Death Is Like a Box of Chocolates (A Chocolate Covered Mystery) (7 page)

“Only she knows that,” Bobby hedged.

I joined them. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Lockett pulled a battered notepad out. “Let’s go through what happened this morning.”

I launched yet again into the saga. Bean kept a watchful eye on all of us, making me feel safe and somewhat less stressed about it all. Or maybe I was just getting used to being questioned by the police.

Lockett took careful notes, asking questions when I stalled and not pushing when I got emotional. Even Bean seemed to have a grudging respect for him at the end of our conversation.

Bean went into reporter mode as I wrapped up my story. “What do you know so far? Were the chocolates poisoned?”

Instead of answering, Lockett asked, “Did you store rat poison in your kitchen?”

“No!” I said. “I don’t use rat poison and I certainly wouldn’t have it anywhere close to my products.”

Lockett made a note and my impatience got the best of me. “Were they poisoned or not?”

Bobby waited for Lockett to nod and answered, “We won’t be sure until the tests are complete, but it looks like a needle was inserted into the bottom of the chocolates and then smoothed over. And the symptoms point to poison.”

My hand shook as I put my mug down, sloshing coffee on the table. Bean touched my arm.

“I’m sorry,” I said, shocked that our suspicions were most likely true. I shook my head. “I just can’t believe it.”

I looked up to see Lockett watching me closely. Of course. I was a prime suspect to him. “I’ll have to ask you not to make any of your products until the testing is complete.” He looked around the kitchen. “Including at your home.”

I sucked in a breath.

“Was Denise the target?” Bean asked.

Lockett was reluctant to answer. “Yes. The chocolates were left on the counter in her studio.”

“But why did she come into our store?” I asked. “She wasn’t even planning to work today.”

“Why not?” Lockett asked, his voice intense.

I explained the cancelled visit to the gallery owner in DC. “I can’t remember the name, but Erica probably does.” Then I flashed back to our weird conversation the night before. “I don’t know if this is relevant, but she talked to me last night about wanting to get out of town. To live somewhere that was always warm.”

“Did she say where?” Lockett asked.

I shook my head. “No, just that if she had the money, she’d move.”

He nodded. “Can you think of anyone who had something against Denise?”

“Her ex-boyfriend, Larry Stapleton, was not a good guy.” I told him about the break-in and our suspicions. And then my gaze went to Henna’s house.

“What?” Lockett asked.

I would have been fine telling Bobby, but somehow it felt like a betrayal to tell a stranger. “This is probably just nonsense, but yesterday Henna Bradbury stopped me to complain about Denise.” I told him about our conversation outside the house. “But Henna would never
hurt
her.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Lockett said.

“Are you going to question her?” Bean asked.

“Yes,” Lockett said with a firm nod.

“She’s just a little old lady,” I insisted. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“I’d like to gather more information before I talk to her,” he said, “so don’t discuss this with her if you happen to see her.”

“Of course not,” I said. Like I’d admit to Henna that I’d tattled on her.

He flipped his notepad closed and stood. “Thank you for your time.”

“Do you think this will be . . . figured out in time for Memorial Day?” I asked.

A flash of exasperation crossed the state policeman’s face. “That’s certainly a big deal here. Let me be clear. We don’t work according to some artificial deadline. We will follow our procedures and find out who did this in due time.”

“Really?” I asked. “Did you just say ‘in due time’?”

Lockett raised his eyebrows but seemed amused at being called out. “Sees ya.” He deliberately used the comical way to say “good-bye” in Pittsburgh.

Bobby nodded and followed him out.

“This isn’t going to be fixed anytime soon,” I said to Bean, who now had the same expression that Erica used when deep in thought.

Bobby knocked briefly and came back in. “I told Erica this earlier, but you should make sure not to be alone in that building until we figure out this thing.”

“How long is that going to take?” My voice was just a little bit whiny.

He hesitated. “Off the record?”

We both nodded.

“I knew Lockett in Baltimore. He’s a good cop. And he won’t be rushed.”

“Meaning he’s going to take forever.”

Bobby didn’t argue.

“Did you see a brown cat around the store?” I asked.

He shook his head. “You have a cat at the store?”

“No. There was a stray.” I stopped. “So any chance of this being solved by the time we get to the fudge contest?” I asked, thinking of my phone messages.

Bobby twisted his mouth in a your-guess-is-as-good-as-mine expression.

I sat up straight. “Do you know how many people in this town are counting on that weekend? No way will visitors come here if they think they could be killed.”

“We’ll all do what we can,” he said, “but Lockett’s running the show. And the most important thing is finding the killer.”

E
rica must have been waiting for Bobby to leave because she came down as soon as he drove away.

“Chicken,” I said. “You have to stop avoiding Bobby.”

She ignored that. “What did they say?”

I was about to launch into a play-by-play when Bean closed his laptop and stood up. “I told Leo I’d meet him at the Ear.”

The Ear was the nickname for O’Shaughnessey’s, a bar at the edge of town. Decades ago, the curvy parts of the neon B had burned out to make the
Bar
sign look like
Ear
, and the owners had kept it that way ever since.

“Good,” I said. “Let us know what people are saying.”

I filled Erica in on everything Bobby and Roger Lockett had said, starting to choke up when I told her I was banned from making chocolate. Her expression held so much sympathy, I couldn’t take it.

“What the hell am I going to do with myself?” I couldn’t imagine a whole day going by, especially a Monday, and not making chocolate. And then I felt ashamed again. Denise was dead. I shook my head.

Erica seemed to read my thoughts. “We all have different ways of coping with loss. Your business is your baby,” she said quietly.

“My way of coping is to make chocolate.” I couldn’t even work on the bridal party chocolates until I was cleared.

She put a hand on my shoulder and I felt the urge to turn into her and hide my face like a child. “I hate to say it, but we need to move ahead on the fudge cook-off and the other Memorial Day weekend events.”

“I know,” I said quietly. “Are you getting the same kind of phone messages I am?”

She grimaced and nodded. “It’s not our call whether to cancel or not. So let’s do what we can.” She looked away. “And I’ve been thinking about the store. Maybe we should hire a hazmat company to completely scour the place.”

My breath caught in my throat. “But wouldn’t that be like admitting that we had a problem? That I somehow—”

“Not at all. It would demonstrate that we care about the safety of our customers.” She pulled her laptop out of her backpack. “I have a plan.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

She opened a new document. “I drafted a press release. Based on my research, the crime-scene techs will most likely be done tomorrow, which means we could have it cleaned on Wednesday and maybe we can even get back in there by Thursday.”

Thursday. I could make it until then.

“Which means we could reopen this weekend.”

The relief I felt was immense, even if it was balanced on too many “ifs” to hold steady for long.

She wasn’t done. “While I’m working on this, why don’t you figure out what you need to order?”

“Okay.” Then an idea jumped into my head.

It was a terrible idea.

“What?” Erica asked, seeing my expression.

“Nothing.” Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea.

“Tell me,” Erica insisted.

“We know this town better than Lockett,” I said.

“Of course,” Erica said.

Maybe it was kind of an exciting idea. “You’re really smart. And I’m . . . determined.”

“That second part’s an understatement,” Erica said drily.

“What if we tried to find out what happened to Denise? Kinda helped the police a little?” Just saying it made me feel uneasy.

She did her thinking thing, where her face went blank as she dove into her brain to assess all of the possible variables to the situation. “That’s a great idea. We have time now, at least until we can get back in the shop. Let’s see what we can find out.”

She jumped up. “Be right back.”

She brought down a large roll of white butcher paper, different colored markers and masking tape, dumping them all on the table and then taking down my Walmart-special artwork of a steaming cup of coffee in neon colors hanging on one of the walls.

“Are you creating a project plan for a murder investigation?” I knew how she worked.

“Of course,” she said, surprised. “How else are we going to figure out where to start?”

• • • • • • • • • 

F
irst I went crazy on my suppliers’ websites, placing a serious hit on my credit card to rush order chocolate and other ingredients so that it all would arrive by Wednesday. Lockett didn’t say I couldn’t order my supplies. The rest I’d pick up at the grocery store when I was allowed to get back to work.

Then I joined Erica as we created the beginning of our murder investigation project plan—a huge interconnected spreadsheet of any details we thought might be important.

Erica began her investigation online. The Internet truly did have everything. What she learned about potential poisons was particularly enlightening.

“According to her symptoms, Denise may have been poisoned with cyanide.”

“Where would someone get cyanide?” I asked.

“It’s not that hard,” she said. She raised her eyebrow. “It used to be commonly found in photographic development chemicals. But I’ve never known Denise to develop film. She’s all digital.”

I shrugged. “And wouldn’t she need a special lab for that?”

She read from another page. “It’s also in some kinds of rat poison that only farmers use,” she said. “Also, manufacturing plants, old chemistry labs, even in antique shops.”

We had all of those around West Riverdale.

We created a profile for the perfect suspect: someone who had motive, means and opportunity, according to Erica’s research into murder investigating. And then more specific categories: knowledge and access to poison, our security system and my chocolate. There couldn’t be very many people who fit all of these.

We made lists of everything we could think of: who was mad at Denise; who had the knowledge to break into our store; who bought Amaretto Palle Darks recently. Although that was almost impossible to figure out. I kept only loose track in my own store and my four-packs of truffles were sold all over town, placed right by the cash register for impulse buying. Most of them had one Amaretto Palle included, and I had no idea who bought them on the other end. Store owners just kept track of the number of boxes sold and gave me a check every month.

“I have a question and I don’t want you to take it the wrong way,” I said.

“No problem.” She sounded distracted. “What is it?”

“Why did you come in so early on a Monday?” She blinked at me and I quivered inside, feeling like I might be risking our friendship. “I totally know you didn’t do anything . . . bad. I just think I should know in case anyone asks.”

“Of course,” she said. “I received a distressing email about some research I’d finished a while ago and was too upset to stay at home, so I came into the store to work on the next press release.”

She was so matter-of-fact that I felt relieved. “I’m glad you were there.” It would have been way worse alone.

She stared at the plan. “What has changed recently in Denise’s life?”

I remembered my last conversation with Denise, when she’d stopped into my storage room and talked about leaving town. “Do you have some kind of photography book that Denise liked? Something about a beach?”

Erica knew it right away.
“The Eighties at Echo Beach?”

“Yes!” I said. “Denise mentioned it Sunday night after the meeting. She was a little weird about it.” I relayed the conversation.

“It’s in the photography section of my used books,” she said. “We’ll find it when we can get back in.” She made a note in her computer.

I was standing at the window with a cup of coffee, trying not to think about the nasty effects of poison, when I noticed Henna walking to her studio. Today she was swathed head to toe in purple, from a scarf covering her hair to purple striped socks and lavender sandals.

“What do you think about visiting Henna?” I asked Erica. So far we had only two suspects: Henna and Denise’s ex-boyfriend Larry.

She looked up from her color coding, a pink highlighter in her hand. “Really? We’re starting to interview our suspects now?”

“Why not?” I said, feeling adventurous.

“Lockett said not to mention anything to her,” Erica pointed out.

“We can pretend it’s just a friendly visit.” I probably should be embarrassed that I’d never seen the inside of her studio. She’d been my next-door neighbor for a year, for Pete’s sake.

“What should we ask her?” Erica started typing on her laptop.

I raised my eyebrows. “You’re taking notes?”

“Of course,” she said. “We have to be scrupulous in documenting our investigation. We’ve already established a potential motive for Henna. Let’s try to find out if she had the means and opportunity.”

“So we’re looking for someone who bought my chocolate, used a needle to stick cyanide in it and gave it to Denise.” Saying it out loud made me feel ill. “We’re just going to go over there and see if she has rat poison and a hypodermic needle just lying around?”

“I think just you,” said Erica, getting to her feet. “Two of us in that small room might be intimidating.” Erica paused to think for a minute. “Tell her that you’ve always wanted to see her art process and you finally have free time because of the shop being closed. Flatter her work. Then figure out if she uses a rodenticide.”

“A lot of people in this town own rat poison,” I said.

“That’s not true,” Erica said. “You don’t.”

“Because I pay someone to get rid of them,” I said. “And I pay extra to never see them or know anything about the process.”

“Right,” Erica said. “You pay the exterminator extra to use catch-and-release traps.” She thought for a moment. “It’s even more difficult because it’s not something that’s sold in regular stores. Maybe we can get a list from the Department of Agriculture.”

She added a note to the rapidly expanding plan on the wall. The sprawling, highlighted columns looked peculiar on the kitchen wall surrounded by the ornate, antique wainscoting. “Just see if you can find anything suspicious.”

“Okay.” I took a deep breath and picked my way through the yard, cutting through the break in our overgrown hedges.

Henna had let her grass grow long in the fall. It had trapped stray leaves, now all brown and fused together, and new growth was struggling to break through. Her son lived at least an hour away. Maybe he hadn’t been helping recently. I followed the solar fairy lights she’d placed along the path to her studio.

She’d done her best to disguise the fact that her studio used to be a chicken coop. The outside was painted sky blue, with dozens of butterflies drawn in garish designs not found in nature. A huge oak tree towered over the studio, keeping the small building cool in the summer. The cracks between the wooden slats allowed the cold in during the winter, but she still worked away in all seasons.

I knocked on the door, the scent of patchouli not quite masking the stench of old chicken poop. “Henna?” I asked. “It’s Michelle.”

“Michelle?” She sounded confused.

I pushed the door open a bit. “Can I come in?”

“Sure.” She didn’t sound very sure.

“I’ve always wanted to see your studio,” I lied. If I’d thought the outside was garish, the inside was like the psychedelic nightmares of a butterfly collector. Three of the walls were covered with drying butterfly parts—painted wings in various stages of completion and wooden rod heads with imaginary butterfly faces painted on.

She smiled. “How nice! It’s small but it works.”

“It sure does.” I pretended to admire a blue wing with wide swishes of black paint on it. Shelves covered the last wall, holding buckets of paint and glitter glue, rolls of material and wire, and wooden dowels of different widths. “Look at how efficient you are.”

“I have to be. I don’t want to get behind on orders,” she said. “I’m sending this one to Seattle.” She held up a red-spotted creature that was more like a ladybug than a butterfly.

“Seattle,” I said as if it was someplace exotic. “Awesome.” I struggled to find a way to begin. “So how long did you train before you were able to do all this?” I asked. “Since I have no idea when they’ll let me back in the shop, I was thinking I should take up a hobby so I don’t go crazy.” Something that doesn’t involve adult chocolates.

“Given your career choice, you obviously have an artistic bent,” she said. “You just need to experiment and practice. I developed my own technique, and you can do the same.”

“Thanks. That’s so nice of you. I have to figure out something to do with my time, since . . . ” I let my voice trail off. “It’s terrible what happened to Denise.” I felt another jolt of sadness that must have shown in my face.

Henna’s expression changed, but she turned away before I could tell if she was sad or mad. “I can’t believe that happened right here in West Riverdale. That’s like something from DC or Baltimore.”

“Do you know anyone who may have had a problem with her?” I kept my voice light and then held my breath. Was I too obvious?

She stiffened and said defensively, “No. Not enough to
kill
her.”

“I didn’t mean you,” I reassured her. “You wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

She seemed mollified.

“But maybe she pissed off other people,” I said. “Maybe someone who didn’t have the moral code that you do.”

“That’s absurd,” she said, but then she looked uncertain.

“You have an idea? Who is it?” I pulled up a stool, trying to make it seem like I wanted her to dish the gossip rather than betray a confidence.