Murder by Mushroom

by Virginia Smith

  Focus, Jackie!

  In front of Mr. Good-Looking Cop, the other man held up a black wallet with a shiny badge. He, too, was clean shaven except for a short mustache, in his late forties or early fifties. He wore a neat gray suit, white shirt, and the ugliest tie Jackie had ever seen.

  The older man spoke. “Miss Hoffner, I’m Detective Conner with the Kentucky State Police. And this is Trooper Walsh.” The handsome officer nodded a silent greeting. “We’re here to talk to you about Mrs. Alice Farmer.”

  Jackie’s tension lessened as the detective flashed an easy smile. He didn’t look as if he was about to deliver bad news. She opened the door wider. They probably just wanted to follow up on her statement. “Oh, sure. Would you like to come in?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  She stepped back, closing the door behind them as they walked into the apartment to stand in her tiny living room. As Trooper Walsh brushed by her, she caught a faint whiff of his aftershave. The tickle in her stomach returned. If only she had taken the time to fix her hair this morning.

  “Please sit down. Uh…” A pile of newspapers littered one end of her couch, and cat hairs clung to the cushion on the other end. She pointed toward the dinette table. “Maybe there?”

  Detective Conner smiled. “That will be fine. I hope we aren’t interrupting anything important.”

  “Actually, I was just getting ready to leave for work.”

  “This shouldn’t take too long.” Detective Conner’s pleasant green eyes looked into hers, the corners crinkling with his smile. “I’d like to ask you some questions about Mrs. Farmer.”

  Jackie sat across the table from Detective Conner, super-aware of the handsome young state trooper who sat on her left and extracted a notebook and pen from his messenger bag. She hoped she didn’t say something stupid, like she usually did. Should she offer them coffee? She couldn’t remember if she had any clean mugs.

  “Well, okay, but I told the sheriff’s department everything I know on Wednesday.”

  “I’ve read your statement. If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear it in your own words. Hopefully I won’t make you too late for work.”

  Okay, if she ignored the good-looking one and focused on the old guy, she could almost relax. And honestly, the detective’s smile made Jackie feel she was chatting with a friend. What did it matter if she was a little late? Her boss didn’t watch the clock.

  She launched into a description of the church picnic and Mrs. Farmer complaining about the UPS man not bringing down the boxes from her attic. Then she told him how she had gone to Mrs. Farmer’s house to help and found the poor woman violently ill. As she talked about the call for the ambulance and the subsequent trip to the hospital, Trooper Walsh took notes while Detective Conner nodded, his eyes never leaving Jackie’s face.

  “And then you cleaned up the house.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you wash any dishes, or put anything into the dishwasher?”

  Jackie shook her head. “No, I didn’t go into the kitchen at all except to find the mop and detergent. I don’t remember seeing any dirty dishes.”

  “I see. Tell me about this church picnic. Who was there?”

  “Just about everyone at Heritage Community Church. Close to ninety people, I’d say.”

  “And can you tell me what was served?”

  Jackie’s pulse quickened. Leftovers from the potluck had given Mrs. Farmer food poisoning! “Uh, it was a potluck so everyone brought something. There was a lot of food. We had fried chicken and sliced ham and a smoked turkey breast. There were at least a dozen casseroles and a bunch of salads, like potato salad and pasta salad and that green Jell-O—”

  “What about spaghetti?” he interrupted. “Was there a dish with spaghetti sauce?”

  Her mouth went dry. “Actually, I brought a spiral pasta casserole. But there wasn’t anything wrong with it.”

  “Did you eat any of it?”

  “Of course I did. Lots of people did.” She shifted her attention toward Trooper Walsh, who stopped scribbling on his pad to look at her with those arresting eyes, and added defensively, “It was good.”

  Detective Conner went on in the same calm tone. “Did anyone else bring a dish with spaghetti sauce?”

  Jackie closed her eyes, picturing the food table. Hers was the only dish with tomato sauce. She wiped her damp palms on her skirt under the table and then shook her head.

  “Have you heard of anyone else in the church getting sick after the picnic?”

  “Of course not.” She raised her chin. “And there was nothing wrong with my casserole.”

  “One more question. Do you recognize this?”

  Detective Conner nodded at Trooper Walsh, who reached into his canvas bag and drew out a container sealed in a large plastic bag. He placed it on the table in front of Jackie. It was one of those disposable Ziploc containers with a blue lid, the inside stained orange with what had been, Jackie assumed, tomato sauce.

  She swallowed hard against a dry throat and turned to Detective Conner. “If you mean do I recognize what it is, of course I do. If you’re asking if I recognize this particular container, that would be nearly impossible.”

  He gave her a bland look. “I’m aware of that. Can you at least tell me if it might have contained your casserole from the church potluck?”

  A flicker of anger sparked in Jackie’s mind. No way were they going to pin this on her. There was nothing wrong with her casserole!

  She took a deep breath. “The church keeps dozens of those containers in the kitchen so they have something to put leftovers in to send home with people after potlucks. Some people throw them away, but others wash them and return them to the church when they’re finished. So yes, it’s possible this one might have contained some of my casserole.” She leaned forward, looking directly into his eyes. “But there was nothing wrong with it. It couldn’t have given anyone food poisoning.”

  Detective Conner studied her a moment. “The coroner’s report said Mrs. Farmer died of heart failure, brought on as a result of monomethylhydrazine poisoning, not food poisoning.”

  “Monomethyl—what?”

  “Monomethylhydrazine. The coroner called it MMH. It’s an uncommon poison, but not all that hard to come by. It’s found in certain types of mushrooms.”

  “Mushrooms? You mean wild mushrooms?”

  Jackie had heard of mushroom poisonings. Everyone had. That’s why anyone with half a brain stayed away from wild mushrooms.

  “Specifically a mushroom called Gyromitra ambigua. It’s common in wooded areas around here.”

  “Well, the mystery’s solved then, isn’t it?” Jackie sat back in relief. “There are woods behind Mrs. Farmer’s house. She must have decided to go mushroom hunting and got hold of the wrong kind.”

  There was no humor in Detective Conner’s smile. “I wish it was that simple. But we don’t think Mrs. Farmer picked those mushrooms herself.”

  The hairs at the base of Jackie’s neck prickled. “Why not?”

  “Because we took the dishes out of her dishwasher, which, thankfully, you had not turned on when you cleaned the house. We sent them all to the lab, and they found something.”

  “Was it in the tomato sauce?” Please say no! Please say no!

  “Bingo.”

  Jackie’s heart thudded in her chest. How could poisonous mushrooms get into her tomato sauce? It was impossible. Her mushrooms had come from the grocery store. She ate them herself.

  She shook her head. “At least a half-dozen people took leftovers home, and I haven’t heard of anyone else getting sick. Maybe Mrs. Farmer thought the sauce needed some spicing up and she added wild mushrooms at home.”

  “That’s what I thought, too,” the detective said. “I know sometimes my wife adds something to leftovers to dress them up a bit. So we went through her garbage very carefully. There was no trace of mushroom stems or pieces. She almost certainly would have trimmed the stems before cooking them.”


  “Maybe they were chopped up in the garbage disposal,” she suggested.

  “There is no garbage disposal. And we found the remains of the pasta, which she had scraped off her plate before putting it in the dishwasher. It was full of Gyromitra ambigua.”

  “But surely she could have tasted poisonous mushrooms!”

  “Actually, this variety has a very mild taste. When mixed with a spicy sauce, they would be virtually undetectable.”

  Jackie sat back against the hard chair. Mrs. Farmer, poisoned! That poor woman. Who could have disliked her enough to do something so awful?

  And why had they chosen her potluck casserole? This news would spread like wildfire. The church gossips would have a field day.

  Conner cleared his throat. “I know this is most upsetting, Miss Hoffner. But I’m afraid we need to examine your kitchen.”

  “My kitchen? But surely you can’t think—”

  “We don’t think anything at this point. We’re just following procedure. Will you show us the utensils you used to make your casserole?”

  “But…but I’ve washed them!”

  Detective Conner sighed. “I expected that. Still, we need to take them for analysis.”

  “Are you saying you think I killed Mrs. Farmer?” Blood pounded in Jackie’s ears. “Do I need a lawyer?”

  He sat slowly back in his seat, his eyes never leaving hers. “We’re not here to accuse you of anything, Miss Hoffner. We simply want to eliminate the possibility that the mushrooms came from your kitchen. A necessary step in the investigation, nothing more.” He folded his arms across his chest. “If you want to call a lawyer, you’re entitled. But we still need to examine your kitchen. If we need to get a search warrant, we will.”

  Her focus dropped to the surface of the table. If she didn’t give them permission to look in her kitchen right now, they would think she was hiding something. She would look guilty. And she had nothing to hide.

  “Fine.”

  Trooper Walsh reached into his bag and pulled out several large, plastic, zippered bags. She knew their purpose from watching CSI on television. The police used them to bag evidence at a crime scene.

  Her face flaming, Jackie rose from the table and led them into the kitchen. She stood silently, fingernails biting into her palms, and watched the young officer search through her cupboards. He confiscated her cutting board, her casserole dish, and every knife she owned. When he opened the refrigerator, her jaw tightened. Did they actually think they’d find poisonous mushrooms in there? She clenched her teeth as Walsh pawed through the contents and removed several plastic containers. Detective Conner’s direct stare made heat rise under her collar, but she did not look at him. He’d tricked her into thinking he was a nice man with that pleasant smile. She wasn’t going to fall for that again.

  When he finished cleaning out her kitchen, Trooper Walsh gave a slight nod to the detective and turned toward Jackie. “I think that’s about everything, Miss Hoffner. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

  Inconvenience? Humiliation gave way to fury, which roiled inside her as she followed the pair to the front door, her lower lip caught firmly between her teeth to keep from spouting angry words. As he stepped through the doorway, Detective Conner turned and gave her that false friendly smile. He extracted a business card from his suit pocket and held it toward her.

  “If you’re planning any out-of-town trips in the near future, it might be a good idea to give me a call and let me know. Just in case we need to get in touch with you.”

  She really was a suspect? As though in slow motion, her hand reached out and took the card.

  “Thank you, Miss Hoffner. Have a nice day.”

  Trooper Walsh, his arms full of her dishes, gave a sympathetic nod before following the detective down the breezeway to the parking lot.

  Jackie closed the door behind them and sagged against it. Her fury drained as she looked down at the card in her hand. She was a suspected murderer. The police thought she had killed Mrs. Farmer with her spiral pasta casserole.

  Why hadn’t she taken potato chips to that potluck?

  Dennis Walsh popped the trunk on his cruiser and stowed the bags while Detective Conner slid into the passenger seat. That interview had been an education in interrogation. The way the detective handled the questioning was nothing short of brilliant. Sitting across the table from him, Dennis hadn’t believed how polite, how approachable, how nice the normally arrogant man had been, inviting confidences with his demeanor. Of course, at the end his true personality had emerged. That poor girl had really looked rattled. Just like most of the officers around the station looked whenever Detective Conner deigned to walk through with his usual biting commentary.

  But he was the best in the state, no doubt about it. That’s why Dennis had finagled this assignment. With any luck, Conner would recommend him for detective when they solved this case.

  One thing bothered him, though. That girl didn’t look like a killer. She looked like a…well, like an attractive young woman with an open book for a face. If Dennis was any judge of character—and he believed he was—Jackie Hoffner was no murderer.

  Slamming the car door and strapping his seat belt in one smooth motion, Dennis turned toward his passenger.

  “You don’t really believe she killed that old lady, do you?”

  Conner shrugged.

  “But she doesn’t fit the profile,” Dennis insisted. “Not even close.”

  “Walsh, the first rule you learn in police investigation is this—never make assumptions. Everyone is capable of committing a crime, given the right motivation.”

  Dennis shook his head. “I’m not sure I buy that. I’ve studied profiling, and—”

  “Everyone.” Conner snapped his own seat belt and caught Dennis’s gaze in his direct one. “You can trust your mother, Walsh. But check her.”

  Dennis turned the key in the ignition, nodding. Conner was as cynical as they came. Maybe that’s why he was considered the best.

  But as he backed out of the parking lot, Dennis couldn’t help remembering the way Jackie’s lower lip had quivered when he had confiscated her cutting board.

  FOUR

  A rivulet of rain dripped from Esther Hodge’s umbrella onto the top of Margaret’s head. When it slid down her forehead, Margaret stopped the trickle with a fingertip and took a sideways step to the green canopy covering the grave site. Lucky Earl. He stood dry beyond the casket, holding an open Bible and waiting for the last of the brave to make the muddy trek to the dubious shelter of the canopy.

  The canvas ceiling showed an ominous sag of pooling rain directly above Margaret’s head. She took another two steps toward the center.

  More people than Margaret expected had turned out for Alice’s service. Several elderly gentlemen identified themselves at the funeral home as friends or coworkers of the late Mr. Farmer, and a taxicab had deposited an ancient woman who said she’d retired from the paper factory a few years before Alice.

  Heritage Community Church was well represented, too. Six elderly members of the Prime Timer Sunday school class, come to bid farewell to one of their own, perched on wobbly folding chairs in front of the casket.

  A backward glance showed Richard and Laura Watson, huddled beneath a black umbrella, bringing up the rear of the wet funeral goers. Interesting. The Watsons and Alice had never seemed close—certainly not close enough for Richard to take time off from his job as a bank vice president to attend her funeral. Margaret wondered if the reason had anything to do with Richard’s rumored interest in becoming the church treasurer when Ernie stepped down at the end of the year. Attending an old lady’s funeral would earn him brownie points with the elderly members of the congregation.

  A flash of guilt washed over her at the uncharitable thought. Maybe he was simply being respectful to a long-time member of his church.

  The conspicuous absence of one person disturbed Margaret. Jackie should be here. After all, she’d found Alice ill and called th
e ambulance. She shifted her gaze to the two policemen watching the proceedings from the back corner. When they came to the parsonage this morning they mentioned they’d just come from Jackie’s apartment, and their questions centered rather intently on her pasta casserole. They seemed quite eager to know who, besides Alice, might have taken leftover portions home. Surely the girl wasn’t so upset by their questions she’d decided not to attend the funeral.

  Earl cleared his throat as the Watsons joined the dripping group beneath the canopy. Margaret directed her attention toward her husband, who looked through the bottom half of his bifocals and read from the scriptures. His vibrant baritone carried beyond the tent and rolled down the softly curving hillside, flooding the quiet cemetery with words of comfort.

  “‘Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.’”

  The funeral goers squirmed, surprised at Earl’s selection of a passage of Scripture normally read at weddings. Margaret hid a smile. None of that ashes-to-ashes stuff for Earl; he leaped at any opportunity to talk about God’s love.

  Unfortunately, he had discussed the subject at length back at the funeral home. Having heard her husband perform this particular funeral service several times, Margaret found herself struggling to pay attention. At least he had the sense to keep the grave-side service short. Some of the elderly mourners had no business being out in this weather.

  Earl must have thought the same. Before anyone even had time to start fidgeting, she heard his closing words: “The greatest thing we can do to make this earth more like heaven is to show His love to one another. I’m sure if Alice had the opportunity to make one last request, she would ask us to love one another. Let us pray.”

  Margaret bowed her head along with everyone else. A beautiful thought, but she wondered if that’s what Alice would really have asked. The surly old woman certainly hadn’t displayed love for her fellow man, at least not as far as Margaret ever saw.