Poisoned (The Alex Harris Mystery Series) (25 page)

“Likewise the housekeeper,” I added.

“You know, we have everybody on your list. We haven’t been able to eliminate anybody.”

I bent my head and pounded it on the desk in frustration.

“By the way, I really like that sweater. Did I tell you that already?” my sister asked.

I looked up at her. “No. Thanks. I think it’ll become one of my favorites,” I smiled, as I looked down at the animal print, a mixture of black and hazelnut brown. I had a tendency to wear dark colors, mostly black, with some others thrown in for variety.

“Black looks good on you.”

“I know. It’s my signature color.” I looked back at the list and sighed. “I guess that about does it.” I hesitated for a moment.

“But?” prodded Sam.

“Well, John mentioned something about footprints under the window of the room where they found Bradley. They got messed up by Mr. Kaminski’s watering, but there was obviously someone there.”

“So you’re saying we’re looking at some lunatic wandering the streets of Indian Cove with a jar of cyanide looking for a possible cookie to contaminate. Peering through windows, waiting for their big chance?”

“I know it sounds farfetched, but we’ve got to consider every possible scenario. You know, it all makes sense.”

“What does? Have I missed something?” Sam sat back at her desk with her hands clasped together.

“No. No. Just thinking out loud. If Bradley was the right victim all along, it explains why the murder hasn’t been solved—why nothing has turned up. The police have been investigating the wrong murder.”

I sat in silence for a few moments while Sam made a quick call to our accountant that she had forgotten to make earlier in the day. I had looked over the family history several times, finding nothing. But if this whole new theory was correct, there had to be more. I needed to get back into Chantal’s computer to see if there were any more notes about the history that I had overlooked. And there was something else.

“What are you thinking about?” Sam asked, having concluded her conversation.

“Huh? Oh. I’m thinking about Mrs. Brissart and her dislike for the cookies.” I sat up straight and slowly fingered a strand of my bangs. “In all the interrogations that have taken place over the last week, why hasn’t anyone mentioned that Mrs. Brissart didn’t like macaroons?”

“Maybe in the aftermath of Bradley’s death, they just didn’t think about it,” Sam offered.

“No. That’s not it. Whoever killed Bradley knew Mrs. Brissart wouldn’t eat the cookies, but they couldn’t say that, could they? It would have given them away.”

“I suppose,” Sam sighed. “Look, all this detecting is making me hungry. I’m starving. Feel like going out for something?”

“I’m ready when you are,” I said, suddenly remembering my grumbling stomach and forgetting about family histories. For now.

“Listen, do you mind if we go to the mall? I’ve got to get Henry a pair of red tennis shoes to go with his costume.”

Two hours later we were back at our office along with a forest-green sweater I found to go with my khaki slacks. By six I had cleaned up quite a bit of paperwork that had accumulated on my desk when John stopped by.

“You look beat. Please tell me you’ll be able to get some rest this weekend?” I said.

John took a seat in the chair opposite me and stretched out his long legs. “Sorry, it doesn’t look like it.”

“Who have you been speaking with?” Sam asked pulling up the other chair.

“June. What a wicked woman. You’d think she might be just a tad upset about May, or the fact that Bradley is dead and one among them is a killer, but no.” John pursed his lips together and shook his head of neatly combed hair. “She put on a good front last night down at the station, but then family loyalty must never be compromised in public,” John finished sardonically.

I finished organizing a stack of to-dos for tomorrow and looked up. “What’s her beef this time?”

“She’s upset because J.T. is missing.”

“J.T. is missing? Since when? I saw him on Friday.”

“Well, maybe missing isn’t the right word, but no one has seen him for several days. He’s not at his apartment, which is quite nice, by the way, and he hasn’t been at June’s. I understand he’s been spending a lot of time over there. Practically living together, from what she says.”

I remembered seeing J.T. pulling up to June’s the previous week. In all honesty, I had never felt like he fit in to the equation. To him, this land deal was probably just one of many. If it didn’t pan out, he would move on to greener pastures. But now with him gone, perhaps I should re-figure my equation. Another thought occurred to me—was J.T. a suspect on the run, or was he a victim done in by something lethal and lying in a ditch somewhere?

“I talked with Larry and April,” John continued, “and though they have a reason to want Roberta dead, I can’t get anything out of them that would indicate they had it in for Bradley. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the killer just forgot Mrs. Brissart didn’t eat macaroons.”

I filled him in on the conversation Sam and I had earlier about Kendra.

John stifled a yawn. “It’s certainly worth looking into along with finding Mr. Smit. I still need to talk with Steven and his daughter, and Marsha and Stuart. I may try to reach Stuart tonight. I don’t suppose you have any coffee?”

“There’s probably a bit in the pot. I’ll go check.” Sam got up and went into the small kitchen.

“I wanted to spend some time together this weekend and talk.”

“Talk?”

“Yes. About us. About us living together.” I came around my desk and sat in the chair Sam had vacated. “John, I don’t like it when we’re not together. I never thought I would feel like this, but I do and I want us to be together. If you want us to live in your house, that’s okay and we can rent mine out. You do want to live together, don’t you?” I started to get up but felt John’s hand reach out to me.

“I don’t care where we live. I just want to be together, too. Your house is the more practical one for the moment anyway. I’ll try to get some time this weekend. Maybe we can go for a walk in the country and kick up some leaves and maybe even roll around in them,” he said mischievously as his deep gray eyes bored into mine. He leaned closer to me for a kiss when Sam walked in.

“Oops! I’ll just take this back to my own office and drink it myself.”

John left shortly after in the hopes he could talk with a few more suspects.

“Gingivitis. Stops them dead in their little tracks every time.” Michael Daniels, my brother-in-law, regaled the table with what had transpired earlier in the day at one of this student talks.

At the beginning of each school year, Michael and a group of other dentists in the area would go to the local grade schools and give talks about proper dental hygiene and the adverse effects one would develop if proper care was not taken.

“When I mention periodontitis and the chance of their teeth falling right out of their heads, well, you can almost see them reaching for the dental floss every night. It’s enough to warm my heart.” Michael took a bite of his pastrami on rye.

The whole Harris clan sat around a huge table at Kaplan’s, a deli restaurant that my parents loved coming to. Sam and I would take them to the airport for their late night flight to London after dinner. I looked down at my potato salad with the words inflammation, tartar, saliva, and trench mouth still ringing in my ears and pushed my plate away. I loved my brother-in-law dearly but once he started in on gum disease and dental plaque there was no stopping him. I admired the task he took on of educating the youth of Indian Cove and the surrounding cities to the dangers of un-fluoridated water, but did he have to talk about it over dinner, for pity’s sake. Only Sam and the kids were still eating.

Meme rolled her eyes and pushed her plate aside as well. “I should have dinner with Michael more often. Then maybe I could lose some weight,” she whispered to me and we both giggled.

“Alex, how much longer does John think it’ll be before they catch Bradley’s killer?” my dad asked trying to change the subject to murder—a more welcome topic than dental hygiene.

“I don’t know, Dad. Now that we know May put the jequirity mush into the liquor, that should free up his time somewhat. But so far he’s no closer to whoever put the cyanide in the macaroons.”

“I wonder if her admitting to the one poison takes her off the suspect list?” Dad asked.

“Maybe she did it so she could confess later and get suspicion off of her for the cyanide,” Sam said, finally full and setting her plate aside.

“Dreadful, just dreadful. My heart goes out to Mrs. Brissart and her son and daughter-in-law. If anything happened to one of you girls, or one of you,” Mom said, leaning over and planting a kiss on top of Henry’s head, “I don’t know what I would do.”

“Well, just don’t go trying to sell the family home and a large plot of land, and we should be okay.”

“Samantha, that was not funny.” I gave my sister a disgusted expression.

“Well, I think we ought to get this show on the road or we’re going to miss our plane!” Dad stood up and reached for the bill.

“Harry, give that to me. This is our treat. You save your money for Harrods,” Michael said, taking the bill from my father’s hand.

“Grandma, what’s Harrods?” asked Henry.

“It’s the place I’m going to so I can buy you something special.”

“Me, too, Grandma?” asked Kendall.

“I wouldn’t forget either one of you for a minute!” Mom took a hand of each child and they walked out to the parking lot. Both grandchildren were growing so fast, but Henry had surpassed Kendall a year ago. Sam had put Kendall’s blonde hair into French braids and Henry’s dark hair was slicked back in front. He loved when his mother put gel in his hair.

“Grandma?” Henry asked. “You’re going to miss Halloween. Do you know what I’m going to be?”

“I’m sorry about missing Halloween, Henry, but our vacation couldn’t be changed.” Both kids started off trick-or-treating each year by going to their grandparent’s for picture taking and an assortment of goodies. The second stop was my house, where the ritual got repeated, and then home to finish off in their neighborhood. “So tell me, what are you going to be? And what about you Kendall?” Kendall ran ahead to unlock the doors of the van.

“I’m a Power Ranger and Kendall’s going to be Pocahontas!”

“Mom’s making our costumes. Mine’s neat.” Kendall said as she chased her brother around my mother’s legs. He suddenly turned on his sister and gave her a taekwondo kick.

I came alongside the others. “I forgot to ask, Sam. How are the costumes coming?”

“They’ll be ready tomorrow. I had a bit of a problem with the feathers but Millie’s grandmother has been a big help.” She opened the rear door and the kids piled in. “That woman’s amazing. She’s doing some costumes for a school play at the kids’ school. I can see where Millie gets her creativity.”

“Okay, everybody in. London here we come!” Dad climbed into the front seat next to Michael.

Two hours later my parent’s had been checked in and we all stood around talking by the security check-in point. All the members of the seniors group stood together along with their families who had come to give them a happy send-off.

“Well, I guess we had better be going in,” Dorothy, who was my mom’s best friend, said, “It’s just about time.”

I took both my parents in my arms. “Have a wonderful time! And don’t worry about your plants or anything. Sam and I will take care of everything.”

“Harry! I forgot to unplug the coffee maker.”

“I know, but I did.” Dad said, taking Mom’s hand. “Come on. It’s time to go.”

“And don’t forget to visit your grandfather,” Mom shouted as Dad led her along. Lawrence Harris, my grandfather, had been living at Mills Pond retirement home for over a year and with my parents gone on vacation, the twice-weekly visits would now rest with Sam and me. “And keep an eye on Meme. Don’t let her get into any more trouble.”

“I’m right here, Mabel. I can hear you. Alex and I are going to heat up this town now that my keeper is going to be on vacation. Maybe I’ll cheat some more at bingo or better yet I’ve always wanted to rob a bank.” Meme cackled and my mother rolled her eyes.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” My mother shook her head.

We watched our parents go through security and waved until they were out of sight.

“London. What a wonderful place. You and John should go,” Sam suggested. “Kids, come on. We’re leaving.”

We walked slowly back to the car with our arms looped through Meme’s.

“It does sound heavenly. Maybe when he’s through with this case.”

“Price check on three!” the voice boomed over the store intercom. I absently turned over the bottle of salad dressing in search of a price. A bar code on the back would have to suffice. If everything had bar codes, why did someone need a price check on three? Modern technology could only go so far, I thought. Heading for the produce section, I smiled at the thought of someone trying to put tiny bar codes on each and every cherry tomato or apricot or string bean.

It was late, but after dropping my parents off at the airport and then convincing Meme it was too cold to rob the Bank of Indian Cove, I felt restless and thought it would be a great time to get some shopping done. Inspecting every head of lettuce in the bin, I finally settled on a small one and added tomatoes, an avocado from California, radishes, and a cucumber to my cart and then headed to checkout. There seemed to be a ruckus in full swing on checkout four, so I moved into the next aisle. Trying not to get involved in the argument, I nevertheless got drawn to the action. The angry young man at the counter yelled at the checker and tossed in a few choice words along the lines of “check again!” and “I don’t fucking believe this!”

Something in the voice registered in the recesses of my mind and I craned my neck trying for a better look over a display of tabloids—this week’s edition announcing that the Kardashians were really aliens under all that makeup and hair. I had long suspected as much. My eyes, momentarily averted to a smiling Kardashian and an artist’s rendition of what she
really
looked like under the makeup, I then turned my attention back to the blowup on four and saw a very angry Stuart Brissart.