Hit and Run (18 page)

The journalist glanced toward the paper bag where Morris had put the wine glass and its contents and then toward the dresser. ‘Was there yet another glass? A third one, on the dresser?'

Coy, now. ‘You mean on top of the phone-number note you also told us was there?'

‘Yes.' Now AnnaLise was trying to control her temper. And her nerves.

‘'Fraid not,' said Coy.

The bottom dropped out of AnnaLise's stomach and she raised her hand, staring at Seifert as if asking permission to speak in that long-ago biology classroom.

But it was Coy who called on her. ‘Yes?'

‘It's possible I know whose fingerprints might be on Morris' upstairs glass.'

‘Whose?' the three others raggedly chorused.

AnnaLise looked down at her feet. ‘Mine.'

‘M
aybe it's not so much Daisy's memory that's tanking, but thine own.'

Joy Tamarack and AnnaLise Griggs were out on the patio, bundled in jackets as the sun went down on Thanksgiving Day. Seated at a round, wrought-iron table, Joy had a cigarette, AnnaLise a margarita – sans lime, Cointreau or salt. ‘Hair of the Chihuahua,' Joy had called it when she poured the tequila for her friend.

AnnaLise took a tentative sip and shook her head. ‘Honest to God, Joy. It does make me wonder.'

‘Like that old movie,
Gaslight
, except you don't realize that you're the one who's crazy, even as you're making your mother think she's crazy.'

‘My mother is
not
crazy,' AnnaLise snapped and then lowered her voice, ‘and neither am I. Just … forgetful.'

‘So did you “forget” you took the glass upstairs with you?'

‘Absolutely not,' the journalist said. ‘I forgot that I'd taken my empty glass in with me and left it on the dresser. I know
I
didn't take it up to the library, but that doesn't mean Morris won't find my prints on it. I thought it best they hear it from me.'

‘And what about this sediment?'

‘I'd drunk every cubic centimeter of that cab – no sediment.'

‘Then maybe the glass Crime-Scene Morris found upstairs was Hart's from the new bottle and he'd finished it.'

‘Possibly, but I saw Morris pouring wine into a jar when I went to the master suite, meaning
that
was the full glass I'd brought in for Dickens.'

‘Still full?'

‘I can't be sure. Morris had already started to pour before I took notice. Besides, the glass of wine – the one Dickens deemed too young to drink – wouldn't have had sediment. Anything in the bottle should have settled to the bottom and stayed there when that first glass was poured.'

‘Unless Nicole shook the bottle or turned it upside down, which I grant you is unlikely. But if it wasn't sediment, what was it?'

AnnaLise closed her eyes, then opened them before answering. ‘I hate to say it, but … could it be Rohypnol?'

‘Somebody put a date rape drug in Hart's wine? Why? The man would drop trou if a woman so much as looked his way.'

‘Thanks for the visual.' Another sip of tequila. ‘However, maybe the roofie wasn't intended for Dickens, but for his guest.'

‘Hmm. Not bad. You're suggesting Hart split the wine into the two glasses – yours and his – and slipped the roofie into the drink of the woman who owned the overnight bag.'

‘Presumably Chef Debbie,' AnnaLise said, and then had another thought. ‘When you and Boozer – and then all three of us – watched people arrive yesterday, did you happen to notice a brightly colored bag amongst the luggage?'

‘Uh-unh.' Joy seemed confused. ‘But why do you ask? Chef Bimbette would already have been here.'

‘Just trying to eliminate any other possibilities.' AnnaLise was chewing on her lip. ‘Though the bag I saw was pretty small, so it could easily fit inside a suitcase. I always stick an extra tote in my bag when I travel, just in case I want to shop or—'

‘Shack up?' Joy asked. ‘Which brings us back to our missing cook. If this Debbie planned to stay with Hart, why would he have to drug her?'

‘She thought she'd have her own room, only to find out differently?'

‘You did see Debbie, right?' Joy asked. ‘Great looking, and definitely his type, but not exactly born yesterday.'

AnnaLise didn't cite the fact that Joy and the Las Vegas woman were both around forty. ‘Age doesn't necessarily equate to wisdom, especially around a charismatic philanderer like Dickens Hart,' AnnaLise said, feeling considerably older than her own wisdom level might indicate. ‘I'm just thinking that if he tried to slip her a mickey, Debbie might have whacked him with the champagne bottle and bolted, taking her bag with her.'

Joy was thinking. ‘But why not use the champagne? In my experience with the Hound of Hart's Head, it was more Hart's style.'

‘Maybe he couldn't hide the Rohypnol as easily in a clear, bubbly liquid as he could in red wine. Or Debbie – like us – doesn't like champagne.'

‘Hey, she's probably “swallowed worse,” as my gramma used to say. Besides, when somebody offers you Dom Perignon, you drink it. If only to be able to say – haughtily – that it's not to your taste.'

‘Dom Perignon.' AnnaLise's jaw dropped on the last two syllables. ‘Is that what Dickens was serving yesterday?'

‘Why? Because you would have tried it?'

‘Well, I …'

‘So, I've made my point.'

‘You've made your point
to
a point,' AnnaLise said. ‘But Debbie is from Las Vegas and, as you say, not a kid. Maybe Dom Perignon was old school to her. Maybe she would have preferred – I don't know, Cristal?'

‘Cristal? My, my,' Joy said, lighting another cigarette. ‘Aren't
we
the hip girl from down on the farm who's up-and-seen Par
eee
?'

‘Not really,' AnnaLise said. ‘It's just the brand I hear bandied about in celebrity news. In fact, I'm surprised Dickens didn't serve that instead of Dom Perignon, if his purpose was to impress the gathering of young folk.'

‘Hart was a traditionalist,' Joy said, and AnnaLise thought she detected a whiff of nostalgia, along with the tobacco and whatever dried leafy substance Rose Boccaccio was smoking inside. ‘Which raises the question of champagne flutes.'

‘Champagne flutes?' AnnaLise frowned. ‘I didn't see any. Why?'

‘Because
I
don't see Hart inviting some woman to his room for champagne and debauchery and re-using the red wine glasses you'd left there.'

‘He intended to rinse them out?' AnnaLise suggested. ‘Too bad he didn't get to it.'

‘Meaning your fingerprints might have been washed off?' Joy asked. ‘But wouldn't that be all the more suspicious in Coy's mind? Especially after you already told him to his face that the glass they found on the stairs was, in fact, yours.'

‘True.' But AnnaLise's thinking had already begun moving on to the bloody champagne bottle she'd seen on the slipper chair. It had been removed – probably already bagged and tagged – when she'd returned to the room to be questioned by Coy and Charity. ‘What does a Dom Perignon bottle look like?'

‘To my eye? Pretty much like any other champagne bottle, though aficionados might differ. The label is distinctive, though. A shield with fancy script lettering.' Joy paused. ‘Why do you ask?'

‘That matches the champagne bottle in Dickens' bedroom,' AnnaLise said. ‘Though I saw it as more a coat of arms or crest than a shield, at the time.'

Joy was frowning. ‘If the bag you saw belonged to the killer, why not just shove the bloody champagne bottle into it and get rid of both?'

‘Good question. Though the flowered bag wasn't big, as I said. I'm not sure the bottle would have fit.'

But Joy had already moved on to another question. ‘So, assuming Monsieur Dom Perignon is our murder weapon, where – or how – does the red wine fit in?'

‘Got me. We don't know what was blended into it, if anything, after the stuff left the barrel or bottle. Nor, for that matter, who drank it. Or, at least, who it was intended for.' AnnaLise was feeling muddled. ‘We can't even be absolutely sure that the mysterious visitor was Debbie. Maybe it was one of the other guests.'

‘Sure, why not?' Joy blew out a stream of smoke, but whether it was from her cigarette or just the cold, AnnaLise couldn't tell. ‘Sugar or Lucinda could have stashed a bag with a toothbrush and a change of clothes in Hart's room, so our slut-of-the-evening doesn't have to do the walk of shame the next morning wearing the same outfit.'

‘You're leaving out Rose? I'm surprised.'

‘That would be the “roll of shame,” given the wheelchair. And you'll notice I also didn't mention Daisy.'

‘Thank you for that. But if it wasn't Chef Debbie, why did she disappear?'

‘Can we just call her the chef? Or Debbie? I'm starting to feel like the woman should have her own line of snack cakes.'

‘That's Little Debbie,' AnnaLise said. ‘But have it your way: so why did the chef take off?'

‘Maybe becoming Hart's latest little bonbon didn't sit too well with her, given this weekend's theme, and he reacted out of piggish pride. Or the chef witnessed something and Hart's attacker killed them both.'

‘Cheery thought.' AnnaLise looked out across the lake. It would be mostly frozen over in a month, the only holes those from ice fishermen and snowmobilers who failed to remember the ‘mostly' part.

‘It wouldn't be hard to dispose of a body out there,' Joy said, following her friend's gaze.

‘They wash up eventually.'

Joy looked at her sideways. ‘And you know this how?'

‘Experience,' AnnaLise said. ‘Or more precisely, long-term anecdotal evidence from a number of sources – some reliable, some not so much.'

‘Listen, I know I only visited occasionally over the nearly two decades between my divorce and moving back to Sutherton this year, but you're telling me this happens a lot?'

‘Let's just say I wrote an essay in ninth grade entitled, “They Always Come Home to Mama's.”'

Joy's eyes bugged out. ‘The bodies turn up at her restaurant?'

‘On the beach across the street.' AnnaLise shrugged. ‘I considered it dramatic license. Thing is, though, why would somebody kill Debbie and dump her body, but leave Dickens in the master suite?'

‘The bad guy got interrupted by Chef Debbie, who bolted, only to be run down out here some place? As for Hart …' Joy paused, mid-puff, this one definitely from the cigarette, ‘… maybe they needed proof of death to inherit.'

The door cracked open and Charity stuck her head out. ‘Coy and I will be back in the morning. We've stationed Officer Fearon as guard in the foyer and sealed off the master bedroom.'

AnnaLise got up to join her inside the considerably warmer, if not currently cozy, Lake Room. She wanted to ask about the residue in the wine glass, but didn't quite know how.

Happily, Morris was at the bar. ‘Did you find the wine bottle you were looking for?' AnnaLise asked.

‘We did.' Morris lifted a paper bag, presumably containing said wine bottle.

‘Nicole told us she put it in the cabinet under the sink so nobody would think to drink it,' Charity said.

‘Smart girl,' AnnaLise said. ‘Especially if it's possible,' she slewed her eyes over to Morris, ‘there's something in the bottle.'

As she expected, Charity didn't react, but the technician nodded. ‘We'll test the contents to see.'

Deadpan, Charity asked, ‘Why do you think there was something in the wine?'

‘Because I saw particles in the bottom of the glass Morris held up in the bedroom,' AnnaLise said, hoping she sounded as matter-of-fact as she was trying to be.

‘You mean your empty wine glass?'

‘Possibly.' AnnaLise was trying to stay cool. ‘But that glass was completely empty; there were no particles.'

‘You're sure?'

‘I'm sure. It was really good wine, and that was the last of it. I didn't leave anything, not even dregs.'

Charity looked like she could believe that, at least. ‘Then how did the particles get there?'

‘I don't know. Maybe it was Hart's glass and the leavings did come from that bottle somehow.' AnnaLise pointed at Morris' brown bag. ‘Or somebody used my glass to split what was in Hart's.'

‘Maybe,' was all Charity said.

‘I'll get this over to the county lab tonight,' Seifert said cheerfully. ‘I assume the report should go to both the sheriff's department and Coy?'

‘Please,' Charity said.

With a wave, Morris Seifert headed out of the Lake Room. They heard the front door close behind him.

‘When do you expect the sheriff's department?' AnnaLise asked.

‘Not certain, given the craziness of this particular Thanksgiving. But as stretched as we are with Chuck gone, there's no choice but to hunker down and wait.'

‘We're not the only ones having a … trying day?' AnnaLise asked as they moved into the hall that paralleled the gangway on the floor above. On the ground floor, to the south, the corridor led to the kitchen. To the north it led to the media room and Dickens Hart's bedroom.

Charity nodded to the man – presumably Officer Fearon – who sat with his back against doors now festooned with yellow crime-scene tape. ‘Drinking and domestic disputes, of course. And when they're not fighting over who insulted Uncle Jeb and what football game to watch on the television, the morons are dropping twenty-pound turkeys into six-gallon deep fryers that are
already
filled with five gallons of hot oil.'

‘I've never tried that, myself. Deep-frying a turkey, I mean.'

Charity shook her head. ‘Neither have I. But one would think torching your wooden deck and setting your guests on fire teaches even our dimmest citizens a lesson in volume and capacity damned quick.'