A Plus One for Murder, page 18
“I know.”
“I don’t get most of it, but that’s the way of poetry at first,” said Stephanie. “The good stuff requires a little thinking, a little analyzing.”
Emma pushed off the couch and wandered over to the window overlooking the street. Scout’s eyes followed her, but his body remained stretched across his favorite dog bed. “I was up pretty much all night doing that. Stanza by stanza. Line by line.”
“Granted, I’m just now reading this, but it seems pretty clear he thinks our four suspects are hiding things,” Stephanie said.
“More like he believes they’ve gotten away with things they shouldn’t.” Turning back to Stephanie, Emma leaned against the window. “And that part about the roles they defile? He says that as if it’s aimed at all of them, but the only one with a role is Sheriff Borlin. And maybe the mayor’s wife. Nancy Davis and Robert McEnerny are just regular people like you and me. They don’t have roles to defile, right?”
Stephanie’s attention returned to the screen, her lips moving with the words as she silently read them again. When she finished, she set the phone down on the armrest of the couch. “I’m guessing the lust for more green is for the greenhouse lady?”
“Her name is Nancy Davis. And I guess you’re probably right,” Emma said, shrugging. “But I was thinking she was more the first one because of the jaw-that-flaps-nonstop part. Nancy has a reputation for being a bit of a gossip—although not necessarily in a malicious way.”
Again, Stephanie looked at the phone, her eyes moving quickly down the screen. “Okay, I can see that. Especially since he says her.”
“Which could be Rita Gerard, as well.”
“No. That one is the Macbeth reference. No doubt.”
Emma wandered back to the couch but remained standing. “Why?”
“Our own local Lady Macbeth?” Stephanie’s eyes narrowed on Emma. “C’mon. Think about it, Emma. Our own local Lady Macbeth. Rita Gerard—the mayor’s wife. It’s poetic, quite frankly. Shakespeare would be proud.”
“Shakespeare?” Emma echoed.
Stephanie stared at her. “Yes . . .”
“Ugh.”
“I take it you’re not a fan?”
“Your take is correct. But the soiled-hand part could refer to Nancy, too, on account of the whole gardening thing.”
Again, Stephanie looked at the poem. “True. But if that’s the case, what a wasted opportunity with the Macbeth line.”
“The one about the greased palms near the end? That one is a total no-brainer.”
“Oh?” Stephanie asked, glancing up. “Why is that?”
“Graft is a cop term for taking a bribe.” Emma heard Scout yawn and made her way over to his bed. “Jack confirmed that.”
“The deputy? He’s still following you?”
“He’s not following me. He’s just . . .” She lowered herself to the open floor next to Scout’s bed and began to rub his neck, her thoughts taking her back to the park.
An uh-oh from Stephanie pulled her back into the room.
“Uh-oh?” Emma repeated, moving on to Scout’s tummy. “What’s uh-oh?”
“Your smile just now.”
She stared at Stephanie. “What about it? I’m petting my dog.”
“Oh no. Don’t even go there. That smile was about one thing and one thing only and it had absolutely nothing to do with that dog.” Stephanie leaned forward, grinning. “You have a total crush on that deputy. It’s written all over your face.”
“No, I don’t!”
Stephanie’s knowing laugh warmed Emma’s cheeks. “Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t. If I smiled while talking about him, it was only because I was thinking about his kid, Tommy. He and Scout were like two peas in a pod from the moment they laid eyes on each other at the park today.”
“He has a kid?”
Emma nodded. “He’s eight.”
“Does he have a wife as well?”
“No! He’s divorced.”
Stephanie’s smile was back. “You’ve got it bad.”
“No, I don’t. You’re nuts.”
“In the immortal words of William Shakespeare’s Hamlet, methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
Chapter Twenty
“It should be against the law for anyone to wake before noon on a Saturday.”
Grinning, Emma pulled up on Scout’s leash and turned to find Stephanie exiting her car onto Dottie’s driveway in what appeared—from the thirty or so feet between them—to be sleepwear. “You made it!” she said, doubling back. “And on time, no less!”
“Take a picture for posterity reasons as it won’t be happening again anytime soon.” Stephanie managed a smile—in between yawns—for Scout as he wagged his way over for his first official greeting of the day. “Good morning, Scout. If you were my dog, you’d still be cuddled up in bed.”
“No, he wouldn’t. He wakes up with the sun. Seven days a week.”
Stephanie’s lip curled in horror. “Do all dogs do that?”
“I don’t know. I can only speak for Scout.” Emma traveled her gaze down to Stephanie’s feet. “Nice slippers. They go perfectly with your ensemble.”
“I’m sensing judgment.”
Emma’s laugh brought Scout back to her side. “No. No judgment. Though I am looking forward to seeing Dottie’s reaction.”
Stephanie’s still-sleepy eyes slid toward the side yard and the walkway that would take them around to the patio. “She doesn’t do pajamas?”
“I’m sure she does pajamas. When it’s time to sleep. Which it’s not, but that’s okay.” Emma waved for Stephanie to follow and then let Scout lead the way. “The eye roll when she sees you should be epic.”
Stephanie stopped. “Should I go home and change?”
“Nah. It’ll be good for Dottie—it’ll keep her distracted enough by you and your faux pas that she’ll miss mine.”
Stephanie’s green eyes lit on Emma’s flowered skirt and eyelet shirt and pulled a face. “Please . . . What on earth could she find wrong with you?”
“Watch and listen.” Again, Emma motioned for Stephanie to follow and, when she did, hurried to catch up with Scout at the gate. A peek through the wrought iron posts showed the elderly woman seated at the patio table with a cup of coffee to her left, a plate of something that looked deliciously sinful to her right, and a big manila envelope between them both.
“Hey, Dottie,” she called as she unlatched the gate and held it open for Scout and Stephanie. “We’re all here.”
Turning her head toward the gate, Dottie slipped her reading glasses midway down her nose and, after a momentary hesitation that included a shocked yet silent once-over of Stephanie, pinned Emma with a noteworthy glare. “You do realize Memorial Day weekend is still two weeks away, right, dear?”
“Here we go,” she murmured to Stephanie. “Wait for it . . .”
“Because white sandals are wholly inappropriate for the middle of May, Emma.”
“I thought that was white pants,” she countered.
“No, it extends to sandals, as well.”
“Duly noted.” Emma closed the remaining gap between them, planted a quick kiss atop the octogenarian’s perfectly coiffed hair, and claimed the same spot she’d sat in three days earlier. “And Stephanie? Do you have anything to say to her?”
Dottie pointed the third member of their trio to a chair and then to the serving platter of cinnamon rolls in the center of the table. “Please. Help yourself while they’re still warm.”
“That’s it?” Emma asked. “You comment on my sandals, and you point Stephanie to the cinnamon rolls?”
“You can have one, too, dear.” Dottie rolled her eyes.
Emma stared at, first, Dottie. Then, at Stephanie. And, finally, back at Dottie. “You do realize she’s wearing pajamas and slippers, right?”
“Speaking of your slippers, Stephanie, where did you get them? I must have Glenda pick up a pair for me the next time she’s at the mall. They look both sturdy and comfortable.”
“They are!” Stephanie sent a triumphant smile in Emma’s direction as she plunked a cinnamon roll onto her plate and licked the icing from the tips of her fingers. “Maybe Glenda could pick Emma up a pair, as well.”
“Okay . . . Okay . . . I see how this is going to go.” Emma, too, helped herself to a cinnamon roll and placed it on her plate. “How did your appointment go yesterday, Dottie? I left you a message—two, actually—but you never called back.”
“You knew you were coming here today . . .”
“I did. But I wanted to check on you and I wanted to tell you about the email I found from—”
Stephanie stopped mid-lick and sat up tall. “Oh, Dottie, wait ’til you hear this. It’s a doozy.”
Uh-oh.
“Tell her, Emma. Tell her what Brian sent you. Or”—Stephanie took one last lick and then reached for her fork—“better yet, show her the same picture you showed me last night.”
“Last night?” Dottie echoed.
Emma, realizing her glares were going unnoticed, opted to go the route of an under-the-table kick as a way to silence Stephanie, but to no avail. Stephanie kept right on talking.
“Emma invited me over last night to see the poem Brian never got to finish reading!”
The dagger that was Dottie’s glare had Emma scrambling for a glass of water. “You have Mr. Hill’s poem, dear?”
“She does!” Stephanie said, forking a bite of the cinnamon roll from her plate. “And boy, was he out for blood at Deeter’s that night. The whole thing was one great big callout on each of our suspects.”
“Why am I just now hearing about this?” Dottie asked, her voice dripping with hurt-tinged anger.
“Emma got it on Thursday night.”
Dottie held Emma’s gaze even as she directed her response to Stephanie. “And this is Saturday morning.”
“I left you two messages yesterday,” Emma said sheepishly. “Remember?”
“You never said anything about the case in either of those messages.”
“Because the bigger priority was to check on you. And I figured, when you called back, I’d tell you about the poem then.”
“Don’t worry, Dottie, Emma and I spent a little time last night batting around different parts of the poem, and I think we made some progress.” Stephanie turned to Emma. “FYI, that’s me you’re kicking under the table, not the table post.”
In search of an escape hatch, Emma popped her chin up and glanced around the patio for Scout. When her search yielded nothing, she stood, her attention ricocheting between a still-dagger-shooting Dottie and the yard. “Is the screen up in front of Alfred’s flowers?”
Dottie took a long, drawn-out sip of her coffee and then carefully returned the china mug to its matching saucer. “It is. I supervised its placement not more than twenty minutes ago, myself.”
“Oh, okay, good. Thank you.” She sat back down, unfolded her napkin across her lap, and gestured toward the envelope in front of Dottie. “I take it that’s it? The autopsy report on Brian?”
Aware of the full and undivided attention of both her guests, Dottie took great care (and time) in turning the envelope over, peeling back the seal she’d clearly opened numerous times over the past two days, and slipping her age-spotted hand inside to reach its contents. “In addition to the coroner’s report, my source also included information about Mr. Hill’s health in the event that may be of help to us, as well.”
“And this source of yours just up and sent these things to you?” Emma asked as Dottie readied the papers for Stephanie. “Isn’t that illegal?”
Dottie looked at Emma across the upper rim of her eyeglasses. “We’re trying to solve a murder here, dear.”
“Which is what the police are supposed to be doing, not us.”
“If you don’t want to be part of this, I’m quite certain Stephanie and I can handle this on our own.”
Stephanie took the papers Dottie held out to her and laid them down next to her breakfast plate. “Dottie is right, Emma. We’ve got this.”
“Yes, you just hang back while we work to save your business from the kind of press that could destroy it.” Dottie dismissed Emma with wiggled fingers. “We’ll be fine.”
“Wow. Such guilt . . .” Emma murmured.
“No guilt intended, dear.”
Her answering laugh summoned Scout from whatever bush he’d been sniffing. “Hey, boy,” she said, rubbing his head. “Did you find a squirrel to play with?”
“So? Are you in or are you out?” Dottie pressed while simultaneously eyeing Stephanie. “We don’t need any dead weight in this investigation.”
Emma stilled her hand atop Scout’s head. “Dead weight?”
“You and your”—Dottie paused, as if searching for the right word—“hesitation about all of this.”
“You mean my hesitation about playing armchair sleuth like one of those characters in your cozy mystery novels?” Emma countered.
Dottie’s eyes narrowed on Emma again. “There’s nothing the slightest bit armchair about what we’re doing here. If there was, Stephanie wouldn’t be looking at a copy of the official autopsy findings on our victim.”
“She shouldn’t be,” Emma said. “That’s my point.”
Dottie’s gasp died along with Emma’s sentence as Stephanie looked up from the stack of papers. “Brian came from a long line of pretty extensive heart issues.”
“Since when is a heart attack considered murder?” Emma asked.
“It’s not.”
Emma followed Stephanie’s eyes back to the reports. “Then I don’t understand.”
“While his heart appeared to be in good condition as of his last checkup”—Stephanie flipped back a page, scoured it—“he did have some pretty serious kidney issues that were being watched.”
“Okay . . .”
Stephanie returned to the spot she’d been reading and, after a few noises indicative of either intrigue or disgust, looked up again. “There were high levels of digitalis—consistent with the finding of digitalis toxicity—in his body at the time of his death.”
“Digitalis,” Dottie repeated. “With a family history of heart issues?”
Nodding, Stephanie turned a page forward, and then a page back. “I’m not seeing anything on his lifestyle in terms of activity.”
“He ran marathons,” Emma offered.
Stephanie’s gaze snapped up to Emma’s. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I came across a few articles about it when I was doing a little research on him after I agreed to meet him for Open Mic Night.”
“Interesting . . .” Stephanie murmured, digging back into the reports.
“Interesting, indeed.”
Emma turned back to Dottie. “This stuff means something to you?”
“It does.”
“I didn’t know you were in the medical field at one time.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Then how is any of this making sense to you?”
Again, Dottie peered at Emma across the top of her glasses, a smug smile playing at the corners of her thinning lips. “I read.”
“You read cozy mysteries.”
“You’re right, I do.”
A flurry of movement gravitated their collective attention back to Stephanie as she neatened the papers into a pile and handed them back to Dottie. “So, from what I’m able to gather, the high amount of digitalis—in conjunction with the kidney issues that lowered his ability to get rid of the toxins through his urine—is what killed him. And since his doctor didn’t prescribe digitalis for him, the prevailing thought is that someone introduced it into his system via food or water.”
“And it can be fast-acting, correct?” Dottie asked.
“Coupled with his medical history, it can be, yes.”
Emma sat up tall, her mind’s eye transporting her back to the restaurant and the table as it had looked when she arrived. “He ordered a plate of stuffed mushrooms for us before I even showed up! They were on the table when we walked in from having met outside!”
Dottie’s head was shaking before she’d even finished talking. “But you’re still here.”
“Digitalis doesn’t affect everyone the same way,” Stephanie said, glancing from Dottie to Emma. “Do you remember any dizziness or lightheadedness at all that night? Any stomach upset? Any—”
“I didn’t eat them!”
Dottie straightened in her wheelchair. “You didn’t?”
“No. I hate stuffed mushrooms!”
“And all four of our suspects were there when you arrived?” Dottie asked.
Emma considered the question as she followed Brian to the table in her thoughts. “I can’t say for sure. But when I opened the folder and looked at the pictures not more than five minutes later—tops!—they were all there. And none of them looked as if they had just arrived.”
“So any one of them could’ve walked by that appetizer and slipped the digitalis into it while Brian was outside talking to you.” Dottie plunked her notebook atop the coroner’s report and flipped it open. “Do you remember anything specific about the appetizer or its presentation? Did it look particularly different from others you’ve seen?”
“I’d sooner starve than order mushrooms—stuffed, or otherwise—so I wouldn’t know. I just know they looked gross.”
Stephanie forked a layer of icing off her roll and deposited it into her mouth, her full attention on Dottie. “I take it, by what you’re asking Emma, you’re thinking what I’m thinking?”
Nodding, Dottie uncapped her pen. “I am.”
“Seems likely to me, as well,” Stephanie said.
Emma looked from Dottie to Stephanie and back again, waiting. When neither saw fit to include her in their veiled banter, she shoved her breakfast plate to the side. “Hold on a minute. You two don’t get to do whatever it is you’re doing right now.”
