Poisoned (The Alex Harris Mystery Series) (2 page)

“There you are, Roberta. I began to think you were trying to avoid us.”

“I was. I just came to tell the pair of you to get out! I’m busy making macaroons.”

May Estenfelder took a hankie from her purse and dabbed her eyes. Really. Just like they do in the movies.

“You can cut that phony baloney crying of yours, May. It won’t do. Not in my house.”

“Well, you don’t have to be so gruff, Roberta,” June said, going to sit by her sister.

June and May. Twins. Five years younger than Roberta, from what Chantal told me. Though not biologically identical, they nonetheless looked very much the same down to the penciled-in eyebrows in a hideous shade of brownish red.

May dabbed again at eyes surrounded by an overly tanned face. A
leathery
tanned face.

June stood up and walked to the fireplace. “We’ve asked a few people to come by this afternoon.” She turned to Roberta. “I said—”

“I heard you. It won’t do any good. I am not, repeat,
not
, changing my mind, and that’s all there is to it. And don’t you even think about letting those tears start running.” Mrs. Brissart pointed a stern finger at May, who put hankie to eyes again for the third time.

“You can’t hold out forever,” May said, forgetting about the tears for the moment and returning to an air of superiority with the ease of someone used to slipping in and out of personalities depending on the circumstance. “That land is going to be sold and that’s all there is to it. The whole family is in complete agreement, except, of course, you.”

I watched as a smile formed on the lips of Mrs. Brissart and wondered what this was all about.

“It seems my non-participation is enough to cancel the deal. Without my signature, you cannot sell that land, and if I must repeat myself for the millionth time, I will—I will not sign, I will not sell! If you want that land, you’re going to have to kill me first!” Mrs. Brissart got up and went back down the hall.

“We’ll see about that!” the twins shouted after her. “We’ll be back this afternoon! You might want to dress up a bit—at least change your shoes!”

A few seconds later the front door slammed.

Bradley Brissart arrived at precisely one o’clock. Chantal greeted him with a wide smile and introduced us explaining I would be assuming her duties for the next few days. Chantal was right. Bradley obviously won the good looks lottery and possessed some great manners. The perfect gentleman.

“I thought I heard you,” Mrs. Brissart said a few seconds later and placed a kiss on her grandson’s cheek. “I made a wonderful surprise for you. Go ahead and start your work. I’ll be back shortly.”

Bradley looked hopefully first at me and then Chantal.

“She’s been in the kitchen most of the morning and that’s all we’re going to say,” I teased him, already feeling comfortable with this young man who seemed to be full of fun.

“Well, then,” Bradley clapped his hands together in much the same way his grandmother did, “it must be something to eat. Good. I never ate lunch.” He put down his briefcase and took out a stack of papers. “Did Mamoo tell you about the history?”

“Mamoo?”

“It’s what I call my grandmother. My brother started it way back when and it stuck.”

“She did. And it’s no problem,” I said. “Chantal filled me in about what you’ve written so far and it sounds fascinating. I’m looking forward to working on it.”

I took a stack of papers from Bradley and looked them over. Chantal told me his foray into the family history started about six months ago; about the same time he started dating Kendra Merchant and had discovered their family histories were bound together in the eighteen-hundreds before the death of one of Kendra’s ancestor severed the ties.

Deep into reading the history, I was jolted out of my thoughts by Roberta. She really was stealth-like. The CIA could probably put her to good use.

“Surprise! I made your favorite, Bradley.”

Bradley turned toward his tiny grandmother dwarfed further by the large platter she held. He leaned closer for a better look at the large, lumpy, orange and dark brown concoctions, some with chocolate chips arranged into sinister faces.

“Mamoo, I don’t believe it! How on earth did you get them to look like this?”

“Oh, it’s nothing and they should taste the same. Help yourself, ladies.” Roberta put the platter down and watched her grandson take a bite.

“Mmmm. Heaven. Just like always. You still make the best macaroons.”

I walked over and took two of the cookies, macaroons being a particular favorite. Actually, anything coconut I put at the top of my list. I even used coconut scented shampoo.

“How’s the history coming, Bradley?” Mrs. Brissart asked her grandson.

“Fine. I can’t work on it as much as I’d like, but it’s coming along. I’ve come across something very interesting to say the least. I’d like to talk with you about it.”

“Of course. You’ve got my interest up, but can we talk tonight?” Mrs. Brissart’s normally smiling lips turned into a frown.

“What’s wrong?” Bradley asked, gently touching his grandmother’s shoulder.

“Nothing, really, it’s just those two pathetic sisters of mine.”

“Are they pestering you again? I want to do a bit more checking, but if my research is....”

“Oh! The rest of the macaroons. They’ve probably burned to a crisp by now.” Mrs. Brissart jumped from one of the deep chairs and sprinted down the hall.

Bradley grabbed another cookie and turned to me. “I’ve got some other stuff I’ll probably need your help with, but I’d like to go over it myself first. As a matter of fact, I think I’ll take a handful of these,” Bradley grabbed several macaroons, “and go outside. It’s really nice today. You know maybe I’ll just take my stuff and go up in my tree house.”

“Your tree house?” I asked, stopping my typing and reaching for another cookie.

Bradley blushed. “Yeah, it’s outside.”

Chantal looked up from her sorting of a stack of papers. “I’ve seen it. I didn’t know anyone used it.”

Bradley pushed a stray strand of hair out of his face—an endearing trait that probably melted many hearts. “I loved going up there as a kid. I know it sounds weird, but I still like it. It’s peaceful. I used to hide up there when the family gathered. They were nuts back then, too. I’ll just take this blanket. If you need anything or can’t read my writing, just shout. I know I should use my laptop, but writing it out by hand just suits me better.” Bradley took an old crocheted afghan off the back of a chair and left the room.

“Alex, if it’s okay, I’m going to leave for the day,” Chantal said, as she gathered up her things and touched up her lipstick. “I’ve got to stock the kitchen with food before I go or else my husband will starve while I’m gone. I’ll be in tomorrow morning for a few hours and we can go over any last minute questions you have.”

When Chantal left, I turned back to the computer and the Brissart family history. I read:

In 1815, Lucien Cournet, then thirty years of age, was a French businessman doing rather nicely in Paris. Together with his cousin, Joseph Jaeger, they ran a business as suppliers to the French Napoleonic administration, mainly metal for the army weapons factories. Joseph, located in Strasbourg and thus near the iron-ore source, ran the supply side while Lucien, located in Paris and near the Napoleonic decision center, took care of the sales side. Raymond Thiry, slightly older, was an upper-level purchasing agent of the Napoleonic administration. Lucien and Raymond vaguely knew each other but only on a professional basis.

After 1815 and the defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo, the period that would come to be known as the “Restauration”, started in France. In actuality, it was a cleaning-up period; a nice way of saying prominent figures, who had in one way or another done well under Napoleon, were gently—or less gently as the case might be—put aside and replaced by those more friendly to the new rulers. This produced a profound effect on the careers of both Lucien and Raymond, so much so that independently and without knowledge of each other’s plans, they both decided to try their luck under more friendly conditions and immigrated to America
.

I stopped typing and reached for my cup of tea only to find it empty. I picked up the papers in one hand and my cup in the other, and went to the kitchen.

“Can I help you, Alex?” Mrs. Platz asked.

“No, thanks. I can do it. I just need some hot water.” I filled the kettle at the spotless stainless steel sink and put it on the front burner. I absentmindedly picked up a decorated macaroon, this one sneering at me with its chocolate chip teeth.

“Mrs. Platz, do you know anything of the family history?”

“You must be doing something for Bradley,” the old woman said while she rinsed my cup out and dried it.

“Yes, I am. I’m typing up his notes. It sounds fascinating. Maybe I should do something like this with my own family.”

“Be careful. You never know what you’ll find out.”

“That sounds rather ominous, Mrs. Platz,” I said, staring at the woman who was as old as Mrs. Brissart and only an inch or two taller. “Maybe I’ll find my family goes back to some king or queen. Do you know anything about Mrs. Brissart’s family history?”

“A bit. There’re enough old portraits around this place and the summerhouse. So I know what they all look like—old. And dusty.”

“Mrs. Platz,” I laughed. “You’re priceless.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be laughing if you had to dust all of them. I do know old Lucien and that partner of his, never can remember the fellow’s name, prospered nicely.”

Mrs. Platz poured hot water into my cup and handed it to me.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Platz. I was going to do that, wasn’t I?”

“That’s what I’m here for. Now, get on with your work and let me get on with mine.” The old woman smiled and pushed me gently out of the kitchen.

After a few tentative sips of the hot tea, I turned back to my typing.

When he decided to emigrate, Lucien tried to convince his cousin Joseph to come along. But Joseph, married and the father of twin boys, declined. The cousins, always close, kept in touch inasmuch as the uncertain mail delivery between continents would allow.

Lucien Cournet and his young wife arrived in the United States in the early eighteen-hundreds and became reacquainted with his colleague, Raymond Thiry in Boston within a few weeks of their arrival. Both being French, and having monetary resources, modest as they were, they decided to become partners and bought a piece of land
.

I paused for a minute and took another sip of tea. Mrs. Platz added a cookie onto my saucer, and I munched on the toasted coconut while I thought of my own family—Italian and Irish on my mother’s side and a mixed up pedigree on my father’s. Sam and I always spent most of our time with my mother’s mother and the relatives on that side of the family, so we considered ourselves to be more Italian than anything else, even though it only accounted for a fourth of our lineage. I gobbled the cookie down and resumed my work for another hour.

At exactly five o’clock I packed my things, done for the day. A few moments later the doorbell rang and the vultures, as Mrs. Brissart referred to them, began to arrive. First came May and June, though if asked, June would tell anyone foolish enough to listen that it was
June and May
. She, having been born six minutes before, was the eldest and therefore should be addressed first. Chantal clued me in on all their foolery. They were soon followed by an assortment of children and grandchildren from the look of it, and a man I assumed to be the local developer Chantal had told me about. Mrs. Brissart, not wanting to subject me, on my first day, to her miserable family, sent me home with the assurance she would deal with the vultures with the help of Mrs. Platz and Bradley.

At exactly seven o’clock the next morning, I would later learn, the sound of Mrs. Platz’s screams could be heard all through the grand old house.

I rolled over and stretched my right leg to the other side of the bed in search of the human furnace, otherwise known as John Van der Burg. My foot found a cold sheet and my nose found the smell of fresh coffee coming from the direction of the kitchen.

“Well, here you are,” I said a minute later, stifling a yawn and wrapping my terry cloth robe tightly around me.

“Good morning.” John came over and placed a warm kiss against my lips just in time to stifle another yawn. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t. A cold bed did.” I reached for the kettle and filled it with water. “What’s on your agenda for today?”

John and I began dating ten months earlier, ever since I stumbled over the body at the mannequin factory and he was the detective assigned to the case. Of course, there were times I thought
I
was the person assigned to the case and we had butted heads more than once. With the resolution of the murder, John finally asked me out.

“I’m working on the series of robberies on the west side of town. And I start working with a new man today. He just got promoted to detective and they’ve assigned him to me.”

“Oh, right. Jim Maroony?”

“Maroni.”

“No new developments on the robberies?”

“It’s probably a couple of kids who should be in school. Too shoddy work to be that of professionals and besides, the people who they’ve held up so far said they didn’t sound old enough to shave. No weapons, no violence. They just come in and ask for money.”

“Then why are people giving it to them?”

“Probably just scared. You never know if they have a knife or gun. And so far they’ve only made off with about sixty dollars so they’re not getting too far. More of a nuisance than anything else, if you ask me. How about you? What are your plans for the rest of this week?”

I stood at the kitchen window and looked out on another glorious fall morning thinking I should really get out there and rake up some of those leaves covering my lawn in a blanket of russet, but to be honest, I liked the way it looked. When I was ten, I went to all the neighbors’ yards and took as many leaves as my wagon would carry, and brought them back to my yard. My dad was not amused and when a fierce wind picked up during the night and scattered the leaves all over our neatly raked yard his anger sizzled. I suggested returning all the leaves to their rightful owners but not wanting to instigate World War III with our neighbors, dad finally shrugged and joined me outside for a morning of raking.