SHIRLEY FORCED HERSELF not to go stiff as her aunt wrapped her arms around her. “It’s good to see you too, Aunt Treva.” She wiggled past her in the doorway, breaking her aunt’s firm grasp on her waist, and stepped into the hall. Immediately, the sweet gardenia scent from her aunt’s garden assailed her nose. Aunt Treva had her windows open again. Didn’t she know how dangerous that was? Someone off the street could easily break into the house.
“What brings you to see me?”
“Nothing. You were on my mind and I realized I hadn’t been by in a while.”
“Almost a month.” The accusation hung in the air.
After Shirley’s husband died, she’d moved in with Treva for a few months—until her aunt’s clinginess and wanting to know Shirley’s every move had about driven her crazy.
“That long? Well, you know how busy life is. How have you been?”
“My knee has been acting up. Other than that, can’t complain.”
She followed her aunt as she limped down the hallway through a narrow path of stacked newspapers and magazines into the small but bright sitting room with yarn and knitting needles scattered in various chairs. Here, too, stacks and stacks of yarn gave evidence to her aunt’s hoarding. Not as bad as she’d seen on TV, but bad enough, and so much worse than when Shirley had lived in the house.
“Move that stuff and sit awhile,” Treva said.
She did as she was told. “What’s wrong with your knee?”
“It’s wore out. Doc wants to operate, but I just don’t know.”
Shirley half listened as her mother’s sister rattled on about her aches and pains, saying, “Too bad” or “I hate that” at the appropriate time. She had to get into the kitchen. “Have you had breakfast?” she asked when her aunt stopped long enough to take a breath.
“Not yet. Haven’t felt like making it.”
“Then I’ll make you some eggs and toast, and a cup of tea as well.”
“No, you’re my guest. I’ll fix it.” Treva struggled to get her footing.
“I am absolutely not a guest, and I know where everything is. I’ll make your breakfast while you just sit right there and rest your knee.”
“You’re a sweet girl. Thank you,” she said. “I haven’t changed anything since you left.”
“Or thrown very much away,” Shirley muttered under her breath as she surveyed the kitchen off the sitting room. Knickknacks from the fifties lined every counter and shelf. Several insulin bottles filled with different colored beads rested on the windowsill over the sink. A cardboard box with only a few empty vials sat on the kitchen table.
Last year her aunt had given her ornaments made from the small bottles, like Shirley even had a Christmas tree. She sorted through the box, looking for one with a Lantus label.
Panic set in when one by one, she found only fast-acting labels. With only two vials left, her hand shook as she picked up one. Lantus. Shirley breathed again. Half her mission accomplished.
“Did you find the tea?” her aunt called from the sitting room.
Shirley opened the cabinet and took down the tea canister. “Yes, ma’am. Green tea or Lady Grey?”
“Lady Grey.”
“Do you still take cream with your tea?” she asked, rummaging in the refrigerator. Where were her insulin bottles? She picked up what looked like a blue pen and examined it. Humulin R U-500. Her breath stilled in her chest. She had come across the stronger insulin in her research. At the time, she had thought it’d be the perfect drug but had no idea how to obtain it. And now here it was, a gift.
“And honey—it’s in the cabinet. And those cinnamon rolls on the table—bring them instead of making toast.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The teakettle shrieked, and she bumped her head when she jerked out of the refrigerator. She always hated that kettle and the way it screamed like a Tasmanian devil.
Breathe in, breathe out. Once her nerves settled, Shirley grabbed a couple of eggs and scrambled them, then arranged the cinnamon rolls on a plate and took them to the sitting room. “If you haven’t taken your insulin this morning, I can draw it for you.”
“I might get used to being waited on,” her aunt said with a smile. “There’s no need to draw it, though. I’m using a pen now, but I better check my sugar first.”
Shirley waited while her aunt pricked her finger and stuck the strip in a meter and frowned. “It’s a little high, but I think my regular dose will be fine. The pen is on the counter beside my pill organizer, and would you chart it on the fridge for me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Shirley returned to the kitchen, took one of the blue Humulin pens from the refrigerator, and slipped it in her pocket with the empty vial. Next she located the pen on the counter. “Where’s the needle?”
“It’s in the bottom of that white container that should be beside the pill box.”
Shirley fitted a needle on the pen, then smiled as she examined it, noting the dosage marked on the dial. She’d been worrying that just switching the fast-acting insulin with the regular might not be enough to kill Randy, but five times the strength should be more than enough . . . Shirley glanced toward the den. If she doubled the amount her aunt was taking, that would give her a clue about how it would affect Randy.
Her fingers lingered on the dial, then she shook her head and left the dosage where it was. Better not experiment today. She didn’t have time to fool with going to the hospital with Treva. . . or possibly arranging a funeral. Shirley had way too much to do for that.
Two hours later, she paced in front of the drawn curtains over her patio door. The darkened room soothed her like a comforting blanket. It was so good to be home, away from the over-sweet scent of her aunt’s flowers and the bright sunlight streaming through the windows.
But she’d accomplished what she needed to. It’d been no problem filling the Lantus vial with the U-500 insulin. Then she’d wiped it clean and wrapped it in a tissue before placing it in her purse. Now, the problem was getting the vial switched out with the one in Randy’s medical kit.
She had no doubt she’d be successful. Everything had fallen into place too easily for it to turn out badly—it was as though it was meant to be.
That was the only explanation of why she’d sat at the table next to Randy’s last night. She’d never sat close to him before. And Fate explained why she’d overheard him tell one of the other performers how important it was to take his insulin every night at the same time, even when he wasn’t home. Evidently the other guy was a diabetic too, because he asked what insulin Randy used. Lantus 100, along with a fast-acting insulin. Just like Shirley’s aunt. Or at least what she used before her doctor changed her to the pen.
All Shirley had to do was switch the bottles before he filled his syringe for his nightly dose. She didn’t anticipate a problem. Randy kept his blue medical kit on whatever table he claimed, and she just had to catch a time when no one was watching. With everyone’s eyes glued to the stage during the performances, that shouldn’t be a problem. The key was to act as though opening his kit was an everyday occurrence. No looking furtively around to see if anyone was watching.
Shirley shook her head. Cleaning up the mess Vic had caused was so inconvenient.
It wasn’t Vic who caused the problem. You shouldn’t have worn the necklace last night.
It wasn’t her fault! Besides, what was the use in having the necklace if she couldn’t wear it sometimes?
You should never have stolen it in the first place.
“Why not? Gabby was never going to wear it again.” She pressed her fingers in her ears. She had more problems than the necklace. Shirley rubbed her hands up and down her arms. Just as she’d feared, Detective Sloan was investigating Vic’s murder. She was the only person who would recognize the significance of the necklace and know that the only person who could have stolen it was her mother’s killer.
That’s just the beginning. It’ll be a chain reaction. Like dominoes falling.
“No,” she spoke into the empty room. “Rachel Sloan getting the case is a piece of bad luck. That’s all.” It was nothing she couldn’t handle. She was much smarter than the detective and was already a step ahead of her.
They’ll find the necklace and Rachel will recognize it. And then Gabby Winslow’s case will be reopened, and once the police start poking around in it, they’ll look at everyone she knew. Then they’ll discover all the other people you’ve killed.
“No one cares about them, and if I can’t find the necklace, neither will she.”
She doesn’t have to. His voice snaked through her mind. Once Randy Culver describes that diamond guitar pendant Vic showed him, Rachel will make the connection. She’ll bring in a sketch artist for him to work with and they’ll have your ugly likeness.
She was not ugly, not since she’d lost weight. Besides, there were so many women there last night that Randy wouldn’t remember her.
What if you get caught switching the vials?
“I’m not going to get caught.” Everyone said she had nerves of steel. “I’ll take care of Randy Culver tonight.”
But Sloan won’t give up. She’ll find the connection to the necklace. You have to get rid of her.
He was right. Hidden things had a way of coming to light, but shooting Sloan and getting away with it was so risky—she always had other cops around. The odds of getting caught were high. Maybe Shirley would send her a warning.
Yes. She would give her an opportunity to back off, just like she had Gabby. And if the detective didn’t, then whatever happened would not be Shirley’s fault. It would be Sloan’s.
Are you crazy? All you’re doing is giving her the opportunity to discover the truth. You have to get rid of her.
“It’s foolhardy to shoot a cop,” she said.
Who said you had to shoot her? Do I have to tell you every move to make? You still have that ricin. And tonight is the perfect opportunity to take care of her.
The ricin. Stealing a tiny vial from the lab where ricin was being used in experiments to treat cancer had been like stealing insulin from little old ladies. That was before it was touted as a terrorist’s tool. She’d used it only once, then resealed the small bottle.
Was that the answer to her problems? She chewed on her thumbnail, her heart beating hard against her chest. It had worked once before . . . It would work again. Yes! She pumped her clenched fist.
Unlike the necklace, the ricin couldn’t be traced. The idea was brilliant. She knew exactly how she would deliver it if Detective Sloan didn’t give up the case.