“At the museum?”

  “I cleaned out my purse the other night,” I told him. “I’m so sorry about your sister, by the way… forgive my manners. It must have been quite a shock.”

  “Real shock is it didn’t happen sooner,” he said in a gruff voice.

  “Do you really think Serafine is responsible?” I asked.

  “That’s what the police say. Who am I to argue? If it wasn’t her, I’d put my money on that husband she had. I heard her say she was goin’ to redo the will. Plus, they were headed to divorce court. He’d hate to have to move out of that big pretty house and work more than five hours a week.”

  “He only works five hours a week?”

  “Why work when you’re married to a cash cow? I told her when she met him I wasn’t a good idea, but nobody listens to me. Our father always thought she was the brains of the operation, but she was a control freak.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you two got along.”

  “She always made sure I had just enough,” he said. “I’ll give her that.”

  “You think you’ll continue working here?”

  “Up to the director, I suppose, but she never did like me much, so I’ll probably be lookin’ for another job soon.”

  He looked down at the ground, scanning it as if he was searching for something. “What are you looking for again?”

  “A receipt for tomato transplants,” I said. “I bought some for the museum and some for me; I was going to give one to the director and save the other for my business receipts.”

  “Well, good luck,” he said. He lingered for a moment. “Want some help?”

  “No,” I said. “We wouldn’t want you to get your hands dirty with this. We’ll get it taken care of.”

  “Right,” he said. “Well, let me know if you change your mind. I’m headed to check on the garden.”

  “Got it. Thanks,” I told him. As he left, Quinn and I waited until the footsteps had faded before we started talking.

  “That was a little weird,” Quinn said. “Why do you think he offered to help?”

  “Just being nice?” I asked. “Then again, that’s the first time he’s ever offered to help me with anything.”

  As we continued to sort, a little breeze came, flipping a torn receipt into the air. I grabbed it just as it was about to blow out of the enclosure. It was for Heinrich's feed store.

  “What’s that?” Quinn asked as I looked at it.

  “A receipt from Heinrich's Feed Store,” I said. It was dated four days ago, and included five bags of fertilizer, poultry nipples, and gopher bait. “Look,” I said, showing it to Quinn.

  “I have no idea what that means,” she said.

  “It’s gopher poison,” I told her.

  “You mean, the stuff in the shed? The stuff someone used to kill Priscilla?”

  As I tucked it into my pocket, Quinn plucked a bottle from the bottom of her pile. “Hey, look,” she said, peering at the glass. “Does that look powdery to you?”

  She handed it to me, and I looked at it in the light. The glass looked cloudy. “It could be,” I said. “Let’s hold onto that.”

  “What does strychnine smell like?” she asked.

  “It’s supposed to be bitter,” I told her, taking the lid off and taking a whiff. It had a strong smell, but I had no way of knowing if it was from the tea or something else. “That doesn’t look like one of Serafine’s bottles.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Quinn said. “The label’s been torn off.”

  “Could it be one of those Arizona Tea bottles?” she suggested.

  “I’d have to compare in person, but it’s a definite possibility. I think we should hold onto this, for sure.” I dug in my purse and found a Ziploc bag that had once held dog treats, and slid both the receipt and the bottle into it. “Let’s finish getting cleaned up and head over to the feed store.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to find out who bought this gopher poison,” I said. We finished cleaning up, and as we walked out of the enclosure a few minutes later, we saw Arthur leaning on a pitchfork by the pasture, watching us.

  “Should we say something to Alicia?” Quinn asked.

  “Maybe later,” I said. “I want to talk to the employees at the feed store.” A few moments later, we hurried out of the museum grounds and got into my truck, the bottle and receipt safely stashed in my purse.

  We got to the feed store twenty minutes before closing. Whiskey barrels filled with pink geraniums flanked the entrance, and inside was a fascinating variety of farm and yard merchandise, including hummingbird feeders, a stack of metal troughs, "Mane and Tail" shampoo, bag balm, sacks of deer corn, and even a tiny goat in a straw-lined enclosure near the entrance.

  "I love feed stores," Quinn said, pausing to admire several fluffy chicks in a pen on our way to the register.

  "Me too, but we're running out of time," I reminded her. Receipt in hand, I walked up to the young woman at the register. I'd talked with Ximena more than once during my many visits; her black hair was close-cropped, and her dark brown eyes flashed with intelligence. "What can I do for you ladies?" she asked as I set the receipt down. "Return?"

  "No, actually," I said. "This may seem like an odd question, but could you look this receipt up and tell me who purchased this?"

  "Hmmm," she said, eyes narrowing. "Why do you want to know?"

  Before I could answer, Quinn blurted, "We think whoever bought this gopher bait may have put it in someone's tea."

  "You mean the murder at Heritage Farms?" the young woman asked, perking up with interest.

  "You got it," Quinn said.

  "Did you recently take a job with the police or something?" she asked.

  "No," I told her. "In fact, we think the police arrested the wrong person."

  "I'm glad I'm not the only one who thinks that. I know Serafine," she said. "She's in here all the time; I was shocked when they put her in jail."

  "So you'll look it up?"

  "I'm not supposed to," she said, "but seeing as it's Serafine on the line, I'll see what I can do." I handed her the receipt and she scanned it. "Good thing I'm here; I think I'm the only one who knows how to do this. We just put this new system in a few months ago, and most folks are still figuring it out."

  "Thank you," I said.

  "Come by the Blue Onion and I'll make sure you get a free dessert for this," Quinn offered.

  "Will work for free pie," Ximena quipped as she typed a few things into her keyboard and stared at the screen.

  "Looks like the cardholder is Priscilla Jordan-Melville," she said, then gave us a puzzled look. "Isn't she the one who was poisoned? That makes no sense."

  "Unless her husband used her card," I suggested.

  "You mean Nigel might be the killer?" Quinn asked, eyes wide.

  "Hang on a second here," Ximena said, looking the receipt. "This was purchased on a Wednesday afternoon... let me see who was working." She turned and flipped through a multipage schedule on a clipboard hanging from a thumbtack. "Charles was here," she said, then grabbed a radio from her waistband and held it up to her mouth. "Ximena to Charles, can you come to the cash register, please?"

  "Ten-four, Ximena," a low voice answered.

  "He's in the warehouse today," she told us as she clipped the radio back to her belt. "He was working the register when the purchase went through."

  As she spoke, a lanky, red-haired young man emerged from a door at the back of the store. "Hey, Ximena. What's up?"

  "Kind of a weird question, but do you remember anyone buying gopher bait and poultry nipples last Wednesday afternoon?"

  "Hmm," he said. "I wasn't on the register, but I was in the store that day. I remember a guy asking me about poultry waterers."

  "What did he look like?" I asked.

  "In his 40s, if I remember; no one I recognized. He was wearing a pair of sunglasses, so I didn't really get a good look at him, but he looked more like a businessman than a farmer. I asked him about the gopher bait, I remember. He laughed and said he just about sprained his ankle out on his putting green thanks to the holes they made."

  "Putting green?” Quinn asked.

  I shrugged.

  "Sounds like Nigel. What are you going to do now?" she asked.

  "We're going to take this to the police," I said. "Thanks for your help," I told Ximena and Charles.

  "Does this mean we'll be in the papers?" Charles asked.

  "If all this pans out, I'll tell the Zephyr you helped us," I said as Quinn and I hurried out of the store.

  "You're really going to take this to Rooster?" Quinn asked as we got into my truck.

  "I said the police, not Rooster. I want to talk to Opal."

  "That makes more sense," she said. "So Nigel bought the gopher poison, put it in a tea bottle--assuming it was the bottle in your purse," she said, "and then slipped out during the workshop, put it into Priscilla’s tea, lured her to the Warren house and locked her in."

  "That's my theory," I said.

  "Why use her credit card? Why not pay cash?"

  "I'm guessing he thought nobody would ever track it back to the feed store," he said. "Or wouldn't link it to him, since it was her card."

  "And his motive was to avoid an expensive divorce?"

  "Any community property goes to him since they were married when she died. And he doesn't have to split his business."

  "And you never heard back about life insurance, did you?"

  "No," I said. "But I'll bet he's the beneficiary."

  We were quiet for a few moments as we drove back toward the square--and the sheriff's office. I was glad to see Opal's Honda Fit parked outside; maybe somebody with a lick of sense was on the job.

  "Let's go," I said, and Quinn followed me into the small office, which smelled strongly of rose potpourri; Opal must have gotten a fresh batch for the warmer on the file cabinet.

  "What's up, ladies?" she asked, looking over her glasses as we came in.

  "We found out who bought the poison that killed Priscilla," I blurted.

  "What?" She blinked and leaned forward, interested. "How?"

  "We found a receipt from the feed store in the dumpster," I said.

  "What does that have to do with anything?"

  "It's a receipt for gopher bait. It contains strychnine, and that's what killed Priscilla, so we went to Heinrich's Feed Store to check it out." I then told her of our discovery of gopher bait in the gardening shed and our discussion with Ximena and Charles at the feed store.

  "And we've got a bottle we found in the recycling at the museum, with some residue in it," Quinn offered. I pulled the bottle in its zip-lock bag out of my purse to show her. "We think it's probably strychnine. Lucy found a bit of Arizona Tea label in the galvanized tub Serafine kept her tea in; and she says all Nigel drinks is Arizona Tea." As she spoke, I could see Opal lean back in her chair.

  "It's all very interesting," she said, "but I'm not exactly seein' a smokin’ gun here. I mean, yes, somebody, maybe Mr. Melville, bought gopher bait... and poultry nipples, God bless him... but can you prove that's what was in her tea bottle? And just because there's a bit of residue in that thing you took from the recycling..." She wrinkled her nose. "I don't like to think what it might be, to be honest."

  I felt myself deflating as she talked.

  "Now, I want Serafine off the hook as much as anybody, and I'll take what you've found and give it to Rooster, but I get the feelin' I'm gonna need a bit more than this to convince him."

  "Is Serafine still here?" I asked.

  "Her parents sprung her two hours ago," Opal said. "Nice folks."

  "Well, at least she's out for now," I said. "What else do you think you need to get Rooster to look into Nigel?"

  "Well, a confession might help," she said jokingly.

  Quinn and I looked at each other.

  "Will it count if I record it on my phone?" Quinn asked, a determined look on her freckled face.

  "You're not seriously thinkin' of goin' over there and tapin' Mr. Melville while you interrogate him, are you?" Opal asked her, adjusting her glasses as her eyebrows shot toward her hairline.

  "You have another plan?" I asked.

  Opal sighed. "I don't know. I just work the front desk is all."

  "Uh huh," I said, rolling my eyes. "Can you think of any other way to convince Rooster Serafine is innocent?"

  "To be honest? I can't." She sighed again, a look of resignation on her round face. "Well, be careful, is all. And for the record, Lucy, I think you may be a few peas short of a casserole."

  "Maybe, but at least I'll have Quinn with me. And she's a brown belt..."

  "Black belt now," my friend said proudly.

  "Black belt," I corrected myself. "So I should be good."

  "Personally, I still think a sawed-off shotgun is the way to go, but you ladies are grown-ups. Just don't do anything stupid, ya hear?"

  "No promises, but we'll do the best we can."

  "Call if you get into trouble. Promise?"

  "We will," I told her, and Quinn and I left a moment later, Opal promising to send the bottle to the lab and to keep the receipt as evidence.

  "We're really going to see if we can get a confession?" Quinn asked as we got back into my truck.

  "Got any other ideas?" I asked as I pulled out of my shady parking space and aimed the nose of the truck toward the Jordan ranch.

  "Not really," she sighed. "What's our plan?"

  "We confront him," I said. "And we tape the conversation."

  "What if he attacks us?"

  "Priscilla's murder was with poison," I said.

  "Somebody left a knife in your doorframe," she reminded me.

  "True," I said. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea. "What else do we do?"

  "Did you ever find out about the life insurance beneficiary?" she asked.

  I checked my phone; no text or call back from Houston yet. "I'll touch base with my friend when we get there," I said.

  "I don't like this plan," Quinn said.

  "Me neither," I said. "But I can't come up with anything better, and we have to help Serafine. I'll tell you what... why don't you wait outside while I go in? That way if I get into trouble, you can intervene and call Opal."

  "Where do I wait?"

  "Outside the house, under one of the windows. I'll give a yell if I'm in trouble."

  "All right," she said reluctantly.

  We pulled up to the Jordans' gate. Quinn hopped out to open it; I drove through, and she closed it behind us, and we were in.

  I parked a little ways away from the house, close to the long, four-car garage. I glanced at the row of windows on the second floor; that was a pretty nice garage apartment all right.

  "I'll go first," I told Quinn, "with my voice memo recorder on. You follow once I'm in and crouch under the second window to the right of the door, okay?"

  "Why that one?"

  "That's near the kitchen; it's where we sat last time I was here."

  "Okay," she said. "I'll wait two minutes and then head over. Be careful, okay?"

  "Of course," I said, taking a deep breath, stepping out of the truck, and wondering if I should hope Nigel was home.

  16

  As I walked up the steps to the sleek gray and white house, something felt... off. One of the potted asparagus ferns by the steps was a bit off-kilter. When I went to ring the bell, I noticed the door was ajar. The hair rose on the back of my neck. I glanced back to make sure Quinn was watching, then pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  "Hello?" I called. Nobody answered.

  I walked inside. The house appeared empty, but someone had been here. A bottle of Arizona Tea stood on the counter, condensation beading on the glass.

  "Nigel?" I called. Nobody answered. Should I look around more?

  I did a quick scan of the open rooms, but nothing looked different than it had when I'd visited the other day. I considered going upstairs, but that felt too intrusive, so I headed back outside and walked over toward where Quinn was now crouched, leaving the door as I’d found it.

  "What's going on?" she asked.

  "The door was open, but nobody's there," I said.

  "Do you think maybe he got out of town?"

  "Or just went to the store," I said.

  "What kind of car does he drive?"

  "I think I saw him in a blue Mini Cooper at the museum the other day," I said.

  "Should we check the garage and see if it's here?"

  "That feels kind of... trespassy," I said. "And you know how they are about guns around here."

  "Maybe we should just... peek in the garage window?" she suggested.

  "There aren't any windows," I said. "I know I'm usually the one suggesting we do crazy things, but in this case, I think we should come back later."

  "So how do we get a confession?"

  "I don't know that we do," I said. "I feel funny about this, though; the front door was open, and one of the plants was knocked half-over."

  "That is weird," she said. "Everything here is so... manicured."

  "It is," I said.

  "Let's at least walk around the place," she suggested. "Maybe he's hiding."

  "Maybe he has a gun, too," I said.

  "Maybe he's not the only one who has a gun," she said. She opened her purse to show me a small sidearm.

  "When did you get that?" I asked.

  "I just... well, with Jed and all, I feel more comfortable having something with me. I took lessons on it. I had to get a license."

  "Well... I guess so," I said. Something about the house had spooked me. "You know what? Let's just go," I said. As I spoke, Quinn gasped.

  "What?" I asked.

  "Over there," she said. "Is that... blood?" I looked at where she was pointing. Sure enough, on the corner of the garage was what looked like a bloody smear.

  "I'm calling 911," I said. I dialed, and a few minutes later, was connected with a dispatcher I didn't recognize.

  "We're at the Jordan Ranch," I said. "Right next to the Heritage Farm Museum."

  "What's your emergency?"

  "The front door is open, and there's what looks like blood on the wall of one of the buildings. We need the police out here."

  "Are you sure the police are what you need?"

 

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