Playing With Poison Page 2

  Well, no wonder we were distracted. Two vans from the local TV station were parked in front of The Stone Fountain and were disgorging people and equipment at an alarming rate. The news crew spent some time filming who knows what on Sullivan Street, but everyone appeared even more agitated when Gina Stone arrived to open the bar for Sunday brunch.

  She tried to keep Channel 15 from following her inside, but she didn’t have much luck. Everyone and everything, other than the vans themselves, disappeared into The Stone Fountain.

  “What was that all about?” I asked Snowflake.

  The cat didn’t answer, but why was I sure it had something to do with Stanley?

  A knock on my door pulled me out of my reverie. “Maybe it’s Prince Char—”

  I blinked at the cat. “Never mind.”

  Captain Rye was leaning on the doorframe when I got there. He presented quite a commanding figure, but I stood my ground and blocked his entry.

  “It’s Sunday morning,” I offered as a greeting.

  “I’m aware of that, Ms. Hewitt, and I’m sorry to disturb you. May I come in?”

  “When can I have my couch back?”

  “We have a problem. May I come in?”

  “Do I have a choice?” I waved him inside and toward an easy chair, but my desk caught his attention, and he wandered over in that direction instead.

  It was irritating, but I really couldn’t blame the guy. My desk occupies the best spot in the condo, where the row of south-facing windows intersects with the row of west-facing windows. From there I can watch all the activity at the corner of Sullivan and Vine Streets, and also have a view of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance.

  Rye put his hands on his hips and stared down at Sullivan Street, affording me ample opportunity to notice the holster and gun under his suit jacket. I whimpered only slightly and joined him at the window.

  Two women pushing baby carriages were crossing Vine Street. And Fiona Greeley, the woman who manages the artists’ co-op next to The Stone Fountain, was on a ladder installing a banner over her doorway. An old man shod in dark socks and sandals stopped to watch her progress, and she enlisted him to hold one end of the banner while she tacked up the other.

  “You like it here?” Rye asked.

  “I do. Clarence is just the right size city—not too big, not too small.” I watched the kindly old man help Fiona off the ladder. “And I love living downtown.”

  I pointed to Fiona. “I bought all the paintings of sunflowers and daisies you see in here at that gallery.” I moved my hand toward The Stone Fountain. “And I love that bar. It’s in such a great building, don’t you think?”

  The Stone Fountain occupied the ground floor of an old brick warehouse similar to the building I lived in. Instead of condos, that one had been converted into retail and office space.

  “Sweetzer was spotted there last night,” Rye told me.

  “I thought so.” I pointed out the Channel 15 vans, and Captain Rye groaned. “Are they a problem?” I asked.

  “You do know about Jimmy Beak and his crew?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t watch much TV.”

  “Well then, you’re smart. Beak’s a menace. He and his supposed news team don’t think they’re doing their job unless they’re getting in my way and screwing up whatever investigation I have going.”

  He cocked an eyebrow in my direction. “Be careful, Ms. Hewitt. They’re bound to be up here harassing you before long.”

  “What? You didn’t tell them about me?”

  “Absolutely not. But someone down there is bound to mention Ms. Poppe. I guarantee Jimmy Beak will be figuring out where Sweetzer died soon enough.

  “Which reminds me.” His tone changed. “When do you plan on putting a lock on that door downstairs? Anyone and his brother has access to this building. You realize that?”

  Yes, I did. It was kind of hard to forget, what with Rye’s constant reminders.

  “You should get a lock,” he continued lecturing. “You’ll see what I mean when Beak comes knocking at your door.”

  As if on cue, the news crew emerged from the bar. A very tall guy in a plaid suit ran into the street and started waving both arms at our building. Rye and I jumped away from the window as the man carrying the camera lifted it in our direction.

  “Is that him?” I asked. “The guy in plaid?”

  “Steer clear.”

  I folded my arms and thought about it. “Stanley must have been over there waiting for Candy last night.”

  Rye glanced down at me. “Before he came up here?”

  “Well, clearly it wasn’t after he came up here.”

  We stepped even further from the window, and Rye again noticed my desk. He touched nothing, but seemed to be taking a mental inventory of what was there—my laptop and a clutter of papers, pens, and sticky notes.

  Eventually his gaze landed on the nearby bookshelf, and again the mental inventory. The poor guy. To the uninitiated, my masterpieces must all look the same—inch thick paperbacks with lots of pastels and flowers decorating their spines.

  He pulled out one of the tomes and studied it. “What exactly do you do for a living?”

  I reached over and tapped the cover. “That’s me.”

  He lowered the book to look at me. “Say what?”

  I took a closer glance and understood why the man was so incredulous. I had pointed to a buxom—no, let’s be accurate—very buxom, youthful redhead wearing a pink petticoat and looking more than sufficiently ravished by the muscular hunk gently caressing her swooning and lithe body.

  I jabbed my finger at the name below the woman’s bodice. “I’m Adelé Nightingale.”

  “You mean, you actually read this stuff?” Rye was still perplexed.

  Again, I pointed to my name, clearly printed in metallic pink script. “No,” I said, “I write this stuff. Adelé Nightingale’s my pen name.”

  “Adelé Nightingale.” He took another look at the book and read out loud, “A Deluge of Desire.” He turned it over and read the back cover. “You mean, you actually write this stuff?”

  I crossed my arms and glared. “Yes, I actually do. Believe it or not, my steamy sex scenes are the stuff of legend in romance circles. I’m damn good.”

  A slow grin made its way across his face. “Oh, Ms. Hewitt, I’m sure you are.”

  I grabbed the book and jammed it back on the shelf. “What is it you want, Captain?”

  He lost the grin and pulled a tape player out of his suit pocket. “We need to talk,” he said and placed the machine on the two inches of clear space on my desk.

  Snowflake moved from her perch on the windowsill to the top of my computer, where she had better access to the new gadget. She tapped it with her paw while I stared at it, aghast.

  “Are you recording this?” I forced myself to ask.

  “No, but your conversation with the dispatcher last night got recorded. It’s standard procedure.”

  “Oh?”

  “And I’d like you to hear it.”

  Rye hit the play button, and we listened as the dispatcher answered my call of distress. She asked what type of emergency I had, and I said a murder. Then she asked me where, and I told her my couch.

  “The address, ma’am,” she said. “I need the address.”

  I gave her that, and after getting a few more details about Stanley, she told me to stay with the body until help arrived.

  “Great idea,” I had said sarcastically before hanging up.

  Rye stopped the tape and stared at me.

  “What?” I asked. “Isn’t that exactly how I explained it last night? As I recall, it took us hours to go over what that dispatcher got out of me in a mere minute or two.”

  “How did you know he was murdered?”

  I blinked twice. “Excuse me?”

  He slipped the tape player back in his pocket. “You agree that you point blank told the dispatcher Stanley Sweetzer was murdered?”

  “Yes?” My heart had
started beating way too fast.

  “But there was no blood, no gunshot wounds, no stab wounds, the guy wasn’t beaten up. Nothing.” He paused. “So how did you know it was murder?”

  I turned and walked away before the cop could notice that my hands were shaking. How had I known it was murder?

  ***

  “You don’t have to be nervous, Ms. Hewitt.”

  Rye had followed me into the living room, and we were now sitting across from each other. We may have been in easy chairs, but trust me, we were not relaxed. How could anyone relax with his pesky, pesky, question hanging over us?

  “I have no idea how I knew.” I forced myself to meet his gaze. “I’m a writer, okay? I have more intuition than the average person. I know things about people. Really, I do. I’m not lying.”

  “There’s no reason to be nervous.”

  Why did he keep saying that?

  I hesitated and then just blurted it out, “Do you think I killed Stanley?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Probably?” I squeaked.

  “But what I think doesn’t matter if that’s where the evidence leads us. You understand that?”

  I failed to answer, since I was too busy remembering how to breath.

  “Since you’re so sure it was murder,” he continued relentlessly, “what killed him? Your intuition tell you that?”

  I stared at my bare feet and lamented my unprofessional appearance. Maybe if I were wearing a business suit, this cop would be less inclined to accuse me of murder. But there I was, impersonating Huck Finn yet again.

  “Ms. Hewitt?”

  I looked up. “Stanley Sweetzer was poisoned.”

  Rye stared at me as if I had suddenly turned green and sprouted antennae from my forehead.

  “Well?” I said. “He was, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, he was.” He kept staring. Apparently my antennae had started growing. “Now do you see the problem? How do you know all this?”

  “What? You think I know because I’m the one who did it? Get a grip, Captain. What possible reason could I have for killing Stanley?”

  Rye didn’t answer, so I insisted again, “I had no motive. You can’t arrest me without a motive.”

  “I’m not here to arrest you.”

  Thank you, God.

  “However, someone who had a mind to might be able to argue a motive.”

  I sat up and braced myself for who knows what. “Okay, enlighten me,” I said. “What is this supposed motive?”

  “Jealousy.”

  “Jealousy! Jealousy of what?”

  “Of Ms. Poppe.”

  I offered Rye the glare he so richly deserved. “That, sir, is absurd. Absolutely absurd.”

  He held my eye. “It’s conceivable—conceivable mind you—that you were jealous of your friend’s love life.” I glared harder, but still failed to discourage him. “It’s happened before. A lonely woman—let’s say, a woman of a certain age—”

  “I’m fifty two,” I interrupted. “And I am not lonely.”

  Rye hesitated a moment before continuing, “—sees a younger woman with a rich and handsome boyfriend, and she gets jealous.”

  I crossed my arms so as not to slap him. “Are you always this charming?” I asked.

  The captain winced, which was satisfying indeed. That is, until Snowflake jumped onto his lap. He stroked the cat from head to tail, and she purred accordingly.

  “I’m sorry,” he said to me, “but it looks bad. Especially considering your choice of career.”

  “Excuse me? What are you talking about now?”

  “Any prosecutor worth his salt would have a heyday with the kind of stuff you write. They would argue you have an overactive imagination when it comes to these things.”

  “I’m a hack, Captain. A hack! I write stories just for fun. No one in their right mind takes them seriously.”

  No response.

  “Oh, for Lord’s sake.” I threw my hands in the air. “Now you’re wondering if I’m in my right mind, aren’t you?”

  After enduring a few more uncomfortable seconds of silence, I decided to ask a few questions myself. “Okay, so how exactly was Stanley poisoned?” I held up my hand. “No, no, let me re-phrase that. How exactly did I go about poisoning the guy?”

  Rye focused on the cat. “I’m not at liberty to tell you that,” he mumbled. “I will say, though,” he spoke up, “that homicide by poisoning is pretty uncommon nowadays. But for a nonviolent woman of a certain age—”

  “Use that phrase one more time, Captain, and I will demonstrate homicide for you.”

  Rye took a deep breath. “Can we have some tea?” he asked.

  Tea! Was the man insane?

  “Are you insane?” I didn’t wait for a reply. “You come in here and call me an ugly, old, bitch murderer, and then expect me to serve you tea?”

  “I never said you were ugly.”

  ***

  I closed my eyes and prayed for strength.

  When I opened them again, I ascertained that Rye had not miraculously disappeared. I sighed dramatically and got up to make the damn tea as he took his barstool from the night before.

  “Tell me about the other people who live here,” he asked as I put the kettle on.

  “Karen Sembler and Peter Harrison live on the first floor.” I banged around getting our cups, et cetera. “This whole building used to belong to Mr. Harrison. When he retired he had it converted into condos to make some money. At least that’s my understanding.”

  “You bought this place from him?”

  “I did. I never dealt with him personally—the realtors handled it—but he was the seller.”

  I poured the tea and shoved a cup in front of Rye. He offered an extremely polite thank you, but I continued to bang things around anyway. “That’s all I can tell you about Mr. Harrison. He’s very old and very reclusive.”

  “He gives piano lessons down there?”

  It dawned on me that Rye had already talked to my neighbors. I ceased all the unnecessary activity and tried to calm down. “The only time I ever even see Mr. Harrison is if I happen to be in the lobby when he opens his door and a piano student pops in or out.”

  “And Karen Sembler?”

  “Karen’s become a good friend.” I somehow sensed the need to defend her. “She works at home, too. She’s more or less converted her condo into a workshop. And she has a nice-sized private yard. She needs it to do all her welding and such.”

  “She told me she’s a carpenter.”

  “Karen’s an everything. She can build or fix anything. But mostly she builds fancy furniture for all the interior decorators down in Charlotte.”

  “What about her personal life?”

  “What about it?” I asked defiantly. “Do you think she was jealous of Candy, too? Maybe we were in on Stanley’s murder together? Is that it?”

  “Answer the question, please.”

  I petted Snowflake, who had jumped onto the counter and was pacing back and forth between us. “Okay, so I really don’t know that much about Karen’s personal life. She values her privacy.” I caught Rye’s eye. “As do I.”

  “Is she involved with anyone?”

  “You’re very nosey. Do you know that?”

  “Yep. And what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Are you involved with anyone, Ms. Hewitt?”

  “That, sir, is none of your business.”

  “I’m investigating a murder. Everything’s my business.” He pointed to my chest. “Where’d you get that?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your shirt,” he said. “It belongs to a man. So did the one last night.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Would you give me a break? This stupid shirt is at least ten years old.”

  “You remember where you got it?”

  “Once upon a time, it belonged to my ex-husband, if you must know.”

  “Oh, really?” Rye seemed far too intrigued.

&nbs
p; “Read whatever you want into that, Captain. But I assure you—it’s just a shirt.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  I drank my tea and wondered if the ordeal would ever end. Apparently not, since Rye insisted on hearing about my neighbors on the second floor. Oh well. At least we were moving away from the altogether depressing topic of my love life.

  I explained that Candy Poppe and Bryce Dixon both rented from Mr. Harrison. “Bryce is in 2A above Karen, and Candy has 2B. You’ve already questioned Candy, correct?”

  “I’ve talked to everyone here, but right now I’m interested in your perspective.”

  “Well then, you know how much I care about Candy. I like Bryce, too.” I confirmed what Rye had already learned for himself—that Bryce Dixon is about Candy’s age, and a perpetual student.

  “He just switched majors again,” I said. “Something to do with business this time. And he tends bar at The Stone Fountain. Candy, Karen, and I are over there a lot.”

  “He ever involved with Ms. Poppe?”

  I shook my head. “They’re just friends, as far as I know. As far as I know, Candy’s never dated Mr. Harrison, either.”

  “Or Dixon?”

  “No, Bryce hasn’t dated Mr. Harrison, either.”

  “Ms. Hewitt,” he scolded. “Can’t you try to help me out here? Please?”

  I rolled my eyes for the umpteenth time. “Okay, here’s the rundown on everyone’s love life.” I counted my neighbors off on my fingers, starting with my thumb. “I do believe Peter Harrison lives like a celibate monk. As does Karen.” I held up my index finger and kept thinking. “And you know what? So does Bryce.” Middle finger. I looked at the cat and raised my ring finger and pinky. “I suppose I better put myself in that category, too. And Snowflake.”

  I slapped the counter. “There, so you see? Every single one of us must have been living vicariously through Candy Poppe’s love life.”

  Rye ignored the sarcasm. “Bryce Dixon’s the only neighbor not from around here? Is that right?”

  “Other than me,” I said. “Karen and Candy even went to the same high school. At different times, though. Karen graduated about ten years before Candy. And I assume Mr. Harrison’s family has been here since before dirt. Bryce is from some small town in Missouri. He was just home for vacation.”