Murder By Muffin (Lucy McGuffin, Psychic Amateur Detective 3)

“My opinion? Yes.”

I wince. “From my muffins?”

“Your muffins were laced with cyanide, that’s true. But it was only found sprinkled on top. If the amount we found on the remaining muffins is the same amount on the muffins that Tara ingested, then it’s unlikely there was enough there to kill her.”

“So she ingested the cyanide some other way?”

“Looks like it. Plus, the cyanide on the muffins doesn’t match the chemical compound in the ant poison we found in your pantry.”

“Hello? I could have told you that. Okay, so someone poisoned Tara. Then he or she saw my muffins and decided to sprinkle cyanide on top. For what purpose? Some lame attempt to incriminate me?”

“Possibly.”

“So if my muffins weren’t the culprit—” I snap my fingers. “I bet it was the whiskey!”

“What whiskey?”

“Tara was drinking whiskey the night I brought her the muffins. She offered me some, but I said no.”

Travis glances down at his notes and frowns.

“Well, did you check the whiskey bottle for any traces of cyanide?”

“There’s no whiskey listed in the inventory at the beach house.”

“Ha! There you go. So the killer got rid of the evidence.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? What more proof do you need?”

“How about some hard facts? Like a completed toxicology report?”

Right. Talking to Travis is like talking to a brick wall. “At least tell me what Tara was doing in my kitchen.”

“That part is still unclear. According to Tara’s cell phone record, she called you at eight thirty the night before she died. That matches the time you were at The Burger Barn.”

“We already went through this the other day. She called me, but she didn’t leave a message.”

“And you’d just seen her about what, thirty minutes earlier?”

“Yep. I really think she changed her mind about kicking me off the show.”

“Let’s go back to your visit to the beach house. You went to see her, and that’s when you brought her the muffins and to apologize for the words you’d had earlier. Who answered the door? Tara?”

“No, Gilly. She showed me to the den, then she left us alone.”

“How long did you stay?”

“About ten minutes, maybe a little longer.”

“And Paco was with you?”

“That’s right.”

“Did Tara seem ill to you?”

I think back to our conversation. “Now that you mention it, she did look pale. She also said her stomach had been bothering her all day. And she was slurring her words some, but she was drinking whiskey, so I thought she might be a little drunk. Of course, now we know it’s because she was being poisoned.”