Grace Sees Red (25 page)

Shaking her head, she began pulling the tiny bottles from her purse, lining them up on a side table. “Fine,” she said. “But if I find out that either of you is misbehaving . . .”

Percy and Kyle shared a conspiratorial grin. “You won't.”

“You two can put these away, then,” she said. “Back in your little secret hiding places.”

Kyle zoomed over to the table and began placing the small bottles in his lap, one at a time. “Thanks, Frances. You're all right.”

Santiago held both hands over his eyes. “I'm not seeing any of this,” he said. When he uncovered his eyes, he winked. “By the way, it's almost dinnertime. I assume you ladies will be joining these two.” A moment later, he was gone.

“You hear that, Kyle?” Percy shouted. “Time to strap on the feed bag.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Frances handed me one of the bottles of anisette. “I can fit one in my purse, can you fit this one?” she asked. “I don't want to be seen carrying these out of Indwell. Who knows what the staff would report to the police then.”

I wasn't sure this was the best idea she'd ever had, but I desperately wanted to leave—I needed to talk with Frances, away from Indwell. I shoved the bottle into my cavernous purse. “Are you ready to go?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“But you usually stay and have dinner with me on Saturday nights,” Percy said.

Frances patted his shoulder. “Not tonight. Grace and I have a few things to discuss.”

“Like what?” he asked. “It has to do with Kyle's injection, doesn't it? I saw the look that passed between you two. What was that about?”

Before Frances could answer, I interrupted. “We'll tell you later,” I said. “Right now we need to make a few phone calls.”

“You can't do that after dinner?”

“We'll be back later,” I said. “Come on, Frances. Let's go.”

She didn't need urging. “We'll be back later,” she repeated.

“We need to call Lily Holland,” I said as Frances and I hurried out to the car.

“She told me that they checked the syringes and caps for fingerprints,” she said. “But she never mentioned testing for DNA.”

The moment we'd seen Santiago pull the syringe cap off with his teeth, the proverbial lightbulb had switched on over both of our heads. If someone had injected Gus's heparin lock with insulin, there was a good chance he or she had used the same method Santiago had. Although the killer may have taken the precaution of donning gloves before doing the deed, he or she may have never considered the possibility that saliva—and therefore DNA—had transferred to the caps.

I pulled up my phone and dialed.

“Lily,” I said when the lawyer answered. “This is Grace Wheaton. I'm here with Frances at Indwell.”

“She went to Indwell? I asked her not to.”

“Yes, I understand. But that's not important right now.”

“Does she realize how—”

“Lily,” I said firmly to grab her attention. “We need to
know if the insulin syringe caps—from the empty vials found in Percy's room—are being tested for DNA.”

“Not that I'm aware of. Why would they?”

I explained what we'd witnessed when Santiago gave Kyle his injection. “Whoever killed Gus—if anyone did—may have handled the syringe the same way. There could be DNA trace evidence on those syringe caps.”

“Hmm,” she said. I could tell she was taking notes. “I'll check with the Rosette police to see if they've ordered DNA tests. If not, I'll request them myself.”

“This could be exactly the break we're looking for.” I could barely contain my glee.

“Could be. But don't get your hopes up. They could also come up completely clear. Remember, my job isn't to find the guilty party. My job is to exonerate Frances.”

“With any luck, we can manage both at the same time.”

“Yes, well,” she said with far less exuberance than I'd hoped for. “I'll be in touch. In the meantime, please ask Frances to steer clear of Indwell.”

“She plans to come back tonight,” I said. “And probably tomorrow morning as well.”

Lily let out an aggrieved sigh. “You'll be with her?”

“Every minute.”

“Keep her out of trouble.”

Frances had heard every word. “She expects
you
to keep
me
out of trouble?” she asked when I hung up. “I never encountered so much trouble until you arrived in Emberstowne.
Hmph
.”

I debated, then called Joe, reasoning that he might be interested in this new development. He didn't answer but then again, it was Saturday evening. I supposed he might be out. On a date, perhaps. I didn't leave a message.

“What are you frowning about?” Frances asked when I hung up.

“I'm not frowning,” I lied. “I'm starting to get hungry. That affects my mood.”

“Hmph,”
she said. “Let's check into the hotel and then grab a bite before we come back.”

“Let me call Tooney first.”

He answered on the first ring. “What's up, Grace?” he asked in a very quiet voice.

“Can you talk?” I asked.

“I can listen.”

When I told him our DNA theory, he gave a low whistle. “That's excellent,” he said. “Good thinking.”

“Where are you?” I asked. “I know you were planning to follow Anton today.”

“Yes. I'm still here. Our friend is in a meeting.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Two people. A couple.”

“Harland and Joslyn?”

“Bingo.”

“Where are you? Can you tell me that?”

“Sorry, I won't be able to make it over tonight,” he said conversationally. “Having dinner at a place about fifty miles away.”

“Got it. You're able to hear what they're talking about?”

“Some. I'll get back to you later.”

“Thanks, Tooney,” I said.

When I got off the phone, I grinned. “I finally feel as though we're making headway.” I pulled out of Indwell's parking lot and started out the long driveway. “Do you mind if we grab dinner before we check in? I wasn't kidding about being hungry.”

“Suit yourself.” She rattled off the names of several restaurants in town.

“That one,” I said. “Vern's Steak House.”

“It isn't much of a steakhouse,” she said. “More like a diner that offers steak as an option.”

“Tooney mentioned that one. He said that Dan eats there almost every night. Maybe we'll run into him.”

“Oh?” she asked with a suggestive eyebrow waggle. “Dan's a single guy and you're hoping to accidentally—on purpose—run into him?”

“Yeah, right,” I said. “Where is this place?”

“Take a left out of the front gate,” she said. “Why
do
you want to run into him, if I may ask?”

“There was something odd in his manner yesterday. When he came in and found out about that assisted-suicide brochure, he reacted peculiarly.”

“How so?”

“I can't put my finger on it, but I'd almost have to say that he took the news personally.”

“Maybe it
was
personal,” Frances said. “Make another right at the third stoplight.”

“Personal as in: Someone wants Dan to lose out on his share of two million dollars, you mean?”

“Why would anyone care?”

“Why, indeed? But that absolves Harland and Joslyn, because suicide would leave them high and dry, too,” I said.

“Who dislikes Dan or Harland enough to want to cause them trouble?”

“I haven't detected any animosity from the staff members,” I said. “I honestly believe that whoever killed Gus is the one who planted the brochure. The killer probably got scared and hoped to convince the police to drop the case.”

“It won't help anybody now, not after you've told everyone that the brochure was planted.”

I took the turn at the third stoplight. “If someone did kill Gus, they've gotten sloppy.”

“Being scared of getting caught will do that to you.” She pointed. “Right there. Vern's Steak House.”

“You're right,” I said as I slowed to pull into the adjacent parking lot. “It looks like a converted franchise restaurant.”

An instrumental rendition of a '70s disco tune greeted us as we pulled open the restaurant's glass doors. We made our way past a proud showcase of plastic pastries, stopping at the waist-high
PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED
sign. The diminutive hostess couldn't have been older than seventeen. “Two?” she asked as she grabbed napkins and flatware from a gray bin. “Booth or a table?”

“Booth, please,” I said.

The busy restaurant was set up like a large inverted L. The hostess led us to a window booth in the first section, which overlooked and ran parallel to the main street. The second section veered off at a right angle to my left. From where I sat, I could see only about a quarter of the tables there. As soon as we were left alone with our menus, I told Frances that I'd wanted to zip over to the ladies' room to have a look around. “Maybe Dan's seated in the back section,” I said.

“And if he is, you plan on casually striking up a conversation?”

“Why not?” I asked.

“He's one of the few people who's insisted from the start that his father died naturally,” she said. “I suppose that's something.”

“Yes, but I'm telling you that his reaction yesterday was off. I'd like the chance to talk with him about it away from Indwell. He may feel less intimidated and be more likely to open up.”

Frances opened her menu. “Suit yourself.”

I scooched sideways out of the booth and made my way across the restaurant, scanning the tables of both sections as I headed for the washroom. There was a waitstaff station positioned in the center of the gateway between the two rooms. Two waitresses—both in their mid-thirties, I guessed—stood there. The first one, inputting an order into the restaurant's computer terminal, had short, shiny hair that was so black it looked blue. She pointedly ignored her colleague, who was merrily chatting and complaining as she combined coffee from three glass carafes into a fourth.

As I made my way around them, I stopped short.

“Are you okay?” the computer inputter asked when I grabbed the edge of the wait station.

Dan—his profile was unmistakable—sat with his back to the washroom wall. I opened my mouth but hesitated before answering. It wasn't his presence that had startled me into silence. It was that of his companion.

Seated facing my direction, Debbie leaned in close to him,
staring intently at him from the side. Her lips were moving, very quickly.

“Yes,” I said. “I'm. . . yes. Fine.”

Instinctively, I ducked sideways behind the wait station's shoulder-high shelf. Lined with bright ketchup and mustard bottles, it provided enough cover for me to study the couple's interactions unseen. With his hands fisted inside one another atop the table before him, Dan shook his head. Debbie leaned closer, spoke faster. They were too far, there was too much chatter and clanking, too much synthesized music piping in to hear a word they were saying.

“Someone you know?” the coffee-pouring waitress asked me. She wore her chestnut hair in a long ponytail down her back and grinned at me with uneven teeth.

Before I could answer, the blue-black-haired waitress sidled up. “Who are you more surprised to see? Him or her?”

“He's a regular here, isn't he?” I asked. “Dan, I mean.”

The two women exchanged a look.

“I'm not his girlfriend,” I said in answer to their unspoken curiosity. “I have zero interest in him romantically. I know he's a regular,” I said again. “But have you ever seen her before?”

“Never saw this one.” The waitress holding the coffeepot shook her head, making her ponytail swing from side to side. “He gets lots of women. Don't know why he brings them here, though, unless he's cheap.”

“I got the impression this one wasn't invited. He seemed surprised when she followed him in,” the second waitress said. “The man's a player, for sure.”

“How does he do it?” the first one asked. “Is he rich or something?”

“You'd never guess it by the way he tips,” the other one said.

Still talking earnestly, Debbie laid a hand on Dan's. He shook her off. When she sat back, stunned, they both shot surreptitious glances around the room. I ducked deeper behind the shelves.

“Did they see me?” I asked the short-haired waitress.

She shook her head. “I don't think so.” Wrinkling her nose, she added, “But it looks like they're ready to order. I should get over there.”

“I'll be right back,” I said. When I got to Frances, I didn't sit down.

“What took you so long?” she asked.

A thousand ideas were rushing through my head at once and I didn't care to voice any of them here. “We need to go,” I said.

Our waitress, the ponytailed woman, had dropped off waters. “Let me guess, you two won't be dining with us tonight.”

“What's going on?” Frances asked.

“I'll explain in the car. Go on out,” I said, handing her the keys. “I'll be right behind you.”

She grumbled but complied.

“I'm sorry,” I said to the ponytailed waitress.

“No problem. This is the most excitement we've had here in weeks. I wish you'd tell me what's going on, though. Is that older woman his wife? Is he cheating on her?”

“Something like that,” I said. “Do you mind if I sneak back to the station over there for one more look?”

“Be my guest.”

I returned to my perch to watch.

As soon as they handed their menus to their waitress, Debbie inched her chair even closer to Dan's and began talking again. Whatever she was saying to him made him angry. I watched it build from the tightness of his brow to the flexing of his jaw. When she ran a hand down his upper arm, he flinched as though burned. Her gaze sharpened and her voice rose just as one instrumental tune ended and seconds before the next one began. “We don't have any choice. It's our only chance.”

Dan rubbed his temples, then gazed out at some middle distance, much the way he had right after the assisted-suicide brochure had been found. I was convinced I wouldn't learn anything more and was about to walk away, when he sat up as though shocked. He pointed.

Belatedly, I realized that with his back to the wall, he had
a completely unobstructed view through the windows of the parking lot. The two of them had been engrossed in conversation earlier and must have missed our arrival. Now, however, he'd taken to staring away; he must have spotted Frances. Any doubt that he had seen her diminished when Debbie stared out at the same point and her cheeks grew red. She glanced around the restaurant again and, this time, I ducked away for good.