Pasta Imperfect - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,95

them was, and I was pretty sure which one.

Mom had pretty much told me two days ago, but I hadn't picked up on the clue. I COULD BE SO DENSE!

With Slinkies for legs, I leaned casually against the desk, struggling to continue smiling. "Wasn't that great about Jackie winning the contest?" I asked, as they continued to fuss with their new outfits. "She never even gave a hint that she could write. Mom mentioned the other day that one of you wrote a book once. Is that true?"

The twin who wasn't dancing with the alligator jacket turned abruptly to look at me. "Your mother told you about my book? How could she know that? I've never told anyone about that." She paused thoughtfully, and in that instant, I could almost see the lightbulb flickering on over her head. She stabbed a finger at her sister. "You told her, didn't you, Britha? Margaret Andrew volunteers at the library with you. You gave away the secret I asked you never to tell anyone!"

Britha clutched the alligator jacket contritely to her chest. "I'm sorry! But you wrote it so long ago, I didn't think you cared anymore."

"Ofcourse, I care! I'm extremely sensitive about my failures. How would you like me to run around giving away all your secrets?"

Britha contemplated that for a moment. "Actually, I don't think I have any."

"Are you sure?" Barbro asked, frowning. "What about the time you Vaselined the collection plate at the ten o'clock service. Are you still keeping that a secret?"

"I did that? I thought you did that."

"I think both of you are keeping secrets," I broke in. "Tell me, how surprised were you to discover Philip Blackmore was on this trip with you? Quite a coincidence, hunh? The editor who rejected your stewardess novel years ago appearing in the flesh. That's the connection, isn't it? Gabriel Fox ruined Sylvia Root's career with his harsh comments. Were Philip Blackmore's comments about your manuscript so devastating that even after all these years, you had to get even?"

Barbro's face seamed with a woeful expression. Her voice grew soft. "His comments weren't all devastating. He told me I'd selected an excellent weight typing paper for the manuscript."

Oh, that's right. He'd mentioned he always liked to say something positive about a writer's work. "But you never wrote another word of fiction! He ruined your budding career." I drilled her with a somber look. "That's why you killed him." I paused. Damn! I promised myself I wasn't going to do that anymore!

Barbro did a double take. "I did?"

"Yes, you did. And I'll tell you exactly how you did it." I retrieved the empty bottle of rubbing alcohol from the wastebasket and held it in the air as exhibit A. "You emptied the contents of this bottle -- which is highly toxic if swallowed -- into one of Philip Blackmore's bottles of drinking water."

Barbro stared at me, wide-eyed. "How did I do that?"

"You...you sneaked into his room, dumped some of the good water down the sink, and replaced it with the isopropyl alcohol." I recalled his violent reaction to the water earlier in the day. He'd spat it out because of its taste, but he hadn't been tasting sewage. He'd been tasting isopropyl alcohol! Uff da. He'd still be alive if he hadn't forced himself to finish it.

Barbro seemed intrigued. "How did I get into his room?"

"The same way my mother got into mine when I wasn't there. She grabbed the key off the board when the front desk was unattended and let herself in."

Barbro broke out in a wide smile. "I'm very cunning, aren't I? But tell me, Emily, are you sure it was me? To tell you the truth, I don't remember doing any of that."

Britha sucked in her breath. "Oh, no! First, Mumma, now you. Stage one dementia!"

Barbro appeared disoriented, but I wasn't going to let that fool me. In the past year, I'd dealt with killers more clever than Barbro Severid. "Philip Blackmore ruined your life, and you never forgave him, did you? You wanted the fame and fortune that bestsellerdom would bring you, but instead you had to settle for the anonymity of penning greeting card sentiments in a small town in Iowa. He destroyed your dreams. Dashed your hopes. And you hated him for it. So you killed him." I narrowed an eye at her. "I know it's none of my business, but how's the money in the greeting card business? I bet you make a decent wage,