Second Chance at Life

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  “That should be easy, shouldn’t it?” Nathan gave Sid a wry smile.

  “No,” said Sid. “It doesn’t sound easy at all.”

  CHAPTER 65

  Captain Davidson thanked me for letting him borrow Sid and my computer. “May I speak to you in private?” he asked.

  I suggested that we walked outside so I could work on the flowers in the urns. It was a task I’d been putting off. What I called “vinca,” the locals called “periwinkle.” Whatever you called them, the flowers definitely needed to be cut back. I planned to put the severed stems in water, let them send out roots, and pot them up. A cheery cluster of red and pink periwinkles would be a nice start toward making my apartment more inviting.

  “Cara, I have two ongoing murder investigations, and you’re at the center of both of them.” Nathan smiled and leaned against the door jam.

  "Is this some sort of a joke?"

  "Not at all," he said.

  "You know I had nothing to do with Kathy Simmons' death. I wish I'd never sold her that stupid picture."

  "No good deed goes unpunished," he said.

  Then it hit me. "Two murders? Are you telling me that the Senator didn’t die of natural causes?”

  “You can’t talk to anyone about this. Not yet. We haven’t even confirmed it to his widow.”

  “You're blaming me, right? Telling me you consider me a suspect?” I could tell I was on the brink of getting hysterical. And yes, I felt disappointed. Tricked. I’d somehow deluded myself into thinking Nathan liked me! Or at the very least, he respected me. I’d even let Nathan use my computer and Sid’s time.

  Why is it that I have nothing but bad luck when it comes to men?

  “No, I’m not telling you that you are a suspect,” he said. "What I’m saying is that this is a spider’s web, and it’s wrapped around you. You’re in the middle of the trap. It’s too sticky for you to walk away.”

  “Quit talking in riddles,” I said, suddenly angry. I’d let my guard down over dinner and really enjoyed myself. Why was it that every relationship I had with a man ended in disaster? Heck, Nathan Davidson and I hadn’t even gotten to the relationship stage! What was I, the Typhoid Mary of the single set?

  “I’m not being clear,” he said, as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry. Here's the thing: I’m worried about your safety. What we have here is a cunning murderer. Our killer is watching you, maybe even using you. Might even be attempting to frame you. We had an anonymous tip this morning. Someone suggesting you were to blame for Josiah Wentworth’s death. It was a man who called in.”

  “How do I defend myself against that? What do I do?” Panic awakened every cell in my body. Everything was getting to me. My sister’s nasty pranks, finding Kathy Simmons’ body, worrying about my grandfather, knowing my son was upset, it all came crashing down on me. Now Nathan was warning me that someone was willing to up the ante. I swallowed the lump in my throat and told Nathan about the letters I'd been receiving.

  "Did you save any of them?"

  "Of course not," I said. After clearing my throat, I asked, "What can I do? I’m pretty sure they’re from my sister."

  “You can’t do anything. Nothing. Problems like that are my job.”

  “Great, and you’re short-handed.”

  In a flash, he gripped my shoulders. His hold was tight, but not hurtful. His eyes clear and direct. “Cara, I might be short-handed, but I promise you that I won’t let you get blamed for something you didn’t do.”

  The vehemence of his announcement shocked both of us. He let go of me, but his eyes held mine. “I take care of the people who matter to me,” he said, in a husky voice.

  A tingle started low and sparkled upwards.

  Nathan cared about me?

  What difference did it make? I still had to look out for myself.

  “I’m not going to sit back and hope you can keep me safe. Not with two people already dead. What do I need to do?”

  “Are you planning to attend Kathy’s funeral on Monday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going alone?”

  “No.” I explained about Jason Robbins’ invitation.

  “Good. Stick close to him. Don’t go wandering off on your own. I’ll be there. Lou will be there. You should be fine. Do you have your cell phone on you?”

  I handed it over.

  “I’m typing in my personal cell phone number. To get me, all you need to do is push the number nine and hold it. If you see or hear anything, if anyone approaches you in the store, or if something just doesn’t feel right, call me. Any time of the day or night.”

  “Is this about that picture?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I don’t trust coincidences. Ever. The fact that you were bullied into selling a picture of Josiah Wentworth, then the buyer dies, and now the Senator dies, well, it doesn’t smell right.”

  I nodded. “Unfortunately, I’ve had experience with bad smells.”

  CHAPTER 66

  9 a.m. on Sunday

  Stuart Police Department

  ~Lou~

  Lou woke up at his desk to find a sticky note stuck to his face. The last thing he remembered was driving back from the morgue. He could tell he’d been out for a long time. Too long, in fact. In the john, he noticed a weird crease across his face, probably where his skin had rested on his notebook. To top it all off, he felt sluggish. His thinking was thick and muddled, as if he had a hangover.

  Splashing water on his face didn't help much. He went back to his desk. The next shift had started. People were milling around. A few sent covert glances his way. After working up his notes on the interview with Cooper, he dropped them by Captain Davidson’s office, which was empty.

  Lou ran down to the drycleaner, picked up clean clothes, and came back to the station to change. He also had a quick shave. But he couldn’t do anything about the weird imprint on his face. Everyone noticed and snickered.

  He’d just gotten off the phone with a doctor up at Johns Hopkins when Davidson showed up.

  Why didn’t you run home to take a nap?” asked Davidson. “You’re no use to me if you’re too tired to think. This desktop isn’t much of a mattress.”

  “I’m okay,” Lou mumbled, although he wasn’t. His head felt like it had been wrapped in twenty yards of flannel. His shoulders ached from the awkward position he’d assumed. His mouth was dry as a piece of cotton wadding.

  “I’ve been re-reading all your reports. We’re taking a trip to Jupiter Island,” said Davidson. “Meet at my car in five.”

  On the drive to the barrier island, Davidson asked Lou how he felt about the interview with Cooper. “You think he’s holding back?”

  “I do.”

  “What do you want to do next?”

  “That depends. Any luck with Kathy Simmons’ computer?” Lou asked.

  “Not yet. Can't get past the password. Sid promised to keep working on it,” and then Davidson told Lou about the photo. “It’s at the lab right now. They’ll get it back to me later. Once they confirm it’s an original and hasn’t been doctored.”

  “You think there’s a link between Kathy Simmons’ murder and the Senator’s death?” Lou asked.

  “I think it’s too timely to be random.”

  “How do you figure it?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m hoping that once we confirm her husband’s poisoning, Mrs. Wentworth will give us information we can work with. Or at least another 48 hours before she talks to the press.”

  “You know that we can't trust her,” said Lou. “She blamed Dick, Honora, and Cara for the Senator’s death. She said that Cara dosed his iced tea on the day of their visit, and the others were involved. It couldn’t have happened that way. Faraday told me that the Senator was poisoned over a long period of time.”

  Davidson nodded. “Jenny Beth Wentworth tipped her hand. Think about it. She wanted those three people blamed. Immediately. That leaves me wondering, why? Think of it as a clock face. We see th
e numbers, but behind the face is an intricate mechanism. Wheels turning. Cogs meshing with cogs. And a stem winding all this up. So, what’s behind all of this hoopla? All this finger-pointing. She told us right away her husband had been poisoned. How did she know?”

  “Because she did it?” Lou ventured a guess.

  “Or she was in it with someone.”

  “Everything she tells us needs to be checked out,” said Lou. “She even lied about the doctor up at Johns Hopkins. I tracked him down. He told Mrs. Wentworth that her husband had less than a year to live. That was six months ago. But she told us that he had the constitution of an ox! So what's the deal here? How does she benefit from his death?”

  Davidson shook his head. “I don’t know. At least, I don't know yet. None of this makes sense. If Mrs. Wentworth is the one who killed her husband, why didn’t she keep her mouth shut and let us think he died of natural causes? The poison might have slipped past us.”

  “Was she trying to get revenge by blaming the others?” wondered Lou. “Payback for Dick Potter embarrassing her and her husband at the VIP Open House?”

  “Could be, except that ethylene gycol is an unpredictable toxin, right? In other words, this wasn’t a one-and-done sort of poison. The killer couldn’t have predicted when Josiah Wentworth was going to die. So how could Mrs. Wentworth have known that Cara, Honora, or Dick were going to visit on the same day her husband died? She couldn’t have.”

  “Maybe Cara, Honora, and Dick were collateral damage,” said Lou. “They picked the wrong day to visit the Wentworths, and Mrs. Wentworth took advantage of their visit to blame them. But why involve them at all? Isn’t that risky for her?”

  “To distract us from the real killer?” wondered Davidson. “Or to distract us from something else. You ever read up on magicians? How they do their tricks?”

  “No.”

  “They use distractions all the time,” explained Davidson. “You’re watching one piece of rope, and they’re pulling a second rope out of their sleeves. I’m wondering if Mrs. Wentworth blamed three innocent people to steer us in the wrong direction.”

  “That still doesn’t answer the question of why? Why bother to kill a man who’s not long for this earth? Let’s go back to the coincidences. Why would a reporter turn up dead after buying an old photo of the Senator?”

  Davidson said, “I wonder if Jenny Beth Wentworth can tell us who’s in that photo besides her husband.”

  Lou’s mind started jumping around. The lack of sleep rendered him nonlinear. “What about the antifreeze? How do you plan to get your hands on the empty container? If it’s even still around!"

  "She’d be a fool to hang onto something like that," said Davidson. "George Fernandez's people took a lot of photos when they did their search of the house. The empty containers didn't show up in any of them. But I've got something up my sleeve. I'll tell you about it later."

  “What about Dick, Cara, and Honora?”

  “What about them? If we find evidence that links them to the crime, we’ll follow up. I can only operate within the rule of law.” Davidson adjusted his sunglasses as they drove through the tunnel of ficus trees leading to the island proper. “That said, Mrs. Wentworth knows she has me in a tough spot. On one hand, I have to seem sympathetic to the grieving wife of a prominent man. On the other, I have to investigate her husband’s murder. It’s a real Catch-22. As it stands, I’ve only got one more day to figure this thing out before she blows the lid off it. If I take a wrong step, my career could go up in smoke.”

  An uneasy silence filled the car.

  Lou thought his boss had finished talking. It surprised him when Davidson added, “If she thinks she’s got me over a barrel, and I’m going to do nothing, she’s got another think coming.”

  CHAPTER 67

  "Let me take the lead,” said Davidson, after pushing the doorbell.

  "No problem. It’s all yours.” Lou was happy to step aside.

  LaTisha Johnson answered the door. Although she hadn’t changed much since he’d last seen her, Lou noted she’d adopted a beaten-down posture. She wouldn’t even look him in the eyes. That made him sad. He’d thought of her as a survivor, a woman who would pick herself up and start over. Maybe he’d been wrong.

  LaTisha ushered them into the foyer, after giving Lou a nod of greeting. The house smelled overpoweringly of lilies. Every wall was lined with a piece of furniture. All were crammed with knickknacks. The effect was claustrophobic. “Please wait here, " she said, before hurrying down the hall.

  A door opened, closed, and opened at the far end of the house. A middle-aged woman tottered toward them in high heels. She wore a crisp gray skirt and white blouse. Her bifocals were perched on the tip of her nose, and a yellow pencil was tucked behind her ear. In short, she was a stereotype come to life.

  She introduced herself. "I am Melinda Brosnan, Mrs. Wentworth's personal assistant. She's very busy right now with finalizing arrangements for the Senator's funeral and memorial service. I suggest that you call for an appointment and—"

  "Captain Nathan Davidson." He displayed his badge. "I’m here on official police business. I need to see Mrs. Wentworth."

  "Sorry, but she can't—"

  “I realize this is inconvenient, but Mrs. Wentworth asked that I personally get involved. Director Fernandez is on his way. Now would you like to take me to see your boss, or should I go find her myself? It's your call, Miranda."

  "Melinda,” she corrected him.

  "Melinda."

  "Wait here," she said. The clicking of her heels on the cold tile suggested that Melinda was not amused. A few minutes later, Fernandez joined them, along with Detective Joliffe from the Martin County Sheriff’s Department. “The walls have ears,” Fernandez said. Lou, Joliffe, and Davidson nodded, catching his drift.

  Melinda returned, nodding to them with a brusque, "Follow me."

  The men were ushered into a room, paneled heavily in a dark wood, totally at odds with its Florida setting. The place smelled musty.

  Instead of suggesting that they take a seat, Melinda said, “Mrs. Wentworth will be with you shortly.” The sneer on her face indicated she was not happy about the intrusion.

  Lou was always interested in other people’s reading materials. He did a slow turn, trying to scan the titles of the books. The collection was highly regimented with books arranged by color and size. The library was more of a statement than an invitation, and the message was clear: The person who owns this is a well-read man. Intrigued, Lou bent to observe one of the books closer. He tugged at the spine. It wouldn’t come lose. It had been glued in place.

  Fernandez coughed to hide a laugh.

  Joliffe turned away.

  Davidson’s eyes twinkled.

  "At least he was trying to look well read,” said Showalter. “Got to give the Senator points for knowing he was supposed to be an educated man.”

  “I guess the Senator’s decorator didn’t want anyone messing around with his books,” said Lou, admitting defeat.

  "Did you notice the computer has been switched out recently?" Davidson asked. "See? There's a pullout tray for the keyboard of a desktop, and a dent in the carpet where the hard drive must have been sitting. But instead of a desktop, there's only a laptop. Interesting, eh?"

  The door opened to reveal Jenny Beth Wentworth wearing a black dress. Pinned to one shoulder was an enormous diamond and pearl brooch. Mrs. Wentworth kept her eyes on the floor, as she moved forward at a cadence as slow as it was theatrical. Behind her, at a respectful distance, came Melinda and a bulked-up guy who looked like an ad for steroids.

  "Have you come to tell me that my husband was poisoned?” Mrs. Wentworth said. “I already knew that. Or have you arrested my husband’s killer? Or killers? I certainly hope so. This is hardly the time for a social call."

  "We need a few minutes of your time, ma’am,” Fernandez said. "It's important."

  "Phillip? Don't just stand there. Get me that chair I like."

&nb
sp; Phillip walked over and reached for the chair with both hands. It should have been easy for a man so muscle-bound, but when he went to move it, he winced in pain. Stepping back, he gripped his forearm and rubbed it slowly. On a second approach, he leg-walked it over to where his employer stood. Mrs. Wentworth sank into its rich tapestry.

  She peered up at Fernandez, as though the weight on her shoulders was too burdensome to bear. “The only reason I’m willing to give you the time of day is because I want to hear is that my husband’s murderers are being hauled off to jail. Have you come to tell me that? I’m a busy woman. The President of the United States called me only minutes ago. He wants to deliver the eulogy for Josiah. A delegation from the UN would like to come and say a few words. I have people calling from all over the world. You see? I don’t have time for this!”

  "We'll make this quick, Mrs. Wentworth,” said Davidson, stepping forward. “The medical examiner has confirmed that you were right. Your husband was poisoned.”

  “Of course he was!” she shrieked. “One minute he’s fine, and the next he’s thrashing about on the tile. What else could it be? I told you he’d been poisoned. I even told you who did it. I even allowed Mr. Fernandez to search my house because I wanted to prove that there was nothing here that could have been used to hurt my poor, dear husband! Fine police officers you are! I've done most of your job for you. And you still haven't arrested those people!”

  “We can’t make an arrest until we have proof,” said Davidson.

  “You don’t need any more proof. I gave him,” and she pointed at Fernandez, “the glass that my poor Josiah drank out of. You have witnesses. LaTisha and I were both here. What is that old saying? Means, motive, and opportunity? You have all three!”

  “We have the means. Ethylene gycol, commonly known as antifreeze,” said Fernandez. "But we did not find a container like that on the premises."

  "Of course it wouldn't be on the premises. What nonsense!" she said, as she threw up her hands.

  “I’m unclear about the motive,” said Davidson.