THE HERBALIST (Books 1-5) Page 5

  Melissa gave her a comforting smile. “I’m glad you can look at it that way, Cindy.”There’s something to be said for the resilience of youth in situations like this, she thought.

  “It’s strange. Even though I’ve always lived by myself here, I suddenly feel really alone.”

  “I can imagine. How was your dad?”

  “He took it pretty hard about Aunt Lauryl. I told him I’d handle all the arrangements and he said he’d pay for it.”

  “Do you think you’ll have the funeral here or in Phoenix?”

  “Most likely here. And I think we’ll just have a memorial service.”

  “I like that idea.”

  “Me, too, actually.”

  “Have you seen or talked to Nash?”

  “Yeah, he called me that night after I went to Phoenix. He wanted to see if I could get his stuff for him.”

  “Really?”

  “Do you think they’ll take down the crime scene tape and stuff now?”

  “I’m not sure what they’ll do, Cindy. We’ll just have to wait and see. I think they will have to leave it up until there’s a clear determination made on her death.”

  “Okay. I’ll let him know.”

  “Is there anything in particular he’s concerned about?”

  She just looked at Melissa for a full minute, then bit her bottom lip.

  “Yeah. I guess there’s a guitar case in the house with some marijuana in it.”

  Melissa had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” Melissa said. “It’s better that he can’t get at it. If they find it, they have no choice but to think its Lauryl’s and they can’t do anything to her about it now.”

  “What if they find his fingerprints on the case?”

  “’Possession is nine tenths of the law,’ they say. It’s in no one’s possession now.”

  This seemed to relieve her. She bought some apples and carrots and left, promising to come back when she’d heard anything further.

  Chapter 9

  Melissa sat at one of the tables to tend to some accounting work, while Vivian minded the counter. Vivian had just put on some organic hazelnut coffee, and the scrumptious scent wafted throughout the entire shop.

  Carl had put a bell up over the door, saying it would make it easier to know immediately when someone was in the store, no matter where everyone was. Melissa was not sure yet whether or not she approved. As a general rule, everyone just called out when they needed to be served, but Carl had pointed out that they had been getting more tourist trade of late. Melissa thought the truth was that Carl was just a little creeped out—he had come in from the garden one morning to find one of the county deputies standing over in a corner, just watching him.

  Just then, the bell jingled and in walked a man Melissa didn’t recognize. She couldn’t help but notice the smart way he was dressed in his chinos and pima cotton shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He wasn’t dressed like a tourist, but he definitely wasn’t a local. Not Catalonia local, anyway, but his cooler choice of fabrics meant he was likely an Arizonan. His dark auburn hair was cut rather boyishly, which went right along with his strong jaw and cleft chin, rather Kennedy-esque in looks. He glanced around the store, taking things in with sharp, blue eyes, until they fell on her.

  He strode casually toward her table. Vivian appeared and was about to ask if she could help him, when he looked at her and pointed toward Melissa, indicating he had found what he wanted.

  “Ms. Michaels?” he said, offering her his hand.

  “Yes?” she said, looking up through her reading glasses.

  “Brian Byrne. I’m a private investigator.”

  She shook his hand, offering him a chair. She sat back in hers and removed her glasses.

  “What can I help you with?” she asked.

  “Is there somewhere we can go to talk more privately?”

  She hesitated for a moment. “Sure,” she said. She called to Vivian, asking her to watch the front for a while.

  She brought Detective Byrne through the back stockroom, navigating through the stacks of empty fruit boxes and waiting produce. They walked out into the back, and sat on a decorative concrete block wall which surrounded one end of the garden.

  “This will have to do, Detective,” she said.

  “This is fine,” he responded.

  She watched his eyes as he quickly assessed their entire surroundings.

  “I’ve been hired to look into the demise of Lauryl Taylor.”

  “I assumed. Hired by whom?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say at this time, Ms. Michaels, but I believe you’ll have a good idea by the end of our conversation.”

  “Why are you not at liberty to say?”

  “Because, as you know, technically, there is nothing to investigate at this time.”

  “Then why are you here?” she asked.

  He grinned at her somewhat defensive tone. “Two reasons. One, because my client is worried that the trail is growing cold as we speak, and two, he is concerned for your welfare.”

  “My welfare?”

  “Yes. He is worried that you have stirred up the county sheriff’s department, and that they’re mounting an investigation on you, and, if Ms. Taylor’s death proves to be a homicide, he is afraid for your life as well.”

  “As far as the sheriff’s department is concerned, I have nothing to hide. As far as the latter, I’m stumped.”

  “I’ve revealed about all I can reveal at this time, Ms. Michaels.”

  “I see. So you don’t think I’m a suspect?”

  “Apparently, my client doesn’t.”

  “So you just go with whatever your client concludes?”

  Det. Byrne laughed easily. “Not necessarily. I’ve already been doing some background research on you.”

  “And?”

  “I think we can make formidable allies.”

  The compliment pleased her and she felt herself blushing slightly.

  “I would really like to get your take on the whole thing, plus compare notes—any information you have that I might not.”

  She could share with him right then and there, but she really wanted a chance to check him out. If he were on the up and up, she figured Dr. Mercer must have hired him, no matter how odd that might be, but if he weren’t… She just needed to do a little research herself.

  “I think if we’re to be effective, Detective, that it might be best if we’re not seen together too often—here anyway. Catalonia has its share of newsmongers, if you get my drift.”

  “I do. Where do you think would be an appropriate place to meet?”

  “Are you familiar with this area at all, Detective?”

  “A little.”

  “How about Bistro Sonoita, which is, predictably, in Sonoita?”

  “That’s west of here, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time?”

  “How about 7? That’ll give me time to finish my bookkeeping.”

  “That’s just fine,” he smiled, rising. They shook hands again and he gave her his business card. “I’ll see you then.”

  Melissa returned to her table, but made a quick query online. Brian Byrne was indeed a private investigator, licensed, with plenty of favorable endorsements. He was also very photogenic. However, there was one piece of information she was lacking: Who had hired him? She decided to play her hunch and call Dr. Mercer.

  “Hal?” she said. “Did you hire a P.I. on Lauryl’s case?”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny…” he said.

  That told her all she needed to know.

  Chapter 10

  Detective Byrne was sitting outside the café when she arrived. She parked beside him and got out. He had his window down, and she walked up.

  “Um…they don’t seem to be open.”

  “Not to the public.”

  “Huh?”

  “They close every day at 2 except on wee
kends, but I thought it important we be somewhere public, yet not too public, so I asked them if they would make dinner for us tonight.”

  “Wow!” he said. “You know how to pull some strings.”

  She shrugged and laughed. “It helps to have friends in high places—in this case, the owner.”

  They went in and sat down, and a server came to light the candle at their table and take their drink orders.

  “Sorry,” she said, chuckling. “I didn’t intend for this to look like a romantic dinner. This is standard procedure around here.”

  He laughed. “That’s okay,” he said.“Nice atmosphere.” He looked at the server, “Menus?”

  “Oh,” Melissa said. “I took the liberty of ordering ahead for us. I didn’t want them to think they had to keep the entire kitchen open.”

  “Good enough, then,” he said. “What are we having?”

  “They gave us a choice between Chicken Marsala and Kickin’ Chicken.”

  “Ooh. Kickin’ Chicken. I like the sound of that. But isn’t this place supposed to be famous for its burgers?”

  “It is, but you don’t look like a red meat man to me.”

  He looked as though he didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. She laughed.

  “Remember who I am and what I do. I can tell by looking at someone what their basic diet is. Though their burgers are grass-fed beef, so if I were to eat a burger, this is one of the few places I would do so.”

  “Well, you’re right,” he said. “I don’t eat a lot of red meat. It was just the way you said it.”

  She grinned at him.

  “They also have excellent local wines from Elgin, which is just down the road. Are you up for a glass?”

  He nodded.

  “I hope I haven’t brought you out here for nothing. Basically I have a few notes and a whole lot of conjecture, but not necessarily good conjecture at that.”

  The server came back with a plate of chipotle chile tapas, and Melissa requested two glasses of Rancho Rossa chardonnay.

  His eyes bugged out at the tapas plate. She leaned over and whispered, conspiratorially, “These aren’t even on the menu.”

  She brought him up to speed, relating to him what she knew and what she didn’t know.

  “So you’re not considering anyone as a suspect right now?”

  She shook her head. “I would really have to know what killed her to even begin to consider those aspects.”

  “You do know what killed her. You don’t suspect illness, and the toxicology screen showed nothing. We just have to find out what else can do those kinds of things without making her sick first.”

  “A massive dose of pesticides?”

  “And how would she have gotten something like that?”

  “Well, if it was inhaled, it wouldn’t have to be so massive.”

  “I’m pretty sure any of that would have showed up on the tox screen, and there would have been some kind of residue around the mouth or nose.”

  She nodded slowly, thinking.

  “I need to pull out all my herbal books.”

  “Herbal? I thought herbs were supposed to be great for us.”

  “They are. But there are lots of things that can kill in great enough quantities. Do we know anything about her stomach contents?”

  “Empty.”

  “Completely?”

  “Completely.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Her boyfriend told me they were up here in Sonoita drinking until ten o’clock. He said she didn’t eat much, but that implies she at least had something. Unless…” she said.

  “…she vomited.”

  “Exactly!” Melissa said, nearly stabbing him with her fork to emphasize her exclamation.

  They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, and the server brought their wine.

  “We really need to get inside the house and look around,” he said.

  “Yes,” she agreed, “but how do you propose to do that?”

  “I’ve heard it said that you've looked in on things from time to time while Lauryl was away.”

  “Could be,” she said.

  “And do you have a key?”

  “Could be,” she said.

  “I think that could be our answer.”

  She sighed. “I don’t know. I sort of fibbed to the sheriff’s department about having a key. If we get caught…”

  “I don’t intend to get caught, but ‘sort of fibbed’?”

  “Well, he asked me if I had a key, and I told him that she gave me one when she left town for one of her shows. I just didn’t tell him that I kept it.”

  He smiled as the server brought them their plates, inhaling deeply. “This smells fantastic.”

  “It is fantastic,” she said, digging in. “Okay, here is my major misgiving about looking around in the house. The house is right on Main Street. We already have someone who says they saw something the night before she died. If we go in there, we’re going to have to have some kind of light, and any kind will surely attract somebody’s attention.”

  “Somebody says they saw something?”

  “Yes. Mike Dryden. He lives catty-cornered across the street from Lauryl’s house.”

  “Has anybody talked to this guy?”

  “I’m not sure, other than the mailman.”

  “Why haven’t you talked to him?”

  “I wasn’t sure I wanted to get involved.”

  “Well, you are involved,” Brian pointed out. “If we can’t go look at the house in the dark, can we at least go talk to this guy?”

  Melissa looked at her cell phone to see what time it was. “I guess so. If he was up the night before she died, and we know she didn’t get home till after ten, he’s probably awake now.”

  “What would you think if we went to look at the house super-early tomorrow morning, when it’s less likely to draw attention?”

  “I guess we can do that. She has a walled-in backyard, and my key is for the back door.”

  “Well, then, let’s not keep Mr. Dryden waiting any longer than we have to.”

  They finished their meal and rose to leave.

  “No dessert tonight, Melissa?” the server asked.

  “Oh, you know I love your desserts, but we have to run.”

  “No check?” the detective asked.

  “I took care of it when I arranged it.”

  “Oh, well, thanks. After this, just remember that I have an expense account—one that doesn’t come out of my own till.”

  She smiled. “Thank you. I will remember that.”

  They drove back into town, and she pulled into her own driveway. The detective pulled on past and parked in front of the city park, then they both walked to the Dryden house.

  Lights were on, and a television was blaring.

  Melissa knocked. No answer.

  “He might be a little hard of hearing,” she said.

  “I would say so, as loud has he has that TV.”

  She opened the screen door.

  “Mr. Dryden?”

  They heard movement, shuffling, and then a clunk-clunk-clunk sound. Finally Mr. Dryden came into view pushing a walker.

  “Who’s there?” he asked.

  “Melissa—Missy Michaels, Mr. Dryden.”

  “Who?”

  “Missy Michaels. Do you remember me?” She stepped on into the room.

  “Oh, you’re that woman that has the market now.”

  “Yes,” she said, smiling. “I’ve brought someone who wants to talk to you.”

  “Okay,” he said. He turned around and shuffled back to where he was in front of the TV, with the same clunk-clunk-clunk of his walker. Mercifully, he turned off the television.

  “Mr. Dryden, this is Detective Byrne, from…”

  “Phoenix,” the detective said, putting out his hand to shake Mr. Dryden’s.

  “Detective, eh? I wondered when somebody was going to come talk to me.”

  “No one has talked to you about it, Sir?”

/>   “Not for the last sixty years.”

  “Mr. Dryden?”

  “Aren’t you here about that little snafu down in Texas?”

  Melissa gave the detective a half smile.

  “No. No, Mr. Dryden, not about Texas.”

  “Oh, well, okay then.”

  “Has anybody talked to you about the night your neighbor died?”

  “Which neighbor? I’ve lost plenty of ‘em over the past twenty years or so.”

  “Lauryl, Mr. Dryden. Lauryl Taylor. She lives—er, lived—just over there?” Melissa said, pointing in the direction of the house.

  “Ohhhh,” Mr. Dryden said. “The one with the man that rides the motorcycle.”

  “That’s the one,” she said.

  “She’s dead?”

  “Um, yes, Mr. Dryden.”

  “Oh, so that’s what that hullabaloo was about a few days back with all those emergency vehicles.”

  “Yes.”

  They were still standing in the doorway.

  “C’mon in here and sit down,” the old man said.

  “Mr. Osteen, the mailman, seemed to think you saw something the night before that could be pertinent to the investigation.”

  “Yep. The sheriff asked me the same thing.”

  Melissa’s heart sank.

  “What did you tell the sheriff?” Detective Byrne asked.

  “Not a consarned thing. I just acted like I was confused about what he wanted.”

  Melissa’s jaw dropped as she looked over at Byrne.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “You don’t want to get me started on local politics,” he said. “Now do you want to know what I saw?”

  “Yes, please, Mr. Dryden.”

  “Well, it was just before eleven. That woman came home in her car, and the man was right behind her on his motorcycle. They both went in the house. It wasn’t very much after that, less than a half hour, that he came right back out carrying a white bag.”

  “A white bag? What kind? Like an overnight bag or a shopping bag?”

  “More like a laundry bag.”

  “Did it look like it had laundry in it?”

  “Can’t say for sure. If it was, it was dirty laundry ‘cause it was lumpy.”

  “What happened after that?”

  Mr. Dryden shrugged. “He got on his bike and drove away.”