Night of the Living Deed (25 page)

“But not two hundred and thirty years old,” Paul said, mostly to himself.

“No.”

“So then,” Paul went on, his face brightening, “where would you put a document like that in this house if you wanted to hide it?”

“Why would they want to hide it?” I asked. “This house was built more than a hundred years ago, but way more than a hundred years after Washington signed the lease. Why not sell it then, or donate it to a museum or something?”

“Maybe they thought it would continue to appreciate in value if they waited long enough. But that’s speculation. It’s a good question,” Paul admitted.

“You think any question you can’t answer is a good one,” Maxie retorted. “Like why we’re dead.”

Paul chose to let this taunt go by; he seemed much less grumpy today than he had been the day before. “Can you find out what the name of the original owner of this house might be, and the exact date of its construction?”

There was a long pause, and then Maxie said, “You mean
me
?”

“Of course, I mean you. You’re in charge of research.”

She made a noise with her lips that I won’t try to describe. “No way, private dick.
This
one never got my laptop back from the cops, and that thing she calls a computer takes, like, an hour just to boot up.”

I pointed a knowing glance in Maxie’s direction. “I’ll tell my mother on you,” I said quietly.

Maxie actually made a huffing-and-puffing noise, muttered something about not having to put up with this crap, and vanished back into the library, from whence she had come. My mother’s disapproval was becoming a very valuable weapon.

“Now, you,” Paul said, turning his attention to me. “You have more interviews to do.”

Before I could protest once again that I didn’t see the investigation going anywhere, my cell phone rang, and the incoming number was one I didn’t recognize. I took in a deep breath, and opened it.

“It’s Phyllis Coates,” the voice said before I could ask. “I’m at the
Chronicle
office, and you need to come down here before the police come looking for you.”

That was a lot of information to get in the first two sentences of a phone call. “Why would the police come looking for me?” I asked.

“I just got a call from my friend in the coroner’s office,” Phyllis said. “Turns out Terry Wright
was
murdered.”

Phyllis brought me a cup of coffee in a mug that read, “New York’s Hometown Paper,” as the cell phone in my jeans pocket vibrated for the fifth time in the last half hour. The caller ID confirmed it—the police were looking for me.

“Originally, they thought she died of natural causes,” Phyllis said. “But the preliminary report from the ME showed a trace of pilocarpine eye drops, something someone with glaucoma might have in the house. Put enough of it in a drink, a glass of wine or something, and it’s deadly.”

“She had a cup of coffee in her hand,” I said. My mind hadn’t really wrapped itself around this idea yet.

“That would mask it well enough, I’d think. What about the two people who died in your house?”

I snapped to attention. “Paul Harrison and Maxie Malone? You think the same person killed them?”

“I don’t know what I think yet. I’m asking what you think.”

Wait a minute . . .
“Is this conversation on the record?”

Phyllis smirked just a little; I’d figured her out. “You tell me what you know, and I’ll tell you what I know,” she offered.

“I’ll tell you everything I know: nothing.”

“I’ll bet you know more than you think,” she said.

“Anything’s possible. Okay. I saw Terry on the floor and the coffee spilled on the rug. She looked like she was asleep, only with her eyes open. It was weird.”

“Who would want her dead?”

“I really didn’t know her. That’s it. Now, what do
you
know?”

“Not so fast. If you weren’t the last person to see her alive, who was?”

“How the hell would I know?” I asked. “All I know is that I’m the first person who saw her dead, and if Kerin Murphy hadn’t come in and scared me . . .”

Suddenly Phyllis was all attention. “Kerin Murphy was there?” It figured she’d know Kerin; Phyllis knows
everybody
in Harbor Haven.

“Yeah, but Terry was already dead.”

“But it’s something to follow up on,” Phyllis said, already making a note on one of the myriad pieces of scrap paper on her desk. “Why didn’t you tell me before that she was there?”

“I thought she’d get mad,” I told her. “You can’t let Kerin know I said she was there.”

Phyllis waved a hand. “Your name will never be mentioned.”

“That’s it, Flash. I’ve told you what I know. Now what do
you
know?”

Reporters get into their field to share information, and I could tell Phyllis had been dying to answer the question. “First of all, regarding Harrison and Malone, turns out that death wasn’t brought on by the Ambien in their systems. In fact, according to the new ME report, it seems that the Ambien was injected into them after they were dead, probably to distract the doctor from looking for what else was there.”

My brain was starting to hurt. “Then why didn’t the cops start a murder investigation right away?”

Phyllis smiled and nodded; yes, she’d anticipated that question. “Because the needle marks were hidden behind their heads, which a normal autopsy might not reveal—they couldn’t very well inject themselves in a spot where they couldn’t reach. The ME didn’t catch them the first time, and didn’t go back and look at all the pictures and slides they’d taken until I started asking questions. You don’t find poisons unless you look for them. Besides, like I said, Westmoreland wasn’t the most industrious of detectives. McElone’s trying harder. She’s been here less than a year; she’s trying to make a name for herself.”

“Poison,” I said, my (okay, Paul’s) suspicions confirmed.

“That’s right. Something called”—she referred to notes on her desk—“acetone. Common in a number of products, like paint, automobile coatings, nail polish remover and some inks. But put it into drinks in the right dosage and you end up with two dead people.”

“Wow,” I said. “Is it strange that the killer used two different kinds of poison?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe he couldn’t get his hands on the same stuff again. But now we’ve got to concern ourselves with your problem.”

My . . . oh yeah!
“Do the police really think I killed Terry?” I asked.

“Probably not,” she said. “But McElone isn’t going to cut you any breaks.”

I rolled my eyes. “Is she the detective on the case?”

Phyllis nodded. “It’s a small town. We’re not flush with detectives. But what you really have to concern yourself with is receiving threats from someone who may have killed three people already.”

“I’ll try to remember not to eat anything I haven’t cooked myself,” I said, more thinking aloud than talking to Phyllis. But who was I kidding—I never cooked.

“You need a plan of action,” she said, bringing me back to the conversation. “What are you going to do?”

I exhaled. Putting this off wasn’t going to do me any good. There were probably police cars outside my house right now. Melissa couldn’t come home to that. If I hurried, maybe the questioning could be done by the time I had to go get her, or Mom could pick her up.

“I’ll answer the phone the next time it vibrates,” I said.

“Good plan.” Phyllis nodded in approval. “Go see Anita McElone. And give me a call when you get out.”

“In five to ten years,” I said. “Will you wait for me?”

“Faithfully,” Phyllis agreed.

“You really are a bonehead,” Detective Anita McElone said after the uniformed officer ushered me into the interrogation room, which was barely big enough for the two of us. “The police are looking for you, and you duck the calls. Who do you think you are—Bonnie Parker?”

I gave her my best weary look. “You thought I broke into her office. . . .”

“You
did
break into her office,” McElone insisted. “And you found her body. But now, the evidence points to a murder, and you are the last person we can put in a room with the victim.”

“Oh, come off it, Detective,” I said. “You don’t think for one second that I killed Terry Wright, any more than you thought I was sending myself threatening e-mails. So what am I doing here?” McElone struck me as someone who was trying hard to be accepted in a new job, and I respected that. But if she was trying to gain respect by making me a sacrificial lamb, my respect was a little less, um, respectful.

It was McElone’s turn to look weary. She hung her head for a moment, as if she couldn’t bear to deal with an idiot like me for one more second. “First of all, I have not yet formed an opinion about whether you killed Ms. Wright. Until I know that you didn’t, you’re a suspect. But you are here,” she said very slowly, “because you are somehow connected to these two cases. You are here because you bought a house which two people died in a year ago.” She pointed a finger to the sky. “You are here because those people
and
the one whose body you ‘found’ appear to have been poisoned.” Another finger went up.

“You don’t think . . .”

“Don’t interrupt me. You’re here because you made a complaint about someone sending you threatening messages, which you claimed were similar to ones sent to the woman who was poisoned in the house you now own.” McElone was counting my criminal connections on her hand, and she was up to three.

“What do you mean, ‘claimed’?”

She ignored me, but smiled in a malevolent fashion. A fourth finger went up. “You’re here because the real estate agent involved in the sale of that house was found lying dead in the office you broke into.” McElone put her hands down on her desk and used them to push herself up to a standing position. “Don’t you think that’s enough?”

I stuck out my lips a little. “Not really,” I said.

“Well, I do.” McElone actually looked like she wanted to put her feet up on her desk, but settled for threading her fingers behind her head and leaning back in her chair. “You see, even if I
don’t
think that you killed Ms. Wright—and I’m not saying I don’t—I still want to know how you’re involved in everything that’s been going on around her, because maybe that would lead to an arrest.”

“Of me?”

“Only if the gods are truly smiling upon me.” She grinned.

“I can only tell you what I know,” I said. “I saw the original e-mails. I’ve
gotten
e-mails. I was worried, and all
I
wanted was to find out about the history of my house.”

McElone’s face perked up.

“I went to Terry’s office to find out about the transaction before mine, the one in which she sold the house to Maxine Malone, because I thought something about it might have led to the threatening e-mails to Maxie and to me.” I didn’t wait for her to answer. “The only other thing I can tell you is that, just before I discovered Terry’s body, I saw Kerin Murphy in the office, but she works there.”

“Yes, and she took something out of the desk,” McElone reminded me.

I decided to also tell the detective about the young blonde woman in Oceanside Park whom I saw Kerin give the book to, and McElone’s eyes got wide and angry. “What were you doing running around following people?”

“I was curious,” I said. “But I couldn’t see the blonde well enough to identify her.”

“Trust me: The last person to see Ms. Wright alive was
not
your blonde woman.”

We stayed there for another hour, McElone asking me the same questions and me giving the same answers, me asking her questions and she giving me
no
answers. She finally threw up her hands and let me go with the warning that “I’ll find out what’s going on, and if you’re involved, you’ll get no special treatment from me.”