by Elaine Macko
I grabbed the young woman’s arm just in time to keep her from jumping off the sofa. “No! You misunderstood me. I meant can you think of any reason why someone would want to kill Mrs. Brissart?”
Kendra settled back down on the sofa. “That’s what the police are thinking, isn’t it? They asked a lot of odd questions. More about Roberta than Bradley. Well, no, I can’t imagine anyone hurting her, either. But with all this land stuff…no, that can’t be right,” Kendra bit down on her lower lip. “People don’t kill just because they don’t get something they want.”
“I think that’s exactly why people kill,” I contradicted her. “Because they want something badly enough, and something or someone is standing in their way.”
“Then it had to be a member of the family.” Kendra looked grief-stricken. “I guess it would have to be, wouldn’t it?” she said softly. “I just hoped…oh, I don’t know why it would matter, but I just wanted it to be a total stranger. Does that make any sense?”
“Yes, it does.”
“If it was a random thing, then we could put it all behind us more quickly. But somewhere in the back of my mind, I guess I always knew it had to be one of us.”
Alertness swept over me at Kendra’s words, one of us, for I didn’t get the impression Kendra felt like one of the family except to Mrs. Brissart.
Kendra started to get up. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to go ask Mrs. Platz if she has anything for an upset stomach. I’m not feeling too well today.”
I looked over to where Kendra had been sitting before she joined me and saw an empty plate. What had she just eaten, and why was she suddenly sick?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I watched her walk away to see if I could see any staggering or maybe foaming at the mouth. I was distracted when Stuart sat beside me.
I gave Kendra one more look and figured if whatever she ate had cyanide in it she would have been dead already. I turned and stared into the brownest eyes I had ever seen. They were just like Mrs. Platz’s.
“You two looked conspiratorial. What’s up?” He smiled and I could see crooked teeth, which surprised me in someone who could certainly afford to have them fixed.
“Why do you ask?” I answered back, my voice piqued.
Stuart shrugged. “Because she looked very upset.”
“Well, she just lost someone she loved.”
“So did I,” Stuart snapped. “I know, I don’t look like I’m upset. Is that what you think?”
I blushed. I hadn’t expected Stuart to be so perceptive. “I’m sorry. I guess people show their grief in different ways.”
“I guess we do. Bradley was my little brother. I can’t believe he’s gone. And my parents are, well…I can’t even describe what they’re going through.”
“Were you and your brother close?”
Stuart rested his head against the sofa and folded his arms. “No. I don’t think one could use the word close, but we were brothers.”
“Can you think of any reason why someone would kill him?”
Stuart shook his head again this time dislodging a piece of hair that came forward, obscuring his eyebrows. “No, I can’t. Which makes me wonder if it was an accident.”
“An accident. You mean the poison was meant for someone else?” I wasn’t sure if John had shared his Mrs. Brissart-as-the-intended-victim theory with the rest of the family, but it certainly seemed to be the direction that Stuart and Kendra took.
“No. I didn’t mean that. I meant maybe the poison got into the cookies by accident. Like with that Tylenol case years ago.” He turned his head and looked at me. “Maybe my grandmother used tainted ingredients.”
I mulled over this possibility, though if memory served, wasn’t the Tylenol tainted on purpose? I felt fairly certain it had been, though I couldn’t remember why. But if Stuart’s observation turned out correct, that something got into the cookies by accident, I wondered why John hadn’t said anything—and more importantly, why hadn’t more died? Certainly the police would have the same suspicions. “Yes, I guess you could be right,” I finally said.
Stuart nodded and leaned forward. He took a sip from the mug he brought with him. “So you’re helping Mamoo out until Chantal comes back.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“She’s a nice person—Chantal, I mean. She helped my brother with the family history.”
“Well, not helped, exactly, just typed his notes.”
“Yeah, I think that’s why he came over on Monday to begin with.” Stuart shook his head. “If he wasn’t here, well, then he’d still be alive.”
“Yes, he would. But more than likely someone else would be dead,” I said, though not quite knowing if it was true. No one else had been poisoned except Bradley, and if he wasn’t there to eat one of the tainted cookies, then perhaps by morning they would have been stale and thrown out. On the other hand, maybe they would have been served for breakfast with some of Mrs. Platz’s tea. With a start, I thought of one more scenario—if Bradley hadn’t planned on coming over, then Mrs. Brissart never would have made the cookies to begin with. And if Stuart reasoned correctly and one of the ingredients was poisoned, who knew when it would be used and how many would be killed?
“I guess you’re right,” Stuart said, bringing me back to the present.
“Do you plan on continuing the work your brother started with the history?” I asked, thinking I needed to get off the subject of poison.
“Me? No, not me.” Stuart laughed and raised hands. “I’m sorry to say all that history stuff doesn’t interest me much. Whatever secrets there may or may not be in our illustrious family’s background, will have to stayed buried with my brother. I plan to make my own history.”
“It will be found much better by all parties to leave the past to history, especially as I propose to write that history myself,” I said.
“Okay. If you say so.” Stuart looked baffled.
“Just a habit of mine. I quote—never mind,” I said at Stuart’s blank look. “I understand you didn’t show up on Monday. Do you agree with your grandmother’s stance to not sell the land?”
“Do I agree? My parents don’t want her to sell, and Bradley didn’t. But, you know, the house just sits there vacant most of the time. To be honest, if the land sold, a nice chunk of cash would probably go into trust for me…” He smiled and I had to agree that this young man came from another piece of fabric altogether. “At the same time, I guess I don’t care one way or the other. If it takes my having to come to these little soirées then I’d rather have it not sell.”
“You don’t enjoy your extended family?”
“I don’t enjoy the pettiness and the bickering. My great aunts and grandmother have been at odds all their lives. I really don’t need to hear everything hashed over again.”
“Do you work, Stuart? I know your brother worked for, what? A shipping firm?”
“What a funny question. Doesn’t everyone work?” he asked. “Okay, maybe not everyone, at least in my family, but yes, surprise, surprise, I do actually have a job. I’ve gone to law school. Does that surprise you?”
“It’s just that no one mentioned it,” I offered, feeling somewhat ashamed by my bad assumption.
“Probably because I never passed the bar. I took it a few times, but now I just work as a researcher for a law firm. The pay’s okay, and it’s just four days per week. Gives me time for other pleasures.” At my quizzical expression, Stuart explained, “I like the ponies. I’m sure someone must have mentioned that to you. Probably in a sentence with other words like no good, and lazy.”
“Stuart, look…I’ve got to go. Tell my aunt I’ll talk to her soon.”
Steven Estenfelder stood at my end of the sofa. I got a good whiff of his heavenly cologne. He smiled at me before turning to leave.
Stuart excused himself and left with Steven.
I took my teacup and headed to the other side of the room where Trish sat alone. She looked delighted to have company.
“You own a temp agency,” Trish began. “Maybe I’ll come down and see you.”
I felt like telling her to first buy a longer skirt and a bra, but despite the young woman’s appearance she seemed warm and friendly, and a bit lost and at odds.
“Do you have experience working in an office?”
“Well no, not exactly. You see, I just got divorced and I’m kind of at loose ends. You know? So I thought maybe I could get a job.”
“Have you ever had one?” Again, not a very tactful question but Trish didn’t seem to notice.
“No. Actually, I’ve never done much of anything.” Trish looked dejected. “I finished high school and then I went to a junior college for two years, but that’s about it.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” I said brightly, hoping to boost the young woman’s spirits. “Do you have computer experience?”
“Some. I use the Internet a lot. I can type but I’m not very good with the different software programs.”
“Maybe you can start off by taking some computer classes at the community college. They have a very good selection of administrative courses.”
“Yeah, you think so? Sure, why not.” Trish brightened. “I’m getting a bit tired of playing hostess at Daddy’s dinner parties and just sitting around the house all day.”
A knock sounded at the front door, and before I could jump up to answer it, Mrs. Platz came down the hall. “Good morning, Detectives. Come in.”
John and Jim walked into the living room and looked all around.
“Alex, do you know where Mrs. Brissart is?” John asked.
“Yes, she’s in the study with her son.” I excused myself from Trish and stepped away from the group to join John. “Is something wrong? You look kind of odd.”
“Detective Van der Burg, Detective Maroni. Good morning.”
No one had heard Mrs. Brissart come down the hall.
“Mrs. Brissart, is there somewhere we can talk in private?”
“Yes, certainly. Come into the study. If it’s about Bradley, then I think Kenneth and Lillian should hear. Alex, you come as well.”
We walked toward the study and a sense of dread washed over me. I tried to read John’s face and felt certain he had figured out who killed Bradley Brissart.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
If Detective Maroni thought it odd that Mrs. Brissart asked me to join them, he didn’t say anything, and neither did John, to my great relief.
Mrs. Brissart took my arm again and looked up at me. “I wish this was all over. I’m afraid it’s wearing on me.”
After everyone took a seat, John told them what he found out from the lab. “We’ve tested all the food along with the liquor in the cabinet.”
“Do you know what killed our son?” asked a soft-spoken Lillian Brissart.
“Yes, Mrs. Brissart, we do. As assumed, we found cyanide in several of the macaroons.”
Roberta Brissart gave a small gasp. Her son took her hand.
“That’s what killed him,” Kenneth whispered.
“Yes, sir, I’m afraid that it did. It’s a quick-acting poison. Cyanide poisoning results in something called anoxia, meaning it causes a complete lack of oxygen in the brain and all the other tissues of the body. If it’s not immediately reversed, then death occurs rather quickly. I’m sorry.”
Roberta looked up with moist eyes. “You mean Bradley perhaps could have been saved if he got immediate attention?”
“Well, Mrs. Brissart, with a doctor present with an ampoule of amyl nitrite and the knowledge of what to do, perhaps. The killer knew that no help would be immediately available,” John said.
“Detective, wouldn’t Bradley taste the cyanide and spit it out?” asked Lillian.
“Unfortunately the killer planned it well. The cyanide, being in the macaroons, would go undetected, at least at first. It sometimes tastes like almonds though probably not as much as people think, and if I understand correctly from the lab, the macaroons are made with…” John consulted his notes and pointed to a spot on the paper. “Almond extract.”
“I put extra almonds in them, just the way Bradley liked!” Roberta slapped her tiny hands down on the arms of the chair causing me to jump. “Why did I make those cookies? If only....”
“Mother, please. Don’t do this to yourself. You made them because Bradley loved them,” Kenneth said as tears sprang to his own eyes. “Detective Van der Burg, where on earth would someone get cyanide?”
John gave a disgusted shrug. “I’m sorry to say, anywhere, if you know what you’re doing. Or if you have friends in the wrong places.” I thought about the Tylenol murders again and the Jonestown massacre and their group suicide. “There’s a bit more,” John continued.
“More? No, please. I don’t think I can take any more,” Lillian said, as she walked to her husband’s side and took hold of his other hand. Her gray slacks hung on her body; the cream cardigan failed to conceal her sagging shoulders. Splotches covered her face from all her crying and her light brown hair, though nicely styled, hung limply to her shoulders. I guessed that Lillian, a woman who most probably always dressed immaculately, hadn’t slept or eaten for the past two days.
Kenneth looked from his mother to his wife. “What else is there?”
“We also found poison in the Cherry Heering liquor,” John said.
“Dear God! Someone certainly wanted me dead,” cried Roberta.
“Well, there’s something puzzling about the poison in the Cherry Heering. It’s something called a jequirity bean. Someone shoved the mashed pulp of the bean into the bottle. It looked very amateurish. Chances are you would see the stuff floating in the bottle before you drank it.”
“Jequirity bean, what the hell is that?” Kenneth asked wiping his eyes with a lace handkerchief his wife handed him.
John looked across the room at Jim. “Detective, could you explain for us?”
Detective Maroni looked a little unsure of himself. He approached the small gathering and took out his notes. “From what the lab tells me, it comes off a vine that grows in tropical areas like Florida and the Caribbean. It is used for ground cover. The beans, which are bright red with a bit of black, are used in crafts and jewelry items. It’s an ideal poison in that the symptoms aren’t apparent for a while, so it’s a bit difficult to pinpoint the exact cause of the vomiting and diarrhea. And eventual death, if you eat enough.”
He took a deep breath and continued in his soft-spoken, courteous manner. “A few days after ingestion, you develop these symptoms and gastroenteritis, and probably just think of the flu. From the looks of it, about twenty or so beans got mixed up in the liquor. The lab guys aren’t sure what would constitute a lethal dose, but probably twenty beans would do it.”
“Where would someone get these beans, Detective?” asked a horrified Lillian.
“I’m sorry to say they’re rather common. As Detective Maroni said, they’re used in jewelry because of their bright colors. If you couldn’t find any yourself, well, there are people out there willing to sell anything and show you how to use it for a price. The same as the cyanide. There are even books that give step-by-step instructions for poisoning your victim.”
I gave a shudder at such thoughts. It must be like drugs. If you want it, you can find it.
Lillian looked back to John. “What does this mean, Detective? The killer used two poisons. I don’t understand.”
“I’m afraid neither do the police. Right now, we don’t know if we’re looking at one killer with two poisons or two killers or…well, I just don’t know what we’re looking at.” John shook his head in total bewilderment. “Someone wiped the Cherry Heering bottle clean of any fingerprints.”
“There’s something I don’t understand. If there was poison in the cookies, why didn’t someone else get sick or die?” I asked.
“A good question. About seven cookies remained. Three had small amounts of cyanide, though enough to kill someone. It only takes one.”
“Why w
asn’t there cyanide in all of them?” asked Roberta.
“We don’t know. Maybe the killer didn’t have time to taint all the cookies. We’re assuming whoever did this came here at some point during the evening with the rest of you or came in after everyone left and took a chance when no one was looking.”
“So you’re saying only a random selection of macaroons was tainted and, well, at the risk of sounding insensitive, it was the luck of the draw?” asked Kenneth Brissart, sounding angrier by the second.
“It seems that way, though I would imagine the killer knew eventually all the cookies would be eaten.”
“So the intention was to kill everyone on Monday night,” Lillian said, as her skin became paler than it had been a few minutes earlier.
“I don’t know,” John admitted. “I feel as if I keep saying that, and I’m sorry. We will find out.”
“I think,” I spoke up, “it must have been random. There’s no way the killer could have known exactly who would eat what cookie and when.”
“But I thought the police said my mother was the intended victim,” Kenneth asked. “Isn’t that what you told her yesterday?”
“Yes, we did,” Detective Maroni said, “but several cookies would have to be tainted unless the killer just handed her one.”
“One theory is that the killer poisoned the cookies as everyone left,” John added.
“Everyone left at the same time except Bradley and Kendra,” Roberta managed to say through her tears. “Everyone moved about gathering their things. Who would notice anything? Even Bradley walked out for some fresh air. My niece, Marsha, she smokes, and it gets stuffy in here by the end of the evening. I never put an ashtray out for her, but it doesn’t seem to do any good. She just uses my good china.”
“So the killer thinks everyone is going and poisons the cookies,” said Kenneth in a voice verging on a yell, “believing Mother would be the only one home.”
His wife shook her head and looked down at her hands.
“They put a bit of stuff, that jeq...bean, in my Cherry Heering just to be sure.” Mrs. Brissart started to cry again. This time I rushed to her side and wrapped my arms around her shoulders.