by M E Harmon
“No one asked for your elucidation, woman. Go about your business elsewhere,” Persimmons sneered.
My questions were getting him flustered. Good. If he was involved with Doug's death, he deserved to stew in his persnickety juices.
I rewound the video and paused at the spot when the cane was clearly next to the body. “I'll leave, but Officer Wierzbowski, this video is on YouTube. How much trouble do you think you'd be in if you let him walk off with the potential murder weapon?”
That sent Persimmons over the deep end. “What? I will not stand here and be accused of wrongdoing. If it so happens my cane was used in an illicit manner, it had nothing to do with me!”
He started to move off, but Wierzbowski stopped him with a raised hand. “Whoa there, partner. No one is accusin' you of nothin. But let's cover all the bases here and get this cane of yours checked out. Ok?” He winked. “Just to rule you out, of course.”
Wierzbowski pulled latex gloves out of a pouch on his belt. He put them on and reached for the cane. The show manager's nostrils flared, but he allowed the cop to take it.
“That is very valuable, I insist you be careful with it.”
The cop pinched the cane's shaft between a forefinger and thumb. “Don't you worry. The NYPD is always real careful with evidence.”
“Evidence?” Persimmons watched the cop handle his property with eyes narrowed to slits. “Here, I have someone that can vouch for my whereabouts. Mr. Troperman, could you come here please?”
I turned to see Joseph Troperman near the yellow and black taped-off perimeter. He continued to stare at the space where his brother had lain a short while ago. Persimmons had to call him three more times before Joseph reacted.
“Yes?” Troperman said in a soft tone as he walked over. His eyes were red. Lines I didn't recall seeing earlier were etched around his mouth.
As he approached, Wierzbowski waved over a man wearing a white uniform dress-shirt under a pea jacket. “Sergeant Jones, a word please.”
The man approached. He was about fifty-five, stocky, with graying hair around the edges. “What's up?”
Wierzbowski nodded at the cane. “This is evidence that has to be tagged. But Mr. Persimmons here was about to explain something and wanted this gentleman to vouch for him. I just thought you should be here for the conversation.”
Persimmons blanched, but Troperman just looked sad. The sergeant eyeballed me, but before he could say anything, Wierzbowski spoke up.
“This is Ali Daniels. She brought some information to me—”
Sergeant Jones cut him off. “That name is familiar. Who are you?”
I pointed in the direction of the shop. “I own HoneyBun Sweets and Sandwiches. I'm a baker.”
He wasn't impressed. “No, that's not it. Wait...didn't you help with the investigation when that lady kicked the bucket over in the Chambers building?”
“Yeah, that was me,” I answered a little subdued.
He extended his hand, which I shook. “Oh, ho, ho. Good work. I read all about that one in the papers. You've got a lot of nerve playing detective, but your snooping helped to solve the case faster. Made the department look good. Now, what's going on here?”
Persimmons piped up. “I need to get back to my responsibilities at the bazaar, and I was telling Officer,” he squinted to read the badge label, “Wierzbowski here that I wasn't involved in the fighting. I was only a spectator, and Mr. Troperman, the sponsor of the bazaar that's practically in the mayor’s backyard and who also happens to be the deceased's brother, can vouch for me.”
That was a mouthful. The show manager nodded at Troperman as if the other man was going to be his savior. I didn't know when they got so chummy. But Joseph Troperman's head bobbed up and down slowly.
“Yes, I mean, no. Mr. Persimmons wasn't fighting. If anything, he was trying to calm Doug down.”
Wierzbowski said, “How?”
Troperman shrugged. “Mostly yelling from the sidelines. I was the one who tried to wrestle Doug away.” He pulled in a ragged breath. “But as you know, I wasn't able to help him. Not really.”
Wierzbowski held the cane aloft to catch light from an overhead streetlamp. He angled it toward Sergeant Jones, and they exchanged a look. The officer quickly recapped the conversation for the sergeant about the walking stick and the video. When he finished, Jones called over someone wearing a vest stenciled with NYC Police Crime Scene Unit. He instructed the woman to bag and tag the cane.
When the woman hurried off with the walking stick, the sergeant said, “So, Mr. Persimmons, we will return your property as soon as humanly possible. Now, Mr. Troperman, did you see someone strike your brother in a way to cause his head injury?”
“I really don't know. I jumped in but was thrown out of the fight almost as quickly.”
I said, “If you were busy at Doug's side trying to rescue him, how could you know where Persimmons was?”
Jones quipped, “That's enough, Ms. Daniels. Now, Troperman...hold on. Are you related to Troperman Foods?”
“Yes, that's my company.”
“My cousin got food poisoning from some egg salad he bought at the deli in one of your stores.”
“I'm sorry to hear that.” Joseph raised his head but didn't meet the cop's eye.
The sergeant laughed it off. “No worries. Hey, once bitten, twice shy. Nobody in my entire family buys at Troperman's deli anymore. Are you his boss?” He pointed at Persimmons.
“No, my company just sponsors the bazaar. His employer is a company who puts the entire event together.”
“Um-hmm. I see your name plastered all over the park,” Sergeant Jones said. “That at least means you have pull if you aren't his boss. Anyway, how can you vouch for this guy if you were so busy trying to help your brother?”
“I assure you. When the fighting was happening, Persimmons wasn't in the brawl, but I could hear him yelling. When I was thrown, he helped me up. By that time, security and the police were breaking up the fight. We stood together and watched until I was able to go to my brother's side.” Joseph scratched at his wrist.
Not dissuaded from the sergeant’s little rebuke, I spoke. “So Mr. Persimmons, why did you draw Doug's attention to the Santas that had just walked into the park? Were you trying to set him off?”
“I have no idea what you're speaking of.” Persimmons rested a hand across his heart as if he were too delicate to be offended.
“You radioed someone to shut off the music in Magic Land. I remember because it cut off in the middle of a song. Then just a few minutes later you still had the walkie-talkie in your hand when I saw you knock that silver tip of your cane against a lamp post when Doug was on stage. You wanted to draw his attention. You knew he would go ballistic when he saw those other Santas on his turf.”
Joseph started as if he'd been stung by a wasp. “Really? You did that?”
“No, of course not,” Persimmons retorted.
“Wait a sec,” Wierzbowski flipped his pages of notepad back. “I took the statement from one of the Santas in the fight. He said that the show manager, Persimmons, had hired him and his friends. Told them to come to the park around eight-thirty to help out with handing out food samples.”
Sergeant Jones cleared his throat, “So let me get this clear. You hired the other rent-a-Santas, knowing it would cause a problem with the brother of the bazaar's sponsor. Did you and him have a problem? The deceased, I mean.”
Persimmons opened his mouth, but Joseph cut him off. “Yes, I caught Persimmons berating Doug this very evening. I had to come to my brother's defense once again. Now that I think about it, I believe he wanted my brother gone but knew it would be hard to get a Troperman fired. Unless Doug did something really awful.”
I chimed in. “I would say going berserk, stripping out of his Santa suit, and running like a maniac in front of a boatload of school-age kids and their parents would qualify as something awful.”
Persimmons took a step back. The sergeant wrapped a hand
around the manager's upper arm. “Let's stay in place there, chief.”
Joseph glared at the manager. His gloved hands balled up into fists.
Beads of sweat dotted Persimmons’ brow. “Aren't you going to do something, Joseph? You know how incredibly valuable I am.”
“I only know that if what Ali says is true, everything that happened tonight is your fault.”
“Not everything is my fault,” Persimmons said from between clenched teeth. “You people with all your money think you can come and do anything you want. While hard-working people like me, the backbone of the America economy, do your bidding. You feed on us like leeches!” He lunged for Troperman, but Sergeant Jones held him fast.
Wierzbowski stepped behind Persimmons and looped plastic cuffs around the bazaar manager's wrists, “Ok, buddy, you earned yourself a time out. That cane of yours had what looked like specks of blood on it. We can have a chat 'bout that, too.”
Joseph's lips lifted in a sneer. Even though the other man was taller, Troperman managed to look down at him. Then his mouth relaxed, and his face softened. He rubbed his temple. Funny, it was almost the same spot where his brother had been dealt a hardy blow. “I'm tired, and heartbroken. I don't know what I'm saying. Officers, it's unlikely Persimmons here did anything intentionally. I don't want to face it, but my brother had a plethora of health issues. Any one of them could have been exacerbated from the fight and caused his death.”
Sergeant Jones said, “The coroner will tell us that for sure. For now, we're gonna continue to take this guy here,” he cocked a thumbed at Persimmons, “in for some more chat time.”
Persimmons rounded on me. “You meddler. You need to mind your own business.”
I didn't flinch. “You shouldn't have killed Doug.”
“C'mon you,” Wierzbowski said and marched Persimmons to a squad car.
The three of us watched him walk away. Then I peered at Troperman. He'd appeared genuinely enraged at the thought of Persimmons instigating Doug's break from reality. But then he flip-flopped. Why? Was grief affecting his judgment?
Joseph caught me staring. Something flickered in his eyes, and I couldn't read it exactly. Then he smiled. “Sergeant Jones, Ali here has been a godsend. She didn't know my brother long, but I think she would've been the type of friend he needed.” He patted my shoulder, and I got the faintest whiff of something woodsy.
I said, “Thank you. I'm very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” Troperman answered. “I just want to get this night over with. Sergeant Jones, back to Persimmons. He's eccentric, but I don't think he's lethal.”
Jones shook his head. “You never know, sir.” Officer Wierzbowski came over to join us again.
“But I know my brother was a handful. He could test the most patient of people. Maybe that's what happened here. Listen, I'll give you my card. I'd appreciate it if you could keep me posted or if I can do anything to help.” Joseph reached into an inner coat pocket.
I glanced over at the HoneyBun. It was closing in on ten pm. The lights were still on, which meant Al was still there. I cringed at the thought of the cleanup that was ahead of me. Then I glanced at the police ‘crime scene - do not cross’ tape and felt guilty. I was going home later to sleep in my warm bed. I was fortunate. Some others, like Doug, weren't.
Joseph started to hand his card to Sergeant Jones then stopped. “Hold on, this is just the office number. I'll give you my cell.” He pulled out a pen and removed a glove to more easily write on the business card. Red welts spotted his hand and wrists. Earlier, I had noticed them after offering to help Doug.
I watched the exchange as Joseph handed the card to the cop. The sergeant went on to give details about what would happen when Persimmons was taken to the precinct. As Troperman listened, he opened his coat to drop the pen into an inner pocket. That was when I saw it.
I pointed, “What's that?”
The look Joseph gave me was not friendly. He knew exactly what I was referring to but said, “What's what?”
My heart started to knock. I wasn't sure why, but I guessed part of my brain was putting the pieces together. “That thing in your inner coat pocket.”
His gaze flicked from me to the cops and back again. “Nothing, just medication. It's not a weapon or anything.” He laughed awkwardly.
The cops, however, weren't amused. In fact they tensed. Joseph saw their expressions, too, and slowly opened his coat. “See, it's just my EpiPen. I carry it in case of emergencies.”
He turned to show the cops a vial that jutted above his coat's pocket. When the officers visually relaxed, Joseph pulled it out. I had never seen anything like it. Inside the vial was something that looked like a pen but wider. The top of it had an orange-yellow cap.
Wierzbowski said, “Yeah, I've heard of those. It's medication to stop bad allergy attacks.”
Joseph nodded though his hand trembled, “Unfortunately, I do suffer from several allergens and need to always be prepared. Now, if that satisfies Ms. Daniels’ curiosity...” He moved to put it away.
I nodded. “Yes, sorry about that. It does. But aren't you having an allergic reaction right now? Aren't those hives on your hand? You've been scratching at them all night. Can't you use that pen for that?”
He looked at his hands as if they'd just sprouted out from his arms. “Oh, this. This is nothing. Must be a reaction to the hand soap in the men's bathroom. Happens all the time. The pen is for life or death situations.”
I said, “That cap on the pen. I stepped on one just like it earlier. I couldn't tell what it had broken off of.”
Joseph secreted the EpiPen away. “They are fairly common. Anyone could've dropped it. Or maybe what you saw was part of a toy, you know from one of the booths in the bazaar.”
Yeah, maybe, but I didn't think so. That weird orangey color wasn't common. I scanned the ground hoping I'd luck into seeing the cap I'd stepped on earlier. I didn't of course. With the number of people around it had probably been kicked to Brooklyn by now.
Instead I noticed a scrap of torn white imitation fur. It was good quality, and I guessed it came from Doug's coat. It certainly didn't come from his pants. Those were probably still hanging from the picket fence around Magic Land. Something had bugged me when Doug spoke to me briefly during his mad dash. There was a weird scent to him, something that was woody and sweet. Sweet like caramel.
It hadn't come to me before, but I knew that scent. I used it at home occasionally but avoided it in recipes I created for the shop. In fact, other than honey, we tried to stay away from foods that could cause fatal allergy attacks. Despite that, I made it my business to know what signs to look for just in case a customer did have symptoms.
The conversation had gone on without me. Troperman was saying something about paying for any damages or even for hospital bills for the people Doug attacked.
Boldly, I interrupted. “Are you allergic to sesame, Joseph?”
All three men pivoted to face me. Joseph started as if he'd been bitten again. The cops rolled their eyes.
“I know, I know, Sergeant Jones, Officer Wierzbowski. But just bear with me for thirty seconds. Thirty.” They both rolled their eyes again, so I took that for a yes.
Doug's brother hadn't answered.
I said, “Nevermind, I'm sure the police can find out if you need that pen in case you have a reaction to sesame or sesame oil. It's a common allergy, you know. Did your twin brother have the same allergy, Joseph?”
“I'm not answering the questions of some baker,” he scoffed. “Officers, you have my statement. If you don't need me any longer, I'm going home.”
Sergeant Jones shrugged, noncommittal. “Wierzbowski, you have any follow up questions for Mr. Troperman?”
“Let me check.” Wierzbowski open his notepad, flipped to the first page, and began to read. “Nothing on this page. Let me check the next one.”
I took advantage of the cop's stall tactic. “Joseph, did you poison your brother?”
“No, of course not! Who are you to question me?”
I shrugged. “I'm a baker, like you said. I'm guessing you needed to take your brother out for some reason. I Googled you earlier and learned that despite Douglas Troperman being forced out of the company, he's still a majority shareholder. Upon his death, you'd likely inherit his shares. Was Doug blocking you from doing something with Troperman Foods? If so, what better way to get rid of him than to make it look like he suffered from a lethal allergic reaction? And what better place to do it than in a place that’s swimming with free food and snacks? Anything could be in any sample, right? Like candy cane shaped sugar cookies for instance?”
Joseph's face colored to a bright scarlet that matched the wheals on his hands. Wierzbowski had conveniently positioned himself slightly behind Troperman — blocking off an impromptu exit.
I went on. “And Doug of course, wouldn't carry around the medication if he did have a reaction. He was too irresponsible. I'm guessing the inevitable wasn't going to happen soon enough for you. So you helped him along and spiked his food with sesame oil but spilled some on your hands and shirt cuffs by accident. That's why your hands are covered with hives. You’ve been hiding the evidence inside your gloves ever since the cops showed up. But since you didn't digest it, like Doug did, you didn't have the same reaction.”
Jones took a step closer to Troperman. “Any of this ring true?”
Doug's brother lost some of his bluster. Defiant, he bit his lower lip and shook his head no.
I continued. “At some point tonight, you changed your mind and wanted to back out. But it was too late. Doug had already eaten the tampered food. If he'd been sober, maybe he would've smelled the sesame. Yet you knew Doug would never notice if he'd been drinking.
I had wondered why you tried so hard to get on that stage, way before Doug went bonkers over the Santas. You needed to get to him before it was too late to inject the medication in the EpiPen. Isn’t that right? Doug didn't give you a chance though. Even though he was already wheezing, he ran, started the fight, and by the time you reached him, it was too late. The anaphylaxis was too far gone by then. That's why his lips were blue; he couldn't get in enough oxygen.”