by Karen Pullen
“Darling,” Fern said. “I’m researching what Jesus looked like for Tricia Scott’s book cover. He was definitely dark-skinned.”
“Not to be rude, Fern, but what’s your point?” I slid out of bed and headed to the kitchen to start coffee. Merle was on my heels. I checked the clock—six-twelve. Jesus, indeed.
“And he might have been gay.”
“Oh, Fern.”
“Well, no one knows for sure. But he hung out with guys. He wasn’t real macho.”
“Surely it doesn’t matter.”
“That’s my point. It shouldn’t matter to anyone.”
“It might matter to Tricia Scott.” It was too early in the morning for a Sunday School lesson from Fern.
“I’m going to paint him as I see him,” she said.
“As you should. That’s why Tricia hired you.”
“Did you hear any more about what happened to Justine Bradley? You know, the bride?”
“I didn’t. Maybe I will today.”
“Well, I hope you get to work on it.”
Priceless words of support, coming from Fern. No liberal-thinking right-brained artist wants her grandchild to carry a gun, and my decision to join the SBI had been the subject of many loud, fierce, and wounding disagreements between us.
“Thanks, Fern. I’ll keep you posted.” I filled Merle’s bowl with chow. He gobbled it all in seconds, following up with an enthusiastic slurping that managed to splash water in every direction. I opened the back door and let him into the yard. The night’s rain had left the air soft and cool. High in the pines, a couple of fish crows held a raucous conversation.
I took a coffee mug outside to my small deck. My body ached from the hours spent in the truck. I sipped the wake-up potion, pushing away thoughts of the day to come—paperwork followed by more drug buys. Merle nosed around, looking for the perfect chew stick. My neighbor Saffron’s yard looked lovely, with flower beds, shrubbery borders, and bright green grass. I aimed for a more natural look. Pine needles, pine cones, pine seedlings. Sticks for Merle. I did pick up his poop. It wasn’t that natural.
I had just started a second case file—the two kids at the convenience store—when my boss Richard walked into my cubicle. Today he wore a charcoal-gray pin-striped suit, a crisp shirt of pale blue, and a paisley tie in swirls of blue and gray. A cigar stub offset his dimples and GQ menswear. “By-name request for you from Essex County? A dead bride?”
Normally “dead bride” isn’t a cheery phrase, but it certainly lightened my mood, which had been in the doldrums all morning. Richard wouldn’t be talking about it if he intended to keep me off the case. I told him what happened Saturday at Rosscairn Castle B&B.
“Morales said she was poisoned,” he said.
Definitely murder, then. “It’s an interesting case,” I said. I didn’t want to sound too excited about it. Four years of working for Richard had taught me he didn’t like to be pressured by my enthusiasms.
“What else is going on?” he asked.
“There’s that terrorism grant meeting.”
He sucked on his cigar. “And?”
“Midge left me with a list of reports to finish.” My coworker Midge had taken maternity leave. Her “list” meant paperwork, a week of staring at a computer screen while the sands of my life passed in an unceasing stream through the hourglass of my cubicle.
“Anything else?”
“You know, the drug stings. With Fredricks.”
There was a pause. He knew—I’d told him enough times—how I’d appreciate a change from drugs. “Sorry, Stella. You’re needed there.You’re an excellent drug agent, because you don’t look like a cop.”
“What do I look like?” I wondered what he’d say. A butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker? I was a twenty-six-year-old girl with hips and uncontrollably curly hair.
“You’re not middle-aged, muscled-up, or male. You’re not threatening.”
I didn’t want to beg so I didn’t say anything. Neither of us did, for a moment.
“How about this. I’ll get someone else to cover the grant meeting and Midge’s paperwork. You can help Morales on this case. It’s not often I get to make a sheriff happy. But you’ll have to go on supporting the drug work. They need you, and you’re really good at it.”
“Thank you,” I breathed. It was true, then, that underneath his Sea Island cotton shirt and handmade silk tie, a real heart beat. Humming cheerfully, I dialed Anselmo’s number and left him the message that I was available to help with the investigation. I turned back to my computer with fresh energy, finishing my reports by noon.
Now I was free to think about a homicide. I called the medical examiner’s office and reached a technician. I identified myself, and asked him to fax me a copy of Justine Bradley’s autopsy report.
“Hold on,” he said, but returned quickly. “Not yet available.”
“Was there a preliminary workup?”
“There’s a toxicology report here. We analyzed blood and urine samples this morning. What’s your fax number?”
The fax arrived a minute later. I scanned the page. There it was.
Strychnine.
A nasty poison, mostly used to get rid of gophers. I went online, Googled “strychnine,” and found a pithy Wikipedia article on the stuff: alkaloid, very bitter, soluble in water. Rapidly absorbed into the intestines. Muscles spasms ten to twenty minutes after exposure, convulsions, back arches, death from asphyxiation caused by paralysis or exhaustion.
Yep. That explained the horrible contortions. Mike talked to her at twelve-forty, and Ingrid heard her moaning about one-oh-five. So Justine must have ingested the strychnine sometime between twelve-thirty and twelve-fifty. Right now it seemed the inn guests and staff, and possibly even the wedding guests, all had opportunity.
But why? Motive was absent. A lovely young woman, an “angel,” who should be on a plane to Cozumel, hand-in-hand with her new husband. Poison was so premeditated it seemed someone wanted to prevent the marriage.
I needed information, so I decided to visit Hogan. He could search all the criminal and civilian databases. He could tell me what you bought your brother for Christmas three years ago and whether your cat was up-to-date on her vaccines. He knew how to get phone, bank, and credit card records. With a subpoena, of course.
He was hunched over his keyboard, staring at the screen. He looked miserable, or perhaps I was just projecting my own vile attitude toward life in a cubicle. “Psst,” I whispered.
He turned around. “Stella.” In his face I saw the heat and embarrassment of our encounter in my bedroom.
“Are we friends?” I asked.
“Hey, I’m a moron,” he said, trying on his “I am irresistible” smile. It didn’t work.
“Classic.You don’t get it at all.”
He sighed. “Let’s start over. What do you want?”
“I need a favor. Justine Bradley’s death looks like a homicide. I’m going to help with the case.”
He pushed a chair toward me. “What do you need?”
“Anything you can dig up on her. Credit cards, transcripts, job history. Can you have it for me tomorrow morning?”
“Absolutely.”
“And I need to talk with Gia Mabe. She’s not in the phone book.”
“No problem.”
“You look tired.”
He grinned. “I’m fine.”
“Not enough sleep?”
“None of your business.”
He was right, of course. Like crunchy cheese snacks or late night TV, caring about him was a bad habit I needed to break.
The Rosscairn Castle B&B parking lot was nearly empty, except for Anselmo’s county car and a beat-up black truck. I knocked on the castle’s front door and Wyatt opened it.
“You again? Whatcha want?” Today he was wearing standard American clothes—khaki twills and a faded red polo shirt that matched his complexion. He stood aside and motioned me in.
“There’s a cop in the sun room a
nd a deputy wandering the grounds. I’m expecting the health department any minute—there’s something wrong with our water, again. And guests are due in two hours. I don’t need this aggravation.”
In the sun room, a mildewy enclosed porch furnished with black wicker and Black Watch plaid cushions, Anselmo stood by a window overlooking corn fields, listening on his phone. I used the moment to study him. I didn’t know him but he seemed self-possessed and serious. Certainly he was ambitious, to have made lieutenant at his age.
He looked up from his phone call and smiled hello. His smile was crooked but nice. I smiled back. “The housekeeper’s upstairs,” he said. “Can you talk with her?”
I headed toward the sound of running water, into Falkirk, Justine’s room. In the bathroom, a woman was upended over the bathtub, scrubbing and muttering to herself. I cleared my throat and she bounced up. Liesle Harvey was a frazzled-looking blond, about forty, I guessed. A blurry tattoo half-hid in her cleavage—was it a rabbit? A rabbit wielding a sword? I tried not to stare at it as I introduced myself.
“Sorry, mind if I keep working? Guests coming in here soon. I couldn’t clean the room until you guys were finished with it.” She sprayed the toilet seat and squirted blue cleanser into the bowl. Swipe, wipe, swish. The sink got a spray and a rinse.
“You’re an expert. Really fast. Guess I don’t do it enough to get good at it.”
“I’m sure you’re good at other things, like shooting at targets and chasing suspects.” She slid towels and washcloths onto the bars, and lined up toiletries on a tray sitting on the toilet tank.
I didn’t want to tell her I was good at buying crack so I just chuckled. “How’s the water? Wyatt said there was something wrong with it.”
“It’s got a smell, I don’t know. It’s okay to clean with.” She moved into the bedroom and pulled the sheets off the bed. “I can talk while I do this. What do you want to know?”
“Perhaps you’ve thought about this past weekend? Anything come to mind that might help with the investigation?”
“I wish. That was a terrible thing. But I don’t remember anything except working like a dog all weekend. Dinner for eleven Friday night, just the two of us with Blue helping. Full house in the morning for breakfast.”
“And then?”
“Why? Am I a suspect?” She smiled as if to show she was joking. “I was outside nearly all morning, setting up for the ceremony. The caterers always need something.” She tucked the bedspread around the pillows and patted them. “Wyatt made us some lunch around eleven-thirty.”
“Did you see anyone who wasn’t staying here go upstairs?”
She frowned. “I don’t remember seeing anyone who wasn’t an inn guest. Wait. The two bridesmaids were running around. They weren’t guests. Are we done? I have to vacuum. I’ve got about twenty more things to do.”
“No problem,” I said. She switched on the vacuum cleaner and I wandered back downstairs to find Anselmo still on the phone, so I went into the kitchen where Blue Stone was slowly sweeping the floor, swaying with the hip-hop I could hear spitting from his earbuds. I gestured that he should remove them. He complied, smiling tightly over a mouth full of braces.
Blue said he was sixteen, which I could have guessed from the awkwardness that comes from a recent growth spurt. His eyes shifted like a puppy’s, meeting mine for an instant, then darting off. He had a red bumpy rash on both arms, from his wrists to the sleeves of his tee-shirt.
“You and Liesle are the only two employees, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Oh, I liked that. The ghoulish shirt and ripped jeans were a uniform, not an attitude. In a couple of years he might be a punk, but right now he was a large nervous child talking to police. He twitched and wriggled. “And what’s your job?”
“Mow grass, wash windows. Whatever Wyatt wants me to do.” He scratched his arms.
“Lots of work this past weekend?”
“Friday night there was, with the dinner. I set up the table with dishes and all. Then I cleaned up after.”
“You be my eyes and ears,” I said. “Were there arguments during the dinner? Did you overhear a conversation?”
“I stayed in the kitchen.” He paused. “They were taking video. Maybe you could watch the video?”
“Very good.” I made a note to ask Wyatt who had a video camera. “How about the next morning, before the wedding—what did you do then?”
“Liesle told me to fluff up. You know, make the beds, empty the trash. Replace towels.” He scratched his arms and smiled again, this time showing the metal. He was a sweet boy and once the braces came off and he felt more comfortable in his body, he would be a handsome man.
“Did you see anything at all while you were, uh, fluffing up? Anything that might be related to the woman’s death?”
“Nope,” he said, too quickly. I stared at him and let him twitch. He rolled his shoulders and peered out the window at the fascinating cornfield.
“One last thing you can help me with,” I said. “Is the barn open?”
“No, locked. Why?”
“I love old barns,” I said. “Did the sheriff’s deputy look in there?”
He shrugged. “I dunno.”
“Who’s got the key?”
He dug in his pockets and pulled out a key. “Bring it back, okay? Wyatt’ll kill me if I lose it.”
I walked to the barn, an outbuilding of weathered splintered boards and a rusty tin roof. Its door was a simple wooden plank secured with a padlock. I went back to my car and found a pair of latex gloves. I unlocked the padlock with Blue’s key, opened the door, and pulled the chain dangling from a light fixture. Overhead, a harsh fluorescent bulb flickered on.
With my next breath, I nearly gagged from the damp stink of mildew and decomposition. I pinched my nose shut and fought the urge to retreat into the sunshine, to slam the door on this dirty, chaotic, jumbled mess. Tetanus-bearing rusty nails poked out of a pile of wood scraps. Every square inch of wall surface was covered with tools, ropes, plastic containers. Sagging shelves held miscellaneous jars, boxes, trash bags. Bags of peat moss, fertilizer, and lime lined one wall. In the back, paint cans were stacked, partly covered by a jumble of tarps, and overhead, stored on the rafters, was more lumber—four-by-fours, boards, old doors. Broken windows and torn screens leaned against the back wall.
Where was the smell coming from? I remembered Wyatt’s claim that something was wrong with his water. Poking around behind the broken windows, I found a cabinet containing a water softener, a big blue tank, and a PVC pipe—sealed. Was that the pipe to the B&B’s well? It looked impenetrable, which made sense—a well shouldn’t be open to every little creature that wants to hop in.
I breathed shallowly through my mouth as I examined the pipe. In the back of it, out of sight, someone had carved a hole about two inches in diameter. I couldn’t bring myself to sniff at that opening. I had to do it. I had to. I knelt and un-pinched my nose at the hole in the pipe. My stomach heaved and I staggered to the door for fresher air. Yes, there was some critter dead and rotting, down inside that pipe.
But right now, my concern wasn’t the water supply, but Wyatt’s gardening chemicals stacked on the crude shelves. Lawn fertilizer, lime, aluminum sulfate, herbicide. Half-open bags, unlabeled jars. Ant killer, fungus control, mice traps, roach powder. I noticed an old bottle of deer repellent, “a unique formula derived from animal by-products.” Fern might need to know about that when she got her garden going. Slowly I studied each container and pushed it aside, until I found what I was looking for—a grimy plastic jug, smudged with fingerprints. A faded label said Restricted Use. The active ingredient in Gopher-Get-Away? Strychnine. I left the jug where it was and locked the barn behind me.
Possibly that jug contained the poisonous crystals that killed Justine. The fact that it was in a normally locked barn pointed to someone with access to a key—Wyatt, or one of the employees, Blue or Liesle. Would an inn employee have left the jug there? Even
though it was very simple to get rid of it? Did a guest find the poison and borrow a spoonful? How did he or she get into the barn? Lift the key? Had the barn been deliberately left open?
I went looking for the deputy and after a good ten minutes found him hiding in the woods sneaking a cigarette. They’re not supposed to smoke in uniform. He stomped on the butt and made his way to me.
“Look out for the poison ivy,” I said.
“Yeah. What’s up?” He eyeballed me up and down. He was about my age, a hard-body with a shaved head. His posture conveyed Marine Corps.
“I’m Stella Lavender, SBI.”
“Howdy do, ma’am. Dave Alston.”
I hid my pain as he crushed my hand. “I found what you’re looking for. In the barn,” I said, handing him the key. “Give this back to the kid in the kitchen.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said and I felt quite elderly even though that’s how a Marine addresses every female over the age of twelve.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Anselmo said. “Let’s strategize.” I followed him to the front of the Castle B&B, onto the stone veranda strewn with rocking chairs. He took out his notebook and ruffled its edges. “I have a problem. Have you worked on a homicide recently?”
“Uh, no.” A more accurate answer would have been “never.” I didn’t want him to know how green I was.
“Do you mind if I talk philosophically about murder? I promise to get to the point eventually.” His dark eyes crinkled—he knew I was green.This would be part of my education.
“Please, go ahead.” I liked listening to his gravelly voice with just a hint of an accent, enough to let you know he could easily make his way in Miami or Peru.
“In San Antonio, where I started out, most of the cases were drug-related. Those murders were solved with the help of witnesses. Or the killers told someone. Murder committed in the course of a robbery is sometimes difficult but surprisingly often it’s a neighbor or someone already suspected in other crimes and there are fingerprints. Then there’s the domestic cases—obvious and easy. You know all of this, of course.” He paused. “Then, rarely, we couldn’t close the case.” He spoke softly and somberly and I realized he could know my history. Richard might have told him.