by Nancy Bush
And then she was alone with Dallas. He looks even better now, she thought. Dark hair with faint gray traces at the temples. Something knowledgeable about his eyes, like he’d seen things that had created the gravitas she recalled so vividly. Mouth that looked capable of smiling, although he was regarding her pretty seriously now. She recalled making love to him, sort of, and it made her uncomfortable. All of it was hazy, unreal.
“How did you meet your husband?” he asked as they both sat down.
“Oh. We’re going way back?”
“Only if you want to.”
He was just trying to get her going, she realized. Giving her an opening. He knew nothing about her. Nothing about Evie. Whereas she’d surreptitiously followed his life: knew there was no wife, no kids, although he’d recently been engaged ... maybe still was.
“I was a single mother,” she said. “It was hard.”
He waited.
“I met John and he seemed ... he was ... what I was looking for, and I guess he felt the same.” Actually, he’d known she was a Crissman. She’d always suspected that played into his interest in her. The money. The prestige. What a laugh that was now. “We were good together. . . .” Mostly.
“Your husband was poisoned the day of the benefit?”
“That’s what they say. Those mushrooms, I . . .” She sensed his sharpened interest. “I didn’t kill him. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. But I know of those mushrooms.”
“How?”
Why had she said that? She was sorry she had. She’d kept that from the police detective. Had only responded to his questions with yes or no answers. But there was no going back now. “When Layla, Lyle, and I were kids, we saw them. Not that far from Stonehenge. The local nature girl pointed them out to us.”
“The local nature girl?”
Lucy told him about Brianne Kilgore—it was much easier than talking about more personal topics—and how Brianne had introduced them to the sights and sounds of the forest in a way that was mesmerizing. “. . . she knew about the mushrooms. That wasn’t surprising; she knew about a lot of stuff about nature. Plants, animals, the watershed. Whatever. She even had a pet squirrel family that would come to their back door that she could pet. She would make tea out of pine needles and it was awful, but we didn’t want to disappoint her, so we drank it. Animals were drawn to her. It was weird and kind of magical, in our eyes. She was also ... on the spectrum of autism, or Asperger’s, I think ... not completely, but sort of. My brother was enamored with her, but she wasn’t interested in him that way. He hung out with her the most.”
“When you were told what caused your husband’s death, did you tell the police you had knowledge of the angel of death mushroom, as did your sister and brother?”
“No. I was ... I didn’t . . . None of us would ever have used the mushrooms on anyone or anything living! They were pointed out to us, that’s all. I just think John’s death has to be a mistake. I don’t know how he ingested the stuff, but it’s . . . but no one would intentionally kill him.”
“Who did you talk to with the ... is it the Laurelton PD?”
“Yes. Detective Pelligree. He showed me the autopsy report that listed poisoning as the cause of John’s death. When the news people got hold of the story . . .” She couldn’t hold back a shudder at the lurid headlines that had followed.
“But the police? What do they think? Do you have any idea?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think ... they think it was an accident.” She drew a breath, aware her heart was thundering as if she’d run a mile race. “Should I have told them that I knew about the mushrooms?”
“It would be a good idea. Full disclosure.”
She closed her eyes and groaned, envisioning the types of future headlines.
Dallas said, “I understand that it takes a few hours before symptoms arise, could even be a day or two.”
“Yeah, I Googled it after John ... after they told me what killed him. Poisoning by Amanita ocreata, commonly known as the angel of death mushroom.”
There was a moment where Dallas seemed to take that in and Lucy had another wave of feeling like she was in a dream. Then he asked, “How do you think he ingested it?”
Lucy was starting to feel uncomfortable. Asked herself again what she was doing here. But she needed an ally. Maybe a defense attorney. Someone on her side, and well, she’d listened to Layla and here she was, so . . .
“I don’t have a clue,” she admitted.
“Do you think it was the day of the benefit, or sometime before?”
“I think it was at the benefit. The day before the benefit was Friday, and Lyle left work early and came home. I was there, too. We both were ... having some problems at work, and so we ate what was in the house. I mixed some tuna fish with mayonnaise and we had sandwiches. The next morning it was oatmeal. We pretty much shared from the same food until we got to the lodge.”
“What time did you get there?”
“Early. My father wanted us there before noon to help get the place ready. Kate, my sister-in-law, had hired a company to prepare the place, but Dad decided we should all be there way ahead of the guests. Way ahead. We were there before the sandwiches and salads were brought in. I didn’t eat any. But everyone else did, I think.”
“Everyone else, meaning?”
“My father, brother, maybe Kate and Layla, the staff that was there ... We were there for a lot of hours. Maybe Lyle drove into Glenn River? There was talk of that. I don’t know.”
“Anything to drink?”
“Water. I think there were some sodas earlier in the day.”
“Then nothing till the benefit?”
“Till the hors d’oeuvres. Actually, I didn’t eat any of them either. I just couldn’t get one. The trays were never where I was. John managed to try everything, but a lot of people did.”
Dallas nodded. She could practically see the wheels turning in his mind. “Was there some reason anyone might think you were guilty?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You and your husband were getting along. Happy. Nothing anyone could see to say otherwise?”
Lucy’s mouth was dry. She thought of Mr. Carlin, who’d seen her with Mark, the bartender, and who’d given her away to John at the benefit. “We had our problems.”
He hesitated, his eyes on her, and Lucy felt almost naked. “Big problems?”
“No . . . but we weren’t in a great place when he died.”
“The police are looking for answers, and to that end they’ll follow lines of questioning, interview anyone who might have information. As the deceased’s spouse, you’re in the center of the investigative circle. You’ll be interviewed multiple times, but from what you’ve just told me, at this point I don’t see a strong case against you. If you’re leaving something out, now’s the time to say so.”
Her assignation with Mark weighed on her mind, but she couldn’t bring herself to bring it up. Not to him. Not to Dallas Denton.
Now, she suddenly couldn’t take talking about it anymore. The walls were crashing in. “I didn’t kill my husband. I would never harm anyone. I couldn’t. If I wanted out of the marriage, I would have divorced him. I thought about it,” she added defensively. “Our marriage hasn’t been great for a while, but I could never hurt him physically. Never.”
Her words echoed back at her, heartfelt, sincere, and somewhat challenging. Okay, their marriage hadn’t been perfect, and she’d been unhappy, but murder? No one could think she could murder him. It was ludicrous.
“All right,” he said, as if he’d come to a decision.
“You’ll . . . take my case?”
He nodded. “The next time the police want to interview you, refer them to me. I’ll be there with you, Mrs. Linfield.”
Her throat was hot and dry. “Okay. And it’s Lucy, not Mrs. Linfield.”
“Lucy,” he repeated thoughtfully, causing her heart to flutter.
She thought for a moment he was remembering, but he simp
ly got up to see her to the door.
Chapter Nineteen
Layla was waiting for her right outside his office door. She practically grabbed Lucy by the elbow and steered her through his outer offices, down the elevator, and out the front door to where they were standing on Third Street in downtown Portland under gray skies. Traffic moved sluggishly, tires humming against streets that shimmered with rainwater.
“He didn’t know me,” Lucy said, turning her collar against the drizzle. “I don’t think it was an act.”
“What did he say about John’s death?”
“He’s going to be there the next time the police interview me, and they will interview me. I don’t know how I let you talk me into this. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s been a nightmare since John died. I feel like I’m walking in a fun house. I’m making bad decisions.”
“Dallas Denton is a good decision. He’s one of the best criminal attorneys around.”
“Criminal attorneys . . .” She half-laughed, half-hiccupped, shook her head. “How did we get here?”
“Somebody poisoned John,” Layla said, answering her literally.
“Maybe it was an accident. I don’t see how . . .” Lucy drew a deep breath and pulled herself together. She’d had enough of falling apart and forced her attention away from herself and her problems for the moment and onto her sister’s emotional situation. Her mother was right. Layla needed to be taken in hand. Lucy gazed at her sister hard. “Whatever happens, you aren’t marrying Neil. I don’t know what the hell’s going on with him, but you know better. Something’s nuts there.”
“Yeah, I know. I gotta figure it out. But right now, this is about you.”
“It’s not just about me,” she argued. “You need to seriously get your head on straight. And I know you want your baby. I want you to have your baby. But marrying Neil . . . ? That isn’t in the cards.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Bad things happen when you make bad decisions, Layla. Really bad things.”
“I’m not going to talk about this now.” She flipped the hood of her jacket over her head as the drizzle turned to rain. “I’ve got to go help Mary Jo restage a house.”
“Are you kidding?”
“It’s no big deal. I’m cutting back at the bistro and concentrating on staging and my art. I’m okay, Luce.”
Are you? Lucy silently asked, and, as if hearing her, Layla sketched a good-bye—or maybe she was just warding her off—and headed up the street. “You want a ride?” she called after her.
“No, I’ll Uber it,” she yelled over her shoulder and sidestepped a woman walking a tiny terrier wearing a raincoat.
Well, fine. Lucy headed to her car and drove to Crissman’s, walking up the stairs to her office rather than taking the elevator, the exercise mostly to get her tired brain to think. When she made it to her desk, she realized there was no one else in the offices. Miranda’s office was locked up tight. Lucy had been in and out a couple of times since John’s death, but she hadn’t been able to concentrate and had only done the tasks that absolutely required her attention. After sliding into her chair, she tried to log on to her computer and found she was locked out.
“What?” she whispered.
She immediately picked up her cell phone, checking her last emails. She had two accounts, one for personal and one for business. The business account hadn’t logged any incoming messages for twenty-four hours. The last message that showed was from one of the vendors. It had come in two days before. The vendor asked Lucy to phone her. Lucy plugged the number into her cell but got no answer. She gave that up and called Lyle but got his voice mail.
“Forget that,” she said under her breath and phoned her father.
“Abbott Crissman,” he answered stiffly on the fourth ring, though he had to know who was calling.
“I’m locked out of the office computer and I haven’t been receiving messages. There’s no one in the office either. What’s going on?”
“We’re moving everything to the warehouse, just like we said we were.”
“But the store’s still here. Some office staff need to be here. Where’s Miranda? With you?”
“The inventory’s already been moved,” he said impatiently, not answering her directly about Miranda but adding with annoyance, “We’re closing shop, Lucy.”
“I know that,” she said impatiently.
“I don’t know why this is so hard for you.”
“You don’t know why it’s so hard for me?” she practically shouted.
He backed off. “We’re all shocked at losing John. You know that. But we’re on a time line.”
“You said the store wasn’t moving till summer!”
“Well, it’s moving now,” he said angrily, giving up all pretense of understanding.
“What the hell is going on? I mean really, Dad. What’s really going on?”
“We’re saving the store.”
“Are we?”
“Who have you been talking to?” he asked suspiciously.
My mother, she thought, but said, “Do I have a job, Dad? Do I?”
“Of course you do. But don’t come in until you’re better. We can handle it. I told you that at the memorial service.”
Yes, he had said as much at the service, but she hadn’t really been listening. Lucy had held Evie’s hand throughout and greeted the large turnout of guests as best she could. Layla had run a certain amount of interference and her mother had been in her element, directing the show, deflecting the crowd away from Lucy whenever she sensed it was becoming too overwhelming for her. Evie had stood beside Lucy, clutching her stuffed animal, Lisa, in her other hand as if she’d reverted to childhood, which she likely had. Evie had wrapped strands of silvery beads around both her own neck and Lisa’s, the stuffed rabbit/dog. Oh hell. She was going to think of it as a dog from here on out. Jesus. Why was everything so hard?
“I’ll be there tomorrow,” she told her father and ended the call. She’d almost said today, but she needed to see her daughter, and even though her mother was picking Evie up from school, Lucy wanted to go back home and hold Evie close. And her mother, who had been great in the immediate aftermath of John’s death, was becoming a problem, too. Sandra had reverted to her carelessly bossy ways and had started to seriously get on Lucy’s nerves, Layla’s, too, for that matter. She just couldn’t stay out of their business.
Lucy got back to her house at half past four and walked in on her mother and Evie in the kitchen, making Rice Krispies Treats. Lucy was glad to see her daughter involved in some activity, and happy to see that the dog, Lisa, was seated in a chair across the room, apparently forgotten in the moment, still wearing her “jewels.”
“That looks great,” Lucy said, plucking up one of the Rice Krispies Treats, wondering if she could manage to choke it down, also wondering just how much of an ingrate she could be. She was past ready for her mother to go back to her own home. In fact, it suddenly felt like an imperative.
“It is good,” Evie said, flashing a smile. Something else that had been missing since John’s death.
“Evie tells me you guys are going to stay at Stonehenge for Easter,” said Sandra, drying her hands on a striped towel, her blond hair shimmering beneath the kitchen lights. Slim and tanned, Sandra folded the towel neatly. “Is that right?”
Lucy had been nibbling on the confection and now she nearly choked on a piece as she sucked in a breath. “Well, I don’t think that’s really in the cards, given everything.”
“You said we could go! You told me we could go!” Evie stared at Lucy in horror, tears jumping to her eyes.
“I said maybe. I don’t know, honey. We need to check with Grandpa and Uncle Lyle. . . .”
“I’d say it’s unlikely, because your father’s selling that place to that man who bought Layla’s painting.” Sandra’s voice was ice.
“Mom!” Evie looked in horror from her grandmother to her mother.
“The sale hasn’t gone throu
gh yet,” Lucy stated firmly, giving her mother the eye. “I’ll talk to Dad. I just can’t think about it now, Evie.”
“Daphne wants to go. We have plans!” Evie cried.
“I’ll do my best! That’s all I can promise!” Lucy could feel herself teetering on the edge of a meltdown.
Shaking her head, Sandra said, “It’s a shame. Your father took all his money out of the company and now has to sell off the last pieces. He’s always been a shit businessman.”
“Language, Mom,” Lucy protested. “Dad made the decision because the store’s moving to online sales.”
She sniffed. “You know better. I just hope there’s some kind of inheritance left for Evie.”
“I’m going to the new offices tomorrow,” Lucy said with determination.
“The warehouse? Do your best, Lucretia. I hope it’s enough. You know what your father’s like. Junior was a good man, but Abbott isn’t.”
“Stop.” Lucy moved her gaze meaningfully to Evie. “We all have our faults.”
“Is he really selling Stonehenge?” Evie asked, her voice quavering.
“It hasn’t happened yet.” Lucy turned to her mother. “Dad wasn’t alone in his ... decisions. Junior was part of the problem, too.”
“You only know what you’ve been fed by your father. Don’t blame Junior for Abbott’s faults.” She shook her head. “What did I ever see in Abbott Crissman? Oh, that’s right, good looks and money, which he pissed away. He had a lot of it in those days, but he ran through it.” She sighed audibly and rolled her eyes. “Of course, Lyle’s been no help.”
“Dad’s keeping the most profitable part of the business,” Lucy defended.
“And squeezing you out ... the one and only person who actually cares about it.”
“Mom . . .” Lucy warned.
Silence fell between them. Lucy was both angry and scared. Her mother was hitting all her own worries right in the bull’s-eye and she didn’t want to hear it.
“I’m sorry,” Sandra said shortly.
“I don’t want to talk about this.” Lucy’s chin was tight.