A Geek Girl's Guide to Arsenic (5 page)

“I have no idea.”

I forced my thoughts into focus. Business first. “I’ve got to go home and do some fire stomping for the company. I’ll research later. Please don’t worry about me. Okay?”

He huffed. “Forget about it.”

I bobbed my head and tugged my collar. “Fuggedaboutit.”

“Stop.” He held my giant dress and corset over one arm. “Not funny. You want me to carry this to your car for you?”

“Nope. I’m good.” I loaded the costume into my arms.

Snuffling and ruffling sounds stopped me from accepting my things. Seven costumed animals, complete with giant heads and paw-covered hands and feet, stopped outside the elevator doors, posturing and fluffing their coats.

Furries.

The silver doors parted and the people-sized menagerie crowded inside.

“Call me.” Nate shut the door to his apartment and outright laughed inside the safety of his home.

I stared at a six-foot pink bunny waving me into the crowded elevator.

“No, thank you. I’ll catch the next one.” I tugged my velvet cloak tighter over my short pants, Victorian boots and twenty-year-old middle school boxing T-shirt.

The elevator doors began to close, and I exhaled in relief.

A brown paw struck out from the stuffed car, stopping the motion. The bunny summoned me again.

I shook my head.

The other animals extended their arms, bending their wrists and elbows, silently insisting I join them. Giant brightly colored eyes and wide cartoonish smiles stared back at me. My feet hit the steps at a runner’s pace. I burst through the door into the lobby as the elevator dinged behind me.

“Dear Lord.” I hugged the heavy gown to my chest like a protective shield and ran for the car.

I had an email to write.

Chapter Six

I swiped my keycard at the Horseshoe Falls guard gate and motored into the lot outside a new set of condos. Per my new routine, I double-checked that the gate shut behind me and waited for security lighting to register my arrival before exiting the car. Thanks to Horseshoe Falls’ obsession with green living, motion-sensor lighting was everywhere. The idea being why light the place if no one’s there? Reduce costs. Save energy. Save the planet. Unfortunately, there was a two-to-four-second delay on occasion that made me edgy. I could fix the problem, but the lighting company had refused my offer. Rudely. As a result of their “policy” allowing only members of their team to make changes to the system, any cash the community saved through our new lighting system was subsequently spent on maintenance calls.

The light snapped on, and I hastened to the elevator. I poked my key into the penthouse hole on the interior panel and the car bounded upward, delivering me seconds later on silent authority. No obnoxious
ding
. No creak, rattle and roll like the jalopy at my old building. Just the little whoosh of air as my entranceway came into view. A giant blue letter C, hand-painted and hung by Bree, swung and jostled at eye level as I unlocked the knob and zipped inside. Good grief. Everything was silent in this building except me. I was a marching band of heeled boots on marble and enormous crafts on doors.

I dead-bolted the door and dropped my keys into the glass dish Bree gave me as a housewarming gift. It was meant for candy, but when you lived alone, there was no one to share with. Four bags of caramels and a dress size later, the dish had been repurposed from trough to key holder.

I hung my cloak on a hook and stared at the expansive space before me. Even I didn’t have enough stuff to fill the place. My book collection barely filled one side of the floor-to-ceiling built-in shelves. My furniture was too small. The space was too big. Bree had suggested I adopt a pet, but she was the maternal one. Grandma understood. She bought me a thumb-sized cactus at the drugstore. Thelma had a tiny terracotta pot and little pink bow. So far so good with Thelma.

The lights flicked on as I moved through the rooms. I grabbed the remote that controlled everything else, including hidden speakers, and powered on my favorite station before turning it down to a whisper. My boots landed in a pile near the door, and my pants hit the hamper on my way through the bedroom. I wanted to soak in the tub until today ended, but I had work to do.

I stepped into the shower and let the water knock the tension off me. My tiled bathroom floor busily heated outside my marble oasis. I curled my toes in anticipation of their next treat and pressed both palms against the wall, greedily soaking in the hot water until my skin was red and my toes were white and pruny. My mind whirled, despite every effort to unwind. An endless loop of Jake’s face and John’s death kept peace at bay. Sheer speculation and an elevator load of Furries made relaxation an impossibility. Worst. Day. Ever.

Twenty minutes later, I padded to my computer wrapped in fleece jammies and fuzzy socks. The letter, reassuring consumers about our company, was solidly formed in my head. I opened a blank document and ran a quick search for press releases from other companies who’d faced similar allegations. They read like political statements and campaign promises. Guinevere’s Golden Beauty wasn’t like that. We were real. Our consumers were family.

I made a pot of coffee and got to work.

Three cups later, caffeine percolated in my veins. I curled shaky fingers into a fist and stretched them wide. Time to switch to decaf or ice cream. I went with ice cream. Honestly, in a situation where ice cream is an option, there really isn’t a choice.

At five minutes before three, I jumped to my feet and punched the air a few times. Done. I knocked it out of the universe. The letter was gracious and reassuring. Honest and forthright. I pledged the company’s continued dedication to pure, natural ingredients, holistic and handcrafted products and emphasized the careful inspection process, making it impossible to tamper with anything at our small family-run facilities. Anything inside our product was carefully listed on the outside label. Nothing more and nothing less.

I couldn’t be positive the sampler hadn’t been poisoned while I was distracted by the crowd, but my gut said the odds were too slim to mention. I’d sensed John wasn’t quite himself from the moment he approached. Besides, no reason to increase public fears and perpetuate the crazy. For good measure, I offered a full refund to anyone who had a change of heart about our products, and I promised responders to the email a love package in time for Christmas. Anyone willing to contact the company with their thoughts, worries or words of encouragement would be rewarded. I’d post the positive comments online and hopefully nip the negative ones in the bud.

I arched my back and stretched. Much as I wanted to crawl into bed, something itched my restless mind. Something I’d wanted to research since Jake said the name.

I opened a new window and typed Bennie the Bean. I marveled at the number of entries, though most were speculation, blogs and alleged sightings. It seemed Bennie dabbled in everything from money laundering to racketeering. The guy was practically an urban legend. The most recent photograph of Bennie was outside a courthouse in the 1970s, based on attire. No accompanying article. Apparently, he hadn’t made a public appearance in ages, increasing to the man-myth-legend persona.

One article became two dozen as I devoured information on my subject. How could John have been tied up with this guy? Weren’t there better choices for a painter with his talent? What about art school? Teaching? Anything other than working for the mob.

Hypotheses whirled in my addled brain, mixing with coffee-laced adrenaline and fear. John had died in front of me. How close had the killer been at that moment? Chills swept over my arms. I flipped through more articles on Bennie. Murder. Shootings. People found in the river. Crushed in cars at junkyards. If there was a theme, it was that Bennie’s known associates met untimely deaths by the busload.

There was also an anomaly. None of his alleged victims were poisoned.

I rubbed tired eyes and set my glasses aside. Maybe he’d gotten bored and wanted to switch up his MO. Who knew what went on in a mobster’s mind? Then again, maybe this was more complicated than a mob boss locating a guy in witness protection and taking him out. Though, that scenario seemed complicated enough. Maybe I’d been right when I told Nate it probably wasn’t a mob hit at all?

Melanie’s wild outbursts came to mind. She’d been livid, but would she have killed him? She’d whacked his body and screamed professions of undying love. Unstable? Maybe, but who was I to judge? Was she a killer? Not likely, but not impossible. She had motivation and opportunity.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. My elbow slid over the cool desktop, and I rested my head on my arm. Everybody loved John.

Maybe it was his business partner. Money was a powerful motivator.

A wide yawn split my tired face.

Poison was so unusual. So specific and personal. Wasn’t it? Not a crime of passion or a typical mob hit. People weren’t poisoned in the heat of the moment. Someone had planned his death, boldly placed the poison in his way, and moved on as if nothing had transpired. Would they have stayed to watch? To be sure it worked?

The crowd in my mind’s eye had pitchforks circa
Frankenstein
and unruly expressions. They were different than today, ready to charge on me at any moment.

“It wasn’t me.” My voice barely rang above their rage.

The feral crowd snarled and lunged.

I ran.

They chased me into the forest outside the Faire. My bare feet caught on twigs and branches, spearing my skin and hobbling my movement. The trees were tall and barren. No way to climb and nowhere to hide without summer’s bushy foliage.

Torches tossed orange flames into the sky, casting shadows over the world. Heavy feet crushed leaves and insects in a stampede to find me.

Panic mounted in my heart and head until I screamed. A bloodcurdling wail that burned my lungs.

I jerked my head off the desk and groaned. “What on earth?” When had I fallen asleep and what was all the racket? I wiped drool from the corners of my mouth and acclimated myself.

My phone buzzed and vibrated on the desk, inches from where my head had lain. A British squad car siren blared from the tiny speaker as it shook. I slapped it. “Stahp.”

The nuisance ceased.

“Thank you. Yeesh.” I stood on rubber legs and grabbed the phone. There were still two hours before I had to get up for work, and a soft warm bed called to me.

Shuffling toward my room, the blasted alarm began again.

“What?” I barked into the phone, steps from my beloved bed, still reeling from the wretched dream.

“Mrs. Connors?” An unfamiliar voice opened my eyes, ripping me back to the present.

Unease crawled over me. “Yes?” Normally, I made a big deal of being addressed as Mrs., but the snap in this man’s tone warned there was no time for that.

“Your name is on the contact information at 1121 Portage Street. Ye Ole Madrigal Craft Faire. Booth 12.”

I leaned against the wall for support. “Yes. What’s wrong? Were there vandals?” With all the negative publicity today, I wasn’t surprised.

“Yes, ma’am. An arsonist.”

“Arson?”

“I’m afraid so. How soon can you get here?”

Bugger.

Chapter Seven

Gnarled smoke fingers clawed the night sky above my family’s booth. A smattering of firemen chatted near the truck, content with their efforts, while a few scattered embers smoldered in defiance. The booth was toast.

Grandma was going to have a thousand consecutive strokes when she heard about this. I focused on the positive to keep from screaming. At least no one was hurt. At least it was the middle of the night and would be cleaned up before the Faire reopened in the morning.

“Miss?” A hand landed on my shoulder.

I whacked the interloper free of my person and spun.

A man twice my age lifted both palms in the air. His blue jacket and badge stopped my racing heart. “I didn’t mean to startle you, but you can’t be here.” His expression softened, as if he’d read my flailing thoughts. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, and I’m supposed to be here.” The weight of the situation settled over me. My shoulders sagged and my feet ached. “This is my booth. My family’s booth. Someone called and asked me to come down.”

The man rocked back on his heels and looped stumpy thumbs behind his belt buckle. “Well, I suppose that was me. You’re Mia Connors?”

I nodded sharply and batted my eyes against acrid smoke in the changing wind. “Do you have any idea how the fire started?”

The officer turned toward a knot of firefighters and trench coats and motioned me to follow. “Detective Archer wants to handle this personally. I’ll introduce you. He’s the one in black.”

I speed-walked past the officer. “I know who he is.”

Dan raised his chin, mid-belly laugh. His gaze met mine, and he excused himself and came up to me before I reached them.

I shoved hair off my wind-battered cheek. “What’s happening? Who would do this?”

He shifted his weight. A look of dissatisfaction crossed his normally amicable face. “We have a confession from Melanie Warner. The lady you met earlier.”

“I remember her.” How could I forget?

“She thinks you killed John Francis, but she’s not in her right mind at the moment.” He tipped his head toward the cruiser ten yards away.

Melanie sobbed behind the backseat window.

“You’re kidding. She did this?”

“Yep. Grief does things to people. She’s going to need time and a little counseling, but she’ll get through this.”

I gave him my best crazy face.

“Hey, she was careful not to harm anyone. Waited for the grounds to clear.”

“How thoughtful of her.”

“If she really wanted to hurt your family, there are plenty of ways to do that.”

I hacked an ugly noise. “Gee, thanks.” I turned to appraise the smoldering wreckage. “She burned it completely down. Do you know what it will cost to replace or what people will think? There’s no telling how much business we’ll lose as a result. I’ll never be able to clean up this mess. It’s a PR nightmare. People will assume our product killed John and this was retaliation for that crime. Consumers won’t come within a hundred yards of our booth if we rebuild.”

“I know.”

I dropped my head back. “This is horrible. This whole day. Total crap.”

“I agree.”

“Well, stop. I’m trying to be crabby.”

He chuckled. “The fire was unfortunate, but I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think.”

“You’re clearly not a businessman.”
Whose grandmother was going to lose her mind when she heard about this.

“Thank God.”

I righted my head and braced frozen hands on my hips. “You don’t think Melanie killed John.”

“I don’t.”

“Despite the fact she’s the most obvious suspect? She has motive and she was the last one seen with him before he came to see me and dropped dead.”

Dan dug the toe of his shiny shoe into soot-covered grass. “That makes you the last to see him before he died, and I remember having another ‘obvious suspect’ this past summer. I didn’t think she did it either.”

“Right.” That suspect had been me. I scanned the scene and lowered my voice. “Jake says John died from a mob hit.”

Dan smiled. “He came to see you, huh?” A sly grin spread over his mouth. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m not convinced on that theory, but it’s my job to be skeptical.”

His job. I straightened. “You’re a homicide detective. Why are you here if no one was hurt?”

“This is still the scene of my murder investigation. I need to know if the two crimes are related.” He glanced back at the cruiser. “She’s a mess. I can’t get her to eat anything. That can’t be great for the baby, right?”

“You’re worried about her?”

His troubled expression answered my question.

Melanie’s head rested against the window. She looked like she could use a friend. “Do you think they’ll let her out on bail?”

“She’s broke. Had a tough upbringing. Ran away. She found comfort at the local Ren Faire and made it her family. She’s scared and angry, but she’s not a killer and she sure doesn’t have money for bail. There’s a good chance her record will be enough to get her some immediate probation with time served.”

“Maybe I can swing the fire story as faulty outlets?” It would never work long term, but I could start a rumor that didn’t scream “poisoned products”!

A commotion drew my attention from the cruiser to the front gates. Bright lights beamed into the night. A familiar silhouette floated toward us.

I squinted, unable to adjust my eyes to the spotlight.

“Set up here,” the voice snapped.

My tummy churned. “Oh no.” So much for my rumor.

Mindy Kinley and her crew were back. A pair of officers corralled the trio as much as possible, enforcing crime-scene preservation and securing proper distance from our booth, but it didn’t matter.

Mindy shook her long hair over one shoulder and stood directly before the charred remains of Guinevere’s Golden Beauty booth. She held three fingers in the air. The cameraman gave a thumbs-up and the third leech hoisted a boom mic over her head. “Tragedy strikes again at Ye Ole Madrigal Craft Faire. As you recall, I was the first to report a murder at this very location yesterday. Now I’m back at the scene of the crime where fire broke out, consuming a Faire staple. Guinevere’s Golden Beauty.”

I rubbed both temples. “If I kill her, can I get off on temporary insanity?”

Dan chuckled. “No, and you shouldn’t have told me. It’s premeditated now.”

“What if you forget I asked?”

“Not going to happen.”

Mindy overacted her way through the report. “Is it a coincidence a local man died of poisoning after sampling Guinevere’s Healing Hand Cream? Could someone blame these products for his death?” She turned a wrinkled nose back to the camera. “Maybe it’s time they change the name of that hand cream.”

“It’s Healer’s Hand Cream.” I stalked through frosty grass toward Mindy, intent on removing her forcibly. My arm snapped back, snared at the wrist by steel fingers before I could get my hands on the microphone-wielding opportunist. I shook hard against Dan’s grip.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Fine.” I jerked free. “But I hate that woman.”

A dark form in the distance seemed to move with human qualities. I squinted, trying to force the shape into something ethereal, a shadow or trick of the moonlight. It blended into the dark trunk of a tree and didn’t budge. Clearly, I needed rest.

“Who doesn’t? She’s a regular at every car accident and town hall meeting.”

Figured. “Anywhere she might have an opportunity to say ‘You heard it here first.’”

He nodded. “How about I buy you a cup of coffee?”

“Sure.” I had a long day ahead of me. “Make it two.”

* * *

Bernie stepped outside the guard gate at Horseshoe Falls, wearing a fringed coat over her usual park ranger-esque uniform. A replica—I hoped—coonskin cap covered her cropped black locks. She waved.

I stopped to swipe my card. “Hi, Bernie.”

Bernie was at least twice my age, with a round face and kind eyes. Her parents had named her Bernice, after a Hawaiian princess, and she kept a blog,
Aloha from Ohio
, about growing up on the Big Island. The blog served as an unofficial Horseshoe Falls who’s who and gossip guide.

She sashayed to my window. “Nearly seven. You’re just getting home? Oh, Lord.” Her face dove toward mine.

I leaned away. “It was a long night.”

“Heaven have mercy. Doing what? Grave-digging? You’re filthy.” Panic seized her features. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine. It’s ash from the wind. I’m going to clean up, read your morning post and get to work. What’s today’s topic?”

The look she gave bordered on lunacy. “Pioneer Days.”

I dropped my forehead against the steering wheel and contemplated an impromptu trip to Peoria. I lifted my face. “Right. Have a nice day.”

The road to my apartment was closed, forcing me to travel the entire perimeter of Horseshoe Falls to get back to where I started. My building sat beside the guard gate, unfortunately. The community blocked the area during Pioneer Days. Making room for festivities jammed up modern methods of transportation in favor of horses and carriages.

Despite the early hour, people filled the roads and sidewalks dressed like everything from Pocahontas to Civil War soldiers. The Native American costumes were borderline offensive, and the trio of retired judges in saloon girl garb was enough to send me under the blankets until Wednesday. Clearly, I wasn’t myself.

My soot-covered hands and cheeks earned unending stares as I walked from my car to the building. I scared an older couple exiting the elevator. “Sorry.”

I rode to my apartment on tiptoes, hoping not to spoil more of the pristine floor than necessary with my mud-soaked sneakers.

Thirty minutes later, I stuffed freshly shampooed but still-damp waist-length hair under a blue bonnet and covered thoroughly exhausted legs with the white ruffled knickers and a matching blue hoop skirt of my Southern Belle ensemble. Costumes were an upside of Pioneer Days. I tucked in the blouse and rolled my eyes at the purple crescents and puffy lids of sleep deprivation. Time for work.

On the street, I inhaled history. Fresh bread baked in stone ovens near the waterfall. Eggs scrambled over open fires beside newly erected pup tents. My tummy tried to eat itself as I hustled to Dream Bean for a triple-shot café au lait and pain au chocolat. I measured my gait, careful to maintain the balance of my hoop skirt. Nothing screamed
amateur
like a swinging hoop.

The clip-clop of horses’ hooves added to my morning trip through time. Slowly, my pace settled into a casual stride. Music and laughter energized the cool autumn air. Maybe Pioneer Days wasn’t the worst thing ever. Maybe I was a grouch in need of sugar and caffeine treatments.

“Morning, Mia.” A man on horseback tipped his hat.

“Hi, Mark. How’s it going?”

Mark was the head of Horseshoe Falls’ security. He’d taken a leave of absence over the summer when the FBI contacted him about an outbreak of identity thefts centralized around our community. They’d thought I was a criminal mastermind and sent Jake in to play temporary head of security in Mark’s stead.

He slid off the horse and tied him at a bicycle rack. “Not bad, yet. I’m checking in on the Kubickas.”

“Uh-oh.” I glanced at the side-by-side doors behind us. Dream Bean and Sweet Retreat. The Lindseys owned Dream Bean and sold the best coffee and pastries in town. The Kubickas owned the Sweet Retreat and served the most delicious ice cream and gossip around.

The shop owners had a long and colorful history of feuding.

Mark sighed. “Pioneer Days started two hours ago, and I’m already here to document a complaint. I believe this is a record.”

“Good luck.” I tried to smile but couldn’t manage without more coffee.

I tugged the door to Dream Bean open and suppressed the immediate urge to twirl when warm scents of caramel and brown sugar climbed my nose. I leaned against a stool at the end of the bar and shoved my skirt under the counter.

The soft pink-and-white décor reminded me of a French candy shop, complete with white twisted-iron chairs and small round tables. The best seats, though, were along the beautiful glass counter.

Stew Lindsey winked at me. He filled a display with fancy pastries, éclairs and macarons in every color. “Can I get you something, Mia?” He leaned an elbow on the case and dusted his palms.

“Café au lait, triple shot, please.”

“Okay. Can I get you something sweet to go with that?”

My mouth watered. How could I choose? He might as well have asked me to pick a favorite book or pair of shoes. “I came in for pain au chocolat, but everything looks amazing. I can’t decide.”

“How about I surprise you then?” Stew turned to prepare my coffee.

His wife, Darlene, dumped a load of empty cups into the sink. She dried her hands and headed my way. “Morning, Mia.”

“Good morning.” I beamed. The promise of coffee and surprise treats had completely remedied my earlier disposition. Today was a good day.

Darlene stopped moving. Her gaze fixed on a smudge, she grabbed a fancy cloth from her apron and scrubbed the glass display case.

Stew hummed behind her, cheerfully filling a plate with a rainbow of assorted sweets. He delivered my order with a flourish. “Surprise.”

“Thank you.” I gripped the cup with both hands.

Darlene shoved the cloth deep into her apron pocket. “Enjoy.” Her smile seemed somewhat counterfeit.

Mine, on the other hand, was born of pure bliss.

Stew tapped her shoulder. “Honey? Everything all right?”

“There was a smudge.” She turned for the prep sink without another word.

Stew raised his gaze to mine. “I guess she’s a neatnik now?” He laughed and gave the counter another wipe. “I left powdered fingerprints again?”

I sipped the heavenly drink and imagined floating above the stool. “Something gooey. Butter maybe.”

Stew was always covered in the fruits of his labor—powdered sugar, flour, butter. He lifted each arm and examined the white material of his smock.

I pointed to a greasy mark on one sleeve and swallowed a pastrygasm. Bits of flaky croissant filled with melted chocolate clung to my tongue and lips.

He stripped off the soiled chef’s coat. “Ready for a refill?”