Playing With Poison Page 6

  Chapter 7

  And where was Candy anyway? I called her several times that afternoon to no avail, and tried her door one more time on my way down to get the mail. Still no answer.

  I was sorting through my junk mail in the lobby when Mr. Harrison’s door opened and out popped a piano student. The pretty teenage girl thanked him and he reminded her to continue practicing her Chopin piece.

  “It needs work, Miss Taylor,” he said. “Work.”

  Miss Taylor shrugged and waved a handful of fingers at me as she skittered across the lobby and out the front door.

  I glanced up just in time to see Peter Harrison’s door slam shut.

  Once upon a time—like a week ago—that kind of thing would have discouraged me. But a week ago I wasn’t looking for a murderer. I tossed my trash in the waste basket and knocked on the door. When it opened again, I was ready with my friendliest smile.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Harrison,” I lied.

  Mr. Harrison glared with about as much encouragement as I gave Captain Rye every time he appeared unannounced at my own doorstep. “Is there a problem?” he asked.

  There were all sorts of problems, the most immediate being I had no idea what I was going to say next. But then I spotted the huge piano inside.

  “I’m, umm, I’ve been thinking of taking piano lessons,” I said. I turned my gaze from the piano back to Peter Harrison. “And I was wondering if you offer lessons to adults?” I opened my eyes wide and feigned great interest in his response.

  “Have you ever played?”

  I confessed that I had never touched a keyboard in my life. “But I’m quite curious to try.” I smiled broadly and tried looking eager.

  Much to my dismay, Mr. Harrison did not instantly invite me inside to give it a whirl. Indeed, his glare was now joined by a most discouraging frown.

  “I have had enough strange people knocking on my door over the past few days,” he scolded. “And I am not in the mood for charades. What is it you want, Miss Hewitt?”

  I gave up the charade. “I want to figure out who killed Stanley Sweetzer,” I said. “As I’m sure you know, Candy Poppe’s boyfriend died on my couch the other night.”

  “And created quite a ruckus in the process.”

  Mr. Harrison seemed to expect an apology about that. I gave him one, but this only encouraged his self-righteous indignation.

  “Boyfriends traipsing the hallways at all hours of the day and night, policemen coming and going, Jimmy Beak and his news crew.” He pursed his lips and continued frowning at the same time. “When I sold the third floor unit to a middle-aged woman who writes books for a living, I did not expect this sort of thing. I trust this will not become a habit?”

  “Umm, noooo,” I said, perplexed. Did Old Man Harrison really expect a steady contingent of men to be dropping dead on my couch? On a regular basis?

  He offered yet more frowning, glaring, and pursing of lips. If I had needed to practice my Chopin piece, I am sure his disapproval would have inspired more earnest effort.

  “Mr. Harrison,” I pleaded. “I just want to find out what really happened on Saturday. Did you see anything?”

  “I most certainly did not. I was asleep until the police arrived. Sleep, Miss Hewitt. I’m 78 years old, take 9 prescription medications every day, and teach 18 unruly piano students every week. I need my rest.” He made a show of looking at his watch. “And now, it is well past my nap-time. If you’ll excuse me.”

  He tried to shut his door, but I put my foot out and stopped it from closing.

  “There’s a good chance either Candy or I are going to get blamed for the murder.” I, too, spoke firmly. “But whatever you might think of us, sir, we are not killers.”

  I removed my foot and stepped back. The door remained open.

  “So then,” I continued in a softer voice. “Even if you were home in bed, maybe you heard something unusual? Anything?”

  Mr. Harrison tore his gaze away from my foot and looked up. “I hear rather a lot of unusual things around here, don’t I? Considering the number of boyfriends Miss Poppe has, this kind of thing was bound to happen.” He tut-tutted for effect. “I only wish I had evicted her long before now.”

  “Have you tried to evict Candy?” I am sure I sounded shocked and dismayed.

  “I know the law,” he snapped. “The girl pays her rent on time and she’s quiet. I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.” He smiled for the first time. “Mr. Dixon, on the other hand.”

  My head was reeling. “Have you tried to evict Bryce?”

  “He plays loud music and his rent’s always late. Since you’re so concerned, why don’t you tell him I’m considering it? You are bound to run into him, aren’t you? At that bar you spend half your life in?”

  He looked down, ascertained that my foot was not in the way, and shut the door.

  ***

  I stood riveted to the spot and blinked at Old Man Harrison’s door. Eventually, I recovered enough to climb the stairs to my own place. I dropped the mail on the coffee table and went out for a walk. I needed the exercise, I needed to shake off the sheer hostility of my encounter with Mr. Harrison, and most of all, I needed to think.

  But the weather had turned since my rooftop rendezvous with Rye, and a storm was brewing. Despite the growing cloud cover and rising winds, I hastened down Sullivan Street toward Hamilton. I almost hoped to get caught in a downpour. The shock might jolt my imagination—and my imagination could use a jolt.

  First of all, I had no idea what further perils awaited Rolfe Vanderhorn and Alexis Wynsome now that Alexis was safe from the clutches of Maynard Snipe.

  And even more pressing than the plot of Temptation at Twilight, was the plight of Candy Poppe. Were Peter Harrison’s insinuations about her many boyfriends valid? And where had she been the night of Stanley’s murder? Where was she at the moment, for that matter? And if Candy didn’t kill Stanley, and I was ninety percent certain she hadn’t, who did?

  I trudged up the steep incline of Hamilton Avenue and pondered the possibilities. Where did that random twenty-seven thousand dollars in Stanley’s apartment fit into all this? Was it connected to his murder? Or maybe his job?

  Stanley’s job. I turned right onto Summit Street and headed into the wind. Had Stanley been cheating some of his clients? Even though Karen and I hadn’t squandered our hard-earned cash with him, someone likely had. Captain Rye must have thought the disgruntled client theory had credence, too. Why else would he have Densmore checking into my finances and talking to Ian?

  Ian. I groaned out loud, and a street musician playing a really, really, bad rendition of “Mr. Tambourine Man” stopped singing to ask if I was all right. I put a dollar in his cap, he grabbed it before it blew away, and I kept walking. How the heck had Stanley known about my divorce settlement?

  Back to Stanley’s job, I reminded myself. A list of his clients would be mighty handy. But how in the world would I ever get hold of something like that? Rye might be flirting with me, but I doubted I could charm him out of that kind of information.

  I stopped suddenly. But maybe I didn’t need Rye. I turned around and headed for home armed with one clear fact—Stanley had either been poisoned in my building or at The Stone Fountain. Whoever killed him had been at the bar on Saturday night. I was sure of it.

  I climbed the stairs to my condo with a plan in mind and a smile on my face. I lost the smile when I almost tripped over Jimmy Beak.

  ***

  He and his cameraman were sitting cross-legged on the floor at my doorway looking quite comfortable indeed. Jimmy glanced up and snickered, and I was reminded of the evil Lord Snipe.

  “Go away,” I ordered.

  He turned his head right and left, pretending to search for something. “Oh dear,” he said with another snicker. “Where is that pool table when you need it most?”

  “Now, Beak,” I said, veritably channeling Captain Rye. “You can leave now, or I’ll have you arrested for trespassing. Tak
e your pick.”

  Jimmy made a show of standing up and brushing off his suit, which was a weird, almost metallic, shade of blue. He straightened his bow tie and combed his greasy hair while I tried not to be physically ill. The cameraman had also stood up. Instead of attending to his personal grooming needs, he worked on getting the camera up and running.

  “Here she is,” Jimmy began as soon as his microphone was in place. “Jessica Hewitt, in the flesh.”

  I wish I could report he was speaking into the camera, but I was well aware that the lens was directed at me.

  “Jessica Hewitt,” he continued. “A.k.a. Adelé Nightingale, the prime suspect in the ongoing Stanley Sweetzer murder investigation. Let me remind our viewers that Mr. Sweetzer expired right here, behind this very door.”

  You guessed it—he banged on my door.

  “We’re here at the scene of the crime, where Miss Hewitt has finally agreed to answer a few questions.”

  “Go away,” I repeated.

  “So tell us, Jessica, why was Captain Wilson Rye here again today? Along with the entire team of investigators from the Clarence police force? Did he have a warrant? Did he find the drugs you used to kill your young lover?” Jimmy wiggled the microphone under my nose. “The public has a right to know.”

  I contemplated my options and considered throwing him down the stairs. He was taller than I, but I was confident I could take him. The cameraman was another issue, however. He was a lot more bulky than his boss, and I doubted I could toss him anywhere. He was also apt to capture the whole episode on film.

  “You’re thinking too hard,” Jimmy scolded me. “Just tell our viewers what happened here, behind this very door, last Saturday night.” He again banged his fist on my door, and the camera took an all-too-brief hiatus from filming me. “After all, Jessica.” Jimmy shoved the microphone back in my face. “If you’re as innocent as you claim, you have nothing to hide.”

  “Go away,” I repeated, still refusing to look at the camera.

  He tried again. “Exactly how long have you been obsessed with Stanley Sweetzer, Jessica? Have you based the heroes of all your novels on him? Just tell the truth. Can you do that, Jessica? Tell the truth?”

  I grabbed the microphone and started talking. “Okay, here’s the truth, Jimmy.” I made sure to say his name with at least as much derision as he had used saying mine.

  The cameraman was beside himself. He lunged toward me and must have gotten quite a nice close up of my nose. I put my index finger smack in the middle of the lens and pushed. The cameraman took a slight step backwards.

  I removed my finger and calmly continued, “Basing all my characters on Stanley Sweetzer would be quite a feat, Jimmy, since I’ve been writing my books for over twenty years, and I only knew Stanley for the last three months.”

  “Three months!” Jimmy shouted and wrestled me for the microphone.

  I kept a firm grip, and testimony to my maturity and self-restraint, refrained from bopping him over the head with it. Eventually I did hand him the stupid contraption, but only after I made him say pretty please.

  He clutched the mic with both hands while he caught his breath. “So then,” he said. “You admit that you and poor Stanley Sweetzer were having an affair for the last three months? I will remind our viewers that poor Mr. Sweetzer was a good twenty years younger than Miss Hewitt.” Beak feigned shock, but the camera was pointed at me, likely getting a close up of the evil old hag’s wrinkles.

  “Well, I am shocked you admit it, Jessica,” Jimmy was sneering again. “But at last the truth emerges. Does Captain Rye know about this? And what about young Candy Poppe? Does she know about this sordid little tryst of yours? Did Stanley Sweetzer threaten to tell her about it? Is that why you killed him?”

  “Go away,” I said weakly.

  Proof that there is a God in heaven, they did. Just as I was about to wring his scrawny little neck, Jimmy’s cell phone rang. He mumbled something to his cameraman about the school board meeting at the other end of town and off they ran.

  I took a few deep breaths, listened for the front door to close behind them, and unlocked my own door. Snowflake scolded me the second I entered, and I admitted that I never should have argued with Jimmy Beak.

  “It won’t happen again,” I promised.

  And if it did, I wouldn’t hesitate to toss him down the stairs, with or without the stupid cameraman.

  ***

  I had made it back to my desk, and gotten Alexis and Rolfe sufficiently disrobed for things to get interesting when the phone rang. Talk about frustration.

  “Jessica!” Louise Urko shouted when I answered. “What in the world is going on down there?”

  “Going on?” I asked. Surely my literary agent, fondly referred to as Geez Louise throughout the publishing world, hadn’t heard about the Stanley Sweetzer fiasco all the way up in Manhattan?

  “Babe! I’m looking at your latest numbers. In the past twenty-four hours your local sales have skyrocketed. I mean, through the roof!”

  Louise was excited, even by Geez Louise standards.

  “So fill me in,” she insisted. “What kind of publicity have you found for yourself? Who’s been interviewing you? What about book signings? What’s your secret, Jessica? I mean, because whatever you’re doing, I want all my clients to take a lesson!”

  “How much coffee have you had today, Louise?”

  “I’ve never seen numbers like this from you. Ever! Not even after you got that two minute segment on public radio last year.” Louise came up for breath. “So?” she asked. “What’s up? Tell me, tell me, tell me!”

  “I’m under investigation for murder,” I told her.

  “Murder! But that’s fantastical! How on earth did you come up with such a brilliant idea?”

  I rolled my eyes at Snowflake. “My neighbor’s boyfriend died on my couch the other night,” I said. “He was murdered.”

  “By you?”

  “Oh for Lord’s sake, Louise! What do you think?”

  With my warped agent interjecting a few ‘fantasticals’ whenever the urge struck, I summarized the basics. I emphasized I did not kill Stanley Sweetzer, and even mentioned that Captain Rye was ninety percent convinced of my innocence. Louise ignored that trivial detail, and insisted on hearing more about my ill-gotten publicity.

  “The local news has been all over it,” I explained. “We have this reporter, Jimmy Beak. He’s having a field day implying I had some sort of sordid affair with Stanley, and then killed him in a fit of jealous rage.”

  “Oh, but wouldn’t that be fantastical? Just think of the publicity!”

  Patience, I reminded myself. “Jimmy’s claiming that my books somehow reflect my real life. He actually compared Stanley to Lance Votaw. Remember him?”

  “From Windswept Whispers? But of course I remember Lance! What red-blooded woman under the age of ninety could forget Lance Votaw?”

  Geez Louise didn’t wait for an answer. “So what about Temptation at Twilight, Jessica? How’s that one coming along? Because the sooner we get it in the stores and on the shelves, the more we benefit from all your newfound fame!”

  “I hate to burst your bubble, Louise,” I said in an attempt to burst her bubble. “But all my newfound fame has done nothing to stimulate Rolfe Vanderhorn’s libido.”

  Chapter 8

  “Where is everyone?” Bryce asked as he popped the Korbel cork.

  Good question. As far as I knew, Rolfe and Alexis were home in bed, but not necessarily asleep. Candy, on the other hand, still wasn’t home. Frankly, I hadn’t a clue where she was. At least I was sure about Karen. She was sanding that ugly bedroom suite and supposedly far too busy to spend another evening at The Stone Fountain.

  “Just me tonight,” I said and pointed to the bubbly. “But I’ll gladly share that with anyone willing to talk to me about Stanley.”

  Bryce stopped pouring and stared. “Say what?”

  “I am going to find out who killed him.” I offere
d my most determined look. “And I’ll start by learning what happened in here on Saturday.”

  Bryce continued staring, the champagne bottle poised aloft. “Captain Rye still giving you a hard time?”

  “He’s after Candy now.”

  “Candy?” The poor guy almost dropped the bottle. “But she didn’t do it!” He thought a second. “Did she?”

  “You’ve known her for a while, Bryce?”

  “Two years.”

  “And she’s been with Stanley that whole time?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Bryce again looked up from pouring and I began to wonder if I would ever get my drink. “Candy’s been with lots of guys, Jessie.”

  “With you?”

  He chuckled and shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  Bryce looked at the ceiling, searching for an answer. “Let’s just say she doesn’t like my Long Island Iced Teas,” he said eventually.

  “What about the other men in here? Any former boyfriends?”

  “Lots of them.” He handed me my drink and scanned the room. “Joseph, Marty, Arthur, Ted—”

  “Okay, okay,” I interrupted.

  “—Kirby, Gus—”

  “Bryce!” I waved a hand in front of his face to break the momentum. “Let’s simplify things, okay? Which of these guys was here Saturday?”

  Bryce blinked at me as it dawned on him what I was asking. “You’re thinking someone killed Stan over Candy?” he whispered. “Someone in here?”

  “I’m not thinking anything very clearly,” I admitted. “But it’s worth considering, no?”

  Bless his heart, he again glanced around at the various and sundry ex-boyfriends of Candy Poppe littering the room.

  “Sorry, Jessie, but I bet all the guys were here. Everyone’s here on Saturdays.” He turned back to me. “I’m kind of surprised you weren’t.”

  “I was working,” I reminded him. “But stay with me, Bryce. Who in particular talked to Stanley that night?”

  Bryce scanned the room yet again. “Stan hung with Evan for a while.” He tilted his head to Matthew’s end of the bar, and I spotted Evan McCloy, a Stone Fountain semi-regular who had worked with Stanley. “I think they were talking about their jobs.”