“Now, where is Phil with those cherries?” she asked.
“Is the kitchen far away?” Helen asked.
“On the other side of the house,” she said. “He’s sure taking his time.”
Blossom picked up the glass without the dash of Angostura.
“You left the bitters out of your drink,” Helen said, heading for the bar.
“I don’t want them,” Blossom said.
“But that’s what makes a manhattan,” Helen said. “Here. Let me add a splash.” She reached for the small bottle.
“No!” Blossom said.
“I don’t know why you don’t want it,” Helen said. “It’s the key to everything. Just a little?”
“Stay away from me with that stuff,” Blossom said. Her eyes were wild, her dark hair stood straight out and one false eyelash fluttered loose. Her cobwebby top caught on the edge of the bar and tore. Blossom didn’t notice. The woman who’d killed two people was falling apart. She was terrified of a four-ounce bottle, the weapon that had murdered her lover.
Helen decided to help her unravel. “Can’t imagine why you’re so upset,” she said. “What harm can a drop do?”
She unscrewed the cap. Blossom picked up the seltzer bottle and held it in front of her like a shield.
“I said stop it,” she screamed, her voice frantic. “Stop it now!”
“What? Are you going to shoot me with that thing, like a Three Stooges movie?” Helen asked.
“Yes,” Blossom said, and hit Helen in the face with a jet of seltzer.
Helen coughed and staggered back, wiping seltzer off her face. “You’re upset,” she said. “You’ve been under a strain because of Arthur’s illness. But that’s no way to treat your minister.”
“I don’t give a damn,” Blossom howled.
There was no pretending now. This was a fight. Blossom waved the bottle of dry vermouth at Helen’s head.
“Put that down,” Helen said.
“Get out,” Blossom said, and swung it at Helen. The bottle clipped her shoulder and landed on the leather chair, spilling out onto the seat. The fumes choked Helen, but she grabbed the cut-glass ice bucket and heaved it at Blossom.
She ducked, and the ice bucket hit the potpourri vase. It shattered, spilling its fragrant leaves and seeds on the tabletop. Helen heard something roll across the table and land softly on the thick carpet. She saw something brown and round. A ball? A wheel? A seed? It was rolling toward them on the carpet.
Blossom set down the sweet vermouth bottle, distracted by the moving brownish object.
Now Helen saw it clearly. It was a fat round seed. Blossom wrapped her hand around it as Helen whacked her on the head with the bottle of Knob Creek.
Blossom collapsed on the floor, still clutching the seed in her hand. Helen stomped Blossom’s hand and she let go of it.
Helen picked up the seed. She was drenched with seltzer, stank of booze and was so bruised she could hardly move her arm.
Blossom did not move at all.
Phil strolled in with the jar of cherries, blinking in the dim liquor-scented chaos.
“Did I miss something?” he asked.
CHAPTER 37
Helen stared at the shattered shepherdess and wondered if Coronado Investigations’ insurance covered Sevres smashed in the line of duty. She was still dazed from her unexpected battle with Blossom. Where was Arthur’s widow?
Facedown on the rug, not moving. Not good, Helen thought.
Phil was still holding the jar of cherries and laughing like a loon. “You mean it worked?” he said. “The bluff worked?”
“What bluff?” Helen said. “What’s so funny?”
“Blossom actually believed you were pouring poison in her manhattan,” Phil said. He couldn’t stop laughing.
Helen was angry—and wet. Water dripped off her seltzered hair. She brushed her drenched bangs out of her eyes and said, “I would have, too. Dumped it right in her drink.”
“Still wouldn’t have poisoned her,” Phil said.
She didn’t like his smirk. “That’s the bottle on the bar,” she said.
Four ounces of nicotine tea had created a path of destruction through the forest of tables and chairs and the jungle ropes of braid and tassels: The seltzer bottle was stranded on the floor. The dry vermouth bottle had glugged itself empty on the chair. The cut-glass ice bucket had gouged deep furrows in the inlaid tabletop as it skidded sideways and splintered the shepherdess. Two useless tables were toppled.
Helen’s wine spritzer and the cashews had survived unharmed. So had the two manhattans.
“There is no poison in that Angostura bottle,” Phil said, pointing to it. “I bought those bitters and pretended that was the poison bottle. I wasn’t going to risk my life—or yours—playing with something deadly. The real poison bottle is still on the kitchen counter and the nicotine tea is in the jar under the sink. That bottle is safe as lemonade.” His mouth tilted upward in a quirky smile.
Helen wanted to slap it off his face. Anger arced through her. “Phil Sagemont, I can’t believe you let me think Blossom was poisoning your drink,” she said. The fight left her with an adrenaline overload and she unleashed it. “And what were you doing staring at her breasts?”
“I was undercover,” Phil said.
“Well, they weren’t!” Helen flounced behind the rosewood bar and reached for the phone. “I’m calling 911. Blossom hasn’t moved. She needs an ambulance.”
“Good Lord, she’s not dead, is she?” he asked. “I’d better check.”
Blossom was still sprawled on the dark carpet, a study in scarlet, jet-black and corpse white. Phil knelt down next to the fallen widow and lifted an eyelid. “She’s out cold, but she’s breathing.” He searched her scalp for a wound. “That’s quite a lump on her head.”
“They don’t call it Knob Creek bourbon for nothing,” Helen said. “I may have hurt her hand, too, when I stepped on it.”
Phil winced. “Remind me not to upset you,” he said.
“Too late,” she said.
Phil finally realized she was in no mood for jokes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly, I am. When Blossom wakes up, she’s going to accuse you of attacking her. The crime-scene techs should find enough evidence to support your story.”
Blossom whimpered softly.
“Let’s hope this is the seed from the suicide tree,” Helen said. She set it on the bar. “We should get the police here.”
“Let me make quick calls to Detective Mac Dorsey, our lawyer and Valerie Cannata,” he said. “Mac may need a warrant for that poison bottle.”
Helen handed him the phone.
“Her number’s in my cell phone,” he said. “Mac promised she’d wait for my call.”
She did. Helen heard Phil give his report, quick and professional. Then his voice changed. He was explaining, then pleading. Finally, he said, “So it’s okay? I’ll see you here,” and hit END.
“Something wrong?” Helen asked.
“Mac is just being cautious,” he said. “She wanted to know how I found the nicotine tea and the poisoned bitters. She was afraid I’d been breaking and entering. She forgot I’m the estate manager here. Then she asked if I was working undercover for the police or the DA.
“Once I convinced her I wasn’t a government agent, she said this was a lawful search. I have to show the investigating cops I found evidence in two murders. They can’t even open that kitchen cabinet. I have to point and say, ‘Lookie here, Officers.’”
“Why is Mac carrying on?” Helen asked. “She knows us.”
“She also knows the laws about illegal searches,” Phil said. “They’re tricky. She doesn’t want this evidence thrown out. Mac’s on her way. Zack is her case, but this isn’t her jurisdiction. We’re in Hendin Island’s.”