The Iced Princess (11 page)

He gave a single nod. “So was I. When you detected that odor of almonds in her coffee cup, that all but convinced me cyanide was the murder weapon.”

Murder weapon, yikes.
“So the police and the medical examiner are positive Molly didn't take the poison herself?” I said.

“Proof positive. We thoroughly searched Molly's discarded clothes and other possessions, including her vehicle, and found no signs of cyanide. And there were no containers with traces of the poison anywhere that we could locate on these premises—in Brew Ha-Ha or Curio Finds.”

Clint sounded like a robot, as though he had been fed the information and was spitting it out to an audience at a conference with other robots. Maybe that was the way he coped when he was dealing with an investigation of a tragic death. And a homicide besides.

“Molly's ghost came to Cami last night and told her that her killers were in the shop.” The words spilled out of Pinky's mouth before I had time to put my hand over it.

Clint's eyes narrowed on me, and I felt my face warm up. “Say what?”

I gave Pinky a light kick in the calf. “It was only a dream.” Only. Right.

“A dream. Well, go ahead and humor me. I like a good story,” he said.

“I think it all started when I read
Macbeth
before falling asleep. You know, Macbeth kills King Duncan and hires
murderers to kill his friend Banquo. And then Banquo's ghost comes to him, and it drives Macbeth insane—”

“Why in the devil were you reading
Macbeth
?”

“Well, I started thinking about . . . Okay, it was a dumb idea, and it didn't help me fall asleep, after all.”

Clint nodded like he understood. “You think it started with the ghost in
Macbeth
; let's just leave it at that. I would like to hear more about your dream, however.”

I'm not sure why I told him, but I did. He kept his eyes on me and didn't even blink through the short narration. “Are you some kind of psychic?”

“No.”

Pinky gave her thigh a slap. “That's the word I was looking for: ‘psychic.' Cami, you do have some sort of psychic thing going on.”

“Finding pennies from heaven is not being psychic.”

“Pennies from heaven?”

“Clint, it is nothing, really. And Pinky, can we please just drop the subject?”

“For the record, I don't believe in ghosts, but if you have some sort of connection with them, and they tell you anything that will help solve this case, I'd consider listening to it,” Clint said.

Was he kidding? Sorry to disappoint everyone, but I was not psychic. “Okay, then.”

“And neither one of you has heard from Emmy?”

“No, but Cami talked to her neighbor.” Pinky was on a roll, giving Clint all kinds of information.

“You don't say.”

“You know Lester who owned the gas station all those years?”

“Of course.”

“It turns out that he's a friend of Emmy. But he doesn't know where she went, either.”

“Hmmph.” Clint turned to me. “And you were planning to share that with our office, Camryn?”

I hadn't thought that far ahead, but yes, I would have. “Of course.”

“Just let the boys and girls in blue do their job, and you stay out of the investigation.”

“Unless a ghost gives me a good lead, that is.”

The sour look on his face told me he didn't appreciate my sarcasm.

Pinky pointed at her coffee dispenser. “Clint, can I get you something to drink?”

He put the autopsy report back in his case then glanced up at the whiteboard where Pinky wrote her special of the day. “I guess I could use a coffee to go. A medium blend with cream sounds good to me today.”

Pinky served him up, and I cringed when he took a loud slurp. I wondered if they heard him all the way next door. As much as I wanted him to take his coffee and leave, I needed an answer to a question. “You told Molly's husband about the report?”

“Of course, I contacted him first thing, before I came here.”

I weighed my words. “How did he take it? I mean, did he say anything that seemed like he was blaming Pinky or me in any way?”

Clint's eyebrows lifted. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, um, I was just wondering.”

“I think she's wondering if Will Dalton is going to sue us,” Pinky said. So Pinky had been worrying about the same thing.

Clint slurped another sip of coffee before he answered. “Sue you? I wouldn't know about that. I stopped by his house, but no one answered the door. Frankly, I thought he'd be home, and maybe he was. I was able to reach him on his cell phone; not the best way to deliver this kind of news. Mr. Dalton didn't have much to say at all. I got the impression he hasn't started processing what happened to his wife. I wouldn't be surprised if he gets back to me when he's past the initial shock.”

If something like that had happened to one of my loved ones, I was sure I'd be stuck in that initial state of shock forever.

Clint started for the door. “I'm going to Molly's mother's house next. She's pretty distraught.”

“I've wanted to talk to her but haven't gotten there yet,” I said.

“You're welcome to come with me now.”

“Really?” I looked at Pinky, and she nodded. Since Clint was actually being decent for a change, I'd put up with a short car ride and try to block out the unpleasant sounds his noisy coffee drinking habit produced. I grabbed my coat from the stool, slipped it on, and followed him to his police car.

Clint unlocked it and we got in. He set his cup in a holder and handed his briefcase to me. “I usually throw it on that seat.” I laid it on my lap and buckled up. I'd been in his police car a couple of times before, and each time I noticed something new. It was filled with gadgets and buttons and switches. We drove the mile or so to Mrs. Ryland's, the house I'd been by the night Molly had died.

“Is she expecting you?” I asked when he parked at the curb.

“Yup, I talked to her earlier.”

When we got out of the car, I gave Clint back his briefcase,
relieved I wasn't the one who had to tell Mrs. Ryland the cause of her daughter's death. Clint rang the bell and waited. He was about to ring it again when Mrs. Ryland opened the door. She was stooped over with what looked like osteoporosis, and grief was written all over her face. She was around sixty years old, a tiny, lovely-looking woman.

“Please come in, Officer.” She glanced at me. “Oh, you're Cami Brooks. Molly talked about you, and she was very excited you gave her a job.”

I nodded. “I don't know what to say except how sorry I am, especially for you, Mrs. Ryland.”

“Thank you. Let's sit in the kitchen and talk.”

The house was very well kept on the inside. Mrs. Ryland had quality furniture pieces that shone from polishing. She sat down on a chair that had a soft, thick pillow on the seat and said, “Please, sit down.”

Clint settled on a chair, laid the briefcase on the table, then opened it and pulled out the document with the ominous words. He didn't say anything when he handed it to Mrs. Ryland. She gasped and shook her head as her eyes traveled down the sheet. When she'd read the first page, she turned to the next. She was privy to all the personal, detailed information Pinky and I hadn't been allowed to see. Not that I'd want to.

“There must be some mistake. There is not a person on earth I can think of who would poison my daughter. At least I don't think Troy would.”

What was the poor woman talking about?

Clint seemed to sprout antennae as he leaned forward and pulled a notepad and pen from his pocket in one fluid movement. “Maybe you could tell us about this Troy person.”

Mrs. Ryland had been dry-eyed until that moment, when
the floodgates opened. “I didn't know. I swear I didn't know. Looking back on it, I should have, but I was blinded by love.” It was one of those moments when part of me wanted to hear the rest of the story, but the other part knew it was not going to be good. “Then after it was too late, the only thing I could think of was to cover it up and go on with life as best as we could.” Definitely not good.

Clint lifted his hand up in a halt sign. “Mrs. Ryland, I want you to stop right there. Before you go on, you may want to talk to an attorney first.”

“No, it's been long enough, nearly twenty years. I would have gone to my grave without confessing, but now that Molly's gone, there's no point.”

Clint's face turned a shade darker. “All right. Mrs. Ryland, you are not under arrest, but if you are about to confess to a crime, I'm going to read you your rights.”

Mrs. Ryland nodded and dabbed at her tears with a napkin she'd snatched from its holder. Clint pulled out a little card with the words “MIRANDA WARNING” printed on top. He read each of the five rights to Mrs. Ryland while I sat right there, hoping I wouldn't keel over from all the suspense. I think Clint had forgotten I was there, because he didn't tell me to wait in the other room while he conducted his official business. Or maybe he wanted a witness.

Mrs. Ryland said she understood each one of her rights and then blurted out, “Molly killed her stepfather, and I protected her all these years.”

I think the main reason I didn't collapse was because my body had stiffened from the shock. Clint, with the best poker face I'd ever seen, looked her in the eyes and said, “Why don't you start from the beginning, Mrs. Ryland.”

I
f I lived to be one hundred, I doubted I would ever forget a single word that came out of Mrs. Ryland's mouth that morning. I felt like pulling a Pinky and covering my ears, but I didn't want to cause a distraction.

“I got remarried when Molly was twelve. She had been such a happy and outgoing little girl until then. She got quieter and insisted on dressing in baggy clothes. At first I thought it was because she hated growing up. I had a friend who told me her daughter had been sullen all through puberty. I though Molly would grow out of it. It wasn't until after my husband died that Molly told me what he'd been doing to her for over four years. I have never felt sicker in all my life.”

“You said Molly killed him. Can you tell me more about that? How she did it?” Clint said.

“When she'd had enough of the abuse, she substituted my
husband's heart medication with an antibiotic she'd gotten. I guess he didn't notice the difference. He died in bed, in his sleep. The coroner ruled it was natural, due to a bad heart. He had a bad heart, all right. An evil one, as it were. The day after he was buried, Molly told me what she'd done. I didn't believe it at first, but it eventually sunk in.

“It was such a terrible thing, but I didn't blame her. I only wished she had told me about the abuse before it came to that. Here she was, barely seventeen, with her whole life ahead of her. I know we should have gone to the police, but the man was dead and buried. And Molly spending years in jail wouldn't have brought him back.”

Mrs. Ryland sniffled and wiped her nose. “But then of all things, she went and told her stepbrother, my husband's son, what she'd done.”

Clint kept his voice steady, like he was having a casual conversation. “Why did she do that?”

“Troy was singing his father's praises, talking about what a wonderful man he was and how the good die young. Molly was disgusted and told him what his father was really like, and how she stopped him for good.”

“You don't say. And did Troy believe her?”

“Yes, he did, and he said he was going to go to the police. I was scared for Molly, and I did something I should never have done.”

How could it get any worse?

“What was that?” Clint said, with more of an edge to his voice.

“I offered him my portion of my husband's life insurance policy—twenty thousand dollars—if he'd move away and leave Molly alone.”

Mrs. Ryland had gotten herself in deeper and deeper as she went along.

I think Clint was counting to ten, because it took him that long to answer. “What did he do then?”

“Troy took the money and did stay away for a few years. But then when he found out Molly had married the very wealthy Will Dalton, he started blackmailing her.” Mrs. Ryland and Molly had been secretly living a real-life soap opera. “About two months ago, Molly told him, ‘No more.' She told him to go to the police with his story. It was his word against hers, and he had no proof she'd done anything to his father.”

“I take it Troy didn't like that.”

“No, he did not, but he stopped pestering her. We weren't sure what he was thinking, or what he'd do about it. Molly figured he knew better than to push the issue, since he might be in about as much trouble as she'd be.”

Obviously, Molly should never have killed her stepfather, but she did have a reason a jury of her peers might understand and sympathize with. Troy had actually profited financially by threatening to expose Molly and the crime she had committed against his father.

“Did Will Dalton know about this blackmail scheme?” Clint asked.

Mrs. Ryland shook her head. “No, he gave Molly a generous allowance and thought she was spending the money on clothes and her hair and massages and lunches. He didn't seem to notice or didn't care. If she wanted a new living room set, that was fine with him. As long as she was busy so he could work, he didn't care what she spent.” That would be fun for about a month.

“How much did Troy extort from Molly?”

“Five thousand dollars a month.”

“Five
thousand
?” Clint said, and I silently repeated, “Five thousand,” about eight times, trying to comprehend that Will would think nothing of Molly spending that kind of money on nonessentials, month after month.

Mrs. Ryland nodded and got teary eyed again. “Now that I'm really thinking about it, Troy may have decided he'd get back at Molly once and for all: first for killing his father, and then for cutting down his money tree. Who else could it be?”

Besides Emmy, or Ramona and Peter Zimmer?

Clint blew out a puff of air. “That's what we intend to find out, Mrs. Ryland. Can you tell me where Troy lives?”

“Molly sent his cashier's check to a post-office box in St. Paul. We didn't know where he lived.”

“Do you have the number of the box?”

“It's in a file box with my addresses. I'll get it for you.” She grimaced when she pushed herself up. She was obviously in pain.

Clint pulled on his earlobe while he read over his notes. Mrs. Ryland got the box out of a kitchen cupboard and returned with it to the table. She pulled out a card and handed it to Clint who wrote the information in his notebook. “I'll need Troy's full name and date of birth.”

Mrs. Ryland told Clint what she knew about Troy. He was six years older than Molly and out of the house when his father married her mother.

“Do you have a picture of Troy?” Clint asked.

“Not anymore. Molly threw them all away.”

“How about a description?”

“He was the same height as his father, six-one. He has more of a round face. Dark brown hair, and a medium-sized
nose, thinner lips.” She pointed to her own features as she described him.

Clint jotted it all down, and when he finished writing, he put his notebook and pen in his pocket and stood up. “Irene Ryland, I regret having to do this under the circumstances, but I'm placing you under arrest for accessory after the fact in the murder of your husband. The statute of limitations has run out for the crime of bribery, but there is no limitation on murder.”

Mrs. Ryland didn't look surprised, but I was. My mouth dropped open, and I gasped on top of it all. “Clint—” I started to protest, but the way he looked at me stopped me in my tracks. There was fire in his eyes, making it crystal clear he did not want me to interfere when he was doing his job.

“Do you need to turn anything off in the house, or attend to a pet?” Clint said.

“No. But I'll need a coat.”

“Yes, of course. And how about medications? Are you taking any?”

Mrs. Ryland nodded. “They're in that cupboard.” She pointed, and Clint found a quart-sized plastic bag with several bottles in it. He held it up. “This it?”

“Yes,” she said.

“And you should grab that pillow, if you need it to be more comfortable. I'm not going to place you in handcuffs, but I have to ask if you have anything on your person that might be used as a weapon?”

“No.” Poor Mrs. Ryland. People had been shocked enough by Molly's death, and they'd be blown away when everything her mother had confessed was brought to light.

Clint handed me the briefcase and the bag of meds. We went to the front closet together. Mrs. Ryland pulled a coat off a hanger, and Clint helped her put it on. “My keys and wallet are in the pockets,” she said.

Clint reached in to double-check. “Okay. Let's go. Camryn, make sure the door is secure behind us.”

He put Mrs. Ryland in the backseat of his police car like she was a criminal. In reality she was but didn't seem like one. I got into the passenger seat, wishing I could trade places with Mrs. Ryland for her ride to the county jail.

When Clint got in and started the car, I noticed it was after 10:30. I had lost all track of time. He drove to Brew Ha-Ha's door and stopped at the curb. “Time you got back to work, right, Camryn?”

“Um, yes it is.” I turned around and glanced at the forlorn-looking little lady on the other side of the cage. “I'm so sorry for all of this, Mrs. Ryland. I'll come and visit you, if that'd be all right.”

“That would be very nice. Thank you, Cami.”

I nodded, took a quick look at Clint, and opened the car door. I set the meds and briefcase on the seat then closed the door and hurried into Pinky's shop. She would never believe what Mrs. Ryland had told us about Molly, the cover-up, and the bribery scheme.

“It was that bad, huh?” Pinky said when she saw me. “I didn't dare call to ask why you were taking so long. Clint thinks I'm snoopy enough.”

“It was worse than bad.” I looked around. “Nobody else here, in either shop?”

“No, the ten o'clock crowd has come and gone.”

I lowered my voice anyway. “Molly's mother is on her way to jail. Molly's
mother
.”

“Holy moly. What did she do, freak out and attack Clint or what?”

“Pinky, you're going to have to sit down when I tell you this story, seriously.” I led the way to the back, then we sat down across the table from each other and I gave her every detail I remembered. She was in a state of stunned silence. I finished by saying, “So now we know what happened the summer between junior and senior year when Molly came back like a totally different person.”

“Oh. My. God. That is crazier than crazy. And Molly, she lived with her stepfather doing those things for years. I don't blame her one little bit for what she did, but why didn't she tell her mother what had been going on before then?”

“You would never have been able to keep something like that secret.”

“No, and I can't understand how anyone else can, either.”

“It's something we can't ask her now. Maybe it was fear, threats against her or her mother. Maybe she was worried no one would believe her,” Pinky said.

“It's starting to make sense why Molly dressed the way she did during those years, it was to play down her beauty. I know someone else that happened to, someone I worked with. She told me she had wanted to be as unattractive as possible, thinking her abuser would leave her alone. Unfortunately, it didn't work. But she got out safely, eventually,” I said.

Pinky put her elbows on the table and dropped her chin into her hands. “We were really lucky growing up, having pretty normal families.”

“We were.”

“What about Molly's mother? What's going to happen? She's not young and is kind of disabled besides.”

“I don't know, but when I asked if it'd be okay to visit her, I think she was happy I offered.”

“Good. I'll go with you after we close the shops tonight.”

—

M
ark stopped by in the early afternoon with the news that Clint was trying to pull some strings to try to get Mrs. Ryland into court before the end of the day. “In any case, Clint did have a talk with the prosecutor and asked him, when she does make her first appearance, if he'd consider asking the judge to release Mrs. Ryland on her own recognizance.”

“Recognizance?” Pinky said.

“Instead of bail. It means that she promises to return for her next court date.” Mark shook his head. “Man, I hear stories every day, but what a shocker about Molly's stepfather. I think the guy had it coming myself, but we're not living in the Wild West. We have to play by the rules, with guys like me to enforce the law.”

“I know, but did Clint really have to arrest Mrs. Ryland, for pity's sake?” Pinky said.

Mark nodded. “As much as he hated to, yes. He is bound to his duty.”

“What about Molly's stepbrother, the one who was blackmailing her? Her mother thinks he might have been the killer.” I said.

“That's what I hear, and we'll track him down.” He lowered his voice. “And here's something to keep under your hats for now—Clint is working on writing up a warrant to
search Emmy's house, and then he'll have to get a judge to sign it.”

“Why would you search Emmy's house?” I said.

“For answers, like where she might have gone and . . . other things.”

“It doesn't seem right that you guys can go in there when Emmy isn't home,” Pinky said.

Mark lifted his hands, palms turned toward the ceiling. “Hey, she's the one who left in a big hurry right in the middle of a murder investigation. She could have stayed and defended herself.”

Mark got a radio call from the county dispatcher to check on a suspicious vehicle that was cruising around a neighborhood. He said, “Copy that,” and ran out the door.

“Is it just me, or does it seem like people are calling the police for things like that more and more?” Pinky said.

“It does. Remember how we used to drive around for hours after we got our driver's licenses?”

Pinky smiled. “We must have looked pretty suspicious ourselves, like we were casing houses or something.”

“Except everyone in town knew who owned each and every vehicle back then.”

“That is so true, and we couldn't have gotten away with a single bad thing even if we'd wanted to.”

I chuckled. “You are so right about that.”

“Not that we were Goody Two-Shoes all the time.”

Fond old memories came to mind. “That's true. We did have a few prankster moments. But all for fun.” I heard someone in my shop, gave Pinky a wave, and left to help my customer.

—

S
hortly before six o'clock, I was preparing to lock up for the night when I got a call on the shop phone from a frantic-sounding Emmy Anders. “Camryn, there are two police cars at my house and the lights are on inside. What am I going to do?”

“Where are you, Emmy?”

“Sitting in my car outside your shop. I didn't know where else to go.”

Jiminy Cricket! And she was calling from the cell phone she said she didn't have. “Come in, Emmy. My door is open.” I rushed over to it and looked out, concerned Emmy might panic and drive away. She was parked on the other side of the street and got out of her car and walked faster than normal to my door. I pushed it open and held it as she hurried in, bringing a large dose of cold night air with her.