"What’s wrong?" Mom asked.
I guess I must’ve had a funny look on my face.
"I just remembered finding Mr. Sanders. The room smelled a little like this stuff," I said holding up the bottle.
Mom’s eyes grew wide.
"What?" I asked.
She didn’t answer and whipped out her cell phone.
"Who are you calling?" I asked.
"DC," Mom said.
* * *
"This better be good," the detective said when Mom let him in through the back door of the restaurant. I busied myself pressing almonds into the tops of the latest batch of cookies before they cooled.
"Don’t put the next batch into the oven," Mom said to me. "He’s here."
I finished up with the cookies just as Mom brought DC over.
"Okay, tell him now," Mom said.
I shot Mom a panicked look. She’s the one who called him over, and now I was the one who had to talk to him.
"About the smell," Mom said.
"Oh," I said. "There was a faint smell of almonds in the room."
"I didn’t smell anything like that when I got in there," he said.
I closed my eyes and replayed the moment in my mind. "It was when I tried to give him CPR after I called 911 from the telephone. His breath. It smelled a little like almond extract, but very light."
Mom gave the detective a look that said, ”See, I told you this was important."
"That only happens in movies," he said to Mom, but I didn’t know what they were talking about.
"What?" I asked. "What’s the big deal about the smell."
"It means anybody at the party could have killed Mr. Sanders," Mom said.
"How?" I asked.
"Cyanide poisoning," Mom said.
“How do you know it was cyanide poisoning?" I asked.
"Every crime show watcher and mystery reader knows that cyanide gives off a faint smell of bitter almonds," Mom answered.
"It still could’ve been Celia," the detective said. "And why would she empty out half of the pills just to put cyanide in some of them? There couldn’t have been enough cyanide in the pills to have the onset occur so suddenly."
"But anyone could have poisoned the drink he used to wash down the pills," Mom said.
The detective whipped out his notebook and rifled through his notebook. "Let’s see what he had to drink," he said.
But I didn’t have to wait for him to look it up.
"He had a diet soda," I said.
"And where did he get that?" Detective Cooper asked.
I didn’t have to search my memory for that answer either. "I gave it to him."
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next morning, I woke up in our guest room (my younger and more successful brother's former room) disoriented and stressed. After one day of investigating, Mom and I had detective-worked ourselves into the role of suspects. Of course, I was more of a suspect than Mom. And Celia wasn’t off the hook either. Celia, ever the kind cousin, had been good enough to take all of my things from what used to be my bedroom, and put them in the closet for me. It made me wonder how long she planned on staying.
Some of Dad's old clothes were here. I spotted what looked like the leather jacket my brother, sister, and I chipped in to get him for Christmas (with Mom's considerable help). It was seventy-five degrees in California the Monday after the holiday break, but Dad still wore that leather jacket to work. I stepped further back into the closet to look at it, and I noticed grandpapa’s old briefcase on the floor behind some shoes. I hadn’t seen it since Aunt Lalaine brought it back from the Philippines when I was in high school. How did it get here?
The case was slightly open, and I reached down to close it. Some of the papers got in the way of the latch. I opened it to push them aside. That’s when I spotted what looked like a police report from Lapitan, a small municipality in the province of Negros Oriental where my mother grew up. It was written in English, like most government documents in the Philippines are, and it detailed Aunt Lalaine’s auto accident. Except, there weren’t many details at all. It said that she died in an auto accident and the date, but not much else.
I looked through the briefcase. There were photos and notes. Who had gathered all of this? Mom hadn’t been to the Philippines in over a decade. Not since--oh wait--she’d gone back for Aunt Lalaine’s funeral. Had Mom been investigating her death?
"Oh no!" Celia shouted from the living room.
I shoved the papers back into the case, closed it, and rushed into the living room.
I expected to see her covered in blood or at the very least holding a stubbed toe, but instead she was just standing by the front door holding the newspaper.
"Don't put that newspaper anywhere near the sofa," Mom warned.
Growing up, our family living room had been a study in brown, our dark wood floor matched beige curtains and a boring brown sofa. But Mom's redecorating had added a white, linen sofa with clean lines, an elegant glass coffee table, and elegant long white curtains with silver trim. I imagine she never would have dared have so much white with three kids and a husband who liked to eat Cheetos while he watched football.
"That man from the Valley News who I dodged yesterday wrote a story about me, and look at the photo!"
Celia turned the paper around to show us the large photo. It was taken when Celia was in her Audrey Hepburn getup, but the photographer had snapped the picture when Celia’s head was looking down and her mouth was open. It made her look like she had a double chin and a slack jaw. Even I felt bad for her. Then I read the story, and it was even worse.
Celia’s cell phone rang. Her face turned even more sad. “I’m innocent until proven guilty," Celia said to the person on the telephone. She listened for a minute and then said, “I appreciate your call and support," but I could tell from her tone and frown that she didn’t mean it. She hung up.
“Who was that?" Mom asked.
“Jess from church. They won’t be needing anything from me for the charity auction. She said she didn’t want to burden me at this difficult time."
Mom shook her head no.
“Sorry Celia," I said and put my hand on her shoulder. She smiled back at me.
The three of us headed for the kitchen for coffee. Mom filled Celia in on what we discovered talking to Margaret, and told her about the cyanide theory. Celia seemed glum until Mom told her about our talk with DC.
"So we’re all potential murderers?" Celia asked with a smile.
"Yes, especially you and Christy," Mom answered, glad to see that something had cheered up my cousin. I guess misery does enjoy company. I grabbed a diet soda from the refrigerator to go with my half-caff coffee. It was setting up to be that kind of day.
"When do you guys get arrested?" Celia asked.
"They have to do an autopsy and find out if there really was cyanide poisoning," Mom said, not at all concerned about our impending doom.
"You knew it was murder all along!" Celia said. "Maybe you’re psychic."
"I’m not psychic," Mom said with a smile. "There’s no such thing."
I didn’t believe in psychics either, but it would explain how Mom was always right. Although, perhaps that’s just the nature of motherhood. I think there’s a saying about moms and being right.
"Tell me about Harold’s girlfriend. Where does she live? We need to see her today," Mom said.
"What makes you think Mr. Sanders had a girlfriend?" I asked Mom, sitting down at the kitchen table. Celia ignored me and answered Mom.
"You think Edna killed him? But why? He wanted to marry her," Celia said.
Celia’s talk about marriage triggered my memory.
"Everyone’s a suspect, but if anyone knows Harold’s secrets, it Edna. Has she known him a long time?" Mom asked.
"Wait!" I said as my mind played back some of the things on Harold’s desk. "Is that why he had cruise brochures on his desk?"
Celia’s eyes brightened up. "For their honeymoon. Ma’am Edn
a mentioned taking an Alaskan cruise once, so he thought it would be nice to take her. The great thing Mr. Sanders said about Ma’am Edna is she's already rich, so he knew she wouldn’t be trying to marry him for his money."
"I knew it," Mom said.
"What?" I asked.
"When I went up to talk to him about having the party, I mentioned that there had to be a special guest he didn’t want to disappoint. That’s what changed his mind."
"He was going to ask Edna to marry him this week," Celia said.
"How do you know that?" I asked.
"He’s been following her around town for the last year since her husband died," Celia said. "He’s trying to woo her. I think it’s working."
"I think it’s stalking," I said.
"Does Edna mind?" Mom asked. She seemed a little wary, too.
"We run our errands on the days she does, hoping to run into her. And they talk. Sometimes he takes her out for coffee. She doesn’t seem to mind."
"Are you always there?" I asked.
"I make an excuse sometimes so they can be alone. And last week, Sir and I devised a plan to figure out her ring size. When I saw her last week, I asked her to try on my ring on her left hand, because I thought we had the same size fingers. And we did! I told her I forgot my ring's size, and I wanted to order a ring online, but I needed to know my size. She said hers was a six. So Sir bought a beautiful ring. It arrived the day before the party."
"But she’s still wearing her old wedding ring," I said. "Or at least she was at the party."
Mom looked down at her ring finger. Dad died almost six years ago, but it took a while for Mom to stop wearing her ring. "I don’t think Edna was ready to remarry." Mom’s face looked so sad. I needed to distract her.
"I take it we’re going to Edna’s house," I said to Mom. She nodded yes. "I’ll go and get dressed then." As I left the kitchen, I heard Mom ask Celia what medication Harold Sanders was on. My brain flashed an image of the pill bottle on the floor and called out, "Altonquin." I went back to the guest room to get dressed and spotted the briefcase again. I’d have to ask Mom about that later.
* * *
Fletcher Canyon was a small enough town that Mom and I knew that Edna lived on Daniel Street, but weren’t sure which house it was.
"It’s either that one or the other big one we passed a few minutes ago," Mom said. "Just park here, and we’ll knock on both." Mom pointed to a space on the curb, but all my brain could think was “Mayday! Mayday! Parallel parking attempt! Prepare for disaster."
Seventeen excruciating turns of the wheel later, the van was parked somewhere in the vicinity of the curb, and no other cars were harmed in the process. Victory!
"Good job!" Mom said, and I don’t even think she was being sarcastic.
Mom and I approached the bigger house. Mom checked the mailbox: Edna Fisher. Aha!
I found myself nervous about the idea of walking up to the house unannounced. I hesitated for a moment, but Mom did not. She marched straight up the brick path that led to the front door. I had no choice but to follow.
The older, ranch style home was well kept. It sat on at least two acres of property and was set far back from the road. The yard wasn’t fenced in, but it did have a lovely high hedge along the perimeter, and the distance from the street allowed for privacy. My guess was it was like the Sanders Family, The Fishers sold off portions of their former farmland, for the rest of the houses in the neighborhood were built around it.
Mom rang the doorbell, and Edna answered the door.
"Hi, Edna," Mom said.
"Jo!" Edna said. "What a wonderful surprise."
My entire body relaxed as the two talked.
"I’m sorry I didn’t call to get together for lunch, but I thought with your niece--" Edna paused.
"It’s all right," Mom said. "Actually, my daughter and I might be suspects in the murder now. We need to ask you questions so we don’t go to jail."
Mom’s bluntness amazed me. I think it might have taken Edna by surprise as well, but it worked. Edna invited us in, and within minutes were in her dining room drinking coffee and having fresh-baked bread.
* * *
Edna poured another round of coffee as the talk of bread baking subsided.
"I know the circumstances of your visit are glum, but I do appreciate the company," Edna said.
"Christy just moved back in to help me with the catering business–"
"And Mom is helping me out while I go through my divorce," I interrupted. I appreciated Mom trying to make me look good, but the truth was Mom was helping me out, not the other way around.
"But before that," Mom continued, "the house was so quiet. I'd leave the television on to hear the noise."
Edna laughed. "I just had it on when you rang the bell!"
"Harold Sanders wanted to keep you company," Mom said.
Edna sighed.
"He wanted too much too soon, didn't he?" Mom asked.
"I don't know about that," Edna said. "I suspected he might want something more, but I couldn't be sure."
"He was going to propose to you," I said.
Edna's eyes widened. "I don't believe that. That's just a rumor."
"What makes you say that?" Mom asked.
"We only saw each other around town. We'd get coffee while Celia ran errands. But it wasn't anything serious." Edna shook her head. "This town is full of so much gossip. If they see two people eating together, they think they've got to be a couple."
Mom nodded at me to go ahead and tell Edna. "Celia told us that she helped Harold buy the ring. I even saw cruise brochures on his desk. I think he was planning a honeymoon."
Edna shook her head. "That old fool. I'd mentioned thinking about taking an Alaskan cruise, but he couldn't have bought a ring. That can't be right."
"Celia said she got your ring size by having you try on her wedding ring last time they ran into you," Mom said.
"Oh my," Edna said looking down at her own ring. "That's what that was about." Edna exhaled. Her mouth in a frown. "What's with men these days, anyway?"
"I'm in the middle of a divorce," I said. "Exasperation with men is a topic I can talk about for years."
Edna smiled.
"I take it Harold wasn't the only man giving you a hard time," Mom said.
"It'll sound like I'm bragging, but it's probably just about my money."
"Harold was pretty rich on his own," I said.
"Harold was just lonely. It was Charles that needed the money. Years ago the three of us would hang out after school, but only in private."
"Why?" Mom asked.
"I'm Jewish. Nobody thought much about it when we first moved to town. There weren't any synagogues here back then, but when we had a death in the family word spread. Back in those days, things were different. Most of the kids in high school avoided me for the rest of the year. Harold and Charles would talk to me in secret. At first I was just glad for the company, but then I just got tired of it. My parents saw what a hard time I was having and sent me to boarding school. I only moved back here a year ago after my husband died," she sniffed.
"The first few years after my husband died I'd wake up and think he was still alive," Mom said.
"I've had that same thing," Edna said.
Mom and I had talked about Dad a lot over the last five years, but I'd never seen her like this--relating widow to widow.
Mom took Edna's hand. "It hurts less over time, but don't listen to anyone who says 'it's time to move on.' You take as much time as you need. Forever if you want."
Edna smiled. "Thanks."
They traded tidbits about life alone and TV shows, and I listened.
Listening to them, I realized that for so much of my life I looked at my mom as my mom, the person who raised me. The one who embarrassed me in middle school by making me carry an old Smurf lunchbox on a school field trip. The woman who solved my problems and fixed my hair. I was a kid, and she was the grown-up in charge.
And then
I got absorbed in my own life and troubles, and even though I'd become a grown woman, I still saw her as Mom. But seeing her comforting Edna, it struck me how incredible my mother was, not just as my mom, but as a woman.
If I'd met her at a party or around town, I would want to talk to her just like everyone else does. No wonder she makes friend with people wherever she goes, and people always tell her their secrets and seek her advice. She empathized with people and listened with her whole heart. And Mom was fun.
"So Charles came around, too," Mom said.
"He came by today to give me these photos he framed of the flowers in my garden," Edna said as she reached over and grabbed the stack. I'd baked the bread and made coffee for him actually."
Edna handed one photo to me and one to Mom. The other rested on the table. Mom's was a closeup of a butterfly on a flower, and mine was a pink rose bush. Mom's looked more interesting.
"I like this," Mom said.
"I think it's the best of the three. Between you and me, he just got lucky with the butterfly. I watched him take it. The thing just flew into the picture, and he snapped it. The rose photo is a bit cliche. The composition isn't very interesting, and the focus is off," Edna said.
“He didn't stay for the bread?" Mom asked.
"No, we got into a bit of a tiff."
"You didn't tell him the truth about his mediocre photography did you?" Mom asked.
Edna laughed. "Oh no! Although he was such a jerk I almost wish I had."
Mom and I laughed. Edna was such a proper lady, it was funny to hear her criticize something and call a guy a jerk.
"What did he want?" Mom asked when our laughter subsided.
"He wanted to talk about moving back to town to keep me company," she said. "He even had the nerve to ask if he could stay here with me. But I knew what he was up to."
"What?" Mom asked.
"He'd called me when my husband died and sent flowers, but he was a little too flirty on the telephone. When I heard he was coming to town I googled him," Edna said.
"Googles is so great! That and Siri. They know everything," Mom said.
I smiled. I alway thought to was funny how Mom added an "s" to Google.
"I found out that Charles had gone through a bitter divorce. His former wife inherited an orange grove from her father, and he was running it and stealing from her. She got him kicked out of his job, and with their prenup he got zilch. He was broke and looking for a meal ticket."
Mango Cake and Murder Page 6