by Cindi Myers
Brenda shuddered. “Yes. Thankfully, Eddie was just drugged.”
“What, did someone shoot a poison dart into him or something?” Lacy asked.
The waitress arrived with their food, her expression not giving any indication that she had heard this alarming question. Brenda crunched a potato chip, then said, “There was a half-eaten pizza on the seat beside him. Dwight sent it to the lab to see if the drugs were in there.”
“Ooh, that makes it interesting.” She bit into her burger and chewed.
Both women ate silently for a few minutes, then Brenda said, “I think Dwight suspects Parker Riddell.” Saying the words out loud made her realize how upset she was by the possibility that Parker—a young man she had grown to like—might be responsible for something so horrible.
“He works at the pizza place, right?” Lacy asked. “Did he and Eddie have some kind of run-in?”
“You know Eddie,” Brenda said. “He likes to throw his weight around.”
“And I guess Parker had some trouble with the law before.” At Brenda’s startled look, Lacy held up her hands. “I’m not gossiping—Paige told me.”
“Yes, but he’s trying to put that behind him,” Brenda said. “He’s going to school and working at Peggy’s Pizza and volunteering at the museum. I think he’s a good guy—and I don’t think he hurt Eddie, even though Eddie gave him a really hard time. Parker is trying to make a fresh start.” Something she also wanted desperately to do. Not that any of the trouble she had been through was her fault, but she longed to take her life in a different, calmer direction.
“Okay, so why don’t you think Parker did it?” Lacy asked.
“He’s too smart to do something so obvious,” Brenda said. “I mean, putting the drugs in a pizza points the finger right at him.”
“So you think someone set it up to look like Parker was the guilty party,” Lacy said. “But who? And why?”
“I don’t know,” Brenda said. She stabbed at her salad. “I’m just hoping that for once, it doesn’t have anything to do with me or the museum.”
“Or maybe whoever doctored the pizza is the same person who’s been threatening you,” Lacy said. “Dwight can arrest him and then you wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore.”
“Right.” She could go back to worrying about her job and where she was going to live. Those were the kinds of problems most people had to solve at one time or another. It had been a while since she had had anything that resembled a “normal” life. She thought she’d welcome the change.
“What you need is a real break,” Lacy said. “Why don’t we call Paige and Maya and the four of us go out tomorrow night? Dress up, dinner, drinks—just fun. No men, no worries allowed.”
“I don’t know,” Brenda said. “I’ve got so much to do with the auction and the reception Friday night.”
“If I know you, you’ve already got everything done. If you sit at home tomorrow you’ll just fret over all the details you’ve already gone over a dozen times.”
Brenda had to smile at this. “You do know me, don’t you?”
“Come on—how about it? We can call it my pre-bachelorette party. Or, I know—we’ll say it’s an early party for your birthday.”
“I don’t know,” Brenda said. “I’m not much on big celebrations.”
“It’ll just be four of us. And you need to do something to mark your thirtieth.”
Brenda nodded. “All right.” She had had her nose pretty firmly to the grindstone the last few weeks. Maybe a night out was exactly what she needed.
* * *
NO GROWN MAN could avoid looking ridiculous in a hospital gown, Dwight decided, as he and Gage entered Eddie Carstairs’s hospital room. Eddie, paler than usual, with dark circles under his eyes, pulled the sheet up farther on his chest when he recognized them. “I hope you two have come to get me out of here,” he said.
“You’ll have to talk to your doctor about that,” Gage said. “We’re just here to interview you about what happened at the museum last night.”
“The doctor was supposed to stop by here an hour ago to sign my discharge papers,” Eddie said. “But he’s disappeared.”
“Then you’ve got time to talk to us.” Dwight stopped beside the bed, while Gage took up position on the opposite side.
Eddie looked from one to the other of them. “The nurse told me someone tried to kill me with poisoned pizza.”
Of course Eddie would go for the most dramatic story first, Dwight thought. “Someone added ground-up sleeping pills to the pizza,” he said. “But there wasn’t enough there to kill you. It looks like whoever did it wanted to put you out of commission for a while. Who would want to do that, Eddie?”
Eddie looked away. “How should I know?”
“Where did you get the pizza?” Gage asked.
“It was the Tuesday special from Peggy’s,” he said. “Pepperoni and sausage.”
“Peggy says you didn’t order a pizza from her last night,” Dwight said.
Eddie said nothing.
“Did someone deliver the pizza to you?” Gage asked. “A friend who knew you were working last night?”
Eddie pressed his lips together, as if holding back words. Then he burst out, “That punk Parker Riddell probably put drugs in the pizza to get back at me,” he said.
“Did Parker deliver the pizza to you?” Dwight asked.
Again, Eddie didn’t answer right away.
“Do you want us to find who did this or not, Eddie?” Gage asked. “Because we have other things we could be spending our time on than finding out who wanted you to take a long nap.”
“Parker didn’t deliver the pizza,” Eddie said. “But he works at Peggy’s. He probably knew it was for me and messed with it.”
“Who delivered the pizza?” Dwight asked again, struggling to keep his temper. Gage was right—they had plenty to do without wasting time like this.
“A friend,” Eddie said. “But he wouldn’t do something like that.”
“What is the friend’s name?” Dwight asked.
“I don’t have to tell you that.”
Dwight stared at the man in the bed. “If you know he’s innocent, why not give us his name?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
Dressed in that faded hospital gown, his hair uncombed, mouth set in a stubborn line, Eddie reminded Dwight of an obstinate little kid. He stepped away from the bed. “Call us if you change your mind,” he said.
“I’d be careful accepting any more gifts from your friend,” Gage said. “Next time, he might decide instead of putting you to sleep, he’ll finish you off.”
It was possible Eddie went a shade paler beneath the day’s growth of beard, but he said nothing as Dwight and Gage left him. They were in Dwight’s cruiser before Gage spoke. “Do we know who Eddie’s friends are?”
“No. But I’ll be asking around.” He put the cruiser in gear. “Let’s start with the mayor.”
“The mayor?”
“He stopped by to talk to Eddie the night Eddie arrested Parker,” Dwight said. “Maybe he was there last night, too.”
“With a pizza?” Gage asked.
“That’s what we’re going to find out.”
Chapter Twelve
Mayor Larry Rowe’s office was so small it scarcely had room for his desk, a filing cabinet and a credenza so covered with piles of paper its surface wasn’t visible. When Gage and Dwight entered, he looked up from the screen of a laptop computer, scowling. “What’s wrong now?” he barked.
“We just have a few questions for you.” Dwight pulled out a chair and sat, while Gage remained standing by the door.
“I don’t have time for questions,” Larry said, turning his attention back to the computer.
“When was the last time you saw Eddie Carstairs?” Dwight asked.
“I don’t know. A few days ago.”
“You didn’t see him last night?” Dwight asked.
“I went to dinner in Junction with my brother.”
“Who’s your brother?” Gage asked. “Does he live here?”
“He lives outside of Boston. He’s an actor—Garrett Rowe.”
Dwight and Gage exchanged glances—neither one of them had ever heard of the mayor’s brother. “What time was your dinner?” Dwight asked.
“We left here at five, drove to Junction, had cocktails, then dinner, and lingered, catching up. I don’t get to see him that often. I probably got back to my place about midnight.”
He swiveled his chair toward them. “Why are you asking these questions?”
“Eddie Carstairs is in the hospital,” Dwight said. “Someone fed him pizza laced with sleeping pills.”
Larry made a snorting sound that might have been a laugh. “Eddie never did turn down a meal.”
“Do you have any idea who might have given him the pizza?” Gage asked.
“None. Eddie Carstairs is a city employee, not a personal friend.”
“Is your brother still in town?” Dwight asked. “We’d like to confirm your story with him.”
Larry stiffened. “Are you saying you don’t believe me?”
“It’s just standard procedure.”
“I can give you his number. He’s gone back to Boston.”
Dwight took the number, and he and Gage left. “What do you think?” Gage asked.
“We’ll check with the brother. Not that I think the mayor is really involved, but I don’t like to leave loose ends.”
* * *
AS BRENDA PULLED into the drive at her house, her phone pinged with a text from the insurance appraiser, telling her he was running a few minutes late. She sat for a moment, phone still in hand, studying the charred ruins of what had once been her dream home. The stones that had trimmed the foundation stuck up like blackened teeth arranged around a jumble of fallen timbers and empty window frames. She had avoided looking at any of this since the fire, but she was going to have to deal with it sooner rather than later. If nothing else, her neighbors were probably already tired of looking at this eyesore.
She stuffed the phone in her pocket and got out of the car and walked up the stone path to what had been the front door. Everything in the house was a total loss. She still had her laptop and the few clothes she had packed to take to Dwight’s parents’ home. It didn’t matter, she tried to reassure herself. It was all just stuff.
But it was all stuff that she had, for the most part, personally chosen over the years—things it pleased her to look at and to use—the transferware teapot decorated with kittens, the dishes with a pattern of morning glories, the ginger jar bedside lamp with the pale green silk shade. She would miss these little items more than she would grieve the loss of the bedroom furniture and wedding china.
She spotted something glinting in the sunlight and stepped over the threshold and bent down to fish a silver teaspoon from the rubble, blackened, but intact. She found two more nearby, along with the silver top to a teapot and a silver salt cellar—though the walnut buffet that had held them all was a heap of charred wood nearby.
She picked her way across the rooms to the back corner that had been Andy’s home office. The fire had started here, and everything in the room had been destroyed, all the little things she kept of her husband’s reduced to ash—his desk and chair, a few law books, his university and law school diplomas, his law license. It didn’t feel as awful as she would have imagined to lose those things. She supposed she would have eventually put those items away somewhere. They didn’t have any children to save them for.
Brakes squealed as a car slowed, and she turned to watch a silver Toyota pull into the driveway and a tall, thin man in khakis and a blue polo unfold himself from the front seat, a folder tucked under one arm. She walked out to meet him. “Alan Treat.” He introduced himself and handed her a card, then turned to survey the house. “I understand it was arson,” he said.
“That’s what the fire department investigator determined, yes.”
Treat fixed her with a watery blue eye. “Have they determined who set the fire?” he asked.
“No. Someone has been making anonymous threats. They assume the arsonist was the same person.”
His eyebrows were so bushy they looked fake, pasted on like a stage costume. One rose in question and she had a hard time not staring, to see if she could spot the glue. “What has a woman like you done to receive threats?” he asked.
She resented the implication that she had done anything to bring this on herself. “I don’t see what any of that has to do with you,” she said. “I only want to know what the settlement will be on the house, so that I can make plans.”
“We don’t pay claims where homeowners burn down their own homes,” he said.
“I didn’t burn down my own house!” She had raised her voice and glared at him. “I sent a copy of the fire investigator’s report to your office. Did you even read it?”
“Most home arson fires are set by the homeowner,” he said, his expression bland.
“Well, mine wasn’t. And if that’s all you came to say to me today you can leave, and I will be contacting my attorney.”
“Now, now, there’s no reason to fly off the handle.”
As far as she was concerned, she had every reason to be upset with him, including but not limited to the fact that she absolutely hated being placated with phrases such as “now, now.”
“Mr. Treat,” she said through clenched teeth, “are you going to discuss the insurance settlement I am entitled to, or not?”
He sighed and opened the folder. He handed her a single sheet of paper. She scanned it until she came to the number at the bottom. She blinked and read it again. “The house was worth far more than this,” she said.
“Your settlement is not based on the market value of your home,” he said. “It is based on the amount you chose to insure the home for, less your deductible, less the cost of things that weren’t destroyed in the fire.”
“Everything was destroyed in the fire,” she said.
“Not your foundation and the portion of the house below ground level.”
She stared at the paper again, trying to make the numbers add up in her head. “I was expecting more,” she said.
“Your policy had not been updated in several years,” he said. “We do recommend an annual policy review and increased coverage to reflect current market conditions. You are, of course, welcome to appeal, but these things seldom come out in the homeowner’s favor.”
She looked at the ruins of the home again. “I understand there wasn’t a mortgage on the home,” Treat continued. “So you will receive a check made out to you, to do with as you wish, though you will, of course, have to pay for cleanup of this lot. I’m sure there is a city ordinance to that effect.”
Yes, she would have to pay for cleanup. And then what? She had already considered building a less elaborate home, but would the amount the insurance company was offering be enough?
“If I could have your signature here, we can get the check in the mail to you in a few days.” Treat pointed to a blank line at the bottom of the page.
“I don’t want to sign anything right now,” she said.
Treat closed the folder. “Call us when you’re ready.” Then he turned, got back in his car and drove away.
When Brenda was sure he was out of sight, she swore and kicked at the front stoop. But that only made her swear more, her toe throbbing. She felt like screaming and throwing things, but had no inclination to provide a free show for neighbors or passing motorists.
A familiar SUV pulled to the curb and Dwight got out. “Are you following me?” she demanded as he walked toward her, his slightly bowlegged gait so distinctive.
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He stopped. “No,” he said. “I saw you were here and stopped to talk. Do you want me to leave?”
“No. I’m sorry.” She held up the paper, as if in explanation. “The insurance appraiser was here. Mr. Treat. And he wasn’t.”
“He wasn’t a treat?” Dwight started forward again and came to stand beside her.
“No. He was a jerk. He accused me of burning down my own home. And then he offered me this paltry settlement and as much as said it was all my fault for not updating my policy.”
Dwight glanced at the paper in her hand, but didn’t ask to see it. “Is it enough money to rebuild?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” She shoved the paper at him. “And he’s right—I didn’t update the policy. Andy always did those things and I assumed he had purchased replacement coverage. The premium certainly went up every year. I’m mad at Andy all over again for not taking out enough insurance, and angry at myself for not thinking to review the policy once the house was in my name alone. And I’m furious with whoever put me in this position.” She glared at the burned-out house. If the arsonist had come along and confessed at that moment, she thought she could have strangled him with her bare hands.
“You’ve had a rough morning,” Dwight said.
“Yes, and you came along at just the wrong time.”
“I can take it.”
“I don’t suppose you’re any closer to knowing who did this?” She gestured toward the house.
“I’m sorry, no.”
She started back toward her car, and he walked with her. “What are you up to this afternoon?” she asked, making an effort to be more cordial than she felt.
“I’m meeting Gage in a few minutes to head up to Eagle Mountain Resort. We’re supposed to meet a representative of the new owners.”
“New owners—already? I mean, Hake’s body was only just found.” A small shudder went through her at the memory.
“Apparently, these people officially took over only a few days before he disappeared.”
“Who are they?”
“Another real estate development company, out of Utah, I think.”