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I stared at her, startled by the suggestion, then said, “No. It looks like Jeffrey was poisoned, but I haven’t heard exactly with what. Something fast-acting, something I think was in the coffee my friend served him.”
“But she didn’t do it.”
NancyAnne’s expression was almost blank, as if she was doing her best to hide her skepticism at my protests of my friend’s innocence. I suppose on the surface, the scenario seemed sort of implausible…at least, if you didn’t know Victoria the way I did.
“No, she didn’t,” I said calmly. “Someone must have put the poison in the creamer she used, or maybe the coffee itself.”
“Jeffrey always needed his creamer,” NancyAnne responded in almost musing tones. “If someone doctored the stuff, they’d have to know that about him.”
That theory made sense. Of course, it didn’t explain who would have been able to get into Victoria’s studio and add the poison — whatever it was — to the creamer. As far as I knew, the only people who had keys to the place were Victoria and Archie…and me…because although she had a cleaning crew who came in to tidy the studio once a week, she always arrived early on those days to let them in. They definitely didn’t have a key of their own.
And even if they did, I couldn’t think of a single reason why anyone on Victoria’s cleaning crew would want to put poison in her creamer, let alone specifically place it there to kill Jeffrey Sellers.
“Do you know of anyone who would want him dead?” I asked next, wanting to wince at how awful those words sounded, even while I also knew I couldn’t dance around the question.
NancyAnne’s mouth twisted. “You mean, besides me?”
About all I could do was nod.
“I’ve been out of his life for seven years,” she said. “I really don’t know what was going on with him. The only reason I even knew where his apartment was located is because I hired a private detective of my own to track him down.”
Excitement surged through me. “You have the address to his apartment?”
She sent me a dubious look. “What, are you going to break in and rifle through his stuff or something?”
“Maybe,” I admitted. “I might find a clue there that could help me find out who really killed him. The reason I could track you down was because he had your divorce papers and child support claims in a file in his office.”
That admission made her eyes narrow again. “You’re sure you’re not a cop?”
“I’m definitely not a cop,” I said, trying not to smile. “But I’ve actually solved a lot of murders…more than the local police, to be honest. And this one is personal, because it involves my friends.”
NancyAnne was silent then, apparently doing her best to absorb everything I’d just told her. “His place is in Mesa,” she said. “Let me get the address.”
She rose from her chair and opened a drawer in the hotel room’s dresser, pulled out a plain brown purse, and retrieved her phone from inside. It was an iPhone several generations older than mine, its screen cracked, as if she hadn’t had the funds to either have it repaired or buy a new one.
Well, of course she didn’t, I thought. With the way Jeffrey Sellers stiffed her on child support, she probably had to use every last dime on rent and food.
And even that apparently hadn’t been enough, since she’d had to move back in with her parents.
“Nineteen-fifteen South Harris Street, apartment number 122,” she announced, obviously reading something from her contacts list.
“Just a sec,” I said, and dug my own phone out of my purse. I couldn’t ignore the way she almost glared at my iPhone, obviously the latest model and something I could only have bought within the last couple of months. Well, while I could sympathize with her current situation — it hadn’t been so long ago that I’d also had to keep my phone on life support for as long as possible — it wasn’t as though I’d had anything to do with it.
No, her current financial difficulties had everything to do with the man who’d dropped dead in Victoria’s studio last week.
I wrote down the address and said, “Thank you for that. I don’t know if I’ll find anything, but — ”
“I don’t want to know,” NancyAnne said clearly. “Jeffrey is gone, and I spent all this money and time coming here for absolutely nothing. Knowing the truth isn’t going to help me or my daughter.”
Probably not. Still, I hated to leave things on such a depressing note, and ventured, “Maybe he had a will?”
She made a disgusted sound. “Even if he did — even if he had any assets worth passing on — do you really think that deadbeat would have left a single goddamn dime for his daughter?”
His track record of paying child support…or not paying it, more to the point…indicated he probably wouldn’t have. Still, people sometimes made capricious decisions when it came to determining where their money would go after their deaths.
After all, I wouldn’t have my current financial security if it weren’t for Lucien Dumond deciding to leave all his money to me rather than to a family member, or even one of the more dedicated acolytes in his organization.
“It’s really hard to say,” I replied gently. “But I think it’s worth pursuing…if you don’t mind.”
