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The chief flipped back several sheets in the legal pad.

When his eyes widened in surprise, I knew he had reached the questions he’d listed in preparation for this meeting. Of course, he had no recollection of having written my additions. Understandably.

Chief Cobb’s brows drew down in a line. He gave an uncertain shake of his head, cleared his throat. “In investigating a suspicious death, it is helpful to have an understanding of the circumstances surrounding the deceased. Had there been any disruption of this household in recent days?”

I would have liked to shout a loud bingo! That was the question that mattered. With backs and starts and obvious uneasiness, the story unfolded: Keith’s arrival on Thursday, the summons of Susan’s lawyer Friday, the confirmation of Keith’s legitimacy Saturday morning.

Cobb wrote fast. I was reminded of a lion gnawing on a carcass. “Obviously Susan Flynn had an eventful weekend. Now I would appreciate your assistance in piecing together an account of her last day.”

Jake sat forward in her chair, her cheeks turning a bright pink. She said breathlessly, “I spoke with my good friend Mayor Lumpkin and Neva assured me that the investigation was only a formality since no one would ever be able to determine exactly how Susan died.”

I wished I could see every face at once. One listener knew exactly why Susan died.

“The mayor”—Cobb’s tone was level—“misinformed you. Mrs. Flynn died from an overdose of digitalis. What remains to be determined is whether her death was self-inflicted, an accident, or murder.”

Jake sagged back against her chair. Peg gave a soft cry. Dave reached for her hand, gave it a reassuring squeeze. Gina’s face was abruptly an unreadable mask of emptiness. Tucker’s lips formed a soundless whistle. Hammond cracked his knuckles, the sound loud in the silence. Charlotte reached over, gripped his hand, and the tiny pops ended. She didn’t look at him.

Jake fluttered her hands. “It was an accident. It had to be an accident.”

Cobb’s gaze was demanding. “Was Susan Flynn clumsy?”

Jake’s eyes fell. “No.”

Cobb leaned forward. “Was she easily confused? Could she have taken anywhere from twelve to fourteen pills by accident?”

Jake reluctantly shook her head.

“Susan was compos mentis, Chief Cobb.” Charlotte’s tone was dry. “You will not find anyone who would describe Susan as clumsy, stupid, or easily confused. To the contrary, she was intelligent, alert, and, though weak and ill, quite capable of dealing with her medications.”

Harrison said nothing, but he slowly nodded.

“Susan didn’t make mistakes of that sort.” Peg spoke with finality.

“Since an accidental overdose seems highly unlikely, that brings us,” Cobb said smoothly, “to the question of suicide. What was Susan Flynn’s mental state on her last day to live?”

A smile trembled on Peg’s lips even though her eyes were shiny with tears. “She was happier than she’d been in years and years. Her last day was wonderful. She was thrilled to have Keith at the Christmas party and to introduce him to the neighbors as her grandson.”

Cobb looked around. “Where is he now?”

Peg gestured toward the window. “In the front yard, playing. I asked Thea Carson who runs the children’s Sunday school program to bring her son over to play. Keith’s too little to understand about his grandmother’s death. Although I think he knows more about death than any little boy should.”

The more Peg talked, the heavier the silence.

Jake’s eyes were desperate. “But Susan was ill. Very ill. I can see how she might accidentally take too much medicine. It had to be an accident.”

No one else spoke.

Cobb surveyed the room. His tone was bland. “From all accounts, Mrs. Flynn was a careful and precise woman, which makes accidental ingestion unlikely. Since Mrs. Flynn was in good spirits yesterday, the hypothesis of suicide also seems unlikely.”

Harrison cleared his throat. “Susan’s last day was filled with great happiness and we are grateful for that. However, we all feared that she was overdoing. You have to remember that she was very ill. She hadn’t attended the Pritchard House Christmas party for several years. Yesterday, she took part and even had dinner with us to celebrate Keith’s arrival. How can anyone know what happened after she went to her room? She may have suffered great pain and, in a moment of despair, possibly not even reckoning the outcome, poured a handful of pills—”

“Susan would never commit suicide.” Peg’s eyes flashed. “Never in a million years.”

Charlotte brushed back an untidy gray curl. “Susan didn’t commit suicide.” She spoke with utter certainty. “So”—her expression was quizzical—“I believe that leaves us with murder.”

“Charlotte!” Harrison’s voice was anguished.

Dave Lewis didn’t look as handsome when he turned to glare at Charlotte.

Charlotte’s light blue eyes watched Cobb. “You indicated Susan died from an overdose of digitalis. How was the overdose administered? Or is there any way of knowing that?”

“We can be fairly certain we know the answer.” Cobb’s answer was swift and emphatic. “Digitalis in a heavy concentration was found in the dregs of both a cup of cocoa and a pot of cocoa found on a table in her bedroom. Was she in the custom of drinking cocoa every evening?”

Jake looked stunned. “Every night.”

Cobb held his pen over the pad. “Who prepared the cocoa Saturday night?”

Jake’s fingers closed over the strand of pearls. “I did. There wasn’t anything wrong with it. I fixed it like I always did, two tablespoons of cocoa, two cups of whole milk, an eighth cup of sugar, a dash of vanilla.” Her breath came in irregular gasps.

Peg pulled away from Dave’s grasp and leaned forward, her eyes flashing. “Mother took wonderful care of Susan. Always.”

Gina stiffened. “I took the cocoa upstairs. There was a Christmas cookie on the plate as well.”

Cobb swiveled toward Gina. “Where did you put the tray?”

“On the table by Susan’s chair. Susan was in the bathroom. I didn’t call out. I knew she’d see the tray.”

“Did you pour the cocoa?”

Peg shook her head. “Susan often waited until later to have a cup. Sometimes she read late and drank the cocoa right before she went to bed.”

Cobb turned back to Jake. “When you poured the cocoa from the saucepan, did you look into the china pot?”

Jake frowned at him in bewilderment. “Why would I do that? The pot was clean and waiting on the tray. I lifted the lid and poured in the cocoa.” A look of horror crossed her face. “I stirred it.” Her hand slid up to clutch at her throat. “Do you think there was digitalis in the pot?”

“That is a possibility. What time did you prepare the cocoa?”

“Just after everyone left. It was about eight-thirty.” Her lips clamped shut.

“I’d like to see where the chocolate service was kept.”

I followed Cobb and Jake to the kitchen. She pointed at the far end of one counter near the pantry. “Every morning I brought the tray down and washed everything up. I put the tray there.”