Cold Feet (Five Star Mystery Series)

by Karen Pullen

  “Not the right word then. I don’t want to get people into trouble. I could be wrong.”

  “Enemies, plural?”

  “It’s just”—Ingrid looked into the sky as if the heavens held an answer—“just the timing of it, like someone wanted to stop the wedding.”

  “Like Mike? Did he find out about the sex change, get cold feet?”

  She shrugged. “Kate and I certainly didn’t tell him. Justine didn’t either, far as I know.”

  A gust of wind sent more leaves into the pool. A gray squirrel crept close and chattered at us, whipping its tail from side to side, then crawled into a flower pot and commenced to dig.

  “Tricia Scott,” I said. “I had a chance to look at her book. She has extreme views.”

  Ingrid winced. “Go ahead, say it. She’s homophobic.”

  “Is that her true self speaking? Or an attitude she feels she has to adopt?”

  “Deep down inside? Her true self. Gays freak her out.”

  The squirrel had found a pecan in the flowerpot and was nibbling on the shell, rudely spitting bits at us. “How does she act toward you?”

  Ingrid shook her head. “She’s a Southern lady, and has to be sweet as honey to everyone. But she’s also convinced Kate’s going to hell, and it’s my fault. The most painful part for Kate was that her mother was so excited about Mike’s wedding. Tricia adored Justine.”

  “Quite a contrast then.” And ironic, given Justine’s gender change.

  “We avoid them, and vice-versa.” Ingrid stood up, startling the squirrel, who sprinted up a tree and chattered curses. “I have to go. Call if you need anything.” She handed me her card.

  Ingrid Hoyt, Certified Nurse-Midwife, Master of Science in Nursing, Birthing Center of the Carolinas. A gentle, respectful alternative.

  “Thanks, I will.” Birthing center? Where she worked with Justine. Lottie’s baby, little Alice in the wheelchair, had been born in a birthing center, not a hospital. There weren’t that many of them in the area. Walking to my car, I called Hogan and asked him to find out where four-year-old Alice Ember had been born.

  “Just once, give me a challenge,” he said.

  I stopped by the tennis courts to watch a man lob balls to two young boys. The boys were jumping and shrieking whenever one of them managed to return a ball, having a lot more fun than I was. The man seemed to have inexhaustible patience. Growing up without a father, I was drawn to such scenes. I wasn’t aware of any particular sense of loss—that came with thoughts of my mother—but I didn’t know how it felt to have a dad. I certainly didn’t remember ever experiencing anything like those two kids’ excitement.

  Anselmo Morales called. A key bit of evidence had just come in from the lab. Justine’s fatal dose of strychnine had been in her mug of bitter tea.

  “What was the source? Could they tell?” I said.

  “The rodenticide you found. It’s almost two percent strychnine alkaloid. From the concentration they figure about a half a teaspoon was added, many times the lethal dose. In that concentration, they estimate it was consumed about twenty minutes before she died.”

  One of the kids managed a pop fly, and over the fence came a yellow ball. I picked it up, pitched it back. Waves all around, big smile from the dad.

  “Say, want to watch a movie with me?” I asked.

  “Hope it’s an action flick.”

  “Rehearsal dinner, starring Justine Bradley, her friends, and family.”

  “Sure. Where?”

  A mental picture—the two of us curled up on my thrift shop sofa, sharing a bowl of popcorn, laughing at the funny parts, Merle at our feet. I threw away the picture; it was ridiculous. I must be deranged, daddy-shopping for Merle. “I’ll bring it to the sheriff’s department around eight tonight,” I told him.

  I dropped my suede jacket off at the cleaner’s and headed home. Merle needed exercise and I needed an attitude adjustment. It was a gorgeous afternoon; the temperature was nearly seventy, and breezy gusts sent the orange and red leaves into minitornadoes across the community college trail. We’d just finished mile three when my phone chimed. I expected Hogan but it was Wyatt, the innkeeper.

  He started out quiet, but strangled, then exploded. “You people have to do something. I told you about the sabotage. Do you know the money I’m losing? This is the final goddamned straw.”

  I could almost see his purple self-pitying face as he spewed into the phone. “Wait, Wyatt. What happened?”

  “Yesterday. We finally get a paying guest. Lady drives up and there’s a dead raccoon in the driveway! She freaks and cancels, a four-night booking gone.”

  “Nothing I can do, Wyatt. Sorry.” I’d reached an exercise station so I stopped to stretch my legs and pour some water for Merle.

  “Man, this is costing me. I want an investigation! Start with

  BBAP, those crooks!”

  “The what?”

  “Bed and Breakfast Association of the Piedmont. An innkeeper cabal. They’re trying to drive me into the ground.”

  Bizarre. I tried to put myself in his place—ragged around the edges, a bit of understandable paranoia—but the best I could come up with was another recommendation to call the sheriff. He mumbled and cursed and finally hung up.

  My neighbor Saffron was sitting on her front porch, peekapoo in one hand, wine glass in the other. She waved to me and her dog yapped a few times, sort of a come-play-with-me invitation to Merle. She was cute, if you like the stuffed-toy type. The dog, I mean. Though in the right lighting, Saffron could be cute, too. She was a roundish forty-year-old who alternated between mania (free at last! men! sex! independence!) and depression (life wasn’t meant to turn out this way, poverty, wah wah wah). Right then, a couple of glasses of wine and an hour spent passively listening to Saffron’s divorce saga would have suited me to a tee, but later tonight I needed to be alert, to meet Anselmo and watch Kate’s video.

  After a shower, I lay down and fell asleep. I dreamt about Dana DeGrasso’s hot fury and Jax’s cold rage.They were caught and cuffed, crammed into a police car, but they escaped and came after me firing guns that spit out yellow tennis balls filled with gopher bait. Justine Bradley floated above us in her wedding dress as Wyatt shook his fist at her. As I dreamed, it all made perfect sense, but as soon as I woke, the logic faded, leaving only surreal images and a feeling of dreamy dread, like something bad was going to happen to me. I didn’t enjoy the feeling and hoped it would fade. I wasn’t psychic. As far as I knew.

  CHAPTER 11

  * * *

  Wednesday Evening

  Anselmo’s sweater was soft and the same inky green color as his eyes. He seemed to have nothing on underneath it. He was growing on me, though I knew very little about him. Maybe that was why. “Here we go,” he said, and pushed Play.

  I recognized the inn’s dining room, the tapestried walls and heavy dark furniture.Wyatt and Liesle moved in the background, serving bowls of soup, placing a basket of bread at each end of the long table. The sound track was confusing, picking up bits of a dozen conversations. Kate began to narrate, explaining why they were there, panning around the table to introduce everyone. Then the toasts and jokes began, mostly at Mike’s expense, tired old ball-and-chain stories. Scoop Scott, Mike’s stepfather, knew a lot of jokes. “I never knew what happiness was until I got married . . . and then it was too late!” Ha ha. Then, “A happy marriage is a matter of give and take; the husband gives and the wife takes.” Ho ho.

  Tricia Scott delivered a lecture full of advice for Justine—attack the issue not the person, keep separate closets (from the chuckles it seemed Mike was a notorious slob), never go to bed angry, learn to play golf so you can spend time together. She threw in a little fifties-appropriate advice—“Make your home peaceful and comfortable. Greet him with a warm smile and never complain.”

  Justine took this well. She laughed and kissed cheeks and poured wine. She had lovely hazel eyes with long lashes, thick dark brown hair she wore tucked behind he
r ears in a sweep to her shoulders. She wore a cranberry-red dress with a deep V-neck that showed off generous cleavage. I could see why she’d chosen that color for her bridesmaids’ dresses—it was perfect for her. Her gestures were graceful, her voice was husky but musical, not a man’s voice at all.

  “Looks like a girl. Talks and walks like a girl,” Anselmo said.

  “Is a girl,” I said.

  Mike sat next to her, his body language expressing familiarity and comfort with Justine as they leaned together to share a joke. He watched her, seeming to admire her lively beauty. Anyone would say they seemed delighted in each other’s company.

  But not everyone appeared happy.

  Kate must have handed the camera to someone else, because she was in the next shot, offering her own toast to Mike and Justine, ending with, “And to the future, when every loving couple can legally be permitted the sacrament of marriage.”

  “Kate,” Tricia hissed. “Not now!”

  Kate smiled at her mother. “If not now, when?”

  “I agree,” Scoop said. “Even gays should know the joys of alimony.”

  Tricia’s face was distressed. “Let’s not spoil this lovely dinner.”

  Kate rolled her eyes and brought Ingrid’s hand up for a kiss.

  “Kate, behave yourself,” Scoop said, looking uncomfortable.

  “Like you do?”

  Mike stood, cleared his throat for emphasis, and raised his glass. “A toast to friends and family. Justine and I are so grateful for your support.”

  Clink, clink, sip, sip. As he went on with clichés and bromides, the faces around the table relaxed. After the toasts, the camera was passed from hand to hand for unscripted observations. Someone pointed it at Delia and Webster Scott for an interminable amount of time; Delia chattered about a dispute with a credit card company while Webster shone his teeth in a paralyzed grin. I had the feeling he worried what she’d say, and remembered how she’d told me, “I nearly killed her once.”

  Delia seemed unaware of her husband’s discomfort until he patted her hand, then she jerked away from him. “What? What’s bothering you now?” she said. “Want me to shut up? Afraid of what I’ll say? Well, the truth is going to remain hidden. I like your nephew too much.” She blew Mike a kiss.

  I stopped the video. “Did you hear that?”

  Anselmo looked puzzled. “What was she talking about? The sex change? Did Delia know about it?”

  “We’ll have to ask her.” I pushed Play again.

  We saw Webster grin even harder. “Maybe we should let someone else have the floor,” he said. Oops.

  “Who? You? What are you gonna talk about, golf or girls?” Delia yanked the scarf from her neck and fanned herself vigorously. “Hot flash,” she said into the camera. “Power surge. I’m gonna be a tomato for Halloween.”

  Webster’s smile weakened and he waved the camera away, like a celebrity reacting to paparazzi. Shield the little woman, hide her under a basket. But I liked Delia’s outspokenness, a refreshing contrast to the too-polite Tricia Scott.

  “Here, give me that,” Kate said, and the camera jerked around until it was pointed at Gregor McMahon, uptight in his neck brace. “Gregor, you’re on,” Kate said.

  “I propose a toast to the bride and groom,” Gregor said. He stood and lifted his glass. “Your meeting was a beginning. Your marriage is progress. Working together will be success.” Then he added, “May all your troubles be little ones.”

  Okay, not very creative, but at least he tried. He took a sip of wine and the camera panned to Justine and Mike.

  “Gregor, I’m so grateful you’ll be part of our wedding,” Mike said.

  Justine nodded and added, “This must be sad for you.”

  Pan back to Gregor, who wore a tense smile, as though he was masking his feelings. “Emma and I had a perfect wedding. In October, like yours.”

  There was a brief silence, broken by Delia Scott. “Where is she? Did your wife leave you?”

  At that point, whoever had been filming decided to cut off Gregor’s response to Delia’s rude question, and the video next showed Kate raising her glass. “As you know, I am not a traditionalist.” She put her arm around Ingrid and kissed her cheek. “But I believe in love, and I believe in going after what you want. Mike adores Justine. I’m proud of my brother for going after her, and for making this commitment. And grateful to Justine for getting us all together.” General murmurs of agreement all around, as the camera panned to Mike’s parents.

  Tricia and Scoop applauded, restored to good humor. “And someday soon, grandbabies!” Tricia said. She leaned around her husband to smile at Justine.

  Camera on Mike. He frowned at his mother. “Give us a break,” he said in a reasonable tone. “Babies are not on the radar right now.”

  “Oh, of course not, darling,” Tricia said. “We can wait.”

  Anselmo paused the DVD, freezing Tricia mid-smile. “Tricia is implying that Mike and Justine will have kids?”

  “That’s what I heard. Seems they don’t know about the sex change.”

  “That’s a reasonable assumption.What happened to the guy’s wife?”

  I told him what little I knew about Emma McMahon, her fatal reaction to an insect sting at a picnic six months ago. He started the video again. The camera lingered on a dinner plate containing the main course, poached salmon and roasted potatoes. There must have been a break in the filming because in the next shot, Wyatt was serving small plates of a layered dessert. “Lottie brought this,” he said. Exclamations of gratitude as the camera panned around to Lottie Ember. “It’s tiramisu cheesecake in a white cake crust,” she said, “topped with a layer of mascarpone, then chocolate whipped cream.”

  “If I had your job, I’d be big as a truck,” Tricia said.

  Lottie laughed. “I used to taste everything, but believe it or not, you can get tired of chocolate. On the other hand, my husband . . .” She pointed to Evan’s clean plate. He nodded and patted his girth.

  I paused the playback. “That’s more action than I saw from him this afternoon. He was completely inert. Really depressed.”

  “Good video,” Anselmo said. “Really helps to see her alive.”

  “Wyatt’s been complaining about sabotage, did he tell you?”

  “No. He must think you’re a better listener.”

  “He said someone ruined his air conditioner and put a dead raccoon in his driveway.”

  Anselmo frowned. “Is that relevant to our case?”

  “Wyattsaysso.”

  “He also said Justine’s death is an attempt to close his inn. We don’t believe that, do we?”

  I shook my head. “Of course not.” I didn’t want to seem so I didn’t mention my nagging twinge that there might be a connection, though doctoring a cup of tea with rat poison was a quantum leap from fouling up an air conditioner. I decided to keep an open mind. A hole in my head, as it were.

  CHAPTER 12

  * * *

  ThursdayVery Early Morning

  “Donut?” Fredricks pushed the box my way.

  “No thanks.”

  “I grilled vegetables last night. I make this marinade? Think Japan meets Amarillo.”

  “Cilantro and soy sauce,” I said.

  “Jalapenos, honey, lime.” Fredricks closed his eyes at the memory. “Oh . . . man.”

  “Sounds good.” I thought of my own dinner, cottage cheese and noodle soup. If I were nicer to Fredricks would he bring me leftovers? “I’d love to try it some time,” I said.

  He didn’t get the hint, but instead jotted the marinade recipe down for me. We were waiting in my cubicle to learn the outcome of a predawn raid currently under way on Jax’s place, twenty-eight hours after I bought the kilo. I yawned, and sipped the coffee Fredricks had thoughtfully brewed. “When will we hear?” I asked.

  Fredricks looked at his watch. “They met up at three-thirty. Say it takes an hour to get to the house and reconnoiter. So it should be about over by now. Let�
�s give them another twenty minutes.”

  “Sure. Then after that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What’s our role?”

  “You’ll make a positive ID, then we’re done, sweetheart. No role until the trial, if there is one—they’ll probably take a deal. What did you think?”

  “Then why are we here waiting? I could have come in at noon and identified him.”

  “Because we’re curious. Because we’re part of the team.We’re supporting the effort.”

  At that moment I purely detested Fredricks. Sleep was all I could think about but it was going to be a busy day. I leafed through my notebook and underlined things to do next. I had to interview Tricia and Scoop Scott. I was intensely curious to know whether they were aware of Justine’s sex change. I wanted to talk to Delia and Webster Scott separately. I looked at my notes—they lived near Wilmington, a three-hour drive. I could go tomorrow.

  Fredricks’s cell phone chimed and he flipped it open. “Yeah? . . . Oh yeah?” He listened for several minutes. “Okay. Thanks.” He snapped it shut and studied me. “Guess what?”

  For once he wasn’t chewing, so I studied him right back.

  “What?” I said.

  “No Jax, no Dana.”

  “They were gone?”

  “The only person in the house was a housekeeper. She said Jax and Dana left very early yesterday. She thought it was because of a deal the previous night, some girl buying drugs. Jax was beating himself up ’cause he suspected she was a cop but sold it anyway. ‘Cute college girls don’t buy keys,’ he said. ‘Someone needs to set her straight.’ Those were his exact words, according to the housekeeper, translated into English. She’s illegal, by the way, and was turned over to ICE.”

  “So Jax guessed I was police.” What a disaster. Twenty-two thousand dollars to Jax, a thousand to Mo—gone. A night of surveillance, wasted.

  “Oh, we’ll get them. But watch yourself. It’s not unheard of for witnesses to be threatened or worse.”

  “He doesn’t know who I am.”