I dabbed some of the spread onto a cracker and took a small bite. A moan escaped my lips as the smooth salmon flavor slid down my throat.
“This is wonderful,” I called to Mr. Cycek, who had returned to the kitchen. He stuck his head around the corner of the door, smiled, and nodded.
I sipped more wine and then heaped a pile of the spread on the next cracker. I ate four laden crackers before I stopped myself. I could have made this my meal, but from the smells drifting from the kitchen, Mr. Cycek was preparing a feast, and he would expect me to eat healthy portions. I was glad I would have a long walk back to my tent to burn off some of the calories I was about to consume.
I leaned back on the couch and sipped more wine. The warm house, food aromas, and potent wine were making me sleepy. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes.
“You’re tired.”
My eyes flew open, and I sat forward. I hadn’t heard him walk across the room, but now Mr. Cycek stood over me, wine bottle in hand. He bent and filled the glass I still held.
“I haven’t been sleeping well,” I said. “Today I fell asleep in the woods and was awakened by a bear.”
Mr. Cycek stepped back and smiled. “You must be careful.”
“At least I know my heart is strong.” I laughed.
“How did your clam digging go?”
“Fine. One more morning, and I’ll be done.” I paused. “I would like to ask you a few more questions about the onset and development of your wife’s symptoms. I know Craig asked you those questions,” I shrugged, “but I don’t have his notes.”
Mr. Cycek nodded his head but said nothing. He turned and disappeared into the kitchen. I sipped more wine and stared at the raven sculpture. Up close, I saw the work was crude, the features choppy. This only added to its charm, though, and as I ran my finger over the bird’s head and down its back, I wondered if Mr. Cycek would sell this to me. He must need money, and I could put the carving in my office to remind me of Craig.
A few minutes later, Mr. Cycek walked from the kitchen, his arms laden with serving bowls and platters.
I stood. “Can I help you?”
“No, no,” he said. “Please, sit at the table, and I will serve you.” He plopped a full salad bowl down in front of me. “I dished up our salads in the kitchen.”
I was charmed and amused. This was the best date I’d had in years. I wondered if Mr. Cycek was looking for another woman to fill the void left by Doris. I could do worse.
Mr. Cycek loaded the small table with food and then sat in the chair across the table from me.
“This all looks wonderful,” I said, “but I hope you don’t expect me to eat everything.”
He flashed a broad smile, showing off his even white dentures. “I won’t let you leave the table until everything is gone.” He snapped his fingers. “I forgot the wine.” He stood and scurried to the kitchen.
“Maybe I should slow down with that,” I said when he returned with the bottle.
“Nonsense. This is a holiday.” He refilled my glass and set the bottle on the table. His glass was full, and I wondered how much of the ruby brew he’d already had to drink.
“Please help yourself. Taste the salad first.” Mr. Cycek gestured to the full bowl he had placed in front of me. “I will explain what you’re eating.”
It was a green salad, but unlike anything I ever had seen before. There was no lettuce in the mix, just shades of green leaves and lavender and pink petals.
“It’s okay,” Mr. Cycek said. “I like to eat natural food. Most humans, even people who have grown up in the wilderness, think they have to buy their food from the grocery store, while much more nutritious and better-tasting food grows in their yards.”
“What’s in the salad?” I asked.
Cycek shrugged. “Let’s see. Fiddleheads, young birch leaves, salmonberry flowers, watermelon berry shoots...” he stared at the bowl and made a face of concentration. “Rose petals, geranium flowers, fireweed leaves, and let’s see, I sprinkled in a few wild chives and some spring beauty. I don’t believe I have any sorrel or dock in this one, but the salty flavor comes from the sea lettuce seasoning and the beach greens. I also put dandelion greens and chickweed in it. Those, of course, grow in my garden, no matter how much I try to discourage them.” He shrugged again and then nodded his head. “Oh yes, wild mustard leaves and goose tongue.”
“Wow,” I said.
“It doesn’t need much of a dressing; it’s flavorful by itself. Just put a little of this oil and vinegar on it.” He handed me a bottle and I shook several drops over my wild salad.
“Try it,” he said. “Tell me truthfully what you think.”
He studied me while I lifted a forkful of salad to my mouth. I pushed the greens into my mouth and instantly regretted taking such a big bite. My cheeks involuntarily drew together in a pucker, and I had to fight the urge to spit the vile-tasting leaves onto the floor. I chewed slowly and forced myself to swallow. I felt tears run down my cheeks.
“Well?” Cycek asked.
“Good.” My mouth had not yet recovered its normal shape, and the word sounded strange. “It has quite a kick.”
“Oh yes.” This was the compliment Mr. Cycek apparently wanted. “So much better than the bland stuff you buy in the store.”
“It’s definitely not bland.” I swallowed wine and then looked around the table. “What else do we have?”
He handed me a bowl of dark green leaves that looked like spinach. “Try the nettles. I steamed them with morels.”
“Nettles?” You mean the leaves that sting you when you touch them?”
Mr. Cycek laughed. “Don’t worry. They lose their sting when they’re cooked. You’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
I spooned a small mound of the mushy plants onto my plate, and this time took only a small bite under Mr. Cycek’s watchful eye.
I glanced up. “This is good. It tastes like spinach, and these brown things are mushrooms?”
“Yes, morels.”
“Isn’t it difficult to know which mushrooms are safe to eat?”
Cycek shook his head. “I only pick the morels. Nothing else except false morels looks like them, and I know the difference, so I know they’re safe.”
He handed me the bread basket. “This is my work of art,” he said.
I lifted a piece of heavy, dark bread with green specks from the basket and waited for Mr. Cycek’s explanation before I bit into it.
He smiled. “I made that from a mixture of cattail and wheat flour. The green specks are dried nettles and chickweed.”
“You made flour from cattails?”
“Yes, from the rhizomes. It’s a lengthy process, but quite rewarding.”
I held the bread to my mouth and prepared myself for something bitter, but the bread tasted bland, and bland was good.
“Mmm,” I said. “You are some chef, Mr. Cycek. Tell me how you make flour out of cattail rhizomes.”
Mr. Cycek smiled. “I scrub and peel away the tough outer rind of the rhizome while it’s still wet. Then, I pound it into mush with a mallet, place it in a jar, and cover it with water. The flour settles to the bottom, and I pour off the water and stringy fibers. I then dry and store the flour until I need it. Of course, it takes a lot of cattails to make enough flour for bread, so I usually have to mix it with wheat flour. I like the flavor of the cattail flour, though.”
“It’s delicious,” I said, and bit off another small piece.
Mr. Cycek helped himself to the nettles and bread and then handed me a bowl of cooked, white grain that I thought was rice.
“These are steamed chocolate lily bulbs,” he said, as I dumped a large spoonful on my plate.
I looked from the grain to Cycek’s face. “The flowers that smell like a baby’s diaper?”
Cycek smiled. “That’s right. Try it, though. I think you’ll be surprised.”
My adventurous spirit was flagging. I longed for Minute Rice, iceberg lettuce, and Wonder Bread. I nibb
led a bite of white grain.
“It tastes like garlic.”
“I seasoned it with garlic butter. The lily roots are bland by themselves, so they need to be livened up.”
I was surprised but thankful Mr. Cycek had chosen a conventional spice to season the lily roots. “It’s very good,” I said, and this time, I was telling the truth.
“And this I’m sure you’ve had before.” Mr. Cycek handed me a platter loaded with chunks of white fish.
“Oh yes. I love halibut. How did you cook it?”
“I basted it with lemon butter and baked it.”
Thank heavens. Something I could identify and liked. I took two pieces, but that didn’t make a dent in the large platter of fish.
“We’ll never eat all of this,” I said.
Mr. Cycek shrugged. “I guess I got carried away. It has been a long time since I’ve had company.”
“And you outdid yourself.” I gestured to the food. “This is all wonderful. Thank you for inviting me.”
We ate in silence for a few minutes. I alternated bites of delicious, flaky halibut with the bland and bitter side dishes. After each bite of salad, I gulped wine, and before I knew it, Mr. Cycek again had refilled my glass. I felt flushed and light headed and knew I should ask for water, but instead, I sipped more wine.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” I said. My mouth tingled and the words sounded strange. I shook my head, trying to clear it. “Why didn’t you eat clams with Doris the night she got sick?”
Mr. Cycek chewed slowly while I waited for his answer. “I don’t like clams,” he said. “I only ate a salad that night, but clams were Doris’ favorite meal.” He ate another bite of fish. “I did all the cooking, you see. Oh, Doris cooked when we were first married, but she was never any good at it, and I like to cook. Doris usually dug the clams and I cooked them, but when her arthritis got worse, she wasn’t able to dig.”
“How did you cook them that night?”
“Steamed them. That was her favorite.”
“And did she drink wine with her meal?” This was an important question, since liquor magnifies the effects of PSP, and I could testify that the liquor content of this wine was high.
“Yes. Doris always had a couple of glasses of wine with supper.”
“Do you remember how long it was from the time Doris began eating clams until she began feeling ill?”
Mr. Cycek lathered butter on a slice of bread and took a bite, chewing slowly. He picked up his wine glass and stared into it a moment before sipping.
“A few minutes after we began eating, I noticed Doris kept scratching her mouth, and then she slurred her words. I thought it was the wine.” Mr. Cycek’s eyes gleamed and a smile spread across his face. He chuckled and took another bite of salad.
I felt as if I were a guest at the Mad Hatter’s tea party. The interior of the Cycek cabin lost its sharpness, and I seemed only able to focus on one object at a time. Everything else was fuzzy, and when I moved my head too quickly, the room blurred into a swirl of colors. Sound also was distorted, and Cycek’s laugh sounded louder than it should have. And why was he laughing? His reaction was out of place; it didn’t seem to make sense. Had I missed the joke? He was telling me about his wife’s death. Laughter had no part in that story.
I closed my eyes, shook my head, and then scratched my tingling mouth. I was beginning to imagine I had Doris’ symptoms. “I’ve had too much of your wine,” I said.
“After supper I’ll brew coffee. Don’t worry, I won’t send you back to your camp drunk.”
I tried another bite of salad, hoping the bitter taste might clear my head. Instead, my eyes began to water, and I pushed the bowl away from me. I ate two large bites of halibut and reached for my wine glass. I brought the glass to my lips, inhaled the potent brew, and set it down.
“Then what happened to Doris?” I asked.
Mr. Cycek slid his fork into his pile of chocolate lily grain. He tilted his head to one side, recalling the last night of his wife’s life.
“She dropped her fork three times and said she was dizzy.” He lifted his fork to his mouth, and I watched him chew.
“How do you like your food? You’re not eating very fast.” He nodded to my plate.
“It’s delicious,” I said and stuffed a forkful of nettles into my mouth. “Excellent,” I said after I swallowed, slurring the word so that instead of sounding like an “s,” the “c” sounded like “sh.” I licked my lips, which felt thick and numb, and I wondered if I was having a reaction to the nettles.
“What was Doris’ next symptom?” I asked.
Mr. Cycek waved his hand in front of his face and frowned. “I don’t know. Is this important?”
“I’m afraid so,” I said. “But if you’d rather wait and talk about it later, I understand.”
“No, no. We might as well get it over with.” He ate a bite of fish and then wiped his mouth with his napkin. He looked at me, and I focused on his small, black eyes. The rest of his face was blurred.
“Her words were so slurred I couldn’t understand what she was saying, and I told her that, but she wouldn’t shut up. She just kept babbling. The woman couldn’t stop talking.” His voice was low, his eyes hard.
I felt as if I were floating in space. Had I heard him correctly, or was I hallucinating? My stomach churned, and suddenly, the room seemed unbearably hot. I tugged at the neck of my sweatshirt.
“Bitch, bitch, bitch. That’s all the woman did. I never fixed the leaky roof. I didn’t help enough in the garden. She was tired of living like a hermit.” He paused and then chuckled. I heard his laugh, but my eyes were still locked on his, and they remained cold and hard. “She was particularly upset that day, because I forgot to bring her groceries from Larsen Bay. She didn’t stop to think that maybe I didn’t go to Larsen Bay.”
Without thinking, I pulled my salad bowl toward me and took another bite. I choked on the acrid leaves and swallowed the rest of the wine in my glass. Mr. Cycek didn’t refill it. He was lost in thought now, his eyes gazing past me as he remembered. I felt something wet run down my chin and wiped away a drop of saliva. Was I drooling?
“I helped Doris to the couch,” Cycek continued. “She could barely walk at that point, but she was still yammering. Finally, about ten minutes later, she began gasping for air. She clutched her throat and rolled off the couch onto the floor. Then, except for the wheezing and choking, she was quiet, and I called the Coast Guard.”
I watched Mr. Cycek quietly resume eating his meal. I knew I could not eat another bite. My head spun, my stomach churned, and sweat poured down my face. My heart thumped so rapidly that I imagined Mr. Cycek could hear it beating. I swallowed and looked around the room, trying to force myself to sober up, willing my vision to clear. My gaze fell on the bookcase, and I blinked, trying to read the blurred, jumbled letters on the spines of the books. Birds of Alaska, I deciphered after much effort. Edible and Poisonous Plants of the Pacific Northwest. The Alaska Cookbook. If only the Cyceks had heeded the PSP warnings in that book, Doris would be alive today. The Poor Man’s James Bond, I read. The words went in and out of focus, but this exercise seemed to be sharpening my acuity. Under Alaskan Seas, I read on the next book spine, the letters were slightly blurred but easy to make out.
I stopped, the sweat turning cold on my face as my eyes slowly returned to the James Bond book. The author of the book was not Ian Fleming, but Kurt Saxon. This was the homemade-bomb-making book Morgan had told me about.
I swiveled my gaze back to the table. Mr. Cycek’s head was bent, his attention focused on his food. My heart beat wildly, and for the first time, I examined the bouquet of flowers in the vase in the center of the table. Pink, white, yellow, and violet flowers filled the vase, but all I saw were the two stems of purple monkshood.
The bouquet blurred, splintering into fragments of color. I tucked my hands between my knees to control their shaking. My sweatshirt clung to my sweaty back, and I felt as if all the air had b
een sucked out of the room. I lifted my head toward the ceiling and took a deep breath.
Cycek looked up from his plate. “Are you okay? Your face is flushed.”
I’m not sure I answered him. My brain was scrambling to recall symptoms of aconite poisoning, a poison so toxic that the original inhabitants of this island spread it on their spears to kill bears and whales. Only a grain of monkshood root would kill a human being. I looked at the grains of chocolate lily in my plate, but no, Cycek also had eaten the lily root. What had I eaten that he hadn’t? He hadn’t eaten any of the salmon dip, or he could have dropped something into my wine, because he’d brought the first glass to me from the kitchen.
I took another deep breath and looked around the table. Cycek’s attention again was focused on his plate as he continued to shovel food in his mouth. The salad. He’d dished up the salad in the kitchen, and the bitter greens would camouflage any disagreeable taste the toxin might have. Also, monkshood leaves look similar to wild geranium leaves, and I would have to be an expert to spot them in the shredded salad.
I tried to calm down. I hadn’t eaten much of my salad, and if the old man had chopped up monkshood leaves in the salad, at least the leaves were less toxic than the roots.
What were the symptoms of monkshood poisoning? I’d consumed a great deal of wine. Was I feeling intoxicated or the symptoms of aconite?
I wiped drool away from the corners of my mouth. Yes, that was one of the symptoms of aconite poisoning. Salivation, weakness, chest pain, and in a few hours, death from cardiac arrest.
Chapter Fifteen
I sobbed, and Cycek slowly lifted his head to meet my gaze.
“You poisoned me.”
He nodded. “I’m sorry. You seem like a nice woman, but you shouldn’t have meddled in my affairs.”
“But why? What have I done?” I didn’t know if my racing heart was a symptom of poisoning or terror. I should have bolted for the door, but I couldn’t move. I didn’t understand why this was happening; although, I now knew that for some reason, Mr. Cycek had placed the explosives on the plane. He had killed Craig, the pilot, and the other passengers.
Murder over Kodiak Page 25