Worst Laid Plans (A Maddox Storm Mystery Book 1) (13 page)

“Rowan Circle Earl Grey,” Detective Bishop drawled.

He’d fished a tiny notepad and a silver pen out from somewhere and was scribbling away. He glanced up to look from Burns to me. “Did anyone else drink from that packet of tea in the last week or so?”

“It wouldn’t have been worth your life,” Burns mumbled beneath his breath. Very slightly louder, he said, “Ms Daggon had that tea shipped in special from Dublin, Ireland. She was, um, graphic about what she’d do to anyone who touched it.”

“Where in Dublin?” asked the detective. “Do you have the name of the store or company?”

“She never said and I never asked,” Burns told him. “A pungent smelling brew, that’s all I know.”

Detective Bishop hit him with a barrage of questions after that.

Did Ms Daggon order in bulk?

Was the tea kept in the pantry?

In her bedroom?

Who else knew about her expensive fetish for Irish tea?

I lost interest quickly, mainly due to Burns’ lack of knowledge about any specific details.

Without conscious intention, I found myself studying the detective. He wasn’t a truly handsome man, not in a glamor magazine kind of way. But the bristled jaw, strong nose, wide mouth, well… put that together with his smoky gray eyes and those messy waves of coffee colored hair and he wasn’t half bad.

Not that I was attracted, but for the sake of objective study, he certainly had a magnetic sex appeal thing going on for him.

I hadn’t realized I was staring until he caught me. My cheeks blushed hot and I lowered my lashes.

“One last thing before I go,” he said. “We’ve swept the house, but if you do happen to find anything edible stashed away, please don’t touch it. Call the station and we’ll have someone come up to collect it.”

“Can we get the keys back to Ms Daggon’s room?” Burns wanted to know.

“I’m afraid not. We’d prefer to keep that room sealed for now in case we’ve missed anything.” Detective Bishop slid his notepad and pen inside his jacket and straightened from his position propped against the counter. “Ms Storm, would you mind walking me out to my truck?”

We all have our faults. Some adorable, some not. My cheeks still tingled from being caught ogling him and one of my worst traits was that I turned snarky when embarrassed.

“Do you need assistance navigating the porch steps?” I lashed out, peeking through my lowered lashes at him. “They’re rather steep. All four of them.”

He didn’t flinch. “You can walk me to the truck or come down to the station,” he said. “Your choice.”

Crap.

I just knew that model citizenship moment would come back to bite me on the ass. I stood and followed him out. He kept a step ahead of me until the bottom of the porch steps.

“I know what you’re thinking and you’re wrong,” I blurted out the second he stopped and turned to me.

“This I have to hear.” He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and dipped his jaw, his gaze assessing me.

“You have to understand, I didn’t know Ms Daggon was dead when I walked into the kitchen.” I backed up onto the bottom step to give myself a little height advantage. “I didn’t wreck your crime scene and dump the evidence on purpose.”

His mouth twitched, but he said nothing, just looked at me with those smoky eyes.

I threw my hands up. “You only know about the tea because I told you. If I had anything to hide, I would have kept my mouth shut.”

“Unless you assumed there was a witness,” he said. “You thought Mr Hollow had seen you cleaning up the sink.”

My nostrils flared. “You don’t miss a thing, do you?”

“It’s my job not to.” He closed the gap I’d put between us and what he did next shocked me to my toes.

He reached out to tuck a stray strand of my long fringe behind my ear. The action was so unexpected, he’d already dropped his hand before I could think to strain backward.

“I admit,” he said, a slow grin softening his jaw, “you’re like an annoying gnat to this investigation.”

Of all the things I’d ever been compared to, this had to be the most unflattering. And he wasn’t finished.

“If something has the potential to go wrong, seems you’ve already been there and done it.”

“Not deliberately,” I groused. “I had nothing to do with Ms Daggon’s death. For goodness sake, I only moved into Hollow House the night before.”

“So Mr Hollow informed me and, some might think, a strange coincidence.”

I pursed my lips, refusing to say another word that he would only twist into a confession of guilt. But a last plea still popped out. “However bad it looks, I’m innocent.”

“I believe you.”

Three simple words, but with the power to knock me sideways.

Relief melted behind my knees. “I’m not under investigation?”

“I have more suspects than I have man hours to work this case, Ms Storm,” he said. “I’m good at reading people and my gut says you’re a nuisance, not a murderer.”

All that fuzzy warmth fled.

“Well, I’m also good at reading people,” I lied. “And I’ll give you this for free. Your bedside manner sucks.”

“Then it’s just as well I’m neither your doctor nor your lover,” he drawled without missing a beat.

My cheeks flamed to a whole new level of heated mortification.

Detective Bishop shifted back a step to give me some room. Maybe he regretted that he’d gone too far, although I doubted it

“How about we stick to the reason I called you outside with me,” he said. “It looks probable that the tea Ms Daggon drank that morning was laced with cyanide. I’ll have to check the reports to confirm whether the Rowan Circle tea was on the inventory sent to our forensic unit, but we do know that everything came back clean. Which means the tea might have been doctored after it’d been poured.”

The grin was gone along with the amused drawl.

He was all serious and professional now, right down to the concern creased at his brow. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Ms Storm?”

I shook my head, no. I had no idea where he was going with this.

“No guests were registered, there was no sign of forced entry and the ME report indicates a quick death, within minutes of ingesting the cyanide,” he explained. “We have to consider the possibility that Mr Burns and Mr Hollow both knew about the vic’s preference for Rowan Circle tea
and
they had the perfect opportunity.”

“That’s preposterous,” I exclaimed. “Opportunity isn’t everything, Detective Bishop, and they have absolutely no motive.”

“You sure about that?” he said. “You said yourself, you’ve only just moved in.”

“I’ve known Mr Hollow all my life!”

“Well enough to know all his secrets?” he challenged. “And what of Mr Burns? How long have you known him?”

I nudged my chin high and glared at him.

He raised a hand, backing down. “I’m not convicting either man.”

“You couldn’t if you wanted to,” I said, my head spinning at the implication. “You don’t have any proof. And I hope you’re not concentrating all your efforts on two old, innocent men while a killer runs amok.” I pointed toward the valley road and beyond to emphasize my point. “Out there.”

“I’m not, I assure you,” he said. “They’re not even top of our list. And I don’t want to alarm you, Ms Storm. This was a targeted murder and we have no reason to believe the man—or woman—will kill again. But I wanted you to be aware of all the aspects of this investigation, in case you wished to make alternate living arrangements.”

“I don’t wish.” I folded my arms and gave him a stubborn look.

An accident with the rat poison was one thing, but lacing tea with cyanide was the mark of a cold, cruel mind. I refused to give the detective’s insidious suggestions any credence whatsoever.

∞∞∞

It was naively optimistic of me, I suppose, to think I’d get any sleep that night. I tossed and turned for hours, too jittery to settle. It wasn’t a scared type of jittery. I wasn’t expecting Burns or Mr Hollow to sneak into my room in the dead of night with a carving knife.

Trust me, if I thought for one second either man had done the dastardly deed, I’d already be tucked into my bed at home with my dad standing guard by the door.

Nevertheless, Detective Bishop’s accusations had contaminated my brain. His pointed facts jumbled with my own limited snippets and everything rolled together inside my head like twitches on a hamster wheel.

The tea was laced with cyanide.

No sign of forced entry.

I never saw her drink any other tea while she was here.

She was graphic about what she’d do to anyone who touched it.

A quick death.

They had the perfect opportunity.

She had the tea shipped in special from Dublin.

The one thing the detective and I agreed upon was that Ms Daggon was a targeted victim. Not an accident. Not a random break-in gone bad.

Someone had wanted her dead.

Someone with a real, honest-to-God motive.

I was no detective, but I was pretty sure that meant it had to be someone she knew. Someone she’d peeved off horrifically.

I finally gave up on sleep and reached over to switch on the bedside lamp and grab my phone. I wasn’t really planning anything stupid, just a little browsing to put me back to sleep, but oops, look at that You Tube video:
Three easy steps to break into a locked room.

This was going to need a bigger screen.

I climbed out of bed to turn the overhead light on and collect my laptop from the bottom drawer of the bachelor chest.

A short while later, feeling very much like a master thief with my phone torch to light the way and my Swiss Army Knife in hand, I crept down the staircase to the ground floor. Once I was in the back passage by Ms Daggon’s bedroom, I flipped on the hallway light and tucked my phone into the pocket of my robe.

My gaze blurred over the official police sticker on the door in my effort to not read the order. Sometimes ignorance was just as good as innocence.

I snapped open the blade accessory from the small red compact and scraped at the edges of crime tape until I could peel it carefully off the door frame. I had every intention of leaving the scene exactly as I’d found it.

Next, I simply had to slide the blade into the crack and pop the lock mechanism.

The blade was far too thick.

I flicked through the various tools and tried the nail file. It was a tight fit, and I worried I was filing down the wood, but it was all for a good cause. I honestly didn’t think Detective Bishop was quite as motivated as I was to find and apprehend the real murderer.

He’d said Burns and Mr Hollow weren’t top of his list, but so far none of his suspects impressed me. Two old women and two old men. In all seriousness, I was a much better contender than any of them and he’d scratched me off. Who did that leave?

I jiggled the nail file up and down, put some extra muscle into it, but all I seemed to be doing was giving the lock an ugly manicure.

Sitting back on my haunches, I stared at the brass plate and handle while contemplating my options. Giving up wasn’t on the menu. Neither was kicking down the door. I didn’t have the steel-tipped boots or the brawn.

There were four tiny screws on the plate, though. My master class hadn’t mentioned screws, but I was an actress and putting myself into other people’s shoes came naturally.

What would a locksmith do in this situation?

Remove the lock.

My Swiss knife had three different sized screwdrivers and I had the screws off in no time. Unfortunately the entire assembly came apart as soon as I removed the plate. A piece of metal dropped into the cavity. I tried to dig it out, but the door had swallowed it. I wasn’t sure it mattered anymore. There was no way I could put this lock together again.

The door opened to my touch and, since the damage was done, I decided I might as well get what I’d come for.

Ms Daggon’s bedroom was cluttered worse than my parents’ basement and trust me, you couldn’t swing a rat in there.

A narrow bed was wedged in between the wall and the stacks of overflowing cardboard boxes. Clothes, shoes, linen, pots, pans and coats littered the place.

I assumed the mess was courtesy of our fine police department. I also assumed Ms Daggon hadn’t actually moved her entire house into this bedroom, but it sure looked as if she’d made a gallant effort.

I stood there a long moment, unable to comprehend the madness of this woman. To give up her home at her age, waste all her money on a silly law suit she didn’t have a hope in hell of winning.

Did she not have anything better to do with her golden years?

Maybe not.

A shadow of regret settled on my shoulders, weighed down with a flash of insight that came, I was afraid to say, from recent personal experiences.

I’d always concluded Ms Daggon was alone because she was so mean. But maybe she was so mean because she was alone. I’d been alone and discarded for less than two weeks, and already I was a lot snarkier and harder than I’d ever been.