Wrong Poison, page 18
I was absolutely sure Al had nothing to do with the poisoning, and I was honestly glad he was busy somewhere else while Madge and I took care of business. Maybe she’d be ready to think about that ring once the Book was in ashes.
While Al was safely out of the picture, I got a chance for a good look at the remaining contenders on the suspect list as we dished and poured, sprinkled, and sprayed. Ginny in her corner, George Germain circulating…and then Morton Winch walked in, with his zoning officer friend on his arm.
Of course he did.
Ginny was having people sign address cards at her little spot, in clear violation of PTA policy (no electioneering at school events!) and talking animatedly at an appreciative audience of mommies and a few dads. She was “on,” in ways I hadn’t seen before, and once again, I had to ask myself how far she would go to get what she wanted if what seemed like an easy opportunity to clear the path just opened up in front of her? The container and the open page would quite literally have looked like a sign saying, “go remove somebody.”
Not to mention George Germain and his talk of karma.
He was busily upbraiding the parents running the other sundae table because the ice cream wasn’t certified rBST-free and there was corn syrup in the toppings. He was absolutely crazy enough to see a sign and act on it.
No question.
I was noodling about those possibilities as I dished up ice cream until the final clue slapped me right across the face.
A scent.
An unmistakable and oppressive scent. Aftershave that could knock you down and choke you. I knew immediately where I’d smelled it before. On the scarf with the scent of poison.
Just a thread of it at the urn at Obedellia Winch’s calling hours.
And now, on Morton Winch, as I handed him a bowl of ice cream.
That SOB Winch.
Good money is always on the husband.
“Oh, Grace, thank you,” he said as I handed him the bowl.
“You’re welcome. Would you like some whipped cream?” I asked.
“Yes, please.”
“Come over here, I think I need to open a new can.”
Before he realized what I was doing, I’d grabbed his arm and pulled him through the door into the empty kitchen, holding him against the wall with the only weapon at hand: the giant spray-can of whipped cream.
Ridiculous, I’m sure, but the combination of weapon and shock did the trick.
“What– Grace– why- ” he sputtered, clutching the bowl in front of him as if it were some kind of defensive weapon.
I took a breath and pulled myself into ice-cold calm. Everything around this situation might be ridiculous, but the stakes were anything but.
Whipped cream or not, PTA festivities on the other side of that door notwithstanding, I had to catch and stop this killer right now. Or else.
“I know what you did. And I know how you did it.”
The direct approach is always good.
“I don’t understand -”
“You killed your wife with poison you found on Moira’s desk.”
He drew himself up and tried to look indignant. Imposing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Grace. Did Moira tell you some crazy story? She’s probably falling into dementia like her mother.”
“Stop it.” I aimed the can where it would do the most good. Not at the ice cream. “Don’t talk about her like that.”
Winch winced. “Really, Grace. I don’t know what you’re-”
“There’s surveillance cam video.” Of course there wasn’t, but he had no way to know that. And it was a credible lie. “So let’s stop screwing around here.”
Winch’s face turned gray. Similar to the color of his wife’s as the poison finished its work. Just no red line on the eyelids…yet.
He let out a deflated sigh. “All right.”
“Not all right at all.”
“What do you have to do with this?” he asked.
“Bad question.” I said, waving the can a little. Want to find out how much that propellant stings? “You’re caught and that’s all you need to know.”
“Are you two in some kind of coven or- ”
“Do you want to find out how well that poison really works?” I asked. A much better threat.
“Um, no.” He wilted a bit.
“Then stop asking questions.”
“What happens now?”
“Unfortunately, you’re going to get away with murder.”
“Really?” The mope actually grinned. “So what-”
“You’re not going to get away with corruption though. I know you were using your position as Mrs. Winch’s husband to find out what was going on with the outlet mall, and your relationship with the zoning officer to move it forward. And I strongly suspect you’re getting a cut of the action from someone who’s already been indicted.”
Each sentence deflated Winch a bit more.
By the time I finished, he was slumped over and looking like the pathetic creep he was. Still clutching the ice cream. Gollum with a bowl of empty calories.
“What happens now?” he asked.
“Now, you do the only right thing available.”
He looked puzzled and more than a little scared.
Entirely reasonable fear. The Mothers expected me to keep loss of life to a minimum, but no one would argue if I had to dispose of the actual murderer to keep everything quiet.
But I really hate killing people.
Unless they’ve earned it.
By my standards, Winch was moving toward the line, but he wasn’t there yet. I didn’t want to take him out unless I had to. And with a little help from my friends, I probably wouldn’t have to.
“All right,” I said. “Give me your phone.”
“What?” Morton Winch asked, his small olive-pit-green eyes suddenly defiant behind his glasses. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m not.” I moved the can menacingly and backed it up with a glare. “You are going to call my friend in the U.S. Attorney’s Office and tell her what you were up to with the outlet mall.”
“But I-”
“Or, I can just call the cops. I have the poison, and I can connect you with it. And you may not realize this, but some elements of it survive cremation. How do you feel about 20 to life?”
“What?”
“If they know what they’re looking for, and I’ll make sure they do, a decent crime lab can find traces of it.” He bought one credible lie. No reason to believe he wouldn’t swallow another.
“You wouldn’t.”
“Want to try me?” I doubt most people could look dangerous over a whipped cream can, but I did have the glare. I turned it on, full force.
No one had ever lived to tell whether it worked, so I hoped for the best.
Morton Winch wilted a little. I caught a whiff of flop-sweat under the horrific cologne.
“All right. You and your poisoning friends win.”
“I wouldn’t cast aspersions, considering,” I said. “The phone.”
He set the ice cream down on a kitchen counter and handed over the device.
I brought up the keypad with my thumb and punched in Marisol’s mobile number. It was early enough she probably wasn’t at her book club yet. “Her name is Marisol Ruiz-Miller. You’re not going to tell her I sent you, or anything related to the poison.”
“I’m not?”
“No. You’re going to tell her it was just time to come forward.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m protecting everyone involved here. Even you.”
“No, I’m not asking that.” Winch winced again. “I mean, why am I coming forward?”
“Tell her your conscience is troubling you.” I looked at him. Marisol doesn’t question the dentistry on gift horses, but ascribing a conscience to this guy was a bit much. “No, forget that. Tell her you knew it was going to come out sooner or later, and you wanted to get the best deal you could.”
“That’s actually kind of true.”
“The best lies usually are.” I handed back the phone. “Now, get to it. I have to go back to slinging ice cream.”
He hit send. I could tell Marisol picked up.
Morton started in a stammer, but quickly picked up speed.
Good. One problem solved.
Now back to the syrup and sprinkles.
A few minutes later, I saw Winch slink out of the multi-purpose room, casting nervous glances my way. He would do exactly as he was told because he knew the consequences could be far worse if he didn’t. He might even have figured he was safer with the Feds.
And he was right.
One last problem to resolve tonight. We’d just opened the final tubs of ice cream and set out all the remaining toppings, so everyone who stayed to the end could jump in for a little free-for-all, when I saw Kryssie coming by.
“Now,” I said, patting her arm. “Let’s get this done now.”
“But everyone-”
“Is up to their eyeballs in sugar. It’ll just take a minute.”
“Oh, fine.” She pulled her keys out of her pocket. “Let’s go.”
The parking lot was barely lit, and surprisingly quiet. Nobody was going to run out in the middle of the final feast. At least not anyone who wanted their kids to keep speaking to them.
She popped her trunk and handed me the book. I pulled a twenty out of my pocket and handed it to her.
“Thanks,” I forced myself to sound grateful and polite. “I really appreciate this. The Book matters a lot to Madge.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Family thing.”
“Really? Is it special, or valuable?” Her eyes had the same acquisitive gleam as Thursday, but this time, I had to make sure she was shut down and shut down hard.
“No. It’s a sentimental family thing. That’s all.”
“You went to a lot of trouble for some little family thing.”
“Madge is special to me.”
“Is that all? Sure sounds like there’s some-”
“Please don’t ask any more questions.”
“Why? I’m just curious and-”
“Tell you what,” I replied, allowing some steel to creep into my tone, “you don’t ask about my life, and I don’t ask about yours.”
“What does that mean?”
“I think you know.”
Kryssie glared at me. “What do you know?”
“I know I’ve seen your SUV at the firehouse at a number of odd hours.” I held her gaze. “And you and a big dark-haired guy put that SUV to good use one morning not long ago.”
“Well, I was just talking to some PTA parents…”
I looked at her. “That’s the best you got?”
“He was showing me-”
“Please,” I said, “don’t tell me what he was showing you.”
“There’s no need to be nasty.”
“Trust me, Kryssie, you’ll know when I get nasty.” I gave her a tinge of the glare to remind her.
“Well.” She huffed. “You’ve got your book back.”
“I do. And it would be a very bad idea for you to discuss this with anyone.”
“Don’t worry.”
I turned for the door.
“You’re still going to write the press release for the holiday choir tea, right?”
“Of course, I am.”
“Good.” She closed the trunk and swept past me with a happy smile. Unpleasantness forgotten, as long as she got what she wanted.
What a piece of work.
On the other hand, I didn’t have to kill her either, and that was worth a lot. At least for the moment. I put the Book in my car, double-checked to be sure it was locked, then turned for the social.
The after-party was well underway.
Brian’s work at the cashbox was done, so he’d come to our table to hang out with Michael and the kids. They were laughing, and as I got closer, I realized it was about Scotchie and the blue doo.
Laughing, too, I dropped a kiss on the top of Daniel’s head, getting the customary brush-off, and held up a hand to Michael.
“What’s up?”
“Madge has a little bit of an emergency.”
The men gave me concerned glances.
“Not a bad emergency, a good one. Al proposed, and she needs to talk it out. Do you mind getting Daniel home after the knockdown?”
“I love a good emergency for a change.” Michael said. “Sure thing.”
“Tell her to say yes,” Brian added.
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do.” It wasn’t a lie. I had been planning for days to tell Madge to stop fighting Al.
“Absolutely,” Michael agreed. “Good standup guy.”
Brian beamed. “Be nice to have a wedding to look forward to.”
“Especially since we don’t have to plan it.” Michael gave me a naughty glance. “Can I wear my kilt?”
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
“So would I,” Brian said, and he and Michael shared a high-five.
Corinna waved to me from the almost empty ice cream tubs. Back to work. Not fair to leave her with this mess.
“See you back at the house,” I called to Michael.
“Hopefully with good news.”
He had no idea how good.
CHAPTER 30
INTO THE FIRE
Corinna accepted my abject apology for abandoning her in the whirlwind, especially after I offered to take care of cleaning up our table so she could leave with the kids. Clay had worked late and apparently offered to open a nice bottle of wine, and handle bedtime, in return for missing the social.
That was a deal no woman with a brain would turn down, and I happily sent her on the way. We’d catch up later.
Kryssie, no surprise, disappeared during the final cleanup, so I ended up walking to my car with a couple of new kindergarten parents who’d stayed late because they were trying too hard. They were actually kind of cute.
When I, and the Book, were finally safe and alone in my car, I sat there in the dark for a second, a little shellshocked. It was almost over.
Almost. There was at least a very real possibility we were going to pull this off.
One of the kindergarten parents knocked on my window.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Fine.” I waved and started the car. “Just been a really long day.”
“Oh, I know that one,” she said.
Somehow, I doubted it.
Now, on to the Book burning.
I hope you know by now I’m not a fan of book burnings. But this one Book had to be burned to keep everyone safe. So bring on the fire, baby.
On the drive to Madge’s, I heard my phone beep. In her driveway, I read the text from Marisol:
I don’t know what you did, but thank you.
Don’t ask.
Don’t worry, I won’t.
I sent a smiley, grabbed the Book, and got out of the car.
Madge was waiting and ready. A nice big blaze was well alight in her fireplace, the glow warming her face.
When she opened the door, she smiled, the first real, relaxed smile I’d seen from her since that day in the park.
“Oh, thank God.” The smile widened into a full-face grin, “Or maybe the Archangel.”
“Something like that,” I agreed. “All’s well that ends.”
Connery, from his usual spot on the hearth rug, looked up at me and yawned.
Everything’s fine if the cat isn’t impressed.
“I’ve already told the Mothers we have it. They want a picture of it in the fire.”
“I don’t blame them.” I held out the Book and got my first really good look. “No wonder.”
“No wonder what?”
I turned the front to Madge. “This is why Al thought it was one of those Great Novels.”
Madge stared for a moment, then shook her head and sighed. At some point, Eliza MacNeish had stenciled “The Sisters” on the cover. The fancy old lettering in gold was almost exactly like the kind of thing favored by the old book subscription club.
If I hadn’t recognized the usual purple binding, I might well have made the same mistake.
“Well, isn’t that a pip,” Madge said. “Check it, and burn it.”
I opened the Book. And right in front, as expected, purple ink in a spidery shaky hand crept across the flyleaf. The recipe in all its glory, complete with detailed instructions, and that breathtakingly foolish title. If I hadn’t seen it– and hadn’t lived the last week– I would not have believed it. “Here. Get the flyleaf with the name– and that damn recipe.”
Madge shook her head. “It’s a good thing I didn’t find out about this until I was cleaning out her place.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Something would have had to happen.”
Like it almost had to happen to her. Maybe to us. I took a breath, nodded. “Well, it didn’t. And thank the good Lord for that.”
“Absolutely. And the Archangel.” She held out her phone. “Trade you. I’ll put it in the fire, you take the picture.”
“Works for me.”
As we moved in, Connery got up, snorted, and stalked away. No matter how important the situation, it is not important enough to disturb the cat. Just ask him.
I clicked off a couple of shots as Madge took the Book, holding it open for a moment to show the flyleaf. Then she bent down and placed it, still open, on the logs. I snapped a few more pics as it caught, and the flames began to chew up the pages.
We stood in silence, watching, for a moment.
“Well, that’s done,” Madge said finally.
“And well done.” I took a long breath. Weirdly, the room was filled with a sweet scent, almost like incense. “Do you smell that?”
“Yes.” She sniffed deeply and held my gaze. “It’s said that angels sometimes announce their presence with a pleasing scent.”
“Really.”
“It’s also said that old books often had flowers pressed between the pages, which might release their essential oils when burned.”
Could go either way.
For a few more seconds, we stood there watching the fire.
Better not to think too much about this.
On the mantel, there was a picture of Madge, her late husband, and their son. And one of Al.
