by Diana Saco
I got out and headed toward the grounds. As I passed Al, I couldn’t help smiling. He was twisting and stretching to work out kinks most people got after a few hours in a car. The entire ride had taken less than ten minutes.
3. The Swan Song of a Crowned Crane
The scene of the unfortunate event was easy to spot. A crowd had gathered a few yards from a purple canopy surrounded by yellow barricade tape reading “Sheriff’s Line - Do Not Cross.” Bruno’s deputy, Harry Cutter, was stationed there, and Dr. Peebles was already crouched over the body making a preliminary assessment.
The M.E.’s first name was Scarlet, but she almost always wore green, her favorite color. That made Al joke one day that she should have been called Kelly instead. After that, I developed a kind of Stroop response whenever I saw her. I always wanted to call her Kelly instead of Scarlet, just like in that test where you’re supposed to read the word “red,” but you wind up saying “green” because that’s the color of ink the word is printed in. I avoided the error by calling her “Doc,” just as Bruno did, and I suddenly wondered if he had the same problem.
We stopped a few feet from the tent not wanting to contaminate the scene just in case it was a homicide.
“What do you think, Doc?” Bruno asked the crouching figure.
“I think it was something she ate,” she replied with her subtle lisp and a completely straight face.
I suppressed an unprofessional laugh at her dry assessment and wound up snorting.
She looked up at me and smiled. “Hello, Nina.”
“Hi, Doc. Does anything besides the venue make you think this is a food-related incident?” I asked.
“Well, she regurgitated before dying.”
“Can you tell yet if the cause looks more like PB&J, or was it Pb?” I asked, using our usual code for peanut butter (a food allergen) or lead (a poisonous element).
“Her tongue and throat appear to be slightly irritated but not swollen,” Doc replied. “And I don’t see any apparent rashes, hives or redness, so I don’t think it was allergies. Of course, I won’t know for sure until I do a tox screen.”
I nodded, already knowing that she’d have to run tests. But her initial evaluation was pointing toward a poisoning, which is what we needed to know. It didn’t necessarily mean she was murdered. She could have ingested contaminated food.
Bruno immediately walked over to Alice and her assistant and asked her the question that just popped into my head. “Could Ms. Munch have eaten any of the other entries?”
“Of course,” she said. “This event is all about eating, and the contestants are the first to try things so they can check out the competition.”
That meant that the entire venue had just turned into either a potential crime scene or a public health risk. Holy Pastries! I thought.
Bruno must have come to the same conclusion and launched into action. “Alice, you need to get on the P.A. system and tell everyone to stop eating the food. Say that it’s for public safety reasons. Also instruct that anyone feeling sick should go to the ER immediately and contact the sheriff’s office.”
“I understand,” she said. “Pete, stay here in case they need anything else,” she instructed her assistant before leaving.
“Harry,” Bruno continued, “get the whole crew in here ASAP. You need to cordon off all the contest booths and start ushering everybody off the grounds. Set up a perimeter.”
“We’re going to run out of tape, Bruno.”
Pete interjected. “We’ve got rolls and rolls of red plastic streamers, the 4-inch size. Will that do?”
“In a pinch,” Harry said. Then he got on his radio to call in the rest of the troops.
“Oh, and Harry,” Bruno interrupted, “get forensics here, too. We’re going to need bagged samples from all the booths in addition to the evidence from the victim’s tent.”
Bruno would make sure that no one else got hurt while also preserving the scene and collecting the evidence. And I saw that Al had started cataloging the items laid out on the tabletops and taking pictures of the area with the 360-degree panoramic camera. I knew that he would also get unguarded images of the crowd with the camera hidden in his wrap-around sunglasses. Satisfied he would capture the layout of the scene, I let myself focus on the victim and her immediate surroundings.
The tented area was surprisingly large, about ten square feet, with three narrow tables along the sides and back. Two smaller tables created a barrier along the front with a separation between them to allow the contestant to enter and dole out the baked goods laid out on the surrounding tables. The canvas sidewalls were all rolled up except the one in the back. This created a backdrop for the rather curious display I observed.
On the left was a large poster of a woman holding a dessert in one hand and a blue ribbon in the other. Next to the poster and covering most of the rest of the backdrop was a huge tabletop flat-screen monitor. The monitor was showing a series of time-stamped amateur recordings of the same woman winning one cooking competition after another. This, I presumed, was the late Monica Munch. I took a moment to watch the muted montage of contest wins on the monitor, some playing back in slow motion. Like Al, I was not getting a gracious-winner vibe. If Monica Munch was the type to gloat about her ribbons—as this self-congratulatory display all but screamed—she definitely could have rubbed a few people the wrong way.
I studied the face in the poster. I should have been thinking about bakers or cupcakes or any of a number of other case-related things. Instead, I found myself thinking about cigarettes. After several moments, I realized why. I had taken a trip to Africa a few years before and had picked up a pack of Crown Bird cigarettes in Nairobi Airport. Coincidentally, I stopped smoking on that trip when I nearly lost a lung climbing Kilimanjaro. Even if it hadn’t been my last pack, however, I’d never forget the image of the crowned crane on the cover. Monica Munch was a parody of that bird. Her hair was two-toned, with dark brown bangs straight across her forehead. The rest of her hair, however, was a bright red-orange and spiky, rising in feathery wisps all around her head like a crown. It was meant to look fashionable but fell short of that mark.
I suddenly felt very sad for Monica Munch. I deduced that she couldn’t have had any close friends because they would have gently advised the misguided woman that the hair-do wasn’t working. To add to the avian effect, she had a beaky nose and an unnaturally wide mouth. The corners of her thin red lips almost reached the edges of her face owing to the unfortunate over-extension of the lip liner she used. When she smiled, as she was in her picture and in the videos, her face appeared to split in half. Again, a close friend would have advised against extending the lip liner. Clearly, no one had Monica Munch’s back. Now, to find out if someone wanted to stab her in it.
A few moments later, a commotion near the perimeter caught our attention. A couple of deputies were blocking the progress of an agitated middle-aged man whose round face was as red as the thick waves of hair on his head. He was screaming “Mon!” while trying to break through the police barrier.
“I’m her husband, Marvin Munch!” he yelled.
“Let him through,” Bruno called out.
The man rushed to the edge of the canopy, took one look at his wife’s dead body and then turned away and did the oddest thing. He started sneezing uncontrollably.
Dr. Peebles came over immediately. “Easy Mr. Munch,” she soothed. “Are you photosensitive?”
“I, I, I don’t know, chooooo!” he managed between sneezes.
Doc handed him a tissue and walked him over to one of the emergency vehicles parked nearby. “Sit here,” she said, indicating the open cab. One of the techs in the van handed her a tissue, which she gave to Munch. “Blow your nose, Mr. Munch,” she instructed. When the sneezes didn’t subside, she said, “Here, look at me. Pinch your upper lip and push it up toward your nose, like this.” She grabbed her own lip and demonstrated.
Mr. Munch copied her motions in between his tearful gulps of air and on
e final sneeze, and then the fit stopped.
“Okay now?” Doc asked, patting his shoulder.
“Yes,” he sniffed, wiping tears from his eyes. “Thank you.”
Doc nodded as the tech handed Mr. Munch a bottle of water. Seeing he was in good hands, she went back to the body to clear it for transport as Bruno and I approached Mr. Munch.
“What happened?” he asked Bruno. His voice had that pleading tone that victims’ families get when they’re struggling to make sense of a horrible event. He didn’t just want to know what happened. He needed to know why it happened.
“We don’t know much yet, Mr. Munch.” Bruno replied. “Was your wife allergic to anything? To any foods in particular?”
Munch stopped crying and scrunched his forehead up in thought. “No, she wasn’t allergic to anything. Is that what you think this is? An allergic reaction.”
“It’s too soon to tell, Mr. Munch. What time did your wife leave the house?”
“Early this morning, before breakfast. She likes to give herself plenty of time to set up. We got here around 7.”
“So you were here with her?” Bruno continued.
“For about an hour, to help her set up the heavy stuff. And then I left to go pick up some breakfast.”
“What did she eat for breakfast?” Bruno asked.
“Mon didn’t have anything. Just a black coffee. She was saving herself for the contest entries. I just got myself an egg sandwich and brought back two coffees, one for each of us.”
“What time was that?”
“I don’t know. 8:30, maybe. I dropped off the coffee and then left to go run errands. Mon was finishing setting out her trays and was then going to do a quick circuit to see how good the other entries were.” He paused, studying Bruno suspiciously. “Why are you asking me all these questions? I told you she’s not allergic! Wait. Was . . . was my wife poisoned?” he asked.
Bruno put his hand on the agitated man’s chest. “We don’t have all the facts yet, Marvin,” he said soothingly, using his first name for emphasis. “We’re just taking precautions now in case some of the food is contaminated.”
“Tainted treats?” he asked sarcastically. “Is that what you think?”
I was impressed by the alliteration, especially in his state.
Munch looked around then, like a man searching for answers. His eyes settled on a figure along the perimeter, then he raised his arm and pointed. “You! Did you do this?”
My eyes were instantly drawn to a dark-haired woman. Like everyone else in the crowd, however, she turned to look behind her to see where Munch was pointing.
“Mr. Munch,” Bruno said, gently guiding his arm down, “We haven’t established whether your wife was even poisoned, let alone whether it was deliberate.” He motioned for one of his deputies. “Ride back to the station with this officer and give him your statement. We’ll handle things here.”
Once Munch was gone and more of the crowd had dispersed, Bruno discreetly walked over to the woman whom Munch had accused. She was almost as tall as the sheriff, which put her at nearly six feet. Her demeanor was alert and curious, and something else. The corner of her lips quirked up slightly as Bruno started talking to her, and she had a slight twinkle in her eyes, which, even from this distance, I could tell were a very clear blue. Bruno patted her on the arm as he finished his conversation with her and then walked off. I continued watching her a moment longer. She must have sensed my scrutiny because suddenly those piercing eyes turned toward mine, and then her face radiated with a full-out grin of even white teeth.
“What you smilin’ at, Sha?” Al asked me.
I jumped, not realizing he had sidled up next to me. “Huh?” I said, and only then realized I must have returned the dark-haired woman’s smile. When we turned back to the sidelines where only a few bystanders still remained, she was already gone.
“Make sure I get your camera shots when we get back to the office. I want to upload your crowd pix and take a look.”
“You got us a suspect already?” he asked.
“Might not even be a homicide,” I reminded him. “Let’s just say a person of interest.”
“A really tall one, too,” he added.
I laughed and shook my head. Al never missed a thing.
*****
It had been a long day of gathering evidence and keeping people away from the contest food. Fortunately, no one else got sick, so if it turned out to be contamination, Bruno and his deputies managed to contain the problem. On the way back from the Loop, I asked Bruno about the woman he had spoken with, the one Mr. Munch had singled out.
“Her name is Chloe Owens. She’s an artist. My guess is she was also one of the contestants because I know she loves to cook.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“Do you remember my friend Susan Kim?” he said, watching for my nod through the rear-view mirror. “She and Chloe dated two years back.”
“Why would Munch blame her for his wife’s death?”
“Who knows? I think you guys should ask him. Maybe ask her, too.”
“Can do, Bruno,” Al replied. “So we’re not waitin’ for Dr. Peebles’ report first, then?”
“The doc was pretty sure it wasn’t a natural death and that it was something Ms. Munch ate. We need to get answers while the details are still fresh.”
“Are you sure you don’t want your people handling this before you go off budget, Bruno?” I asked.
“Millsferry P.D. has money in the budget for outside consults. What we don’t have is a lot of experience with accidental poisonings. Or intentional ones.”
I wasn’t thrilled about the assignment. We had just been hired to work the type of unsavory case I disliked the most—where food was the weapon or, worse, the villain.
4. There Once Was a Nomad Named Dottie
Al agreed to upload the photos and notes to our server, so I just grabbed my things and headed home intending to review the materials remotely over dinner. The moment I pulled into my driveway, however, I knew someone had broken into my house. The front windows were open, and several lights were on. I hadn’t left them that way, and I knew my roommate didn’t have the dexterity for it. I shared the house with the pudgy gray tabby that Al’s kids gave me on my last birthday. And although Minou was clever at opening sock drawers, she hadn’t yet mastered light switches and window latches.
I kept a seldom used 9 mm pistol in a lock box under the driver’s seat. I pulled it out now, chambered a round, and held it with the barrel pointing down. If I were startled, I’d at least avoid doing something stupid like firing on my own cat. Making my way up the porch to the nearest window, I peered in looking for bad guys. I couldn’t see anyone, but my nose nearly swooned at the seductive smells coming from inside—an unmistakable combination of succulent beef, red wine and savory herbs that definitely included garlic and ginger. I was instantly lulled into a false sense of security. I figured someone breaking in to harm me wouldn’t stop to cook dinner first. That was probably not the smartest conclusion given the day’s events, but what can I say? I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, and my mouth was already watering.
I made it into the dining room undetected, edged my way toward the kitchen doorway, and looked inside. There, in front of my stove and wearing my best apron was an elderly woman in a paisley blue dress, cream-colored sweater bunched up at the elbows, lavender ankle socks, and brown loafers. Suddenly concerned that she might have a coronary if I surprised her, I hid the gun behind my back and quietly cleared my throat to get her attention.
She turned and looked me up and down before settling on my face. “Hands,” she said.
“What?” I asked confused.
“Hands,” she repeated. “Up.”
The hairs on the back of my neck rose as I suddenly considered that she might be telling me to put my hands up because she had an accomplice with a gun pointed at me. I whirled around and raised my own gun, looking everywhere behind me. No one was th
ere. I heard her huff impatiently and turned back toward her, lowering my gun again.
“No. Wash up. Hands. Eat.”
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Aunt Dottie.”
With that, she turned back to the stove, covered the pot, and then proceeded to pull out two plates and utensils. Since I was again holding the gun behind my back, I nearly dropped everything when she plopped the plates and cutlery onto my left hand and arm and commanded me to “set.” I stowed my pistol in the sideboard and proceeded to set the table as ordered. I probably should have kicked her out then and there, but my stomach rumbled again. So naturally, I decided to eat first. On the face of it, that might have seemed dangerous—eating a meal cooked for me by a stranger who broke into my home. But except for the breaking-in part, it wasn’t that odd. After all, people who ate at restaurants, cafeterias, or fast-food chains regularly ate meals cooked for them by strangers. Right? Besides, she was dishing out a plate for herself and didn’t appear to be suicidal, so I was fairly confident this wasn’t going to be my last meal. Just to be sure, though, I let her take the first bite while I served the wine.
“So Aunt Dottie, my name is Nina.”
“Know that,” she said.
I had taken a bite and savored the first taste before responding. I had to admit, the pot roast was the best I ever had—with carrots and kale, and butternut squash on the side stuffed with brown rice, raisins, and walnuts. I swallowed and then continued the conversation.
“You know me?” I asked.
“Yes. Nina Brayco,” she said, using a long vowel sound.
“It’s Braco. Rhymes with taco,” I explained.