Sergeant Martinez and Lieutenant Belmont exchanged an uneasy glance at the chief's declaration, probably because they knew how difficult it would be to keep the chief's promise.
“Wow!” Belle exclaimed. “He didn't mince words, did he? If I were the clueless person who made the carrot bars, I'd probably be afraid to admit it after hearing that.”
“I think you're right,” I agreed. “I'm kind of surprised he was so vehement. I've met him a couple of times, and he always seemed very cool-headed.”
“The accidental poisoning theory seems more plausible to me.”
“I would believe that, too, except for the fact that Rebecca can't pin down where those carrot bars came from,” I said. “Nobody has admitted to making them.”
“Probably too scared to own up to it, especially now that a man's dead.”
“If that's the case, whoever did it must be feeling very guilty.”
Laddie interrupted our serious talk by nuzzling Belle's arm and putting his paw on her knee. She petted him and assured him that he'd see Mr. Big tomorrow.
“You hit the nail on the head, Belle. That's exactly what Laddie wants. He hasn't seen his little buddy for a couple of days, and he misses him.”
“Let's take them for a walk in the morning,” Belle said. “I'll even get up early. Not as early as you, of course, but early for me. How about eight?”
“Good. That'll work. Tomorrow's my turn at the gallery, but I'm scheduled in the afternoon, so I don't have to be there until one.”
“Eight it is, then. I'd better get home now and get organized. We were only gone for a day, but I feel like it was longer. See you in the morning.”
After Belle went home, Laddie, Mona Lisa, and I spent a quiet evening in front of the television. While my pets snuggled close to me, one on each side, I watched a lighthearted holiday movie and tried not to think of the events of the past couple days. Putting them out of my mind proved an impossible task, though, and later that night I woke several times, only to drift back into a restless sleep again.
In the morning, after the bad night I'd had, I was more than happy to get out of bed when Laddie began tapping on my arm with his paw.
My golden boy pranced around, eager to go for a walk, but we'd have to wait for Belle and Mr. Big, and he settled for a romp in the backyard, followed by breakfast.
It was quarter after eight when Laddie's ears perked up and he raced to the kitchen door, whipping his feathery tail back and forth. As soon as I opened the door, Mr. Big ran in, tugging at his leash, and the two dogs greeted each other as though they'd been separated for months. I pulled on my parka, gloves, and a knit hat, and we were off.
Although the air was cold and crisp, the Arizona sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky, and the day held the promise of warmer temperatures later on. It wasn't unusual for there to be a twenty-five or thirty-degree difference in temperature between the daily high and low.
“I thought maybe Rebecca and Greg would be in the park this morning,” Belle said, “but I don't see them.”
I looked around and spotted their neighbor across the street, coming out of his house with his two children, each sporting a backpack.
“Look! There's Carmen's husband Lew. He must be taking the kids to school.”
I waved, but he wasn't looking toward the park, and he didn't see me. He and the children piled into his white painter's van and departed. Shortly after they left, Rebecca and Greg came out of their house with Skippy and Tucker, and we met them at the corner. The four dogs bounced around each other, snarling their leashes. After they settled down, we untangled their leashes and told them to sit. Laddie promptly complied, but Mr. Big and the terriers continued to wiggle until Greg raised his voice and commanded them to sit for a second time. Even Mr. Big paid attention, and Belle commended Greg for his success.
“I'm afraid Mr. Big's so rambunctious and easily distracted that he doesn't pay any attention to what I tell him half the time,” she confessed.
“He seems fine now,” I assured her.
“I happened to notice you coming toward the park,” Rebecca said, “and I wanted to talk to you, but we waited until Lew left for school with the kids. Truth be told, I'm embarrassed to see him after what happened. I hope he and Carmen don't blame me.”
“I'm sure they don't,” I said. “You couldn't have known what was going to happen.”
“No, but those carrot bars came from the Pioneers' booth, and now Greg's cousin Eric has died, too! I can't understand it. Nobody admits to making them. I've been over and over the list of baked goods and candy that our members made, and the decorated carrot bars are definitely not there.”
“Maybe somebody delivered them to the wrong table,” Belle suggested. “Once in a while, our library auxiliary members have other people drop off items for them.”
“I suppose that could have happened,” Rebecca said. “It certainly would explain why our members all deny having made them.”
“If you ask me, the chief of police thinks it was deliberate by some weirdo with evil intentions, and I'm starting to think the same thing myself,” Greg said. “It's very busy and crowded at the fair, during the last hour, especially. Anybody could have slipped those carrot bars into inventory without Rebecca or the other choir members who were working at our booth noticing.”
“That's true. There were three of us working there, and we were really slammed. I know people were waiting in line.”
“An accidental poisoning is bad enough,” I said, “but a deliberate one is pure evil. Let's hope the police solve this soon.”
“Hear, hear,” Greg said. “Eric didn't deserve to die just because he loved anything sweet. We may have had our differences, but he was still family.”
“Lonesome Valley used to be such a peaceful town,” Rebecca lamented, as we began moving toward the path. The dogs jumped up, eager to continue their walk, and we all circled the park before Belle and I bid the Winterses goodbye.
Belle offered to host Laddie during my afternoon shift at the Roadrunner, and I accepted her offer, knowing that Laddie would be happier playing with his little buddy than staying home alone with Mona Lisa.
The doggie playdate settled, I puttered around the house without accomplishing much until it was time to get ready to go to the gallery.
As I drove to Main Street, I allowed myself to fantasize that I'd sell a half-dozen pricey paintings there today, although I knew the reality would more likely be that I would sell nothing. At the fair, I'd told Susan and Chip that I hadn't sold a painting at the Roadrunner in three weeks. Now, a few days later, it was going on a month since I'd had a sale there, and I wasn't very likely to sell anything on a Tuesday.
The gallery was always busiest on the weekends, and our revenue tended to be the highest then, too. That didn't mean it wasn't worthwhile for the gallery to be open on weekdays, but traffic was certainly slower then. Perhaps today might be an exception, though, since quite a few holiday shoppers were bustling about downtown. It was the first Tuesday ever that I wasn't able to park near the gallery. Instead, I had to find a spot in the downtown parking lot and walk a few blocks to the Roadrunner.
“Hi, Dorothy,” I said, as I walked into the gallery on the dot of one o'clock. “It's a good thing I left home early. I had to park in the lot, instead of out front.”
Dorothy was Dawn Martinez's mother, and the two women owned a pottery studio, where they taught classes as well as designed their own ceramic creations.
“No problem,” Dorothy told me. “You're right on time, and Pamela's here, too. She's back in the office, but, if it gets busy, she'll pitch in.”
I put my coat and purse away and signed in for my four-hour shift. Dorothy was showing me her latest ceramic creation, a huge elaborately decorated platter, when the gallery door opened and a group of shoppers trooped in. Pamela, who'd left her office door open, must have heard the voices, and she came out into the gallery to greet the visitors with us. Every woman in the group carried at least one large shopping bag, which meant some of them were very likely to spend some of their Christmas shopping cash in the Roadrunner.
I helped a grandmother find a print of a horse for her granddaughter while Dorothy showed some of the other women necklaces and earrings from our jewelry display and Pamela talked to others about the paintings that had attracted their attention. As usual, tiny Pamela was dressed in beige, and, as usual, I couldn't help thinking about the contrast between her fashion choices and the bright, vibrant, colorful art she painted. It was as though she wanted to fade into the background, but she wanted her lively, bold pictures to grab people's attention.
More customers dropped in, and we sold several items, including prints, jewelry, note cards, and even a small painting. One customer took a great interest in the highly decorated platter Dorothy had been showing me earlier. Although she left without purchasing it, Dorothy thought the woman might return later.
After an hour or so, the gallery had cleared out with the exception of a retired couple who were leisurely making the rounds and studying every painting on the walls.
Pamela joined Dorothy and me as we chatted about the progress we'd made in our Christmas shopping.
“I'm a little worried about our Christmas party Sunday night,” Pamela confided. “After what happened at the high school fair, I'm not sure people will want to chance eating pot luck.”
“Oh, I'm sure that was accidental,” Dorothy said. “And I haven't heard about any more food poisoning since that poor man died the other night. Besides, we know everybody who's coming, and none of them are members of the Pioneers.”
“What do you think, Amanda?” Pamela asked.
I remembered how I'd felt when I thought I'd eaten one of the poisoned carrot bars. “I suppose I'd be a bit cautious, but, like Dorothy said, we know everybody, although . . . .” I hesitated.
“What is it, Amanda?” Dorothy prompted.
“If it wasn't an accident . . . .”
“I don't know. I heard the chief suggest that possibility, but it's hard to believe.”
“So you don't think we should cancel?” Pamela asked.
“I don't,” Dorothy insisted. “The members look forward to the party. If you need an official food tester, I'll volunteer.”
We laughed at her suggestion, but I certainly understood Pamela's concern, and I had to admit that I felt a wee bit uneasy, too. I didn't have time to dwell on my concern, though, because Lonesome Valley's vivacious mayor popped into the gallery just then. She wore the same dramatic red velvet cape trimmed with white faux fur that she'd worn in the Christmas parade. I'd assumed the cape was strictly a holiday costume, but, evidently, I'd been wrong. Melinda's lips were as red as her cape, thanks to her expert application of lipstick, and, with her dark brown hair and creamy complexion, she looked quite dramatic in an old-fashioned Hollywood glam kind of way.
“Hello, Melinda,” Pamela exchanged a quick hug and an air kiss with the mayor. That bright red lipstick definitely would have left its mark if she had connected with Pamela's cheek, so it was a good thing that hadn't happened.
The mayor turned to Dorothy and me and apologized for not remembering our names. I'd met her in person only once before myself, so it was no wonder that she'd forgotten my name. I probably wouldn't have remembered hers, either, except for the fact that she appeared on the local news so often.
“I'm here to buy a painting for my den,” our mayor announced, “and I need a big one. Maybe a landscape.”