Dads get grumpy when you try to talk to them while they’re watching football.
There was no use trying to tell my dad—at least not until the football game was over. It could be too late by then. These games are never over before dinner.
I hurried back to the kitchen. Grandma had just finished with the pumpkin pie and had placed it on the table by the window to cool.
Mom was holding a bowl of potatoes. She looked around the kitchen.
“Where is the potato masher?” she said.
Grandma got up from her chair and opened a drawer. She frowned as she pawed through the drawer, then sighed.
“Your father was the last one to use it. He didn’t put it back where it belongs. I am going to kill that man.”
There! She said it again. She was going to kill Grandpa, and she must be putting poison in the pumpkin pie.
What would Kid Kelly do? I know. He would march up to Grandma, take her by the arm and karate chop her to the floor. Then he would tie her up and turn her over to the police.
I couldn’t do that. My mom would really get mad and send me to my room. I guess Kid Kelly doesn’t have a mom.
There was only one other way. I had to get rid of the pie. It was sitting there on the table. But my mom and grandma were there, so I couldn’t do anything about it. I had to wait until dinner. That would be served in the dining room. Grandma wouldn’t bring the pie in until it was time for dessert.
Mom saw me crouching in the doorway and put her hands on her hips.
“Trevor,” she said. “It’s not polite to listen in on other folks’ conversations. Now go wash up. Dinner will be ready in just a few minutes.”
Grandma was taking the turkey out of the oven. She carried it over to the table and set it on a hot pad next to the pumpkin pie. It looked good. It smelled good, too. I hoped it wasn’t poisoned like the pie.
“Go tell the others that dinner is ready,” Mom said.
We sat around the big table in the dining room. There was more food than we could eat, as usual. The turkey alone would fill us up. Everybody was doing their share to eat it all, everybody except me. I wasn’t the least bit hungry.
“You’re not eating, Trevor,” my mother said.
“I’m not hungry.”
“That’s not like you,” she said. “Are you sick?”
“No’m.”
“Well,” she said, “there will be no dessert if you don’t eat.”
No dessert. That was fine with me. I didn’t want to die.
“May I be excused?” I asked.
“You are not leaving this table until you eat something.” She scooped out some mashed potatoes, put them on my plate, and added a slice of turkey.
“Eat that and you may go.”
I ate a piece of turkey. It was good. So were the potatoes. I would have asked for more, but I had to get to the kitchen before Grandma served the pie.
It was on the table where she had put it when she said she was going to kill Grandpa. It was still warm. I took my Kid Kelly magnifying glass from my pocket and inspected it. It looked okay, and smelled good, too. Still, I had to get rid of it. The poison was inside where nobody could see it.
I picked it up and went over to the sink. I set it on the drainboard, pulled a chair over to the sink and climbed on it. I was reaching for the garbage disposal switch when Mom walked into the room.
“What are you doing with that pie?” she said.
I nearly fell off the chair. She rushed over, grabbed the pie off the drainboard and set it back on the table.
“Young man, I want an explanation.”
“I…er…I…”
“Well?” she said.
“It’s poisoned,” I said.
“Poisoned? It is a perfectly good pie,” she said. “Your grandmother baked it herself.”
“But I…”
She swatted me on the bottom.
“Ever since you started watching that silly TV program you have acted strangely.”
“It’s not silly,” I said.
She gave me another swat. “Now, go to your room. And don’t come out until I call you.” She shook her head. “Poisoned, indeed. Honestly, I don’t know where you get these ideas.”
She took me by the shoulders and pushed me toward the door. “Go to your room. Right now.”
I had to stay there for an hour. When I came back down, everyone was in the living room. Dad was watching a football game on TV. Mom and Grandma were drinking coffee. Grandpa was in his favorite chair by the fireplace, reading a newspaper.
I walked over to him.
“Are you OK?” I asked.
“What’s that you say?”
“Did you have some pie?”
“Do I have something in my eye?” he said.
“Pie!” I shouted. “Did you have any pumpkin pie?”
“Of course he did. Two pieces,” Mom said.
I looked from Mom to Grandpa. They both seemed fine. Maybe the poison didn’t work, or else Grandma forgot to put it in the pie. She can be forgetful at times. Why, one year she forgot to buy a turkey and we had to eat meatloaf.
Mom told me I had misbehaved and couldn’t have any dessert. I don’t care. Pumpkins are used to make jack-o-lanterns on Halloween. Who wants to eat a slimy old jack-o-lantern?
Anyway, I’m glad that Grandpa is all right. Even if he can’t hear, he’s still my favorite grandpa.
I don’t care what Mom says. Next year I’m going to bring my video games.
Killer Bro-vember
Kelley Lortz
“Unbelievable,” Detective Brewer muttered. He glared at the man sitting next to him in the interview room. Detective Gupta’s head rested on his chest. His snoring brought to mind an asthmatic moose.
Across the table, the suspect arched an eyebrow. “I can come back if I’m interrupting nap time.”
Detective Brewer kicked Gupta under the table.
“She said she wasn’t married,” he said, as he startled awake. He blinked at Brewer and looked around the interview room. After several seconds, he cleared his throat, straightened his tie, and picked up the folder on the table. “Yes, well thank you for coming in, if we have any further questions.” He moved to get up and extend his hand.
“We haven’t even started yet,” Brewer said.
“Let’s get started then.” Gupta sat back down, pulling at his tie.
Brewer sighed and wondered, for the hundredth time, who Gupta was related to that kept him on the force, and more importantly, who he had pissed off to be stuck with him on this case.
“We will be recording this interview,” Brewer said, pointing at the camera in the corner of the room. “Please state your full name and your relationship to the deceased, Horatio Gonzales.”
“My name is Kyle Eugene Blanco. Gonzo was my business partner,” Blanco said. He leaned forward on the table, his large biceps straining the seams of his compression shirt. Kyle Blanco looked like a life-long brawler, with a putty nose that had been broken several times. Thick scars ran across his chin and neck as if glass had been ground into them.
“That would be the chain of gyms in the tri-state area?” Gupta asked.
“Not just gyms. There’s the blog and website, health food retail spaces, athletic apparel and supplements.” Blanco ticked off accomplishments on meaty fingers.
“Right, right.” Gupta nodded.
Silence filled the room.
Brewer looked up from his notes to make sure Gupta hadn’t fallen asleep again. The small man was staring at the wall behind Blanco’s head.
Blanco smirked at Brewer and tilted his head toward Gupta as if to say, get a load of this guy.
Brewer understood the sentiment, but felt it was unprofessional to commiserate with a murder suspect. “Can you tell me where you were the day Mr. Gonzales died?”
Blanco nodded. The tendons in his thick neck bulged at the slightest movement. “At the gym on Lexington and Salem Ave. There was a problem with one of the tan
ning beds. I was there to make sure it was actually fixed. You can’t trust those guys the manufacturer sends out.”
“Yes, yes, it’s important in your subculture to be bronzed when you get your swoll on, is it not?” Gupta leaned in, elbows on the table.
Blanco’s eyes narrowed at Gupta as if seeing him for the first time, taking in the man’s small frame and protruding middle-aged spread. “The beds get used a lot,” he said. He turned to Brewer. “How did Gonzo die, exactly?”
“He was found in his SUV at the farmers market, behind the organic bakery.”
Gupta pulled several crime scene photos from his folder and slid them in front of Blanco before Brewer could protest. “It’s too early for autopsy results, but the broken capillaries in his eyes suggest strangulation. But when the exercise band was removed, the ligature marks don’t look deep enough. See here?” Gupta pointed with his pen at the photo.
A side shot from the passenger’s side showed Gonzales slumped over the wheel. His bloodshot eyes open and mouth slack. There was a bright blue exercise band wrapped around his neck. The armrest console was open and its contents thrown in the passenger seat, next to an empty blender bottle. A close shot showed it to be normal car paraphernalia: sunglass cases, pens, crumpled receipts, and loose change.
Even in the crime scene shots, Horatio Gonzales looked like a movie star. The photo showed high cheekbones, green eyes, skin the color of creamed coffee, and a square jaw.
“My god.” Blanco paled and pushed the photos away.
“I’m sorry.” Brewer tucked them into his folder. He shot a glare at Gupta.
“Were those pumpkin pies in the passenger’s seat?” Blanco whispered.
“Excuse me?” Brewer said.
Gupta plucked the photo from Brewer’s folder. “Yes, it would seem so. Look, there is also a Boston Cream and an apple pie.” He pointed at the bakery boxes.
“That’s not possible,” Blanco said. “He wouldn’t do that. He would never, ever, eat that, ever.” He jabbed the picture for emphasis. “Someone is setting us up.” He stood, his chair hitting the wall from the force.
“Please sit down, Mr. Blanco.” Brewer’s hand moved toward his Taser. He wondered if it would be enough to bring down the enormous man.
“Has this leaked to the press?”
“Press?” Brewer asked.
“Someone is trying to ruin us,” Blanco said again.
“Please sit, Mr. Blanco,” Gupta said, gesturing toward the chair. “Ruin you, how? I don’t think it would be unusual. After all, it was the day before Thanksgiving. Most people indulge on that day.”
“No, you don’t understand,” Blanco said, settling his bulk back on the chair. “He was the front man for our business, the face of Bro-Body Extreme, hashtag Maximum Effort. It’s a lifestyle, not just the gym or products. Gonzo was a true believer. He would never eat that many carbs, never sugar. Clean eating was his religion. His caloric intake on a very strict schedule.”
“Maybe they were sugar free,” Gupta offered.
“Sugar free, are you serious?”
“Wait.” Brewer held up his hand. “I don’t understand.”
“We were on the verge of launching a product that would revolutionize the powerlifting industry. We were waiting to launch in the new year. You know, to capture more market share.”
Both detectives gave him a blank look.
Blanco ran his hands over his bald head in frustration. “The slobs that go back to the gym after eating their way through Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas.”
“So what is this product?” Brewer asked.
Blanco leaned in and nodded toward the camera.
“Everything in this room is confidential,” Gupta lied.
“It’s a protein lotion,” Blanco whispered, then paused for effect.
“Okay,” Brewer drew out.
“Really?” Blanco leaned back in his chair. “Powerlifting takes a huge amount of strength, and strength comes from muscles, you need protein to make muscles,” gesturing with his hand in a do-you-follow fashion.
“Ah, so like the drinks,” Gupta replied.
“No, this you rub on your skin.” Blanco mimicked rubbing something on his arm. “Way better than the drinks full of carbs and sugar.” He pointed at the pies in the photo. “If followers of Bro-Body Extreme thought Gonzo was a fraud, it would kill the product launch. Those Thanksgiving pies were planted there to sabotage the launch.”
Brewer had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Who would want to do that?” he asked.
“Can I take another look at that photo?” Blanco asked.
Brewer hesitated for a moment then slid the photo back over to the suspect.
The man tried to hide his wince, but then leaned in closer, his nose almost touching the photo. “See that W-O-D printed on the power band?” He pointed at the bright blue band. “Stands for workout of the day. That’s a CrossFit power band.”
Brewer looked at the picture. “I’ve seen those at the gym.”
“Bro, powerlifters don’t CrossFit,” Blanco said.
“So you think this was planted also?” Brewer was beginning to think Blanco was a little paranoid. “Or do you think a crossfitter killed him?”
Blanco scoffed. “It would take five crossfitters to take down Gonzo.” He picked up the picture. “You see that E-x-F printed in small letters next to W-O-D? That stands for Extreme Fitness. That’s Danny Dale’s CrossFit box two blocks down from the gym on MLK and Holloway. Gonzo and Dale were college roommates. They had a falling out years ago and hate each other.”
Gupta looked at his watch. “Well thank you for your time. We will be in touch if we have any follow-up questions.”
“What are you doing?” Brewer asked, “We’re just getting started.”
“Oh, I think we’ve taken up enough of Mr. Blanco’s time.” He ushered the big man to the door.
Gupta picked up the folder and headed out of the interview room.
“Where are you going?” Brewer asked.
Gupta waved a dismissive hand over his head as he left.
*
Brewer had joined the force when he was 21-years old. That was 15 years ago. During those first years as a beat cop, he had started to categorize those that chose the profession. Crusaders, pensioners, and douche bags. Crusaders believed they could actually make things better. Pensioners became cops because they saw it as a steady paycheck with decent benefits and a good retirement. They could just as easily have become insurance agents or retail managers. Then there were the douche bags. Guys who were cops because they had been bullied in school or got off on intimidating people. He considered himself a hybrid of sorts, 75% pensioner, 24% crusader, and if he was being honest with himself, 1% douche bag.
As he followed Gupta into the CrossFit gym, he tried to fit the slight man with the mop of salt-and-pepper curly hair and bulging brown eyes into one of the three categories. Nothing fit. Even a hybrid mix didn’t really work, and he wondered briefly if he would have to reevaluate his system to include a fourth category.
As they entered the warehouse, they were met by the grunts of men and women flopping tractor tires end-over-end and flinging themselves through overhanded pull ups. It had the typical gym smell, old sweat, ripe feet, and rubber mats.
“Hello.” Danny Dale, owner of Extreme Fitness, greeted them with bone-crushing handshakes before ushering them into his small office overlooking the gym. Brewer squared his shoulders and sucked in his stomach at the sight of Danny Dale’s form. His broad shoulders and muscled arms looked like ebony marble.
Danny Dale ran a hand over his shaved head as they took seats. “Listen, I’m not sure what help I can be,” he said. “Gonzo and I were friends in college, but grew apart when we graduated. He was a great guy.”
“We understand you were out of town?” Brewer said, checking his notes.
“Thanksgiving. Went to my brother’s house.”
“I have to warn you Mr. Dale, this
is somewhat graphic.” Gupta pulled out a crime scene photo and slide it across the small desk. “What can you tell me about this?”
Dale stared at the photo for a few seconds, his face blank. Finally, he looked up and pushed the photo away. “It’s a power band, used for strength training. We sell them in our little retail shop at the front of the gym.” He paused for a moment, shaking his head. “Poor Gonzo. Looks like he went back to his old ways.”
“How do you mean?” Gupta asked, moving to the edge of his chair.
“The pies in the seat next to him.” Dale looked at the two men as if deciding on something, then gave a slight nod. “I want to show you something,” he said. He pulled an old photo album from a shelf behind him. “I keep these as a reminder, and also we use the photos in providing a narrative for the business. You know, fat kid transformation kind of thing.” He flipped through the stiff pages until he came to a photo. “Here, this is me and Gonzo in college.”
The photo showed two obese twenty-somethings, arms draped over each other’s shoulders, mugging for the camera.
“So you think the pies were his?” Gupta asked.
Dale smirked. “Of course. They’re in his car. Listen, some things never change. We’re both still just fat nerds in aggressively fit bodies,” he said, taking a deep breath to show off his well-defined pecs. “In some of us, the fat kid wins. Sad, but true.”
“We met at Wash U, dorm roommates, best friends,” he said, a sad little smile on his lips. “We actually started working out together and got into shape. We had big plans.”
“What happened?” Brewer asked.
“Couple of things,” Dale said. “We developed philosophical differences when it came to health and fitness. He became a gym-rat, meat-head, focusing on lifting heavy objects. I took a more well-rounded approach. And then there was the lotion.”
Brewer resisted the urge to look over at Gupta.
“Lotion?” Gupta asked, staring at the photo of the power band, a deep frown scrunching his face.
“We were bio-chem majors in college. We invented a lotion that allows proteins to be absorbed through the skin. Faster muscle recovery,” he said.
“Like the lotion my wife puts on her thighs to get rid of the cellulite,” Gupta said.
The Killer Wore Cranberry: A Fifth Course of Chaos Page 7