01 - Playing with Poison (2 page)

***

I headed for the fridge, desperately in search of champagne. Given the situation, this may seem odd. But champagne became my drink of choice after my divorce, when I decided every day without my ex is a day worth celebrating. Even days with dead bodies in them. I popped the cork. Make that, especially days with dead bodies.

I opened my door to better hear what was happening below and sank down in an easy chair. Candy got home at 9:30, but Rye and Densmore quickly shuffled her into her condo, and someone closed the door.

“Most unhandy,” I told Snowflake. She jumped onto my lap, and together we stared at the empty spot where my couch had been.

The Korbel bottle was nearly half empty by the time Candy’s door opened again. I hopped up to eavesdrop at my own doorway and heard Rye say something about calling him if she thought of anything else. Lieutenant Densmore asked if she had any family close by.

“My parents,” she answered. “But I think I’ll go see Jessie now, okay?”

I didn’t catch Rye’s reply, but the cops finally left, and within seconds Candy was at my doorstep.

“Oh, Jessie,” she cried as I pulled her inside. She stopped short. “Umm, what happened to your sofa?”

“We need to talk,” I told her. I guided her toward my bed and had her lie down.

The poor woman cried for a solid ten minutes. I held her hand and waited, and eventually she asked for some champagne. Like I told Rye—Candy and I are good friends.

I went to fetch a tray, and she was sitting up when I returned to the bedroom.

“Do you feel like talking, Sweetie?” I asked as I handed her a glass.

She took a sip, and then pulled a tissue from the box on my nightstand and made a sloppy attempt to wipe the mascara from under her eyes. “Those policemen told me what happened, but I could barely listen.”

“They wanted to know why Stanley was here tonight. Do you know?”

She shook her head. “They kept asking me where I was. I was at work, right?”

“At least you have a solid alibi.” I frowned. “Which makes one of us.”

“Captain Rye was real interested in you, Jessie. I think he likes you.”

I rolled my eyes. “Would you get a grip, Candy? Rye’s real interested because he thinks I killed your boyfriend.”

Her face dropped and she blinked her big brown eyes. “Did someone kill Stanley?”

Okay, so Candy Poppe isn’t exactly the fizziest champagne in the fridge. Even on days without dead bodies.

“It looks like Stanley was murdered,” I said quietly and handed her another tissue. “Did he have any enemies?”

“That’s what Captain Rye kept asking me,” she whined. “But everyone loved Stanley, didn’t they?”

I had my doubts but thought it best to agree. I asked about his family, and over the remains of the Korbel, we discussed his parents. Apparently Margaret and Roger Sweetzer did not approve of Candy.

“They think I was after his money,” she said. She put down her empty glass. “They don’t like my job either. I swear to God, his mother comes into the store twice a week to embarrass me in front of the customers. And every time Mr. Sweetzer sees me, he asks how business is and stares at my chest.”

While Candy blew her nose, I stared at her chest. The woman is my friend and all, but I could see how people might get the wrong impression. On this particular occasion she was wearing her red mini dress—and I do mean mini—and had accessorized with a truckload of red baubles and beads that would have fit better on a Christmas tree than on Candy’s petite frame. An unlikely pair of red patent leather stilettos completed the ensemble.

I stifled a frown. Hopefully, Captain Rye understood she had not known her fiancé was about to die when she wiggled her curvaceous little body into that outfit.

I mumbled something about trying to get some rest. If I still had my couch, I would have slept on it and let Candy drift off on the bed. I lamented such as she got up to leave, but she assured me she would be fine and teetered out the door in those ridiculous red shoes.

Chapter 2

Alexis Wynsome was having a bad day. Trapped in the turret of the vile Lord Maynard Snipe’s castle, the heroine of my current literary venture,
Temptation at Twilight
, could not imagine what was taking Rolfe so very long to rescue her. After all, Lord Snipe had kidnapped her the previous evening. And the ruggedly handsome and altogether oversexed Rolfe Vanderhorn usually moved faster than this.

The lovely Alexis paced. Occasionally she ventured over to the narrow window of her cell and scanned the surrounding hills, searching in vain for any sign of her hero. But without the help of yours truly, dear Rolfe did not possess the mental acuity needed to save his lady. And considering my mood that morning, Alexis appeared doomed. She sat down on the one hard wooden chair Maynard Snipe had seen fit to provide and sighed dramatically, her bosom trembling even more than her delicate hands.

***

I, too, sighed dramatically. My bosom, however, remained pretty much inert. Despite spending a restless night worrying about Stanley’s murder, I had stuck to my normal routine. I was up at five, showered, and at my desk by six. But here it was close to eleven, and I had written next to nothing. I closed my laptop and stared out the window. From her perch on the windowsill, Snowflake stared with me.

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.