Death Al Dente Read online

  I bowed. “Erin Murphy, at your service.”

  “From your description,” his wife said, “I pictured a dusty old joint with canned Spam and Veg-All. But this is a delight.” She headed for the jam and jelly display in the ancient Hoosier. He winked.

  Before heading home, I had more investigating to do. First, my sister.

  “Erin, thank God. You got him.” She hugged me tight, then released me with a scowl, channeling our mother. “What were you thinking? You should have called 911 right away.”

  Her kid might only be five, but she had all the contradictory instincts firing.

  I asked if she’d seen the Vincents arrive Friday night, but no such luck.

  “You know, you’re filthy,” she said. I gave her my Teen Rodeo Queen smile and waved good-bye.

  “I am amazed,” Heidi said when I popped into Kitchenalia, “at your quick thinking. Texting and recording that slimeball’s confession.”

  “I’m amazed at how quickly the story’s made the rounds.”

  “Sally can’t stop talking. On the one hand, you saved her life. On the other, you put her in mortal danger. On the other-other, you caught the killer.”

  I hadn’t actually done any of those things, but why quibble? Though if villagers let their guard down, thinking the killer was behind bars, and more tragedy struck—well, no point going there. I had trouble enough without borrowing more.

  I posed my question about the Vincents, and Heidi cocked her head, searching her memory banks, before slowly shaking no. “But that new red Caddy of hers may have circled a time or two. I bet he dropped her off, then found a spot. No telling where.”

  Parking problems are a mixed blessing. You like a full town, but if tourists anticipate a problem and stay home, business can wither up and blow away like a prairie tumbleweed—with about as much chance of changing course and coming back.

  Next on my list were Kathy Jensen and the Georges, at the upper end of the village. Kathy had arrived at the Festa dinner late, shortly before the chaos, and couldn’t shed any light on the Vincents’ movements.

  Tony George swore the Vincents were already in the courtyard when he and Mimi walked down from the Inn. “Funny, Kim Caldwell was just here asking the same questions.”

  On the same track, at last. I headed for my car, cutting through town on the side street. Bill didn’t usually open the herb shop on Saturdays, but his lights were on, so I tried the door. It gave with a creak.

  “Hey, Erin. Come on in. I’m putting some remedies together. Nice work this morning.”

  So much for thinking Bill stayed out of the village loop.

  “Your mother told me,” he said, responding to my unspoken question. “We were having coffee when it happened, and she called me later.” He paused, studying me over his reading glasses. “Our coffee dates are becoming a regular thing.”

  Knock me over with a moxa stick. I pulled out a client chair. He would hardly discuss a patient’s illness with her daughter, if confidentiality kept him from answering a detective’s questions about a crime. But now that Angelo had confessed to the poisoning, maybe Bill would talk about that, at least. We’d leave the personal stuff for later.

  How had Angelo gotten the poison? I needed to know, to alleviate my fear that I had inadvertently sent him down the poison path. But more important, I didn’t think he had killed Claudette. If I could trace his movements Friday afternoon, maybe I could figure out who had.

  And besides, Kim would never tell me.

  “James Angelo told me he came to you for herbs for his heart condition.”

  “His nonexistent heart condition. I knew right away that he wasn’t experiencing the symptoms he described. The MDs call it drug-seeking behavior, but nothing he wanted provides euphoria. That roused my suspicions.”

  “Good instincts. He ended up picking foxglove out of Claudette’s own garden to poison her family.”

  “Lucky no one died. It would have been worse had he gotten hold of chemical digoxin. He should be charged with attempted murder.”

  “You sound like a lawyer,” I said with a laugh.

  He wrapped a label around a bottle. “You can take a guy out of the courtroom—but not very far.” He saw my surprise. “Didn’t you know? I practiced law for years.”

  I surveyed the tiny space, crammed with mysterious bottles labeled in Chinese, homeopathic remedies, rows and rows of glass jars that held his herbal pharmacy. Shelves of books on all variety of natural medicine, but nary a law tome in sight.

  Bill put the bottle on his desk and sat, a softness in his eyes. “Nearly thirty years ago, my wife died. Complications of a Caesarian. I sued for medical malpractice, and lost. Everyone agreed it was a tragedy, but no one would say her doctors had done anything wrong. I felt like a double failure.”

  I’d had no idea. “The baby?”

  He smiled. “Alicia. I put everything I had into raising her. And into my second career, in natural medicine. A few years ago, I discovered Jewel Bay.” He gestured at the strange brews and potions, the curious ingredients of an herbalist’s work. “I wanted to make a direct impact on people’s lives. The law is important—don’t get me wrong. But this—this work is such a gift.”

  For the second time today, I realized you never know what secret pain people carry. Or what secret joy. How had Bill been able to convert tragedy into triumph, while Jay Walker turned humiliation into cruelty?

  “Why tell me?”

  Another gentle smile. “I’m sure you’ve figured out that I care for your mother very deeply.”

  His admission acted like Drano on my plugged-up fear. “Is she sick? Fresca, I mean. I know you take confidentiality very seriously, and I respect that. But she’s been acting weird all week, and we—my sister and I—we know she’s been consulting with you. Is she ill?”

  A cloud fell over his sky blue eyes, and my heart sank. We’d guessed right. “I’m still a lawyer, Erin, though I don’t practice.”

  Was I dumb as a post, or what? Finally, I got it. “Meaning, while I’ve been trying to convince her to see a lawyer, she’s been talking to you. But not telling me.”

  He pursed his lips. “I believe in justice, Erin. And I know your mother is innocent.”

  So much for the late-night heart-to-heart and this morning’s sweet concern. My mother had kept more secrets than I ever imagined. Did she think if I knew she was getting legal advice from Bill, that I’d pick up on their relationship—and disapprove?

  She had dated over the years, though never seriously. But she should have somebody special in her life. Somebody who treated her well, as Bill would.

  “Naturally, she’s concerned about her children’s reaction. We intended to go public at the Festa, but at the last minute, she popped around the corner to say no because she hadn’t had a chance to tell you girls yet. Then the murder happened, and she thought it better to wait to tell you after the criminal investigation.”

  So that’s where she’d gone when Kim thought she’d snuck out to kill Claudette. Made sense. Made me a little dizzy. “What about your daughter?” On the shelf behind his desk sat a framed snapshot of Bill with a small blond girl, on a trail by a mountain lake, fishing rods in hand.

  He picked up the bottle on his desk. “I need to deliver this. You’ll like Alicia. She lives in Portland. I’ll tell you more about her tomorrow, at dinner in the orchard.”

  Dang. I really was going to hate to miss that one.

  I blew out a horsey breath. “Just treat my mother right.”

  We parted outside the shop, my mind swirling. “All will be well,” I muttered. “All will be well.”

  But as I pulled out of the parking lot, I spotted Bill, medicine bottle in hand, headed for the back door of the Merc.

  * * *

  One more stop on the medicine trail.

  Polly’s morning greeting
had fallen a notch or two on the cheerfulness scale, and she didn’t move quite as spritely as usual. Rocking the night away will do that.

  “Pol, you said Angelo bought stupid kid stuff for his nephews, but you didn’t remember what.” He’d told me this morning he wasn’t in touch with his family. “Any chance it was stuff like fake vomit and toy dead mice?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I was so mad at him for trying to sneak past me without paying, I hardly noticed. But yeah, that sounds right.” She led me to the boy toy aisle and an impressively disgusting collection of lifelike snakes, giant spiders, and all manner of rodentia.

  I picked up a small black rubber object. “Shrunken heads. Didn’t know they still made them.”

  “Gad. Remember Ted Redaway wearing one of them on a shoelace around his neck? Maybe fourth grade.”

  “He always had style. You said Angelo argued with Gordy over a prescription. Is he in?”

  “Yeah.” She waved me back to the pharmacy counter. The Springers had been pharmacists in Jewel Bay as long as the Murphys had been grocers. Gordy was a few years ahead of us in school. His dad led the wave of moves to the highway in the 1970s; now Gordy’s wife ran an antiques shop in the old drugstore building, a block up from the Merc.

  I hadn’t seen him since last Friday, when we crouched alongside Claudette’s lifeless body. A tall, homely man with a fringe of dark hair and the eyes of an eager puppy, he unlatched the pharmacy door, descended, and wrapped his long arms around me.

  “Rough week,” he said. “I usually lose my customers to natural causes.”

  “Gordy, you heard about James Angelo’s arrest?” He nodded. “He said you refused to fill a prescription for him last Friday afternoon. What happened?”

  “You look close when a first-timer you don’t know brings in a scrip from a pad. Most are electronic these days. And it looked funny—faded ink, kinda crumpled, and the date might have been written over. Like, to change it, which is weird.”

  Old and crumpled. What did that mean?

  “We routinely ask all new patients for ID. He said James Angelo was a professional name, and showed me his driver’s license, in the name of Jay David Walker. But the name on the prescription was David J. Walker. It was all just strange enough that I wanted to call the prescriber, so I said fine, but he’d have to wait his turn.”

  According to the elder Bergstroms, Jay’s dad blew the drug money on booze. I bet Jay had done as my mother did with Claudette’s note, and I with the note on my car—crumpled it up in anger, then thought better. A prescription seemed like an odd souvenir. But then, Jay Walker was an odd duck.

  “That’s not something you need to report?”

  He rested an elbow on the counter. “No. Digoxin isn’t controlled. I only call the sheriff if somebody’s fishing for narcotics. Sometimes we hear about a guy making the rounds. I mean, it doesn’t produce a high, so it’s an unusual drug to forge a request for. Sounds like self-prescribing.”

  Or poisoning. “So you refused. Then what?”

  “He threw a fit. Practically gave himself a heart attack.” Gordy chuckled. “Ranted and raved about the state of health care in this country, how hardworking people can’t afford it, we’re all in cahoots to bleed the people dry. I told him he was no longer welcome, and he should leave.”

  “He thinks anyone working a family business had money handed to them on a silver tray.”

  Gordy rolled his eyes. “Ten minutes with my accountant would dispel that notion.”

  “Thanks, Gordy.”

  Polly helped me pick out a squeaky duck toy for Tracy’s dog Bozo. On our way to the register, I spotted a display of Fourth of July decorations. There at the front was a foot-wide red metal star—perfect for the back gate.

  Then I remembered my other question, and headed back to the pharmacy. “Hey, Gordy, when you came to the Festa dinner, any chance you saw Dean and Linda Vincent arrive?”

  “Sure did. He must have dropped her off out front, then parked out back near me. We walked in Red’s gate about the same time.” Gordy ran a hand over his thinning hair. “Made it a double shock when you found Claudette out there a few minutes later.”

  And with that, I was back at square one.

  • Thirty-one •

  If hanging a red star on the back gate would enhance the Merc’s fame and reputation, then I wanted it up there toot-sweet.

  If red star energy would help protect my mother, I’d hang a whole constellation.

  I wanted a word with her, even if my pants weren’t clean. Bill had neatly sidestepped my questions about her health. But when he said he had a prescription to deliver, he’d headed for the Merc.

  An Audi with Arizona plates pulled out of a parking spot right behind our building, and I grabbed it. My lucky stars were on fire today.

  Even though the killer was still on the loose—and Gordy Springer had just eliminated my prime suspect.

  I slipped the star’s wire loop over a nail on the gate. Its rustic style coordinated nicely with the weathered planks and dark iron latch and hinges. Liz would approve. But we’d need to clean up the weeds in the alley, haul in some dirt, and plant a few shrubs. Why did every project seem to take on a life of its own?

  I itched to get going on the courtyard remodel. One more reason to get this murder solved, and soon. Crime is big-time distracting.

  So why did I all of a sudden feel panicky and fearful? Shake it off, girl. It’s just the morning’s adrenaline metabolizing. Maybe Dean wasn’t the killer, but I sure as heck knew it wasn’t Fresca or me. With Angelo in custody, and Ian’s confession, we were all in a lot less danger.

  And if my mother was ill, it couldn’t be serious, could it? Plus, she had an herbalist, and a lawyer, and a potential boyfriend—all in one. That was weird. But I liked Bill—his Zen seemed a good match for her zing. Everything would be fine.

  Still, it already seemed like a very long day, even for solstice.

  The gate between our courtyard and Red’s stood open. That latch popped again, darn it. I’d take a look later, and talk with Old Ned about a replacement—and about making sure his boys kept it locked. We can’t let bar customers traipse through our courtyard, especially if we turn it into retail therapy space. Imagining the safety and liability issues gave me the creepy-crawlies worse than any fake snake or shrunken rubber head.

  What might Ted do to our courtyard if Fresca sold?

  No way, José.

  I opened the screen door. If Liz is right and space holds energy, then the Merc’s back hall had been unplugged. I took a step forward, listening to the quiet.

  Nothing.

  “Mom? Fresca?” Another step. I paused at the foot of the stairs, but heard no one in the office.

  “Tracy?” The kitchen to my left, the shop ahead, both radiated deathly stillness. My jaw and throat tightened.

  A muffled sound caught my attention, then stopped. Where was it? Breathe, girl. Pay attention here. Shop lights on, nobody home. No sign of Tracy, Fresca, or a customer.

  I reached for the phone in my pocket. Damn. Kim had it.

  One landline phone was upstairs, the other up front. Before I could decide which to go for, I heard a scraping sound.

  I stepped into the kitchen and grabbed the biggest, sharpest chef’s knife we had. Knife in hand, I reached for the basement doorknob. Should I call for help first? What if Tracy had fallen down the steps and hurt herself?

  The first aid kit. No. Get it later. Get to her first.

  I gripped the old, dented brass. How many times had I turned that knob, had a Murphy turned that knob?

  It turned a quarter inch each way, no more.

  We never lock that door.

  The lock was original to the building, keyed on both sides. We kept a key on top of the door frame, just in case we needed to lock it. No sign of it. I reached up, probing, h
oping. Dust only.

  I rattled the knob, then listened. Tracy? I couldn’t tell.

  Criminy. We so never lock that door that I didn’t know where the other key was. My desk drawer? I bounded up two steps, then remembered. No. Check the old cash register.

  I dashed to the front counter and punched the register drawer open. Lifted up the cash drawer. Grabbed the brass barrel key, and prayed I could make it work.

  I ran back to the door. Steady, Erin. Breathe. The key slid in okay, but the latch mechanism balked. Locks and I never have gotten on well. Tracy must have gone downstairs for something, then gotten locked in by accident, though that didn’t explain the missing key. The sounds from the basement increased: a banging. A muffled voice—or two voices? A rattling, like a pipe. The pipes were in the ceiling. Tracy could never reach them, unless she dragged something over to stand on.

  I set the knife on the floor, then turned the key slowly with my right hand, twisting the knob with my left. My curled fingertips rubbed the stars on my other wrist by accident, and the door popped open.

  Tracy crouched on the landing, her left hand gripping a rock in the wall.

  “Erin, it’s you,” she said, eyes wide, face red, hair wild with panic and cobwebs. “Thank God. We were afraid he was coming back.”

  He who? We who? And then I noticed.

  Behind her on the steps stood Rick Bergstrom.

  • Thirty-two •

  A war of words erupted in my head and spilled out my mouth.

  “Are you okay? What were you doing in the basement? How’d you get locked in?” And to Rick, “Why are you here?”

  “We’re fine,” Rick said. “Did you see him? Did you call the police? We have to catch him.”

  “Catch who?”

  “Ted,” Tracy said, her voice anxious and thready. She staggered up the last few steps. One earring hung askew; the other had gone missing. “He came in here all riled up, looking for you or your mom. Stalking around the store, like you were hiding behind the jelly jars. Then he started yelling at me.” She blinked back tears. “Grabbing my shoulders and screaming.”