Murder Melts in Your Mouth (27 page)

The four of us eased across the road and onto the path. The rocks and dirt underfoot were very dry.

“If we sneak around this way,” Libby said in a hushed voice, “we can get right up to the back of the gazebo and see what's going on. We can pounce whenever things get too—”

“No pouncing,” said Emma. “There's not going to be any pouncing.”

We edged our way around some exposed sandstone, picking across a rough trail before reaching a small stand of maple trees. Instinctively, we all stayed close to the tree trunks to avoid being seen. Heading cautiously up the slope, Libby suddenly slipped. She gasped as her feet nearly slid out from under her. Tierney caught her arm. Emma, on the path below, reached up and steadied Libby, too.

“Stop pinching,” Libby hissed.

“Keep moving, will you?”

“Shut up!” Tierney listened again. “This is the end of the song.”

“How do you know it's the end?” Emma demanded. “Do you listen to Celine Dion?”

“I had a girlfriend who had this CD. She played it a thousand times a day.”

“Oho,” said Emma. “So you know all of Celine's songs?”

“That's not a crime if it was forced on me.”

“Right.” Emma slugged more ginger ale.

I couldn't help noticing the level of ginger ale was getting very low in her bottle. I realized I should have purchased several.

“This way,” Libby hissed. “Don't lag behind or you'll get lost.”

In the falling dusk, she hotfooted her way across an open glade and led us through some overgrown bushes and across the bed of impatiens that had been planted by the park service. Tierney lugged the step stool, and behind him Emma staggered unsteadily.

“Em?”

She handed me the empty ginger ale bottle. “Damn!”

“Shh!” Libby hugged a man-made cliff built of rugged stones. She pointed upward. “They're right above us!”

We could hear Celine crooning more clearly. And Hart's voice rumbled along with her, barely keeping the tune.

Tierney said, “Is he
singing
?”

“Shut up.” Emma glared. “He likes to sing.”

“Come on,” Libby said. “Put down the step stool. Here, see? And climb up on it, Tierney.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Because you'll have to boost us up there!”

“But—”

“Nora, you go first.”

“Why can't it be Emma?”

Because Emma was upchucking in the bushes.

“S
hhh!”
Libby said. “Keep it down, can't you?”

Emma tried to muffle her retching.

Tierney climbed onto the step stool and put his hand down to me. “Upsy-daisy.”

“This dress is worth thousands,” I told him as I grasped his hand.

He pulled me up onto the stool, and the two of us teetered there, clutching the rocks to stay upright. In my ear, he said, “Put your foot in my hand, and I'll boost you up.”

I followed his instructions. A second later I stifled a yelp as Tierney heaved me upward. I scrabbled for a handhold and felt my dress catch on something. But then Tierney put his hand squarely on my butt, and the next thing I knew, I was up over the wall and clutching the ground. Silently, I pulled myself to a kneeling position.

There, I had a clear view of the gazebo.

It was a lovely spot for a proposal, I thought at once. The picturesque structure overlooked the lights of the city. The surrounding flower bed overflowed with the fragrance of burgeoning rosebushes. A slight breeze rustled in the trees overhead.

“Ooof!”

Libby landed beside me.

“You okay?”

“Damn, I think I just deflated one bra cup!”

“What are you talking about?”

“I bought one of those new bras with the little inflatable thingies. You know, to balance myself out a bit. After nursing Maximus, I'm a little—uneven.” She heaved herself to her knees and began to give her bosom a tentative squeeze when she caught a glimpse of the tableau in the gazebo. “Oh, is that Hart? He's very good-looking these days, isn't he? Do you think he goes to a gym?”

The two of us peered over the roses at the couple about fifteen yards away. Hart wore a crisp dress shirt and the trousers of a suit, no tie—as if he'd come from the office. The woman with him was an ethereal blonde in a yellow sundress.

“She's very pretty,” Libby whispered. “She doesn't look like Eva Braun at all.”

“She has great legs.”

“Not as great as Emma's.”

“You're right. Are they holding hands?”

The blonde appeared to be wheedling Hart, swinging his hand in hers flirtatiously. As we watched, Hart slowly took her into his arms and began to dance to Celine's singing.

Libby sighed. “He's so romantic! My first husband proposed to me at a Burger King.”

“I thought your first husband was a vegetarian.”

“He was. We were protesting their inhumane treatment for slaughtering animals.”

A second later, Emma scrambled up beside us, snapping over her shoulder, “I don't care who you are—get your hand off my ass!”

“Shhhh!”

Grumbling, Emma peered over the rosebushes. “What's going on?”

I said, “I think they're kissing.”

“I could throw a rock,” Libby offered. “I used to be a softball pitcher.”

“If anybody throws rocks, it's going to be me.” Emma sounded dangerous. “Has he proposed yet?”

We squinted, trying to catch a glimpse of Miss Haffenpepper's left hand.

“I don't think so,” I said.

“Oh, man.” Emma crumpled back to the ground. “I'm gonna be sick again.”

Libby said, “What happened to the ginger ale?”

“I drank it all!”

“It's all in your head. You're just sick because you're scared.”

“Either way, I'm gonna vomit.”

“Take it easy,” I said. “Libby, don't you have something else to drink in the minivan?”

She frowned. “There might be a Diet Coke under the backseat. Sometimes I mix it with a teensy bit of rum when the twins are in detention at school.”

Emma croaked, “Ginger ale's the only thing that works.”

“I don't have ginger ale!”

In another instant, she was barfing into the roses.

“Shhh!”

I said, “I'll go look for the Diet Coke. It might help. But don't wait for me. If Hart goes down on one knee, somebody has to do something to distract him.”

“Like what?” Libby asked. “Bird calls? Coyote howls?”

“No, something that will stop him from proposing! Emma needs to talk to him first.” Although Em hardly looked capable of communicating at that particular moment. “I'll be right back.”

Tierney caught me climbing down over the wall. Awkwardly, we wrestled with each other until I found my balance. When he set me on the ground, I said, “I'm going back to the car for a minute. If you hear coyotes start to howl, don't be frightened.”

“I couldn't get much more frightened than I am right now. You three are truly terrifying.”

From above, we heard Emma making inhuman sounds and Libby trying to shush her.

“Hurry,” Tierney advised.

I slithered down the path and headed for the minivan.

Libby had left it unlocked, so I heaved open the rear passenger door and stuck my head down under the seat to look for the Diet Coke. The dome light was too meager to see by, so I groped around until my fingers struck the smooth surface of the can. I dragged it out and stood up.

Just as a large vehicle pulled quietly to a stop behind Libby's minivan.

I froze.

“Nora?” A voice called through an open window.

Cautiously, I edged out from behind the pine trees.

The vehicle turned out to be a large white van decorated with the multicolored logo of a local television station. Taking a step closer, I peered through the windshield to identify the driver.

“It's me. Brandi Schmidt.”

I went to the passenger door and looked through the open window. Sure enough, the driver was Brandi. She blew a cloud of cigarette smoke and tossed the still-smoldering butt onto the street.

“Hi,” I said. “This is a surprise.”

“Would you mind getting into the van?” she asked. “I can't get any closer to you.”

She popped the automatic lock on the passenger door, and I opened it. Leaning in, I said, “I'm sorry, Brandi. I really can't chat right now. My sisters—”

“I know,” she said. “You're busy. Nobody has time to talk to me. But if you could spare just a minute…”

She pushed my guilt button again. I automatically climbed into the van. It was a large, clumsy sort of vehicle. I could see the shapes of equipment in the back, including the bulky mechanism of a lift for the wheelchair.

“If you could close the door,” she said, “the air-conditioning won't leak out. My chair gets very uncomfortable in the heat.”

The van was equipped to accommodate her wheelchair so that she could manage the steering wheel and all the other controls that had been fitted out for a handicapped person.

I closed the door.

Brandi smiled at me. “Thanks.”

She rolled up the window and put the van into gear. Her hand fumbled on the control—rather like the throttle of a motorcycle. Suddenly the van gave a neck-snapping jump. “Sorry. I'm still learning how to drive this thing. I'm a little clumsy.”

“Brandi,” I said. “My sister needs me. She's not feeling well and—”

“This will only take a minute. We need to talk about Hoyt.”

Instinct told me to open the door before the van sped up too much for me to jump out. But I discovered the door had locked automatically. I yanked on the handle and rattled the lock, too. No use.

“This van is kid-proofed.” She laughed unsteadily. “You can't get out without my permission.”

The sound of her laugh sent prickles up my neck. I decided to launch an attack. “Brandi, have you been following me?”

“No!”

“A friend of mine saw you. He says you were driving down the street after the concert.”

“It must have been a pigment of his imagination.”

“Figment,” I snapped before catching myself. “Sorry. You were seen, Brandi. Following me in broad daylight. Can you explain yourself, please?”

She shot me a nervous glance. “It's not against the law. Yes, I've been surveillancing you. I almost lost you tonight. Your sister is a dangerous driver. She needs to slow down.”

“What's on your mind, Brandi?”

She wrestled with the steering wheel to angle us around a loop, but hit a pothole with a bone-jarring thump. Then the van sideswiped some bushes. Her driving was much worse than Libby's.

I clasped the seat belt around myself. “Is something wrong?”

“You know there is. You've been trying to figure out what happened in Lexie's office, haven't you?”

“I want to be sure the police find out who pushed Hoyt off the balcony, yes.”

“Don't you know already?”

“Was it you?”

I surprised her with that. “How could I have done it? I can't get out of this chair without help!”

“But you were there, in Lexie's bathroom after the meeting broke up. Just before Hoyt died. I found your compact.”

She glanced over at me. “Oh, good. Hoyt gave it to me. He gave me a lot of presents—momentos. I'm glad you found it.”

We had left the top of the park and had wound our way down toward the river, where the trees and the hillside created a foreboding darkness. Even scarier was Brandi's erratic driving. She struggled with the throttle and couldn't maintain a steady speed.

I said, “I know that
Schmidt
isn't your real name. And you were related to Hoyt.”

Her hand faltered on the controls again. “How did you—? Never mind. What else did you find out?”

I cursed myself for leaving my handbag in Libby's car. Without my cell phone, I felt helpless. All I had was a can of Diet Coke. Talking to Brandi seemed my only choice.

I faced her across the seat. “You just said Hoyt gave you a lot of presents. Did he create your investment accounts, too?”

“He was very generous. If you circumcised the whole world, you wouldn't find anyone more generous than Hoyt.”

“So he gave you money,” I said.

“It hardly matters now. Since he stole it away from me. He used my life savings to make himself feel like somebody important.”

“You must have been angry to discover he'd taken it all back.”

“I was furious,” Brandi said. “I almost wanted to kill him for it.”

She bashed a curb, and the van lurched violently again, throwing me against the door. Any minute, she might drive through a guardrail or into a culvert.

“Why don't you pull over?” I asked, trying to squeeze the rising panic from my voice. “We can talk better if you're not distracted.”

“I've only been driving the van for two weeks,” she whined. “I can't be expected to be an expert right away.”

“I understand. Just—pull over when you see a place to park.”

She drove the lumbering van down onto the highway and turned into the first opening she came to. It was a boat launch. The gate was closed, fortunately, because for a split second I thought she might drive the vehicle straight into the river. But at the last second she pinched the brakes hard. Flung forward, I braced my hand against the dash. We stopped with a jerk. In the light from the expressway across the river, we could see the current rushing southward. The water was black and quick.

Brandi left the engine running. The van remained pointed at the river. Only the chain-link fence stood between us and the swift current.

She touched a button, and her window rolled down several inches.

To get her talking again, I said, “Was Hoyt your cousin?”

“Uncle,” she answered. “Or aunt, I guess.”

She sneaked a look at me to gauge my reaction.

Calmly, I said, “You knew Hoyt's true gender?”

“Sure. I didn't know him when he was a she, but my mom knew all about it. When I was in college, she let it slip.”

“Is that when you decided to extort money from him?”

“It wasn't like that,” she said, defensive. “Hoyt was already rich! And I needed help to pay my school fees, and he said he'd help. We had a nice, plutonic relationship for a while.”

“But?”

“But after graduation I couldn't get a job. I wanted to work in broadcasting, and nobody wants to hire a woman in a wheelchair. I worked as an intern at a cable station for a while, but I needed a real paycheck.”

“So Hoyt intervened on your behalf?”

“Yes. He said he'd try to get me a job at a TV station. But it took too long. I got desperate.”

“So you threatened him? You threatened to make his gender public?”