Lime Ricky (Romantic Suspense)

by Jill Winters

  With a high-pitched giggle, Yablonk said, "No problem. It sounds like there's a great story behind this. Sure, drop it down to me later and I'll have my buddies in the lab take care of it for you. When do you need to know by?"

  "As soon as you know," Rick said.

  "No problem," Yablonk said again.

  Easy enough, so far. But if Yablonk's guys found poison, that would be a whole other story. Then Rick would have to come up with some plausible explanation for where this "liquid" had come from and why he had it. After making arrangements with Yablonk regarding when and where to drop the stuff off, Rick disconnected. And now he'd wait.

  Chapter 17

  "You heartless bastard."

  "Uh..." Rick paused cautiously. "What do you mean?"

  "I got the lab results," Yablonk said the next day when he phoned Rick at the firehouse. "I should've known you were up to no good."

  "Uh, that was quick," Rick said casually, even as his gut tightened with anticipation, with dread.

  "Of course it was quick, you asshole. It was tomato sauce!" Yablonk started cackling and said, "I could kill you—you made me look like a fucking idiot! I had my boys 'analyzing' goddamn tomato sauce. I'm the big joke around here now."

  Rick blew out a sigh of relief. Thank God. So the sauce had been okay. It hadn't been part of some murder plot against his brother. A woman wasn't dead, indirectly, because of Brett.

  "Let me guess," Yablonk continued jovially. "You were trying to figure out your brother's secret recipe, is that it? Mr. Big TV Star's not talking, so you come to me," Yablonk joked.

  "Uh, yeah," Rick said with a chuckle. "Something like that. Sorry, man. I, uh... I was desperate."

  "I guess so! All right, let's see what we've got here. Tomatoes, garlic, olive oil, salt, black pepper, butter, basil, onion, mushroom, red bell pepper, sugar, and rosemary—you satisfied now?"

  To confirm, Rick took out the list of ingredients Brett had given him yesterday morning "Did you say mushrooms?" he double-checked.

  "Yeah. 'Basidiomycota fungi,'" Yablonk said, clearly reading the lab report in front of him. "Also known as fucking mushrooms," he finished with a laugh. "You owe me for this, Pellucci."

  "No, I know. Listen, I'll take you out for a beer sometime."

  "Forget that. Just play baseball with us again. We start practicing in March."

  "Okay, I'll think about it," Rick said. But of course, his mind was stuck on something else—like the fact that Brett's recipe didn't call for mushrooms.

  * * *

  Rick's next two calls were trickier. The first one was to a high school science teacher whom Rick had dated for only a couple of months. He'd been the one to break it off, but that was four or five months ago now; so hopefully she wasn't bitter. He found her number in his contacts list.

  "Hello?"

  "Amanda," Rick said with a familiarity that was probably out of place, "it's Rick."

  "Oh." Pause. "Hi."

  Based on two syllables, he couldn't tell if she was bitter, but she certainly didn't sound thrilled. "How are you?"

  "Fine."

  "How's school?"

  "It's fine, Rick. I'm kind of surprised to hear from you," she said, then muttered, "Surprised you even remember my number."

  Okay, still bitter.

  "Well, I hope I'm not bothering you," he threw in warmly.

  "No, it's fine, I guess." She paused and added, "I'm engaged, by the way."

  "Whoa," Rick said with a jerk of his head. "Engaged, huh? Who's the lucky guy?"

  "It's the man I was dating before you. Larry."

  "Ohh," Rick said, nodding to himself as he remembered. "Right, right." When they were dating, Amanda had mentioned her ex-boyfriend a couple of times. Something about him being one of those dull, unexciting mama's boy types. And now they were engaged? Huh. You could never predict who'd end up together, but hey, as long as she was happy.

  "Well, good for you," Rick said now, meaning it. "That's great, Amanda. He's a lucky guy," he threw in again.

  That seemed to piss her off. "Right, and you didn't want to be lucky, I guess." Rick didn't know what to say to that; luckily Amanda plowed on. "Anyway, I am really happy now—with Larry—so it all worked out in the end."

  Feeling a stab of guilt, Rick realized then that he'd hurt her. More than he realized. Amanda was a sweet girl, and he just felt bad about it.

  He supposed there was no point dragging the small talk out any further. "Listen, Amanda, to tell you the truth, I'm calling because I need to ask you some questions about mushrooms."

  "Huh?"

  "I know it's strange, but it's for this thing I'm working on," he explained vaguely. Normally, he might think it was jumping to conclusions to assume that the traces of mushroom found in Brett's sauce were ominous—poisonous—but considering the sauce was smooth, with no chunks in it, that meant that the mushrooms had been ground up finely—a deliberate act to conceal them—which was what made their presence very fucking ominous.

  "I just need some information," he continued, "but I don't have a clue even where to begin looking. And I know you teach biology and you probably know everything there is to know about this stuff, so I thought I'd give you a call."

  "I teach chemistry!" Amanda snapped.

  Shit, now she was annoyed.

  Chemistry, Rick scolded himself, making a fist. That's right—did she tell me that?

  A moment passed before she softened her tone with a sigh. "Why, what do you need to know?"

  "Well, I'm curious about mushrooms that are poisonous—you know, which ones are deadly and what they do and how someone could get his hands on them." Realizing how shady that must have sounded, Rick gave a brief laugh and qualified, "Obviously I'm not asking for me. But it's... kind of important."

  "Hmm, that's really not my area," Amanda said. "But if you want... I guess I can put you in touch with the bio teacher here."

  "Yeah?" Rick said, surprised and pleased. "That would be great. She won't mind?"

  "He, and no. Jay lives for this stuff. He talks about bio all the time. He grows mold in his refrigerator. Last year he took the kids to Sandy Hook on a field trip; they saw a dead fish on the beach, and Jay cut it open with his keys. He wanted to show them the inside. Two kids went home sick and he almost got fired."

  "Wow," Rick said, furrowing his eyebrows. "Sounds like an interesting guy."

  "He is when you're in the mood for it. Anyway, he knows something about practically every organism you can think of, so I'm sure he'll be happy to talk to you."

  "Thanks a lot, Amanda," Rick said. "I really appreciate it."

  "Okay. Well, I'll ask him to call you. What time is it? Let's see... three thirty. Yeah, he should still be here. The biology club gets out at around three forty-five."

  "Thanks again, Amanda. I owe you." She grumbled something under her breath, but Rick figured he was best not knowing what it was. Instead he said, "By the way—congratulations."

  * * *

  "Amanda told me you wanted to know about poisonous mushrooms." No hello, no small talk—Rick liked this guy already.

  "Yes. Thanks for getting in touch with me so quickly. I, uh, I'm trying to do some research on mushrooms, like you said, and I'm wondering what types are out there that are fatal?"

  Briefly, Jay Bernbaum seemed to chortle on the other end. "Sorry to laugh, but, uh, yes—mushrooms can be very toxic. And that's just the variety we know of; there's nothing to say that the as of yet undiscovered species would not also prove fatal, because one can't prove a negative, of course."

  "Um... what?" Rick said, feeling a bit dumb and also momentarily distracted—as he walked to the subway, the afternoon rain turned abruptly into fat, pelting snow. "Basically," Rick went forward, "I'm curious about a mushroom that might not kill someone right away—might make a person real sick first. You know, vomiting, fever. Until eventually kidney failure?"

  "Kidney failure? Now that's interesting." Bernbaum made a lip-smacking sort of noise.
"Hmm, a particularly destructive one," he mumbled, clearly in thought over it. Then he said, "Gastrointestinal bleeding, as well? And loss of consciousness prior to death?"

  "Okay." Rick waited. He had to be guarded here so as not to reveal how steeped in reality this inquiry really was. "Let's say those symptoms, too. You know, speaking hypothetically."

  "Of course. Well, then I'd pick the Death Angel as my candidate. It's one of the most grotesquely destructive species of mushrooms we've discovered."

  Rick assumed by "we," Bernbaum meant the scientific community at large. Now, with his pulse firing quickly, he needed to be clear. "Wait, Death Angel is the name of a mushroom?"

  "Often called The Destroying Angel," Bernbaum elaborated. "Its scientific name is Amanita bisporigera. There are other highly toxic mushrooms that, if ingested, can play out a similar course of symptoms, but they are typically harder to come by and of course there are variations. But what you just described seems dead-on. Ha ha, that's a bit of a pun there," Bernbaum threw in with a laugh. "Anyway, from everything I've read, the incubation period is the tricky part. Usually the symptoms manifest five or more hours after ingestion, and those symptoms would include what we've just discussed: abdominal pain, vomiting, diarrhea, high fever—"

  "Wait," Rick interrupted, "is it possible for symptoms to show up much sooner than that? Like, maybe an hour after eating the mushroom?"

  "No, that doesn't sound right. Of course I say that with the usual caveat that I suppose anything's possible." Thoughtfully, Rick tucked that information away, as he recalled Brett's words: An hour later, she's got abdominal pain, diarrhea, and she can barely stand on her own two feet.

  The rest of the details of Misty Allbright's death, which Brett had relayed to Rick, had really come from Ellie Galistette. In fact, Misty's assistant, Ellie, seemed to be the only one who'd actually spoken with the doctors.

  "What else can you tell me about it?" Rick asked.

  "Just that, as we spoke of, the tricky part with the Destroying Angel is the fact that the symptoms can wane. It's very deceptive; there might be a short period of recovery. But it's only an illusion. The toxin takes hold again, rapidly destroying someone from the inside out."

  'Jesus, " Rick whispered, stunned, thoroughly disturbed by the horrible fate that Jay had just described so casually. Sucking in a breath, he asked, "So how would this Destroying Angel be identified as the cause of death? In an autopsy? Sorry, this is probably out of your area of expertise; I was just curious."

  "No, it's an intriguing question. The truth is, unless someone consumed a particularly large quantity, by the time he died, he would have purged so much out of his system it would likely be impossible to find traces of the mushroom in his stomach contents. And as for toxin in his bloodstream, well, a medical examiner would have to know exactly what he was looking for to find it." Bernbaum paused to sneeze, blow his nose, then continued, "In cases of this kind of fatality—which of course is far from common—the cause of death would typically be identified by samples of the mushroom that were left behind."

  "In other words, the remainders that the victim didn't eat," Rick filled in, thinking about Brett's leftover sauce and how that, then, would be the key to any investigation of Misty's death. As long as the police were unaware that Misty had eaten at Brett's house—especially something this obscure—they would have no way of tracing or conjecturing the real cause of death. They would have no way to link her death on Wednesday morning to her brief appearance at Brett's house on Saturday. If Brett didn't go to the police with what he knew and the evidence he was holding, Misty Allbright's murder would likely go unsolved. And considering that the murderer was really after Brett, that left his brother still very much in danger.

  Offhandedly, Bernbaum added, "Luckily the Destroying Angel is not native to this region. Of course... if one were determined to get it, in this day and age, he certainly could.

  Grimly, Rick thanked Jay Bernbaum for his help and said good-bye, wondering who was that determined to destroy his brother, from the inside out.

  * * *

  That night, Rick was at Brett's apartment on Madison Avenue, discussing with his brother what he'd learned and what they needed to do. The two sat on opposing, but equally oversized leather couches that sucked a body down like quicksand.

  Now that Rick had held up his end of the bargain, Brett was ready to renege on the deal like the sniveling coward he was. Okay, granted, he had a right to be scared; he had a killer after him, but did that mean he couldn't show an ounce of character?

  "Please, please, Brody, just help me a little longer," he begged.

  "What can I do?"

  "Figure this mess out."

  "Oh, is that all?" Rick said, his voice hard with sarcasm.

  "Please," Brett pleaded. "Look, we agreed—"

  "I know, but I can't go to the cops now. And I know what you're thinking, that I'm just concerned about the bad publicity. But it's not just that, I swear. Okay, yes, that's a factor. A big factor—a huge factor—fine. But it's more than that."

  Implacably, Rick crossed his arms over his chest and waited. "I'm scared, Brody. Scared that I... that I'll somehow get this whole thing pinned on me." Suspiciously, Rick tilted his head and squinted at him, subjecting his brother to the scrutiny he was clearly trying to avoid. "Why would anyone pin it on you? Especially considering the death threats you got?"

  "According to me," Brett countered. "But I have no proof. I didn't tape those two calls. And that e-mail—come on, from a random Yahoo address? The cops could say I sent that to myself to avoid suspicion." Before Rick could interject, Brett pressed on. "If I come forward now, I'll link my name to this whole mess. I'll become front and center in the police's mind when they try to sort it out. There'll be a cloud of suspicion over me, and if the cops go looking for a fall guy, I'll be the first one to come to mind."

  Rick sat back, assessing his brother. After a long pause, he said, "Let me ask you. Why did you make pasta for Misty?"

  "Huh? What do you mean? She was hungry."

  "Answer the question. There was a ton of food downstairs, prepared for the party. Why did you make pasta for her?"

  "Because... I knew how much she liked my sauce," Brett said, sounding evasive.

  "You were sleeping with her," Rick said flatly. "That's it, right?"

  Brett didn't answer; he gulped, which was answer enough. "That's why you're so scared of the police," Rick continued. "You're afraid if you call attention to yourself, they'll check you out. Find out you and Misty had more than a business relationship. And that, plus your connection to the food that killed her—"

  "Yes! Don't you see?" Brett said anxiously, sitting forward and resting his elbows on his knees. He ducked his head down to plow his hands through his hair; when he looked back up at Rick, his eyes were troubled, terrified, his normally cheerful-puppy face was drawn and dark. "They'll try to pin this whole thing on me! They always pin it on the boyfriend."

  Rick held back from pointing out that it often was the boyfriend. That wouldn't make his brother feel any better. Instead, he sighed and rubbed his eyes. "So Misty was the one, huh?" he said finally, already tired of this whole mess even though it had only just begun.

  "What one?" Brett asked, confused.

  "The one you were telling me about last week. The, uh... casual thing."

  Brett paused, obviously trying to remember the conversation Rick was referring to—the one in his dressing room when Rick had asked Brett if he was seeing anyone and he'd mentioned a woman he was "screwing" but wouldn't give her name.

  Recalling now, Brett shook his head and said, "Oh, no. No, that was someone else."

  "Someone else?"

  "Yeah. That wasn't Misty. I mean, Misty and I were sleeping together, but that was more, you know, business-with-benefits. The casual thing I was talking about is somebody else."

  Angrily, Rick barked, "Jesus—how many people are you screwing, Brett?"

  "Hey," Brett said sharply, so
mehow finding the balls to get pissed off and defensive in the midst of his whining and sniveling. "No judgments, man, all right?"

  "No," Rick corrected, annoyed. "Judgments. A helluva lot of judgments. You're thirty years old; this is high school shit."

  "Look, Brody, I'm having a really crappy night, okay! I just found out that someone is definitely trying to kill me and I'm holding the one piece of evidence that could either help the police find the guy, or make me the prime suspect. I don't need a lecture!"

  Sucking in a breath, Rick paused and said, "Okay. Sorry." It wasn't his business who his brother slept with, other than the fact that right now another girl just added another complication to the case. Another person intimately invested in Brett's life was another person with access to details—like Brett's phone number, his e-mail address, and possibly his upcoming trip to Hawaii, which was mentioned in the threatening e-mail he'd received at work.

  If Rick were honest with himself, he'd admit that his anger had little to do with Brett's flakiness or his shady track record with women. It came down to control. Rick was used to having it—approaching a problem with a clear focus—but this mess Brett had dumped on him was muddled and frustrating as hell.

  Now he expelled a sigh and spoke more calmly. "So who's this other person?"

  "Wha—why? Why does that even matter?" Brett asked uncomfortably. "She's not involved in any of this."

  "Well, who knows? Maybe she is. Maybe she was more serious about you than you were about her. Maybe she knew about you and Misty and went around the bend—"

  "No way," Brett said with a shake of his head. "She wouldn't do that."