Prose & Poison, page 19
part #1 of Cafe Prose Mystery Series
“Elizabeth,” I cut her off before she could say more. “I’m Atticus Brigance,”I quipped. “Your newly appointed attorney.” I gave Lizzy the please-don’t-rat-me-out eyes and sighed as soon as her gaze softened.
“Nice to meet you.” She played along. Lizzy’s long brown hair sat in a tangled ponytail in the back of her head, and freckles, freckles I never realized she had, dotted her makeup-less face.
“Would you mind leaving us, Officer?” I asked.
Officer Nichols complied. “Ten minutes,” he reminded on his way out. His head pivoted left and right, surely checking for Kevin. He’d be in just as much trouble as I would.
Lizzy leaned over the metal table and whispered through a hiss. “What the heck are you doing here?”
I tilted my head toward the two-way window and widened my eyes. “I’m here to talk about your case, Miss Peartree,” I said with an exaggerated aplomb. I sat up with pristine posture. “I’ve been briefed by your former attorney … uh …”
“Counselor Shelton,” she finished, playing the part to a “t”.
“Mm hmm, that’s correct,” I stated. “So there’s no need to rehash the events leading up to your arrest. I’m simply here to ask you a few questions.”
“Why do you want to help me?” Lizzy asked.
I looked her in the eyes and spoke as Talbot Meadows, not as Atticus Brigance. “Because I think you’ve been framed for the murder of Harold Ellerton.”
Lizzy’s face softened and I got a good look at what the past two days in here had done. Deep circles cupped her eyes and the French manicure of her nails had been picked to the point that no white even showed anymore. This was not the Lizzy Peartree I knew, and although she did look unhinged, it was not the look of a murderer either. “You do?” she finally asked, her voice raspy.
“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “Now tell me, Miss Peartree, how did you come to acquire the murder weapon?”
Lizzy took a deep breath. “As I’ve told Kevin Homestead time and time again, I didn’t even know what cyanide was until I was accused of hiding it in my medicine cabinet.”
“Very well,” I said, suddenly realizing I should be taking notes of some sort. I glanced from one end of the small room to the other. Not so much as a scrap of paper, let alone a writing utensil. I reached into my back pocket, expecting my fingertips to grab my phone. “Shoot,” I muttered. I must have forgotten it at home. “Very well,” I said again. “And explain to me how the authorities say you poisoned Mr. Ellerton?”
Lizzy rolled her eyes, semi-annoyed by my charade. “Like I told my attorney — my former attorney. They think I hid poison in a nail polish bottle and dumped it in Harold’s vodka or something.”
“Whiskey,” I corrected matter-of-factly. I remembered the bottle of amber liquid setting on the edge of Harold’s desk the night I’d found him. “It was his whiskey.”
“See!” Lizzy exclaimed, throwing a hand in the air. “I don’t even know what type of drink he had that night. Plus.” Simultaneously, she rolled her eyes and grimaced, truly appalled by something. “Do you actually …” she paused and gained her composure. “Never mind.”
“No, Lizzy … I mean Miss Peartree.” I nodded. “Please finish your thought. Anything helps.”
She leaned her torso over the table. “Kevin Homestead didn’t seem to care,” she spat. “But the nail polish bottle.” She puffed in annoyance. “Do you actually think I’d wear Electric Sunflower on these nails?” She held up her once manicured fingers — fingers that always, even when we were in high school, had white French tips that she’d get touched up at her standing weekly appointment at Nikole’s Nails.
Oh my goodness. The nail polish. “Electric what?” I asked, checking that I’d heard her correctly.
“Sunflower,” she hissed. “I’m way too classy to paint my nails any shade of yellow. Yet alone a neon one.”
I drummed my fingers on the edge of the table, willing the image to come back to me. “You said yellow?”
“Mmm hmm. Why?”
I ignored Lizzy, remaining lost in thought. “Yellow nail polish,” I whispered. Where did I see that fluorescent yellow polish before?
“That’s it!” Suddenly a clear picture of the murderer came into view.
And then something else clicked in place. The poison. It’s virtually impossible to purchase cyanide, but anyone can make it themselves. I tapped the side of my head. Why hadn’t I seen it before?
“Cherry pits,” I muttered. Cyanide was made through grinding up cherry pits.
“What?” Lizzy snarked. You’d think she’d lose the attitude toward the person trying to help get her out of jail.
I looked Lizzy in the eyes. “Yellow nail polish and cherry pits,” I spoke adamantly, surely sounding like a mad woman to her. I sighed in realization. “The murderer is the appraiser.”
“Earth to Talbot!” Lizzy waved a hand in front of my face. “What are you talking about?”
“Lizzy!” The chair screeched against the floor as I pushed myself back from the table, the Atticus Brigance charade gone. “I know who killed Harold Ellerton.”
“Who?” she called as I rushed out of the interrogation room.
“You ate her cherry thumbprint cookies,” I yelled.
I hurried past a confused Officer Nichols who licked icing from his fingertips.
“Have Kevin call Talbot Meadows as soon as possible,” I demanded.
He wrinkled his nose and shrugged. “Who’s Talbot Meadows?”
* * *
In high school, I ran a solid nine-minute mile. If I were a betting woman, I’d wager that tonight I jogged an eight-and-a-half-minute mile from the police station to my apartment, the cold, autumn air biting the tops of my ears.
I needed to get back to home, grab my phone, and call Peter. I couldn’t go to Kevin’s alone.
I darted up the steps and into my apartment. As soon as I opened the door, Romeo barked frantically, but it wasn’t his typical excited-to-see-his-person bark. I knew right away I wasn’t alone in the room. My eyes darted to my nightstand where I’d plugged in my phone, but the only items on my bedside table were a lamp, a candle, and And Then There Were None.
I stilled as a rustling sounded from my bathroom. Then in one swooping motion, I picked up Romeo and tucked him under my arm.
I turned to leave when a voice spoke coolly. “You’re not going anywhere.” I felt the cold metal against my back before my hand even reached the door. “Turn around,” the voice demanded.
I did what she asked and grimaced, standing face to face with the murderer of Harold Ellerton. In one hand she held my phone. In the other, she aimed the barrel of a gun at my chest. “Why hello, Talbot.”
I swallowed. “Hello, Amanda.”
Chapter 19
Amanda held my cell phone in my face and scrolled to the most recent text message. From Finn.
“Hmm,” she said, tilting her head to the left. “Not a bad pic,” she chirped in her Amanda voice, the peppy, excitable voice I’d known her to possess. “Don’t ya think?”
I held Romeo tighter to my chest. “Sure,” I muttered. The picture Finn sent of the former Folger Shakespeare Library appraiser was time-stamped just fifteen minutes ago. In it, Amanda’s red hair hung past her shoulders, just brushing the top of her collared shirt. Her thin eyebrows lacked an arch, in contrast to the thick, dark sculpted ones on the woman in the flesh in front of me. Unlike the thick-framed glasses settling toward the tip her nose right now, the Amanda on the phone didn’t wear glasses at all. The nametag just below her left shoulder read Bethany A. Jenson.
“You worked for the Folger?” I asked, my voice tight.
She shrugged and tore the glasses from her face. “Among other places,” she said in a vocal register two pitches deeper than I was used to. She twirled the gun in the air. “I jumped around a lot,” she said. “Have a seat.” She nodded her head toward my sofa.
“Sss … so you worked at other museums?” I asked, an attempt to draw her attention away from the life or death situation at hand.
Amanda smirked. “Mostly worked the auction circuit.” She laughed to herself. “Let’s just say I’ve dabbled in antiquities long enough to acquire some priceless items of my own.”
“You mean steal?” The question came out stronger than I thought. I didn’t want to anger Amanda any further.
“You say to-may-toe, I say to-mah-toe.” She winked. “Jumped around from place to place, just waiting for the next big-ticket item.” She smirked. “I’ve acquired and then sold a Monet, a first edition of Chaucer, two original Dalis, and was hoping for my biggest payday of all.”
I grimaced. “Harold Ellerton’s Folio.”
“Hmmmm.” She sighed, as if in a dream. “That would have given me enough to quit the trade.” She tensed her jaw and shouted, “If I could find the stupid thing!”
Romeo whined and I pulled him closer. “So his death was over a book?”
Amanda leered. “I went to Harold’s as Folger appraiser Bethany Jenson, not as Amanda, right after the call came through the Folger library.”
I swallowed. Amanda was the redhead Harold had a meeting with. The redhead Martha gossiped about. The redhead who was not my mother.
Amanda continued. “When I saw the mint-condition Folio in person, knowing full well it was worth every penny of twenty million dollars, I knew I had to have it.” She smiled, reveling in her evilness. Then a scowl twisted across her face. “I should have taken it that first meeting with the old man.”
I added to her story. “And then you quit your job at the Folger, claiming you’d never even made it to Willow Creek.”
“Precisely. I needed time to decide how and when I’d take the darn thing, and when that weirdo friend of yours was in need of an assistant, I dyed my hair, drew on some eyebrows, bought these ridiculous glasses, and scored a job as my alter-ego, sweet and bubbly Amanda, just waiting for the right time to rob the old man.” She rolled her eyes. “The morning of the 22nd, I heard about you coming to town. The Talbot Meadows, one-time Willow Creek ‘It Girl’, and appraiser of rare books.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “So I needed to make my move. And fast. After Harold’s drunk of a daughter left that afternoon, I surprised him with another visit as Bethany, asking to see the Folio once more. But imagine my surprise when he told me he had someone else giving him a quote later in the day.”
“Me,” I said.
“Precisely.”
“So you killed him?” I spat.
She placed my phone in her back pocket and wiggled a finger in my face. “Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. I don’t get blood on my hands,” she stated firmly and then grimaced. “So I gave Harold a choice.” She took a deep breath. “Tell me where he was hiding the book, or take a shot of my special whiskey.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You mean?”
“In most cases, they give me what I want, especially with the threat of a gun to their head. Everyone leaves satisfied. I get my valuable artifact, and they get their life. But not Harold.” She grumbled. “He’d have rather died than tell me where he hid that precious Folio,” she spat.
I briefly closed my eyes, the afternoon of Harold’s murder now playing out crystal clear. Harold took the poison over giving up his book, and knowing I’d be the one to find him, he penned the mysterious note, attempting to point me in the right direction to recover the Folio. I frowned, realizing I’d failed Harold. Surely, there was more he had wanted to write.
I sighed deeply and then finished Amanda’s narrative. “And you’ve been searching Harold’s house for it ever since.”
She narrowed her eyes and closed the gap between us. “Yes. And with you out of the picture, I’ll begin my search again.” She stood, gun still pointed at me.
“But I already told Lizzy I know who killed Harold.”
“Ha!” she spat maniacally. “Don’t even get me started on that little tart, Lizzy Peartree,” she snarked. “The ridiculous threat she put in your apartment made it too easy.”
I groaned, realizing just how much information I’d given Amanda … ehr … Bethany over the past week. How I’d assisted in her getting away with murder. About Lizzy. About Peter. And just earlier today when I’d admitted to her at Café Prose that I’d known Lizzy was framed and was a baby step away from the truth. That was my nail in the coffin -- what put me in this current position.
I bit the side of my lip. “Kevin will be here any minute,” I added with less certainty.
Amanda read right through the lie. “That’s nice you believe that.” She gestured for me to move to the small kitchen area where she proceeded to pour a glass of red wine. In the corner of my eye, I could make out the long, tan shape of the baseball bat from last night leaning against the closet door to Amanda’s left. There’s no way I could get to it without her shooting first. Amanda took a small plastic cylindrical container from her jacket pocket and poured a powdery substance into the glass. With gloved hands, she stirred the mixture thoroughly and then slid the glass in front of me. My eyes darted to the door behind her, willing someone, anyone to burst through it. No such luck.
“Now you have two choices,” Amanda said quickly. “Take a drink.” She held up the gun, her hand shaking it violently. The corner of her lip turned up. “Or I’ll take a shot.”
I slowly sat Romeo on the ground next to me and reached a trembling hand toward the wine glass resting in the middle of the island. I couldn’t let Mom find me in a pool of blood, and I wouldn’t let Romeo witness something so horrible. So I wrapped my fingers around the stem of the glass and brought the wine to my nose. Just as I’d known, completely odorless.
“Drink up.” Amanda sneered and tapped a finger to the base of the glass.
I had two choices. Take a drink or use the drink.
I went with the latter. As I brought the wine to my lips, I watched Amanda’s disparaging smile through the clear glass on the other side. Just before the liquid touched my mouth, two things happened simultaneously. I jerked forward, throwing the red liquid into Amanda’s face and then launched my body to the floor between the island and refrigerator just as the gun sounded with a loud bang. Romeo barked wildly and scratched at the door.
“What were you thinking?” Amanda snarled viciously, wiping the poisoned wine from her eyes. I used that opportunity to reach around her leg, grab the baseball bat, and swing full force. She screamed in pain as the bat made contact with her forearm, the gun dropping to the floor just in front of the door. Amanda stood, choking back the pain, the weapon just inches from her grasp. I crawled toward the gun as Amanda reached for it with her good hand.
“No!” I cried as Amanda’s fingers grappled with the barrel of the weapon. She’d beaten me to it. Just as her fingers met its handle, my apartment door swung open.
“Oh no, you don’t!” a woman’s familiar voice yelled as a heel stomped hard on Amanda’s other hand. The woman bent over and stood, holding the gun tightly in her grasp.
The last thing I remembered before crashing to the floor was saying, “Thanks, Mom.”
* * *
I woke up twenty minutes later in my familiar bed. Red and blue lights flashed outside. Officer Nichols was barricading my front door with yellow police tape, and my mother and Dr. Fuller stood over me. “She’s awake,” Mom exclaimed, turning toward the kitchen where Peter prepared a large pot of tea. She pulled the cool, wet washcloth from my forehead and gently kissed my cheek.
Dr. Fuller took the blood pressure cuff from my arm and smiled. “Vitals are all good.” He shined a flashlight to my eyes and spoke. “Seems you had a little fainting spell from the shock of tonight’s events, Talbot. Hit your head on the floor on the way down.”
I touched the side of my head that throbbed with each beat of my heart. Mom helped me sit up slowly and I leaned against the headboard. Tears lined her eyes. “I wish you would have told me what you were up to,” she said more in protective worry rather than in anger. “Thank goodness Kevin called me.” She sighed. “Just don’t you dare get yourself in that kind of situation again.” She wrapped both arms tightly around my back.
I nodded and then pulled away. “Okay.”
Peter pushed a teacup into my mother’s hands. Dr. Fuller and Mom walked away while Peter took a seat next to me, his bright blue eyes meeting mine. “You are the most amazing woman I know.” He paused. “But I’m with her,” he added, gesturing toward my mother. “Please don’t track down a murderer ever again.”
I sighed heavily and before I could stop them, tears formed in the corners of my eyes. “She was just here.” I felt wetness on my cheeks. “Waiting for me.”
“Shhh,” Peter said, pulling me to his chest. “She’s been taken to the station,” he assured. “Already confessed to a few more crimes even.”
I shook my head in disbelief of what occurred tonight.
Mom patted my leg. “Kevin will be here to get your statement in just a moment.”
Peter brushed the tears from my eyes. “Will you be okay?” He helped me out of bed and ushering me to the sofa.
I cleared my throat. “Of course,” I said squeezing his hand. Kevin entered my apartment. Mom and Peter said their hellos and then stepped outside and into the dark evening, leaving us alone.
“May I?” Kevin quietly asked, gesturing with his hat toward the wing-back chair across from me.
I waved my hand, palm up. “Be my guest, Chief.” There was a caustic bite in my tone.
“Before I get your statement, I just want to say something.” Kevin cleared his throat. “I’m … I’m …” he stuttered, about to say words that, I am sure, Kevin Homestead rarely lets escape his lips. “I’m sorry, Talbot.”
“I knew it was over the Folio,” I jumped in quickly, speaking in my best I-told-you-so air. I was not letting him off the hook that easily.
Kevin narrowed his eyes. “Yes. Amanda … uh … Bethany’s admitted to that. Among other things,” he muttered.
