A Choice Cocktail of Death (A Foodie Files Mystery Book 2)

by Christine Zane Thomas

Get this - a full page spread on the investigation. We’ll run it Tuesday with his obituary. I expect it in my inbox by close of business tomorrow.

  I’m counting on you.

  Our arrangement had never been for me to become the beat reporter on crime. I did one little article as a favor—just after Jessica’s death. But Kinsey wasn’t asking. She presumed I’d want to write this up. A part of me did. But another, bigger, deadline repellant part of me, wanted no part in a rushed exposé on the investigation of George Wilson’s murder.

  I scrolled through to the texts from Mom. By the time the church service had begun, she’d known I was going to be a no show. That was excusable thanks to the events last night. The church service was one thing. I was still expected for Sunday lunch at her house.

  It’s almost 1:00, Allison! Where are you?

  On my way…

  No surprises there, Sunday gossip was a full-on sport in the family. Even if Uncle Billy didn’t approve of such antics, there was no silencing the Treadwell women.

  I checked the time again. I had to get a move on if I was going to make it on time to Mom’s. I took one more pass at the black eyes before changing into Grandmother and Uncle Billy approved clothing—pajamas would not suffice. Then I popped a Santa’s Revenge pod into the Keurig and waited for it to brew. I sipped the hot coffee to-go in a regular mug that didn’t fit in my Civic’s drink trays.

  By some small miracle, I walked into my mother’s house fifteen minutes after her text. Everyone was already parked outside, even the perpetually late car of my cousin Melanie. In all the hoopla at the end of last night, I’d lost track of where they were and when they’d left.

  Bella and Nicky, Mom’s pooches, were the first two to greet me. I bent down and accepted the kisses from both excited pups. “I missed you too,” I told Bella sweetly.

  “Oh, sweetie.” Mom ran up to me with arms wide open. “I’m so sorry about last night. How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine,” I lied.

  “You don’t look fine,” my cousin Dustin said.

  “Thanks a lot.” I playfully punched him on the arm.

  In an unusual move, he went in for a hug. “Seriously, Allie, I don’t know how you have the luck you do. Let me know if you need anything.”

  This surprised me. I knew deep down he was a softy, but he hardly ever showed it.

  “You know,” Mom started, “your Grandmother’s not going to approve of this makeup. Did you sleep like that? It’s bad for your skin. Maybe that’s why you were all broken out last week.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.” I tried to sound as un-offended as was possible.

  I sat down on the couch with Grandmother while my mom and her sister, my aunt Denise, finished placing the food at the center of the table.

  Grandmother didn’t ask any questions. It was her way. She just gave me a reassuring hug. More often than not, words were not needed with her.

  “Dinner’s served,” Mom called to Uncle Billy, who was watching the television in the den. He and Dustin settled in at their designated seats at each end of the table. Both dogs circled Dustin’s feet like piranhas—they knew where the best place was to find a meal.

  “Where’re Mel and Jack?” I surveyed the two empty seats. “I thought I saw their car.”

  “They’re here,” Uncle Billy said. “Mel’s still shaken up about last night. She wanted to get some fresh air. They’ll be back in a few.”

  “I understand.”

  We prayed and started eating without them.

  Even though I was exhausted, and Kinsey’s deadline loomed, there was nowhere else I wanted to be. My family blessed my life in so many ways.

  One of those ways was with food. Mom had recently purchased an electric pressure cooker, and the whole family was playing the role of guinea pigs today. Thankfully, it was a family favorite—Mississippi pot roast. It was just made with the new device. Six hours in a crockpot whittled down to less than one in the pressure cooker.

  Like always, Mom made her famous mashed potatoes to go with it—nobody makes mashed potatoes quite like her. They’re always just the right amount of salty and creamy, never gummy like the times when I’ve attempted to speed up the process. Add the fact that she never measures a single thing, well, it makes for one jealous food blogger.

  “English peas. Don’t mind if I do,” Dustin said, scooping from the bowl. The liquid in it was golden from all the butter Mom had used.

  “I guess no one minded I made an Allie Meal today. When I heard the news this morning, I ran straight out to the store.”

  Mom knew food was the key to my heart. “Thanks, Mom.”

  The door creaked open. But the dogs were undeterred, still waiting on Dustin to drop something from his plate. Melanie and Jack squeezed into their seats as everyone else passed plates of food clock-wise around the table. Well, everyone except Dustin. I had to stifle a giggle when he passed the Texas toast the wrong way. Grandmother got flustered as Aunt Denise came in hot with peas from the other direction.

  “So…” Aunt Denise said slowly. She set the peas down. “The prayer requests were all over the place this morning.”

  “You mean the rumor mill?” Uncle Billy asked. He was probably right. Prayer requests posed the perfect way of spreading someone else’s business while seeming to be a concerned friend. “I think we just need to leave last night off the table, so to speak.”

  Jack, Melanie, and I nodded our heads solemnly in agreement.

  “I wasn’t trying to stir up anything,” she snipped back at him. “I was just going to say Suzi Whelan’s neighbor said she was taken into custody this morning. They saw a police car outside and her being put into the back. That’s all I wanted to say.” Aunt Denise twisted her fingers around her mouth, indicating it was locked for Uncle Billy—who wasn’t amused.

  “Suzi Whelan,” he said, feeling out the words. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

  “She graduated a year or two ahead of us. Her maiden name was Nelson.”

  “That’s right.” Uncle Billy nodded. “Her husband died in Vietnam. I remember her now.”

  Mom smiled. “Well, that’s settled. Is there news not related to last night’s events? Mom was just asking me if Jack, here, has proposed yet?”

  “Carole!” Aunt Denise scolded.

  “I did nothing of the sort,” Grandmother lied. It was easy to see it was a lie by how flushed her cheeks went.

  Uncle Billy just stared down into his plate as Dustin leaned back in his chair, his belly jiggling with laughter.

  “Sorry, I missed that,” Jack said. “What was the question?”

  The look on Melanie’s face could’ve shattered Mom’s good china.

  10

  Being the self-proclaimed queen of procrastination, I returned to my empty house that afternoon with every intention of working on the piece about George for the Gazette. I read the email Kinsey had sent along with her texts. It included a brief obituary for George with Kinsey’s expectations for the article.

  I felt rushed. I wasn’t ready to write a single word about the murder. Not yet. My title wasn’t a tiara I wore with honor. It was adorned on my head guiltily as I brushed the blinking cursor of the text document aside and opened the sitemap for the blog, The Foodie Files.

  My reviews at the Lanai Gazette were peanuts compared to the somewhat respectable income I forged with my food blog. And the readers there had certain expectations. It was by no means a fixed income—some weeks were better than others. I’d been lucky to gain the traction and maintain the followers. I was also fortunate to have used my inheritance from my granddaddy’s death to put a significant down payment on the house. My mortgage was small, but I still needed to pay to keep the heat on—and Mister Netflix made me go Dutch on our dates together.

  Today’s post was a rundown of winter weather classics, things like beef stew, chicken pot pie, meatloaf, and a variety of soups. All had links to previous recipes, well, all except the last few with promise
s of those recipes to come. I checked the article and recipe for typos one last time and hit post.

  That gave me enough feeling of accomplishment to get started writing about George. But a dinging chime from my email client was just distracting enough for me to shy away after only the first paragraph.

  Hmmm… That’s interesting.

  TO: Foodie Allison

  FROM: Mara Murdock

  SUBJECT: Dinner Party Review

  Allie,

  I hope I’m catching you at a good time. I would’ve called, but I don’t have your number. I just talked to Kinsey, and we both think it’s for the best if you don’t write a review of the party last night. We want people to remember the George we all loved, and we hope not to slander the name of the estate. I’m sure you understand.

  Kinsey tells me you’ll still be writing a piece on George. Again, please, leave the party out of it. If things work out, we’ll reschedule the event for another time. Don’t hesitate to contact me if you need anything else. Again, I’m sorry about the happenings of last night.

  Sincerely,

  Mara Murdock

  General Manger, and Co-owner, Bentley’s Estate

  I wasn’t sure if removing the murder mystery made things easier or harder. But that wasn’t what immediately began to bother me. Since when was Mara a co-owner of the estate? And she already was making plans to continue on so soon after George’s death? That rang up as suspicious in my books.

  My eyes were drawn back to the bulletin board I’d made the previous night. I had a new number one suspect.

  Now, I just needed more information to put in the piece about George’s death—without bringing up the mystery party. I knew at least one person that was good at digging up info.

  I hadn’t heard from Kate since her texts from this morning. She’d complained that she was reporting from the bitter cold outside Bentley’s while I was still sleeping. Even though her job was tough, I knew she loved it. I sent her a friendly text.

  Hey! Can we meet tomorrow for coffee?

  Dots showing that she was typing appeared on my screen.

  Sounds good. You know your “friend” has been on the early shift? Is 7:45 too early for Sleeping Beauty?

  I like where your head’s at… No, Sleeping Beauty got enough sleep last night. I’ll see ya at 7:45.

  I did a few searches for more details of George’s life. Then I typed what I could about the circumstances surrounding his death. It wasn’t much. By the time I looked at the clock, I found I’d been typing around ten words per hour.

  Exhausted, I put everything away, and turned on Mister Netflix. Settling into bed, I turned on a movie I knew by heart.

  Some nights I counted sheep. Other nights I counted blessings. Tonight, I counted the poisons that may’ve killed George Wilson.

  11

  The crisp cool weather made it the perfect morning for staying cuddled up in bed. So, I cursed myself for agreeing to meet Kate so early—even the potential of bumping into Javier couldn’t beat the warm comfort of a king-sized bed with heavy blankets and lots of pillows.

  But thinking of the blue-eyed detective somehow roused me enough to tiptoe to the bathroom and apply a bit of makeup. Then I bundled up in a long-sleeved shirt and a cardigan. I wrapped a scarf around my neck—the proper way—and donned my favorite navy blue peacoat. The matching beanie atop my head was as much as I was willing to do with my hair at this ungodly hour.

  Clear blue skies and the morning temperature hovering around freezing might make Lanai seem picturesque for those that experience real winter cold. But to me and my gooseflesh, it was cold enough.

  “Allie?” Gertie, the barista, gave me a quizzical look and checked her watch. She smiled in relief. “I thought the day had gotten away from me. I’m guessing the usual at this unusual hour?”

  “And Kate’s usual,” I told her. Then I situated myself at a table near the counter with a good view of the door. While I waited, I played the social media game on my phone—the one where I picked and chose whose posts to like or comment on. Most of my likes were sprinkled upon my Avocado Post gals, the small group of bloggers I teamed up with for weekly posts and social media boosts.

  The bell jingled. It wasn’t Kate.

  Javier stifled a yawn with his fist as he entered the warm shop. He didn’t know he was invited to this coffee meet up, and he didn’t seem to notice me as he ordered with his back to me, chatting with Gertie about the beautiful weather.

  I tried to look as casual as was possible as he backed toward me, his coffee in hand. I was going to offer him a seat… If he’d just look my way. But he refused. I thought for sure he was leaving when he backed his way awkwardly into the seat across from me.

  “A bit early for you, isn’t it?” he said coolly, smiling pearly white teeth my way.

  “I have a date.” The words escaped my mouth without my brain filtering.

  “Oh… really?” Javier stood up as quickly as his brief smile faltered.

  “It’s just with Kate.” I put my hand up and gestured for him to sit down again.

  “Oh, okay.” He fidgeted back into the seat. “I just—I just know you have a boyfriend now…”

  “No, not a boyfriend. It was our first date the other night.”

  “And another tomorrow, right?”

  “Yeah.” I sipped my macchiato. This conversation wasn’t going very well. Our easy banter had disappeared as if it never existed at all.

  The bell jingled again. Thankfully, this time it was Kate. I lifted up her coffee, signaling for her not to order.

  “This was a trap all along, wasn’t it?” Javier said, chuckling. Kate slid into the chair beside him, literally pinning him between herself and the wall.

  “You’re caught in a trap.” Kate sneered in a mock-Elvis impersonation. “And while you’re so conveniently stuck here, Detective Portillo, I have a few questions.”

  “You can ask,” he chided. “But as always, I might not be able to answer everything you throw at me.”

  “The investigation into George Wilson’s death is now a murder investigation, correct?” Kate asked the obvious question.

  “Yes, it is. But I think you two already knew that much.”

  “I just wanted to be sure. I mean, he could’ve been poisoned accidentally, right?”

  “Right,” Javier said slowly. “But he wasn’t.”

  “True or false,” Kate posed. “The remnants of George Wilson’s cocktail glass are under examination.”

  “True. But next time let’s play truth or dare. I’ve only got time for one more question. I’ll be late if I don’t leave soon.”

  “All right. Do you have a suspect?”

  “We have a person of interest, yes.”

  “Is it someone from our list?”

  “That’s cheating, Miss McAllister. But yes, he’s on the list.”

  “He?” Both of us perked up. My mind went to Suzi. Had she been cleared?

  “I’ve already said too much.” Javier scooted his chair back. Kate made no effort of getting out of his way, so he squeezed himself between Kate and the table. I was only a little jealous of her view.

  “It was nice seeing both of you,” Javier said. “And Allie, good luck on your date tomorrow. Luke’s a lucky guy.” He winked and was gone.

  “Wait… You told him about your date?”

  “He overheard Luke asking.”

  “Ah, that’s interesting. He seems to have taken it well.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I think he likes you,” Kate said, giving me her own flirtatious wink. “By the way, Luke was wondering where to take you. I suggested Sadie’s, but he says he doesn’t do seafood.”

  “They have more than—”

  “I know,” she said reassuringly, “but I told him he can’t go wrong with Piggies.”

  “Oh gosh,” I said smiling. “I guess I can’t wear white.” I’d never
been to Piggies without coming back home with a barbecue stain.

  “You shouldn’t wear white anyway.”

  I took a sip of coffee. It was already cold. I’d need a refill for the road. “So, if the suspect is a man, then Suzi—do you think she’s in the clear?”

  Kate shrugged. “Maybe not the clear, but I think they’re looking pretty hard at George’s son Blake.”

  “Blake?” I asked. “How do you know it’s Blake?”

  She showed me the screen of her phone where a text read that a judge had just signed a search warrant for Blake Wilson’s apartment and car.

  “I also know the preliminary toxicology report should be released tomorrow morning,” Kate said. “At that point, we will all know what poison was used to kill him.”

  I was usually happy to have answers. But this case confused me. Why would Blake want to kill his dad? His motive was as much a mystery to me as my next question: When did he have the opportunity to commit the crime?

  12

  With the caffeine and sugar flowing through my veins and the sun high over head, I was ready to attack the day. I opened and shut my laptop. The blinking cursor was still taunting me. I opted for a nice long run to clear my head. Then I could get down to business and write the piece about George.

  A ratty old long-sleeve shirt and leggings were just warm enough to get me out in the front yard and stretch. My neighbor, Jeanie, was out on her front porch, sipping coffee with an afghan wrapped around her legs.

  “Mornin’,” I called to her, waving. I crouched into a squat and stretched my hamstrings deeply.

  “Good morning, Allie, dear. I hope you do enough laps for the both of us. My old knees aren’t feeling up to much today.”