Dying for a Cupcake by Denise Swanson Page B

he’d remodeled the station, held professionaldevelopment classes for his personnel, and purchased up-to-date gear. Then he won the Powerball Lottery of grants and was able to buy his very own crime scene unit and mobile lab, as well as get his staff trained in their uses.
    His Honor had been beyond incensed that the chief had managed to get what he wanted without financing from the town treasury. I hid a smile. Geoffrey Eggers played the game of one-upmanship as if it were an Olympic sport, and now that the chief had muscled in on the mayor’s territory—sitting next to the visiting celebrity—I suspected that there might be fireworks rather than a gold medal at tonight’s dinner.
    Poppy nudged me. “Look at His Honor. He wants to get into Kizzy’s panties so bad he can hardly stand it.”
    “Like that would ever happen.” I was a hundred percent sure that when the cupcake tycoon hooked up with a guy, he was a lot richer and more important than a small-town politician. “The mayor is drooling up the wrong tree.”
    “Yep.” Poppy sniggered. “Kizzy already has one asshole in her underwear; she doesn’t need a second one.”
    It took me a second to get Poppy’s allusion, but when I did, I let out a loud bark of laughter. My BFF was sometimes a little vulgar, but she was always funny.
    “If you want to talk to my father before he makes his announcement, you’d better nab him now.” Poppy gestured to the rest of the tables. “It looks as if almost everyone is here, so the Marthas will probably start serving dinner soon.”
    “You’re right.” I hurried over to the chief and said, “Could I speak to you for a moment?” When he nodded, I added, “In private.”
    Chief Kincaid excused himself, silently stood, and followed me out into the corridor.
    Once I was sure we were alone, I asked, “Do you know why Fallon died yet?”
    “We know what
didn’t
cause her death, but unhappily, not what did.”
    “What wasn’t it?” I asked, then added, “I might have an idea.”
    “There wasn’t anything harmful in her stomach contents,” the chief answered. “And the autopsy and review of her medical records showed no disease or hidden condition that could explain her symptoms.”
    “So maybe my theory is viable,” I murmured half to myself, then asked, “Are there poisons that can be transmitted through the skin?”
    “Several.” Chief Kincaid hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “Or something like dimethyl sulfoxide can be used to transfer the poison. It’s readily available for purchase to treat muscle injuries or arthritis and is a colorless liquid that dissolves both polar and nonpolar compounds. DMSO easily penetrates the skin.” He looked at me until I nodded my understanding, then added, “For many people, it causes a garlic-like taste in the mouth.”
    “Earlier on the night that she died, Fallon told Kizzy that she had a bad taste in her mouth,” I informed the chief. “I’d forgotten that part of her conversation. Did Kizzy or Lee mention that?”
    “No.” Chief Kincaid took a pen and small notebook from his breast pocket. “They just said she’d had a headache and was dizzy.”
    “They probably either forgot it like I did or didn’t think something like a bad taste in the mouth could be important,” I assured him.
    “I take it by these questions that you think Fallonwas a victim of contact poison.” The chief glanced at his watch and frowned, clearly getting antsy about the passing time. “What besides that bad taste in her mouth steers you in that direction?”
    “Well . . .” I paused to run the scenario through my mind one more time. I definitely didn’t want to share some crackpot theory with Chief Kincaid and have him regard me as a total lunatic.
    “Ticktock, Devereaux.” The chief tapped the face of his Timex.
    “Okay.” I took a deep breath. “But bear with me and let me tell you the whole story before you decide that I’ve watched one too many episodes