Poison in the Pansies Page 9
Doreen grinned at her grandmother. “Thank you.”
Nan gave her a wicked grin. “And I know perfectly well that you don’t really want our help,” she admitted in a conspiratorial whisper. “But it’s equally important that we have something to do to keep us sharp.”
“Of course.” Doreen laughed. “It would never do for you to become anything less than sharp. If you were any sharper, Nan, you’d be cutting my hand every time we talk.”
At that, her grandmother went off in peals of laughter. “I’ve still got it,” she replied, tapping her brain. “So good of you to notice.”
Doreen smiled at her. “Nan, you’ve always been a little bit different, a little bit off, a little bit weird and unique, but, whatever it is that you’ve got, believe me. You’ve still got it.”
And, in sheer delight, her grandmother laughed and laughed.
It went on for so long that it was hard to hear anything else, until suddenly a voice snapped, “Would you stop that?”
It was Richie, speaking through his phone.
“Good Lord. Here I’m trying to have a conversation with you, and all you keep doing is caterwauling.”
“I’m here. I’m here,” Nan replied smartly. “What did you find out?” And she heard voices in the background on Richie’s end of the call. “Laura says, it’s Peter Riley. R-I-L-E-Y. And it was Cassandra …” Nan looked back at Doreen expectantly. “Richie, are you there? I can’t hear what Cassandra’s last name was.”
“That’s because we’re looking it up,” he replied. “Just give us a minute.”
“Okay.” Nan looked over at Doreen and shrugged. “At least we’re getting you some names.”
“Absolutely,” she replied. “I still need to figure out why anybody would murder Chrissy though.”
“Well, that’s obvious,” Richie responded testily on the phone. “That nephew wanted to inherit everything.”
“But what did he inherit?” Doreen asked him curiously. “Was Chrissy wealthy?”
“Oh dear no,” Nan answered. “There were some months when we had to pitch in to help her pay for her Rosemoor bill. She would overspend her account and then couldn’t pay it off.”
Doreen stared at her grandmother. “But, if that’s the case, why would somebody kill her because obviously there wouldn’t have been very much for them to inherit.”
At that, Nan looked at her, frowning. “Well, there is that, I suppose.” She stopped and asked, “What do you think, Richie?”
“We know people who would have killed each other for a cup of coffee,” he explained, “so her argument isn’t persuading me one way or the other at the moment.”
At that, Nan nodded. “We really do have to trust in what Chrissy said. I mean, if she felt people were trying to poison her, you know I’m inclined to believe her.”
“I hear you,” Doreen agreed, “and that is a valid point.”
“Of course it is,” she confirmed.
At that, Richie’s voice came through the phone again. “Aha, Cassandra Mason,” he said in a triumphant voice. “Now, now you go do your thing, Doreen.” He added, “And track down that nasty little nephew who stole everything.” And, with that, he hung up the phone.
Chapter 7
Wednesday Morning
Doreen woke up and rolled over and stared across the end of her bed out the window at the gray weather. “Kelowna never has gray weather,” she muttered.
But obviously, nearing fall—if one could count August as fall, which of course it wasn’t; it wasn’t even close—definitely some weather changes were happening. And that was okay. Doreen was totally okay to not have the crazy-hot weather that they’d had for some days. A few cool days would be nice.
She got up, had a hot shower, headed downstairs, feeding all the animals, and then putting on her coffee. She wondered if she would get to drink the whole pot herself while it was still fresh or if something would disrupt it.
As she settled at the kitchen table with her first cup of joe, her gaze landed on the notepad from last night. She pulled it closer and studied the last couple notes she had written down. She’d done a search on the two people related to Chrissy, using the names she had been given: Cassandra Mason and Peter Riley. Not a whole lot had come up. Doreen wasn’t exactly sure how to do much in terms of who had inherited from Chrissy’s will. What she needed was somebody close to the family, who might have known something.
Doreen did get the idea that Cassandra and Peter were both still in town—or at least nearby. With that thought, she quickly checked to see if either of their names were mentioned in the phone book. Nope. A quick search of the internet gave Doreen a single hit. She got a mention of a Cassandra at the Rutland pub, but it didn’t tell Doreen much. She wandered outside onto her deck, with her cup of coffee and her animals, and then down to the bench by the river. Surely there would be a little bit more information available somewhere.
Hearing her weird neighbor’s voice close by, she called out, “Richard.”
She got a harrumph for an answer.
“Do you happen to know anything about Chrissy from the Rosemoor home? She passed away a few months back, said she was being poisoned.”
Doreen heard a bang, as something was put against the fence that separated their properties, and then Richard’s head popped up over the top.
“I know Peter Riley,” he replied, “if that’s who you’re asking about.”
She stared at him. “Okay. I understand he inherited everything from his aunt.”
At that, Richard nodded. “He’s a good guy.” Richard paused. “Whereas his cousin, that Cassandra woman,” he added, “wow. She’s one of those women.”
Doreen stared at him. “What does one of those women mean?” she asked.
“You know? She works at that bar there in Rutland.” Still not understanding what he was saying, Doreen frowned. “Like you know, like a girly bar. A sports bar.” Doreen shook her head. He added, “Where they let things hang out.”
“A stripper bar?”
“Yeah, exactly that,” he confirmed, with a headshake. “She was always a little bit on the loose side of life.”
“Interesting,” Doreen murmured. “She apparently didn’t inherit any of Chrissy’s estate.”
“What estate?” he asked, raising both hands. “That woman was broke.”
“So you did know her.”
“We went to school together,” he noted. “She was a few years older, but they were from, you know, the wrong side of the tracks, and they were always broke. She married a handyman, and they stayed broke. The only good one in that family is Peter.”
“Well, lack of money doesn’t make someone bad though,” she noted in a dry tone.
“No, not at all, but Chrissy was always a little bit, you know, kind of off in her head. All her life she was always saying that people were doing things to her.”
“Like what?”
He shrugged. “In school she used to say things, like her daddy was touching her all the time.”
At that, Doreen’s mouth opened.
“Yeah, exactly,” he agreed. “And yet apparently, no abuse was to be found. She used to make up stories about Cassandra being a bad little girl too. We never quite understood, but it was that family you avoided.”
“That’s so sad,” Doreen replied quietly. “Maybe Chrissy needed some mental health assistance.”
“Oh, she needed that plus,” he stated, with an eye roll. “Just before she died, she was telling everybody that she was being poisoned.”
“Exactly,” Doreen cried out. “Do we have any idea if she was?”
He stared at her. “Did you hear what I just said? She made up stories all the time.”
“So, in other words, she was the kind of person who cried wolf?”
“Right. And, even if she was being poisoned at that point,” he added, “no way
anybody would have listened to her.”
“And that’s sad too,” she replied quietly.
He shrugged. “But why poison her? No real reason to. She didn’t have any money. It was all she could do to pay her Rosemoor bill. From what I heard, her government assistance money and her husband’s disability pension went to pay for everything. Or at least, that’s what Peter had said. And he had to top it up quite a bit too. So, I mean, if anything were to come his way at the end of the day, well, he was due,” Richard stated. And he waved at her and added, “Go find some other family to torment.”
“Torment?” she asked.
He shot her a gimlet look. “Yeah, torment,” he repeated, with an eye roll. “Haven’t you bothered the rest of us enough?”
“No, I haven’t done anything to you.”
He just snorted and hopped down from whatever he was standing on.
She settled back with her cup of coffee and pondered such a small town where they all went to school together and knew each other and kept tabs on everybody’s goings-on around them while they grew up and went their separate ways.
She called out over the fence. “I wonder what Chrissy would have said about you?” At that, Doreen heard a harsh bang against the fence, and she snickered. “I guess not something you want to necessarily have me hear about, huh?”
Soon the back door of his house slammed shut.
Her presence alone had chased him inside. Still, her heart went out to Chrissy, who obviously could have used some support, maybe some professional counseling over the years. It wasn’t an easy thing to always be mocked or laughed at or belittled. And Doreen understood.
Chances were very good that maybe Chrissy had had much less than an ideal life, and, as a result, maybe she’d made up stories in order to get attention? But would she have continued to do that at the end of her life? And then Doreen thought about it and realized that the end of life was often very similar to the beginning of life. Sometimes you were surrounded by people who you loved, and sometimes you weren’t. Sometimes you had the advantage of good people to look after you, and sometimes it was more of a caregiver situation, which is how Chrissy ended up later in her life. And maybe in all of it, she was once again starved for attention and was making up stories.
Doreen had to admit that she’d been a little worried about Nan and Richie jumping on this whole issue as it was. Just because they wanted there to be a case didn’t mean there was a case. And none of that was helping her to solve the other case on Alan’s death. She pondered that for a moment. And then she sent Mack a text. I know who cleaned up the box of rat poison and where it came from.
When she got no immediate response, she wondered if he was tied up in a meeting or with a case or where he was. She frowned, as she sat here and waited. Finally, after a long enough wait with no response, she stated, “Fine, see if I care.”
She got up and headed back inside for her second cup of coffee. As she entered her kitchen, Mack was stealing the last cup of coffee from the pot. She stared at him, shaking her head, Mugs sitting at Mack’s feet, staring up at him with adoration. “He didn’t even let me know you were here,” she complained.
He shrugged. “You left the back door open. When he heard me, he just came running, not even barking.”
“Of course not,” she replied. “You’ve ruined my watchdog.”
Mack laughed. “Mugs was never a watchdog, but he’s a great companion.”
At that, Mugs woofed and looked over at her, as if to say, See? He appreciates me.
She sighed. “And why are you here now?” she asked.
“Well, I was heading over anyway. I wanted to pop in and to spend a moment or two, but then you sent me that text.” He narrowed his gaze at her. “What are you up to?” She opened her eyes wide, a picture of innocence, and he shook his head. “Oh no, you don’t,” he snapped. “I’m wise to that expression.”
“Sure you are,” she said, with an airy hand. “Besides, you don’t know anything.”
“No, but I keep hoping you’ll tell me,” he replied. “And then I won’t have to drag it outta you.”
She asked, “Can you do that?”
Such curiosity was in her voice that he burst out laughing. He shrugged. “I probably could because you’d feel guilty if you were to keep anything from me too long.” She chewed on her bottom lip, and he nodded. “See? You’re still one of the good guys,” he noted. “You might withhold information for a little bit, but you would feel bad about it, just in case it was something I needed.”
She sighed. “It’s not much fun being a Goody Two-Shoes, you know?”
His eyes twinkling, he nodded. “Nope, I wouldn’t know.”
Chapter 8
Doreen rolled her eyes at him and led the way back out to the deck. “I was down at the creek.”
“If you want, we can go down there.”
She nodded. “That would be nice. As long as the weather holds.”
“It should be really nice again soon,” he noted.
“It’s pretty early for fall weather. It’s just overcast and grayer than I was expecting today.”
“And maybe that’s your mood?” he asked, looking at her inquisitively.
She shrugged. “I guess it’s possible. Yet I don’t have any reason to be upset or depressed though.”
He nodded and didn’t say anything. When they got to the bench, he sat down beside her and sighed happily. “It’s a beautiful spot to sit and enjoy.”
“It is, indeed.”
As they sat here quietly enjoying the area, he looked over at her and asked, “Now you want to explain what it is that you’re up to?”
“How come I always have to explain?” she muttered.
His lips twitched. “Maybe ’cause you’re the one who’s always up to something.”
She glared at him. “You know you’re up to just as much.”
At that, he laughed out loud. “Maybe,” he agreed, “but what I’m up to is something I’m allowed to be up to.”
She shrugged. “I don’t see why I can’t go do things like you do.”
“If you want to become a cop and go through all that training, you can,” he stated easily.
She stopped and stared at him, as she pondered what that would look like in her life.
He waited, one eyebrow raised. “Would you really consider it?” he asked curiously.
“No, I don’t think so.” She paused, then frowned. “It’s not that I’m too old.” And she looked at him pointedly.
He shook his head. “It’s not that you’re too old, but you might find it a bit more rigorous than you were expecting.”
“Maybe,” she noted quietly. “It also won’t necessarily be fun.”
“No, probably not,” he agreed. “However, if it’s something that you want to do, then you should do it.”
She looked at him and then smiled. “See? You’re a pretty good cheerleader yourself.”
He rolled his eyes at that. “Can’t say I’m trying to be a cheerleader.”
“Nope, but it comes by you naturally.” And then she reached across, patted his knee, and added, “No, I’m not coming after your job.”
At that, he burst out laughing. “That’s good.” He nodded, with a smile. “Not that I was terribly worried about you coming after it though.”
“You should be,” she stated. “I would be good at it.”
“You would be,” he confirmed, his voice turning serious. “And you should consider that, if it’s something that you want to do. I don’t know what the requirements are right now to get into law enforcement, but we all know that you’re a natural for it.”
Pleased, she looked at him in delight. “Seriously?”
“Of course. I’m not sure that that’s what you want to do with your life though.”
“No, it isn’t,” she replied. “I mean, maybe if I were twenty years younger.”
He just rolled his eyes at that. “And here you just said it wasn’t about age.”
r /> “I know. I mean, there’s no age limit,” she explained. “Well, there probably is, isn’t there?”
“It’s more about a heavy physical element required.”
At that, she shuddered. “I’m not so sure I could do that part.”
He chuckled. “It is a requirement though. You have to be physically fit for this job.”
“So no jokes about doughnuts and cops, huh?”
“We laugh about it, just as much as anyone. It’s a bit of a no-brainer in the movies,” he teased. “But, at the same time, you have to be there, ready and physically fit to do the job.”
She sighed, thought about it, and shook her head. “I wasn’t really thinking about becoming a cop. That’s not really where my heart lies.” She shrugged. “Solving crimes, yes, but, unless I could go into the cold cases section, I don’t know that much else would appeal.”
“Most divisions have a Cold Case Department. But a lot of people really don’t understand how that works.”
“Even if I did understand that,” she replied blithely, “I’d just ignore it.” He turned and fully faced her. She shrugged. “Sometimes you guys need things shaken up. So that you see how you used to do things isn’t always the best way to continue doing things.”
“Right,” he teased, “so let’s just completely ignore all the years of learning how to do something in favor of what?” he asked. “Just a slapdash attitude and go and do whatever you want?” She frowned at him. He just grinned back.
She sighed. “You’re making fun of me again.”
“What do you mean, again?” he protested. “Besides, sometimes you just leave yourself completely open for that stuff.”
“Maybe,” she admitted, “but I am good at rooting out information.”
“That you are,” he agreed. “You’re also very good at getting people to talk to you, probably because you’re not a cop,” he noted, “so maybe just keep this as a hobby. And you’ll do lots of good work that way.”
“Do you think so?” she asked, noting with surprise the wistfulness in her own voice.
“Does it bother you to not have some job title or a label involved in this work that you do?”