A Crime of Poison

  “Oh, I will, because I think you’re bluffing.” He tilted his head. “Out of curiosity, how did you decide I was guilty?”

  “Fred’s sweetheart saw you with Cornell last Sunday night in the parking lot.”

  “Ida ain’t my sweetheart, missy.”

  I flapped a hand at him but kept my gaze on Durley. “And then the Lilyvale librarian remembered that Dennis Moreno had a stepbrother who was a PI. That’s when we knew for sure. We hatched this fiasco on the fly.”

  He chuckled. “All in all, you didn’t do a bad job of it.”

  “You caught us, Durley,” I said. “How is that good, and why didn’t you keep the appointment?”

  “I had a hunch, so I asked my partner to take the meeting. This isn’t what I’d planned for today, but it’ll do. I know how to disappear.”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Fred hide something in one hand. I didn’t know what it was or what he meant to do, but I needed to keep Durley distracted.

  “So how did you get to Cornell? Didn’t he know who you were?”

  “Not a clue.” He smiled widely. “I followed him after the fight Sunday morning. Told him I was investigating Hamlin and chatted him up. Put a tracker on his car.”

  “And later you met up with him and gave him the bag of cookies? Did you put them on the plate or did he?”

  “What’s funny is, he did it. He had one lone cookie left from the ones he’d bought but put mine on top. It was all I could do to keep a straight face when he ate one after the other.”

  “You waited for his allergy to kick in.”

  “I didn’t go to all that trouble just to walk away before the job was done. I offered to take him to the hospital and put him in the passenger seat.”

  “And then parked the car, and let him die.”

  His eyes grew cold. “I watched him die.”

  I suppressed a shiver. “And then you shot Dex Hamlin for attempting to blackmail you?”

  “My, my, Ms. Nix,” he mocked. “Your talents are wasted working in that little store.”

  “Two of my family members had to spend the night in jail because of you. They’re still under a cloud of suspicion.”

  “No need to fret. I’ve written a confession letter. It’ll go out in the mail Monday.”

  I gaped. “Wait. You’re sending a confession to the police?”

  “Like I said, I’m not a monster. The confession will clear your friends, but the police won’t find me. You and I will be in Mexico in a matter of hours, then I’ll let you go before I disappear for good.”

  Fred snorted. “You can’t take her to no foreign parts. She ain’t got a passport.”

  “A fake passport is easy enough for me to get. I have connections, and one of them is the pilot waiting to fly me out of here.” His expressed hardened, and he gestured at the rope with his gun. “Stop stalling, Ms. Nix. Tie him to the chair behind you. It’ll be comfortable enough until help arrives.”

  “Him’s name is Fred,” Fred grumbled, then thumped me on the back. Was he urging me to move, or signaling he had a plan? I hoped it was something other than throwing a screwdriver.

  I reached for the rope slowly, not making any sudden moves, and hyperaware of the weapon pointed at me. He might not shoot to kill, but I’d bet Fred’s nuts and bolts Durley would shoot to wound and not think twice about it.

  Once I had the coil in hand, I fumbled around looking for a rope end. Fred awkwardly pushed his walker toward the chair so his tool belt sat by the arm. I knew it was for show. Fred was never awkward with his walker. He wanted those tools close by.

  I knelt as he lowered himself to the cushion. “Not too tight, missy. I have the bad circulation in them legs.”

  “Okay, Fred.”

  Before I’d finished tying off one end, Fred yelled, “Now, missy!”

  Something whizzed over my head. Adrenaline flooded my body. Durley cursed, and the gun fired. I flinched as another projectile flew from Fred’s hand, and then I acted.

  Faster than I thought possible, I pivoted, grabbed my bag, and launched myself at Durley. I swung the bag at his startled face, and it connected with a solid and satisfying thud. Durley dropped to the floor, and I frantically searched for his gun. I saw it under the dining table, well out of his reach. Which didn’t matter now, because he was down for the count.

  With the immediate danger over, I looked at Fred to be sure he was okay. He was on his feet, leaning on his walker and wearing a pale, horrified expression. In the next moment, the front door burst open, and people swarmed the room yelling, “Police!”

  My shoulder hurt and dizziness swamped me. I leaned to brace my hands on my knees, and my heavy bag whacked my shin. Should’ve let go of the bag. That would leave a mark.

  “Nixy, dear God, are you okay?”

  I didn’t straighten but looked up into my Aunt Sherry’s face, saw the rest of the Silver gang staring, mouths agape, and then saw darling Eric hunkered at my feet.

  “Honey, you’re hit.”

  I nodded, then put a hand on his shoulder to steady myself when another wave of wooziness rolled over me. “I know. I hit him good, and so did Fred.”

  His hands covered mine. “I mean your shoulder is bleeding.”

  I glanced half cross-eyed at my right upper arm, where blood stained my emporium polo shirt. Dang, I’d never get that out. Then I thought of something else and looked into Eric’s bedroom brown eyes.

  “Does this mean our Eureka Springs trip is off?”

  • • •

  Two days later, on a bright, beautiful Monday, the El Dorado hospital released me with a sling and some lovely pain meds. Eric picked me up and took me to the farmhouse to recuperate for a few more days. Me being in the hospital almost an hour away had been a strain on the Six, so when Sherry insisted I come home, I couldn’t refuse.

  The Six plied me with pillows and pure kindness. Aster sprayed me with so much lavender water, I’d smell it on my skin for months. Neighbors and friends heaped enough food on us to last until Thanksgiving. Judy came to lecture me for a full five minutes before she hugged me and presented us with a plate of chocolate croissants and eclairs. Even Debbie Nicole visited. She brought a pamphlet titled “Investigating for Lame Brains.” She’d created it herself, and the number one tip was, “Don’t get shot.”

  The Six chuckled over that for hours.

  Well, except poor Fred. He blamed himself for the incident. The first screwdriver he’d thrown had been aimed at Durley’s gun hand but hit him in the upper arm instead, and the gun discharged. The second throw hit its mark, knocking the gun from his hand, but the damage to my shoulder was done.

  When I told Fred in no uncertain terms that I preferred being shot over being kidnapped and dragged to Mexico, he lightened up. When I asked him to teach me the fine art of screwdriver throwing, he positively beamed.

  The blow I’d delivered with my bag had knocked Durley cold but hadn’t killed him. I asked Eric the questions I hadn’t had the chance to ask Durley, and Eric answered every one. Durley did have a sister and had taken her to the folk art festival on Saturday, but she lived in Shreveport, not Lilyvale or El Dorado. She’d known nothing of her brother’s plot, and neither had his PI partner, Sally Maynard. She thought he’d had a family emergency and would simply be late for the meeting with us.

  My biggest question was why Durley had carried out his revenge on Cornell at all after so much time had lapsed. Durley had lawyered up as soon as he’d come to, but the file of notes I’d stashed in my purse were fair game for the authorities to seize.

  Durley had written about Dennis’s confession that Cornell had elbowed, punched, and shoved the librarian in his back several times before he’d nearly run Dennis down. His back injury had been aggravated to the point of requiring surgery, and the procedures hadn’t been effective. Dennis wasn’t paralyzed, bu
t he was disabled. That, in turn, had caused severe depression, and he needed constant care. Durley contended that if Cornell had left Dennis alone, his brother would be well, and likely still living and working in Lilyvale.

  He had a point. No matter how much Cornell had changed, he’d made life hell for the Ozark Arms residents.

  Still, I preferred remembering him with the little boy and with my critters.

  Who, by the way, left my side only to eat and do their business. Yes, they paid attention to the Six, especially Fred, and they had raptures when Eric came over. Otherwise they remained my constant companions. Amber curled up in the bend of my legs, and T.C. draped herself on the sofa arm, one paw always touching my head.

  Charlene Vogelman brought the official notice that all charges against Maise and Aster had been dropped. She even apologized in a roundabout way for her suspicions, and the Six graciously forgave her.

  I did, too, though a little more grudgingly.

  The best medicine of all? Planning the Eureka Springs trip with Eric. I could hardly wait!

  Epilogue

  The trip was everything I’d hoped for, and so much more. I don’t know if we hit leaf-peeping peak season, but the autumn colors were truly breathtaking. Especially from the cabin on the ridge overlooking Beaver Lake that Eric had rented from his friend. Eric and I sat there on the deck overlooking the spectacular trees of every color and talked for hours.

  We also explored the downtown, uptown, and underground of Eureka Springs. Eric booked both walking and riding tours of the city, and then we explored its historic charms on our own. We visited Basin Spring Park, and all the old hotels, including Basin Park Hotel, the Palace Hotel and Bathhouse, and the Crescent Hotel and Spa. We saw St. Elizabeth Catholic Church, one of the many buildings that seemed to grow out of the mountains, and we were in the glass Thorncrown Chapel during a thunderstorm. Sitting there surrounded by lightning was a bigger thrill than riding any roller coaster.

  Grotto Spring, the Carry Nation House, the many bed-and-breakfasts, some stately, some funky. I couldn’t have picked a favorite because doing anything and everything was special with Eric. The things we saw and did in the daytime . . . and at night.

  Our four days came to an end too soon, but I loved the new closeness I’d found with my darling detective.

  The weekend before Thanksgiving, we went to dinner at the farmhouse. Eric wore his usual jeans and boots but wore a long-sleeved shirt and a lightweight jacket. Not that it was all that cold, but I’d donned jeans and a light sweater against the nip in the air.

  Sherry hustled us directly into the dining room, but when I asked if we were late, she pooh-poohed me. Eric and I sat at the end of the table, which was laden with food. Conversation centered on what Maise had on the menu for Thanksgiving. When I said I was afraid to ask what she was serving for Christmas, every one of the Six beamed at me, then wiped the goofy grins from their faces and changed the subject.

  But that didn’t mean the covert glances at Eric and me stopped. I wasn’t wearing my sling tonight. Maybe they were concerned about my wound. Eric shifted in his seat and fiddled with his napkin as if he was nervous, but I chalked it up to him being on call.

  At the end of the meal, I got up to ferry plates and the leftovers to the kitchen, but Sherry shooed Eric and me to the huge front porch. Amber and T.C. came with us.

  “Sit, relax,” she said before hotfooting it back inside.

  We sat in the swing, Eric gently pushing it with his foot because my legs were too short to touch the porch floor. The critters had raced down the steps to chase around the yard.

  Since we’d been back from Eureka Springs, I’d been to Eric’s refurbished bungalow several times, mostly to watch football or movies. His parents had died years ago, so we’d naturally agreed to spend at least part of the Christmas holidays with the Six. He wanted to decorate and I promised I’d help, but I was iffy about putting up a tree in my apartment. I didn’t really think T.C. would climb it, but bat at the lights and ornaments? All bets were off.

  As for New Year’s Eve, we’d discussed dinner and dancing but hadn’t made a final decision. It was enough to know we’d be together.

  Eric’s phone buzzed with a text message. He checked it, then said we needed to go inside. I figured he’d caught a case, so I went in with him.

  Instead of grabbing his jacket, he ushered me down the long hall to the back door. It seemed awfully bright in the yard, and I realized why when he took my hand and led me onto the deck.

  A galaxy of patio lights hung from the house to the barn and back. More lights were arranged in a circle in between. Music softly played somewhere, and Amber and T.C. sat just outside the circle, their ears perked.

  “Eric, what in the world did you do?”

  “Wait and see.”

  He escorted me down the deck steps and over to the circle of light. Then he aimed a thumbs-up toward Bernice Gilroy’s house, and the music gradually swelled until I recognized it as “Kiss the Girl” from The Little Mermaid movie.

  “The first time I kissed you, Bernice was playing our song.”

  “I remember,” I said. “How did you get her in on this?”

  “She summoned me while you were in the hospital. I set this up with her after we got home from Eureka Springs.”

  “Set what up?”

  He reached into his jeans pocket even as he went to one knee and held up a diamond ring.

  “Nixy, I love you. Life is never a given, but what we have of it, I want to spend with you. Will you marry me?”

  I don’t know when tears began sliding down my cheeks. I didn’t think of myself as a particularly sentimental or even romantic woman, but Eric’s softly spoken, sincere declaration melted my heart. The sizzle between us would never fizzle.

  I smiled at him, nodded, and hoped my nose wasn’t running. “Yes, Eric. Yes.”

  He took my left hand, slid the ring onto my finger, and stood.

  As the music swelled, I heard Bernice cackle, heard the Six applaud, and heard the critters bark and meow as they rubbed against our legs.

  Then Eric’s mouth met mine, and all I felt was the forever warmth of his kiss.

  Crafting Tips

  MAKING SOAP THEN AND NOW

  By Deborah Baker

  Magnolia Cove Luxury Soaps

  facebook.com/magnoliacovesoaps

  The first cold day of winter was always deemed by my South Arkansas grandmother as hog-butchering day. Even though it was a gruesome process, the yield of pork chops, hams, and bacon were worth the mess. Nothing was wasted—even the fats were rendered in the cast-iron washpot. A portion of the rendered lard was mixed with lye to make lye soap. It was strong and smelly and would clean anything, especially dirty laundry.

  By definition, soap is made from an acid/alkaline reaction, combining the oil acids with alkaline sodium hydroxide (lye) in a process called saponification. It creates glycerin, which is typically absent from grocery brand soaps. Today’s lye soap is luxurious, moisturizing, and beneficial to skin.

  My soaps are made using a complex formula of shea butter, palm oil, olive oil, coconut oil, and castor oil. These oils are balanced to ensure long-lasting lather, creaminess, and moisturizing properties. I use the cold process method for my soap making. The oils are heated to 100 degrees F and mixed with dissolved lye cooled to the same temperature. Lye is caustic and dangerous, so safety precautions such as gloves, goggles, and long sleeves are essential. Remember, it’s the same stuff you use to dissolve nasty clogs in the sink lines!

  The mixture is stirred with an immersion blender until it reaches “trace” and is like pudding. At this point, additives such as essential or fragrance oils, color, or tea leaves are added to the soap mixture. The fragrance oil volume is calculated based on the amount of carrier oils that are used. The fragrance develops completely as the soap dries. Fragrances ca
n be combined to create similar characteristics as perfumes with top, middle, and bottom notes. This is the fun and unique part of soap making!

  Once the additives are in the soap, the thick mixture is poured into a mold and allowed to harden overnight. By the next day, I cut it into bars and let it dry for thirty days. It is now ready to use for a relaxing bath.

  For those of you who would like to make soap, I recommend researching the process thoroughly before attempting it. The use of lye is very dangerous, and care must be used when handling it. Brief yourself on safety precautions. Purchase the right equipment. Find a recipe that is tried-and-true. Books and online sources are rich with information on soap making. Once you’ve mastered the process, it is fun and rewarding to experiment with different oils, colors, and fragrances.

  Real soap. Really luxurious!

  Happy Soap Making!

  Deb

  EASY ESSENTIAL OIL WATER SPRAYS

  By Nancy Haddock

  I don’t remember when I learned to make sprays with essential oils, and I wish I could remember who taught me about them, but I was using various essential oils decades before aromatherapy became a discipline.

  Aromas and our responses to them are unique and personal. Lavender is primarily touted to be a calming scent, which is why it’s added to so many products. But not everyone will be calmed by lavender, and some individuals are allergic to it. So, if you make your own essential oil sprays, chose the scents you like, whether they calm you, energize you, lift your mood, or help you focus. Oh, and be cautious about how much you use, especially if you’ll be out and about. Triggering someone’s allergy does not win a friend!

  You will need a small spray bottle, a bottle of essential oil, and any kind of plain water. (I’ve never tried the fizzy kind, so l can’t speak to how it would work.) I generally use tap water and plastic bottles from a drugstore or dollar store.