01 - Playing with Poison (19 page)

I allowed myself one resounding ‘Hardcover, Babe!’ before returning to sanity. I reminded my agent that our good fortune might be short lived. “I’m no longer making the evening news,” I said. “And, of course, I did not kill Stanley.”

“Oh, who cares?” Louise scolded. “Haven’t you been listening to me?
The New York Times
Bestseller List!”

I laughed. “Okay, okay. But can’t I still be grateful I won’t need to finish
Temptation at Twilight
from a jail cell?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jessica. Everyone knows you wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

***

Candy emerged from the bathroom and dumped the rather sad, beige, and totally un-Candyish skirt suit Anthony De Sousa had her wear for her court appearance at the front door.

“You’re smiling,” she told me as she padded over in her bare feet.

“It’s good to have you home.”

I pursed my lips and tried to stop my smiling, but images of
Temptation at Twilight
in hardcover were making me positively giddy. I pictured a deep blue jacket, with Adelé Nightingale’s name imprinted in metallic gold…or perhaps silver. And with Alexis Wynsome sitting atop a glowing white stallion, a full moon in the background…

I looked up and scowled. Where in the world was Rolfe?

“Your couch?” Candy spoke loudly and I realized she had been standing before me, asking after my couch for who knows how long.

“Couch.” I glanced at the empty spot where she was waving. “Lieutenant Densmore promised to bring it back later today.”

“He’s really nice, isn’t he?”

I shook my head. Who else but Candy Poppe would consider one of the cops who threw her in jail ‘really nice?’

“I do believe Densmore thinks you’re innocent.” I directed her toward the easy chairs and carried over the tea. “No matter what his boss insists,” I added dutifully.

“And you think I’m innocent, right?”

“I do.” I sat down across from her. “So let’s try to figure this out.”

“But how?” she whined. “I don’t know who killed Stanley. I’ve been thinking about it all the time, and I really, really don’t know.”

“Lieutenant Densmore thinks it has something to do with all the money they found in Stanley’s apartment,” I suggested. “Have you given any more thought to that?”

“Didn’t we decide it came from his poker games?”

“Apparently the cops have ruled out that out.”

Candy started chewing her knuckle, which looked like it had taken quite a bit of abuse the past few days.

“What about Stanley’s job?” I asked. “I understand he had gotten a promotion?”

“Gosh, how do you know about that, Jessie? It just happened.”

“When?”

“A couple of weeks ago. Mr. Dent made Stanley a Senior Investment Analyst. Stanley was, like, super excited about it.”

“Was anyone at his office not so super excited?” I asked. “Was anyone jealous?”

“Thomas Fell,” she answered without hesitation. “You remember him from the funeral? Thomas was the one who’s almost as old as you are.”

I thanked her for the reminder. “He was anxious to get my business, correct?”

“That’s Thomas alright.”

“He was angry about Stanley’s promotion?”

Candy looked down and studied her tea. “I know what you’re trying to do, Jessie, but I don’t think so, okay? I don’t like this—blaming people for killing Stanley.”

I gently reminded her that someone was to blame. “And unless we figure out who, you and Carter are in worse trouble than ever befo—”

Oops.

She looked up. “You know about Carter and me?”

“Umm.” I swallowed. “Captain Rye might have mentioned something.”

Candy tilted her head, waiting for more.

I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Sweetie, but I thought I should know the details if I’m going to try to help you. So I checked for you and Carter in the
Clarence Courier’s
web site.

She wrinkled her nose. “Did you find that article about Judge Sheppard?”

I nodded.

“It was awful, huh?” Candy looked like she was about to cry. But she quickly recovered, sat up straight, and looked me in the eye. “I’ve been really, really good since then, Jessie. I swear to God, I have.”

“I know that, Sweetie.”

We shared an awkward silence.

“I looked up all of our neighbors while I was at it,” I said eventually.

That perked her up. She sat forward and asked what I had learned. “Has anyone else ever been arrested?”

I shook my head. “Not that I know of. The
Courier
had nothing at all on Bryce.”

“Why not?”

“Well, the guy’s only lived in Clarence a couple of years. It’s probably a good thing he hasn’t been in the news.” I sipped my tea. “I didn’t find much on Karen, either. The web site doesn’t go back to when she was in school.”

“I wonder what she was like in high school,” Candy said. “I wonder if she ever got in trouble.”

I shrugged. “I have no idea. But what she did—what anyone did—in high school really isn’t the issue, is it?”

“Why did you look her up then?”

Okay, good question.

I shrugged again. “I must be turning into a nosey old lady.”

For some reason Candy didn’t argue. I sipped my tea and thought about our other neighbor.

“I looked up Peter Harrison, too,” I said.

Indeed, my research into our most reclusive neighbor had yielded surprising results. The
Clarence Courier’s
web site had a plethora of articles on him. It seems Mr. Harrison had enjoyed a successful career teaching music and band at Clarence Central High School. He had been named Teacher of the Year on a regular basis, and his star students were forever earning this or that music scholarship or award.

“Did you know him in high school?” I asked.

“Mr. Harrison?”

I summarized my research and Candy’s eyes got wide. “You mean, our Mr. Harrison.” She pointed downward. “Is
that
Mr. Harrison?”

“Apparently so. The last article I found was about his retirement party. It was from the same year you and Carter—” I stopped.

“The same year we went before Judge Sheppard?” she asked.

“I take it you were never one of Mr. Harrison’s students?”

“Carter and me didn’t do any school activities like that. I was never in the band or chorus or anything.” Candy scowled, apparently recollecting the old band teacher from her school days. “He looks a lot different than he used to.”

“He’s been sick,” I reminded her.

“I wonder when he got so grouchy.”

“I wonder about Karen,” I said. “Maybe she knew him when she was at Clarence High.” I frowned at Snowflake and made a mental note to ask Karen about it.

“What about you, Jessie?”

I looked up. “What about me?”

“What were you like in high school?”

Oh, good Lord. It was one thing to ponder everyone else’s ancient history, but why bring up mine?

“Fair’s fair,” Candy said. “Tell me.”

“I was tall and unpopular. Not many kids were interested in shooting pool. And other than basketball, that’s all I cared about.”

“Boys must have liked you.”

I shook my head. “Like I said, I was too tall. And too competitive. Boys didn’t like losing to girls back then.”

“I bet you were smart, though. I bet you got straight A’s.”

“Well, yeah.”

“And you never got into trouble.”

I smiled to myself. “Not in high school, anyway.”

“Not ever,” Candy insisted. “I bet you’ve always been good.”

I took a deep breath. “Umm, Sweetie?” I asked. “Have I ever told you how I paid for college?”

Chapter 19

After learning about my own sordid past, Candy told me I’m a little scary and went home to rest. She may have agreed to stay inside and hide, but I was not so inclined. Talk about a little scary—I was planning a visit to Boykin and Dent Investment Associates.

Thus I donned hose and heels for the second day in a row. “So much for my Huck Finn impersonation,” I complained to Snowflake as I added pearls to the silk blouse and skirt ensemble I pulled from the back of the closet. This was my typical book-signing outfit, and I hoped it would make me look like a professional woman of means.

I ate a quick lunch and headed down to Stanley’s place of employment before I had time to change my mind or contemplate the consequences. If Captain Rye ever found out what I was up to, my cat would likely be orphaned.

I found the building, one of the few skyscrapers in Clarence, and hopped on the elevator to the top floor. Perhaps by the time I arrived at the Boykin and Dent offices, I would have some small clue as to what exactly I planned on doing.

An impressive wall of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Blue Ridge Mountains greeted me from across the room as I stepped off the elevator. I ventured forth over the plush carpeting and stood before a huge S-shaped desk, where I gave my name to the receptionist—one Roslynn Mayweather, according to her desk plate.

She, too, was impressive in a formal, business-like way. She wore a suit which was probably even more expensive than my own outfit, and had an equally expensive floral print scarf expertly arranged around her neck. Her makeup had also been expertly applied. And her hair? Well, you get the picture. Unlike Karen and me, Ms. Mayweather was a woman born to wear pantyhose.

“Welcome to Boykin and Dent Associates, madam. How may I help you?” was her pat greeting, which matched her pat smile, bright white teeth beneath bright red lipstick.

I gave my name, but when I mentioned I was there to see Vikki, I realized I didn’t even remember Vikki’s last name. Perhaps I should have planned this a bit more.

“Fitkin.”

I glanced down at Ms. Mayweather and blinked.

“You want to see Vikki Fitkin,” she repeated.

She pursed her perfect lips and directed me to a row of leather chairs. I sat down and obediently waited, trying to ignore the receptionist’s almost incessant stares. She wasn’t hostile, per se, but she did seem more curious than necessary. I checked my hose for runs. Finding none, I feigned interest in the decor.

Boykin and Dent’s reception area was much more posh than the Clarence Police Station, but no less uncomfortable. I listened to some odd background music destroy a perfectly good Bob Dylan tune and wondered whether Karen Sembler might have built Ms. Mayweather’s desk. No one entered, no one left.

I was back to admiring the view of the Blue Ridge when Vikki finally came out from behind the formidable looking door at Ms. Mayweather’s right. As she crossed the expanse of carpeting, I noticed she was not nearly as well groomed as the receptionist. Although she, too, wore a business suit, Vikki’s hair was tied back in a sloppy pony tail, her shoes were scuffed, and her nails were unpolished.

“Jessica Hewitt, right?” She extended her hand and then turned to the receptionist. “Ms. Hewitt was a client of Stan’s, Roslynn.”

I swallowed a cringe as Vikki guided me through the big, bad door.

***

Another huge and intimidating space loomed before me. But I barely had time to orient myself before Vikki came up from behind and veritably propelled me across the central space. We moved along at a rapid clip, but I still managed to peek around a few open doors. I noticed the offices to the left boasted floor-to-ceiling windows similar to those in the reception area. The offices to my right seemed much more humble, which I verified when Vikki directed me into hers.

She ushered me to a chair and took her seat behind the desk. “Now then,” she said. “You’re interested in some new investment opportunities?”

No, that was not at all what I was interested in. But I kept up the pretense and nodded eagerly.

Vikki cleared her throat. “You do have the—how should I say this—the means to continue investing, Jessica?”

I giggled and waved a hand, and told Vikki not to let Jimmy Beak’s reports worry her. “I have plenty of money to keep going,” I lied. “And I’m keen on trying again. I’m quite sure that’s what Stanley would want me to do.” I smiled brightly. “By the way, Vikki. Do you happen to have my file?”

“Pardon?”

“Stanley’s file on me,” I elaborated. “I’d love to see it if you do?”

Vikki frowned and informed me the police had confiscated Stanley’s files. “That African American guy took them all,” she said. “I understand yours was of particular interest.”

She was still frowning, but I myself wanted to stand up and give a great big cheer for Lieutenant Densmore. If he had my file, that meant Vikki did not. And that meant I could likely bluff my way through this whole interview with no pesky repercussions.

I sat back and relaxed, and encouraged Vikki to tell me all about the financial opportunities still awaiting me at Boykin and Dent.

Unfortunately, she did just that. Thus I endured a mind-numbing explanation of the various and sundry ways I might invest my remaining fortune. With each new option, she set before me a mound of brochures and forms. I kept my eyes on the paperwork, hoping she wouldn’t notice my yawns.

“What would you say are the riskier options?” I asked when she came up for breath. “Like the ones Stanley had me in?”

Vikki skipped a beat. “Pardon?”

“Oh, I know I’ve lost some money so far.” I flung an arm into the air to demonstrate my devil may care approach to personal finances. “But Stanley promised we would make it up the next time around. I’m interested in making as much profit, or interest, or whatever, on the money I have left, as fast as possible.” I crossed my legs and waited while Vikki wiped the scowl off her face.

“I’m not sure how to put this politely,” she said to my knees. “But I wouldn’t advise a woman your age to do anything that risky.”

“Oh?”

“You see, Jessica.” She folded her hands and carefully placed them on her desk. “As people get older, we usually suggest investments on the safer side, even if it does mean smaller returns.”

“We?” I asked. “Does that mean all your colleagues would offer the same advice?”

She shifted slightly in her seat. “Not necessarily. But that would be my approach.”

“Oh, dear.” I furrowed my brow to demonstrate my perplexity and confusion. “I was so certain Stanley had the right idea for me. But then, of course, he died.”