Playing With Poison Page 5

  “Man, this is incredible.” He waved an arm at the various flower pots surrounding us. “Did you do all this?”

  I stood up and made a show of moving to the opposite bench. “Are you flirting with me or arresting me, Captain Rye?” I folded my arms and glared. “Make up your mind.”

  While Rye made up his mind, Snowflake hopped onto the spot I had just vacated. I glared at her, too.

  “I’m not arresting you,” he said eventually.

  “Oh, so you didn’t find the poison then?” I do believe he caught the sarcasm.

  “I’m ninety-nine percent—” He stopped and corrected himself. “I’m ninety percent sure you’re not the murderer.”

  “Gee thanks.”

  He tossed the plastic bag he was holding onto my lap. I glanced down and recognized the five or six brochures of bogus companies Stanley had given me over the past few weeks.

  “I thought I recycled those,” I mumbled.

  “Getting rid of evidence doesn’t help your cause, Ms. Hewitt. We check recycling. And garbage.”

  “Lovely.”

  “You need to tell me the exact nature of your relationship with Sweetzer. The whole story this time.”

  I reminded him I had no relationship with Sweetzer, and we had ourselves a little stare down.

  Rye leaned forward and offered his sternest cop-like look. “I might think you’re innocent,” he said quietly. “But the chief of police—my boss—does not. So this is where we’re stuck, and where Jimmy Beak is stuck, until you level with me.” He sat back. “You get it, lady?”

  Okay, so maybe I did. I took a deep breath and blurted it out. “Stanley was trying to sell me some stocks. He used to visit me when Candy was at work.”

  Rye turned to Snowflake. “Now she tells me.”

  “But nothing happened,” I insisted. “Stanley came by three or four times. I listened to his stupid sales pitch and accepted his stupid brochures. I never gave him any money.” I tossed the bag of brochures back to Rye. “I was just trying to be polite,” I continued. “He was Candy’s boyfriend after all. But his act got old pretty quickly.”

  “What act?”

  “Stanley tried to charm me out of my money, Captain. Apparently he thought a lonely old bitch like me would be flattered by the attention.” I raised an eyebrow. “Sound familiar?”

  “I never actually called you a lonely old bitch.”

  “Gee thanks.”

  Rye frowned. “Why all the secrecy? Why not tell me this sooner?”

  “Because I am sick of discussing my private affairs—” I stopped and tried again. “Of discussing my finances with men. First of all, I’ve just gone through an extremely contentious divorce. Other than Snowflake, I had to fight for everything I took away from my twenty years of marriage.”

  Rye glanced at Snowflake, as if verifying I had custody.

  I continued, “I survived that ordeal, only to get Stanley Sweetzer harassing me about money. And then you come along asking all kinds of personal questions, implying I’m guilty of who knows what.”

  My voice had been rising steadily throughout my diatribe, and I practically shouted as I thought of one more issue. “Oh, and let’s not forget Densmore! Who is probably, right this very moment, talking to my ex-husband. My ex, for Lord’s sake!” I waved my arms in exasperation. “So much for the right to privacy.”

  Rye, of course, was watching me. After calmly witnessing my minor breakdown, he calmly thanked me for my honesty.

  I closed my eyes and prayed for strength.

  “Speaking of my privacy.” I opened my eyes. “What exactly is in this file Stanley had on me?”

  “He knew where you do your banking, and where you hold your mutual funds.”

  “I suppose he also knew my bank balance?”

  Rye named a figure, and I almost fell off the bench.

  “Accurate?” he asked.

  It was the exact amount of my divorce settlement. Ian had gotten the house, and I had gotten a lump sum of cash. I reluctantly explained the details to Rye.

  “But how did Stanley know all this?” I asked.

  “You ever confide in Candy Poppe?”

  “No way. I haven’t discussed my divorce settlement with anyone. Until now.”

  “Well then, that’s another mystery to solve.”

  I wracked my brains for some explanation of Stanley’s sixth sense.

  “How much money—cash—do you have in your house right now?” Rye asked me.

  “Didn’t you guys just search my wallet?”

  “Humor me.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe fifty dollars?”

  “You have forty-six and some change.”

  “And this is significant how?”

  “Stanley Sweetzer had a little over twenty-seven thousand dollars cash in his apartment the night he died.” I sat up straight and Rye nodded. “Intriguing, huh?”

  “Maybe he gambled,” I said without thinking.

  Rye looked at me with even more interest than usual. “You know something from Ms. Poppe about this?”

  I shook my head. “Candy’s pretty innocent and naive. She’d never imagine anyone gambling like that.”

  “How come you imagine it?”

  Oops.

  I decided to use the same excuse I had given the day before. “Intuition.” I tapped my temple. “I’m a writer, remember?”

  Rye chuckled. “Oh, Ms. Hewitt, I’m not apt to forget that. I have read A Deluge of Desire, after all.”

  The numerous scenes of unbridled passion between Devon Larkin and Chase Gable, the energetic and enthusiastic stars of Deluge, came floating back to me.

  “Take your mind off it, Captain.”

  “You’re one to talk. From what I can tell, you make a living putting people’s minds on it.”

  “There’s more to my books than the sex, you know?” I actually said this with a straight face. “But then again, how would you know? Since, as you say, you only read the good parts.”

  “Twice.”

  Chapter 6

  “So!” I sprang up and decided it was time for a stroll. “How do you like my garden?”

  “I love your garden.” Rye stood also, and we began pacing the roof. It was a perfect day to be up there—late August, a bit breezy, sunny, but not too hot.

  “Did you do all this?” he asked, and I explained that the garden was my idea, but that my neighbors had pitched in also.

  I pointed out the wrought iron railing around the perimeter of the roof. “That was the first step—making it safe to be up here. Karen said she’d install it if I paid for it. She also made our fountain.” I waved at the old fashioned bathtub on claw feet Karen had converted into a water feature.

  “What about all the plants?”

  I looked around with a fresh eye and had to agree the garden looked fantastic. “I like yellow flowers,” I said. “So I started with a few daisies and marigolds. But Candy’s so sweet. She keeps bringing home more and more.” I pointed to a yellow hibiscus. “That’s my current favorite.”

  I pointed again. “I hunted the antique shops for those big urns and the benches. And Bryce is our muscle. He got everything up here. No easy feat, considering the elevator doesn’t make it to the roof, even when it is working.”

  Rye had wandered toward the skylight above my kitchen. “You’re not worried your neighbors can spy on you from up here?”

  “Not really.” I walked over, and we gazed down at my stove. “I don’t make a habit of sunbathing naked down there.” We moved to the skylight over my desk. “And I doubt anyone’s all that interested in watching me sit at my computer.”

  “You guys really need to start locking the front door. Anyone and his brother could get up here.”

  “Now, where have I heard that before?” I promised I would look into it and headed toward the stairwell. “What’s next?” I asked.

  Rye hesitated. “You’re not gonna like it.”

  “I hate it when you say
that.”

  “Stanley Sweetzer made out a will the week before he died.”

  I stopped and turned at the top of the stairs. “And?”

  “And your friend Ms. Poppe is the sole beneficiary.”

  He was watching me for a reaction, so I decided it was best not to have one. I called to Snowflake and kept my eyes on her as she hopped down from Karen’s railing and took her sweet time to come to me. Still conscious of Rye’s gaze, I led the two of them down the stairs.

  “Good for Candy,” I said over my shoulder. “I’m sure she deserves it.”

  “Do you think she knew about that twenty-seven thousand dollars?”

  “I don’t like what you’re implying, Captain.” We had reached my door. “Besides, Candy has an alibi for Saturday night. She was at work.”

  “No, she wasn’t.”

  “What?”

  “Densmore’s checked into it. She took close to a two-hour dinner break that night.”

  What? My mind raced back to Saturday. I had actually seen Candy at Tate’s that afternoon. And then, that night, after Stanley had died? Candy had told me she was at work the whole evening. I furrowed my brow. Hadn’t she?

  “Ms. Hewitt?”

  I glanced up. “Candy must have an explanation,” I said with conviction.

  “If she does, she’s refusing to talk about it. She told Densmore it’s too embarrassing.”

  “So let me get this straight.” I spoke slowly. “If I’m not the murderer, my friend Candy must be? You have a lot of nerve, you know that?”

  Rye didn’t respond, and we stood there glaring at each other until we both got tired. I finally gave up and walked inside, but then something else occurred to me.

  “What exactly killed Stanley, anyway?” I faced Rye again. “What was this poison you were looking for?”

  “You didn’t read that warrant very carefully, Ms. Hewitt. Phenobarbital. Sweetzer died from a combination of Phenobarbital poisoning and alcohol. Those Long Island Iced Teas he was so fond of didn’t help him any.”

  “They’re the house specialty over there.” I tilted my head in the direction of The Stone Fountain. “They’re pretty potent.”

  “Especially when they’re mixed with Phenobarbital.”

  I asked about Phenobarbital, and Rye explained the basics of barbiturates. Apparently, someone as young and healthy as Stanley would have to consume massive amounts of the stuff to be killed by it.

  “Which leads to another question,” he said. “Where’d the killer get the drugs? Forensics informs me Phenobarbital’s not that easy to come by these days. It’s seldom prescribed anymore.”

  I leaned on my doorframe and thought about Stanley. “So, we think someone slipped this barbiturate stuff into his drink that night?”

  “Yes, Ms. Hewitt. That’s what we think.” He emphasized the we.

  “And then he walked all the way across Sullivan Street and up three flights of stairs to die on my couch?”

  “That, or else he was poisoned over here.” Rye peeked around me and into my living room.

  I told him he was giving me a headache and shut the door.

  ***

  Desperate for an Advil, I headed to the bathroom, where further trauma awaited. Not only had Rye failed to scoop out Snowflake’s litter box, but the bottle of Advil in my medicine cabinet wasn’t expired—it was empty. I went downstairs to beg some pain reliever from Candy. No one was home, so I tried Karen instead.

  Bless her heart, she answered her door in typical Karen fashion—wearing goggles and work gloves, and holding a few scraps of sandpaper. She stepped aside to let me in and I noticed the smell of raw wood. Karen’s perfume.

  “What’s up, Jess?” She took off her gloves and slipped the goggles onto the top of her head.

  I explained my purpose, and she went to fetch some Advil, leaving me standing in the midst of what should have been her living room. But in reality the room is part of Karen’s workshop. On that particular day an enormous four-poster bed that would have seemed cramped even in my bedroom stood in the middle of the room.

  The bed and matching six-foot tall dresser were surrounded by an even scarier assortment of power tools. I recognized a drill, but would need a lesson on whatever else was lying around.

  “It’s hideous, isn’t it?” Karen had emerged from the bathroom and handed me a bottle of generic Ibuprofen.

  I continued staring at the bed. “It would be beautiful if it were ten sizes smaller. Why do people want furniture anywhere near that big?”

  She shrugged and a few tools on her tool belt clanged together. “Heck, I don’t know. But I’m making a small fortune on that eyesore.

  “Let’s get you some water,” she said and led me into the kitchen. Other than the sink, which looked like it belonged in a garage, this room was almost normal. I sat down at the table while she washed her hands and came over with two glasses of ice water.

  “You’re looking a little frazzled there, girlfriend. What’s up?”

  “Captain Rye is up.”

  She raised an eyebrow and I took a pill.

  “He searched my place this morning,” I grumbled. “Believe it or not, he actually had a warrant.”

  “Did he find anything?”

  “Karen!”

  “Relax, will you? At least he didn’t arrest you.”

  “Thank God for small favors.” I reached for a second pill and spoke to my water glass. “He searched my underwear drawer.”

  “Oh boy.”

  “The poor man has probably never seen so much lace in his life.”

  Karen let out a hoot. “Candy Poppe strikes again. If it makes you feel any better, he’d find about the same in my dresser.” She tilted her head. “Maybe I should invite him over sometime?”

  “Yeah, right. Don’t take this wrong, Karen, but you don’t strike me as a woman who’s hiding anything more than a few pairs of cotton waist highs in her underwear drawer.”

  “But you’re forgetting I’ve been neighbors with Candy for three years.” She tapped her tool belt. “You simply can’t imagine how much lace is lurking under here.”

  I mumbled that I had a vague idea.

  Karen rested her elbows on the table and looked at me. “So, like, you didn’t happen to watch the news this morning?”

  “I will not give Jimmy Beak the satisfaction.”

  “That’s probably for the best.”

  Something in her tone revived my headache. “What?” I had to ask. “What did he do this time?”

  “He read an excerpt from one of your books.” Karen waited to see if I would explode before continuing, “The one with that picture of you on the back cover. You know, with the grey hair?”

  I closed my eyes and prayed for strength.

  “They put a picture of Stanley on the screen, too, and Jimmy read your description of some character named Lance Votive.”

  I groaned and dropped my head onto the table. “Votaw,” I said to the Formica.

  “Huh?”

  “Lance Votaw,” I repeated. “He’s the hero of Windswept Whispers.”

  “Yeah, well, anyway. Jimmy implied that you based this Lance Votaw guy on Stanley.” I started banging my head as she continued, “Because you were obsessed with Stanley.”

  She reached over and lifted my chin. “Can I get you some more drugs, Jess?”

  I sat up. “You know what’s really absurd? Jimmy Beak and Wilson Rye both stayed up last night, reading my books.”

  Karen shrugged. “Hey, maybe they learned something.”

  I glanced out the window and watched the lunch crowd file into The Stone Fountain.

  “Umm, Karen?” I ventured. “Did Stanley ever approach you?”

  Her shoulders stiffened. “What about?”

  “About making some investments?”

  She groaned and reached for the Advil.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Did you give him any money?”

  “What do you think?” She swallowed a pill. �
��How about you?”

  “My father taught me never to gamble on anyone’s talent but my own.”

  “That rules out Stanley then.”

  “Did he visit you?” I asked. “When Candy wasn’t around?”

  She got up to refill our water glasses, and I apologized for being so nosey. “I’ve gotten so used to Rye’s rude questions, I’ve forgotten my manners.”

  “Stanley came over once or twice.” She handed me my glass. “But I always kicked him out. The guy was way too slick for my taste.”

  “Can’t you just see it?” I asked. “He’d bug you, get nowhere, and then come upstairs to bother me. Lord help me, I actually served him tea!”

  Karen shook her head at me. “You need to get over that southern manners thing, Jess. You’re way too hospitable.”

  “And you’re not?” I pointed to the plate of Oreos she had set before me, and she told me to eat a damn cookie.

  “At least I didn’t offer Rye any tea today,” I said in my own defense. “You know, when he was serving me the warrant?”

  “Way to be tough, girlfriend.” She pointed me toward another Oreo and took two for herself.

  We spent a few moments eating cookies and gazing out her window. Bryce was crossing Sullivan Street on his way to work.

  “I wonder if Stanley bothered him, too,” I said.

  “What for? Bryce can barely pay his rent most months. Stanley had bigger fish to fry.” Karen turned back to me. “Does Rye really still suspect you, Jess?”

  “He says he’s ninety percent sure I’m innocent. Reassuring, no?”

  “But that’s great. He’s looking into other possibilities, then?”

  “Candy Poppe,” I said.

  “Oh boy.”

  I thought about Candy. Okay, so she wasn’t exactly the epitome of the grieving girlfriend. And then there was Stanley’s will to consider. And the twenty-seven thousand in cash, and Candy’s extra-long dinner break on Saturday night.

  I caught Karen’s eye. “You don’t think she could have done it?”

  “No way.” Karen seemed confident. “But she did have a motive.”

  “What!?”

  “Think about it, Jess. If Stanley had lived, and Candy had married him, our little Kiddo would have gone through life as Candy Poppe-Sweetzer.” She took the last Oreo and twisted it open. “It’s enough to drive any woman to murder.”