Lye in Wait (25 page)

ON THE WAY TO the police station I thought about why someone would try to kill me. I'd done a pretty good job of avoiding
the question since yesterday. Now I took it out, dusted it off, and
gnawed on it a while.

I didn't know squat about who killed Walter, had no hard evidence of any kind about anything. Instead, I possessed an abundance of useless speculation and what ifs. Was I getting close? I
couldn't imagine how. Were they afraid I would get close? Well, in
that case whoever had tried to run me down the previous afternoon had far more confidence in my investigative abilities than
anyone else did, including me.

Someone thought I knew something I didn't.

My next thought threw a chill down my spine, despite the
warmth from the truck heater. If they assumed I knew something,
they also would assume Meghan knew. Ambrose was right. We
were both in danger. And though Erin wouldn't be expected to know anything pertinent, if the person behind all this became desperate enough, they might not balk at using her as leverage.

Oh, for heaven's sake. This was getting ridiculous. We weren't
living in some movie of the week. Get a grip on your imagination,
Sophie Mae. It was even possible the driver of that truck simply
hadn't seen me, that my near miss hadn't been anything personal.
But the rationalization felt meager and unsubstantial to the part of
me that knew better.

It wasn't until my tires screeched pulling into the police station
parking lot that I realized how fast I'd been going. Urgency gripped
me like a fist, propelling me through the building to Ambrose's desk.
I must have looked like I knew what I was doing since no one stopped
me, but that was a joke, now, wasn't it? Because I had no idea.

I pulled up short when I saw that Officer Danson, wearing navy
slacks and a pressed oxford shirt, sat talking with Ambrose. Today
the detective's string tie was a deep green disc of malachite, with a
thin silver ring around it. It glowed against his ivory cotton shirt,
worn with tan slacks and the requisite cowboy boots.

They both looked up, and Danson turned in her chair to send
a disapproving scowl in my direction. I'd guess she came in before
her regular shift to talk with Ambrose about our burglary, only for
him to take her to task for not telling him sooner.

"Give me a minute, Sophie Mae?" Ambrose asked, and I nodded, backing out into the reception area.

He hadn't looked angry; he'd looked exhausted.

Green molded-plastic chairs sat in a row along the front window, but in deference to my hip, I chose to lean against the wall.
A young woman with a cadet patch on her uniform instead of a
badge walked by and raised her eyebrows in question. I answered with a smile I hoped exuded confidence. She walked on, her curiosity somehow assuaged.

After a few moments Danson came around the corner, directed
a curt nod my way, and shouldered past me to the door. I walked
to Ambrose's desk and sat down in the chair she'd vacated.

"I hope she's not in trouble."

"Why do you say that?" he asked.

"About the break-in, not telling you. I'm sure it was just a
miscommunication."

"It was, and I'm partly to blame. But I don't have time to review
every call in case it happens to impact one of my cases. Everyone's
busy, of course."

"Isn't our burglary one of your cases?"

"Technically, but there's only one of me, so unless there's a
problem we let patrol follow up on things like that. Don't worry,
I'll be keeping an eye on it, now that I know. My sergeant may have
had something to do with keeping it quiet, too. He's very political,
and wants me working on this other thing."

"The toilet paper bandit?"

He looked surprised, then chagrined. "But I talked with him
this morning and, given the fire and the attack on you, he's willing
to pursue Hanover's death as suspicious."

"That's big of him." I tried to smile, but he saw something in
my face.

"What's wrong? Did something happen?"

I shook my head. "Nothing new. But I've really screwed up,
haven't I?"

Ambrose leaned back in his chair. "Well, maybe there was
something in one or more of those boxes you took, and now someone sees you as a loose end."

"So now what do I do? Take out an ad in the Eye saying I didn't
find a thing in the boxes, and would whoever took them please not
try to kill me anymore?"

Ambrose smiled. "I doubt they'd believe you. You're not always
truthful."
"

I was kidding."

"So was I" But he wasn't, not entirely.

And he was right. I hated it, but he was right. If I'd turned the
papers over to him immediately, I might not be in this trouble
now. I'd been looking for something recognizably important, a
will or insurance policy or threatening letter, but I could have easily missed something subtle, something even more important.

"Did your housemate make arrangements for her daughter to
stay someplace else?" Ambrose asked.

I nodded. "She'll be at her friend's. And Meghan is talking to
the school about Dick, so they'll be keeping a careful eye on her."

"Good. Now, I need you to write down what happened with
the truck yesterday."

He got up and went to a filing cabinet, opened a drawer, and
flipped through file tabs until he found the one he wanted. He
drew out a form and placed it in front of me on the corner of his
workstation. Then he took a pen out of his drawer and pushed it
across to me.

"How much detail do you want?" I asked.

"Everything you can remember, everything you told me last
night. When you're done we'll go down to Avenue A, and you can
show me what happened."

I started printing my name and address. "Are you going to talk
to the kid, Don whatshisname?"

"I already did, first thing this morning. He didn't see much.
Debby and Jacob Silverman are next on my list."

I looked up. "Jacob's last name is Silverman, too?"

"He's Debby's brother."

My jaw dropped.

After a few moments, I managed to close my mouth. Grimaced.
"Well, crap."

He grinned. "Kind of screws up your idea of Jacob as Walter's
romantic rival, doesn't it?"

"Yeah. Sure does."

"Almost done there?"

I looked down at the form. "I've barely started."

"I have some things to do out front. Leave it on the desk when
you're finished and come find me" He went around the corner.

It didn't take long once I stopped yapping. Placing it neatly in
the center of his spotless desk area, I opened the top drawer.

And, of course, Ambrose returned as I was replacing his pen. I
froze like a bunny caught in the headlights.

"Finished?" he asked, his face expressionless.

"I wasn't, I mean, I just wanted to put your pen away. I swear..."

"Well, let's go then."

I sneaked a look in his eyes as I passed, but he didn't look
upset. He didn't look anything at all. I hate it when other people have great poker faces, especially because I have more of a heylook-what-I'm-feeling-now face. And I was pretty sure it had guilt
blazoned all over it right then.

And I'm not even Catholic.

OUT IN THE PARKING lot, Ambrose led me toward a silver-colored
sedan that turned out to be a Chevy Impala. He opened the passenger door for me before going to the driver's side.

Inside, the car had a police radio, a holster on the dash holding
a radar gun, and a switch for the lights I assumed were set into the
grill. I was riding in an unmarked police cruiser, the bane of motorists everywhere.

I wondered what kind of car Barr Ambrose drove when he
wasn't being a detective. A big SUV? I had trouble picturing it. A
compact? Nah. A pickup, maybe, or a Jeep. Something functional
and without a lot of frippery.

He paused while buckling his seat belt, sniffed a couple times,
and said, "What's that scent?"

Oh, no. My nose had become inured to the lavender already,
and I couldn't tell how much I reeked. "Sorry," I said, embarrassed.
"It's the stuff I used on my bruises this morning."

"Wow," he said. "I thought it was perfume."

"You can open a window if you want."

He shrugged. "It's nice." And he cracked the window an inch.

As we pulled out of the parking lot I said, "Can I ask you
something?"

"Like what," he said.

"Where are you from?"

"Came up here from Seattle last year."

"Before that."

"Grew up in Wyoming. My family owns a dude ranch there."

I nodded. I'd been close.

"I suppose the ties give me away," he said. "I hate to wear regular ties and the chief lets me get away with the bolos. My uncle
used to collect them, left me a whole pile of them when he died.
Figure I might as well get the use out of them." He stopped talking
abruptly, as if he'd said too much.

We approached an intersection and a little red pickup, lowered
to within an inch of the pavement, flew by on the cross street in
front of us. I didn't need the radar gun to tell me it was going way
too fast.

Ambrose frowned and said, "Idiot."

At the stop sign we turned toward downtown.

"And your accent struck my ear as familiar," I said.

"I don't have an accent!"

"Not really an accent. More like your diction."

"You from around there, too?"

"Around there. Northern Colorado."

The ensuing silence could have felt awkward, but didn't. Then
Ambrose spoke again. "The state lab determined the lye we found on your floor was a commercial brand that contains ingredients
besides sodium hydroxide."

"Drain cleaner," I said.

He nodded.

"How long have you known?"

"Couple days."

"Would have been nice if you'd told me. You know, put my
mind at rest."

He glanced over at me. "Sorry. You were so sure it wasn't yours
I didn't think it'd be big news to you."

"Yeah. Well."

"Anyway, the drain cleaner wasn't mixed with water. Or at least,
not only with water."

"One of those that comes as a liquid? Or gel?"

"It's sold in powder form. It was mixed with ethyl alcohol,
sugar-looks like some kind of liquor."

"Peppermint," I breathed.

"What?"

"Peppermint schnapps. That's what we smelled in my workroom. And at Walter's that night..." I squeezed my eyes shut, remembering. "That wasn't a glass that broke in Walter's kitchen. It
was a bottle." How did I know that? "The label! There was paper
mixed in with the glass."

"You get a good look at it?"

I shook my head. "No. Officer Owens hustled me out before I
could. And then the next day, it was gone."

"What do you mean, `it was gone'?"

"Someone had cleaned it up by the time Meghan and I went in
to pack up Walter's things."

"You never told me that"

I held up my palms. "It just didn't seem important."

"So you didn't see what kind of bottle it was?"

I closed my eyes again. "Clear glass. The paper was black, maybe
with a little red? But listen, um, Barr. Can I call you Barr?"

He smiled. "Sure"

"Walter was an alcoholic."

The smile slid off his face, to be replaced by puzzlement. "Well,
the booze isn't a surprise, then. I don't know what his blood alcohol was-I'll have to check with the medical examiner's office.
Maybe the guy did commit suicide."

"No, you don't understand. Walter was a recovering alcoholic,
had been for years. He didn't drink alcohol-including peppermint schnapps-at all."

Ambrose pulled into an angled parking space on Avenue A and
turned off the engine. I could hear his breathing.

"So. Where were you when that truck came at you?"

"Over there." I pointed.

We got out, and I led him to where I'd started to cross the street
the day before. I described it all over again, demonstrating my position and how I fell.

"You said you heard a screech. From that direction?" He
pointed up the hill. I nodded.

"Let's walk up that way," he said.

We stopped at the entrance to the alley that ran through the
middle of the block. It wasn't paved. Ambrose stooped and looked
at twin indentations in the gravel, ruts that by the spacing and
width of them had been caused by tires, if I didn't miss my guess.
His gaze moved to the pavement on the street as he stood up.

"They pulled out here, too fast and probably spraying gravel.
Once they'd turned onto the street they punched it-see where
they left those two short strips of rubber there in the middle of the
street?"

"Are you sure? Wouldn't they be darker? And longer?"

"The rain reduced the friction. Made the pavement slicker.
Probably slowed the vehicle down. If the street had been dry you
might not have had a chance to get out of the way in time."