The Princess and the Poison

by Carol E. Ayer

  "He's just adorable, Becca," I said as I cradled the baby in my arms. Was it just my imagination, or did his eyes look like Jamie's? For a brief moment, I imagined the baby was mine and Jamie's. The picture was so real I could see it. I was in the bed, and Jamie was standing nearby, holding the baby in his arms. My eyes started to tear up, and I pulled myself back to reality.

  "How are you feeling, honey?" Donna asked Becca, but I didn't think the question was warranted. Becca was on cloud nine—it was written all over her face.

  "Great. I'm so thrilled, you guys. And Joey! You should see him. He's beside himself. He's out buying more stuffed animals. He's gone crazy!"

  We laughed. Six huge stuffed animals already took up most of the room. Joey had arranged them so they were interacting with each other: an elephant was deep in talk with a giraffe, a cat meowed at a dog, and a crocodile bit playfully at a bear's foot. I had the feeling he would be a great dad. I already knew Becca would be a wonderful mother. She had a heart of gold.

  After I handed the baby over to Donna, I reached into my pocket for baby Jamie's present and handed it to Becca. It was a green StoryWorld storybox key, with a picture of the Hispaniola at the top.

  "As soon as he's old enough, I hope you bring him to the park," I said.

  "I will! Thank you, Ashling. This is the perfect gift. Jamie loved the Hispaniola."

  Donna and I left soon afterward. On the way back to work, Donna said, her voice raspy, "If we go to prison, I won't see that little guy grow up. I won't see anything. I'll miss what happens with you and Scott. What about the Jack Sprat? Who will run it?"

  I pulled off to the side of the road and cut the engine. "Donna, listen to me. You aren't going to prison. I promise. If it's the last thing I do, I will find the real killer. Okay?"

  She said so softly I could barely hear it, "Okay."

  "Donna! Okay?"

  "Okay." Her voice was stronger this time, and I sensed I'd convinced her.

  Now if I could only convince myself. The detectives obviously hadn't come up with enough evidence to arrest Donna and Charlie, but that didn't mean they'd given up. Would they find something they'd twist around to be cause for arrest? Donna seemed to think that was possible. But I couldn't let that happen.

  A little later, stewing once more over Donna's posts on the internet, I decided I'd better ask her about them again. I tried calling her at the Jack Sprat, but no one answered. Finally, I left the office and headed over.

  I leaned in the order window, looking for her. Her employee, Vince, lumbered over.

  "What can I get you, Ashling?"

  "Nothing, thanks, Vince. I'm just looking for Donna."

  His face clouded over. "You didn't hear?"

  "What?"

  "She got called down to the police station again. Her and Charlie."

  Oh God. Not again. "Thanks."

  I stumbled back down to the office. Could the police have uncovered Donna's posts on the online forum? Something deep down told me they had.

  Unable to work, I watched the clock as fifteen, twenty, then thirty minutes passed. After almost an hour, Donna dragged herself into the office. Her hair, hanging loose, was tousled, and she had no color to her face.

  "Donna! What happened?"

  "I can't take this anymore, Ashling. I just can't," she said in a near whisper.

  I led her to the visitor's chair, and she bent her legs. She missed the chair and almost fell to the floor, but I caught her and guided her into a sitting position.

  "Whenever you're ready, tell me what happened."

  "It was the posts. On the internet. About Katrina. Just like you were afraid of. I'm surprised they didn't arrest us. They really think it's me and Charlie, but I guess they don't have enough proof yet." With a hiccup, she started crying. Snot accumulated under her nose, and I reached for a tissue from my desk drawer and handed it to her.

  "It's going to be okay." I watched, alarmed, as she shook her head back and forth about twenty times.

  "They're gonna arrest us." This time it was a whisper. "That's next, I just know it. I can't believe this. What has happened to my life?" Then, something changed in her. Her face turned red and her breathing accelerated. She shouted, "I can't take it anymore!"

  She got up and, without any warning, swept her arm across my desk. A stack of files and my inbox filled with papers made it to the floor first, then my paperweight, which bounced a few times before coming to a halt near the door. In a spectacular crash, my computer hit the ground, and glass and parts spewed across the floor. Somehow, I managed to grab the snow globe before it went last.

  A hush fell over us as we stared down at the damage.

  Donna put her hand to her mouth and burst into loud tears. "Ashling, I'm…I'm so sorry. I…I can't believe I did that. I'll pay for a new one, I promise. I'll go now." She looked helplessly toward the door, and her shoulders heaved. She sank to the floor and let out a low moan.

  I knelt next to her, careful to not come into contact with any of the broken glass, and I rubbed her back. "Forget about the computer. It's not important. And I should apologize to you. I promised I would help, and I haven't delivered. But that's it. It stops here. Go home. Cuddle up with Charlie and watch a movie. I'll be in touch."

  When she didn't move, I murmured again, "It's going to be okay." She turned and put her arms around me. We stayed that way for a long time.

  At last, she pulled herself to her feet. "Ashling, I'm sorry. Not just about this. But for everything." Her voice was now eerily calm. "Every time I got on your case, about Scott or your diet or whatever. Whenever I wasn't as loving as I should have been. I'm really, really sorry. Please forgive me. Will you please forgive me?"

  I stared at her. This was so much worse than the tears and the temper tantrum. "What are you saying? Why are you saying all this?"

  "We're gonna go to prison. I have to start putting my affairs in order. And that includes apologizing to everyone I've mistreated. Oh, and I always felt bad that I served spinach to you and Jamie on your first date."

  "What…what are you talking about? That dinner was delicious. We both appreciated it so much. It was spectacularly kind of you. We talked about it all the time. And I still look back on it as one of the best days of my life."

  "But you know how spinach is. It probably got in your teeth. I wanted that dinner to be so perfect, and then I served that…"

  She trailed off, I hoped because she knew how ridiculous she sounded.

  "Donna, please. Please go home. Get some rest. You'll feel better after you have a nap."

  She gave me a half nod and trudged out the door.

  I staggered back to my chair, slumped into it, and dropped my head to my desk. There was plenty of room now that Donna had cleared everything away. After a minute, I raised my head and gaped at the mess on the floor. Thank God Donna had Charlie. She needed someone to look after her, and I didn't know if I'd be up to it right now. I briefly wondered if I should have driven her home, but I didn't have the energy to chase after her.

  I finally pulled myself together and took the broom and dustpan from the office closet. As I did my best to clean up, I considered what to do next. Who had I missed? I'd talked to the actors, Katrina's entourage, her director, and her boyfriend. The only other people I could think of were her parents. Would they be able to shed any light on her murder? Maybe it was time to seek them out.

  I found my address book and looked up Ryan's number. He picked up after only one ring. After asking how he was, I said, "Do you happen to have Katrina's parents' address?"

  "Hold on. I only met them once, but I think I do. Yeah. Here it is." He rattled off an address in Beverly Hills. "We were in touch briefly after Katrina's death, but I haven't talked to them since then. What's up? Are you going to send them a card or flowers or something?"

  "I just need to talk to them. I'll tell you about it later. Thanks, Ryan."

  Next, looking at the empty space where my computer used to be, I called informat
ion and got the phone numbers for CalFly Airlines and Book-A-Car Rental at LAX. I booked a flight leaving Springdale Airport in a little under two hours, a return for that evening, and a rental car for my arrival.

  After telling Cameron he'd be in charge for the rest of the day and asking him to see what he could find out about recovering my hard drive from the broken computer, I hurried home to get ready for my flight.

  * * *

  Once I'd landed in LA, I picked up my rental car, programmed my destination into the GPS after five minutes of trying to figure out how it worked, and drove into Beverly Hills. After another few minutes, I tooled up the Irvines' long driveway to a security gate. I buzzed the intercom with no idea what I was going to say.

  After a brief wait, a voice said, "Yes?"

  Sometimes the truth—or a form of the truth—is better than a lie. It had worked with Dr. Rythersen. Taking a deep breath, I said, "Hi. This is Ashling Cleary. I own StoryWorld. Where Katrina was…where Katrina was performing in Northern California this summer. I'm hoping to pay my respects to Mr. and Mrs. Irvine."

  After a bit of silence, the voice said, "Come in. Park behind the Mercedes."

  The gate opened, and I drove through, parking in the driveway behind the Mercedes as instructed. I got out, gaped at the stunning views in every direction, admired a waterfall in a display of rocks and plants to the right of the house, and rang the doorbell.

  A woman answered. She appeared to be in her mid-to-late forties and wore a light blue blouse and slightly wrinkled white slacks. Her dark hair was mussed, and mascara dots decorated the skin under her eyes, making me wonder if I'd awakened her from a nap. She was probably having a difficult time sleeping after her loss. Likely she tried to catch a nap whenever she could.

  "Mrs. Irvine?"

  She nodded. "Yes, I'm Elizabeth Irvine." Her voice was hoarse. "You're from StoryWorld?"

  "Right. I'm Ashling Cleary, the owner and manager of the park. I'm really sorry to disturb you. And I'm so, so sorry for your loss."

  "Thank you, dear. Please come in." She led me through the foyer into a living room, where my shoes sank into a lush white carpet. The room was probably bigger than my entire cottage. A huge fireplace took up an entire wall, and I wondered how often the Irvines used it in sunny Southern California. Another wall was floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the canyon.

  Mrs. Irvine directed me to sit on a white suede sofa in front of a coffee table, which was completely devoid of magazines or knickknacks. I'd always been puzzled by houses like this, which seemed so impersonal. Where were the family pictures? Trip mementos? Bills and files?

  Once we were seated, we looked at each other for a moment without speaking. A tear appeared in Mrs. Irvine's right eye and dropped slowly to her cheek. She used a red-painted fingernail to clear it away.

  "Mrs. Irvine—"

  "Call me Elizabeth. Please."

  "Elizabeth. I'm not sure how much you know about what happened to your daughter."

  "I know she was killed with a rare poison. We—my husband and I—came up to get the body…" Her voice quavered when she used the word "body." "We talked then with the police and a few times since then. They hadn't arrested anyone the last time we spoke. But do you know something more? Is that why you're here?" More tears, which she wiped away.

  She seemed so grief-stricken I was tempted to tell her everything I'd discovered and everyone I suspected. But restraint was probably better. "They have a main suspect," I said carefully. "But I have serious doubts this person is the…perpetrator, and I'm trying to figure out who really did it. I was hoping that maybe you could help. Is there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to…hurt Katrina?"

  Elizabeth responded with a very slight shake of her head, and the gesture suggested she knew something she wasn't letting on.

  Gently I said, "Katrina didn't have any enemies that you know of?"

  "No! She was incredibly sweet. Of course she didn't have any enemies." Hmm. Another delusional supporter of Katrina's, but I supposed I should have expected her mother to feel that way.

  "So you really can't think of anything?" I persisted.

  Elizabeth looked like she was struggling with what to say.

  "We both want the same thing. We want to find out who killed your daughter, and we want that person brought to justice. Is your husband here? Maybe he'd feel more comfortable talking to me?"

  Elizabeth bit her lip. "I'm sorry. He's not home from work yet. He usually works late."

  "I think you want to tell me something. Will you? Please?"

  "It's something my husband can never know about. Can you promise that this will stay between us?"

  I didn't know if I could promise that. What if she led me to the killer, and I had to share the information she'd given me with the police? "I'll do my best."

  Elizabeth looked at her manicure, much like Katrina had done in my office when I'd unsuccessfully tried to admonish her. "When I was sixteen, I had a baby. I gave her up for adoption."

  I nodded at her to continue.

  "Kenneth doesn't know. And he can't ever know."

  Yikes, what a hard secret to keep from your husband. "Why not? Why can't he know?"

  "He wouldn't have approved. I have no illusions about why Kenneth married me. I loved—love—him, but I never fooled myself into thinking the sentiment was returned. He needed a wife to help him with his career, a woman who didn't have any aspirations of her own. Someone meek, who would do as she was told, who wouldn't make waves. He wouldn't have married me if he knew about my baby."

  Cripes, tough crowd. "But surely this was so long ago—"

  "Please understand," she said firmly. "He cannot know."

  "All right. But I don't understand what this has to do with Katrina." Then I realized with a start that Elizabeth's baby, now a grown woman in her thirties, was Katrina's half sister. Was Elizabeth implying the half sister could be a suspect?

  "My firstborn daughter came to see me about six months ago," Elizabeth went on. She noticed the question in my eyes. "Fortunately, Kenneth wasn't at home."

  "That must have been a shock for you."

  "It was. Her adoptive parents, Gillian and Theodore, had both died. Right before Gillian passed away, she told my daughter who I was. My daughter came here, wanting to be a part of our lives. But—"

  "Your husband. You couldn't agree because of your husband."

  "Yes. I'm ashamed to say I sent her away. Although I gave her some money. We have so much of it I was sure Kenneth would never know. But she was mad. Livid. She accused me of favoring Katrina over her. 'Perfect, famous, beloved Katrina,' she called her."

  My little gray cells worked that over. "And you think she might have killed Katrina out of jealousy?"

  Elizabeth looked deep into my eyes and nodded solemnly. "I think it's possible. Yes. Especially when I found out the two were in contact around the time of Katrina's death."

  I leaned forward. "What's her name? What's your first daughter's name?"

  "Her adopted name is Laura Tenniel."

  * * *

  After abruptly leaving Elizabeth Irvine in a rather rude manner, I drove back to the airport as fast as I could. Like getting to the airport fast would help my plane leave sooner than scheduled. At last I boarded the plane, and, an hour later, we landed in Springdale.

  Once I'd found my Beetle and paid its way out of the lot, I drove straight to the police station. This time, I wasn't going to confront anyone myself. I was going nowhere near Laura Tenniel. She'd already scared me with the vandalism and the fire. Who knew what she'd do if I accosted her with proof she'd murdered her sister?

  At the station, I asked Policewoman Rumpelstiltskin if Detectives Ochoa and Truesdale were still at work and if I could see them. It was getting late, but she assured me they were there. Once again, she directed me into the boring interrogation room.

  Ochoa and Truesdale didn't make me wait this time. They came into the room after only a couple of minutes.
>
  Ochoa raised an eyebrow at me, while Truesdale didn't even bother to look at me.

  "I spoke to Katrina's mother," I said once they were seated. "Turns out Katrina had a sister." I paused for dramatic effect.

  After a few beats, Truesdale said, "Go on." Ah-ha! I'd gotten her attention.

  "Technically a half sister. Elizabeth, Mrs. Irvine, had a baby girl when she was sixteen. She gave her up for adoption."

  Ochoa leaned forward. "And let me guess. You're here to tell us you think this half sister suddenly showed up at StoryWorld, somehow gained access to the props, and poisoned the spindle to kill her long-lost sister?"

  "No. That's the thing. She didn't suddenly appear. She was here. All along. It's Laura! Laura Tenniel. Laura Tenniel is the baby. She's Katrina's sister!" I practically bounced up and down in my chair. I was so happy with myself. I'd solved the murder! Donna and Charlie were now in the clear, and our lives would go back to normal. We still had a couple more performances of Snow White, and then Cinderella would premiere in August. At the end of August, we'd hold our Wind in the Willows picnic. And then summer would be over, and fall would come, which meant our Halloween party at the end of October…

  In the midst of my musings, I realized Ochoa and Truesdale hadn't reacted to my breaking news. But I supposed they were trained to not get too excited. For at least a minute, they stayed silent.

  "And where exactly did she get the curare?" Ochoa asked. "And how did she know how to make it into a poisonous paste? She took a class at the community center?"

  I didn't appreciate the sarcasm one bit. "I don't know. But she got it somehow. And she knew how to do it."

  "What's your proof?" Truesdale asked.

  I've never in my life wanted to say "Duh" as much as I did then, but I didn't think it would be appropriate. "Well, don't you think it's a bit of a coincidence? That it turns out Katrina's understudy was actually her sister?"

  "It's a coincidence, yes," Ochoa allowed. "But it's not proof."

  They both looked back at me, expressionless. I couldn't believe this. Were they seriously not going to consider the possibility? I kept waiting for them to admit I was right. To congratulate me. To run right out and arrest Laura.