Lye in Wait by Cricket McRae

the front door hadn't looked
like it had been forced open. Debby could have a key. Or, Jacob
might have dropped by, though neither of them had given any indication of having seen me before. But I hadn't seen whoever was
hiding in the kitchen that night, so maybe he-or she-wouldn't
recognize me either. In fact, I sincerely hoped not.
    But if someone had used a key, why was the key under the
flowerpot out back missing and the door still open? And if you
had a key, why would you take the one under the flowerpot? To
divert attention away from yourself. To confuse the issue. Because
you didn't have your key with you. Or maybe the key hadn't been
under the flowerpot for a long time-Walter had told us about it
a year ago or more-and maybe he was the one who left the door
hanging open when he left that morning, as I had first believed.
The key, or rather the absence of the key, might not mean a thing.
Come at it from another direction.
    If Walter did have a policy that named Debby as the beneficiary, she could have wanted the money, since any hope of getting her hands on his lottery winnings after they married faded
with each check he wrote to charity. Jacob could have killed him
because he wanted Debby. And either or both of them could have
known about my soap-making business and the lye from Walter
himself.
    I stopped still. Had someone intentionally tried to frame me? I
lowered myself slowly to a stool, setting the lip balm tube I'd been
filling on the counter in front of me. Crap. Oh, crap, crap, crap. I'd involved myself in finding out what had happened to Walter
because I wanted to understand his need to kill himself, and that
desire had segued into wanting to know why someone else would
want to kill him. But, I realized now, a lot of my interest came from
the fact that he'd died right here, right here, on the floor under this
very stool. This was the first time it had occurred to me that I, personally, could have been on someone's mind as they thought about
needing Walter to be dead.
     
    Could I really be framed for killing Walter? Was there some
manufactured evidence waiting for the police to find it?
    I felt a little nauseated and walked to the back door, opening
it and walking out into the backyard. The air was cool and damp
and I sucked it into my lungs, trying to steady my sudden onrush
of nerves.
    Oh, for heaven's sake, Sophie Mae. Stop being so paranoid. Sheesh.
    How exactly do you make someone drink lye? At gunpoint,
maybe? Only if the victim is stupid or believes they can survive
the lye, but not the bullet. Or, you might threaten something, or
someone, they wanted to keep safe. I could see Walter drinking lye
to save someone else. Debby. Or-I had a horrible thought-Erin.
Or maybe it would be possible to trick a person into drinking lye.
Disguised as water?
    When lye is first mixed, the chemical reaction results in heat.
The lye on the floor had been room temperature, so it had been
mixed long enough before to allow for cooling. How long was
that? A couple hours, I thought, maybe more. I hadn't really paid
attention. And, of course, you could speed it with ice, but not too
much or the granules would precipitate out of the liquid. Also, the
volume of the mixture would affect how quickly it cooled. So, the fact the lye had cooled to room temperature didn't mean anything
more than it had been mixed at least some time prior to Walter
drinking it. No, it didn't even mean that. Maybe he drank it hot,
and it had then cooled on the floor before I got home and found
him.
     
    I grimaced. The only thing worse than drinking lye would be
drinking hot lye. Still, it was a possibility.
    I went back inside and continued filling lip balm tubes out of
sheer stubbornness. My eyes were bleary as I finished the tedious
and exacting process, and it was after eleven by the time I poured
the last one. My bed beckoned, but I wanted to make a start on
Walter's paperwork. On a tea run