The Poisoned Pawn (28 page)

Walter Kelly moved closer; Jones backed away. She wished she’d kept her boots with her; the heels could do some damage. As it was, she had nothing. She kept talking while she tried to think what to do.

“I could just walk away right now and we can pretend none of this ever happened. It’s not going to work. You’ll be charged with murder. Believe me, it’s not worth it.”

“Sure it is,” said Walter Kelly. “Two million dollars. We need that money. I’m over seventy years old. I want to retire someday. That’s the irony of owning a drugstore: we don’t even have drug benefits.”

Jones tried to remember her training as a hostage negotiator. But it hadn’t worked all that well in the past. For the second time in two weeks, she was a hostage.

Stall
.
Always use first names in a hostage taking. It makes the hostage human, appeals to their better instincts.

Well, forget that. This pair had no better instincts. They’d tried twice to murder their son-in-law for his insurance proceeds, and they probably killed their own daughter.

Jones’s cell phone rang. It was in her purse beside her stool. If it’s O’Malley, she thought, he’ll know something’s wrong when I don’t answer. Please, please be O’Malley.

“Hear those sirens outside?” she said. “That’s Chief O’Malley. He knows I’m here. I hit the alarm on my phone before I stood up. I have GPS tracking. That’s the ringing you heard. The phone rings when they get a fix on my location. Triangulation.”

She didn’t have an alarm on her cell phone, but she doubted that a pair of septuagenarians were any more tech-savvy than she was.

“So you poisoned Hillary, too. They found cyanide in her
body. I’m guessing, June, that’s why you didn’t bother looking after their townhouse when they were away. Because you knew she wasn’t coming home.”

June Kelly looked puzzled. “What the hell is she talking about? What did you do, Walter?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

I don’t have a weapon, but maybe I have a defence, thought Jones. Ramirez had suggested it.
Confound the opposition by doing something unexpected
.

She bent forward and grabbed the prescription drug bottle from the kitchen island. She spilled the contents into her hand: tiny white pills. She edged back along the counter, holding them out in her palm so June Kelly could see. Give her the details, she thought. Tell her a story.

“Look at these. That’s how Hillary died, isn’t it, Walter? She took one of Mike’s anxiety pills on the flight home. This is supposed to be his prescription, but she had it in her belongings. Why would she have Mike’s pills? I think you told her to take them with her. You knew she’d get nervous if she went through with it, if she poisoned him. The diazepam was supposed to calm her down. But they weren’t diazepam at all, were they? They’re cyanide. You killed your own daughter.”

“Christ almighty, Walter. You killed Hillary?” June Kelly’s face drained of blood.

“Of course not,” said her husband. “I would never use cyanide. It’s too easy to trace. I only gave her the birth control pills. The way we agreed.”

Jones heard sirens in the far-off distance. She hoped they were headed in her direction, that it wasn’t Patrol going to some accident because of the storm.

“The way we agreed?”

“We talked about it, June. C’mon, drop it.”

Jones saw the confusion in the old woman’s face. There’s something wrong with her, Jones thought. She doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

“I’ll bet that cremation was Walter’s idea, too,” said Jones. “Maybe you’d finally had enough of it, Walter. All the fighting. Mike told me how much June and Hillary hated each other.”

“Well, Mike fucking Ellis doesn’t know what he’s talking about, does he?” June Kelly said, waving the syringe. “Hillary lied about most things.” She turned to her husband. “We have to go through with this, Walter. The way we planned if things didn’t go the way we wanted.”

She’s sending him a message, thought Jones. But what is it? She looked at his face, saw him nod slightly. Whatever it is, he’s received it.

“Now, June,” said Walter Kelly, nodding slowly. “Calm down. You know that’s not true.” He looked at Jones. “Alzheimer’s, Miss Jones. My wife never used to swear either. Aggression is one of the symptoms. She’s going to need home care. I can’t look after her much longer by myself. It’s too expensive. She dispensed those drugs to Hillary, not me.”

“Why would you say that?” said June Kelly. “There’s nothing wrong with me. It’s Hillary. She steals from the drug-store. Diet pills, speed. She’s anorexic, you know. She almost died from it.”

“That happened decades ago, Miss Jones. My wife remembers most things from the past, but her short-term memory is shot. She gets easily frightened, paranoid. But we were there for our daughter when she needed us. For heaven’s sake, the man had a gun. She begged us to help. The rat poison was June’s idea. We always keep some around.” Kelly had tears in his eyes.

Was he telling the truth? The tears looked real enough, but for some reason Jones didn’t believe him. She tried to identify the inconsistency, the lie.

“That’s crazy, Walter,” June Kelly said. “Why would I kill our own daughter? We were going to split the money with her. A million dollars was supposed to be more than enough to cover our debts.” She looked at her husband. “Wasn’t it?”

Jones had no choice. She didn’t know what was going on, but if the old woman
was
paranoid, she had to use it. Maybe Walter Kelly had acted alone. Either way, she had to turn the wife against the husband, buy some time.

“You heard him, June. Walter said you needed
two
million. Chief O’Malley told me how upset you were the day you came to the police station. But according to O’Malley, Walter sat there and rolled his eyes. How much can you really trust him?”

The old woman looked back and forth between the two of them, uncertain.

Jones pressed. “Where did those computer printouts come from, anyway? Walter probably told you he’d look after their townhouse while Mike and Hillary were gone. But he didn’t lift a finger. He didn’t even bring in the mail. I think he went there to use Mike’s computer. He’s the one who told you Mike was going to kill your daughter, wasn’t he? Well, he lied to you.”

“For God’s sake, June, I didn’t do anything to Hillary. I’m telling the truth. The lawyer’s making things up.”

“How long do you think you’ll have before Walter decides he’d like that two million dollars all to himself?”

“Walter, you didn’t do it, did you? We could have managed. She was our little girl.”

“Of course I didn’t kill Hillary.”

“Then why did you say two million?” June Kelly demanded. “The lawyer’s right. Walter, what in God’s name did you do? Did you put cyanide in those pills? Tell me the truth, goddamnit.”

“She’s nuts. I didn’t do anything to that prescription. I gave
Hillary the birth control pills. It was up to her to put them in his rum.”

“Then why is
she
dead and he isn’t?”

“I don’t know, June. Something went wrong.”

The needle in June Kelly’s hand wavered. She wasn’t sure who was telling the truth.

That’s because no one is, thought Jones. We’re all lying.

FIFTY - ONE

Charlie Pike drove his big red truck down what was normally a sidewalk on Island Park Drive. It had completely disappeared under drifting snow. As he got closer to the Kellys’, he pulled the truck back onto the boulevard, honking at vehicles to get out of his way. Ramirez and the priest were wedged beside him in the front. The priest looked terrified.

Pike managed to control the vehicle through a number of skids. At least there were no pedestrians to avoid, he thought, spinning the steering wheel. The snow was pelting so hard it came down at an angle.

The portable cherry on the dashboard flashed red. Cars moved aside as far as they could; the truck skittered in between them. Pike missed a few by mere inches. The priest crossed himself.

Pike finally slid into the Kellys’ wide driveway. The big truck fishtailed when he pumped the brakes hard. Celia’s car was parked in front of the garage. It was almost buried in snow.

Pike pulled out his portable radio. “We’re here. So is her car,” he said to Communications.

“Ten-four. We have a squad car on the way. They’re at the
intersection of Island Park and the Ottawa River Parkway. Don’t go in there without backup. They’ll be ten-twenty in a couple of minutes.”

Pike clicked the radio twice. He never used the ten-code; he could never remember the numbers. He turned to Ramirez. “You wait here with the prisoner. I’m going to make sure she’s okay. Here,” he said, handing Ramirez his gun, “keep an eye on him.”

“You keep it,” Ramirez said, handing it back. “Old people can be vicious.”

Pike walked up the path towards the front steps. He slid his gun back in his shoulder holster.

He didn’t need to be a trained tracker to see the faint impression of a woman’s boot prints leading to the front door—one set going in, nothing coming out. A lot of snow had fallen since those boots went inside. It shouldn’t have taken that long for Celia to return Hillary Ellis’s belongings.

He didn’t want to ring the bell and startle the elderly couple. If Ramirez was right, it could cause a hostage-taking situation. But the few minutes it was supposed to take backup to arrive could turn into five or ten in this weather.

Pike didn’t want to be too late.

There were wooden sandwich boards protecting pyramidal cedars at the side of the house. Each was made of two pieces, hinged in the middle; they looked like small teepees.

Pike pulled one over to what looked like the dining room window and stood on top of it. He balanced lightly on his toes as he peered inside, using his hands to transfer some of his weight to the windowsill so the boards he was standing on wouldn’t collapse.

He could see Celia through the dining room doorway. She was backed against a kitchen counter. An old man held a knife. He waved it in the air.

There was no sign of Mrs. Kelly.
Shit
, Pike thought. I can’t wait for backup. I’ve got to go in now.

He examined the window. It was old. Wooden frame, no bars. Plenty big enough for him to climb through. He took off his jacket and wrapped it around one elbow to protect himself from the broken glass.

“Enough of this,” said Walter Kelly. “Forget the needle. Like I said, June can be aggressive.” He swung the knife. Jones ducked; he slashed at the air.

In the dining room, glass shattered. It sounded like an explosion. Charlie Pike rolled in through the broken window and onto the hardwood floor.

“Jesus Christ, Walter,” June Kelly screamed. “Someone’s breaking in.”

“Watch out, Charlie,” Jones shouted. “June’s behind you. With a syringe.”

As Walter Kelly turned to look, Jones grabbed a heavy glass bottle from the kitchen counter, dropping the white pills. They bounced on the floor, scattering.

Walter Kelly spun around again with the knife just as Jones swung the bottle. It hit the side of his head with a dull
thunk
. He fell down, heavily.

“You stay back, or you’re next.” Jones held the bottle out in front of her like a club. “And keep that fucking needle away from me.”

Walter Kelly groaned. Blood trickled from his ear.

“You killed him,” June Kelly said. She looked panicked, her skin like crumpled paper.

“No,” said Jones. “He’s making a sound. That means he’s breathing.”

Pike stood up and wiped the snow from his shoes. He shook
off the shattered glass. He picked up his jacket and pulled it on. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Jones said, as she started to shake from adrenalin. “Am I ever glad to see you. Give them their rights, will you, Charlie? And arrest them for conspiracy to attempt murder, kidnapping, and, I don’t know, possession of a dangerous weapon. Two counts. A linoleum knife and a syringe. Just be careful with the old woman. Document everything. She may have dementia.”

“You have your cell phone, Celia? Mine’s in the truck. Call an ambulance, will you? Backup’s on the way.”

As Pike knelt to check on the old man, Jones made the call. Then she put the phone back in her purse, trembling. She felt sick to her stomach. She picked up one of the white tablets from the floor. She wiped it off, walked over to the sink, and poured herself a glass of water. Her hands were quivering.

She shook her head and took a mouthful of water. She swallowed the tiny white pill.

“What are you doing?” said June Kelly. “You said those were cyanide.”

“Yeah? Well, you should know better than to trust a lawyer.”

FIFTY - TWO

“Come with me, dear,” Chief O’Malley said, holding June Kelly up gently. One of his homicide detectives waited by an unmarked car. “Not too tight with the handcuffs, John. Be kind. She’s lost a daughter.”

Celia Jones watched Mrs. Kelly get into the police car. Walter Kelly was already on a stretcher in the back of an ambulance. Protocol required the couple be kept apart, questioned separately. Jones had the sense they’d turn on each other pretty quickly.

“Old people,” O’Malley said, shaking his head. “Mr. Kelly says his wife has Alzheimer’s. He claims she acted on her own.”

“It’s an act, Miles.” That was the signal, Jones realized. “When they heard the sirens, they knew they might not get away with it. They were practicing, the same way they practiced on the bottles. I was their dress rehearsal. At first he said he dispensed the birth control pills. Then he blamed her.”

“No one will suspect us,” Walter Kelly had said. “We’re old; they think we’re stupid.”

“I’d like to know how long she’s been displaying those symptoms,” Jones said. “My guess is weeks, if not days. There’s no way he’d let her handle any prescriptions if she really had
Alzheimer’s. But it’s the perfect defence. If she had it, no court would convict her. And no judge would ever let her testify against her husband.”

One of them had decided to take out their daughter, maybe both. She wasn’t sure which one. They both had motive and opportunity.

“We’ll have to leave that one to the doctors to sort out,” said O’Malley. “If you’re right, she’s set things up nicely, what with her complaint to us and all her media interviews accusing her son-in-law of murder. But with the evidence we have, Walter Kelly is likely to spend what’s left of his life in prison either way. He’s seventy-two years old. He might never get out.”