Worst Laid Plans (A Maddox Storm Mystery Book 1) (12 page)

Then again, I hadn’t had a bite to eat all day.

Maybe I was just hungry.

Jenna and I worked side by side for the next hour. Handling the counter was like riding a bike and the only hiccup came when a woman asked me which I’d recommend, the Chili Vines or the Chili Bites.

The Chili Vines were olives and Feta parceled in vine leaves and deep fried in chili olive oil. The Chili Bites were red chilies mushed with chick peas and blue cheese.

I couldn’t recommend either with a straight face. I liked my olives out of a jar and my cheese plain, preferably slapped onto a burger and with a side of fries.

I smiled at her and said brightly, “I never know how to choose one over the other.”

She ordered half a dozen of each.

Like I said, riding a bike.

During the lulls, I caught Jenna up on my tête-à-tête at Rose Cottage.

“You don’t think Mrs Biggenhill might have done it?” Jenna asked wide-eyed.

“Done what?”

“Ms Daggon was hell bent on finding evidence that Mrs Biggenhill murdered her husband and buried him under the floorboards or something,” Jenna whispered fervently. “What if she found something after all? What if she found her proof and Mrs Biggenhill had to keep her quiet?”

“You think she killed Ms Daggon?” I exclaimed. “That’s ridiculous.”

Jenna hushed me. “Not if Ms Daggon has been right all along, and Mrs Biggenhill did in fact murder her husband.” She shrugged it off, but the gleam in her eyes had me worried. “It’s possible. What do we really know about the woman?”

I rolled my eyes at her. “She’s perfectly nice.”

“Based on what?” Jenna scoffed. “Your two seconds with her this morning? You also thought—”

She clamped that thought and pursed her lips, but I knew what she’d been about to say. I’d also thought Joe was perfectly nice and look how that turned out. My radar for sussing out people was obviously not reliable.

“Okay, so maybe she’s nice or maybe she isn’t,” I conceded. “That doesn’t make her a cold-blooded killer. Her husband went missing decades ago. What are the odds that Ms Daggon would suddenly dig up hard proof now?”

“Not good,” Jenna agreed reluctantly. “I still think you should be careful. No more intimate tea parties at Rose Cottage until the case has been solved.”

I laughed and nodded. “She didn’t actually offer me tea.”

“See? What kind of
nice
old lady doesn’t try to ram tea and cookies down your throat?”

“Maybe the kind who’s more partial to a splash of gin,” came from behind.

We spun about to find Mrs Adams leaning over the counter, blatantly eavesdropping. “Who are we talking about?”

I gave Jenna a warning kick on the shin.

“Ouch!” She glared at me.

I smiled at Mrs Adams and said, “Ms Daggon.”

Not wholly untrue, and at least we couldn’t make her life any more worse than it already was. I had no intention of declaring myself Mrs Biggenhill’s champion, but I wasn’t about to take up where Ms Daggon had left off and start re-fueling the accusations.

“A frightful business, that, and you stuck in the middle of it up there at Hollow House.”

Mrs Adams reached over the counter to rub my arm, her eyes crinkled in concern, her smile filled with everything she didn’t say.

I expected Jenna had told her most of my story, including my mini-breakdown yesterday. But Mrs Adams had always been much more sensitive than my own mother when it came to such matters. She had the ability to sympathize without offering her opinion on the state of my marriage or well-meaning advice on the chaos that was now my life.

EIGHT

I was limp with hunger by the time I said goodbye to Jenna and Mrs Adams. It always amused me when I read about skinny heroines that habitually ‘forgot’ to eat. My body went on strike if I missed one too many meals.

I decided to treat myself to chow mien from the Savage Garden. It was a short drive to the sprawling Chinese restaurant just off the Brewer Intersection and I’d already passed beneath the magnificent fire-breathing dragons to pull up in the parking lot when I got to wondering about Burns and Mr Hollow (and the state of their stomachs.)

The pantry had been pilfered bare and I no idea if the kitchen was still sealed off for official police purposes. It was too late for lunch and too early for supper, but maybe they hadn’t eaten all day either.

I grabbed my phone and Googled Hollow House for the land-line number as I made my away across the lot.

The results that came up were mainly irrelevant. There was a Wiki page on the founding family, a couple of mentions that weren’t necessarily Hollow House in Silver Firs, and nothing with contact details.

How anyone was supposed to find the inn, and God forbid actually make a reservation, was a mystery.

I ordered chow mien take-out for three plus a spare portion for second helpings, because seriously, who doesn’t love chow mien, but I couldn’t let the wider issue go. While I waited for my order, I scrolled through all five pages of results in case the Hollow House official website lay buried beneath a ton of web.

Nope.

It didn’t exist.

I was no sales and marketing guru, but how could a business operate in today’s world without an online presence?

I didn’t want to get involved.

I really didn’t.

The plan had been to give Joe a big fat headache and I’d certainly done that, maybe more than even I had bargained for. I didn’t know if I was entitled to a share of his money and it didn’t matter, I wouldn’t take a cent. When I signed the divorce papers next Tuesday, this mess would all belong to Joe, fair and square. If he’d wanted to sail through his life, he should have thought twice before sinking mine.

It was Mr Hollow who had my sympathy.

He had no children, no younger generation to bring him into the digital age. The man refused to buy a cell phone. He was probably worried his house would contract some terminal illness if he put it out there to mingle in cyberspace.

I’d have to talk to him, lure him gently over to the dark side.

Maybe I could create a free blog to showcase Hollow House until he commissioned a professional site. That might even be fun and it wouldn’t hurt to keep myself super busy between now and Tuesday.

My head was crammed with bright ideas, but they all flushed right out when I saw the black truck from yesterday parked beneath my papery white beech outside Hollow House.

I had an inkling of a suspicion that it belonged to the detective and, I was ashamed to admit, my reluctance to see him had nothing to do with the trouble he usually brought with him and everything to do with my grand performance the day before.

I grabbed the Savage Garden paper bag and stomped up to the house.

All I wanted was to eat chow mien and forget all my past mistakes, starting with Joe and ending with my meltdown yesterday. Was that too much to ask?

My suspicion proved spot on.

Detective Bishop was holding court in the kitchen, propped against the counter with those long legs stretched out and hooked at the ankles while Burns and Mr Hollow sat around the table. He’d come, it seemed, to strip away his yellow crime tape and give us back our kitchen.

“Your timing’s excellent,” I declared, mustering the biggest smile in my acting arsenal. I jostled the paper bag in his face. “Are you joining us for supper?”

He glanced at his watch, back at me, apparently dumbfounded by my innocent question.

“Don’t blame me for our crazy dining hours,” I said lightly as I swung the bag onto the table and pulled out cartons and chopsticks. “You’re the one who took our kitchen hostage.”

“Partly for your own safety.” His mouth hitched in amusement. “You wouldn’t want to end up like Ms Daggon now.”

Beside me, Mr Hollow breathed in so sharply, I felt the air sucked away.

I sent him a warning look to say nothing. If Ms Daggon had accidentally gotten to his rat poison, well, what had she been doing going through the locker at the foot of his bed in the first place?

And if it wasn’t the rat poison…?

I turned a frown on Detective Bishop. “You don’t think you should have warned us? If Ms Daggon died from something she ate in this kitchen, we could all be poisoned.”

“My team was on the scene as soon as the cause of death was determined,” he said, his mouth flattening. “Not to be blunt, but if any of you—” his gaze swept over all of us “—had ingested any of that poison, you’d already be dead.”

“Was it rat poison?” Mr Hollow asked gruffly.

The detective regarded him with a long, thoughtful look, then shook his head slowly.

Mr Hollow slumped back in his seat with a look of abject relief hanging on his jaw. I wasn’t far behind. He was getting on in years and if the way he ran Hollow House was anything to go by, he had zero street smarts. He wouldn’t last two minutes in a state penitentiary.

You’d think all this talk of death and poison would’ve dulled my appetite, wouldn’t you? I dropped into a chair and encouraged everyone to get stuck in as I grabbed a pair of chopsticks and opened up a carton.

Detective Bishop declined, Burns accepted, Mr Hollow seemed to be on the fence. He pulled a carton closer and examined the entwined dragon logo.

“So,” I said to the detective between mouthfuls. “Are we allowed to know what the poison was and what it was in?”

“Cyanide, and we didn’t find anything to indicate how it had been delivered.” He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and set that thoughtful gaze on Burns. “Which is odd. The dose that killed Belinda Daggon was lethal and virtually instantaneous. She would’ve had to have ingested it that morning, minutes before her heart stopped.”

“Oh my God.” My chopstick froze midway to my mouth. “When I found Ms Daggon, there was an empty cup of tea on the table beside her.”

“It wasn’t there when I arrived on the scene,” Detective Bishop said, his gaze dragging from Burns to me. “Nothing in the report either.”

“That’s because I threw it in the trash.” I looked at Mr Hollow, who now sat with his arms folded and a scowl buried so deep into his forehead. I didn’t think he’d ever get it out. “You startled me when you came into the kitchen. I dropped the cup and saucer in the sink. Remember? I was cleaning it out while you were busy at the control panel.”

“You were?” Mr Hollow’s mouth curled down. “I was preoccupied with the kitchen flooding and Ms Daggon slumped over the table.”

“You didn’t think to mention the cup of tea before?” Detective Bishop said, drawing my gaze back to him.

“I completely forgot.”

He didn’t like that excuse.

“You shattered the murder weapon and dumped the pieces,” he said in a cutting tone. “Is that what you’re saying, Ms Storm?”

“Well,” I muttered, “if you
insist
on putting words in my mouth.”

I dropped my head and went back to my chow mien.

Honestly, this was what I got from being a model citizen. I felt his stare on me. Hell, I could practically hear his mind grinding me to mincemeat.

And okay, it looked bad, I wasn’t a total idiot, but what was I supposed to do? Keep my mouth shut and withhold vital information?

My rescue came in the unlikely form of Burns’ low murmur, “Clumsiness isn’t a criminal offense.”

Thank you!

I sent him a grateful smile.

He acknowledged with a shallow nod and slurped noodles into his mouth. I was really starting to appreciate the many facets of this man. He was like my kindred soul brother.

Detective Bishop released a loud, harassed sigh. “Has the trash been collected?”

“Yesterday,” Burns informed him. “And ash by now. The council got one of those fancy new incinerators the year before last.”

Pity. Detective Bishop picking through a landfill in his sharp charcoal suit and shiny Italian leather shoes had a certain entertainment value. I would have paid good money for a front row seat.

Mr Hollow made a show of shuffling to his feet. He collected his cane from beside his chair and leaned heavily on it as he dragged his bad leg toward the door. He had a limp, sure, but I’d also seen him get around the house quite comfortably without any aid.

“If the poison was in the tea,” Mr Hollow observed in passing to the detective on his way out, “you should double check the Rowan Circle Earl Grey. I never saw her drink any other tea while she was here.”

Detective Bishop cocked his head to watch Mr Hollow leave.

Not much he could say about it, I guessed. It would be plain unpatriotic to argue with an old war injury of that magnitude.

Worried the past week had been too much of an ordeal for Mr Hollow, I reached across the table to poke Burns with a chopstick. “Is he okay? Should we go and check?”

Burns glanced at the clock on the wall and shrugged. “The Crockery and Pottery Antique Roadshow is about to come on. Mr Hollow hates to miss his favorite shows.”

Color me impressed. Mr Hollow played hooky like a seasoned star.