The Iced Princess (4 page)

Pinky focused on whipping up different drink combinations and serving muffins and scones. She seemed more relaxed than she had all day, giving me hope that the worst was behind us and we could make our new arrangement work for the next few weeks. I patted the penny in my pocket, taking it as encouragement that things were on an uphill trend after all.

—

S
ince Pinky opened her shop at 7:00 a.m., we did our best to get her out the door between 3:00 p.m. and 4:00 p.m., depending on what was going on. Both of our shops stayed open until 6:00 p.m., but it was unusual for either one of us to be overwhelmed with customers at that time of the day. With the Christmas shopping season approaching, that would likely change, and we'd need to extend our hours. It was a relief knowing we'd have two workers trained before long. Hopefully.

The afternoon rush was over by 3:15, and I told Pinky to take off. “Are you sure?” she said, sounding anything but.

“Yes, we will manage just fine. In fact, I'm going to send Emmy and Molly home pretty soon, too.”

She blew some air out of her mouth. “Good idea. All right,
then, I'll go home and bake. That always makes me feel better.”

Pinky gathered her things and was out the door in a flash. Not that she was in a hurry to get out of Dodge or anything. I went into my own shop and found Emmy frowning at a snow globe.

“Is everything okay?”

It took her some seconds to look at me. “What?”

“I was wondering how you're doing.”

“Oh. Well, I hate to admit it, but I'm a little tired.”

“That's understandable. The first day on the job is always tough. At least I think so.”

Emmy nodded but kept her opinion of how tough she thought the day had been to herself.

“That's why I wanted to tell you and Molly to go on home for today. Where is she, anyway?”

“She went into the little ladies' room a while ago.”

“Well you go ahead and take off. So we'll see you tomorrow?”

“If you and Pinky decide to keep me on.”

“You plan on it, and we'll see you at ten.”

Emmy raised her eyebrows slightly, and I wondered if she was weighing the pros and cons of sticking with the job or giving it up.

I spotted a to-go cup on the checkout counter and pointed. “Is that your coffee?”

Emmy barely glanced at it. “No, I think it's Molly's.”

“All right, well enjoy the rest of your evening, Emmy.”

She collected her coat and purse and slipped quietly out the shop door while I made sure no one was waiting for service in Pinky's shop. Every so often I looked over, although I didn't
hear the bell on her door sound. Betty Boop's hands indicated it had been over five minutes since Emmy told me Molly had gone into the bathroom “a while ago.” A feeling of unease grabbed hold of me. Was Molly really in the bathroom, or had something upset her so much that she'd left without telling anyone?

I went to the storeroom and saw her coat hanging on a hook. Hmm. Was she having a crying jag in the bathroom? I moved to the door and listened, but there was no sound, so I knocked. “Molly? Molly, are you in there?” There was no response. I tried the doorknob, but it didn't turn. It was locked. What in the world? “Molly! Answer me.”

Maybe she wasn't in there after all, but why would she leave without her coat? Maybe the lock had accidentally been turned and latched when the door closed. I usually kept the door closed since it wasn't posted as a public restroom. It was a tiny space. If people needed to use it, they were welcome to, but few asked. It was four feet by five feet, and the joke in the family was telling someone, “Don't get lost in there,” before they saw how compact the room really was. Most people laughed when they opened the door and gazed into the tiniest restroom they'd probably ever seen. The occasional person would close the door without even trying to squeeze into the room.

“Molly, really, if you're in there, you have to tell me. I'm getting worried.” How could I get in without breaking down the door? And the door didn't push in, anyway; it pulled out. I assessed the situation and figured there were two options: pop out the pins on the hinges, or find out where the key was to unlock the door from the outside. That was the better option, but I had no idea if my parents even had a key. I'd never had reason to ask before, and they hadn't thought to tell me.

I went to the counter and used the store phone. My dad answered. “Hi, sweetheart. How are things there?”

“Hi, Dad. Well, I have a dilemma. The bathroom door is locked, and I'm wondering if there's a key.”

“There is. Yes, it's on top of the doorframe in the storeroom. Every so often a little one locks the door and shuts it. We put it up high so it doesn't get lost. I can reach it fine, but you'll need a stool.”

“Thank you. I better run. Say hi to Mom. 'Bye.”

“'Bye for now.”

I mumbled a complaint about what my parents were thinking when they picked their hiding spot for the key as I dragged a stool over to the storeroom door. I unhooked the key from its very secure spot and closed my hand around it like it was a piece of gold. One of the first things I'd do is get a spare made to keep in a more convenient place in case the door got locked again. I gave the door one last knock. “I'm coming in now,” I said, no longer believing anyone was in the bathroom.

You have no idea how much I wished that were true. What was it my father said when I was little and wished for something special? “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” Chills traveled up my back like cold fingers as I turned the key in the lock then grabbed the knob and pulled open the door. Sitting on the toilet, with her head resting against the wall and looking very dead, was Molly Dalton. Her eyes were open and bulging. I jumped at least a foot in the air and two feet back. “Ahhhhhhh!” Then I froze to that spot for the longest time, staring at poor Princess Molly, who must have suffered a heart attack and died on the throne. That was the crazy and inappropriate thing that popped into my shell-shocked brain.

“Ahhhhh, ahhhhhh.” Had she called out for help? But none of us had heard her. The walls, even those enclosing the bathroom, were very thick, and I had been in Pinky's shop for most of the past hour. And Emmy did not have the best hearing. But still.

Her vacant eyes seemed to be looking right at me and through me at the same time. They held me in place, making me think my feet were bonded to the floor with high-quality adhesive. I was scared witless. Molly had died in the bathroom of Curio Finds on her first day of work. How would we tell her husband? And the rest of her family?

My legs started to wobble back and forth, and the next thing I knew I was on the floor, crawling away from the bathroom. As fast as possible. Thank God the adhesive had let loose. I reached the archway between the shops the same time the bell on Pinky's door dinged. With great effort, I lifted my head high enough to see who it was. I should have been relieved and grateful it was assistant police chief Clinton Lonsbury, but all I could think was,
Great, just great. He's going to think I did something to cause the poor woman's death.

“What are you doing, Miss Clean, sweeping the floor with your knees?”

He had to be the most infuriating man on the face of the planet. What kind of a policeman was he? He should have recognized something was wrong with me, that I was in distress. When I didn't answer, he rushed over and knelt down beside me. That earned him a number of points in my book. “Are you hurt, Camryn?”

I shook my head. “Molly died.” Saying the words out loud choked me up, and tears filled my eyes.

Clint hooked one hand under my left arm, slid the other under my right hand, and guided me to my feet. Had I been completely rational, I wouldn't have thrown my body against his or my arms around him. I vaguely registered the equipment on the front of his duty belt poking into me, but that did not matter in the least. It was an immense relief not to be alone with Molly.

“You got bad news about a loved one?” Clint said.

I pushed away from him. “Worse. She's . . . here. It's . . . Molly Dalton.”

His eyebrows came together. “What are you talking about?”

“Look in the bathroom.” I turned toward my shop and pointed.

“Molly Dalton is deceased, in your bathroom? Is anyone else here?”

I shook my head.

Clint walked through the archway, looking right then left then forward. I imagined he was looking for anything that was out of place. He'd find that in the bathroom, all right.

He had done a sweep of Curio Finds about a month before during an investigation and knew where the bathroom was. Even if he hadn't, it was very easy to find in the back of the shop. I crept along behind him, hoping against hope I'd had a hallucination and Molly would not be in there after all.

“Ah,” Clint said and stopped in front of the open door. He was silent as he surveyed the scene, then he turned to me. “Mark mentioned Molly Dalton was going to help out here through Christmas. So she worked today?”

I nodded.

“What happened?”

I told him everything I could remember from the time I
discovered the door was locked to the moment I opened the door and saw Molly sitting there.

“Did you go in there, touch her, or anything?”

“No, her staring like that scared the living daylights out of me. I collapsed and was heading for Pinky's phone to call nine-one-one when you came in.”

“Your own shop phone is right over there.” He pointed at the counter not eight feet away.

“That was too close to . . .
her
.”

He gave a single nod, indicating he understood what I meant, then pulled out his cell phone and hit some numbers. After he was connected, he said, “This is Assistant Chief Lonsbury. I'm at Eighteen Central Avenue, here in Brooks Landing. I need the coroner and the on-call Buffalo County Sheriff's Office investigator. I'll be bringing my officers in as well. Thanks.”

When the people of Brooks Landing called 911, the Buffalo County Sheriff's Dispatch answered and sent out the appropriate officers, medical personnel, or fire department members. Or the coroner. There were a total of three police departments in the larger cities of Buffalo County, and Brooks Landing, the county seat, had the largest. Mark had told me that police departments asked Buffalo County for mutual aid on the most serious cases, since the county had all the bells and whistles.

Clint called Officer Mark next, even though Mark was off duty. The two on-duty officers were both tied up on other calls. When he'd finished talking to Mark, he tipped his head to one side and then the other as he studied Molly's body.

“Did she tell you she was feeling ill?”

“No, not at all. She looked healthy and seemed fine. But I hadn't actually talked to her for a while.”

“How long?”

“I'm not sure, maybe twenty minutes. I was helping Pinky.”

“Was she alone in here for all that time? Were there customers around?”

“I don't think there were any customers when I was next door, but Emmy Anders was here with Molly. She started working for us today, too.”

“You don't say.” He pulled out a small notepad and pen and wrote something down. “We'll talk to her next.”

I thought of what Mark had said about the way Emmy avoided him and wondered if she'd had a bad experience with a police officer at some point in her life.

“I've heard that sometimes when people are having a heart attack, they feel the need to use the bathroom and end up dying there,” I said.

“If that was the case then Molly didn't get that far. The toilet seat is down and her skirt is in place.”

Her skirt.
It was
my
skirt. She'd died with my clothes on.

“I have my suspicions that Molly did not die a natural death,” Clint continued.

“What else could it be?”

“We'll have to wait for the coroner, but it looks to me like she may have been poisoned.”

M
y knees started wobbling again, and my heart pounded for the longest time after Clint dropped his bombshell. “Why would you think that?”

“Her deep pink skin tone is not natural. I've seen that once before on a guy that was accidentally poisoned at work.”

I hadn't noticed her skin color until Clint mentioned it, but then again, I had only been able to look at her for a few seconds at a time, and my brain wasn't exactly sharp, given the circumstances.

“Had she been overexerting, moving heavy boxes?”

“No.”

“And I'd say she's too young to be having hot flashes.”

I braved another look. “I guess she is pretty flushed. Doesn't that happen when someone has a heart attack?”

“It can, but not always. It's a telltale sign of cyanide poisoning.”

“Cyanide? The gas that they use as a chemical weapon?”

“Yup, that's the one you hear about, but it's also used in manufacturing, and for making pesticides, things like that.”

I wanted to hold on to the belief that Molly had died a natural death, young as she was. I couldn't let myself think she was poisoned. If only she had let us know she wasn't feeling well, we would have called for medical help and she'd probably still be alive.

Mark Weston rushed in, looking a little flushed himself. He moved to Clint's side and stared at Molly. “I don't believe it. She seemed fine a few hours ago, when I stopped by for a cup of coffee. Did she tell you that she had any health problems, Cami?”

“No, but we didn't exactly do a formal job application process.”

The bell on Brew Ha-Ha's door dinged. What time was it, anyway? “I'll take care of it,” Clint said. I heard him talking to someone, saying we needed to close early. When he came back, he told us he'd locked the door and hung up the Closed sign.

“We've got to let Pinky know what's going on,” I said. “And my parents.”

Clint scratched his chin. “Yeah, people will be talking, especially when the rest of the troops arrive. Let's notify Molly's husband, then you can go ahead and call them. Did Molly give you his phone number, in case of an emergency?”

My throat tightened. “No, we didn't think to get that information.”

Clint's eyes narrowed, and if I hadn't already felt awful, the way he was looking at me would have cinched it. “How about her cell phone? Do you know where that might be?”

I had to think if I'd even seen her with one. “No. Um, there are pockets in that skirt you could check. If it's not there, maybe it's in her coat. That's in the storeroom.”

Clint barely fit in the small bathroom with all the equipment he had on his belt. I couldn't see what he was doing, but when he straightened up and backed out, he was empty-handed. “Not in her pockets.”

“I'll check her coat,” Mark said, and the two of us went to the storeroom.

Molly's mid-calf-length wool coat was hanging on a hook. As I stared at it, it struck me that I'd never see her walk into the shops again. Shivers danced up my spine and down my arms. My coat was hanging next to hers. “The brown one is Molly's.”

Mark pulled a rhinestone-covered wallet and ring of keys from one pocket and the sought-after cell phone from the other. He put the keys back then went to the next room and handed the phone to Clint.

Clint nodded when he saw the wallet. “Go ahead and find her driver's license and write down her date of birth, address, et cetera.” Mark followed Clint's instructions while Clint focused on the cell phone. He turned it on and pushed a couple of buttons. “Not a very long list of contacts. What's her husband's name?”

“Will,” I said.

Clint scrolled down and found the information he needed. He jotted the number in his little notebook then set Molly's phone down on the counter and pulled his own from its
holder. He shook his head. “This is the worst phone call an officer has to make, especially if foul play is suspected.”

I still had trouble believing anyone would poison Molly. And where would a person get cyanide, anyway? Erin Vickerman's words, “How are you going to get rid of her?” played in my mind. That was now a moot issue. Molly was gone forever, rid of for good, and not the way Erin had meant at all.

“Buffalo County to five-oh-two.” It was the 911 dispatch officer calling on the police radio.

Clint spoke into the radio microphone that was clipped onto his collar. “Lonsbury here, Buffalo County.”

“The coroner will be arriving at your location in ten to fifteen minutes. And the county crime team should be right behind her.”

“Copy that.” He let go of his mic. “I'll see if I can reach Molly's husband. There's going to be a cluster of folks here in no time.” He dialed then waited what seemed like forever before he said, “Will Dalton? . . . This is Assistant Chief Lonsbury with the Brooks Landing Police Department. Are you somewhere you can talk? . . . All right, I'll wait.” Clint covered the phone and told us Will was going into another room.

He resumed his conversation. “Mr. Dalton, I'm at Curio Finds, and I'm sorry to tell you your wife was found unresponsive here a few minutes ago. Sadly, she's dead. . . . Mr. Dalton? Will? Are you still there? . . . I know it's tough to think right now, but can you tell me if your wife had any medical conditions you were aware of, like a heart problem? . . . No? Okay, well, we're waiting for the coroner, and she'll help us get to the bottom of it. . . . Where are you now? . . . Okay, well, I'd caution you about driving. We can send someone to pick you up. . . . If you're sure . . . All right,
then, here's my number. . . . Yeah, it's the same one that showed up on caller ID. . . . We'll be waiting for you here.”

Clint hung up. “He's at a meeting in St. Paul and is going to have his assistant drive him to Brooks Landing.”

“What a shock for the poor guy. I'm glad he's got someone to drive him,” I said.

Mark grimaced. “Clint, do you think it's a good idea for Molly's husband to see her like that?”

“No, I don't. It's going to take Mr. Dalton an hour to get here, at least, depending on traffic. The coroner will have her on a gurney by then.”

Their discussion left me feeling weak. Finding Molly and being there with Clint and Mark was completely unreal. And then there was Will Dalton, who had just gotten the blow of a lifetime from the assistant police chief. He just received such horrible news, and being out of town made it seem worse. Poor Will Dalton. His wife had left for her first day of work that morning. Her first—and last—day of work.

“Is it okay to call my parents and Pinky now?” I hesitated to ask, but with the police cars sitting out front and the other emergency vehicles about to arrive, they would be hearing about it from someone else in no time flat.

“Yeah, go ahead, but tell them not to come in and to keep quiet about what's going on until we've sorted things out.”

“Pinky might have trouble with that,” Mark said.

I nodded. “That's a good point. Clint, if Pinky can at least tell Erin, it will help save her from exploding, trying to hold in the news.”

“Erin is one of the Three Musketeers,” Mark said.

Clint raised his eyebrows. “All right. It's only a matter
of time before the whole town knows. But I don't want her starting any gossip. You tell her that.”

Yes, sir.
I walked into Brew Ha-Ha pondering the best way to break the news to my parents. When I made the call and got connected, it was to their answering machine instead. “Hi, Mom and Dad, it's Cami. Call me when you get home. 'Bye.” Dad hadn't mentioned plans of going anywhere when we'd talked earlier, but then again it was a very brief conversation. I decided not to try either of their cell phones. They didn't need to get that kind of call when they were out and about. My mother had been under medical care for months, and consequently, my parents didn't stay away from home for long.

I hung up and dialed Pinky's number, wondering how I was going to spring the news on her. No need to wonder—the words sprung out of my mouth with a life of their own. “Pinky, Molly died right here in my shop bathroom. Clint and Mark are here, and Clint thinks she got
poisoned
.”

Pinky screamed, and it started my eardrum pounding. I pushed the phone away, as far as my arm would reach. After she stopped screeching, I switched the phone to my other hand and held it up to the ear that was still capable of hearing.

Pinky's voice was shaky. “Cami, if that's a joke, it is not even a tiny bit funny.”

“No, to both. It's not a joke, and it is not the least bit funny.” I wandered back to the archway and leaned against the wall.

Pinky made a hiccup-like sound. “I can't believe it. Tell me again, and maybe it'll sink in.”

I repeated myself, adding a few more details. “And Clint told me to tell you that you can let Erin know, but nobody
else. Oh, and don't come down here.” My shop door opened, and a woman I recognized stepped inside. “Sorry, I gotta go. The coroner is here,” I told Pinky.

“Cami—” I heard Pinky say my name in a pleading way as I hung up, but I left it at that. We'd spend lots of time hashing out recent events later; that was a given.

I'd met Dr. Trudy Long the month before under circumstances that were almost as bad as these. I'd discovered the body of a man who had been killed in our town park. At least I hadn't known him personally. Not like Molly.

Clint walked over to meet Dr. Long. They exchanged a few words, then he led the way to the bathroom. The coroner stole a look at me when she passed. “Ms. Brooks,” she said in a serious yet kind tone. I swallowed and nodded. It struck me that I'd been secretly hoping the doctor wouldn't recognize me from the first time we'd met.

The flow of adrenaline that had been running through me since I found Molly suddenly stopped, making me feel like I was going to drop. I felt a measure of responsibility for Molly's safety. After all, she was my employee and I was in the shop at the time she'd died. I inched my way to the checkout counter and sat down on the stool.

I caught a whiff of the to-go cup of coffee, partially full, sitting on the counter. Its distinct odor was unusual—similar to cherries or almond extract. I picked it up and leaned my face in for a closer smell. Very strange. Pinky had a recipe for almond syrup she made and used for one of her specials. But it hadn't been on the menu for days. Plus, this blend had a completely different smell than her standard one. It'd be easy enough to find out if she'd changed her recipe.

I heard Dr. Long say, “In addition to her bright pink skin
tone, I detect an odor associated with cyanide. It smells like almonds.”

I got to my feet lickety-split and moved in behind Clint and Mark in the gap between their bodies. “Umm, Doctor?” I managed.

Dr. Long turned away from Molly. “Yes, Ms. Brooks?”

“Umm, call me Camryn. I may know how Molly got the poison. Well, not really how she got it, but I think I know where she got it. Well, not really where she got it, but—”

Mark and Clint both turned and stared at me. “What are you talking about, Camryn?” Clint said.

“Spit it out, already,” Mark said.

“It might have been in her coffee, if that's her coffee cup on my checkout counter.” I pointed back in that direction.

All three of them frowned at me. “What makes you think that?” the doctor said, and she took a few steps forward, filling the gap between us.

“I just heard you say cyanide smells like almonds and that Molly smells like almonds. Well, so does that cup of coffee.”

They all cautiously crept over to the counter like they were approaching the enemy. Maybe they were concerned about spilling it. Clint and Mark pulled on fresh vinyl gloves.

“Pinky's new to-go cups have a nice, smooth surface, so the crime lab should have no problem pulling prints,” Mark said.

How could I tell them? “Sorry, but mine will be on there, too.”

Clint's frown crease deepened. “Explain.”

“When I got a whiff of the coffee there, it smelled kind of weird, almondy, but not like Pinky's normal almond syrup. I picked up the cup to see if I could identify it. She
has that Almond Joy special with chocolate and coconut and almond syrups, and I wondered if it was that for a second. Then Doctor Long said she smelled almonds on Molly.”

Clint blew out a big puff of air.

“Cami had no way of knowing she was tampering with possible evidence,” Mark said.

When Clint didn't answer right away, I had a feeling he was counting to ten. “I know,” he said.

Dr. Long was the first to bend over the cup to smell the contents. “I'd be confident saying this is the source, all right; the vehicle of delivery for the cyanide. The cup is about two-thirds full. Our victim likely ingested a lethal dose of poison in the first few sips.” She lifted her head and backed away.

“But where and how she got it in the first place is what we have to figure out.” Clint turned to me. “Do you or Pinky have a supply of cyanide in your shops?”

“No, of course not.”

“I asked so we could positively rule out accidental ingestion as the manner of death.”

Mark nodded. “And you can rule out natural, because what happened here is anything but. That leaves us with either a suicide or a homicide.” He stepped behind the counter and took a sniff. “I don't smell almonds. It smells like coffee to me. One of Pinky's medium blends is what my smeller is telling me.”

“That is the challenge of relying on the scent of almonds to diagnose cyanide poisoning, because only forty percent of people can actually smell it,” Dr. Long said.

Mark leaned over and took a second sniff. “Really?”

Dr. Long went on, “It's genetic. Either you can or you can't. I've only had a few cases of cyanide poisoning over the course
of my career, but the ability to detect the odor has proved helpful each time. I've been called to assist other jurisdictions outside of Buffalo County.”