News and Nachos

by Carly Winter

  "I left you a note about it yesterday afternoon," Harold said. "Right there on your desk."

  After moving a few papers, I shrugged. "Sorry, Harold. I don't see it."

  He sighed as I pushed my chair back and found a sticky note on the floor. I picked it up and read the contact information for Lydia Tillwacker who headed up the Booties for Babies program.

  "Found it!" I said, holding up the note above my head in triumph.

  "You need to clean your desk," Harold grumbled. "A messy desk means a messy mind."

  "I thought it meant abundant creativity," I said.

  "Speaking of creativity, how's the book coming along?"

  I'd started writing a mystery a few months ago, right after I’d solved Henry York's murder. It was proving much more difficult than I’d thought, but my goal was to see the finished product in the window of the town bookstore.

  "I haven't worked on it in a while... in fact, ever since Jake Martinez died. But it's going okay. I'm having trouble coming up with murder plots, and I feel my characters are a little weak."

  Harold threw his head back and laughed. "Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction. You've solved one murder, and you're neck-deep in reporting on another. Use your real-life experiences to add flavor to your manuscript, Tilly. I can't wait to read it."

  I honestly hadn't given my book much thought the past couple of weeks. Between my infatuation with Derek, my worry over Carla, and learning about the dysfunction of Jake's family, I didn't have much brainpower to devote to creativity.

  "Make sure you get that Booties for Babies article done for me by the end of the day," Harold said.

  "I will," I replied. "In the future, perhaps it would be best if you sent me an email for things you need done."

  "Yes, ma'am. Note taken. Emails will be sent in the future."

  Harold could be a little rough around the edges at times, but overall, he was a good boss and I appreciated working for him. Such a far cry from Jake's relationship with Carla.

  Once again, doubt crept into my mind.

  What if she really had killed him?

  I'd never seen her lose her temper to the point she came completely unhinged, but perhaps she had with Jake. I'd like to see the footage the cameras had recorded in the kitchen area of the restaurant for that night, but Byron had also said the cops were in possession of it. It's not like I could walk in and request to see it.

  Or could I?

  Not as Tilly Bordeaux, friend of the accused, but as Tilly Bordeaux, the reporter? I imagined that would require legal finagling that Harold simply couldn't afford. The paper wasn’t really a job for him, but more of a hobby to stave off the boredom of retirement. He’d left the big career as an editor in Los Angeles. So I'd have to find out who did it without viewing the footage.

  I stared at the post-it note in my hand and was about to make a call to Lydia Tillwacker, the head of the Tri-Town Knitting Club. Every year, they took on a different project. Last year it had been Handsies for the Homeless, where they'd knitted gloves and dropped them off at the homeless shelter in Cedarville. The paper had run a big article on it and included pictures of the ladies making their donations and a few homeless people wearing the gloves. The knitting circle had been so thrilled to see themselves in the paper, they'd purchased extra copies to send to relatives. Apparently, this year, they'd taken on the task of covering baby feet, and I imagined they'd make the donations to the hospital or maybe a women's shelter.

  I picked up my phone and made the call to Mrs. Tillwacker. She was pleasant and very excited about her project. We spoke for about twenty minutes while I wrote down all the details of who was participating, when they were making the donation, how many booties they planned on giving away, etcetera. Then, I hung up and turned to my computer.

  Halfway through the article, Doctor Wheeler walked in. My heart leapt into my throat as he waved. I recalled Harold telling me the doctor would let him know when the test results came back on Jake Martinez. I hoped we were about to find out the type of poison that killed him.

  I stood and walked around my desk as he and Harold shook hands.

  "Ms. Bordeaux," Doctor Wheeler said, taking my hand in his. "Lovely to see you."

  "Thank you," I replied. "And thanks for stopping by."

  "Well, I told Harold that I would let you know about the toxin that killed Mr. Martinez since he mentioned your office had a contentious relationship with the sheriff."

  "That's a nice way to put it," I said with a grin. In reality, I was the one who had burned that bridge. Harold had been an innocent victim.

  "Well, I've submitted my report to the sheriff. Jake Martinez died of cyanide poisoning."

  I stepped back as if he'd punched me in the gut. He'd made it clear he thought Jake had been poisoned when he’d arrived at the restaurant after Carla and I had found the body, but to actually hear it shocked me.

  "The nachos had been laced," Doctor Wheeler continued. "The sheriff is concentrating on finding the source."

  I raced back to my desk and grabbed my phone. I scrolled through the pictures of Tinker and Belle I'd taken the previous night—because they'd been so darn cute laying on the couch together—until I found the one I searched for.

  When I'd gone to visit Darryl Hill, there had been rat poison in the dumpster. I used my fingers to enlarge the photo. Cyanide.

  Darryl Hill had motive and he had the correct poison.

  Doctor Wheeler and Harold made plans for lunch later in the week, then he left.

  Harold turned to me. "That should narrow down the suspects. Not everyone has cyanide lying around."

  I nodded and sat down. "I just hope the sheriff does a thorough investigation. Last time we had the pleasure of speaking to him, he was pretty focused on Carla, but there are other people who benefitted from Jake's death."

  Harold crossed his arms over his chest and furrowed his brow. "You've really been looking into this, haven't you?"

  "Yes. I won't let my friend go to prison for something she didn't do."

  "But Tilly, how do you know?" Harold asked softly. "Pull your emotions out of it for a moment and look at the evidence. First, she fought with Jake the night he was killed. She had motive. She had the opportunity. She was the last one to see him alive."

  "I know all that," I replied with a sigh, "but I can't believe my friend would murder him. She had every reason to be upset with Jake, but I don't think she's got the heart of a killer."

  Harold sat at his desk and propped his feet on top of a stack of papers. "Okay, let's talk this out. Go to the whiteboard and let's try to put your mind at ease."

  "We don't have to do this," I said. "I know you're really busy, and I have to finish my article on the knitting club."

  "No, let's do this. You don't have faith in our sheriff and I can tell you're troubled by the thought of your friend being a suspect. Tell me what you've uncovered."

  "Okay." I stood and went over to the whiteboard and picked up a pen. In the middle I wrote Jake Martinez and put a circle around the name. "Victim."

  "Correct."

  I then drew an arrow out to the left and wrote Sophia. "This is the daughter who is dating the chef at the restaurant named José."

  He also received an arrow and I jotted his name down.

  "How is a daughter and her boyfriend guilty of murdering her father?"

  "Because they were dating and Jake didn't like it one bit. José got into a fight with him and told him he'd kill him if he tried to keep them apart. The three of them also worked together to terrorize the guy in Little River who opened a Mexican restaurant, Darryl Hill, by drowning a rat in his establishment and letting a few more loose inside. Then they called the Health Department and had him shut down."

  I scrawled Darryl's name and an arrow pointing to it. "And Darryl just happens to have empty rat killer containers that contain cyanide in his dumpster outside his now-defunct restaurant. He was friendly with Tucker Browner, who is simply a piece of racist crap. They
were going to, and I quote, 'take care of Jake Martinez once and for all.'"

  Glancing over my shoulder, I noted Harold had paled.

  "But it goes on," I muttered as I drew another arrow. "Jake's brother, Tony, went to prison for a crime he didn't commit. He took the fall for Jake, who in turn bought him a piece of a farm."

  "Wow," Harold said, shaking his head. "What a mess."

  "But it gets better. Or worse, depending on how you look at it."

  "Seriously?"

  "Oh, yeah," I replied as I made another line that had to squiggle through two of the other names. "A farmer Jake owed money to may or may not have threatened his life. It depends on how you took his statement."

  "What did he say?"

  "He said he thought things would be better once Jake was dead, but no one can figure out if he meant that he killed Jake and he thought he'd get paid, or if he thought things would be better after he heard of Jake’s death. There's a big difference."

  "I would agree with that. Did you hear him say that?"

  "Yes. And I still don't know how to translate his statement."

  Harold rubbed his temples. "I had no idea it would be this complicated. You have six people up there who wanted Mr. Martinez dead."

  "He wasn't a very nice man, Harold. In fact, I would say he's probably burning in Hell right now. He hurt a lot of people."

  The front door swung open and Debbie sauntered in, grinning ear-to-ear, carrying a plate of four donuts and three coffees. "I hired someone and I'm here to celebrate!"

  Harold and I exchanged glances, then looked over at the woman. Her smile faded when she realized she'd walked in on something she shouldn't have.

  "What's this?" she asked, her gaze shifting to the whiteboard. "Is this everyone?"

  "Yes," I replied. "This is everyone we've suspected so far."

  Debbie set the coffee and donuts down and shook her head. For a moment, the three of us stared at the lines and names leading to where I'd written Jake Martinez. "What a darn mess," she muttered.

  "I had no idea," Harold murmured.

  "Do you see why the sheriff needs to investigate these other people besides Carla?" I asked. "There are a lot of suspects!"

  "There certainly are," he said. "And you're right. These people need to be scrutinized closely. They all have motive and some have even made outright threats. I'm sure the sheriff will do his due diligence."

  I snorted and rolled my eyes. "All he cares about is getting someone behind bars before the election."

  "The truth will prevail," Harold said. "It always does."

  I stared at the whiteboard, a feeling of dread settling over me. How did I untangle this web of lies and find the truth?

  19

  That evening, I scrolled through Facebook and found the halfway house where Derek spoke. They had posted pictures of him giving his talk, as well as photos of him afterward interacting with members one-on-one. His smile radiated, and I saw true happiness shining in his eyes. He thrived when helping others, and it only endeared him to me more. Dang it. I couldn’t wait to see him. It seemed like he’d been gone weeks instead of a couple of days.

  I sent him a quick text and asked him to call when he could.

  The candy I'd picked up for the Oak Peak Halloween dance sat on my counter, calling to me, begging me to open the bag and eat a few pieces. I knew that one piece would lead to many more, and I didn't want that. Instead, I rose from the couch and hid them under the sink. Out of sight, out of mind. Derek and I hadn't discussed going to the dance being held at the community center, but I hoped we would attend. I'd been each year, and it was always a fun time, especially when Mac snuck in his hard cider. Last year, Debbie and I had gone as Burt and Ernie and giggled for hours after imbibing in a few cups.

  My phone vibrated and I picked it up to see a text from Derek. Call you in a bit.

  The wind howled outside and I turned on the television to drown it out. I hated the wind, especially living in such a remote area. It made me think of slasher movies and I imagined bad men with machetes sneaking around my porch, waiting for the perfect time to come through the window and chop me to bits.

  I grabbed my laptop and decided to do a little research on cyanide. Jake Martinez hadn't died quietly. In fact, it appeared to have been a pretty painful experience. When we'd found him, his eyes had been open and his lips blue, covered in white froth.

  According to the CDC, cyanide came in a gas form, as well as crystal. Inhaled or ingested, it could kill you easily. It also could be found in plastic, and that's why no one should ever burn anything made from that material. Symptoms go hand-in-hand with the flu: dizziness, headache, nausea. These were only a few indicators of cyanide poisoning, and I recalled Carla telling me Jake thought he had the flu that night when he arrived at the restaurant. Either he had been sick, or he'd been exposed before he came.

  Large amounts of exposure to cyanide caused convulsions, loss of consciousness, low blood pressure, and eventual respiratory failure.

  No, Jake Martinez hadn't gone quietly into the night. He'd suffered quite a bit, and frankly, I found it difficult to scrounge up any pity for him.

  My phone buzzed beside me and I grinned when I realized it was Derek.

  "Hey!" I answered. "How are you?"

  "I'm tired, but good. How are things there?"

  I leaned back against the couch cushions and stared at the ceiling. "I'm reading about cyanide."

  "Why?"

  "That's what killed Jake."

  "Wow," Derek said with a whistle. "What have you learned?"

  "In big doses, it causes convulsions and respiratory failure."

  "Didn't you mention he had white foam around his mouth?"

  "Yes," I replied, sitting up. "Why?"

  "Well, people get convulsions from drug overdoses, and those cause the foaming at the mouth."

  "The doctor said that when we found him," I replied. "That it may be poisoning or a drug overdose."

  "Honestly, they're very similar. Both can kill you. And let’s face it—drugs are a form of poison."

  I narrowed my gaze as I pet Tinker, who had jumped up on the cushion next to me. "Why do I get the feeling you're speaking from experience? Have you ever overdosed?"

  "Yep. Not a fun time. I've seen it and I've been the one to do it."

  "Oh, Derek," I said with a sigh. "I'm so glad you survived such a horrible time in your life."

  "Me, too."

  "When are you coming home?" I asked, suddenly having the need to grab him and never let go.

  "I'll be leaving here in the early morning, so I'll be there in the afternoon."

  "Jake's funeral is tomorrow. If you're back in time, do you want to go with me?"

  "That sounds like one hot date," Derek said with a chuckle. "But yes, I'll be happy to go with the smartest, prettiest, funniest woman in Oak Peak. What time?"

  My heart beat double time at his words, and I couldn’t stop grinning even if I wanted. "Aww, you're so sweet. We have to be there at three."

  "There shouldn't be any trouble with me being home by then unless there's bad traffic."

  "Great!" I said, truly enthused. "I do have one more question."

  "What's that?"

  "Every year, Oak Peak has a Halloween dance at the community center. It's a lot of fun and I was wondering if you wanted to go together."

  "Do we dress up?"

  "Yes. Tickets are usually fifteen dollars, but you get a discount if you dress up, and then another discount if you bring five cans of food for the homeless shelter in Cedarville. We'll pay seven dollars each."

  Not that it mattered to Derek, but it did to me. Fifteen wasn't a lot of money, but I tended to be frugal as I had to watch where every dollar went.

  "Now that sounds like the kind of date I would love to go on," Derek said. "Will Debbie, Carla, and Mac be joining us?"

  "As far as I know. We haven't really talked about it, but we've all gone together in years past."

  "What
should we go as?"

  "I have some ideas," I said. "We can talk about them when you get home."

  "Perfect. I'm heading to bed so I can get on the road early." He paused for a moment, and I wondered if he'd hung up. "I can't wait to see you, Tilly."

  I grinned at Tinker and pursed my lips together. His words sent goosebumps over my skin. "Me too. Drive safe."

  "I will. Bye."

  Peace settled over me as I stared at my phone, yet, the longing for him sat heavily in my chest. I missed him so.

  "Derek's coming home tomorrow," I announced to Tinker and Belle. "Isn't that fantastic news?"

  Tinker's tail flopped on the cushion while Belle studied me with hooded lids from under the coffee table. "I can tell you two are excited as well."

  I went back to my investigation of cyanide on the CDC website. The stuff was prevalent throughout humans' daily lives. In common food such as almonds, apples, and lima beans. Of course, it was also found in cigarette smoke, which didn't surprise me. However, discovering it occurred naturally in food certainly did.

  "The stuff is everywhere, Tinker," I said. "In the soil and in common things we use every day. Did you know it's used to make paper and develop photographs? I had no idea."

  Darkness had descended outside, and although I was tired, it was far too early for me to go to bed. I felt a little antsy and decided to make some of the banana bread Derek liked so much.

  An hour later, the smell of the baking bread wafted through the house. Tinker now lay on the floor while I did the dishes. Belle had perched herself on the corner of the counter. I didn't like her up there, but frankly, I was tired of fighting her. If I chased her off, she'd only return. We'd been in a standoff over the counter since I’d adopted her.

  "You win that fight, Belly-Belle," I said with a yawn. "Your persistence has paid off. I give up."

  She meowed and stretched out across the tile, as if claiming victory on her space.

  Once the bread was out of the oven and cooling on the counter, I shut Tinker's dog door, turned off the lights, and made sure the locks were all set.