Hemlock for the Holidays Read online

  Although I wasn't feeling especially inspired and I admitted I was sorely tempted to procrastinate, it really was time to get to work. I'd put a large landscape on hold while finishing Mr. Big's portrait. Before mixing oils on my palette, I secreted my painting of the little dog in the studio's closet, because Belle was very likely to pop by later.

  I considered landscapes, painted in an expressionistic abstract manner, my signature style. By contrast, I painted pet portraits in a very realistic way, and my inclusion of them in my repertoire had definitely improved my bottom line, but my first love was the imaginative landscapes that weren't selling at the moment. For that matter, neither were the pet portraits. If someone commissioned their dog's or cat's picture now, I wouldn't have enough time to complete it before Christmas, so it was useless to hope that someone would order a last-minute pet portrait for a holiday gift.

  Perhaps I should try to find more gallery representation. I thought, as I carefully layered paint on my fiery red-orange landscape, reflecting a blistering desert scene bathed in radiant sunlight. Many artists were represented by several galleries, each in a different city. Thus far, I was represented by the Roadrunner and the Crystal Star Gallery, back in Kansas City, where I'd had my one-and-only solo show.

  The trek from Lonesome Valley to Phoenix or nearby Scottsdale took only an hour and a half. Since Scottsdale was well known nationwide for its many art galleries, and it was so close, maybe it was time to expand my horizons and seek representation from one of them.

  The more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. Although in the months since I'd moved to Lonesome Valley, I'd driven to Phoenix only a few times to pick up Emma or my parents at the Sky Harbor Airport and a couple of times to deliver a large painting to a specialist in shipping art, it was certainly close enough to make the prospect appealing, since I could personally deliver my artwork to a Scottsdale gallery and not have to worry about shipping it.

  Emma would be arriving in a few days, so, since I'd be driving to Phoenix anyway, I could go early and explore a few galleries before her flight arrived at eight o'clock. I put my brush down to check the schedule she'd texted me and saw that she was coming in at eight in the morning, rather than in the evening, as I'd mistakenly recalled. That could work, too, though, if Emma didn't mind stopping for a leisurely breakfast before spending some time scouting around art galleries so that I could find out which ones might be good prospects for me to approach. I called Emma, and she loved the idea, especially since she planned on spending most of her semester break working at the feed store, so her holiday would be more work than vacation time. She'd worked there for Dennis in the summer, too, and liked having the extra spending money she earned.

  With my plans to visit the galleries in Scottsdale settled, I returned to my landscape, only to be interrupted by a call. If I'd been really engrossed, I might have chosen to ignore it, but my curiosity won out. As soon as I picked up my cell phone, I saw that Susan was the caller. By now, she'd had ample time to visit the police station and make her statement. I really hoped she hadn't had the bad luck to run into Lieutenant Belmont there, as she'd feared.

  “I just left the station,” she said breathlessly, “and I found out why Eric thought his financial situation was about to improve and what it was he wanted to show me.”

  Chapter 12

  “I'm all ears.”

  “Remember the paperwork we saw on Eric's desk?”

  “Yes, it had a big black clip holding it together.”

  “That's right. It was a copy his lawyer gave him. He was suing the company that owned the helicopter that crashed, killing Natalie. I'm sure that was what Eric wanted to show me.”

  “How did you find out?'

  “Dave Martinez showed me the paperwork and asked if I thought it might be what Eric intended to show me. I told him I thought it must be. Dave's such a nice guy. He made the whole giving-a-statement thing easy. I wasn't at the station very long, and Lieutenant Belmont never showed up, so I lucked out on that score.”

  “I'm a bit confused. Why did Eric wait two years before suing, I wonder.”

  “Well, I think I know the answer to that one. After the crash, Eric was pretty much in a state of shock for months. He was so depressed he probably couldn't get it together enough to consider suing. Like I told you before, the day of the Christmas parade, when he came into the gallery, was the first time since Natalie died that Eric seemed like his old self. There's just one thing that puzzles me.”

  “What's that?”

  “He acted as though all his financial problems would go away soon, but I can't imagine that a lawsuit would be resolved so quickly.”

  “Maybe his lawyer had negotiated a settlement.”

  “That must be it. Otherwise, if the case had gone to court, it could have dragged on and on. And there's no way of telling how it would be resolved.”

  After Susan and I finished our conversation, I worked on my landscape for a while longer. As I finished for the day and slipped my palette into the freezer to preserve the colors I'd mixed, it occurred to me that something was off. Our theory that a settlement in Eric's lawsuit was imminent didn't make sense unless he'd been a major con artist. Although a few people had characterized him as a poor businessman, nobody had called him a crook. Yet he'd filed for Chapter 7 bankruptcy protection. Surely, proceeds of any settlement he would receive in a lawsuit would be assets that he should have planned to use to pay his debts. Before their fight in the restaurant parking lot, he had promised his former partner that he would pay him everything he owed, but Eric had refused to make it official. I had no idea how his sudden death might affect those lingering legal issues. That would be one for lawyers to figure out.

  Later in the afternoon, when Belle came over, I relived discovering Eric's body and told her about the carrot bar Susan and I had spotted on the counter of his kitchen island.

  “Oh, that's terrible! Dennis and I had only heard about the three people who got sick at the fair. I haven't checked the news or turned on the radio since we came home. Have they ever figured out how it happened?”

  “Not exactly. The health department took the carrot bars that were at the Pioneers' booth to be tested. Oh, I just remembered: the police chief's going to make a statement. It's just about time for the early news now. Let's check it out.”

  I aimed my remote toward the TV, turned it on, and selected the local news channel. What seemed like an endless number of ads ran before the announcer, his face set in a sober expression, came on with the first major story of the day.

  A Lonesome Valley man is the latest victim of a rash of food poisonings traced to cookie bars sold at the high school's annual crafts fair on Saturday, when three people were hospitalized. They are due to be released from the hospital tomorrow, but Eric Thompson, a prominent Lonesome Valley businessman, wasn't so fortunate: he was pronounced dead Sunday evening, after neighbors found him unconscious and could not revive him.

  The report was fairly accurate, although it became a bit muddled at the end, before cutting to a scene from the police chief's press conference. Standing outside the station with Dave Martinez and Lieutenant Belmont behind him, the chief stepped up to a microphone to announce that the type of poison which sickened the people at the high school and killed Eric had been identified. He then turned the microphone over to a health department official, who revealed that hemlock caused the food poisoning. He explained that the plant grows in Arizona, and all parts of the plant were poisonous.

  A few reporters shouted questions, but the chief took over the mic and asked them to hold their questions until he completed his statement. He proceeded to ask the public to help, if anyone had information regarding the poisoned carrot bars, and gave a number of a hotline to call. The man from the health department reiterated a warning not to eat any carrot bars purchased at the fair.

  I noticed that the chief hadn't said that the carrot bars had come from the Pioneers' booth, and I wondered whether that was a deliber
ate strategy on his part. Rebecca, at least, would be grateful that he hadn't mentioned the choir's booth as the source of the poisoned carrot bars.

  After the warning, the chief called for questions, and he was immediately bombarded with inquiries about whether the poisoning had been accidental or deliberate.

  “That's the million-dollar question,” he said. “Either somebody innocently decided to use part of a hemlock plant in baking, or there's an evil individual out there who doesn't care about human life, somebody with a twisted mind who gets a sick thrill out of hurting other people.”

  The chief paused for a couple seconds and then looked straight at the camera.

  “If that's the case, and you're watching me now, I'm putting you on notice: you won't get away with it.”

  Chapter 13

  Sergeant Martinez and Lieutenant Belmont exchanged an uneasy glance at the chief's declaration, probably because they knew how difficult it would be to keep the chief's promise.

  “Wow!” Belle exclaimed. “He didn't mince words, did he? If I were the clueless person who made the carrot bars, I'd probably be afraid to admit it after hearing that.”

  “I think you're right,” I agreed. “I'm kind of surprised he was so vehement. I've met him a couple of times, and he always seemed very cool-headed.”

  “The accidental poisoning theory seems more plausible to me.”

  “I would believe that, too, except for the fact that Rebecca can't pin down where those carrot bars came from,” I said. “Nobody has admitted to making them.”

  “Probably too scared to own up to it, especially now that a man's dead.”

  “If that's the case, whoever did it must be feeling very guilty.”

  Laddie interrupted our serious talk by nuzzling Belle's arm and putting his paw on her knee. She petted him and assured him that he'd see Mr. Big tomorrow.

  “You hit the nail on the head, Belle. That's exactly what Laddie wants. He hasn't seen his little buddy for a couple of days, and he misses him.”

  “Let's take them for a walk in the morning,” Belle said. “I'll even get up early. Not as early as you, of course, but early for me. How about eight?”

  “Good. That'll work. Tomorrow's my turn at the gallery, but I'm scheduled in the afternoon, so I don't have to be there until one.”

  “Eight it is, then. I'd better get home now and get organized. We were only gone for a day, but I feel like it was longer. See you in the morning.”

  After Belle went home, Laddie, Mona Lisa, and I spent a quiet evening in front of the television. While my pets snuggled close to me, one on each side, I watched a lighthearted holiday movie and tried not to think of the events of the past couple days. Putting them out of my mind proved an impossible task, though, and later that night I woke several times, only to drift back into a restless sleep again.

  In the morning, after the bad night I'd had, I was more than happy to get out of bed when Laddie began tapping on my arm with his paw.

  My golden boy pranced around, eager to go for a walk, but we'd have to wait for Belle and Mr. Big, and he settled for a romp in the backyard, followed by breakfast.

  It was quarter after eight when Laddie's ears perked up and he raced to the kitchen door, whipping his feathery tail back and forth. As soon as I opened the door, Mr. Big ran in, tugging at his leash, and the two dogs greeted each other as though they'd been separated for months. I pulled on my parka, gloves, and a knit hat, and we were off.

  Although the air was cold and crisp, the Arizona sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky, and the day held the promise of warmer temperatures later on. It wasn't unusual for there to be a twenty-five or thirty-degree difference in temperature between the daily high and low.

  “I thought maybe Rebecca and Greg would be in the park this morning,” Belle said, “but I don't see them.”

  I looked around and spotted their neighbor across the street, coming out of his house with his two children, each sporting a backpack.

  “Look! There's Carmen's husband Lew. He must be taking the kids to school.”

  I waved, but he wasn't looking toward the park, and he didn't see me. He and the children piled into his white painter's van and departed. Shortly after they left, Rebecca and Greg came out of their house with Skippy and Tucker, and we met them at the corner. The four dogs bounced around each other, snarling their leashes. After they settled down, we untangled their leashes and told them to sit. Laddie promptly complied, but Mr. Big and the terriers continued to wiggle until Greg raised his voice and commanded them to sit for a second time. Even Mr. Big paid attention, and Belle commended Greg for his success.

  “I'm afraid Mr. Big's so rambunctious and easily distracted that he doesn't pay any attention to what I tell him half the time,” she confessed.

  “He seems fine now,” I assured her.

  “I happened to notice you coming toward the park,” Rebecca said, “and I wanted to talk to you, but we waited until Lew left for school with the kids. Truth be told, I'm embarrassed to see him after what happened. I hope he and Carmen don't blame me.”

  “I'm sure they don't,” I said. “You couldn't have known what was going to happen.”

  “No, but those carrot bars came from the Pioneers' booth, and now Greg's cousin Eric has died, too! I can't understand it. Nobody admits to making them. I've been over and over the list of baked goods and candy that our members made, and the decorated carrot bars are definitely not there.”

  “Maybe somebody delivered them to the wrong table,” Belle suggested. “Once in a while, our library auxiliary members have other people drop off items for them.”

  “I suppose that could have happened,” Rebecca said. “It certainly would explain why our members all deny having made them.”

  “If you ask me, the chief of police thinks it was deliberate by some weirdo with evil intentions, and I'm starting to think the same thing myself,” Greg said. “It's very busy and crowded at the fair, during the last hour, especially. Anybody could have slipped those carrot bars into inventory without Rebecca or the other choir members who were working at our booth noticing.”

  “That's true. There were three of us working there, and we were really slammed. I know people were waiting in line.”

  “An accidental poisoning is bad enough,” I said, “but a deliberate one is pure evil. Let's hope the police solve this soon.”

  “Hear, hear,” Greg said. “Eric didn't deserve to die just because he loved anything sweet. We may have had our differences, but he was still family.”

  “Lonesome Valley used to be such a peaceful town,” Rebecca lamented, as we began moving toward the path. The dogs jumped up, eager to continue their walk, and we all circled the park before Belle and I bid the Winterses goodbye.

  Belle offered to host Laddie during my afternoon shift at the Roadrunner, and I accepted her offer, knowing that Laddie would be happier playing with his little buddy than staying home alone with Mona Lisa.

  The doggie playdate settled, I puttered around the house without accomplishing much until it was time to get ready to go to the gallery.

  As I drove to Main Street, I allowed myself to fantasize that I'd sell a half-dozen pricey paintings there today, although I knew the reality would more likely be that I would sell nothing. At the fair, I'd told Susan and Chip that I hadn't sold a painting at the Roadrunner in three weeks. Now, a few days later, it was going on a month since I'd had a sale there, and I wasn't very likely to sell anything on a Tuesday.

  The gallery was always busiest on the weekends, and our revenue tended to be the highest then, too. That didn't mean it wasn't worthwhile for the gallery to be open on weekdays, but traffic was certainly slower then. Perhaps today might be an exception, though, since quite a few holiday shoppers were bustling about downtown. It was the first Tuesday ever that I wasn't able to park near the gallery. Instead, I had to find a spot in the downtown parking lot and walk a few blocks to the Roadrunner.

  “Hi, Dorothy,” I said, as I walked
into the gallery on the dot of one o'clock. “It's a good thing I left home early. I had to park in the lot, instead of out front.”

  Dorothy was Dawn Martinez's mother, and the two women owned a pottery studio, where they taught classes as well as designed their own ceramic creations.

  “No problem,” Dorothy told me. “You're right on time, and Pamela's here, too. She's back in the office, but, if it gets busy, she'll pitch in.”

  I put my coat and purse away and signed in for my four-hour shift. Dorothy was showing me her latest ceramic creation, a huge elaborately decorated platter, when the gallery door opened and a group of shoppers trooped in. Pamela, who'd left her office door open, must have heard the voices, and she came out into the gallery to greet the visitors with us. Every woman in the group carried at least one large shopping bag, which meant some of them were very likely to spend some of their Christmas shopping cash in the Roadrunner.

  I helped a grandmother find a print of a horse for her granddaughter while Dorothy showed some of the other women necklaces and earrings from our jewelry display and Pamela talked to others about the paintings that had attracted their attention. As usual, tiny Pamela was dressed in beige, and, as usual, I couldn't help thinking about the contrast between her fashion choices and the bright, vibrant, colorful art she painted. It was as though she wanted to fade into the background, but she wanted her lively, bold pictures to grab people's attention.

  More customers dropped in, and we sold several items, including prints, jewelry, note cards, and even a small painting. One customer took a great interest in the highly decorated platter Dorothy had been showing me earlier. Although she left without purchasing it, Dorothy thought the woman might return later.