Chocolate Dipped Death Page 19

  “Not really. I came by to ask a favor.”

  He paused at a table and spent a few seconds chatting with the customers sitting there, then resumed his journey. “Favor huh? Such as . . .?”

  Now that I was there, it suddenly seemed crass to talk about Savannah’s death in front of all those people. But I’d chosen the time and place, and I was too worried about Karen to wait for the crowd to leave. “I want to have a short memorial service before we start the contest again. It won’t be anything fancy, but I do think we should acknowledge what’s happened.”

  Without breaking stride, Marshall picked a drooping petal from the rose centerpiece on an empty table and dropped it into his pocket. “That’s probably a good idea. What did you have in mind?”

  “Nothing too complicated. Some quiet music and a few nice words about Savannah ought to do it.”

  Marshall stopped walking abruptly. “Don’t tell me. That’s why you’re here? To ask me to do it?”

  I nodded. “Delta refuses to, Miles is too upset, and there’s no one else.”

  Marshall nodded slowly. “Sad, isn’t it, to think that somebody could live their entire life in such a way that nobody would want to speak for them at the end?”

  “Sad doesn’t even come close to touching on it,” I said. “Does that mean you won’t do it?”

  Marshall sidestepped a waiter and tugged me out of the way with him. “I don’t think I’m the right person for the job, Abby. I mean, it’s not as if Savannah and I were close. I hardly knew her.”

  “Really? But I understood you actually saw quite a bit of one another when you were younger.”

  He smiled, but it was a token gesture. “Who told you that?”

  “Delta mentioned that your mothers were friends.” I wondered how much more to say, but curiosity has always been a powerful motivator where I’m concerned—far more powerful than discretion. “She also said that you were pretty much head-over-heels for Savannah back then.”

  Marshall looked away and took a few seconds to compose himself. “Delta’s exaggerating,” he said when he looked back at me. There was a challenge in his expression—as if he dared me not to believe him. “I probably had a little crush on her for a while, but it wasn’t anything serious.”

  “She told me about the senior prom.”

  The smile on his face grew cold. “I think maybe we ought to finish this conversation in my office. Do you mind?”

  I followed him through the kitchen, down a brightly lit and freshly scrubbed corridor, and into a small, window-less office at the back of the restaurant. “I can just imagine what Delta told you,” he said when we’d both settled into chairs, “but it wasn’t nearly as bad as she makes it sound.”

  “She said that you asked Savannah to the prom, and that Savannah stood you up.”

  He nodded slowly. “That part’s true enough, but I’m hardly the only kid in the world who’s ever been left holding a corsage.”

  Or the only girl left waiting for one. “She also said that Savannah was pretty mean to you about it afterward.”

  He gave another slow, wary nod. “She was, but that was Savannah. You must know that.”

  Well, yeah. “So you didn’t hate her?”

  “Lord no!” He leaned back in his chair and linked his hands behind his head. “I’m not going to tell you we were best friends or anything, but she didn’t destroy me—at least not for long.”

  Frankly, I was glad to hear it.

  “When you think about it,” he went on, “I shouldn’t have been surprised that she stood me up. She was way out of my league, and I was dreaming to think she could ever reciprocate my feelings. I’m just too damn thickskulled. At least, that’s what my mother used to always tell me.”

  “She knew how you felt about Savannah?”

  He nodded. “And discouraged me from feeling it. She always said that Savannah would be way more trouble to some poor man than she’d be worth. Maybe she was right. I don’t know. It was a long time ago, and I didn’t like listening to her.”

  “Were you upset when you found out she was back in town?”

  He lowered his hands slowly. “Not a bit, but why all the questions? Don’t tell me you think I’m the one who ran her down.”

  I laughed uncomfortably. “Of course not. I’m still just trying to find someone who’d be willing to say something positive about her at the memorial.”

  A slow smile spread across his face, and I had the distinct impression he was trying to decide whether to believe me or not. That was only fair. I wasn’t sure I believed myself. “I guess I could help you out,” he said at last. “If you don’t think that having one of the judges memorialize a dead contestant would taint the contest or add fuel to Evie’s fire.”

  “I’m sure Evie will try to make something of it,” I admitted, “but I think we should all put our differences aside and just be adult about this.”

  Marshall laughed. “I think you’re talking to the wrong crowd. But if that’s what you want, I’ll come up with something.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  He made to stand, so I asked my next question quickly. “The night of the contest, when you stayed late to help me clean up, did you notice anyone else around? Anyone coming downstairs after I did, maybe?”

  He sank back into his seat and shook his head. “No, why? Something wrong?”

  “Maybe. I just came from the police department. The autopsy report on Savannah is back, and it appears she was poisoned before she was hit by the car. The poison was in a box of chocolates from Divinity.”

  Marshall’s eyes flew wide behind his horn-rims. “No kidding? So she was poisoned?”

  “Yeah, but it was the car that killed her.”

  “Can you trace the box of chocolates?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. I’ve made up only one box like that. It’s the box Evie Rice won for second place that night.”

  “Well, then, there you go!”

  “I wish it were that simple. Evie left the candy behind. It was still upstairs when I shut off the lights and came to the kitchen. That’s when I ran into you. You didn’t see anyone else in the building? No one who ran down the front stairs a minute before I came down?”

  “No. But couldn’t somebody have gotten it later?”

  “Not much later. She had to have ingested the poison between the time I saw the box upstairs, and when she went jogging at five thirty the next morning, and she probably ate some of the candy about half an hour before she died.”

  Marshall looked surprised. “She was eating chocolate at five o’clock in the morning?”

  “Some people do that, you know.”

  He laughed and tugged off his glasses to clean them. His face seemed weak without them, and I suddenly remembered the nerd he used to be. “Yeah, I guess they do. I really wish I could help you, Abby. I just can’t. I didn’t see anything.”

  I was surprised to discover that I liked Marshall, and I didn’t want to find that he was hiding anything. But, of course, he must be. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have to ask my next question. “What about the letter?”

  His eyes grew wide, but he hid them behind his glasses and spent a few seconds stuffing his handkerchief into his pocket before he looked at me. “What letter?”

  “The one you were talking to Savannah about on Friday afternoon.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  But he did. I could see it in his eyes. That made me a trifle nervous. “Look, I’m sure it’s no big deal. It’s just that you told me on Friday night that you barely knew Savannah and you hadn’t seen her in years. But somebody overheard the two of you talking about some letter on Friday afternoon—before the contest. So what was that all about?”

  His entire demeanor changed. “If you think I killed her, you couldn’t be more wrong.”

  I believed him. More than that, I realized right then and there that he still loved her. “Had you been writing to her?”

  “No.”
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  “How did you know where to find her?”

  “I didn’t. I never wrote to her.”

  “Then who did? Whose letter was it?”

  Marshall sat back hard in his chair and let out a deep breath. “It wasn’t mine, that’s all I can tell you.”

  “Come on, Marshall. A woman is dead. A woman I think you cared a whole lot about. Are you really going to hide something that might bring her killer to justice?”

  “The letter has nothing to do with the murder.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because Faith wouldn’t—” he broke off suddenly and shot to his feet. “Forget I said that.”

  Not likely, bud. “Are you talking about Faith Bond?”

  “Forget it, Abby. I’m not saying anything else.” He took two jerky steps toward the door and yanked it open. “You have to leave. They need me out in the house.”

  I shrugged and stood. “Okay. Fine. I’ll just go ask her, then.”

  “No! You can’t do that. You just can’t. It doesn’t have anything to do with Savannah’s murder, I swear. Promise me you won’t talk to her.”

  “Then tell me what you know.”

  He looked miserable—like a kid who’s gone wild in a candy store for several hours. His face was flushed, his eyes a little unfocused. I really thought he might throw up. Head hanging, he shut the door and sat down again. “All right. It was my letter.”

  “To Savannah?”

  He shook his head. “From her.”

  I gave him a look. “A love letter?”

  “No. Nothing like that.”

  “Like what, then?”

  He mopped his face with one hand and kept going right around to the back of his neck. “Savannah wrote to me a long time ago to tell me about something. It was something she did for another person.”

  “Something she did for Faith?”

  He nodded.

  “Are you going to tell me what it was?”

  He stood again, apparently too agitated to sit still. “She let Faith stay with her for a few weeks once.”

  “When she lived here?” So, what was the big deal about that?

  Marshall paced in the space behind his desk. “No. It was after she left here. A year after, maybe less.”

  “How did Faith know where to find her?”

  “I told her. She came to me. Said she needed to reach Savannah, and she figured I’d know where she was.”

  “And you did.”

  Marshall actually looked sheepish. “What can I say? I was a kid obsessed. Anyway, I told Faith where she was.”

  “So? That’s nothing to get all worked up over.”

  “It is if she lied. She told Noah she was going to stay with her aunt.”

  I didn’t know Faith’s husband well, but I couldn’t understand why that would be a problem. Noah was a little stiff. Some might even call him self-righteous. Okay . . . many might call him self-righteous. And judgmental. But I still didn’t get it. “So she took off for a couple of weeks. It’s not as if they were married back then. What did she do, have an affair or something?”

  “No! It wasn’t anything like that.”

  “Then what was it?”

  “She was pregnant, okay? Nobody’s supposed to know, and the only reason I do is because Savannah told me.”

  I could only stare at him for a long time. “Faith Bond was unmarried and pregnant?”

  “Yeah, but Abby, you can’t tell anybody—especially not the police. You know how Noah is. It would kill Faith to have this come out after all this time.”

  “Yeah. Maybe. But I’m confused. She went to stay with Savannah for a couple of weeks. When? At the beginning? Before she delivered?” I did a quick mental calculation, but the numbers just didn’t add up right. None of the Bond kids were old enough. “Did she give the baby up for adoption or something?”

  He shook his head. “She lost it.”

  “So are you saying that Noah doesn’t know about the baby?”

  “Good God, no. Can you imagine how he’d treat Faith if he did?”

  I didn’t even want to try. “You realize this gives Faith a motive for killing Savannah.”

  “But she didn’t do it. She couldn’t have.”

  “How do you know? Can you give her an alibi?”

  He started to say something but cut himself off and shook his head. “No, but you know Faith. There’s no way she’d harm another human being.”

  “Maybe not under normal circumstances,” I agreed, “but people will do strange things if they’re pushed hard enough.” I stood and crossed to the door. “One more thing,” I said with my hand on the door. “Is Faith by any chance taking an antidepressant?”

  The question seemed to catch Marshall off guard. “I have no idea,” he said. “You’d have to ask her.”

  Thanks. I had every intention of doing just that.

  Chapter 19

  The latest word, straight from Faith Bond’s neighbor (who I found outside knocking icicles from her eaves) was that Faith had gone over to the church for a meeting of the women’s group or the food pantry . . . or something. The neighbor didn’t seem to know, and it didn’t really matter. Faith, bless her heart, spent more time at the church than she did at her own house. At least that’s what her neighbor said.

  The Shepherd of the Hills Church is one of the first things you see when you approach Paradise from the north. It started life many years ago a small wooden building with enough room for about six rows of pews. It’s been added onto and expanded so many times it’s become large and sprawling and, frankly, ugly.

  I parked in the nearly empty parking lot (an oddity for Paradise in January) and let myself in through the front door where the blast of warm air knocked me back half a step. I stripped off my coat and listened for sounds of life. I could hear voices, but it took a few minutes to track them to the gymnasium that doubles as a cultural hall.

  Two rows of metal chairs had been formed into a semicircle near the stage, and Faith stood in front of a group of concerned-looking citizens, her hands clutched together in front of her and a look of supreme benevolence on her face. “I handed the woman that box of food,” she said, her voice almost whisper quiet, “and then I hugged her. I simply couldn’t help it. When I did, I was overcome by the oneness of the human race. We were the same, she and I, in spite of the obvious outward differences.” She took a deep breath, and when she went on her voice sounded stronger. “This is what I want to bring to Paradise. This recognition that we are all one as God intended us to be.”

  A woman at the far edge of the circle burst into spontaneous applause, and most of the group joined in. I had nothing against the sentiment, but I wondered what a handful of determined Christians could to do turn the rest of us into human beings who really loved one another instead of injecting each other’s chocolates with poison.

  Faith noticed me standing there and waved me forward eagerly. I didn’t want to join in, but I felt a little foolish backing out. I picked up a folding chair from a stack at the back of the room, tiptoed across the polished wooden floor, and set myself up a little behind the rest of the group. No sense giving the impression that I was there to experience oneness or anything.

  The meeting lasted about twenty minutes longer, a mishmash of stories about experiences helping others and rah-rah about how much better Paradise was going to be once this committee started passing out Bibles and bread to people. I could see it happening. Just not in this lifetime.

  I had to stay through all the post-meeting chitchat, smiling pleasantly through introductions to people I planned never to see again. Only when everybody had scurried to escape the dreaded task of putting away the chairs did I get a chance to talk with Faith alone.

  “It’s lovely to see you here,” she said as the door closed behind the last conscientious avoider. “I had no idea you were interested in helping the community.”

  “I’m not.” I realized how that sounded and laughed. “I mean, I am, but that’s not
why I’m here.”

  She moved a couple of books from a table to the stage and grabbed the end of the table as if she wanted to move it, too. “That sounds mysterious. Why are you here?”

  I shifted to the other end so I could help. “I’d like to talk to you, but this might not be the best place.”

  “Oh? Now that sounds ominous.” She laughed, and we rotated the table onto its side so we could break down the legs. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Savannah Horne.”

  The smile left her face as if I’d flipped a switch. “What about her?”

  Is there any smooth way to tell someone you know a secret they’ve kept hidden for two decades? I couldn’t find one. “I know that you went to stay with her for a while after we graduated from high school. I want to know more about that.”

  She forced a laugh, but it rang hollow. “Who on earth told you I did that?”

  “How many people know?”

  “Nobody knows. It never happened.”

  Mmm-hmmm. Just take a look at your face, honey, the truth is written all over it. “You were pregnant,” I said. “You turned to Savannah for help.”

  The table slipped from her fingers, and the crash reverberated around the gym. “You’re wrong.”

  “You turned to Savannah for help,” I said again. “You left town and went to stay with her. Why her? Were you friends?”

  Faith tossed a frantic glance over her shoulder, no doubt making sure nobody was listening. “I was never friends with Savannah.”

  “So why did you go stay with her?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Apparently, there’s a letter in Savannah’s handwriting that says you did.”

  The color drained from her face, and I even think her knees buckled. “Where?”

  I didn’t want to put Marshall’s butt on the line. What if she was the killer? So I tried to be clever. “It’s around.”

  “You’ve seen it?”

  “I have.” Okay, not true, but when you’re talking to a frightened woman who may or may not be injecting chocolates with lethal substances, it seems smart to appear strong. From a strictly selfish standpoint, if she believed there were two of us who knew, there was a fifty-fifty chance she wouldn’t come after me first. Not that I wanted to put Marshall in danger—