The Curse of the Holy Pail #2 (17 page)

"Yes," I said to her, "those boxes were delivered to me."

Before I could say anything further, I heard the elevator ding. Turning, I saw Carmen Sepulveda walking toward me, her posture perfect. Like everyone else these days, she seemed exceptionally nervous and I caught her glancing about as she moved forward. Without saying hello, she took me by the elbow and steered me out of the building.

FOURTEEN

"THEY THINK I KILLED Sterling," Carmen announced as she sat in the passenger seat of my car. We were heading for a restaurant known for its salad bar and soup. She talked nonstop, emotions running between disbelief and outrage. I wanted to say something to her, but thought better of it. Instead, I let her talk uninterrupted. Her usual professional composure had been laid to waste, crumpled around her feet like baggy hose.

We each ordered the salad bar and iced tea. Well, I ordered the salad bar and iced tea. Carmen merely nodded in grim silence at the waitress and handed her the closed menu. She was even silent when we walked to the buffet table laden with fresh vegetables, hot soup, and pre-made salads like potato, macaroni, and tuna tarragon. It wasn't until we were reseated that she started up again about being a suspect.

Concentrating first on a cup of soup, I let Carmen continue spilling the events of the past two days. According to her, she'd spent much of yesterday evening and early this morning being grilled by my pal, Detective Devin Frye. Most of the questions were about her whereabouts over the weekend and on Monday, and the poisoned coffee. Of course, she did not know that I was acquainted with Frye outside this case, and I thought it best not to volunteer the information. She picked at her food, eating tiny bites every now and then.

"Carmen," I finally said, putting my spoon down and resting my hands in my lap. She looked up at me, eyes wild, face splotchy, and interrupted me.

"They suspect me of killing him," she repeated for the umpteenth time.

I remained silent. The same possibility had crossed my mind in the past few days. An assistant killing her boss seemed like a natural flow of events to me. If Steele ever ended up dead, I'm sure his secretary du jour would be the first suspect, with me running a close second.

"My fingerprints were on the coffee bags, they said." She was repeating the story again, getting more distraught as she spoke. I glanced around the restaurant, glad we were in a corner booth away from most of the foot traffic.

"They came to my house last night after I got home from the funeral. They questioned me for hours," she stammered between nibbles of salad. "They even had a search warrant." She paused to take a deep breath and drink some tea. "But, of course, my fingerprints would be on the coffee bags. I bought the coffee for him! I always did."

She finally sat still, a mixed bag of devastation and indignation. Her face was flushed and her thin lips pressed tight, sharp as a straight pin.

"Carmen, where did the coffee come from? What store? And did it come pre-ground?"

She looked at me with hollow eyes. Her fork started moving robotically from plate to mouth, shoveling in bits of lettuce. A pearl of ranch dressing clung to her bottom lip. She put her fork down and pushed her plate away. Immediately, a busboy came to clear it.

Carmen turned to stare out the window at the parking lot. It was a blistering hot August day and waves of heat shimmered above the blacktop like ripples of fine silk.

Taking a deep breath, she answered. "As I told the police, I ordered it from a specialty store in San Francisco every two weeks. It came in whole beans ... a bag of French Roast and a bag of Sumatra. We ground it in the office, mixing the two equally, and refilled the bags. Actually, I ground it and refilled the bags." She said these last words with a distasteful turn of her lip. "There's an electric grinder in the kitchenette by my desk." Her nose was slightly running. She wiped it with a paper napkin before going on. "But they found no oleander traces in the grinder."

"But that's a good thing, isn't it?" I asked.

She nodded. "When they searched my home, they found nothing, of course. I don't even own a coffee grinder. I never drink the stuff, only tea." Carmen started to sniffle a little and her shoulders showed signs of a slight tremble. "Just someone thinking I could do that to Sterling Price makes me ill."

I nodded sympathetically and rotated my head to focus on the heat patterns just beyond the insulated window pane. Turning around again, I looked at Carmen. "When did you last grind coffee for Sterling?" I asked.

"Friday," she responded, "just before I left for my long weekend. To make sure it was fresh, I never ground it too far ahead. I knew he was low on coffee in his office and wouldn't have enough until I got back on Tuesday."

"So you blended and ground the beans, refilled the bags, and put them in his office?"

Carmen gave me a very odd look. Then her eyes widened like saucers and the long, bony fingers of one hand popped up to her thin lips in surprise.

"No, not this time," she said, almost in wonder. "Usually, I did put it in his office, in the cupboard above his little sink, but not Friday. I remember now. He was in a private meeting in his office when I had to leave. I left right after lunch. I was driving to Henderson, Nevada, to visit my sister, and I wanted to leave straight from the office to miss the bulk of the weekend Vegas traffic. So I left the two full bags on my desk with a note for Amy to make sure she put them in his office on Monday morning." She stopped talking, and astonishment wandered across her face. "Oh my, I forgot to tell the police that."

I tried not to show my own surprise at the mention of Amy. So Amy may have put the poisoned coffee in Price's office. No wonder she seemed so burdened. New possibilities reared up like wild horses. Was the coffee poisoned before or after Amy stored it in Price's office? Amy said no one went into the office except for the person picking up the boxes being delivered to me. But what about lunchtime? Amy couldn't have been there the whole time. And besides lunch, she would take breaks.

"Did anyone fill in for you on Friday afternoon?" I asked.

"No," Carmen said, shaking her head slightly. "Friday afternoons are usually quiet, and often Sterling went home early."

"When you get back to the office," I told her, "be sure to call Detective Frye. Make sure he knows that you left the coffee bags out on your desk Friday."

She nodded slowly. "I'll do that right away. How could I have forgotten that?"

"You were in shock, Carmen," I said. "It would be easy to forget things, considering the stress you've been under. Think hard before calling the police; you might remember something else, too."

"Yes, I'll do that. Thank you, Odelia. You've been such a comfort." She sighed deeply and cast her eyes around the table. "That vegetable soup you have looks delicious."

11 It is."

While Carmen went in search of vegetable soup, I re-examined the coffee issue. Whoever poisoned Sterling Price probably worked at Sterling Homes, or was close enough to someone in the office to know about his coffee preferences and how they were administered. Since the bags containing the poisoned coffee had Carmen's prints on them, it seemed obvious either that someone had ordered the same coffee, doctored it with oleander, and substituted it for the coffee in the bags Carmen prepared, or they had simply mixed pre-ground oleander into the already ground coffee. The switcheroo apparently was done sometime between Friday afternoon and Monday morning. It had to be someone in the office. Someone who would not raise suspicion if they were seen in the executive wing on the second floor or at the office on the weekend. Jackson and Karla Blake came to mind first. Perhaps even Kyle, if he visited his father from time to time. I wasn't sure if Stella could get by with that. It was common knowledge that Sterling had broken off the engagement. Her appearance in his office just prior to his death would seem too suspicious.

And what about Amy? What part did the young woman play, if any, in this drama of death? Damn tootin' she knew something, but was it about the murder or about one of the players? Specifically, what made her nervous about Karla?

When Carmen returned with her soup and a large blueberry muffin, I was ready with fresh questions.

"Did Sterling drink the same coffee at home?" I asked.

"Why yes, he did on occasion, but not often," she answered, her voice back to her normal efficient tone. "But as I told that huge, nasty detective, Sterling's doctor had insisted that he cut down. He used to drink coffee all day and night-it's a wonder he ever got any sleep. He absolutely refused to switch to decaf. Finally, he cut out his evening coffee. One pot in the morning, one in the afternoon during the week at the office. I believe he only drank it in the morning on weekends."

"Did you grind the beans for his home coffee, too?" I asked, smiling at her description of Dev Frye. Huge, maybe, but nasty?

"Yes, I did," Carmen said. She fiddled with her iced tea glass, smearing the condensation on the outside with an index finger. "Every now and then he'd tell me he was getting low, and I'd order and grind extra for him to take home. The police checked out the coffee at his house and it was fine, no tampering."

Sterling had been poisoned at the office, not at home. I thought about Stella Hughes. It did not seem likely that she would be able to do the poisoning at the office. More than ever, I was sure it had to be someone with unquestioned access to the Sterling Homes corporate offices.

"Why did Sterling break off his engagement to Stella Hughes?" I asked, leaning forward eagerly for the answer.

Carmen sliced her muffin in half, lightly buttered it, and took a healthy bite before answering. She seemed in total control of herself now. I studied her as she relished the taste of the fresh-baked pastry. She seemed a different person from the one sitting before me just a few moments ago. Muffins never did that for me. But hey, everyone has their own personal comfort foods. Still, I found it hard to believe that someone recently questioned as a murder suspect could turn off the concern and distress as easily as buttering a muffin. Innocent or not, I'd be peeing my pants if the police had my name on a short list of suspects, especially if my fingerprints had been found on the murder weapon. But there's no accounting for the human psyche. Maybe Carmen just needed to get it off her chest, and now that she had vented, she could comfortably go back to her lunch.

Devouring the half of muffin in short order, Carmen dabbed at her mouth with her napkin and settled in to do damage to her soup. I began to wonder if she intended on answering my question or if she was simply going to ignore it. But I needn't have worried. After two sips of soup, she was eager to spill the beans on Stella Hughes.

"Plain and simple," Carmen said as she picked up a salt shaker and applied it liberally over her bowl, "Stella Hughes is a tramp."

This wasn't exactly news to me, but I kept quiet and started in on my tuna tarragon pasta salad, which I had piled atop a bed of mixed greens. It was plain to see that Carmen was not going to need the nudging I had thought. I guess once your boss dies, discretion dies, too. Not that I was complaining.

Carmen swallowed more soup before continuing. "I saw that plain as day the first time I saw her. She sashayed into Sterling's life all dolled up and ready for action. It was shameful how he followed her around like a lovesick puppy. His first wife, Millie, must have rolled over in her grave, bless her soul.

"Anyway, in no time at all they were engaged," Carmen snapped her fingers for emphasis. "Of course, his kids were upset, especially Karla. I don't think Kyle liked it much either, but he never was one for rocking the boat. That was more his sister's style."

No, I thought to myself, Kyle's style was more rocking the desk. I smirked, then scolded myself silently and plastered on a facial expression more suitable for sympathetic listening.

"As soon as they were engaged," Carmen continued, "Stella moved into that big house and was spending Sterling's money like it was Monopoly cash. Everything was top of the line. Only the best for her."

I thought about my first meeting with Carmen. "The day I brought over the flowers," I said, "you mentioned something about the family always having money problems. That's why they were so anxious to find the Holy Pail"

She looked at me briefly before starting up with her soup again, not stopping until the bowl was empty. Apparently, I had hit a sensitive topic or something she didn't recollect. But I could have sworn a comment of that type had passed between us that day.

Finally, Carmen pushed the bowl away and wiped her mouth. "Yes, both children went through money pretty quickly, but in different ways. Kyle was always broke, always trying some new venture to make money. Poor boy, he never seemed to find his place in the world. A few years back, his father put him through school to learn to be a massage therapist, and he got a job at the Good Life Center. He finally seemed to find his niche, and now he's the manager.

"Karla spent money on investments and research. She's the brains of the two," she said, and I thought I caught a morsel of distaste in the words, like she had suddenly encountered a bit of eggshell in her food. "Karla is never broke like Kyle, but she tends to tie her money up in business ventures and the like."