipped a beat. “Pardon?”

  “Oh, I know I’ve lost some money so far.” I flung an arm into the air to demonstrate my devil may care approach to personal finances. “But Stanley promised we would make it up the next time around. I’m interested in making as much profit, or interest, or whatever, on the money I have left, as fast as possible.” I crossed my legs and waited while Vikki wiped the scowl off her face.

  “I’m not sure how to put this politely,” she said to my knees. “But I wouldn’t advise a woman your age to do anything that risky.”

  “Oh?”

  “You see, Jessica.” She folded her hands and carefully placed them on her desk. “As people get older, we usually suggest investments on the safer side, even if it does mean smaller returns.”

  “We?” I asked. “Does that mean all your colleagues would offer the same advice?”

  She shifted slightly in her seat. “Not necessarily. But that would be my approach.”

  “Oh, dear.” I furrowed my brow to demonstrate my perplexity and confusion. “I was so certain Stanley had the right idea for me. But then, of course, he died.”

  “Stanley didn’t just die, Jessica,” Vikki scolded. “Your friend Candy Poppe killed him. It was all over the paper this morning.”

  Well, darn. I sighed dramatically and feigned interest in the various brochures littering the desk while I thought of what to do next.

  Eventually I looked up. “Candy didn’t kill Stanley,” I said in passing. “She was way too proud of him.”

  “Of Stanley?”

  “Oh, yes.” I nodded vigorously. “She was proud of the work he did here at Boykin and Dent.”

  Vikki actually snorted. And when she regained her voice she informed me that Candy Poppe had no idea what she was talking about. “She’s not exactly a financial whiz kid, is she?”

  I pretended to pout as Vikki continued, “Listen to me, Jessica. I know you were friends with the guy, but you don’t want to waste any more of your hard earned cash investing in anything Stanley Sweetzer was pushing. In fact, I won’t even discuss those options. It wouldn’t be ethical.”

  I gasped in dismay. “Are you implying Stanley wasn’t ethical?”

  She offered yet another stern frown and pointed to her stupid brochures. “Let’s see about actually improving your portfolio, shall we? How much money did you say you’re looking to invest?”

  I hadn’t said, and did not intend to.

  “I’m sorry, Vikki.” I sat forward. “But if Stanley was unethical, why did he get that big promotion?”

  She began tapping a pencil on her desktop as I continued, “Candy told me he had just been named Senior Something Or Other. Wouldn’t that indicate he knew what he was doing?”

  The pencil was moving a mile a minute. I waited patiently for an answer.

  “Have you ever worked in an office like this?” she asked eventually.

  I answered no, telling her the truth for once.

  “I didn’t think so.” She grabbed who knows what tedious form out of the pile and poised her pencil above it. “Now then,” she said. “What about your bank balance?”

  What about it? I again resorted to honesty and told Vikki I had not brought any financial records with me that day.

  “I suppose I’ll just have to come back some other time.” I stood up to leave. “When I have the information you require.”

  Vikki sighed and stood up also. She gathered her beloved brochures into one tidy pile and handed them to me. “In the meantime, be looking at these.”

  She opened the door and seemed about to escort me back to the reception area, but I assured her I could find my own way out.

  “I’ve wasted enough of your time for one day,” I said brightly.

  She did not
disagree, and shut her door behind me.

  ***

  Okay, now what?

  I stood for a moment before spying Stanley’s name on a closed door on the left side, the posh side, of the big room. Hmm. I also noticed Thomas Fell’s name on the door nearest Vikki’s. Unfortunately, that door was closed, too.

  But maybe that wasn’t so unfortunate? No one was watching as I glided across the room to Stanley’s office and tried the doorknob. Lo and behold, it was unlocked. I entered his office and closed the door.

  ***

  Okay, now what?

  The desk, of course. I scurried over and sat down in what had been Stanley’s chair. I dropped all the garbage Vikki had given me in the waste basket and stared at his computer. It was turned off, and I dared not try it out. First of all, it would probably sing to me as it booted up, and I certainly wasn’t about to make any noise. And what the heck would I do with it even if I did get it turned on?

  I had no idea, so I started rifling through Stanley’s desk instead. Lieutenant Densmore might have absconded with all the important stuff, but there was still a plethora of paperwork in those drawers. And lo and behold, I found a little black address book wedged into a stack of stupid brochures.

  It was a small address book, I noticed. Small enough, in fact, that it would fit quite easily in my purse. I swiveled the chair around to admire the gorgeous mountain view as my right hand dropped the address book into my purse, which just happened to be open.

  Suddenly less interested in the view, I stood up and headed to the file cabinet. I had just gotten the top drawer open when the door behind me squeaked. I pushed on the drawer and twirled around as it banged—and I do mean banged—shut.

  I flinched hardly at all and smiled at Thomas Fell, who hovered in the doorway. I do believe I have never bared so many teeth in my life.

  “Where do I know you from?” he demanded.

  I walked forward with my right hand extended, at the same time reaching over to close my shoulder bag with my left. “Jessica Hewitt,” I reminded him. “I’m a friend—excuse me—I was a friend of Stanley’s. We met at the funeral?”

  I kept smiling but put my hand down when Thomas ignored it.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. “And especially, what are you doing here?” He waved both hands, indicating Stanley’s office.

  “This is a bit embarrassing,” I said. Well, that certainly wasn’t a lie. “But I just finished a meeting with Vikki Fitkin, and then I saw Stanley’s office on my way out, and, well, I’m sorry, but I just had to have a peek.” Surprisingly, none of that was a lie either.

  Thomas stared and frowned.

  I kept talking, all too aware that he was blocking the pathway to my escape. “And once I got in here, I noticed this glorious view.” I swung around and waved my hand with a flourish at the glorious view.

  Proof that there is a God in heaven, someone else joined us before Thomas could bombard me with any more pesky questions. An old man came up from behind and literally pushed him aside to approach me.

  “May I help you, madam?” he asked.

  His sinister smile reminded me of the vile Maynard Snipe. But this guy still seemed far less hostile than Thomas, even if I now had two bodies to wrestle before I could ever make it out that door.

  I stalwartly ignored the way my face was starting to ache and kept on smiling.

  “Hello, sir,” I said. “I was just telling Thomas here that I came to see Vikki Fitkin. But I’m an old friend of poor Stanley Sweetzer.” I opened my eyes wide. “And I just had to see his office when I had the chance. And then this view.” Again, I fluttered an arm toward the Blue Ridge. “Well, sir, I’m afraid I was in here admiring it a bit too long, wasn’t I?”

  I took a step toward the door. “Thomas was just showing me the way out.”

  “Arnold Boykin.” The old man stepped up and extended his hand. I shook it and told him my name.

  Mr. Boykin shooed away Thomas Fell—now my smile was genuine—and turned back to me. “You’ve been talking to Miss Fitkin, you say?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Vikki has been most helpful.”

  Mr. Boykin studied me. He didn’t seem in any hurry to kick me out, and he hadn’t grabbed a phone to call the cops either. I took the opportunity to conjure up my latent skills at flirting with old coots. Lord knows I had gotten enough practice back in my pool-hustling days. Lord also knows I had been three decades younger and prettier back then.

  “May I be honest with you, Mr. Boykin?” I smiled demurely.

  Boykin bobbed his bald head. “Oh, please, Miss Hewitt.”

  I batted my eyelashes, Alexis Wynsome style, and gave Boykin the basic lie about my investing with Stanley, yadda, yadda, yadda. “Before he passed away he was encouraging me to try again,” I said. “That’s why I met with Vikki today. But she gave me just the opposite advice, sir. And now I don’t know what to do.”

  I sighed forlornly. “I do so wish someone with a bit more experience would help me.”

  Boykin blinked. I waited.

  “You know, Miss Hewitt,” he said eventually. “I was just heading out.”

  “Oh?” I murmured as he gave my legs some serious consideration.

  Eventually his gaze made it up to my eyes. “May I be so bold as to buy you a drink?” He chuckled. “It must be happy hour somewhere?”

  I giggled, veritably channeling Alexis Wynsome. “That would be lovely, sir.”

  I took his arm and refused to acknowledge Thomas Fell’s glare as Arnold Boykin led me out of Stanley’s office and toward the exit. By the time we rounded Roslynn the Receptionist’s desk, Arnold and I were on a first name basis.

  Chapter 20

  “Stanley Sweetzer.” Arnold Boykin shook his head and squeezed my knee. “Such a terrible, terrible, tragedy.”

  We had settled ourselves into a booth at the bar on the ground floor of the office building. And instead of sitting across the table, like any normal human being, Boykin had sidled in next to me. The better for groping, apparently.

  I was deciding how much pawing I was willing to tolerate when the waitress came over to take our order.

  “The usual, Mr. B?” She spoke to Boykin but had her eye on me.

  Mr. B enquired as to whether I liked champagne, and I murmured very much. But when he mentioned his usual preference, I coughed out loud. The waitress waited until I could nod a silent approval before she left us.

  Oh my Lord, the old coot had ordered a bottle of the French stuff—the hundred dollars a bottle stuff. Now I was going to have to drink, and sleuth, and flirt, and be charming. All at the same time.

  I took a deep breath and resorted to honesty. “Stanley died on my couch, you know?”

  Boykin jumped. “Oh, my God! I mean, oh, my dear. Oh, you poor thing.” He blinked his watery eyes. “You’re the one who’s been on the news, aren’t you?”

  I nodded solemnly. “I do hope you haven’t been listening to Jimmy Beak, Arnold?”

  “Oh, no, Jessica,” Boykin assured me. “Jimmy had it all wrong after all. According to the Courier, Candy Poppe is to blame.” He moved his hand an inch northward, and I smiled weakly.

  “Is it warm in here?” I asked and unbuttoned the top two buttons of my blouse. No, it wasn’t the sweet and charming Alexis Wynsome whom I was channeling. It was Ava La Tellier, the brazen hussy from Windswept Whispers.

  Finally, our champagne arrived. We watched the waitress pour, and as she stepped away, Boykin offered another Snipe-like leer. “To Stanley,” he said.

  “To his memory,” I added and took a dainty sip of my beverage. Good God, it was perfect. I fortified myself with another sip and got to work, reminding Boykin of my utter confusion about personal finances.

  “I was so hoping Vikki would set me up in more of those whiz-bang investments Stanley was so fond of.” I sighed for effect. “But she refused to do any such thing.”

  I fluttered my eyelashes, all woebegone and perplexed, but Boykin barely noticed the
melodrama. He was too busy concentrating on his drink and my right thigh.

  Okay, time for Ava La Tellier tactics. “You know, Arnold.” I leaned in close. “Vikki may have even implied Stanley was unethical. But how can that be?”

  “Be?” Boykin squeaked. He looked away and spent a moment wiping the sweat off his brow. Then he noticed his empty glass and worked on refilling it. This took a while, since he had only one free hand, and it was shaking.

  “Am I making you nervous?” I asked gently.

  “Oh, no, no, no.”

  I tapped his shoulder. “Oh, yes, yes, yes. What is it, Arnold? You can tell me.”

  The hand wandering around on my thigh had turned cold and clammy, but I contorted the cringe on my face into a smile as the old coot finally got around to answering me.

  “Oh, Jessica,” he said. “The sad fact is, Stanley’s investment strategies weren’t always so lucrative. You learned that the hard way, I’m afraid.”

  “But, Arnold!” I exclaimed, as aghast as can be. “My losses were just temporary, weren’t they? Stanley promised I would do better next time.”

  Boykin shook his head, his eyes wide with fake sympathy.

  “Oh dear.” I sighed dramatically in yet another attempt at the demure, forlorn, perplexed act. “I must not understand these things very well. If Stanley wasn’t doing a good job, well then, why did he get such a grand promotion? Wasn’t he just named a Senior Investment Analyst?”

  I tilted my head and watched as Boykin poured himself another glass of champagne. He gulped it down and suddenly remembered his wife was expecting him home early that afternoon. With one last grope for good measure, he excused himself and scurried out the door.

  ***

  I breathed deep of the Boykin-free air. Another woman might have lamented her less than stellar sleuthing skills. But I looked on the bright side—a half-finished and fully paid for bottle of French champagne stood before me. I poured myself another glass and sat back to enjoy it in blissful, grope-free solitude.

  I buttoned up and contemplated my latest findings. Okay, so Stanley was dishonest and disreputable. But I think I already knew that. I also knew he hadn’t deserved a promotion. The mere mention of it got these Boykin and Dent people all atwitter. But why?