“When I invited her to stay at my house until she got her feet back under her, I figured that would be a few weeks, maybe a few months. I didn’t expect over a year,” Cynthia Jensen said, leaning toward the neighboring manicure table.
Monique Chapman inclined her head to the side in agreement, one diamond earring peeking out from behind her auburn hair. “Perhaps you and Liz should have defined the conditions of the invite before she moved in.”
“I know, I know,” Cynthia said. When the manicurist indicated to switch hands, she obeyed, admiring the clean lines of the French manicure. “But I felt sorry for her after John—no, wait, it was Tom—kicked her out. She had no place to stay.”
“Did you ever think that maybe she deserved to be kicked out?” Monique waved a hand in the air for emphasis, showing off her blood-red nails. Cynthia wished she had the confidence to choose such a bold color. “Liz Morrison is a user,” Monique added.
“So I’ve noticed after all this time.” Cynthia took a deep breath, regretting it when she inhaled the odor of nail polish and solvents. “Not only does she stay at the house rent-free, but she doesn’t contribute to anything. She doesn’t even buy her own groceries, just steals my food. But a year ago, I figured I had a big house with plenty of space for three people, now that my boys are off at college.”
“What does Kyle think about the extra guest in his house?”
Cynthia thought about her current husband of seven years. “Technically it is my house since I won it in the divorce from my first husband. Kyle and I had some arguments in the first few months, when it became obvious that Liz wasn’t going anywhere. He wanted me to kick her out, complained that I was too nice.”
“You are too nice,” Monique said.
“So I’ve been told. Hundreds of times. But I assumed that eventually Liz would get a clue and leave. I told Kyle to be patient, not that patience is really a quality of his. But I guess he ultimately resigned himself. He hasn’t said anything about her for the past couple of months.”
The manicurist indicated that Cynthia was done. She stood and walked over to the nail dryer, sliding her hands underneath the blue UV lights.
When Monique took the stool next to her, Cynthia stared at their reflections in the mirror. She thought they looked pretty good for two women fighting valiantly against middle age. She leaned down, checked out her roots. It was probably about time for her to visit her hairdresser to touch up the blond. She wished she could forego dying her hair, but Kyle always reminded her that he preferred blondes.
Monique seemed to do her own appearance assessment, then met Cynthia’s eyes in the mirror. “You don’t think it’s odd that Kyle is no longer complaining?”
“No,” Cynthia answered, then paused. She had known Monique for years: as debutantes, as young wives and mothers, as divorcées, and now as settled, mature women. They watched each other’s kids, each other’s houses, and each other’s waistlines. They knew each other better than they knew their own husbands. That wasn’t an innocent question her friend had posed.
“Why are you asking?”
“I told you, honey. Liz Morrison is an entitled user. She takes things that aren’t hers…. That includes husbands.”
“You…you think she’s sleeping with Kyle?” Cynthia’s voice resonated over the piped-in flute music. She turned around, saw some of the other women in the salon staring at them, and lowered her voice. “I have to admit, I’ve heard rumors about her at the country club. But the women there are just nasty gossips. Half the things they say aren’t true.”
“And half of them are. I believe the ones about Liz. I know she broke up at least two marriages. Maybe three,” her friend said pointedly.
“Do you have proof?”
“Of her and Kyle? No. But I’ve noticed how their behavior has changed. Last year, there’d be an expression of annoyance on his face whenever he’d look at her. And when she bothered to notice him…it was like she was viewing a challenge, a competition. You know, that same fierce, concentrated glare she uses on the tennis court.”
“And now?”
“I watched them at the Mardi Gras party a few months ago. They didn’t look at each other at all, studiously avoided one another. But they both disappeared for thirty minutes or so, and when they came back, she had this self-satisfied grin.” Monique picked up a wine glass the salon worker had brought over.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Cynthia didn’t know what hurt more, her husband’s betrayal or Monique’s. How could she have kept silent?
“I knew you wouldn’t believe me, wouldn’t want to believe me.” Monique gave her an intense stare. “Even now, you’re doubting me.”
“I don’t know what I believe.” Cynthia raised her hands, almost started biting her nails before Monique slapped at them.
“Don’t mess up your nails. And don’t just ignore what I’ve said. Find proof, one way or the other. For once, Cynthia Jensen, stand up for yourself.”
* * * *
“I found proof.” Cynthia whispered across the table a week later, trying not to disturb the hushed atmosphere of the country club restaurant. She held her wine glass with both hands since they were shaking so much. She hadn’t even bothered to order food. Just thinking about the footage from her newly installed security cameras made her lose her appetite. She shook her head at Monique’s inquisitive look; she was in no mood to talk about it.
“I’m sorry, Cynthia. I knew it, but I was hoping, for your sake, that perhaps I had been reading the situation incorrectly.” Monique stared at the white linen tablecloth before raising her head. “I hate that woman.”
Cynthia was surprised at the animosity in her friend’s eyes. It was flattering how protective Monique was of her. “I…I do, too.”
Monique sliced a scallop in half before stabbing a piece. “She needs to learn a lesson.”
“I doubt she ever will. People like that never learn. They just go on finding nice people and using them.”
“Only if those people don’t stand up for themselves.”
Cynthia sighed. “You know, you’re right. I swear that from now on I will stand up for myself.”
Monique dropped her fork on her plate, the clink resounding through the restaurant. “I’m so glad to hear you say that. Then you’ll be up for my plan.”
Taking another gulp of wine—Cynthia thought she’d need it—she studied the maliciousness in her friend’s eyes. “And what is your plan?”
“You know how she’s allergic to sunflowers, right?”
Cynthia huffed out a breath. “How could I not know that? She’s always talking about it, always making us go only to her approved restaurants. I’m not even allowed to have sunflower oil in my own house.”
“Right. I have to admit, at first I thought she was only doing it for attention, especially since sunflower allergies are so rare. Until last Halloween, when she must have eaten something that had sunflower oil. She’s not that good an actress to fake her throat closing.”
“It was terrifying. I’m glad she had an EpiPen,” Cynthia said, starting to realize where her friend was going. “You can’t be thinking of deliberately giving her something with sunflowers. She could die.”
“She won’t die. She always has those pens with her. It might worry her, but she deserves punishment for sleeping with someone else’s husband.”
Cynthia was about to protest, but Monique held up her hand.
“Besides, we won’t give her sunflower. That’s the whole point. We’ll tell her not to eat it—something with sunflower in it. So if she still eats it, it’s on her. She’d finally be punished for taking something that’s not hers.”
Cynthia just stared.
Monique rolled her eyes. “Look, it won’t cause any permanent damage. We can make, let’s say, some cookies. In fact, we have a bake sale coming up. We can say someone donated the cookies, leave them in your kitchen with a note saying ‘Don’t eat this, for bake sale’ on the box.”
Taking a deep breath, Cynthia considered. “So if she eats them, after we told her not to, it’s her fault.”
Monique leaned back in her chair. “Right. And again, she just needs to take a shot and she’ll be okay. She even has a backup, just in case the first one doesn’t work. And backups for her backups.”
Cynthia was still nervous, but it was so tempting to punish Liz for the past year of hell and for sleeping with her husband. “Well, maybe you’re right.”
“I am right. Liz will never learn until someone finally punishes her.” Monique’s eyes flashed angrily. “Didn’t you say that you were going to stand up for yourself?”
Not for the first time, Cynthia was glad she had never gotten onto Monique’s bad side. Her friend could be scary. After a few seconds, Cynthia nodded.
Monique raised her wine glass in a salute. “And when she’s all recovered, you can tell her that she shouldn’t touch things that don’t belong to her.”
* * * *
Liz would no longer touch things that didn’t belong to her, Cynthia thought. The other woman wouldn’t be touching anything ever again since she hadn’t recovered from her reaction to the sunflower oil.
Cynthia stood by her husband, both staring in shock at the body on the stairs, blond hair splayed around her head. It was hard to see Liz now, since the hallway crawled with paramedics, police officers, and one man, dressed in what looked like white protective gear, leaning over the body. She and Kyle had just come back from their weekly date night—something she had thought would be helpful after her disastrous first marriage. Considering how marriage number two was working out, date night obviously hadn’t done its job. That night they had gone out for dinner and dessert with awkward, stilted discussions, followed by a drive home in total silence. Usually she made an effort to keep conversation flowing, but knowing what he’d done, she was more obsessed with cheating than chatting. The first time she heard him say something that wasn’t about the weather was when he cried out after discovering Liz’s body on the stairs, her face horribly swollen and blotchy.
She tried to tune out the action at the base of the stairs, but it was hard not to notice. She had originally loved the open concept of the expansive first floor, especially when her children were young, but now, there were definitely some negatives. Not only could she see and hear what was happening where Liz’s body was lying, but she could see all the way into the kitchen as well, where the fatal cookies still sat.
“Why didn’t she use her injector?” Cynthia asked, not really to anyone in particular.
“That’s a good question,” a deep voice said.
Cynthia glanced over at the man who had just spoken, a police officer of some sort, though he wore regular clothes. He looked young, but he didn’t appear stupid. She tried to quash her rising panic as he approached them.
“I’m Detective Phillips,” the young man said. “Is this your residence?”
“Yes,” she croaked, then coughed loudly, trying to hide her tension. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Detective Phillips. I’m Cynthia Jensen. This is my husband, Kyle.”
“And the deceased?” He nodded toward the floor.
Cynthia made the mistake of following his gaze. Emotions flooded her, making her voice choke again. She hadn’t meant for Liz to die. “That’s my friend. Liz Morrison.”
“And you found her here tonight?”
Cynthia nodded. “When we came home from dinner.”
“How did she come to be in your house alone?”
Cynthia took a deep breath, reminded herself that if Liz had just obeyed the sign saying that she shouldn’t touch the cookies, this would never have happened. This wasn’t her fault. “For the past year Liz has lived here with us.”
The detective eyed her husband. Cynthia guessed what he was thinking, that this was some sort of sexual arrangement among the three of them. She felt her cheeks heating.
“In the guest room. Liz had a bad turn of events and had nowhere to go. I invited her to stay here until she was better off.” Cynthia didn’t bother saying she hadn’t expected Liz to stay quite as long as she did, nor that she hadn’t offered up her husband in addition to her house.
The detective continued to regard them quietly. The silence unnerved her, so she couldn’t stop herself from blurting out, “So, she had an allergic reaction, right?”
Detective Phillips nodded toward the man in the white protective suit. “We won’t know that until the medical examiner finishes, but what made you assume that?”
She took a quick breath to calm herself. “I’ve seen her have an allergic reaction before. It was scary.” She shuddered. “And she turned red in the face then too, but she just used her pen and quickly recovered, and then we went to the hospital.”
“So she has known allergies?” the detective asked.
Her husband jumped in. “Yes, to sunflowers. But she’s always careful not to eat anything with sunflowers or sunflower oil. And she carries an EpiPen with her wherever she goes.”
“Don’t you already know about her allergies?” Cynthia asked. “They are listed on her medical alert bracelet.” Of course, he had noticed it, she realized. He was just testing her.
Detective Phillips gave a slight nod of confirmation. “Can you both come with me?” He had asked politely, but Cynthia doubted she actually had a choice.
They headed toward the large chef’s kitchen. As they passed the dining area, Cynthia noticed that Liz’s purse was on the long mahogany table, turned upside down with items scattered over the tabletop and spilling onto the floor.
As Cynthia knew he would, Detective Phillips led them to the coffee bar, where she had arranged a number of items for the bake sale, including—front and center—a clear plastic container full of chocolate chip cookies, Liz’s favorite. It was the only container that appeared to have been opened. Its lid was no longer tightly attached, but Cynthia’s note was still taped to it, clearly stating “Do Not Eat. For Bake Sale.” On the floor she could see a half-eaten cookie. Liz must have dropped it when she immediately reacted to that first bite.
“Do you recognize these?” The detective pointed at the remains of the cookie and the open container.
Cynthia nodded. “Yes. Those were donated for tomorrow’s bake sale—everything on the counter was—so I left the note saying not to eat them.”
“Who donated this bin, the one the note’s on?” the detective asked, writing in a notepad.
“I…I don’t know, actually. We had a table at the country club for people to leave donated items.” A table Monique had carefully placed out of range of any cameras. “There was an unsigned index card in the box that said that these were vegan chocolate chip cookies—which could have been made by any of our members. Many of them are on one specialized diet or another.”
“Do you normally take donations from anonymous sources?”
She was nervous, so she overexplained. “It’s an annual fundraiser for underprivileged children. People donate items, and we sell them at a local bookstore. We don’t usually record who made what, at least not for any donation under two hundred fifty dollars. Other than noting a few people who, well, can’t bake. Those items, we donate to the trash can.”
“And why did you put a note on this container?”
Cynthia’s heart beat wildly. “It didn’t apply to just that container. I didn’t want Liz or Kyle”—she glanced at her husband—“eating any of the items for the bake sale.”
“Why do you believe there might be sunflower in these particular cookies?”
She shrugged. “Well, I’m not a baker.” Her husband nodded agreement. “But they’re vegan cookies, so maybe whoever made them used sunflower oil as a substitute for butter.”
Detective Phillips glanced up in surprise from his notebook. “What’s wrong with butter? It’s not meat.”
“Vegan doesn’t just mean no meat, but also no animal products. No dairy, no eggs, not even honey.” Cynthia almost smiled when the detective shook his head in apparent disbelief.
“And you both said she should have been carrying an injector?”
“She always had a two-pack in her purse. They come clipped together in plastic containers.” Cynthia waved a hand toward the designer bag and the mess on the table. “And she always had her purse with her when she went out.”
“Where does the purse normally stay when she’s at home?”
There was no normal when it came to Liz. She left stuff all over the house, something else that had gotten on Cynthia’s nerves. She shrugged again. “Wherever she happens to drop it.”
“We didn’t find any EpiPens in the contents of her purse,” the detective said. “Does she have any others?”
“She keeps two more on her nightstand,” Kyle replied.
Cynthia tried not to react to Kyle’s knowledge of the contents of Liz’s bedroom. Luckily, the detective was distracted, as the medical examiner called him over. Cynthia watched as they stepped away from the crowd and had a quick conversation.
“Can you show me to her room?” the detective asked when he returned.
They escorted Detective Phillips to the second floor—taking the back stairs—and into the guest room that Liz had been occupying for the past year. In contrast to the rest of the house, the room was a mess: wrinkled clothes on the loveseat and desk chair, unmade bed with the pink-and-white decorative pillows thrown on the floor. As the three of them stood in the doorway, Cynthia started to get annoyed at Liz all over again, then remembered the woman was lying dead one floor below.
There were no EpiPens on the nightstand.
“They were there the other night,” Kyle said, then cleared his throat. “I mean, I thought I saw them the other day.”
Cynthia ignored his near confession of the affair. She already knew, she had proof, but it was still hard to hear him say it out loud. She distracted herself by watching Detective Phillips, who stood in the entryway and carefully glanced around the room before walking toward the nightstand. He leaned to peer over it.
“There are two bright-yellow injectors back there clipped together. I assume they’re EpiPens.” He pointed behind the nightstand but didn’t make a move to pick them up.
Cynthia’s nerves ramped up again. The detective was being so careful. Was he treating this like a crime scene?
“They fell behind the nightstand?” Kyle asked.
“Looks that way.” Detective Phillips regarded the room again. “We’ll wait for the autopsy to confirm, but it seems to me like she had an allergic reaction to the cookies.”
Kyle spoke up. “Aren’t you going to test the cookies?”
The detective frowned. “Of course, but it might take some time. Unlike what you see on TV, we don’t have an army of experts standing idly by. But it’s fairly clear what happened, don’t you think? The medical examiner saw no evidence of a struggle, no wounds or puncture marks that could indicate the administration of poisons. All evidence points to an anaphylactic reaction to an allergen. My guess is she tried to find an EpiPen in her purse but couldn’t, then tried to make it upstairs. Sadly, your friend wasn’t a terribly careful individual.” He paused. “My condolences on your loss.”
* * * *
Cynthia repeated the same trite phrase to Liz’s family at the wake four days later. She paid her respects at the casket, then walked over to Monique. They found a quiet corner in the posh funeral home and sat down.
“I still can’t believe this happened,” Cynthia said, staring over at the body.
Monique sighed. “I can’t either. I thought she always kept those stupid pens on her.”
Cynthia carefully glanced around, then leaned in closer to her friend. “I feel so guilty. So guilty that Kyle and I ended up paying for the funeral since I knew her family didn’t have much money.”
“You shouldn’t feel guilty, honey. Again, if she hadn’t eaten the cookies, she’d still be alive. And if she had been more careful, she’d also still be alive.”
Taking a deep breath, Cynthia willed herself to believe that. “I’m glad that the autopsy confirmed her anaphylactic reaction to sunflower oil, and the police didn’t investigate any further into the cookies. What would we have done if they tried to find out who had made them? Like, if they had searched for fingerprints or something?”
“Well, your fingerprints would have been found on the container, of course, since you brought it in the house. But some people do wear gloves when they cook, especially when trying to avoid cross-contamination with allergens, so it wouldn’t be that odd for there to be no other fingerprints.”
Cynthia raised her eyebrows. “Maybe. It still could look suspicious.”
“Well, if worse came to worst, I’d admit that I made the cookies. There’s no crime in baking. I’ve even been eating a vegan diet for the past two weeks, driving my husband nuts—you know how Drew loves his meat. That way, it wouldn’t seem odd that I made the cookies vegan. I mean, some people use sunflower oil anyway for health reasons, but I figured it would be more legit if I could claim I’m vegan.” Monique laughed. “I have to admit, I’m looking forward to a big steak.”
“Wow,” Cynthia said. “You put a lot of thought into this.”
“No one hurts my best friend and gets away with it,” Monique said. She stood up, smoothing down her black dress. “Anyway, we should mingle. I’m going to stay for a respectable thirty minutes or so, then I’m heading out to have that celebratory steak. I think I’ll tell Drew that I’ve realized life is short, and we shouldn’t let a diet prevent us from eating good food.”
“I understand, although I still feel too guilty to eat.” Cynthia glanced at the casket again. “See you tomorrow afternoon at the cemetery.”
Cynthia stayed until the very end of the wake. Kyle wasn’t ready to leave. While he practically kept vigil at the casket—had he actually cared for Liz?—Cynthia wandered around the room, listening to everyone’s conversations, and people weren’t avoiding speaking ill of the dead. It made Cynthia feel a little better knowing that Liz hadn’t just slept with her husband. She’d gotten around so much, it was ridiculous. It was as if Liz had been working her way through the entire alphabet: Alan, Andrew, Bart, Benjamin, Carl, Chad…the names went all the way to Zachary.
Clearly, the woman lacked morals. And just as clearly, Cynthia realized, she still needed to stand up for herself.
* * * *
The weather the following day matched her mood. Gray clouds covered the sky, sending wet, cold rain all over the mourners. The cemetery staff had set up a tent over the burial site, but there were more people than room. Kyle held an umbrella over their heads as the priest sprinkled holy water over the casket. Cynthia was surprised that the water didn’t burn through the wood.
Once the ceremony was over, she, Kyle, and Monique walked back to the parking lot. Noticing two men standing on the sidewalk by their vehicles, Cynthia took a deep breath. She hoped she was prepared for what was about to unfold.
The first man, wearing a dark gray suit, stepped forward. “Mr. Jensen?” he asked.
Kyle lowered his eyebrows in apparent confusion, but nodded. He added a frown when the man handed him an envelope. Cynthia took the umbrella from him, enabling Kyle to open the envelope. He stared at the documents inside, then looked up, shock and anger filling his eyes. “You’re serving me with divorce papers? Now? Here?”
“It seemed appropriate, considering the cause. I’m finally standing up for myself,” Cynthia said, using the words she had practiced in the mirror that morning.
“For what reason?” he yelled.
Cynthia knew he was deliberately being loud, hoping to embarrass her publicly. He knew how important her social standing was to her, knew that she hated confrontation and, even more, that she hated having an audience.
Or at least the old Cynthia felt that way. This Cynthia had chosen this moment, and she wasn’t worried about gossip. She wanted to expose him publicly, and she wouldn’t let her nerves silence her. She’d done nothing wrong. “I don’t know.” She raised her voice. “Maybe because you slept with another woman in my house.”
He tried to appear offended. “How can you say that?”
“I have proof, Kyle. You didn’t know I had a security system installed, did you? With cameras.” She was gratified when his mouth dropped open.
“It’s not my fault. You’re the one who invited her!”
“To stay at my house, not to sleep with my husband,” Cynthia replied. “You used my house. You betrayed my trust. Fortunately, my lawyer insisted on a prenuptial, so you will no longer be using me for my money. I’m tired of being used.” She noted the approach of Detective Phillips. Leaving her husband standing in the rain, she stepped away as the detective neared Monique.
“Monique Chapman?” Detective Phillips asked.
Monique had been viewing the proceedings with a satisfied smirk. Now she blinked a few times and nodded. “Yes, that’s me.”
Detective Phillips reached for his handcuffs. “Mrs. Chapman, you are under arrest for the murder of Elizabeth Morrison. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed to you by the court. Do you understand these rights?”
With wide eyes, Monique ignored Detective Phillips and turned on Cynthia. “What did you do?”
“Ma’am, you need to answer my question,” Detective Phillips said.
“What? Oh yes, yes, of course I understand. I’m not an idiot. My friend might be, though,” she added, sending a poisonous glance in Cynthia’s direction.
“I’m not an idiot, Monique. I’m just tired of being used.” Cynthia stared defiantly back at her. “Like I told Kyle, I had cameras installed. Last night, after coming to a realization, I checked out the recordings from the two days before Liz died. And what did I see? You, sneaking into our house—using the key I gave you for emergencies—and removing the EpiPens from Liz’s purse. Pretty ballsy of you to do it while Liz was in the house. And then you returned the next day while we all were out and went into Liz’s room, where I’m guessing you knocked her secondary pens onto the floor, just in case she made it that far. I have to say, Monique, the black catsuit looked good, but those latex gloves you were wearing weren’t very fashionable.”
Monique glowered at her. “They’ll charge you with accessory.”
“Maybe. But as you keep saying, I did clearly mark that the cookies shouldn’t be eaten. And I’m already cooperating with the police, so my lawyer—who was very busy last night and this morning—is confident the court will have leniency on me.”
“But I did it for you!” Monique cried out. “To make her pay for what she did to you. How can you do this?”
Cynthia shook her head. “No, you didn’t do it for me. You did it for yourself. I heard all sorts of stories at the wake. Kyle wasn’t the only husband Liz slept with. There was also talk about her sleeping with your husband. You knew she slept with Andrew and you used me as an excuse, and a means, to kill Liz. She might have deserved some punishment for cheating, but not death. And I didn’t deserve a so-called friend who lied to me and easily could have made me the prime suspect in a murder.”
As her ex-best friend was handcuffed and put in the unmarked police car, Cynthia called out, “You should be happy, Monique. I’m standing up for myself, just as you always encouraged. I’m looking forward to doing it again soon—at your trial.”
Cathy Wiley is a member of Sisters in Crime, Mystery Writers of America, and the Short Mystery Fiction Society. She’s written two mystery novels set in Baltimore, Maryland, and has had several short stories included in anthologies, one of which was a finalist for a Derringer Award. She lives outside of Baltimore with one spoiled cat and an equally spoiled husband. For more information, visit www.cathywiley.com.