End of the Lane Page 8

  Dismissing the idea as too far-fetched and remembering Dermot had ingested the poison, she continued reading only to stop again. He could have poured himself a cup of tea. By then, the deadly gas produced by the teapot might have started taking effect and Dermot could have drunk his tea without really noticing the odd flavor. But what possible motive could June Laurie have?

  “How do you get your hands on cyanide?” Eddie Faydon asked.

  “That’s what I’ve been asking myself. Here we go, potassium cyanide and sodium cyanide are used for cleaning jewelry and are legal to buy for home-based businesses.” Scrolling through she found a science lab supplier and was surprised to find it could be purchased for less than fifty dollars.

  “Yes, but... Can it kill you?” Eddie asked as Markus approached. “I mean, how would one know how much to use?”

  “I guess any amount can make you ill. Use enough, and death can occur in 2-6 hours. It could be mixed with sugar or salt...”

  Markus lifted an eyebrow. “Time to step up security at the pub.” He gave Abby a pointed look. “What do we know about you?”

  They all looked at her.

  “I’m...” Abby straightened. “The police are currently running a background check on me. I’m sure it’ll come back with an all clear.”

  They all relaxed and smiled. “That’s good to know,” Markus offered and gestured to the menu she held. “Are you ready to order?”

  “An egg white omelet and an espresso, please.”

  “Good choice.”

  When Markus strode off, Mitch and Eddie leaned in. “How did you know to order the egg white omelet? You’ve just made a friend.”

  “Really? Is there a story behind that?”

  “Hannah is the chef here and she introduced the egg white omelet but it’s not exactly everyone’s favorite dish. Your order will make her happy and anything that makes her happy makes Markus happy. So, we’re in for a good day.”

  Abby grinned. “I’m glad I could help out.”

  “A word of warning,” Eddie said, “Don’t order it at Joyce’s. She’ll grumble.”

  “Too late. I already tried, but she went easy on me and actually suggested I come here.”

  “She must like you. Joyce doesn’t care for compromises,” Eddie said. “So, why are you researching cyanide?”

  Mitch nudged his sister. “That’s what the killer used.”

  Abby shrugged. “I want to know how the killer procured it. Is it readily accessible to him because it’s something he… or she, uses in their business, or is it something he had to hunt down?”

  Mitch grinned. “We heard you accused Bartholomew Carr. That took some backbone. I didn’t think you’d go through with it.”

  “I... I didn’t do it on purpose,” Abby said as Markus set a large plate in front of her.

  “Enjoy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So, if you didn’t kill Dermot,” Markus said, “Should we be on the alert for a poisoner?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt to take precautions. Having said that, I don’t want to be responsible for inciting suspicion.” Abby showed them the photo she’d taken of Dermot and some of his lady friends. “Do any of these people come to the pub?”

  Eddie studied the photo. “Everyone in Eden comes to The Gloriana.”

  Markus leaned in for a closer look. “Everyone except her.” He pointed at the woman in the background, the one Abby had labeled person of interest.

  Eddie had another look. “I’ve seen her around.” She clicked her fingers. “I know her name but I can’t think of it now. It’ll come to me.” Eddie looked up. “So who else do you suspect?”

  “What do you know about Annabelle Hugh?”

  * * *

  ON THE WAY BACK TO her room, Abby tried to contact Joshua Ryan. When she got his answering service she left a message asking him what sort of tea had been found in the teapot.

  “It’s only me,” Abby said as she eased the door open gently. Doyle’s head popped up on the armrest. “Yep, it’s safe to come out. Let’s go out for a bit.” She snuck him out of the pub and dropped him off at the Gazette.

  “Look after him?” Faith asked. “Yes, please. But why don’t you want him along?”

  “I need to check on some people and they might not be amenable to the idea of Doyle walking into their store.”

  A short while later, Abby stood outside Annabelle Hugh’s Jewelry store—her first port of call. The storefront was dedicated to fantasy items. Abby spent a few minutes pretending to admire the display while casting her glance around to get the lay of the land.

  Eddie and Mitch had given her some basic information about Annabelle. She’d studied jewelry design and had inherited the store from her uncle. She’d spent some time overseas. She’d had dreams of making it big and traveling the world but had ended up settling here. According to Eddie, there had been a man involved and a severe case of heartbreak. If Abby stayed on, that would make two people who’d come here to lick their wounds.

  Catching sight of a tall, elegant woman, Abby tried to determine her age. Late fifties? Early sixties? “Did you want Dermot dead, Annabelle?” Abby wondered in a soft whisper. The fact cyanide was used in jewelry making made her a suspect, but without a motive, it wouldn’t stick.

  She hadn’t seen photos of her and Dermot together, but that didn’t mean anything. The night before, Sebastian had told her about the people involved in the committee responsible for allocating funds. When he’d mentioned Annabelle’s name, Abby had noticed a slight hesitation in his voice. When she’d asked him about it, Sebastian had shrugged. According to him, Annabelle hadn’t always seen eye to eye with Dermot, often voting against him when he’d suggested supporting causes that were not artistic in nature.

  Knowledge is power, but she had to be careful what she did with that power, Abby thought and strode inside. Annabelle specialized in silver and had several display cases full of her beautiful wares, from elegant designs to artistic showy pieces. Again, Abby made a point of admiring the displays. All part of her cover, she thought.

  “Can I help you?” a cultured voice asked.

  Abby turned and smiled. The woman oozed stylish elegance, from her tidy bob that teased her shoulders to the beige suit she wore.

  When Annabelle’s pleasant smile wavered, Abby assumed she’d just been struck by a joining of the dots moment.

  “You’re that reporter going around accusing people of killing Dermot. How could you be so heartless? Do you have any idea what Dermot meant to this community?”

  “That’s why I’m asking questions,” Abby offered. “Don’t you want to know who killed him?”

  “Let the police do their job. You can only get in the way.”

  Annabelle Hugh did not look like the type of person who’d back down so Abby went on the attack. “What are you hiding? Is there something you don’t want me to find out?”

  To her surprise, Annabelle hesitated before speaking, “Dermot’s death has come as a shock to the community. You wouldn’t understand how much he meant to us all. He’s gone, but we’re still protective of him.”

  Yes, she kept hearing that, but someone had suspended their strong feelings long enough to commit murder. “Then you should be doing all you can to assist anyone looking into his death. I’m not after a story. Like you, I want the killer caught.” As she spoke, Abby had to take a deep swallow. She hadn’t met Dermot in person, at least not while he’d been alive, but there’d been an instant connection. When she’d spoken with him on the phone, it had felt as though they’d known each other for a long time and were just catching up.

  If the killer turned out to be a local, they’d all be in for another shock. It would take them a long time to get over it, if ever. This could change everyone’s perception of their neighbors in this little town.

  Annabelle lifted her chin. “It can’t possibly be one of us. It isn’t.”

  “You often clashed with Dermot.”

  Annabelle’s lips
quivered. “You think that gave me reason to kill him?”

  * * *

  ABBY’S ENCOUNTER WITH RICHARD ARMSTRONG proved to be equally fruitless, but she did enjoy herself from the moment she saw him emerging from the back room of his studio, dressed as a country squire about to set out on a hunting trip.

  Not a fashion statement, Abby thought as she noticed his tweed jacket had aged to keep up with his fifty odd years. His dark hair had a sprinkling of gray and a few lines crisscrossed his chiseled features. Abby couldn’t help wondering why men always looked more distinguished with gray in their hair.

  “They warned me you might come by.” His smile told her he found it all too amusing but his furrowed brow suggested he would play along.

  “When was the last time you saw Dermot?”

  “Alive or dead?” he asked.

  Abby huffed out a breath. “Let me guess, you’ve been talking with Mitch Faydon.”

  He nodded. “Had a drink with him. I can’t remember a time when we had so much to talk about. What with Dermot’s death and your arrival. Did you happen to take a photo of the scene?”

  “No. Why would I?” Abby kicked herself for sounding so defensive.

  “You’re a reporter. Isn’t it in your nature?”

  “Out of curiosity, is that what you would have done?”

  He folded his arms and stared up at the ceiling. “Hard to say. My instinct might have kicked in but then, I’m sure I would have been too shocked by the scene to react. What did you do?”

  “I called emergency services, of course.” And then she’d gone into shock. Just as well she’d never aspired to become a front-line reporter. “How often do you handle arsenic?”

  He laughed. “You can’t be serious. This is the digital age.”

  She looked around his store. “So, you keep these old cameras as keepsakes.”

  “The studio is as old as the town. The cameras came with the business when I purchased it a dozen years ago. I used to have a business in the city but then I decided to slow down and go into semi-retirement. I kept the cameras but not the equipment used to develop films.”

  “I don’t suppose you noticed anyone acting suspiciously or overheard someone…” she shrugged. “Sorry. I’m grasping at straws.” And now that everyone seemed to know her business, she was fast on her way to becoming a laughing stock. “Hang on. I saw a photograph at the pub of the Faydon siblings. It looked old.”

  He nodded. “As I said. Digital. I can make an old photograph look new and vice versa.”

  * * *

  “WHERE’S DOYLE?” JOYCE BREELAND asked. “I told you he could come in.”

  “Hello to you too.” Abby smiled at Joyce’s invitation to join her at her corner table.

  “You’ve only been here a couple of days and we already expect to see you two together. I hope you haven’t given him away.”

  Would she give him away? Abby shrugged. “I bought him a coat and a harness. I think that means I’m getting attached, which is probably unfair to him. Even if I stay, it’ll only be for a year.”

  “That’s what everyone says at first,” Joyce murmured as she dug inside her pocket. “I have the list you wanted. Also, we went through the list Faith put together for you and everyone checks out. They all came into the café the morning in question.”

  “Is this normal?” Or had people made a point of making an appearance in town to establish some sort of alibi?

  Joyce chortled. “Normal? A lot of people stick to a weekly schedule, meaning I definitely see them on a specific day of the week, but they also come in on other days. I do, after all, make the best coffee in the district.”

  Abby still found it odd that they’d all come into the café that morning. Yes, almost as if they needed to be seen. She placed an order for coffee and a muffin and inspected the beverages menu. “You serve a variety of teas.”

  “Some customers are adventurous,” Joyce said, “They stock a generic brand at home but they come in here to try something new.”

  “Including Dermot?”

  Taking a sip of her tea, Joyce studied her over the rim of her cup. “He bought his tea from me. He preferred strong flavored ones. Last week he was trying out Assam Black. It’s a classic Indian variety with a strong malty taste.”

  Perfect for disguising the almond taste of cyanide. Although, Abby rather liked the idea of Dermot having a gun pointed at him and being forced to drink the poison.

  “The week before it was Kandy,” Joyce continued. “The blend has quite a robust flavor. But then he moved onto Oolong. A more subtle blend. He was intrigued by the fact you could steep it several times and each infusion produced a distinctive taste.” Joyce shrugged. “Dermot appreciated the little things in life.”

  “Did you recommend those teas?”

  “Meaning, did I steer him toward a strong flavored tea?” Joyce paused as if for effect. Setting her cup down, she gave her a small smile. “He asked, and I provided.”

  Okay, so she needed to follow the trail of tea. “Do you get all your tea from the same supplier?”

  Joyce nodded.

  Looking over at the counter, Abby noted several large glass containers. “Did the tea come pre-packed or loose leaf?”

  “I don’t normally sell to the public but I made an exception for Dermot. He’d come in and buy enough for the week. Am I a suspect now?”

  Abby frowned. “Do you want to be?” she asked casting an admiring glance at Joyce’s 1950’s style red and white floral dress. Abby couldn’t help thinking Joyce looked like a dark-haired version of June Cleaver.

  “If I am, I’d like to be cleared.” Joyce chuckled lightly. “I’m actually having fun. I’ve never been interrogated before.”

  “It’s a fact-finding exercise. I’m not the police.” They looked at each other for long minutes. “Has anyone else drank the Assam Black this week?” Abby finally asked.

  “One other customer and, as far as I know, she’s still alive. Maybe I should pull it off the shelf, just to be on the safe side, and have it tested.”

  When her cell phone rang, Abby checked the caller ID. “Sorry, it’s Joshua Ryan.” She answered and had to listen to the detective lecturing her on the dangers of accusing people of murder. “I did no such thing. Bartholomew Carr simply reacted to an innocent question. Now that I think about it, he actually overreacted. Isn’t that a sign of guilt? You know, the lady... or in this case, the man, doth protest too much. You should arrest him. And, before you warn me not to tell you how to do your job, I want to know if you’ve tested the tea in the pot.”

  “Yes, that’s how we confirmed Dermot ingested it,” Joshua said.

  Abby already knew that because Sebastian had told her. “I mean, what sort of tea was it? There are many varieties. Last night, I noticed he had quite a few different canisters of tea.” Abby refrained from mentioning Joyce’s name and role in supplying Dermot with tea.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “A strong flavored tea would disguise the taste of cyanide. If the tea he drunk had a more subtle flavor, then we might have to consider the possibility someone forced him to drink it. Otherwise, he would have picked up on the taste and not drunk it.”

  “We?” Joshua Ryan asked. “Have you been tossing ideas around with someone else?”

  Did he sound annoyed because she’d dared to play with someone else or because he thought she was putting herself in danger?

  “I meant you, the police. The people investigating the murder. That reminds me. Was there a second cup of tea?” Abby listened to the silence. Then came an intake of breath.

  “When exactly did I start sharing information with you?” he asked.

  Abby grinned. “We’re having a friendly conversation and sharing ideas. What if I give you a solid lead? Are you going to turn your back on that?”

  “Withholding information can get you into serious trouble,” he warned.

  “So... Did you find a second cup?”

  “No.”
>
  “Did June say if she’d prepared the tea before she left?”

  “Yes, she did. Before you ask, the answer is no. She didn’t have any tea. I’ll look into the blend of tea and get back to you.”

  “You will?”

  He chuckled.

  “You’re humoring me.”

  “Talk to you soon. And, in case I forgot to mention it, don’t leave town.”

  Abby disconnected the call and tried to remember why Joshua Ryan had called.

  “Please explain the frown,” Joyce said.

  Abby waved her hand. “I’ve been chastised for stirring the hornet’s nest.” She told Joyce about her encounter with the artist.

  “He’s a sensitive soul and wouldn’t harm a fly,” Joyce assured her.

  Remembering the photos she’d taken the night before, Abby showed them to Joyce and asked if she could put names to faces.

  “Oh, I remember that day. First day of spring. That’s Norma Reed on his right and Liz Hamilton, the retired school teacher.”

  “And what about that woman in the background?”

  Joyce hummed. “Oh, yes. That’s Felicia Williams. She bought a farm a few years back as a weekend retreat. Then she decided to move here permanently. I don’t really know much about her. She tends to keep to herself and... She’s not really the chatty type.”

  “Looking at the photo I can’t help thinking she disapproves of Dermot.”

  “You’re right. She’s not the friendliest soul around. In the time she’s been here I don’t think she’s made any friends. I tried breaking the ice, but...” Joyce shrugged, “I’m not everyone’s cup of tea, either. Some people think I’m a bit odd.”

  “You are unique.” Abby studied the photo. “Is she staring at Dermot or at the women? I can’t quite decide.”

  “She’s definitely burning a hole in someone’s head.”

  “Do you know if she had any contact with Dermot?” Abby asked.

  “Dermot made a point of talking with everyone, but I can’t say that I ever saw them together.” Joyce finished her tea. “Are you going to tell Joshua about her?”