Death of a Chocoholic (8 page)

Hayley knew the note was meant for her. Bessie had made that box of Hayley's Kisses especially for her. That's why she was so anxious for Hayley to pick them up.

But why?

Why couldn't she just tell her about her suspicion?

Was she afraid her phone was bugged?

Or someone was watching her?

And who would want to murder Bessie?

On second thought, was there anyone in town who
didn't
want to murder Bessie?

Sergio was done with his investigation.

Natural causes.

Sabrina was finished with her findings.

Natural causes.

Even if Hayley showed up at both their offices with the small scrap of paper she nearly chewed up and swallowed, it wouldn't be enough to change their minds.

No.

This was something Hayley was going to have to pursue on her own.

Again.

And she could start by going over to Bessie's house and searching for clues. Maybe Bessie left another note, some kind of sign, anything that might indicate who might have gone to such desperate measures to get rid of her.

And just how did he or she do it?

Sabrina was snotty and two-faced, but she was pretty damn good at her job. Hayley did not doubt for a second that Bessie was battling a multitude of health problems. But with no autopsy, then whatever method the killer might have used would be buried with Bessie forever.

And someone in Bessie's life would be getting away with murder.

Hayley reached into her bag and rummaged around, finally finding the key to Bessie's house, which Bessie had given her. She knew Sal would be gone for at least another forty-five minutes. Bessie's house was just a few blocks away from the office.

Hayley sprung to her feet, grabbed her coat, and hurried out the door.

When she arrived at Bessie's house and let herself in, using the key, she was once again overcome by the stench of kitty litter. The only difference was there were no mangy cats roaming about. She had heard through Randy, who was told by his partner, Sergio, that all the cats had been removed and were currently at the handsome, new vet Dr. Palmer's office being medically treated before, hopefully, being put up for adoption. Dr. Aaron Palmer.

What a kind, sweet, giving man.

And so good-looking.

His wife was a very lucky woman.

Hayley stopped herself.

She wasn't here to moon over Aaron.

Or Dr. Palmer.

She wasn't that familiar with him to be on a first-name basis.

She was here to look for anything that might suggest Bessie's death was not from natural causes.

Hayley started with the drawers in the kitchen, opening one to find a tray of rusty, smudged old utensils, another one to find the last remnants of some spare plastic wrap and tinfoil. She moved to another row and the top one was some kind of mail drawer stuffed with unpaid parking tickets, unopened bills, legal documents, and paperwork. She quickly fanned through the stack, her eyes focusing on a piece of paper issued by the local court. It was a restraining order taken out against one of Bessie's ex-boyfriends, Wolf Conway. Well, that wasn't a surprise. He was the size of a Mack truck and very intimidating. And he sure didn't seem to like Bessie very much.

A red folder caught her eye. She flipped it open and perused the contents. It was from the office of Ted Rivers, a local lawyer whose office was upstairs from Liddy's real estate firm. Hayley skimmed the document. It appeared Bessie was embroiled in a lawsuit with her neighbors Mark and Mary Garber. Hayley knew them casually. They had moved to Bar Harbor from Rhode Island after visiting Bar Harbor one summer and falling in love with the island and its lifestyle. Hayley folded up the paper and slid it into the pocket of her jeans and continued her search.

Hayley walked up the creaky stairs to Bessie's bedroom. Dirty, wrinkled clothes were strewn about. A wall mirror above the dresser was so smudged that Hayley couldn't even see her own reflection. There was makeup powder everywhere; cans of hair spray were on the floor; the bed was smelly and unmade. Hayley didn't need to eat a lot of chocolate to feel nauseous again.

She glanced at a digital camera lying next to a Garfield lamp on a side table next to the bed. Bessie certainly was a big fan of the cartoon cat. She picked up the camera, switched it on, and started scrolling through the photos. Hayley was shocked to discover about twenty-five pictures of Cody Donovan, the loan officer from the bank, in bed with a woman whose face was hidden in the shadows. She couldn't see the woman's face, but she certainly had shapely legs. And on her wrist was a very distinctive gold poppy bangle, with a polished band of sterling silver. It was right in front of the camera lens because the woman was holding a fistful of Cody's hair as he made love to her. Even though Hayley could not identify her, the woman was most definitely
not
Cody's uptight and jealous wife, Kerry. It looked as if the photos had been taken from outside a first-story bedroom window.

It was obviously Bessie who had taken the photos.

And did Cody know about them?

Hayley was just about finished looking through the photos, and was about to head to the storage closet she had spotted just down the hall from the bedroom, when suddenly she heard a creaking sound.

And then another.

Someone was coming up the stairs.

Slowly.

Hayley stood frozen in place.

She held her breath.

The intruder continued his ascent.

Faster now.

Like he was charging toward her.

Hayley dropped the camera on the floor and scooted into the bathroom, quietly closing the door and looking around. There was no window to slip out, nowhere to go. She heard the intruder walking around in the bedroom. It was only a matter of seconds before he came into the bathroom.

Hayley pulled open the medicine cabinet, hoping to find some kind of weapon. If only she had picked up the can of hair spray in the other room, the aerosol would have made a decent pepper spray if she got him directly in the eyes.

The door handle to the bathroom jiggled. Hayley climbed into the bathtub and closed the curtain. She pressed herself up against the tile wall as the door banged open and someone entered.

She heard heavy breathing.

God, what a way to go.

What if the guy had a knife? Like in
Psycho.
She always felt so sorry for Janet Leigh in that movie. Everyone makes a few mistakes in life, but poor Janet's crime was stealing a few lousy bucks from her office and having an affair with a hunky, shirtless stud. Big deal. Did she really have to pay for it with her life at the hands of a crazy, cross-dressing, mother-loving Tony Perkins? Well, Norman Bates. Tony Perkins was probably a very nice person just
playing
a nutcase.

The intruder crossed to the shower.

She could see his outline through the curtain.

Tall.

Broad-shouldered.

Hayley saw the man grab a fistful of the curtain.

She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed.

The curtain was flung open and Hayley let out a scream.

“Hayley?”

Hayley popped open one eye.

It wasn't Norman Bates.

It was Sergio. Her brother Randy's partner.

And Bar Harbor's esteemed police chief.

His gun was drawn and he had a grim look on his face.

Hayley decided to make the best of a potentially disastrous situation. She gave him her brightest smile. “Sergio! Now this is a happy coincidence! What are you doing here?”

Sergio didn't return the smile.

At that moment Hayley knew she was in big trouble.

Randy nervously popped open a bottle of Coppola Merlot and poured three glasses. Hayley was seated on the couch in the living room of the sprawling oceanside New England house that Randy and Sergio shared.

Sergio was stoking the flames in the fireplace with a poker and then turned to Hayley; the poker was aimed at her as if about to impale her.

“You going to use that thing on me?” Hayley asked.

“No. But someone needs to pound some sense into you,” Sergio said sternly. But his thick Brazilian accent even made the angriest comment seem sexy.

“I'm sorry,” Hayley said. “I wasn't thinking.”

Randy balanced three glasses of red wine and set one down on the coffee table in front of Hayley. He sipped from another as he delivered the third one to Sergio, who put the poker back in the cast-iron fireplace-tool stand.

“She's always had a nosy nature. I don't know where she gets that from,” Randy said.

Sergio stared at him, the irony not lost on him. “It must run in the family.”

“How did you know I was there?” Hayley asked.

“Mary Garber was in her yard replacing one of her storm windows and she saw someone moving around inside Bessie Winthrop's place next door.”

“She didn't see that it was just me?”

“No, Hayley, and even if she did, you were breaking and entering. She did the right thing by calling the police.”

“Is it technically breaking and entering if the owner of the house is no longer among the living?” Randy asked, trying to be helpful.

Sergio glared at him and Randy took a big gulp of his wine, pretending he hadn't said anything.

“What were you doing there?” Sergio wanted to know.

“Well, since you asked, I am not one hundred percent convinced that Bessie's death was purely from natural causes. You see—”

“I am. I am one hundred percent convinced,” Sergio said in a loud voice.

“Okay, well, let me try to change your mind—”

“No,” Sergio said, downing his wine. “I'm tired from a really long day and I'm in no mood to hear about your wild, unsusceptible theories.”

“Unsusceptible to what?” Hayley asked.

“He means ‘unsubstantiated,'” Randy said, again trying to be helpful.

English was not Sergio's first language; on occasion he was known to mix up his words.

“Okay, first of all, I have no theories, just a few clues. But I did hear from Bessie and she believed someone wanted to kill her,” Hayley said.

“So she said something to you when she called you last night, right before she died?” Sergio asked.

“No, she didn't say anything to me at that point. It was after that.”

“So she mailed you a letter or sent you an e-mail, which you didn't open until after you discovered the body?”

“No, nothing like that. She put a note in a piece of chocolate. I bit into it.”

Sergio stared at Hayley for a long moment and then turned and headed for the stairs.

“Good night.”

“Sergio, wait... ,” Hayley pleaded.

Sergio stopped at the foot of the stairs and turned around. “Stop, Hayley. Stop right now. I do not want you making this a ‘thing,' like you usually do.”

“‘Thing'? What do you mean ‘thing'? What do I make a
thing
?”

“He means your propensity to poke your nose into affairs that don't concern you,” Randy said.

Hayley sipped her wine and pouted.

Just like Sabrina Merryweather.

Maybe if she looked as cute as Sabrina did in high school doing it, she just might get somewhere with Sergio. On second thought Sergio was gay, so it was probably a lost cause.

Besides, he was already halfway up the stairs.

“Case closed,” he said before walking into the bedroom and slamming the door.

“Don't worry,” Randy said, crossing over to the dining-room table to retrieve the bottle of Merlot. “His hands are tied because the official investigation into the cause of death has been determined. He's done with it. But he knows you won't listen to him, and on some level he's at peace with that.”

“What do you mean?”

Randy poured them both another glass, finishing the bottle. “Sergio, in all of his wisdom, once said that when it comes to solving a mystery, you're like a Bieber with a tennis ball.”

“I'm confused. I didn't even know Justin Bieber played tennis.”

“He meant to say ‘beagle.' And his point was, when it comes to finding answers, you're like a beagle with a tennis ball. There's no way you're ever letting it go.”

Hayley smiled.

Sergio was a smart man.

And he was absolutely right.

“My paper is not the
National Enquirer,
Hayley! We deal in facts here,” Sal barked as he bulldozed his way into the front office.

“What are you talking about?” Hayley said, averting her eyes, her face reddening.

“You know damn well what I'm talking about. Bruce's crime column. That little piece of fiction you willfully came up with and just e-mailed me!”

Hayley rose from her desk. “I happen to believe everything I wrote is true.”

“It reads more like a gossip column, Hayley. It's pure breathless speculation. The facts are, Bessie Winthrop died of a simple heart attack. End of story.”

“Well, that's speculation as well, because Sabrina Merryweather refuses to do an autopsy on the body, so we can't be sure.”

Sal thrust his chest out like a rooster's. He wasn't used to Hayley standing up to him. “Now you listen here. I'm the boss around here and I decide what gets printed and posted online. I only want stories that deal in facts. So I'm making an executive decision. I'm killing the story.”

“Fine. But I think you're being sexist.”

Sal's cheeks were now redder than Hayley's.

His round face looked like a ripe apple.

“‘Sexist'?
Me?
What the hell are you talking about? I donated to the breast cancer awareness marathon through Acadia National Park last summer. I wore the pink-ribbon pin for a week! My wife works! I have the complete series of
Xena: Warrior Princess
on DVD! How could anybody call me ‘sexist'?”

“Because, Sal, Bruce Linney has a long history of fudging facts and teasing his readers with innuendo in order to slant a story in the direction he wants it to go. He's like the male version of Nancy Grace. And never once have you buried one of his columns. Not even the time he went so far as to suggest that I was a cold-blooded killer who was going around poisoning people with my clam chowder!”

Sal opened his mouth to protest, but he stopped himself. He realized he had nothing to say. He just couldn't argue that point. Hayley was right. He did give Bruce a lot of leeway when it came to his column.

It bugged him that Hayley was getting the best of him.

And Hayley knew it.

Sal paused. Gathered his thoughts. Exhaled a breath that turned into a whistle before he spoke. “But we don't know for a certainty that Bessie was murdered. However, you seem to take great pride in insinuating that she was.”

“I didn't insinuate anything. I just raised some questions. Sabrina is not bothering with an autopsy. Sergio classified her death as ‘from natural causes.' Bessie did have a lot of enemies in town. And I found a note in Bessie's handwriting, hidden inside a chocolate she made especially for me, that clearly said she thought someone wanted to kill her. Those are all cold, hard facts, Sal. Every single one. I am not interested in making anything up.”

“Okay, fine. But I'm still not running the story—”

“But, Sal—”

“Hold on. Hear me out. If you do manage to dig up some kind of hard evidence that could reopen the case, then you can write about it to your heart's content.”

“So you're letting me investigate on behalf of the paper?”

“Hell no. You do it on your own time. When you're here at the office, I want you writing recipes and covering the real crimes going on in town, like the report I just got that two high-school kids just stole some OxyContin from the pharmacy.”

“I'll head over there right now. Thanks, Sal.”

“Before you go, where did you hide that bottle of Jack Daniel's whiskey I gave you?”

“The one you told me to keep away from you until after five o'clock?”

“Yeah. What time is it?”

“Ten-thirty. In the morning, FYI.”

“Well, you've worn me out a little early, so I think I deserve a pick-me-up.”

“You made me promise, Sal.”

“What do I have to do to get you to give it to me now?”

“Run my story.”

“Anything but that.”

Hayley wasn't about to budge.

She reached into her bag, pulled out a key, and set it down on top of her desk.

“What's that?”

“The key to the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet just outside your office. I can take it with me or leave it right here when I go to the pharmacy.”

“So the booze is in there?”

Hayley nodded. “Your choice.”

“Your friend Sabrina is not going to like it. Your column makes her look incompetent.”

“She's not really my friend. I'll risk it.”

Sal tried to hold out a bit longer, but it was no use. He lunged toward Hayley's desk and snatched up the key with his chubby fingers. “I'll run the damn story. But no more calling me sexist!”

He hustled into the back of the office faster than Hayley had ever seen him move.

Hayley smiled, satisfied.

She had been given the green light to keep investigating.

And, hopefully, prove everyone wrong.

She felt confident in her mind that Bessie's death had nothing to do with her health.

Bessie Winthrop had been murdered.