A Midwinter's Tail

5

I had an early breakfast with Vincent Starr in the morning at the St. James Hotel. It had already been planned and I didn’t see any reason to cancel. He was already seated in the dining room at a table that looked out over the Riverwalk.

He got to his feet and pulled out a chair for me. “How are you, Kathleen?” he asked with genuine concern in his dark eyes. “I’m so sorry about what happened last night. I heard that one of the women didn’t make it.”

I nodded as I sat down. “Sadly, that’s true.”

Dayna Chapman was dead, most likely from anaphylaxis. Olivia was going to be fine. The medical examiner’s office was investigating, but so far, no one had any idea what Dayna had eaten that had triggered the allergic reaction.

“If you’d like to cancel your talk this morning and head back to Minneapolis, I understand,” I continued. “Last night was unsettling for everybody.”

Vincent shook his head and stretched his arm along the back of his chair, resting his hand on the empty one next to him.

“It wouldn’t change anything, Kathleen,” he said. “That unfortunate woman would still be dead. Maybe this morning will be a bit of a distraction for people.”

I felt a little of the tension in my shoulders ease. “Thank you,” I said. The waitress arrived then with coffee and Vincent began quizzing her about how the hotel’s eggs Benedict was made.

We talked about the exhibit Vincent was curating for the art museum over breakfast and I left him nursing his third cup of coffee and charming the waitresses.

* * *

Abigail pulled in right behind me at the library.

I turned off the alarm and the two of us went inside. She headed for the stairs and I followed. I put my things in my office and found her in the staff room, starting the coffee.

“So it’s going to be one of those days,” I said, getting the mugs down out of the cupboard.

Abigail leaned back against the counter. “I couldn’t sleep last night,” she said. “I kept seeing Dayna Chapman struggling to breathe. I couldn’t seem to stop it from playing over and over like some kind of endless movie loop.”

“I know,” I said, setting the mugs on the table. “It almost doesn’t feel real.”

“Kathleen, do you think it was the chocolates?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Olivia was pretty insistent that she didn’t use pistachios or any other kind of nuts in those truffles.”

“That’s because she’s allergic to cashews,” Abigail said. “People who are allergic to one kind of nut sometimes react to other nuts as well.”

“How did you know Olivia has a nut allergy?” I asked, turning to get the coffee cream out of the refrigerator.

“She shares the kitchen space with the Earl of Sandwich and Sweet Thing. Remember? Georgia told me that before Olivia rented space to her for her cupcakes, she told her there couldn’t be any nuts in the kitchen. If she wants to make anything with nuts, she does it at Fern’s.”

Abigail poured me a cup of coffee, got one for herself and sat down at the table.

I pulled out a chair. “So, how do you explain what happened to Olivia when she bit into that chocolate from Dana’s box? She definitely had a reaction.”

Abigail poured a little cream into her coffee. “I know, but it doesn’t make any sense. If Olivia had used nuts in the truffles, why lie about it? It’s easy enough to check. And why would she eat one and put herself at risk?”

I added sugar to my cup and stirred it slowly. “You’re right,” I said. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

None of what little information I had with respect to Dayna Chapman made any sense. Maybe that was why I couldn’t shake that unsettled feeling.

I pictured the woman, collapsing into my arms, unable to breathe, looking wide-eyed at the tiny box of chocolates in her hand before it fell to the floor. I didn’t see how it could be anything other than those chocolate truffles that had caused Dayna to go into anaphylactic shock. If Olivia hadn’t used any nuts when she made them, could someone else have accidentally contaminated them?

“Abigail, who packed the chocolates into all of the boxes?” I asked.

“Olivia did,” she said. She turned her cup in tiny circles on the table. “Nic dropped off all the boxes and Olivia packed every single one of them. And in case you’re wondering, yes, she wore gloves.”

“So the chocolates couldn’t have accidentally come in contact with any nuts while they were being packed?”

Abigail made a move as though she was going to flip her braid over her shoulder and then caught herself. She smiled sheepishly at me. “Old habits,” she said.

She took a sip of her coffee and set the cup down again. “I don’t see any way there could have been any cross contamination during the packing. The kitchen was spotless and I didn’t see any sign of any nuts. And, Kathleen, I tried all three of the truffles—Chocolate Raspberry, Dark Chocolate and Crème Maple. For what it’s worth, I didn’t taste any nuts, either.”

I nodded. “Okay, so what happened after Olivia filled the boxes?”

“I packed them back into the cartons and took them over to the theater. The boxes were locked in the front office until it was time to set them out. I can promise you that I washed my hands, and I didn’t touch anything except the outside of the cardboard boxes.”

I leaned against the back of my chair. “So there was no way the chocolates could have been contaminated during the packing. That just leaves the time they were in the office over at the Stratton.”

Abigail brushed a bit of lint off the front of her dark green sweater. “Oh, c’mon, Kathleen. Why on earth would someone sneak into that office and contaminate the chocolates? First of all, what did this mysterious person do? Take a handful of pistachio nuts and rub them all over every chocolate, or just a random selection? Why? What would that person gain? Other than ruining the fundraiser, what would be the point? And who would want to do that? Everyone thinks Reading Buddies is a good idea.”

She continued to play with her coffee cup, tracing the design on the side with a finger. “It couldn’t have been someone who wanted to hurt Dayna. How many people would have known that she was going to be at the reception last night? She just arrived in town yesterday afternoon, from what I heard.” She shook her head. “This makes no sense at all.”

“Eliminate the impossible and whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth,” I said softly, more to myself than to Abigail.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

I nodded. “From the pen of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, yes.”

“So, what can we eliminate?” Abigail asked. “It’s not impossible that the chocolates were contaminated at the theater. I don’t think it’s very likely, but it’s not impossible.”

“And it’s not impossible that they came into contact with nuts in Olivia’s kitchen, no matter what she says,” I countered. “Maybe this is just the perfect storm of a series of accidents that wouldn’t have mattered except Dayna Chapman just happened to be severely allergic to pistachio nuts.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Abigail said. “If we’re eliminating the impossible, we can’t exactly eliminate that.”

I rubbed the space between my eyes, then glanced at my watch. “We’d better get downstairs. It’s almost time to open. People are going to be here soon.”

“I’ll go turn the lights on,” Abigail said, rinsing her mug and setting it in the sink. She looked back over her shoulder at me. “Things will work out, Kathleen. It was just a horrible accident. And we’ll find a way to get the money we need.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said, handing her my own mug. “I’ll just get my keys and I’ll be right down.”

I headed for my office. Maybe the medical examiner’s investigator would be able to figure out why Dana had had the allergic reaction that killed her. Maybe I’d been involved in one too many of Marcus’s cases and now I was seeing something suspicious that wasn’t even there. Maybe the whole thing was just a set of sad coincidences—improbable, maybe, but not impossible.

I grabbed my keys from my desk drawer and headed for the stairs, trying to shake the thought that while it wasn’t impossible that last night had just been a mistake—a very tragic mistake—it wasn’t impossible that it hadn’t been, either.

* * *

Vincent Starr’s talk was a huge success. Quite a few people had come from Minneapolis for the lecture, but there were a lot more people from Mayville Heights than I’d expected. Ruby was in the front row along with Nic Sutton, Ella King and Georgia Tepper. Georgia had made her way over to me as soon as she came in through the front doors.

I walked over to intercept her. “I’m sorry about last night, Georgia,” I said. “You put in so much work and the cupcakes were delicious.”

She shrugged and gave me a half smile. “They were only cupcakes, Kathleen. And I wanted you to know that Eric and I packed up all the leftover food and dropped it off at the Boys and Girls Club. They have a big freezer and pretty much everything can be frozen. They can use it all. They do a hot lunch program over the Christmas break.”

“Thank you for doing that,” I said. “I feel a lot better knowing the food wasn’t wasted.”

She looked back over her shoulder to where Susan was standing, talking to a group of women by the checkout desk. “It wasn’t my idea,” she said. “It was Susan’s. I kind of had a feeling she wouldn’t tell you.”

“I’ll thank Susan for the idea. And thank you again for making it happen.”

I was surprised to see Lita and Brady sitting together at the end of a row as Abigail and I added another group of chairs at the back of the room. Even from a distance I could see the dark circles under Lita’s eyes that makeup hadn’t really been able to hide. Brady’s face was unreadable. I wondered what they were doing at the lecture. I didn’t know either one of them was interested in rare books. Lita liked romance novels and shared Maggie’s affection for Clint Eastwood’s movies. Brady read a lot of science fiction. It was Susan’s favorite genre too. Early in the week they’d had a spirited discussion about the merits of John Wyndham versus Ursula K. Le Guin.

Less than five minutes before Vincent got started, I turned around to see Olivia Ramsey slip into the last empty chair.

Abigail followed my gaze. “That’s a surprise,” she said softly.

“Yes, it is,” I agreed.

Vincent’s talk was on what he called the Golden Age of Children’s Literature: the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. When the lecture was over Olivia got up and made her way over to me. She was a little pale, but other than that she looked all right. Her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she was wearing a heavy caramel-colored sweater.

“Kathleen, I wanted to say thank you,” she said. “They told me at the hospital that you found my autoinjector in my purse. If you hadn’t . . .” She shook her head and didn’t finish the sentence.

“I’m just glad you’re all right,” I said. “You are okay, aren’t you?”

She nodded, taking in a deep breath and letting it out. “Yes, I am. I’m allergic to cashew nuts. That can trigger a lesser reaction to something like pistachios, and that’s what the doctors think happened.” She pushed up the sleeve of her nubby sweater. There was a silver-colored medic alert bracelet on her right wrist. “I should be wearing this all the time. I will be wearing it all the time now. I thought it didn’t look very fashionable, which was stupid on my part.”

“I think that’s a very good idea,” I said.

She swallowed a couple of times. “I’m so sorry the other woman . . . didn’t make it. I don’t know what happened, but I swear there were no nuts in those chocolates.” She was carrying her quilted jacket over one arm and she played with the zipper pull. “I, uh, understand totally if you don’t want my help, but if you decide to do another fundraiser, I’d like to help.”

“Thank you,” I said, smiling so she’d know I meant what I was saying. “I don’t know what we’re going to do yet, but I appreciate all the work you did. And please take it easy. You just got out of the hospital.”

Olivia gave me a tentative smile in return. “I will. I can’t use my kitchen right now anyway. The police and some people from the state medical examiner’s office are there.”

My surprise must have shown on my face.

“I want everyone to know my chocolates weren’t the reason that woman died last night. It wasn’t my fault.” She looked over her shoulder. “I see someone I need to talk to. Again, if I can help with another fundraiser, call me.”

I nodded and watched her walk over to Georgia, who was part of a small group of people talking to Vincent Starr, and touch her on the shoulder.

The police and the medical examiner’s office were already checking out Olivia’s kitchen? I could see Marcus’s hand in that. Had Olivia been negligent in some way that could be considered a crime? I really hoped not.

Vincent answered questions for close to twenty minutes. He looked at the box of old readers from the community center and told us they were probably worth a couple of thousand dollars, which would help with their roof repairs. Then Abigail and I took him to lunch at Eric’s. Over bowls of Eric’s pea soup with ham and carrots, we talked about the morning’s lecture. Or rather Vincent talked and Abigail and I listened. He was enthusiastic over a couple of potential finds. It seemed that Ella King might have a first edition of Live and Let Die, by Ian Fleming.

“I haven’t seen a decent copy of that book in years,” Vincent said, gesturing with half a slice of Eric’s sourdough bread.

It turned out that Lita had a box of books from Wisteria Hill that Vincent was equally eager to check out. “I’m hoping there’s a copy of The Birds of America in that collection,” he said, beaming across the table at us.

I’d been worried that Dayna Chapman’s death would leave Vincent with a negative impression of Mayville Heights. Clearly that hadn’t happened. I was relieved and at the same time I felt a little sad. No one really seemed to be grieving for the woman. I remembered Brady, quietly saying he didn’t need to go to the hospital. It seemed that his mother had burned a lot of bridges.

I paid for lunch, although Vincent gallantly tried to pick up the tab.

“Thank you for inviting me to town, Kathleen,” he said as we stood outside on the sidewalk, buried in our heavy overcoats, our breath hanging in the frigid air.

He turned to Abigail. “And thank you for all the work you did putting it all together.”

“You’re very welcome,” I said. “We appreciate your coming. We had a bigger turnout than even I expected.”

Vincent nodded. “There are several people here in town that clearly know something about rare books. I was impressed with the questions I was asked.” He patted the pocket of his heavy dark brown jacket. “I’ll be e-mailing more information to several people.” Then he smiled. “I’d love to return and do a workshop next time I’m in the area, Kathleen.”

I smiled back. “I’d like that as well,” I said.

We shook hands and Abigail and I pointed him in the direction of Henderson Holdings. Then we headed back to the library.

“This morning went better than I expected,” Abigail said, pulling her scarf a little tighter around her neck.

“I know,” I said, stuffing my hands in my pockets and wishing I’d worn my heavier gloves. “We had a great turnout. There were a lot of people who drove from Minneapolis, but there were a lot of people from here in town, too.”

She looked at me as we waited to cross at the corner. “I was surprised to see Brady,” she said. “Given that his mother . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence. Then before I could say anything, she shook her head. “Listen to me. I sound like the stereotypical small-town busybody.”

“You don’t and you aren’t,” I said as we turned toward the library. “You’re concerned about Brady. That’s not being a busybody, that’s just being a decent person.”

She kicked a chunk of snow down the sidewalk. “My father would never have won any father-of-the-year prizes. I told you how he reacted when I got married without his approval.”

I nodded.

“He was the kind of person for whom nothing was ever good enough, especially anything I did, it seemed.” She looked past me, out over the water. “I’d like to tell you that he changed as he got older, but he didn’t. He was a sour old man and I promised myself that I wasn’t going to be like that. I didn’t forgive anything he did, but I did spend time with him before he died. Not for him, Kathleen. For me, so I could know I wasn’t the same kind of person he was.”

“I understand that,” I said as we approached the library building.

“Brady’s relationship with his mother is none of my business,” Abigail said. “She left those boys and that’s a hard thing to forgive.” She sighed. “But Dayna’s dead now and there are no more chances for . . . anything. Swallowing all the feelings that go along with that isn’t a good thing.”

I thought about Mags, touching Brady’s hand and seconding Marcus’s suggestion that Brady go to the hospital. I was very glad she’d done that.

As we came level with the parking lot, I spied Burtis Chapman’s big black truck in the parking lot with Burtis behind the wheel.

“Abigail,” I said. “I see Burtis over there. I’m just going to go talk to him for a minute.”

She nodded. “I’ll see you inside,” she said, and headed for the stairs.

I made my way across the lot, making a mental note that I needed to get Harry Taylor to spread a little more sand around, and Burtis climbed out of the truck when he saw me coming. He was wearing a heavy navy jacket and a trapper hat with earflaps.

“Hello, Kathleen,” he said as he came around the front of the truck.

I smiled. “Hello, Burtis,” I said. “Were you by any chance waiting for me?”

“Yes, I was. I wanted to say I’m sorry your fundraiser got ruined last night.”

I pulled my hat a little farther down over my ears. The air was sharply cold and the snow I’d known was coming was just beginning.

“Thank you,” I said. “But it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.” I hesitated. “I’m sorry about your wife.”

“Dayna hasn’t been my wife in a long time, but I appreciate the thought.” He studied my face for a moment. “You know about me and Lita,” he said. “I know you saw us together, months ago.”

My face flooded with color as I realized Burtis must have seen my swan dive down onto the front seat of my truck the day I’d spotted him with Lita, standing this close in this same parking lot.

“I apologize,” I said, feeling like an awkward teenager. “I was just . . . surprised. I wasn’t spying. I didn’t want to embarrass the two of you.” I gestured with one hand. “So I decided it was better to embarrass myself.”

Burtis laughed. “Don’t worry about it, girl. I knew you wouldn’t be spreading my business all over town, although I wasn’t sure for a minute if you were just trying not to be seen or if maybe you were after a sandwich you’d spied on the floor.”

I laughed. “Could we pretend I was going after a sandwich?” I asked.

“Fine by me,” Burtis said with a smile. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded envelope, which he held out to me.

“What’s this?” I said, even though I pretty much knew.

“It’s for your reading program.”

I narrowed my eyes, studying his ruddy face. It didn’t look as though he’d shaved since the previous day, and I noticed lines pulling at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Discovering that his former wife was back in town and then having her die in such a public way had to have been difficult for Burtis.

“You already gave me a check for Reading Buddies when you bought your tickets.”

His expression hardened just a little. “And now I’m giving you another one.”

“Why?” I asked. I still hadn’t taken the envelope he was holding out.

“When someone offers you a check, you’re supposed to say thank you and take it,” Burtis said. There was just a bit of an edge to his voice. He dropped the folded envelope into my pocket.

“You’re the last person I would have expected to give me guilt money,” I said, meeting his dark eyes with the hint of a challenge in my own.

He gave a loud snort of derision. “Really? Do I look guilty to you?”

“Maybe guilty isn’t the right word,” I said. “But I do think you feel something—bad, angry frustrated, I don’t know—because of what happened last night.”

He continued to meet my gaze, never once looking away. “I think what happened last night was a damn shame—for my boys and for your fundraiser.” He fished his keys out of his jacket pocket. “I have to get down to the community center. Thorsten is waiting on me.”

I touched my own jacket pocket. “Thank you for this,” I said. I knew there really was no point in arguing about the money. He’d just do an end run around me and give the check to Lita.

“You should come by Fern’s for breakfast,” Burtis said. “I haven’t seen you there for at least a month. Weekend special this Saturday is the Big Breakfast. Best coffee in town. Don’t tell Eric Cullen I said that.” One eyebrow went up. “And the conversation can be pretty interestin’, too.”

“I might just do that,” I said.

“I’ll keep an eye out for you,” he said. He raised a hand in good-bye and walked back around the front of the big black truck. I trudged across the snowy parking lot toward the front steps of the library. I pulled the envelope out of my pocket and looked at the check inside. It was made out for more money than Burtis’s original donation.

I didn’t know if he really was motivated by guilt or something else. I just knew that first thing Saturday morning I was going to be perched on a stool at Fern’s Diner digging into the Big Breakfast and trying to dig up some answers about how Dayna Chapman had died.