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  “He’d been there, working for a couple of hours, when Don Fitzhugh came storming into his office, carrying the two white tablecloths. He told Milt that his daughter’s reception had been ruined, and that he was fired. After that, he threw the table cloth on Milt’s desk and left, telling him he had an hour to pack his stuff and be out of there.”

  “Did he have any contact with Mr. or Mrs. Fitzhugh after he left that day?” Chas asked.

  “No. He never went back, and they certainly didn’t bother to come see him, even after he got sick,” she spat bitterly.

  “How long after he was fired did Milt get diagnosed?”

  “Maybe a couple of weeks. I honestly think his broken heart fed his illness. He loved that job, and worked his heart out for those people.

  “Did you go to college, Mrs. Jeffries?” Chas asked, seemingly out of the blue.

  “For a few semesters, yes,” Melinda frowned, puzzled.

  “What was your major?”

  “Well, I hadn’t really declared a major for sure, but I was interested in chemistry…” she hedged.

  “Really? Any specific type of chemistry?” Chas persisted, knowing the answer.

  “Well, I thought about becoming a pharmacist at some point, but then I got married, and Milt was content to have me stay at home, so…”

  “So you studied pharmacology?”

  “Maybe a class or two,” Melinda nodded.

  “Mrs. Jeffries, may I take a look in your kitchen?”

  Melinda paled. “Why…why would you want to do that?” she stammered.

  “Because I’m guessing that I’m going to find evidence that you somehow created a poison called solanine,” Chas leveled her with a look.

  She swallowed hard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” was the shaky reply.

  “Then you won’t mind me taking a look, will you?”

  “No, of course not,” her eyes darted back and forth and her hands shook.

  “I’ll follow you,” Chas stood, and she slowly followed suit, wandering toward her tiny kitchen.

  “Solanine comes from tomatoes, doesn’t it?” she asked. “I don’t like tomatoes. Never have. I wouldn’t even put them in Milt’s salad,” she babbled nervously.

  Melinda stood pressed up against the kitchen sink, while Chas opened the refrigerator and the pantry, surveying the contents of each.

  “See, no tomatoes,” she attempted to smile.

  “I’ve seen everything that I need to see here,” Chas reached into an inner pocket of his suit coat and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

  “What? What do you mean?” her eyes widened at the sight of the metal cuffs. “There are no tomatoes anywhere.”

  “That’s correct, there aren’t,” the detective nodded. “But there are green potatoes in your pantry, and there’s a potato peeler right behind you on the sink. You don’t have to be a pharmacologist to know that solanine can be found in green potatoes,” Chas remarked, snapping the cuffs onto one of Melinda’s thin, fragile-looking wrists and turning her away from him to secure the other wrist. “Wanna tell me why you did it?” he asked casually, as though inquiring about the weather.

  “I might as well rot in prison. Life without my Milt isn’t worth living,” tears ran down her face. “Don Fitzhugh would never have fired Milt if it hadn’t been for his evil wife. Milt was the best employee that they had. Belle threw a fit about the mix-up at the reception, she demanded that my Milt be fired, and she had this awful smirk on her face every time I saw her after that, as though she enjoyed my pain. She was vindictive, Detective. Vindictive and evil. I’m not sorry,” Melinda shook her head. “She deserved it, and I’d do it again, given the chance,” she whispered, her tears flowing freely.

  There were times when Chas had to arrest folks that he didn’t really want to, and this was one of those times. This delicate, sweet-natured, older woman had lost a husband whom she’d dearly loved, and, in the midst of her grief, had done something unspeakable. She sobbed all the way to the police station, and once there, she gave a full confession. She’d been plotting Belle Fitzhugh’s murder since the day of her husband’s funeral, and had volunteered to judge the chili contest just so that she’d have her chance to kill the woman whom she blamed for her husband’s death.

  She and Milton had been nearly penniless after he got fired, and what little savings they did have had been consumed by medical costs. Milt’s life insurance policy hadn’t begun to cover Melinda’s needs, so she literally had nothing to lose. On the verge of bankruptcy and foreclosure, she’d held on by volunteering at the local soup kitchen, where she’d be able to get at least one full meal each day until she could find a way to poison Belle at the festival.

  Melinda’s confession held no remorse, not a shred of regret, and she went to her cell in tears, but with her head held high.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  * * *

  Spencer Bengal slogged through the knee deep powder into the trees that were just past the wing of what had to be Kel’s plane. He hadn’t gone very far when he spotted the rest of the small aircraft, suspended in the trees, just a few feet from the ground. His heart sped up when he realized that Kel was in that plane…dead or alive, and he hoped that the news he’d be giving to Echo when he returned home was positive.

  He wanted to call his friend’s name, but didn’t dare, not knowing the potential for avalanche. Feeling the heat from his exertion, he sped up his pace, making his way to the plane.

  “Kel?” he called out, dismayed when there was no response.

  He swept the snow away from the cockpit window and jumped back in surprise when he saw the gruesome angle of the pilot’s head, and the unseeing eyes staring out at him.

  “No,” he whispered.

  Coming around the side of the plane, he clearly saw where the snow had been disturbed, and once he’d checked inside the plane, finding Kel missing, he followed the tracks about thirty yards, to where the remaining wing was balanced against the base of a tree. The tracks stopped there, but there was no sign of a fire burning, which worried him. The artist wouldn’t last very long without warmth, and the coat, gloves and scarf that Echo had insisted he take with him would be less than adequate.

  “Kel?” he called out again, peering under the wing and vaguely seeing a dark blob against the trunk of the tree. “Oh man, c’mon buddy,” Spencer worried, lowering himself to his knees and switching on his head lamp before he climbed under the fragile structure.

  Scrambling over to the mass, which turned out to be Kel, wrapped in blankets and zipped up in a subzero sleeping bag, Spencer paused a moment before pulling the scarf back from his friend’s face, preparing himself for what he was almost certainly about to face.

  Whipping off his insulated glove, he pulled the scarf back, seeing a tremendous amount of frostbite on Kel’s pale cheeks. Was he too late?

  “No,” Spencer whispered, sticking his hand down into the sleeping bag to feel for a pulse. Holding very still, he held his breath, searching for a heartbeat in the already cooling skin. There! He felt something. While weak, Kel’s heart was still beating, so Spencer tried to rouse him.

  “Kel, talk to me buddy,” he said loudly. “Kel, come on man. Wake up and talk to me.”

  When he got no response, Spencer set the tracking beacon that his own pilot had sent with him, outside, punching in a code that would send a distress signal. Immediately after that, he pulled smelling salts out of his first aid kit, cracked one open, and waved it under Kel’s nose. The artist moved his head slightly, and Spencer spoke to him again.

  “You’re okay buddy, I’m here. It’s Spencer. I’m gonna take good care of you.”

  Kel slowly opened his eyes.

  “Am I dead?” he mumbled, blinking slowly, clearly in shock.

  “Not on my watch, pal,” Spencer smiled with relief and put a water bottle up to his friend’s lips. “Here, take a sip.”

  Most of the water dribbled away from Kel’s lips because they were nu
mb with cold, but Spencer made sure that he got some hydration.

  “Tell me your name,” he initiated the protocol for determining Kel’s well-being.

  “Kel,” he replied hoarsely, his cracked lips barely moving, eyes heavy.

  “Where are you, Kel? Can you tell me that?”

  “In the snow.”

  “What’s my name?”

  “Spence.”

  “Good. Are you injured?” he asked, while shining a light into Kel’s eyes to check for dilated pupils.

  “Arm.”

  “Your arm?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Which one?”

  “Right.”

  “You right-handed or left-handed?” Spencer wanted to keep him talking to keep him conscious.

  “Leff…” Kel started to close his eyes and Spencer patted his cheek gently.

  “Stay with me buddy, you’re gonna be okay, you just have to stay awake for me, okay?” he asked, the beam of the flashing beacon bathing them in light.

  He actually had no idea whether or not Kel would make it, and based on his state of near hypothermia, and definite signs of frostbite, he had his doubts, but he would do everything humanly possible to try and save his friend. The first order of business was making sure that Kel got warmed up and hydrated. There was enough room under the protection of the wing to make a fire, so that was Spencer’s first priority. He quickly gathered branches and twigs from the surrounding area and used a fire starter that he’d brought with him to get a small blaze going.

  The little cave formed by the wing soon warmed up nicely, and Spencer unzipped the sleeping bag, peeling the layers of blankets from Kel’s body so that he could assess the artist’s condition.

  “Brace yourself, this may hurt a bit,” he told Kel as he gently squeezed up and down his friend’s arm to see if it was broken. It was. In two places, one in his upper arm, one in his forearm.

  Kel gritted his teeth.

  “I’m going to take off your glove and check your hand, then I’m going to splint these breaks, okay?” he asked, not waiting for a response.

  The tips of Kel’s fingers were ice cold and showing signs of frostbite, so Spencer placed them between his own palms to warm them a bit before splinting the breaks in his arm. Kel cried out more than once during that process, shaking with pain, but was otherwise quiet. Too quiet.

  “Stay with me, buddy,” Spencer would warn periodically, tapping on Kel’s cheeks if he started to slip away.

  When his arm was splinted and secured in the sling, Spencer went to work on his feet, pulling off his shoes to check them. Fortunately, his socks had miraculously remained dry, and while his feet were cold, the frostbite was minimal.

  “We’re going to move you toward the fire a bit now. Just relax and let me help you, okay?”

  Kel nodded, exhausted and unable to speak.

  Spencer swung his feet around closer to the fire, then clamped his hands under the artist’s underarms and lifted his upper body closer to the fire, easing him back into a prone position, bunching up a blanket under his head for a pillow. Kel moaned weakly and reached for Spencer’s hand. Spencer took his hand and warmed it for a few minutes before heating some water over the fire to make hot cocoa. The sweet liquid would get both water and much-needed calories into Kel in a hurry.

  The faint whump-whump-whump in the distance told Spencer that his tracking beacon had worked and that help was on the way, but the chopper wouldn’t be able to see him under the cover of the trees. He needed to get out into the clear to signal it.

  Taking a can of fluorescent orange spray chalk with him, Spencer stood to go and Kel clutched at him, his eyes going wide with panic.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be right back. I’m getting you some help. Stay here and try to stay awake. I’ll be back before you know it,” he promised.

  Kel nodded weakly, his head sinking back into the blanket, his breathing labored.

  Spencer moved as quickly as he could through the snow, shaking the can of chalk as he went. When he cleared the treeline, he wrote STRETCHER AND IV in the snow, and checked the horizon, seeing the faint speck of a helicopter in the distance. When the chopper got closer, he stood to one side, waving his arms above his head, thankful when he saw a stretcher with a bundle of equipment in it being lowered to the ground. Moving back into the trees so that he didn’t get whipped with flying snow in the downdraft under the chopper, he waited until his supplies hit the ground, then moved over to detach them. The helicopter continued to hover. They were apparently going to wait for him to bring Kel out.

  Moving as rapidly as he could, Spencer went back to the shelter under the wing, and decided to move the wing aside for easier access. He used both hands to shove against one side, and toppled it away from the tree, causing snow to plop down onto a barely conscious Kel.

  “Sorry about that, man. We’re gonna get you outta there,” he assured him.

  Kicking snow over the fire, he slid the helicopter stretcher beside where Kel lay. Grasping him under the arms again, he lifted his friend onto the stretcher, then slid his feet onto the end. Kel was too weak to even cry out, he was fading fast. Spencer secured him to the stretcher with nylon belts and straps, leaving his injured right arm outside of the sleeping bag that was still wrapped around him. Splitting open the packet of IV supplies, he expertly inserted a line and got fluids flowing within a matter of minutes. Grabbing the pull cord at the front of the stretcher, he told Kel to brace himself, and, hooking the IV bag to his backpack, he trudged through the snow, toward the edge of the treeline, where the chopper would lift them to safety.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  * * *

  Missy had never felt heat like this in her entire life. She’d grown up in Louisiana, where the air was sometimes so humid that it felt like swimming through a hot, heavy fog, but the oppressive heat in Madrissa, Arizona felt like she’d walked into an unrelenting furnace. Finding herself wishing that she’d done more research before flying off to such an inhospitable climate, Missy was nonetheless determined to complete the task to which she’d committed. She wanted her baby back, and if she had to put her life in danger to get her, so be it.

  She had Kevin Lyndhurst’s address with her, as well as the address for his sister Julie, who lived close by. She’d start at Kevin’s house and go from there, because she irrationally believed that it’d be more likely for a man to kidnap a child than for a woman. She knew that her thinking in that was flawed, but she had to start somewhere, so it might as well be there. She figured if Kevin didn’t have the child, it’d probably be easier to take her away from her aunt anyway.

  Missy had never been so scared in her life. Her heart leapt to her throat at the mere thought of confronting Kaylee’s kidnappers, but thinking about the poor little tot being scared in the company of adults who didn’t even really want her, underscored Missy’s determination to get the innocent girl back to Calgon where she belonged.

  She’d spent the entire flight to Arizona plotting out her course of action, and now that she was here, she didn’t want to plan, she wanted to act. Her resolve firmly in place, Missy stepped out into the searing heat, which nearly took her breath away, and headed for the air-conditioned confines of her rental car. She’d looked at Kevin’s neighborhood on an internet street-view map, and it looked like one where everyone worked, so chances were slim that they’d know their neighbors well. She’d also looked up the names of nearby neighbors so that she could pretend she belonged.

  Dropping by a local grocery store, she bought a festive plastic platter from the party section of the store, and a box of chocolate chip cookies from the bakery. Once in the car, she arranged the cookies on the plate, setting it carefully on the floor in the passenger side so it wouldn’t tip in transit. Her heart began to pound as she pulled up in front of Kevin Lyndhurst’s house, and she knew there was no turning back now, no matter what.

  Taking a deep breath, she tucked a limp lock of hair behind her ear, grabbed the cookies an
d her purse and headed to the door. It was just after dinner time, so hopefully Kevin would be home. She knocked on the door, having to remind herself to breathe. She had to pull herself together so that he wouldn’t be suspicious.

  Kevin Lyndhurst opened the door, dressed in plaid shorts and a lemon yellow polo shirt. “Hi,” he said with a puzzled smile.

  “Hi! I’m Betsy Macklin, your neighbor from over there,” she waved vaguely at the neighborhood behind his house. “I heard that y’all had a death in the family, and I just wanted to stop by and say how sorry I am, and bring you some cookies.”

  Kevin’s eyes narrowed and he took the cookies without so much as looking at them. “How did you hear that?”

  “Oh honey, everybody in the neighborhood knows those kinds of things. That’s what communities are for, am I right?” Missy smiled sympathetically, her throat going dry with fear.

  “Yeah, I suppose so,” he eyed her speculatively.

  “Is your wife home?”

  “Apparently the neighborhood doesn’t know everything. I’m not married.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Missy blushed, then tried to pretend to flirt to get more information. “Is your…girlfriend home?”

  “Sorry honey, you’re barking up the wrong tree,” Kevin’s mouth twisted. “I have a boyfriend, not a girlfriend.”

  “Oh, right. Of course. Actually, I had heard that. I just forgot,” Missy giggled nervously. “What was his name again?”

  “Andrew.”

  “Andrew…?” Missy looked at him expectantly.

  “Andrew Philmont. Look,” Kevin glanced at his watch. “I appreciate the cookies, but…”