Poisoned (The Alex Harris Mystery Series) (4 page)

“Such as?”

I leaned in closer. This was getting good. I’d have to remember every detail for Sam.

“Well, trips and jewelry and fur coats and spoiled children and grandchildren.”

“Mmm. Yes.” John looked pensive.

“Detective. Could I ask you something?” Chantal said.

“Certainly.”

“How did Bradley die?”

“We can’t be sure yet. Have to wait for the coroner’s report,” John said. “Let me ask
you
something. Can you think of anyone or any reason why someone would want to kill Bradley Brissart?”

Chantal shook her head. “Absolutely not. I can’t image why someone would want to kill
Bradley
.”

“But kill someone else perhaps?” John asked speculatively.

“Well...”

“Go ahead,” John prompted as I leaned even closer.

“Well, it’s just that Mrs. Brissart’s family really wants to sell that land and she’s always saying they’ll have to kill her to get it.” Chantal’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my!”

John sat back and smiled. “That’s exactly what I thought.”

Not knowing how Bradley died, I couldn’t figure out how someone could kill him if they meant to kill his grandmother, unless the murder took place in the dead of night with all the lights out. But even then, it seemed farfetched.

Before letting us go, John gave us the big speech about not letting anything that had been said out of the study. Yeah, right. I knew John knew that I would tell Sam everything, but he couldn’t stop me because I couldn’t see what it would hurt. I grabbed onto his arm as Chantal walked away. “Exactly what is going on here?”

“Not now.” And then he pointed a finger at me. “I saw how you leaned in closer for all the good bits.”

Jim Maroni stepped into the hall and walked toward the rear of the house.

I waited until the young man was out of earshot. “John? How could someone mistake Bradley for Mrs. Brissart?”

“I can’t get into it now.” John walked toward the living room.

Mrs. Platz sat next to Mrs. Brissart holding her hand. Seated across from them were two women. The vultures.

“Detective, these are my sisters.” Mrs. Brissart did not venture to introduce them further.

“We came as soon as we heard, Detective,” June said. “I’m June Doliveck and this is my sister, May Estenfelder.”

“Thank you both for coming.” He nodded to both of them and turned to Mrs. Brissart. “I’d like you to make up a list of everyone who came to the house yesterday, if possible, together with telephone numbers and addresses if you have them.”

June Doliveck stood up. “Whatever for? Surely you don’t think any one of us had something to do with Bradley’s untimely demise. Why, it must have been an accident, or something he ate,” she said, looking pointedly at Mrs. Platz who glared back through misty eyes so dark they could have been black.

“Interesting of you to say,” John said pointedly.

“Now wait a minute, Detec— Is that it? Detective? I just made a bad joke in reference to Mrs. Platz’s cooking. I certainly did not mean to imply I have any knowledge that Mrs. Platz killed Bradley.”

June bored her cold eyes through John, daring him to say differently.

“That remains to be seen. We’ll be talking with everyone. You, included, Mrs. Doliveck.”

I wandered out onto the porch and rested along the railing feeling the warmth of the autumn sun on my back. The coroner’s car had long since gone, but plenty of police officers and technicians remained. My sympathies went out to Mrs. Platz. It was a horrific ordeal for someone to have to go through and the poor woman must be numb with shock. The sound of Chantal’s voice brought me back to the current murder.

“Alex, Mrs. Brissart is going to need someone to help her. She needs to notify Bradley’s parents in London. Stuart’s trying now to reach them. Someone also needs to call Bradley’s girlfriend, Kendra, and arrangements need to be made. I can cancel my trip and stay.”

“Don’t worry, Chantal, I freed my calendar for the rest of the week so you go help your mother-in-law. I’ll help Mrs. Brissart.”

“Are you sure, Alex? Anthony could probably take some time off.”

“Truly, it’s no bother. I heard Mrs. Brissart’s sister saying something about Bradley eating something bad. Do you have any idea exactly what happened?”

“I guess I shouldn’t have pushed Detective Van der Burg about the specifics. I know he can’t tell me. But I heard some people talking this morning, and Mrs. Platz said a few things. It looks like he was poisoned. But I’m not sure.”

“Jesus! Well, that explains how Bradley could have been killed by mistake,” I said.

“They think the poison might have been in the cookies. I know the police took them away. Along with a bunch of other stuff. But Alex,
we
ate some as well and I’m okay.”

“Me, too,” I said, hoping that the stuff, whatever it was, didn’t have a delayed reaction.

“So it must be something else.”

“Hmm.”

John stepped out onto the porch and Chantal excused herself.

“I’ll see you tonight,” I said as I prepared to make a quick getaway back into the house.

John gently took hold of my arm. “Not so fast. Remember what I told you when we first met.”

“That you liked my hair? How cute you thought I was?”

“That I work alone.”

I crossed my arms and leaned against the railing again. “Oh. That.”

“Yes. That. It was nice of you to comfort Chantal, but leave it alone,” he warned.

“Well, that’s not possible, John. Chantal has to take a few days off to help her mother-in-law in New York and I’ve already volunteered to take over. So,” I shrugged, “I guess it’s up to me.”

“Have Millie find someone else.”

“No. Mrs. Brissart is a valued client. And besides that, I wouldn’t dream of leaving her alone at a time like this. She needs someone, a familiar face, to be with her and keep the vultures at bay.”

John sighed and put one hand on the railing and leaned close to me. “Stay out of it,” he said slowly, spreading the words out.

I started to tell him that I was there for support only when the voice of one of Mrs. Brissart’s sisters refusing to be brutalized by the police thundered through the house.

“I don’t believe it! How do you keep getting mixed up in this stuff?” Sam paced around her office. It was late afternoon and we were just now getting to the details of what had transpired at the Brissart house.

“Samantha, careful, your insensitive side is showing. I didn’t plan this and I’m sure neither did Bradley.”

Sam calmed down. “You’re right. Forgive me. I just hate seeing you go through all this again.”

“Don’t remind me. I’ve already thought about it,” I said, around a mouthful of M&Ms.

“What else is wrong? There’s something you’re not telling me.”

I buried my face in my hands. “It’s all my fault. I feel so guilty.”

“What on earth are you going on about?” Sam came around the desk. “How could it be your fault? You left the house before he died.”

I looked up. “Yes. But I wished it.”

Sam scrunched up her face crinkling her nose. “You wished Mrs. Brissart’s grandson would be murdered?” Sam asked.

“No. Of course not. What’s the matter with you? Geesh. I just, well. I just thought…”

“You just thought what?” Sam’s impatience showed.

“I thought with Halloween coming, and the weather getting cold, well, it seemed a perfect setting for a murder. You know how my imagination wanders.”

Sam stood with her hands on her hips looking down at me. “Yeah, I know all about your great imagination. Like when you convinced me the O’Malleys moved away in the dark of night because the FBI wanted them for God knows what, and we broke into their ‘abandoned’ house only to find Mr. O’Malley engaged in a little afternoon delight with that babysitter of theirs.”

“How was I supposed to know only Mrs. O’Malley moved out?”

“How did he die?”

“Mr. O’Malley?”

Sam closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Bradley,” she said through clenched teeth.

“No one is sure, but Chantal thinks it might be poison.”

“Well, there. You couldn’t have possibly caused it.”

“How did you come to that conclusion?”

“Because if someone poisoned him than this murder had to be planned well in advance. Poisoning’s not an act of random violence. When exactly did you wish for a murder?”

I looked sheepish. “Yesterday.”

“Well, there you have it.” Sam returned to her desk. “It was already planned by then. You probably just had some kind of premonition or something.”

“That sounds reasonable.” I brightened, my momentary lapse into martyrdom vanished.

“Is John the detective on the case?”

“Yeah. And Detective Jim Maroni. I’m a little worried about John. I’ll be over at the house until Chantal gets back and I’m sure he’ll be there talking with everyone. He already told me to stay out of it.
I work alone
,” I said in a mocking tone.

“Well, just keep your nose out of it,” Sam suggested, as she shuffled a stack of papers on her desk. “Just help Mrs. Brissart with plans and whatever else she needs.”

“Would you?”

“Well, no. I’d want to know every last detail,” Sam admitted, looking up at me.

“Me, too. And that’s what I’m worried about. John’s not going to be very happy if I start asking questions.”

“So don’t ask, just listen.”

“Huh?”

“Okay, so ask when he’s not around. He can’t be everywhere at once. Just make sure to keep notes and tell me everything.”

I stood up. “We’re being ghoulish. And insensitive. I’m going to be helping Mrs. Brissart and that’s all.”

“Right.”

“I’ve got some things to do.” I turned to go back to my office.

“Who’s Jim Maroni?”

“Someone new John’s training. Kind of cute, in a very serious way.”

“Probably trying to make a good impression. Listen, Alex. Before I forget, Mom called earlier and wants us to come over Wednesday night. Mom and Dad have a Trivial Pursuit game on Friday and she wants to practice.”

“They play Scrabble on Fridays,” I said, a bit bewildered at the sudden change to long-standing plans.

“They did. But Mom kept on winning and no one wants to play with her anymore.”

“Well, isn’t practicing for Trivial Pursuit cheating? They could get the same questions on Friday.”

“We come from a long line of cheaters. You’ve forgotten our grandmother, have you?”

I brightened just thinking of my beloved grandmother who at this very moment was probably bilking someone out of their life savings over a Pinochle game. “I read some of the Brissart family history Bradley brought over. They sound very illustrious. The boughs of our family tree are not laden with aristocracy, no, we have a bingo-cheating loan shark for a grandmother on our mother’s side and an exhibitionist grandfather on our dad’s.”

Sam laughed. “Be kind. Grandpa hasn’t had any more problems since they got his infection cleared up and Meme gives away more than she wins. Besides, mom assures me she’ll use questions from the original game and on Friday they’re using a new edition.” We looked at each other with more than a little suspicion. “I know, it sounds like cheating to me, too, but Mom wants to be ready.”

“She sure does like to win, doesn’t she?” I said.

“Don’t we all.”

I went back to my own office where I stayed until after seven.

I awoke before the sun rose and took a shower, pulled on a strait skirt in dark brown and a matching safari jacket and eyed myself in the dresser mirror. My hair, recently cut and now spiked up with a large glob of hair mud, continued to defy me but with the help of some artfully placed highlights, I liked it better.

Ten minutes later I guided my car through the streets of Indian Cove. The sky gradually grew light as the first rays of a low sun peeked over the horizon.

All along my route, houses announced the impending holiday with large pumpkins and floating ghosts adorning front yards. Some people really got into the spirit, no pun intended, and strung lights from eaves and mounted witches on their roofs that in the evening would sway in the wind when pumps filled them with air. This being New England, anything to do with autumn got done up properly. I turned right into a well-tended community of small, one-story homes and parked in front of number two-four-two.

“Come in, come in,” Meme said to me. “Samantha called and told me what happened at the Brissart home. Just terrible. I got your tea all ready and I’m making you a tomato and mayonnaise sandwich. Got some of that hard bread you like.”

I kissed my grandmother’s cheek and closed the door. “When don’t you have some of the hard bread I like,” I said teasingly, “and how did you know I was coming?”

Meme patted my cheek. “You always come to your grandmother.” She turned and scurried into the tiny kitchen.

Today she wore her black dress with the tiny white polka dots and a black veil hat perched on her head. Like with always having bread, Meme always had a veil hat. For as long as I could remember my grandmother wore the hat, only taking it off when she went to bed or took a shower and even then, it didn’t always get taken off. “
You just never know when you might want to stop off at St. Michael’s
,” she would say. “
There’s always someone you need to light a candle for
.” How true was that?

“How does John feel about you being over at the house?” Meme called from the kitchen.

I could hear a tea kettle whistling and walked into the room and pulled a mug out of the cupboard. “John didn’t make it over last night, but he called around nine with another warning not to get involved in the case. The police can handle it just fine, thank you very much. That’s how he feels about it.”

I carried the sandwich and the tea into the living room and sat down on the sofa. Meme brought in a cup of coffee, heavy with milk, and took a seat on a chair by the window.