The Princess and the Poison Read online

  They didn't. Maybe they just needed more information. "There's more I didn't tell you. Their mother said Laura came to see her. After her adoptive parents died. She wanted to be a part of Elizabeth's life. But Elizabeth rebuffed her. Laura was really upset."

  "So why not kill the mother?" Ochoa asked. "Why kill Katrina?"

  I shrugged. "Because Katrina had everything that Laura wanted but didn't have? Fame, money, and, most importantly, their mother? This must have been why Laura was so ticked when she heard Katrina got the starring roles in the plays. Just one more thing Katrina was taking from her!"

  The detectives glanced at each other.

  "Thanks for coming in," Truesdale said, and I gathered I was being dismissed.

  I didn't for a moment buy that she was grateful. Enraged, I grabbed my purse from the table and stomped away.

  In the car, I thought about going to see Donna and Charlie to tell them about Laura. What good would it do? It wasn't like she was going to be arrested—or apparently even interrogated. I couldn't get over Ochoa and Truesdale dissing my new theory. If I had a half sister who had everything I wanted, including my mother, wouldn't I be upset about it? Heck, yeah. I wouldn't kill my sister, but wasn't it possible Laura did? Sure, there was the curare problem, but all of this just couldn't be a coincidence.

  Or could it? For the first time since I'd left Beverly Hills, doubt nagged at me. Maybe Laura wasn't the killer. Maybe I'd just been so desperate to solve the case I'd talked myself into believing she was.

  I decided to give my overtaxed brain a rest and sleep on it.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The next morning, I was surprised to see that not only had all the last remnants of the broken computer been taken away, but a new computer sat on my desk. Donna had placed a sticky note on the front of the monitor, apologizing for her behavior and telling me my hard drive was being recovered. She'd also brought me two darling pictures of Becca and the baby.

  I gazed into baby Jamie's face, marveling at how sweet and innocent he was. He had his entire life ahead of him, and I was damned if Donna wasn't going to be around to see him grow up. Before I'd met with Elizabeth, I'd been turning over ideas in my head, and the most promising one I'd come up with was baiting the killer. But how would I go about doing that when I still didn't know who the murderer was? My money was on Laura, but maybe I was wrong. I had to consider all my suspects.

  Fortunately, I'd printed out my spreadsheet the week before, and I took it from my desk drawer. I stared at the names in the Suspect column: Bradley, Julie, Laura, Florence, Mariana, Hayley, Sondra, and Ryan. Laura was my favorite suspect, but what about the others? Despite our friendships, I couldn't be one hundred percent sure Ryan and Florence hadn't lied to me. As for Bradley, maybe the whole "that would be against my beliefs" thing was just an act. After all, he did have a secret girlfriend. He could have other secrets too. Perhaps I'd been wrong about Hayley or Sondra. Hayley had told me how important her hair was to her career. Just because Katrina never followed through with the blackmailing didn't mean Hayley wasn't angry about it, maybe enough to kill her blackmailer. Sondra had been in love with Katrina, but Katrina hadn't returned her affections. Maybe Sondra killed her out of unrequited love. Julie or Mariana could have done it too. I couldn't eliminate any of them completely. Of course, there was also the possibility the killer hadn't even made it onto my list, and I'd totally overlooked him or her. Still, I had to do something. If no one took the bait, I'd decide what to do next.

  I typed a note on the new computer:

  I know you killed Katrina, and I have proof. Meet me at StoryWorld Friday night at seven in my office so we can talk. Maybe we can come to some kind of agreement. Go in the side gate by the entrance. I'll leave it unlocked. Don't tell anyone you got this note. This has to stay between us. –Ashling

  I printed out eight copies of the note, stuffed them into individually addressed envelopes, and left for the car, prepared for a couple of hours of driving. At the Playhouse, I spoke to the manager and told her I wanted to send the actors and Julie thank you notes for their great work this summer. She kindly gave me a roster with everyone's addresses. Using the roster, I drove around town, depositing the notes in Bradley's, Laura's, and Julie's mailboxes. I left Florence's note on her doormat, worried that she rarely checked her mail. It would be just like her to refuse to pay bills. Next, I cruised into Oak Heights and pushed Mariana's note through the mail slot in the door at Nail Away with Me. She was at her station, so I was sure she'd get her note soon.

  Ryan was next. I gave his note to the not-so-friendly receptionist at Dr. Rythersen's office, after ascertaining the good doctor was at work.

  Figuring out how to get Hayley's and Sondra's notes to them proved the most difficult. I didn't want them to get their notes at the same time, as my plan hinged on each person thinking only he or she had received one. Donna found out Hayley and Sondra were staying through the end of July at Sondra's aunt's house, but what if they were both there when I dropped off the notes and they opened them together? I'd have to do a bit of surveillance.

  I stopped back at work, typed "Janet Washington" and "Springdale" into a white-pages website, all the while thinking it was time for me to get a smartphone, and came up with an address on Madison. Just in case, I jotted down the phone number too. I left for the car again.

  Janet Washington's house was almost as small as my cottage, and I wondered how Hayley, Sondra, and Mariana could have all stayed there at the same time, along with the aunt. Maybe Mariana had found an apartment by now. Even so, it seemed a tight fit. I parked across the street, berated myself for not bringing along snacks and coffee, and watched the house.

  The surveillance gods must have been smiling on me, because after only ten minutes, Hayley came outside and headed for a Toyota that looked to be a rental car. She took a pair of sunglasses from the driver's side visor and put them on as she slipped into the seat. Almost immediately she got back out. She must have forgotten something. Quickly, I jumped out of my car, ran across the street, and placed her note on the Toyota's windshield. A moment later I was back in my Beetle, and Hayley was back at the Toyota. She saw the envelope, looked around, removed it from under the windshield wipers, and brought it with her into the car. She drove off.

  One down, one to go. How could I find out if Sondra was inside the house? And if she was, how could I get the note to her before Hayley got back?

  Struck by inspiration, I dialed the phone number I'd written down. A female voice answered. It sounded like Sondra, but I couldn't be sure.

  Disguising my voice as best I could, I said, "Hi. This is Flora's Flowers. We have a delivery for Sondra. Is she there now?"

  "This is Sondra. That's nice. Who are they from?"

  Thinking fast, I said, "Ashling Cleary." Hopefully she'd take the flowers to be an apology for my behavior at the wedding. Or maybe she'd think I was trying to flirt with her. In any case, it should work.

  "Oh. Okay. Yeah, I'm here. I'll be here for another hour."

  I turned on the ignition and drove to the flower shop I'd passed on my way. I asked for their cheapest bouquet to be delivered, and I paid extra so they'd be taken over to the Washington house immediately. I handed over Sondra's note and asked that it be nestled among the flowers.

  Then I returned to StoryWorld and did my best to focus on my job. I didn't tell Donna what I'd done. She would only worry, and why shouldn't she? This was crazy. What in the cripes was I thinking?

  I eventually calmed myself down. After all, I had the home-field advantage. That Friday night, I would arrive at StoryWorld after seven, confirm the killer was in my office, lock up the courtyard, and call Detective Ochoa. The killer would have no way out, and the detectives would come to arrest him or her. Donna and Charlie would be cleared. Donna would get to watch baby Jamie grow up, and we could all go back to our real lives. Yes, it would all work out just right.

  * * *

  "Do you want to go to dinner?" Donna asked
late Friday afternoon after we'd closed the park and the staff had left. "Charlie's speaking at the Elks Club. Apparently they don't know or care that he's a murder suspect." She laughed, but there was a bitter tinge to the sound.

  I hesitated for a beat too long.

  "Ash?"

  "I…have to do something tonight." I pretended to be absolutely fascinated by the bill for storybox keys I'd received in the mail.

  "What? What do you have to do?"

  "Look at this. They raised the prices on the keys. Just five cents, but it's gonna add up. You know how many of these we order."

  "What are you planning, Ashling?"

  I finally looked at her. Her expression was filled with concern. "Don't worry. I'm just going to see my mom and stepdad. They need some help with their computer. In fact, I'd better get on my horse. They're expecting me."

  Donna shot me a look filled with skepticism, but I pretended not to see and led her out of the office, remembering to leave it unlocked. I left the lights on too. Donna didn't seem to notice, nor did she see me leave the padlock on the courtyard gate undone.

  We said good night, me in a tone I struggled to keep upbeat. I just hoped it wasn't good-bye as well as good night. Forever.

  * * *

  A couple of minutes before seven, I shrugged on a light jacket. Like being cold was going to be my biggest concern. I slung my purse over my shoulder and reached for my keys from the hook by the cottage's front door. My hands were shaking so much that they fell right through my fingers to the floor. As I picked them up, I asked myself if this was the wise thing to do and reassured myself I really had no choice. Nothing else was working. I hadn't been able to figure out the murderer by talking to anyone or by snooping. No one had come forward and confessed. And the detectives still had Donna and Charlie in their sights. They weren't responding to any of my theories. I had no choice but to smoke out the killer.

  I walked outside to my car, breathing deeply to try to calm myself. My hands still shaking, I turned the key in the ignition and backed my way out of the driveway. I swerved out of the way of my neighbors' garbage can, narrowly missing it. Ashling, chill out.

  I touched my cell phone in my jacket pocket. I'd just charged it. I already knew reception was good inside the park. Detective Ochoa's cell number, which he'd given me after the vandalism, was programmed into the phone as speed dial 5.

  Yes, everything was ready. This would be as easy as pie. Which made me hungry for pie. Wow, how I wished Donna and I were sharing a huge coconut cream pie at Freddy's with nothing to worry about but employees who were late to work and our upcoming special events.

  I shook myself out of my wayward thoughts and went back to going over the plan. I would confirm the killer was in my office, quickly lock the courtyard gate, and call Ochoa. How could it not work?

  I drove past Wisteria Avenue, checking the time on the dashboard: 7:05. The killer should be walking over to the courtyard and going inside the office. He—or she—would be waiting for me.

  I pulled into my parking space at work a few short minutes later. Leaving my purse in the car, I deposited my keys in my other jacket pocket and walked over to the gate, my knees weak but my convictions strong. I'd left the padlock a tiny bit open, but now it was completely undone, just as I'd hoped. He—or she—was here. Everything was going along according to plan.

  My heart beating like it was a separate entity from my body, I let myself reflect on the one problem with the plan, the one gargantuan problem I hadn't fully acknowledged to myself. What made me think the killer would just go along with everything I'd suggested? It wasn't as though I'd invited him or her to afternoon tea. For all I knew, the killer was right now lying in wait for me nowhere near the office and was prepared to take me out.

  But I was here now. At least I could take an unexpected route in case the killer was lying in wait. I doubled back past my car and around the perimeter of the park to the back gate. As quietly as I could, grateful for my tennis shoes that made no noise, I inserted my key and carefully undid the padlock, walked past the Alice tunnel through the Poppy Field, traveled up to The Emerald City, hiked through the Magic Forest, and headed toward the Hispaniola. I saw Jamie in my mind's eye, running down the gangplank as part of his tour, which led me to thinking about all my loved ones—everyone I might never lay eyes on again. Donna and Charlie, my mom and Tim, my dad and stepmother. Dinah, my sweet ball of fur. And, yes, Scott. I understood now that I truly wanted to be with him. Great timing, Ashling. What if it was too late?

  After the Hispaniola, I headed back toward the office, passing by Little Miss Muffet and continuing on to the Sleeping Beauty set.

  And that's where I found Scott on the ground.

  Dead.

  I threw myself down next to him, so hard that I scraped my palms and knees on the concrete. "Scott! Oh God! Oh no!" I listened carefully and watched his chest. Still breathing, but barely. With a sinking heart, I caught sight of the puncture wound and blood on his arm. The killer must have injected him with curare!

  Thrusting my hand into my jacket pocket, I grabbed my cell phone. In my haste, I dropped it to the ground. I picked it up, dialed 9-1-1, told the operator I needed help for a victim of curare poisoning, and asked for an ambulance and Detectives Ochoa and Truesdale. I gave her a brief description of where we were. She told me to stay on the line, but I knew she wouldn't know as much about curare poisoning as me. I hung up.

  Murmuring to Scott, promising him everything would be all right, I tried to think. Panic threatened to overcome every thought in my head, but I told myself to focus. I'd researched curare more than once, both in an attempt to help Charlie and Donna, and before I met with Frank Rythersen. I should know what to do. Then it hit me. Rock salt! I'd read it could counteract the curare.

  The problem was, I didn't exactly carry rock salt around with me. But I knew where I could find some. Donna had bought more than enough for the Fourth of July ice cream making. She'd told me just the day before she had a lot left over.

  "I'll be right back, honey," I told Scott, the first time I'd used an endearment for him. I hoped it wouldn't be the last. I tore over to the Jack Sprat, praying the door would be unlocked. The key to the restaurant was the one key I didn't carry at all times. It was a novelty key shaped like a pumpkin to match the restaurant, and it didn't fit on my ring. No time to go get it from the office.

  As I feared, the door was locked. I would have to break the order window. Irrelevantly, I thought of Donna finding it broken the next morning and wondering if my eating problem had gotten so bad I had to break into her restaurant.

  I took off my jacket, wrapped my arm with it, and used my elbow to push through the window. It shattered, shooting pieces of glass inside the restaurant. Gingerly, I climbed through. Glass nicked various parts of my body, but I ignored the pain and the subsequent bleeding. Fortunately, an open five-pound bag of salt sat on the floor next to the sink. I stepped over the glass, grabbed the bag, threw open the door, and ran back to Scott. I upended the bag and poured salt onto his arm. No doubt way more than necessary. I rubbed some into the puncture wound.

  "Scott! Please, please, stay with me!" Horrified, I realized he wasn't breathing anymore. Every part of my body twitching from fear, I started mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and chest compressions. Thank God I'd had a refresher course in CPR in April.

  "Scott, please!" I begged in between breaths.

  I kept it up, over and over, all the while hearing sirens coming closer.

  Just as the EMTs ran over to us, Scott started breathing. I'd done it. I'd saved him.

  "Where are the detectives?" I screamed.

  "Right behind us," one of the EMTs answered. I described what had happened. They loaded Scott onto a stretcher, placed an oxygen mask over his mouth, and left, all in a matter of seconds. I wanted with every fiber of my being to go too, but I couldn't. I still had a killer to catch.

  Panic coursed through me. Where was the murderer now? I checked my watch. Al
most eight. Way past the meeting time now. I sprinted over to the office and looked in just in case but saw no one. Had the killer given up on me and left? Maybe he or she thought Scott had come in my stead. I knew the smart thing to do was to return to my car and drive away, letting the detectives take over. But that would be losing precious time. Even one minute could be too much to lose. The killer might escape, and I couldn't let that happen. I still didn't even know who it was!

  I prowled around the park, my heart beating madly against my chest. Blood from my wounds dripped to the ground, and my arms and legs stung with white heat, but I didn't care. I was scared out of my mind, but, even more than that, I was mad. Mad as hell. The killer had tried to murder Scott! There was no way I was going to let the psycho get away with that.

  Part of me knew I was being foolish. I hadn't trapped the killer, so if he or she were still in the park, I was at a severe disadvantage. The killer had curare, and I had…nothing. My jacket. My phone. My keys. Not exactly a fair match. But the bigger part of me felt I had no choice. Catching the killer had always been up to me. Ochoa and Truesdale had failed me. I needed to do this. For Katrina, for Donna and Charlie, for Scott. For Jamie, whom I hadn't been able to save. For myself too.

  If the killer got close enough to me, all he or she had to do was stab me with a curare-filled syringe, and that would be the end. Unless the murderer only had one and used it on Scott. But I hadn't found evidence of a syringe near Scott, so the killer probably still had that one. Would there be enough curare left to kill me? Or did the murderer have a whole assortment of syringes? If I was stabbed, would Ochoa and Truesdale be able to find me and save me?

  If only I knew who the killer was. Knowing my adversary would surely put me in a better position to fight. Through a haze of adrenaline and fear, something tugged at the back of my mind. Something important, something I sensed I should know. I remembered a conversation about orphans and a picture taken in a tropical setting…