41

Alison shut off the phone and let it fall among the folds of the comforter in which she lay wrapped on the sofa. Weary, she leaned her head on the cushions and closed her eyes. It was over at last.

Out of obligation, Mike had called, giving her a terse up-date on his successful apprehension of Bill and Linda Lawrence, caught red-handed with the monies from the Weathersby fundraiser, as they were about to board the plane for George Town. Their children were now in the protective custody of the Child Services division. The pain in Mike’s voice reflected the pain in her heart.

Alison opened one eye to look at the wall clock. Eleven o’clock in the morning. The day already felt as if she’d been living it twice over.

Sunlight streamed through the French doors. She hoped the phone hadn’t woken the children, asleep in their beds after a long evening the night before. Still in her pj’s, she had been unable and unwilling to fall into a deep sleep, her restless thoughts with the investigation and the long-anticipated arrests.

Easier than dwelling on Mike Barefoot and the might-have-beens.

She’d set up camp in the downstairs living room, fitfully dozing off and on in the early hours of the morning as she tried to reconstruct conversations over the last week with people she’d interviewed at Weathersby.

Her notes lay on the floor within arm’s reach, but her brain was frazzled and her emotions fried with her efforts to recreate in her mind the events leading to Frank and Natalie’s murders. For it was now confirmed, Natalie Singleton had been murdered last night.

Murdered by a poison called taxine, found in the juice of the yew, also known as the tree of death by the ancient Celts, with its toxic leaves, berries, and bark. The lab found traces of the toxin in the only champagne glass rimmed with tangerine lipstick.

With her landscaper’s internal eye, she recalled the immense yew hedge that surrounded three-quarters of Weathersby, a boundary marker and easily accessible to anyone who knew what to do with its deadly horticultural secrets. Her info led Mike, who didn’t know a yew from a hole in the head, to send a team to scour the hedges for clues.

Had Natalie been the intended victim all along? Or had the poison been meant for her? That disturbing thought refused to stop rolling over and over through her sluggish brain. Why would the Lawrences want Natalie dead?

Or her, Alison Monaghan, widow and mother of two teenage children? Was someone else still out there?

Maybe coffee would help. She untangled herself from the cocoon of flannel comfort and, swinging her legs onto the floor, clambered from her nest. Coffee always helped.

In the kitchen, she rubbed one hand across her eyes as she filled the coffeepot. The whirring buzz of the coffee grinder broke the silence of the morning. She glanced at the ceiling. Feet would be hitting the floor soon as the aroma of coffee permeated the house. She made a mental note to replenish her coffee stash today.

She was missing something. But what? There had to be a clue camouflaged somewhere she’d overlooked.

Alison refused to accept a perfect murder. The killer had to have slipped up at some point. But where? And was she intelligent enough to figure it out?

Probably not.

Tired and in desperate need of caffeine, she leaned her elbows on the counter, her head in her hands. Between her wide splayed fingers, the Kona brewed, saturating the room and filling her nostrils. She inhaled deeply, letting the fragrance begin its magic.

What had Frank done to invite such murderous hostility?

She recalled the strained conversation with Mike, as he caught her up on the progress of the investigation after his grilling of Bill and Linda Lawrence in separate jail cells.

“We’ve matched Bill’s size-twelve shoe to the print found outside your house,” he told her. “We’ve charged him with breaking and entering and assault for his attack on you. That’s why the turtleneck at the meeting. Afraid you’d see the scratches. The DNA results we collected from underneath your nails finally came back as a match. After threatening him with a murder charge, and a word to the wise how Linda might cop a plea and turn state’s evidence against him, he sang like a bird.”

“Linda’s ratting him out?”

Mike gave a short laugh. “No, I just let that possible implication sink in. And he bought it. Says a lot about the state of their union, doesn’t it now?”

Alison’s breath hitched. “He’s admitted to killing Frank and Natalie?”

“I wish. He’s confessed to everything else but emphatically denies any involvement on his or Linda’s part in the murders.”

“And Linda? What does she say?”

“She’s saying nothing. Got her lawyer with her and keeping her mouth shut,” he said, with a bitter tone. “She insists she was the dutiful wife and knew nothing about any of this until recently.”

“Of course, she does. Typical Linda. And yet,” Alison had cupped the phone in the curve of her neck, “as a mother, I imagine she’s worried about what will happen to her children if she and Bill both end up in jail.”

“You give her too much credit.” Mike snorted. “She’s in this up to her eyeballs. The Feds are involved, too. Seems dear old Bill is wanted in California for fleeing prosecution on embezzlement and fraud charges. He bilked investors out of millions with his phony CompuVision company. He’s actually Ira Wallace, or at least that’s the name he was using five years ago in San Francisco. The Feds are following that trail. He’s run no telling how many aliases and cons over the years and in as many states. I’m not buying Linda’s innocence. Take a heck of a lot of naïveté on her part to accept changing identities every time you change states. She’s not that dumb, and neither am I.”

“Why was he searching my house?”

He sighed. She could hear the fatigue in his voice. He had to be more strung out than her. He’d gotten no rest that night. He sounded unhappy.

Good. Just how she felt.

“Bill or Ira, or whatever his name is, was running a similar Ponzi-type pyramid scheme here in Raleigh for his fictional computer company. I believe he solicited Frank and others through his connections in the community for thousands of dollars. He was probably looking for any incriminating records Frank might have left behind of their flight plan to the Caymans. The IRS and the Feds found their offshore accounts, thanks to your brilliant heads-up,” he said. “They’ve seized all foreign and domestic accounts.”

“Our money.” She’d closed her eyes. “Frank must have realized too late he’d been swindled.”

“Again a perfect motive for murder in my opinion. And I’m not letting up on that guy till I get a confession. Although, my money’s on that cold fish of a wife of his. Even if she isn’t the killer, she was probably the last person to see Frank alive and left a cigarette butt to prove it.”

“They almost got away with it.”

“They were stupid. We have an extradition policy now with the Caymans. If they’d made it to George Town, law enforcement there would have gladly turned them over to us eventually. They were also greedy.”

“How so?”

“Linda wanted to play dress-up and grab the measly thousands from the spring fundraiser to add to their stolen millions. It gave us time to figure out their scheme.”

“We’re lucky Dennis happened to call me and tipped us off.”

“Not luck. God.”

She’d blinked at the phone. Since when were Mike Barefoot and God on a first name basis? If only . . . She hardened her heart.

“Alison, we need to—”

“Save it, Detective, for someone who cares.”

A long silence. Broken only by the rasping of his breath.

“Would you tell Claire and Justin good-bye for me?”

She’d bit back a sob.

“And stay out of trouble. If you can.”