She made another little sound.
“It’s like she’s talking back to you.” Bixby swung open the screen door. “Oh, where’d you get the coffee?”
I pointed to the grill and moments later he came back with a cup and sat next to me on the porch steps. “You did an amazing job,” he said. “Not the coffee, by the way.” He grimaced. “You must have learned how to do that in nursing school.”
I shook my head. “Maternity and Pediatrics is a senior course. I never quite made it that far. Besides, Liv did most of the work.”
He took another sip of his coffee and winced. “Still, if the Ramble Police Department ever has to deliver a baby, I might deputize you myself.”
I smiled at him and we sat there in companionable, or perhaps just undercaffeinated, silence for a few minutes.
“We’re down to the wire in this case again,” he said. “Tomorrow everybody packs up and goes home.”
“Any guesses?” I asked.
“Lots of guesses. But I can’t go arresting someone on guesses. What about you, Deputy? By the way, good job getting that Grant kid to open up about that FDA investigation.”
“Not sure that it helps us much.”
“If Brooks got wind of it, there might have been a confrontation.”
I shook my head. “It doesn’t work with the method. If there was a confrontation, then you’d expect to see evidence of a fight. A more violent cause of death.”
“Then someone was planning this for some time.” He set his coffee down on the porch.
I shook my head. “Then why the monkshood? The killer was working with what he could find. I think whatever inspired him or her to kill Brooks had to have happened at the camp.”
Violet made a noise.
“See?” I said. “She agrees.” I put my hand over her ears. “But this conversation is not for little ears.”
“What about Chandler Hines?” Bixby said.
“His only motive that I can come up with would be that Brooks ticked him off by playing the big shot. And by undermining his craft by purchasing imported armor. I suppose he’d have some way of cooking the monkshood in that forge of his, but does it really seem like a method he’d choose? And since he doesn’t seem like the kind who would stop and smell the flowers, does he even know what monkshood looks like?”
“Eli Strickland.”
I exhaled. “He has motive, but claimed he didn’t know that Barry Brooks was the same one who’d been diluting the drugs he’d purchased—which he then diluted again.”
“Or so he claimed,” Bixby said.
“And since he runs a food stall, he’d have plenty of opportunity to cook up the roots right there and then slip them onto Brooks’s plate. Or trencher. Or whatever they used. And I suppose as a former druggist, he might know poisonous plants. And I was attacked when I was poking around his stall. If he wasn’t in jail at the time, my money would be on him.”
“He might have an accomplice we don’t know about. I sent his pots, knives, and cutting board to the state lab just in case. I almost hope it’s him. If it is, at least he’s locked up—thanks to your father— although if the lab doesn’t turn up anything, I don’t know if we could find enough evidence to charge him for the murder.”
“And since he kept cooking and selling food using the same equipment, it’s highly unlikely they’ll find anything. But speaking of my father . . .”
“Audrey, I wasn’t going to bring him up.”
“And I appreciate that. But I know he’s got to be pretty high on the list. He had motive.”
“But think about your other criteria.”
“I know he’s not much of a camper, so I wouldn’t expect he knows much about the local flora.”
“And?”
“And he didn’t really have any way of cooking.”
“Feel better?” he asked with a smile.
I exhaled. “Yeah. I don’t want to think it was him, but I don’t want to eliminate him, either.”
“There might be hope for you yet, Deputy. What about Raylene Quinn?”
“If we’re going to talk about her,” I said, “we might as well talk about Kathleen Randolph, Dottie Brooks, and Kayla Leonard at the same time.”
Bixby raised a toast with his coffee mug. “To his wives and lovers, may they never meet? Brooks sure gave a lot of women really good motives.”
“Raylene probably had the best motive,” I said. “And as to means, she’s got all kinds of degrees, and she’s the camp herbalist, meaning she has a knowledge of plants. I’ll bet she could have cooked the monkshood, too. She has an area where she makes up her tonics. She’d have some kind of equipment.”
“She did. She voluntarily surrendered those to be tested. I should hear back from our friendly state lab any month now.”
“If she just gave them to you, she’s pretty sure they’re clean,” I said. “Other than that, she’s the perfect suspect.”
“On paper,” Bixby said. “Although I think there’s something to your supposition that she might have chosen another time or method.”
“Unless something happened at the camp. Something we don’t know about, and she decided to do it here.”
Bixby nodded. “Now, Dottie Brooks wasn’t in town at the time, and her alibi checks out.”
“But, and I hate to suggest this, she and Kathleen Randolph were awfully chummy awfully fast. What if they knew each other before? What if they teamed up? Dottie had a greater motive, so she stayed away. Meanwhile Kathleen would be there for her daughter’s wedding.” I scrunched up my face. “Who would do that at their own daughter’s wedding?”
Bixby shrugged. “So Kayla Leonard, then.”
“I don’t know. She seemed happy with her little arrangement. It’s not like she wanted Brooks to leave his wife—or even his other lover—for her. I’m not sure she has motive at all.”
“And the male employees,” Bixby said.
“Dean White was living high off the hog as Brooks’s CFO. I can’t see him wanting to mess with that. And Kenneth Grant—”
“The FDA verified his story, by the way. Thanks again for sending him my way. But somehow I think we’re missing something.”
“An unsub?” I asked, thinking of the empty card Liv had pinned to her murder wall.
Bixby shuddered. “Just say unknown subject. ‘Unsub’ makes my skin crawl. But yes, there’s always the possibility that the killer is someone not on our radar.”
“Thanks for not including Nick on your suspect list.”
“Can’t see what his motive would be,” Bixby said, “unless Brooks had come on to you.”
I shook my head. “Nope, just Opie, Melanie, and Carol. And that dairy maid. And probably every other woman in this place.”
Bixby drained the rest of his coffee. “There’s something we’re missing. Are you going back today?”
I nodded.
“Then keep your eyes peeled, Deputy.”
A car pulled in the driveway next door.
“The road must be open,” Bixby said, standing up. “About time.”
I watched as Mrs. June and Amber Lee climbed out of Mrs. June’s car, then they both stepped around the puddles on their way across the lawn.
“Aw, it’s worth wet socks,” Amber Lee said and jogged the rest of the way.
Soon Violet was meeting a couple of women who would probably prove to be pretty important in her life.
Finding my lap free, I stood up.
Amber Lee bounced Baby Vi against her shoulder and was rewarded with a burp. “Isn’t she precious!”
“I’m next,” Mrs. June said, holding out her arms to receive the baby.
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready to head to the office?” Bixby said.
“Not on your life,” Mrs. June said. “In case you missed it, I was holding d
own the fort at the office all night. And I expect double time. I came to see this baby and my bed.”
“Oh,” Amber Lee said, “Opie sent back the book she borrowed. Said she wanted to get it back to Carol before she went home. She wanted you to check out a page. She—”
Eric’s truck gunned down the street, coming to a stop in front of the cottage. He bounded out, leaving the door open. “Where is she?”
He was halfway up the steps when he stopped, turned around, and went to Mrs. June, who was still holding baby Vi.
“Is that?” He stopped and stared, then wiped his eyes before Mrs. June placed the baby in his arms against his clean flannel shirt.
Eric stared down at his daughter, and her bright blues seemed to stare right back at him. He blinked back more tears. “Where’s . . .” He stopped when his voice grew hoarse. “Where’s Liv?”
“Asleep. In the bedroom.”
Without breaking eye contact with Vi, he climbed the steps and went into the house.
I couldn’t hold back a tear.
Even Bixby sounded choked up. “Trust me, that’s the way it is with fathers and daughters,” he said, looking after them almost wistfully.
Suddenly the lump in my throat felt like a volleyball. “So,” I told Bixby, “how about we head back to camp?”
* * *
When we got to Larry’s, the ground was speckled with glass fragments, and a goat was happily grazing in his flower beds.
Larry was aiming his shotgun at the goat.
“No, wait!” I cried.
“Don’t you dare shoot that goat,” Bixby said.
“Look, that critter won’t budge. I’ve tried warning shots. I’ve tried dragging it by the collar. I have a right to protect my property.”
Bixby took two steps toward the goat, and the goat stared him down. “Lafferty,” he finally said, waving the younger officer over. “Get that goat out of here.”
“Yes, sir,” Lafferty said, and started to approach the goat. He paused after each step, with a grimace on his face that somehow reminded me of Matt Dillon approaching a bank robber or horse rustler for a showdown.
“Let me go get Melanie or Carol,” I said. “They’ll know what to do.” I took off toward the stables.
The chickens were all over the path, and I think I heard a moo coming from the woods.
When I got to the stables, I could see the devastation the storm had left. Frightened animals had apparently jumped or pushed through the makeshift stalls, and the tent itself was compromised, with one side of it drooping oddly. Carol was pushing up a stake that had gotten loose, sending the rainwater that had collected in a pocket cascading to the ground near her feet.
“Melanie’s not here,” Carol said. “She’s tracking down the last two horses and a missing cow. Everything got out in the storm.”
“Do you know how to lead a goat?” I asked.
“Are we still missing a goat?” Carol glanced at the pen. “I guess we are. They weren’t the highest priority.”
“Yes, well, if someone doesn’t get it out of Larry’s flower beds, he’s going to do it bodily harm.” I wasn’t sure that Larry would actually shoot the goat. I suspected that he just threatened to do so to get someone to move it up the priority list.
“Will do.” She went to a large wooden box, pulled out a harness, and was gone.
I looked around to see if there was something I could do to help. Since my one skill was mucking out the stalls and the horses apparently spent very little time in them, I wandered around checking out the rest of the animals. There were only about three chickens still in the structure, but I spied an egg in the straw on the floor of one of the pens, so I let myself inside and picked it up, feeling all rural and whatnot.
“Audrey, should you be in there?” The voice was my father’s.
I turned to face him, holding my prize egg like a trophy, when I heard, rather than saw, the pig. If what happened next sounds odd, keep in mind that my only experience with pigs was Wilbur from Charlotte’s Web, the ever-lovable Babe, and the dapper, bow-tie-wearing Porky from the old cartoons. Pigs are nice, right?
Not this one.
The pig advanced toward me, making grunting and squealing sounds, bumping its nose into the back of my leg.
The bump was all it took to lose my footing on the slick hay, and I tumbled down on top of the pig. The prized egg flew against the wall, dripping yellow yolk down the wood.
I can’t say if this particular pig was overly aggressive or not, since I had no standard or previous experience to go by, but he didn’t take my intrusion well. More angry grunts and frightened squeals followed, only some of which came from the pig, who kept coming at me. I used my elbows to shield my face.
“Audrey, here!”
My father reached his hand over the top of the enclosure and somehow managed to pull me up to the top of the wall.
In that span, memories flashed before my eyes. Not my whole life, but the life I recalled with my father, being swung in circles in his strong arms. Of his holding my hand when we crossed the streets as we walked to the park or to the library.
Then the pig climbed the wall until it was practically standing (I thought only cartoon pigs could stand). So I swung myself off the top of the wall, back outside the pen, intending to land on my feet, but I managed to tangle my foot on the way. I fell awkwardly at my father’s feet.
I pushed my face out of the straw and struggled to catch my breath.
“Breathe, Audrey,” he said, and helped me to my feet.
Bent over, I struggled until the breath finally came. I can’t say if anyone has ever died by having the wind knocked out of him, but it sure does make for scary moments until that first gulp of air fills your lungs.
I must have stood there for a full minute, just breathing and relishing the feeling of air going in and out.
I looked down and saw that my ankle was still tangled in the handle of some satchel that must have been left on the top of the makeshift wall. Its contents were dumped in the hay.
I extricated myself to start collecting the items I’d knocked over. There was a pair of leather gloves, some makeup, a bottle of nail polish, a toothbrush, and dental floss, all with bits of hay clinging to them.
My dad looked sheepish when he handed me a tampon. “Here’s your . . .”
I took it from him and shoved it back into the bag. “Not mine,” I said. “Must belong to one of the girls.”
“I’d say the odds of that are pretty good.”
I shoved the loose objects into the bag, including a college ID card. Carol Graham. She looked shell-shocked as she stared into the camera while standing in front of a brick wall. School IDs haven’t improved much.
I draped the satchel on top of the wall like it must have originally been placed, and I turned to face my father. He was again wearing the cassock. I decided to go for businesslike. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Audrey, I thought we should talk.”
“I’m a little busy at the moment.” Bixby’s reminder that the clock was ticking on the investigation had hit home. Barry Brooks may not have been a gem, but that didn’t mean it was acceptable to let his killer get off free. Nor was it acceptable for Nick to suffer through a lawsuit over something he didn’t do.
“I’ve got a flight out at midday tomorrow,” he said, “so there’s not much time left.”
I nodded. I didn’t agree or disagree. My emotions were jumbled, compacting the darkness of murder and the joy of new birth all within a short week, and in a week in which I’d had very little sleep. I had no great desire to spend more time with this man, but neither was I as angry and bitter, so I supposed it wouldn’t hurt much to talk with him.
Melanie came back in, riding a horse bareback. “Oh, Audrey. So glad you’re here. You did come to work, right?”
“I guess I can help for a little while,” I said. When Bixby had said that today was the last full day to observe the goings-on at the camp, he really didn’t give me any hints on how to spend that day. “What do you need done?”
She pulled her hair back in a ponytail. “I don’t care if they didn’t wear their hair like this in the Middle Ages, I need to keep it out of my face. Where’s Carol?”
“Off to collect a goat. What can I help you with?”
“The horses have to be dressed for the tilting and the joust.”
“Tilting? Like at windmills?”
“Exactly. Both the tilting tournament and the joust use lances, except in tilting the knight uses the lance to hit the target and not another rider.”
“Sounds safer than jousting.”
“You’d think, but it depends. See, the lances are different. In tilting they’re allowed to use a regular lance. But in a joust these days, they have a special one, made of a lightweight wood like balsa. The idea is that you can only use so much pressure before it snaps. Really, the biggest danger with these guys seems to be falling off a horse. Especially if they’ve had a tankard of ale before the competition.” The expression that fell across Melanie’s face was the closest that came to a sneer that I’d ever seen on this normally good-natured young woman. “It’s like drinking and driving. It ought not to be allowed. In a way I wish I didn’t sign up for the stables. I like horses too much.”
“I hear you.” Then again, I hadn’t signed up for any of this.
“And there’s another job I’ve not been looking forward to, either.” She looked at my dad. “Maybe you can help.”
“I’d be glad to,” he said. “What is it?
“We’ve got to get Barnaby to the tournament grounds.”
“Barnaby?” I asked. “Which one is he?” I thought I’d learned all the names of the horses and most of the cows—not that they’d likely name a cow Barnaby, since I knew just enough to know that cows are all the females of the species—but that name was unfamiliar.
Floral Depravity Page 23