The Killer Wore Cranberry: A Fifth Course of Chaos

by J. Alan Hartman

  “No,” Dale said. “Not like that at all. Everyone knows that’s horse shit. Sorry to tell your wife, nothing helps fat thighs but regular exercise and eating more vegetables than processed food. No, think of this more like the testosterone gel that some men have to use.” He leaned back in his desk chair and placed his hands behind his head, subtly flexing his biceps.

  “Ah, I see.” Gupta pulled out his phone and began to type.

  “So what happened with the lotion?” Brewer asked, giving Gupta the stink eye.

  “Well it worked great, but smelled awful,” Dale said. “We tried everything, but it always ended up smelling like a mixture of dog food and rotting meat. Not very marketable.”

  Gupta stood. “Can I take a look around the gym?”

  Dale looked him up and down. “Sure. You know, we can add years to your life and life to your years.”

  “I’m comfortable with my life-year ratio as it is, but thank you,” Gupta said heading out the door.

  “How about you?” Dale jutted his square chin toward Brewer.

  Annoyed at another interview Gupta had cut short, he stood. “Thanks, but I already belong to a gym.”

  “Treadmill, forty-five minutes, 3 to 4 times a week. Am I right?”

  Brewer ignored the question and handed the man a card. He headed toward the car to wait for Gupta to finish fiddling with the equipment, and made a mental note to hit the free weights next time he went to the gym.

  *

  Brewer gave a low whistle as he walked around the living room of Mr. and Mrs. Horatio Gonzales. “What do you think this place set them back?” He looked out the balcony at the infinity pool that overlooked the private lake. “The powerlifting business must be a-booming,” he said.

  A small leathery gardener snipped flowers from a lilac bush in the expansive grounds below. The sweet smell of the small purple flowers wafted through the open windows.

  “I was thinking…,” Gupta started.

  “Officers, I already know about the pies.” A tall blonde with a heavy Slavic accent model-walked into the room.

  Brewer stood. “Mrs. Gonzales, I am sorry for your loss. And we are detectives.”

  “Of course you are,” she said, pouring herself a drink from the bar.

  She wore a bright orange string bikini with matching high heels, and a sheer robe designed to make her look more naked. “But you have to come to tell me he was cheating on me as well as being dead, haven’t you?” She took a deep drink of the amber whiskey and waved her hand dismissively. “Kyle already told me about the pies. My Horatio was screwing the little whore, Sienna Brown, at the bakery, wasn’t he? That’s the only explanation that makes sense. He was buying the pie to get at hers, yes?” She smirked at her own vulgar joke.

  She dropped into an overstuffed leather chair. Her long, tan legs akimbo. She frowned and reached down and pulled out a plastic tube slightly bigger than a magic marker that had been wedged behind the chair cushion. “I’m allergic to bees,” she said dropping the EpiPen on the coffee table.

  “He would be gone every morning for hours to that stupid market. ‘Oh, honey, they have the best organic produce, the freshest greens. I want to get us a free-range tuuuurkeey for Thanksgiv-giv-giving.’” Her face crumpled and tears came.

  “Mrs. Gonzales.” Gupta offered her a tissue.

  “Please call me Vida.”

  “Vida, is that the protein lotion?” Gupta pointed at the line of bottles sitting on a desk in the far corner of the room.

  Vida blinked several times and hiccupped before taking another long drink. “Yes.” She smiled brightly through the forgotten tears. “I’m in charge of package design and fragrance. See what pretty colors. The bottles are sexy, yes?” She walked over, a little unsteadily, and picked up one of the bottles.

  “Yes, lovely,” Gupta smiled at her half-exposed backside.

  Brewer rolled his eyes. “So you managed to fix the problem with the smell?” he asked.

  “Smell?” Vida scowled. “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no smell. It has a lovely scent.” She pumped a few drops in her hand and rubbed it on her long graceful neck. “See.” She offered Gupta her exposed neck.

  Gupta stood on tiptoe, leaned in and sniffed loudly. “Yes, very nice.”

  Brewer could feel his face heating up as he noticed Gupta subtly shift his crotch as he turned away. “Mrs. Gonzales,” he started, glaring at Gupta, who was either ignoring him or clueless. “We seem to have caught you at a bad time.” He pulled out a card and handed it to her. “Would you mind coming down to the station, maybe later today to finish the interview?”

  Gupta blinked, nonplussed. “What?”

  Brewer gave his arm a hard squeeze.

  “Ouch!” he said, but did not protest as they headed for the door.

  When they got back into the car, Gupta turned to him. “What was that about? I was trying to put her at ease.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Brewer said.

  Gupta shrugged.

  “Unbelievable.”

  *

  Brewer leaned back in his office chair and stared at the monitor. The brightly colored link-chart outlining the relationships and timelines of Danny Dale, Vida Gonzales, and Kyle Blanco stared back at him.

  “Waiting for an epiphany?” Detective Natalie Snider said without looking up from her monitor.

  Brewer grunted his frustration as he turned his attention to the cute red-headed detective sitting a few desks away.

  “What’s it like working with the great and powerful Gupta?” Natalie Snider grinned.

  The dimple in her right cheek deepened. Brewer sucked in his stomach, conscious of how strained the shirt buttons were around his middle.

  “Had to keep him from sexually harassing a murder victim’s widow this afternoon.”

  “Huh.” Snider arched an eyebrow. “Chief thinks he’s brilliant.”

  “He has the attention span of a cocker spaniel, looks like he sleeps in his clothes, and has cut short every interview on this case,” Brewer said, shaking his head. “Anyway, all of the people of interest have alibis.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Snider said. “Sometimes talking it out helps. Why don’t you give me the run-down?”

  “What the hell.” He ran a hand through his blond hair, suddenly conscious of how thin it was getting. “First, the widow, Vida Gonzales, thinks her husband was cheating on her. A woman’s scorn and all that. But she was at the spa at the time of the murder, getting some kind of mud bath wrap thingy. Also, I can’t see her being able to strangle her husband. She is very fit, but unless she paid someone to knock him off.”

  “Money situation?” she asked.

  “I wouldn’t call them flush with cash, so I don’t see how she could have outsourced it. In fact, they’re up to their buff, tanned asses in debt. There’s a sizeable life insurance policy, but the beneficiary is the business, Bro-Body Extreme.”

  “Maybe she paid with other assets,” Snider said.

  “Maybe. She certainly has them,” he muttered, then realized his mistake and rushed on. “The life insurance policy leads us to Kyle Blanco, the business partner. He would have benefitted from Gonzo’s death, but they were getting ready to launch a new product that will change the personal fitness industry. His words, not mine.”

  “Really? Another revolutionary piece of exercise equipment?” Snider said.

  “No. A supplement you rub on your skin, so you don’t have to drink those protein shakes.”

  “I hate those shakes.”

  “Me too,” Brewer said. “I would think the protein lotion would have a more long-term payout than the insurance. The policy wouldn’t even cover the mortgages on the three gym locations. Anyway, Horatio Gonzales was the face of the campaign and Blanco is vested up to his overdeveloped neck.”

  “Maybe Blanco wanted to be the face?”

  Brewer remembered the weight lifter’s pocked skin, cauliflower ears and broken nose. “Don’t think that would be possible, even w
ith the best Photoshop editing. He has an airtight alibi. At one of the gyms at the time of the murder. We talked to one other person, Danny Dale, he best friend from college.”

  “I’ve seen his commercials. He owns a chain of CrossFit gyms,” Snider said. “Love CrossFit.”

  “Me, too,” Brewer said. He made a mental note to check out one of the classes. “He and Gonzales actually created the lotion together, or at least an early version of it, back in college. But, he said there was a problem with the formula. It smelled like meat and dog food.”

  “Maybe Dale was angry and jealous that Gonzales had fixed the problem and was on the way to becoming rich,” Snider said.

  “Maybe,” Brewer said. “I’m not sure that it was common knowledge about the product launch. The only reason Dale was brought to our attention is that Blanco pointed out the power band around the vic’s neck came from Dale’s gym.”

  “Blanco pointed a finger at Dale?” Snider said.

  “Dale said they hadn’t kept in touch, something about fitness philosophy differences,” Brewer said.

  “Oh yeah, powerlifters make fun of crossfitters.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s a thing. Check YouTube.”

  “You know what they all had in common? They were all obsessed with the damn pies that were in the SUV. So the man wanted to have a little dessert for Thanksgiving. But, they all freaked out about it. Saying how out of character it was. It would even hurt the business.”

  “Maybe you need to check out the pie connection.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Brewer said, “I think you’re right. Thanks, Nat.”

  “Sure thing,” she replied turning back to her computer. “You gonna get Gupta for this?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Chief won’t like it.”

  “I think I can handle talking to the baker without Gupta’s genius getting in the way.”

  *

  Brewer stopped short when he saw Gupta standing at the end of the counter consoling a weeping young woman at the Golden Goddess Organic Bakery.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Brown,” Gupta said, patting the shoulder of the beautiful young woman. She was petite, with flawless brown skin and large liquid brown eyes.

  Sienna Brown nodded and gave a sad smile. “Such a kind man. He was very good to me. Always available when I needed him.”

  He was having an affair, Brewer thought.

  “He was a very gifted baker, very creative, and was always available at a moment’s notice.”

  “Wait,” Brewer interrupted. “What?”

  Gupta raised an eyebrow. “Brewer.”

  Brewer crossed his arms. “Gupta, what’s going on?”

  “This is Miss Sienna Brown, owner of this bakery, and Horatio’s employer.”

  “I think I need to sit down,” Sienna said.

  The three of them were settled at a small table, organic free-trade coffee in hand.

  Brewer pulled out a notepad. “Mr. Gonzales worked for you?”

  “Yes. Well, sometimes,” Sienna said. “I had seen him around the market, and several months ago he comes in and says he would like to work here. He brought samples of his work. They were amazing.” Sienna smiled. “He loved to bake but his family and friends didn’t approve. Which I thought was kind of odd, but didn’t want to pry. Of course, I hired him on the spot. He only worked a few hours here and there or if we were shorthanded. He said it helped him relax. He had a very stressful job.”

  “So the day he died, the pies in his vehicle?” Gupta asked

  Sienna’s chin quivered, eyes filled with unshed tears. “I had asked him to come in. You know, the day before Thanksgiving, we were slammed. He was delivering an order. We had just started selling to some of the local restaurants.”

  Brewer and Gupta looked at one another. “Thank you for your time,” they said, and headed for the door.

  *

  Fat Nancy’s Diner and Coffee Shop was located across the street from the police station. It specialized in chicken fried steak, strong coffee, and fresh pie. Brewer and Gupta sat in a booth facing a rotating display case filled with pies. A small sign set on the counter next to the case, “Now Serving Golden Goddess Baked Goods.”

  “I can’t believe all this fuss over pies and they had nothing to do with his death.” Brewer watched Gupta devour another piece of blueberry crumble.

  Gupta looked up at him in disbelief, the last bite hovering in front of his face. “They had everything to do with his murder.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Brewer said. “All the evidence points to Danny Dale. He had motive. Gonzales was launching a product that was going to make him a millionaire. A product he helped create. He was strangled with a power band from his gym.”

  “Anyone could get those power bands. How did he know he worked at the bakery?” Gupta asked.

  “Followed him.” Brewer shrugged.

  Gupta shook his head. “Someone tried to frame Danny Dale, but did a poor job of it. What if Mr. Gonzales wasn’t strangled, and the evidence was planted to make it look that way. Although his eyes were blood shot from capillaries bursting, the ligature marks on his neck are shallow. A good possibility they were postmortem. And as Mr. Blanco pointed out, Gonzales was strong, incredibly strong, yet there was no sign of a struggle.”

  He finished the last bite. “Also, Mrs. Gonzales lied to us from the start.”

  “How’s that?”

  “It was Horatio who had allergies not Mrs. Gonzales.”

  “How do you come to that conclusion?”

  “The lilac bushes,” Gupta replied.

  Brewer imagined stabbing him with his own fork.

  Gupta sighed. The sigh of a man carrying the burden of those with lesser intellect. “If Mrs. Gonzales was really allergic to bees, so allergic that being stung would put her life in danger, she would never have had a lilac bush within a mile of her home. They attract bees.”

  “Never mind, right next to an open window and the pool,” Brewer said.

  “Correct,” Gupta said. “You notice in the crime scene photo the SUV’s center console was open and all of its contents in the passenger’s seat.”

  “He was looking for something,” Brewer said. “An EpiPen.”

  “Exactly. Mrs. Gonzales killed her husband. Mr. Gonzales found his passion, baking. It was going to ruin Mrs. Gonzales and Blanco’s plans for a protein lotion empire. Horatio’s side hustle didn’t fit the marketing concept for Bro-Body and his image was the cornerstone of the business. That’s why she killed him. A carb baking health guru would have alienated their followers.”

  “We need to subpoena Mr. Gonzales’ medical records,” Brewer said, pulling out his phone.

  “Already done. Mr. Gonzales was allergic to peanut butter, extremely allergic. I’m betting Mrs. Gonzales slipped him some in his morning smoothie. It wouldn’t take much, and then got rid of all the EpiPens. She knew exactly when he would drink it. Remember he was on a very strict schedule according to Mr. Blanco.”

  “She was at the spa,” Brewer said.

  “She checked into the spa, but what if she didn’t stay? From what I understand of spa treatments, they wrap you up and stick you in a dim room and forget you for a couple of hours. Plenty of time. No. I think she knew where he was going to be and once it was clear he was in anaphylactic shock she wrapped the power band around his neck, gave it a few quick pulls to make it look like he was strangled.”

  “Framing Danny Dale kills two birds with one stone. It would void any proprietary claims he may have on the lotion formula. It’s kind of ironic. From what I understand, powerlifters love peanut butter. That’s like a unicorn licking a rainbow and dying,” Brewer said.

  Gupta gave his empty pie plate a mournful look. “Such a waste. He really could bake.”

  Nameless Turkey Trot of Terror

  Bobbi A. Chukran

  When I look back on everything that happened this Thanksgiving, I believe all the
insanity started with that first runaway inflatable turkey.

  Things are often set into motion when somebody new comes to town, or somebody leaves town. In this case, it was both. Somebody new came to Nameless (population 2,355) and somebody left—in a long pine box.

  It was the week before Thanksgiving and a fortuitous cooling trend came through, but it still didn’t feel like fall. It was 85 degrees and raining. The humidity was something like 125%. The old clunky air conditioner was trying valiantly to keep up. I was fanning myself with a menu, sitting with my best friend, Jeremy Clifford, and my aunt, Jewel Moore, at Do-Lolly’s Downtown Diner. I was in my happy place. I smelled roast turkey and fresh bread.

  Lolly LaRue emerged from the kitchen with a whoosh of the door. She was short, round in all the right places, and I envied her beautiful olive complexion. She wore an old-fashioned pinafore, printed with beautiful autumn leaves.

  “Hey Kendra. Jewel!” She came over and gave us hugs then flopped down in the booth. She waved a waitress over, told her to bring us the lunch special of the day then shooed her away.

  We watched the Parks and Rec crew hang a banner over Main Street. It announced the FIRST ANNUAL NAMELESS THANKSGIVING TURKEY TROT. This weekend.

  Aunt Jewel nodded toward the street. “Well, that’s Nameless for ya. Two dollars and two days short with everything they do. This should be interesting. I’m leery of all the new festivals. There’s always somebody who thinks they can do it better.”

  She had that right. “Let’s just hope we don’t have a replay of the last few years. Thanksgiving has been nutzo around here. Makes me want to jump in the car and head for the coast,” I said.

  A perky waitress in a sherbet pink dress and rhinestone cat’s eye glasses sashayed to the table with a huge platter of fried green tomatoes and ranch dressing dip. My mouth watered. Lolly had recently added deep-fried turkey legs to the menu, for a limited time in honor of the season. She fried them in peanut oil, and they were lip-smackin’ delicious.

  We gossiped about our most recent newcomer to town. Dorita Pflukheimer just moved in to the historic district near downtown. She loved decorating for holidays, and had embraced the trend of using inflatables for yard décor. For Easter, her lawn was covered with child-sized inflatable eggs and one big-ass scary bunny—taller than her Victorian.