Dead By Midnight

Chapter Three

Annie admired the watercolors above the mantel, then stepped behind the coffee bar at Death on Demand. “Amaretto in your mocha?”

Laurel beamed at her daughter-in-law. “Such a lovely idea, my dear.”

Annie added chocolate sprinkles to mounded whipping cream, then placed the mug to one side of the artist’s portfolio Laurel had casually placed atop the counter. Laurel’s mug read: You Can’t Trust Duchesses.

Laurel glanced at the title and made no comment. Her golden hair shirred short, blue eyes sparkling, face radiant, Laurel looked young and vibrant in a scoop-neck pale blue sweater and knee-length frilly polka-dot-print silk skirt. She crossed her legs. The delicate blue of butterfly-bow denim slides matched her blouse.

Annie fixed an iced latte with a shot of raspberry syrup for herself. Her mug read: Stalemate.

Laurel looked amused.

Not, Annie thought, a good sign.

A sip and Laurel patted the familiar portfolio. “You always work so hard, my dear.” Her tone was admiring.

Annie was instantly on alert. The smiling comment, though ostensibly a compliment, was a subtle reminder that Laurel had stepped into the breach when Pat failed to show up. Annie gave a modest shrug. “Same old, same old.”

“It was such a pleasure for me to be able to help out last week when you were busy at the library and dear Ingrid had the book club all by herself.” Almost as if inadvertently, though Annie knew better, Laurel pushed the portfolio nearer Annie. “I know you didn’t mind my taking advantage of that lovely group of women to raise money for animal rescue. Now I feel in my heart”—a graceful hand was delicately placed—“that I must repay that debt and so”—the words came in a rush as swift as the flutter of mallards honing in on a lagoon—“I’m giving you at no charge, of course, your very own collection of the Paws That Refresh to share with Death on Demand’s wonderful readers.” She picked up the portfolio and held it out to Annie as if presenting her firstborn.

Annie’s mouth opened. Closed. To refuse a gift was rude. She limply took the manila folder.

Laurel beamed and plucked the folder back. “Since you are always busy, I will take care of all the details.”

Laurel twirled in her seat to drop lightly to the heart-pine floor. She dashed another smile. “I use masking tape to mount them and that will make it easy to change them out when I have new ones.”

Annie gripped the edge of the coffee bar. New ones? Was the collection intended for permanent display? Would cat photos cover every inch of free wall space, spreading like kudzu? There had to be some way of deflecting her mother-in-law, short of a lasso.

Annie’s cell rang. She plucked it from the pocket of her skirt and glanced at the caller ID. Maybe Henny would have an idea. “Hey, Henny—”

“Annie, I need help.” Henny’s tone was grim. “I just talked to Billy.”

Billy Cameron, Broward’s Rock’s stalwart police chief, was a good friend and a fine policeman, devoted to his community, hardworking, fair.

“He says I’m too close to Pat’s death to be objective.” Henny’s tone was brusque. “He might listen to you. After all, you scarcely knew her, but you saw quite a bit of her in the days before she died. You can describe her state of mind. What upsets me the most is that the report will be released and there will be a story in the Gazette.”

A chair scraped. Laurel popped up to stand on the seat and survey the rectangle of space on the left side of the fireplace. She stood on tiptoe to tape a photograph of a thick-furred, piebald Siberian Forest cat, its white front a brilliant contrast to a charcoal head and back. In a side view, the cat’s broad face appeared almost angelic. Always try a smile first.

If Laurel poached on the space for the mystery paintings, there would be a line drawn in the sand. “A story about what?”

“The official pronouncement of cause of death: suicide.”

Annie gripped the cell. “Suicide?” Pat’s days at Death on Demand whirled through her mind. In particular, she remembered Wednesday afternoon when they’d visited over coffee about mysteries. “I don’t think that’s possible. I’ll talk to Billy.”

Billy Cameron, tall, sturdy, and muscular, pushed back his office chair and stood. “Hey, Annie. What can I do for you?” His thick sandy hair held traces of white. His strong face was genial, but it was ever and always a cop’s face, with an underlying toughness, eyes that had seen the worst of pain and injury and death, a mouth that could tighten into a hard line of confrontation.

Annie sat on one of two hard wooden chairs that faced his desk.

Billy settled in his chair, looking large and official.

She began without preamble. “Pat Merridew worked at Death on Demand.”

He glanced at her, his blue eyes thoughtful, then pulled a green folder from a stack, flipped it open. “She was fired from the law firm. She started to work at the bookstore two weeks later. She was in your employ for four days.”

Annie knew that Billy always did his homework. His dispassionate tone suggested Pat Merridew’s file was complete.

Annie scooted to the edge of the hard wooden seat. “Billy, I think it is very unlikely that Pat Merridew committed suicide.”

Billy arched one eyebrow. “You knew her well?”

Annie made an impatient gesture. “I scarcely knew her. I’m not here as a friend. I’m here with specific information that, to my mind, suggests she didn’t end her own life.”

Billy folded his arms, but asked politely, “What information do you have?”

Annie could read body language. Billy’s mind was closed. He was asking politely, but his voice was distant. She spoke quietly. “Pat knew very little about mysteries. I gave her some Agatha Christies to read. Billy, two days before she died, we sat at the coffee bar.” Pat had made the drinks under Annie’s tutelage, two iced lattes. “Pat thumbed through her copy of Towards Zero and found the passage where Superintendent Battle figured out the truth about his daughter’s confession. Pat thought that was really clever on his part. I told her my favorite passage was when a young nurse spoke with a would-be suicide bitter at having been saved. The nurse said, ‘It may be just by being somewhere—not doing anything—oh, I can’t say what I mean, but you might just—just walk along a street someday and just by doing that accomplish something terribly important—perhaps without even knowing what it was.’ ”

“Good book,” Billy said mildly.

Annie nodded in agreement. “One of Christie’s best. But that’s not the point. Pat said, ‘I wouldn’t make a guy a hero who tried to commit suicide. He should have sucked up his guts, gotten on with life.’ That sure doesn’t sound like someone who’s thinking about suicide. I don’t know anything about how Pat died. But if she didn’t die from natural causes, then I think her death had to be an accident. Or murder.” She threw out the last without conviction. Who would want to kill Pat Merridew?

Billy picked up the file, found a page. “This is part of the public record now.” He slid a sheet across the desk. “You can look at the toxicology report. She died as the result of ingesting four hundred milligrams of OxyContin, which had been dissolved in Irish coffee.”

Annie scanned the sheet. The damning information was there. Four hundred milligrams. No one took four hundred milligrams of an opiate by mistake. “Did she have a prescription?” OxyContin was exceedingly strong and one of many prescription painkillers that were commonly abused.

“Not a current one. She had a prescription a year ago, but it wasn’t renewable. She fell last year, shattered her wrist, had a plate and six screws. The painkiller was prescribed then.”

“Did you find the container for the OxyContin?”

Billy nodded. “The last thing thrown in the trash. Empty. Only her fingerprints on the vial.”

Annie knew that people often didn’t use all of a prescribed med. In fact, she had a plastic vial in a kitchen cabinet that contained pills left over from a prescription she’d been given following a root canal.

Billy was calm. “No surprise she kept the stuff. People do. In any event, the dregs in her crystal coffee mug contained OxyContin. Her fingerprints were on the mug and only hers. There was no disarray in the room, no evidence anyone else had been present.” His face softened. “Look, Annie, she was distraught after she lost her job—”

Annie interrupted. “She had a new job. She didn’t skulk around acting upset. She was eager and cheerful and she did everything she could to learn as much as she could as fast as she could.”

He lifted a hand in negation. “Of course she acted positive at the store. I get your point and”—a bemused head shake—“Henny is adamant she didn’t kill herself because of her dog. Apparently the dog has special medication for a heart problem. Henny claims Pat would never have put the dog in jeopardy.” He paused. “Henny took the dog home with her. But suicides aren’t thinking straight. They’re depressed. They can’t see any hope in their lives.”

Annie was no psychologist. She couldn’t swear to Pat’s mental stability, but she remembered with clarity Pat’s disdain for the would-be suicide in Towards Zero.

“If she ground up the pills”—once Annie had read that OxyContin was even more lethal if the pills were broken or mashed—“and put them in her coffee, then you’re right, she was deeply depressed and not herself. But, Billy, if she didn’t put the drug in her coffee, someone else did.”

Billy slowly shook his head. “It doesn’t play, Annie. I know my job. I don’t take anything for granted. I checked out Pat Merridew upside down and sideways. She was kind of a live wire. She liked to play cards, go bowling.” For an instant, there was a shadow in his eyes. “She bowled the night before she died. She paid her bills. Her only relative was a sister, who lives in California. The sister was at a baseball game in Anaheim the night Pat died. Pat’s estate goes to her sister but it’s modest: the house, a bank account with three thousand dollars, some stocks amounting to about seventy-five thousand, which shows she was thrifty and prudent. Everybody I contacted spoke well of her. The only blot in a happy-days life was losing her job at the law firm. She was upset and angry with Glen Jamison and with his wife-slash-partner, Cleo. If I’d found Glen bashed over the head or a stiletto in Cleo Jamison’s back, I’d have looked at Pat Merridew. Plenty of bad feelings there. But they’re fine and Pat’s dead. So, nobody wanted Pat dead. What does that leave? Accident or suicide? No way it was an accident. Besides, OxyContin is bitter and she’d made Irish coffee. The whiskey and the sugar hid the taste and, of course, the whiskey intensified the effect of the opiate.”

He didn’t say “case closed,” but he might as well have.

Annie knew Billy had years of experience and a thorough investigation to back up his conclusion. All she had was the memory of Pat’s conclusion about the would-be suicide: He should have sucked up his guts, gotten on with his life.

Suicide or murder.

“Billy, will you do me a favor?”

He straightened the papers in the folder, flipped the cover shut. “Such as?”

“I’d like to see Pat’s house. Please.” Maybe there would be something there that would bolster her argument.

Billy’s mouth turned down in a wry half smile. “I swear to God, when a woman gets an idea in her head . . .” But his voice was genial. His big shoulders rose and fell. “Henny’s handling everything for the sister. I was going to turn the keys over to her. I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm to meet her at the house. There may be some things she wants to take care of.”

Annie easily pictured Pat Merridew in the small, cheerful living room. White flowers with yellow centers formed bouquets in light blue wallpaper. Pale yellow drapes were drawn at two side windows and the wide front window. A braided oval rug lay smooth in the center of the wooden floor. Not a trace of dust marred the room.

Henny pointed at the chintz-covered chair on one side of the coffee table. “Pat was there.” A faint frown. “The chair is out of line. She kept the chairs turned the same way next to the coffee table.”

Billy took a step forward. “Probably the techs moved the chair when they came for the body.”

“Everything seems to be in order.” Henny sounded weary. Then her head came up and she gave Billy a combative look. “Pat did not commit suicide.”

Annie looked at the coffee table. “The drug was in her coffee.”

Billy was brisk. “Found in the dregs in a ten-ounce crystal coffee mug. The coffee in a carafe was free of drugs.”

“Only in the mug.” Henny’s dark eyes narrowed in thought. “Let me check.” She whirled and hurried to the kitchen.

Annie and Billy followed.

The kitchen was narrow and small. A wooden chair sat at each end of a Formica-topped table. A newspaper, carefully folded, lay to the left of a single, woven red cloth place mat. An old-fashioned six-cup metal percolator sat on the tiled counter next to an avocado-green fifties-era stove. A bottle of Irish whiskey sat on the counter next to a sugar canister.

Henny didn’t pick up the coffeemaker. Instead, she bent near. “It hasn’t been washed.” She turned and faced Annie and Billy. “Pat ate dinner. She washed her dishes.” Henny nodded toward the drainer, which held a plate, glass, cutlery, saucepan, and skillet. “She made the coffee. So why six cups if she didn’t expect company? Look next to the row of canisters on the counter.” She pointed. “A single-cup French press. That’s what she would use to make a cup for herself. Irish coffee was one of her specialties, with a hefty slug of whiskey and lots of brown sugar.” Now she faced Billy. “How much coffee was left in the carafe?”

“I can find out, but the amount left in the carafe proves nothing.” His voice was patient. “You’re trying to make the case that she served coffee to someone else, that she wouldn’t have made six cups for herself. We can’t know that for a fact. Maybe she drank one mug of the coffee, then tossed the OxyContin in her second serving.”

Annie twisted to look back into the living room. What if Henny was right? What if Pat had a guest? Then there would be two crystal mugs.

Annie felt a rush of excitement. “Billy, you said the mugs were crystal.”

He nodded. “Pretty pricey stuff. I got four of them for Mavis for her birthday.”

A Southern woman of Pat’s age would put out her best for company.

“Let’s find where she kept her crystal ware.”

Henny gestured toward the hallway. “In a breakfront in the dining room.” She led the way.

Billy looked through the glass pane. “Yeah. The stuff was in one of those mugs.” He reached out to open the breakfront.

“Wait.” Annie’s command was quick.

He looked at her.

She lifted a hand in supplication. “Billy, please do me one more favor.”

At the first peal of the phone, Annie glanced at her caller ID. She looked across the coffee bar at Henny. “Billy.” Now they would know. She clicked the speakerphone. “Annie here.”

There was an instant of silence. The police chief cleared his throat.

Henny leaned forward, her face intent, her posture tense.

“A technician—”

Annie mouthed silently, “Mavis.” Billy’s wife doubled as dispatcher and crime technician. She was careful, methodical, and meticulous.

“—checked the entire set of crystal mugs for fingerprints as well as the sugar bowl and cream pitcher. One mug yielded no fingerprints.” His voice gave no hint to his thoughts.

“None?” Henny’s demand was sharp.

“None.”

Henny slapped a hand on the counter. “You see what that means, Billy.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Someone washed the mug and replaced it in the breakfront without leaving any fingerprints.” His tone was neutral.

“A murderer.” Henny was firm.

“Or someone who was very tidy.”

“Please.” Henny sounded incredulous.

Billy spoke with equal firmness. “The evidence is open to interpretation. Conceivably, the last time she washed the mugs, she managed to dry one without leaving any fingerprints, perhaps holding the mug with one cloth, drying it with another. Alternatively, as you suggest, someone else carefully washed and dried a mug to remove fingerprints and placed the mug in the breakfront.”

Annie asked quickly, “How about the other chair?” Could fingerprints be taken from cloth?

“The chair arms yielded no prints.”

Henny was quick. “Not even Pat’s?”

“No prints.”

“Murder.” Henny was forceful.

Billy’s question was quick and sharp. “Who had reason to kill Pat Merridew?”

Henny’s reply was slow in coming, but honest. “So far as I know, no one.”

“At this point”—Billy sounded somewhat ponderous—“the file remains open. We will pursue inquiries.” A pause. “You knew her well. If you hear of anything that could assist us, please be in contact.” He ended the call.

Annie clicked off the phone.

Henny lifted her coffee mug (Devious Design by D. B. Olsen) in a salute. “You asked Billy to have the mugs fingerprinted.” Her tone was admiring. “If it weren’t for you, a perfect murder would have been committed. Now Pat’s death will be labeled possible homicide instead of suicide.”

Annie didn’t feel triumphant. “Billy said he would pursue inquiries. Like what? I suppose he’ll check with neighbors, but if no one saw Pat’s visitor, where does he go from there?”

Henny frowned. “No one will have seen the visitor. I think we can count on that. Anyone smart enough to set up her death to appear as a suicide is too smart to be seen. But”—she was emphatic—“that’s a lead right there.”

Annie brought her mug around the coffee bar and sat down next to Henny. “How so?”

Henny lightly touched fingertips to each temple. Eyes narrowed, she stared into the distance.

Annie wondered if Henny was channeling Madame Arcati, the ebullient psychic in Noël Coward’s Blithe Spirit, a role Henny had recently played with élan in the local little theater.

“I see a close connection,” she intoned.

Definitely Madame Arcati.

Henny swiveled to face Annie. “The OxyContin! That’s the tip-off. Only someone who knew Pat well, someone who spent time around her, would be aware that she had broken her wrist and taken pain pills. All right. Who knew? Certainly the people she worked with—Glen Jamison, Cleo Jamison, Kirk Brewster. In fact, all of the Jamisons. Pat was close to Maddy and later to Glen’s sister, Elaine. Through the years, Pat took the kids to doctor appointments, all that sort of thing.”

Annie shook her head. “Maybe she talked to her postman about her pain pills. Henny, we don’t have anywhere to start.”

Henny looked stubborn. “All right. Forget the pain pills for now. Instead, I’ll call mutual friends who knew Pat, see if I can turn up anything odd or unusual in the last week or so.”

Annie refrained from pointing out that Pat’s final two weeks had been very different, fired from her job of more than twenty years, hired into a retail position for which she had no background. What else was Henny likely to hear about from Pat’s friends? Henny was unlikely to discover why Pat brewed coffee for a killer. “Good idea.” She knew her lack of enthusiasm was evident.

Henny’s gaze was searching. “Do you have a better idea?”

Annie turned her hands palms up.

After the front bell signaled Henny’s departure, Annie walked slowly toward her office. She heard Ingrid suggesting titles to a thriller fan, the latest titles by Michael Connelly, Daniel Silva, Laura Bynum, Kayla Perrin, Judith Cutler, and Steven Hamilton. She needed to unpack boxes of books by Robert Crais, Parnell Hall, Janet Evanovich, Diane Mott Davidson, and Joanne Fluke. Hilton Head mystery writer Kathryn Wall was coming over for a signing next week.

Annie reached for the box cutter. What would Wall’s sleuth, Bay Tanner, do in these circumstances? Bay would make her choice on the basis of honor and execute any plan with tenacity. Annie understood that inner compulsion to follow where conscience led. She had felt compelled to approach Billy Cameron because of her conversation with Pat about suicide.

Annie slid the tempered steel blade down the center of the box lid, careful to avoid damage to book jackets. Yeah, yeah, yeah, a small inner voice sneered. You didn’t believe Pat committed suicide. You pointed the way for an investigation. Big deal. But now you know Billy’s best efforts won’t lead anywhere. He’s already found out that no one local profited from her small estate, that she had no known enemies, that she was well regarded in the community.

Impatiently, Annie lifted out five books and another five. The cover of the Hamilton thriller, The Lock Artist, featured a shiny steel padlock with the shackle unfastened. That lock was open.

Was there a way to unlock the truth about Pat?

Maybe, just maybe . . . She reached for her cell phone. “Max, meet me at Parotti’s. I need help.”