She said, “It’s not fair how you lost your family. Believe me, I have an idea of what that feels like. So, I get it. I just wanted to tell you that.”
She turned and walked away. I sat there for a few moments. I wasn’t completely sure what the heck she was talking about, but it did dawn on me that seeing someone punished for wrongfully ending someone else’s life felt good.
Really good.
I picked up my phone and punched in Ethan’s number.
He answered on the second ring. “Umm, isn’t it a little late?”
I said, “Remember tonight when you said to call if I needed you?”
“Yeah?”
I said, “I need you.”
27
A light fog had risen up after the rain had stopped, but as I drove home I barely noticed it since my brain was already in a fog of its own. To be honest, I think I was in a state of shock. I couldn’t help thinking about Mrs. Harwick. When she had pulled that poker out and stirred the burning embers in the stove, there had been a look of real fear in her eyes, but more than that, there was a look of certainty. She seemed driven, as though there was no doubt in her mind that what she was doing was right and that there were no other choices.
Had things gotten so twisted in her head that she really believed she needed to murder her husband in order to protect her children’s security? Or perhaps it was never Mr. Harwick that she loved, but his money, and she wanted to keep it all for herself. I remembered with a shudder that she’d mentioned that Mr. Harwick was her second husband and that her first husband had died unexpectedly. I wondered if somebody shouldn’t look into that.
I pulled into the curving lane that leads down to my house and slowed to a crawl. I didn’t want to wake anyone up. Ethan’s car was parked under the carport next to Michael’s, but of course Paco’s was gone.
The Special Investigative Bureau was probably still booking August, and I had a feeling they had a lot of questions for him. I thought of Corina and how nervous she’d looked getting on that private plane. I knew why now. There had been a sleeping bird in that purse she was carrying. That’s why August had handed it to her so gently. If she was the courier that was cooperating with the police, I wondered if she’d been caught in the sting as well or if she’d turned herself in voluntarily. I hoped it was the latter.
I’d get Paco to tell me. Or at least I’d try. He can be a tough nut to crack sometimes.
As I pulled into the carport I saw Ethan waiting at the bottom of my steps. He came over and opened the door of the Bronco, and when I stood up he hugged me. We just stood there for a long time, not talking, but then it all came pouring out of me and I told him everything. How I’d found the package of letters that Kenny had told us about. How when I saw that bottle of Butorphanol and the taxi receipt, I’d realized that Mrs. Harwick was probably not as grief-stricken as she was pretending to be. How she had drugged her husband and rolled him into the pool and had planned on framing me. He listened to the entire story and didn’t interrupt once, not even when I got to the part about waiting in Kenny’s boat with my gun hidden in the cushions next to me and the police hiding out nearby. He didn’t say a word. He just listened.
Have I mentioned that I like that in a man?
When I was finished with the whole story, I fully expected to hear a lecture about never putting myself in that kind of situation again, or how I should have let the police handle it, or what would have happened if, blah blah blah. Instead, he merely nodded with an impressed expression on his face, as if he’d just watched me hit a baseball out of the park.
“Nice job, Dixie.”
He walked me over to the steps with his arm around my shoulder. I was thoroughly exhausted, but luckily this time he didn’t need to carry me up.
When we got to the top, Ethan said, “Looks like somebody left you a present.”
Sitting on my doorstep was a small paper gift bag, tied shut at the top with a scallop-edged pink ribbon.
I put my hands on my hips. “Did you put that there?”
“No. I wish I could take credit for it, but I didn’t. Any other guys I should be worried about?”
I rolled my eyes at him. “Come on.”
“No, seriously, I got here right before you did.”
“Really?”
I knelt down and picked up the bag. Then it hit me.
I said, “Oh, no. I bet it’s from Michael. He was teasing me earlier, and I got mad.” I handed it to him and pulled my keys out. “He’s so sweet. I was going to apologize to him in the morning, but he beat me to it. Open it up. Knowing Michael, I’m sure it’s something good to eat.”
I dropped my backpack just inside the door and collapsed on the couch. Ethan walked over to the kitchen counter and pulled the pink ribbon off and rustled through the tissue paper inside.
He said, “Cynar. Nice.”
He pulled out a wine bottle with a red cap and a picture of a green artichoke against a red background on the label.
I said, “What the heck is Cynar?”
“It’s really good. It’s made out of artichokes.”
“Ick! Artichoke wine?”
“No, it’s liqueur. It’s kind of bitter, but sweet, too. Tasty!”
It figured Michael would have gone out and bought me some strange, fancy liqueur. He knew damn well I’d be just as happy with some homemade brownies or a six-pack of beer, but he’s always trying to get me to develop a taste for more sophisticated things. I felt like I recognized the label on the bottle, but I was pretty sure I’d remember drinking something made out of artichokes.
Ethan tossed a card on my lap. “Here.”
I said, “He’s really trying to make up with me, isn’t he?”
“Let’s have some. After what you’ve been through today, you deserve it.”
“Okay. There are some glasses in the cabinet over the sink.”
He opened up the cabinet and rummaged through my sad, ragtag collection of mugs, plastic cups, and wineglasses.
“Don’t you have any liqueur glasses?”
I shot him a disdainful look.
He laughed and pulled down two mismatched wineglasses. “Gotcha!”
I slid the card out of its envelope. It was the color of light butterscotch, with a black border around its edge. There was no signature, just a short note. It said, “Dear Dixie, love doesn’t always have to be a sacrifice.”
It was written in the tiniest, most precise handwriting I’ve ever seen.
Actually, that’s not true. I had seen that handwriting before: when Mrs. Harwick handed me her feeding instructions for the fish.
I stood up and brought the bottle into the kitchen, studying the cap. I couldn’t really tell if it had been tampered with, but I had a pretty good idea. I have to admit, I was definitely in the mood for taking chances, but drinking artichoke liqueur laced with a narcotic, or worse, was definitely not one of them. I twisted the cap off and tipped the bottle into the sink.
Ethan jumped. “Wait! What are you doing?”
“I’m pouring it out.”
“What is this? Prohibition month? I promise you that is perfectly delicious stuff.”
I clucked my tongue at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. You have no idea where this came from. You can’t just go around drinking whatever you find laying on your doorstep.”
He grabbed my hand and tipped the bottle back up. “Dixie, seriously, just try a little. I promise you it’s not that bad.”
I sighed and looked him in the eye. “Ethan. It’s not from Michael. It’s from Mrs. Harwick.”
He withdrew his hand and hopped back a little. “Oh.”
“Exactly. She must have stopped by here on her way to Kenny’s houseboat. Obviously, she didn’t intend for her evening to end the way it did.”
I tipped the bottle back over, and we both watched the amber liquid as it gurgled out and disappeared down the drain. As the last drop fell, we sighed in unison. I rinsed the bottle out several times with hot water and threw it into the recycling bin.