Pushing Up Rhubarb (A Millsferry Mystery Book 1)

by Diana Saco

  As I started to lose my grip, I considered that trying to break into the Munch house while Marvin and Maxi were out of town was perhaps not a good idea after all. At the last moment, I channeled American Ninja, heaved my right knee and hip onto the ledge for leverage and pushed the window up with my right hand while my left maintained a death grip on the closest branch. I stumbled in and landed on the floor with a startled squeak.

  White. The ceiling was white. I was able to study it in great detail as I lay flat on my back for several blinks, still catching my breath and making sure I hadn’t fractured anything. Peripherally, I could tell that I was in a sewing room—at least, I hoped it was a sewing room and that the figure in the corner was a dress form and not someone who had just witnessed my graceless, uninvited entry. I slowly turned my head and was relieved to discover (a) that my neck still worked, (b) that it was a dress form in the corner, and (c) that I hadn’t landed on any furniture. I didn’t actually want to break in. My plan had been to enter stealthily, snoop around to find incriminating evidence, and then leave undetected. I was off to an inauspicious start.

  I got up and closed the window to avoid alerting any neighbors—meaning Chloe. Friday nights were typically spent at her house. When I was checking directions to the Munch home on my tablet earlier in the evening, I was surprised to see my location pin blinking back at me from what appeared to be the same spot on the map. Chloe lived on the west side of North Pleasant, which I already knew. I also knew that Meadow Lane, where the Munch resident was located, was the street adjacent to Pleasant. Zooming in, I saw that the Munch house was on the east side, which hadn’t registered before now. That’s when I realized that Chloe and the Munches were backyard neighbors. Their proximity probably accounted for some of the enmity between them. Maybe it all started one day when one of them was playing music too loudly or letting weeds encroach on the other one’s lawn or using trash cans that didn’t meet the guidelines of the homeowners’ association. As to which one was the rule breaker, my money was on Chloe. She was a natural rebel. The reports on Monica Munch, on the other hand, suggested that she had been the quintessential party-liner. Their turf war in the baking arena may well have started out as a more literal turf war over abutting backyards.

  A narrow alleyway for trash pickups was all that separated the two lots, so it had been easy enough to walk onto the Munch property undetected. The relative darkness and several nearby trees provided ample cover. No lights had gone on as I approached, which meant that there were no motion sensors. I was betting the Munch house was not a smart home. I had chuckled at the accidental double-meaning of that thought. The back door had been locked, but while there, I had noticed that none of the window panes displayed the telltale Mia-Tech sticker indicating that the house was wired. That had confirmed my suspicions. Of course, there could still be surveillance cameras inside. I’d be keeping an eye out for that. The locked door had been the reason for my second-story entry. If it was self-locking, I would make my exit that way later. I didn’t fancy another near-death experience in the same night.

  Stealth and subterfuge were key to my nocturnal activities. I had told Chloe that I was going to bed early with a headache. I didn’t want her to know what I was doing because it wasn’t quite legal. Technically, I was trespassing. I was also breaking the terms of Chloe’s bail by leaving her alone. Also technically, anything I found this way would be inadmissible in court because it would have been obtained illegally. Even if I got only a lead for some other discovery that Mason could subpoena, that further discovery would be disallowed because of its origins. It would be “tainted fruit of the poisonous tree.” At least, I think it would be. I wasn’t a cop, so the rule might not apply the same for evidence I found this way. But Mason was my client—he hired us on Chloe’s behalf and was paying our bill—and I was pretty sure the law would frown on any attorney, even the defense attorney, using evidence that his PI got by breaking the law. The fruits of my current labor would probably still be tainted. How ironic that the food metaphor for evidence we wouldn’t be able to use could also describe the reason I was here to begin with—to find out who tainted the fruit. Well, sort of. Rhubarb was a vegetable, not a fruit. And the whole tree wasn’t poisonous, just the leaves. And it didn’t grow on trees anyway.

  “Focus, Nina,” I told myself quietly.

  I needed to pay attention, especially since I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for. Could there be anything still left in the Munch residence that would prove that Maxi or Marvin or both had poisoned Monica? They would have had enough time to get rid of any incriminating evidence. I debated whether I should bother checking the second floor for signs of an affair. I could hear Mason’s criticism even as I made my way to the master bedroom, saying that this would show only that they’re involved now but not that they were having an affair when Monica was still alive. I was probably wasting my time, but I needed to feel somewhat vindicated in my suspicions.

  I opened the door and looked around. The first thing I noticed was the disheveled bed and then men’s clothes thrown about the floor. I checked the closets and the bathroom but saw only guy things—suits, pants, ties, razor and shaving cream, cologne, and only one toothbrush with a nearby open tube bunched up in the middle. In other words, nothing to indicate that Maxi was spending time in the master bedroom. In fact, nothing to indicate Monica had been here either. Half of the dresser drawers were empty, too. The only reminders of Monica Munch were the set of framed photos on one of the night tables. Curious now, I headed to what I assumed was another bedroom, ignoring the converted sewing room where I had come in. I opened the door to the other room and found a neatly made bed. If Maxi had been staying here, I wouldn’t find much now because she would have taken her belongings with her to Chatham. There was a large box labeled “Mon” next to the door. It was filled with a variety of colorful dresses, blouses, and slacks typical of the clothing I’d seen on Monica in her photos and videos. I checked the closet and found a few more items in there. They could have been Monica’s, too, but the tailoring looked more like the style of clothing Maxi wore. All it meant was that Maxi kept her clothes in the spare bedroom. And maybe also that Marvin had moved Monica’s old things in there to see if Maxi wanted them. None of this ruled out the possibility that Maxi and Marvin were sleeping together. But Mason’s all-knowing paternal voiceover was telling me to move on, so I did.

  I decided to head for the kitchen. In any home, the kitchen was a hub of activity. In a cook’s home, it was where life happened. However, when I walked into Monica’s kitchen, it felt unnaturally clean and soulless. I shivered realizing that perhaps not a lot of cooking had been done here since Monica’s demise. This was, in fact, no longer a cook’s kitchen. It wasn’t even the heart of the house any more. It was just another room. I hadn’t cried for Monica Munch. Why would I? I didn’t know the woman. But I understood her passion. And seeing her domain so thoroughly abandoned caused an unexpected lump in my throat.

  In his interview notes, Al had mentioned that Monica had a desk in the sunroom next to the kitchen. It was along the left wall as you pass the entryway between the two rooms. That’s where he had seen several cookbooks and what looked like hand-written journals that were a family legacy. According to Marvin, “Monica got them from a crazy aunt who held her own wake years before she died.” The diaries were dated. I picked up the first volume and opened the cover to find two dedications in distinct handwritings. I read the first one.

  “To Charity-Grace. I do so hope you will one day loosen your corset and recall that my sisters and I won you the right to vote. However, know that if you choose to remain shackled by convention, I will not therefore stop calling you Daughter. I am grateful at the least that we agree in this. That a woman should never turn her back on her kitchen so long as it remains her only haven. To that end, may these cooking diaries serve you well. Signed, your Mother, Enid Westmore Moffit, 1945.”

  I chuckled imagining how Charity-Grace reacted to her mothe
r telling her to loosen her corset. From the other comments, I gathered Enid had been a suffragette. She certainly didn’t think highly of conventional people, despite her assurances. Based on the names and relations mentioned, Enid would have been Monica and Maxi’s paternal grandmother. Finally, I thought—a Moffit woman I probably would have liked! Unsurprisingly, the second dedication, which was written by Charity-Grace to Monica, was more conservative in tone. Charity-Grace urged her niece to make her home a happy one by making her kitchen the centerpiece, using the cooking diaries as her guide. She would have been pleased to know that her niece took the advice to heart.

  The journal entries were for 1925 and included Enid’s recipes accompanied by drawings, step-by-step instructions, and the occasional droll commentary. A dog-eared section caught my attention. The entry was entitled “Tasty but Deadly” and had an unmistakable illustration of rhubarb—green leaves and reddish stalks rendered in watercolor. Enid was a capable artist. The information the pages contained seemed relevant to the case, but I couldn’t stop to read more. I decided to take pictures with my smartphone and review them later, when I had more time.

  To the right of the desk, there was a door leading to the backyard. It was the door I had tried earlier. I checked it now and confirmed that it had a self-locking knob. It had a bolt, too, but Munch hadn’t locked that. Good. When I was done snooping, I’d be able to leave everything the way I found it. I turned and began studying the room’s other main attraction, a second refrigerator. It was to the right of the entryway as you enter the sunroom. The unusual thing about this fridge was that it originally had a latch. It was locked when Al had interviewed Marvin in July. Marvin had told Al that Monica locked her catering and contest entries in there so that he couldn’t get to them. He admitted sheepishly that he liked sneaking extra portions of Monica’s baked goods. The latch had since been removed, but I could still see holes where the screws had been.

  I wasn’t sure if Marvin ever got the key to the lock. Monica’s purse was still in an evidence locker, and the keys were probably in there. Monica’s effects weren’t needed for trial, but Marvin hadn’t bothered to pick them up after the sheriff released the items. I started to grab the handle to open the refrigerator when I noticed a magnet on the side with the Snakstr logo. Dang. If the account was still active, I had just come close to providing all the evidence needed to land me in jail. They’d probably also take away my PI license. Evidently, Monica hadn’t trusted that the lock would be a sufficient deterrent and decided to install surveillance inside her catering refrigerator. I wondered if Marvin had noticed the magnet. I needed to be more careful.

  I looked around trying to decide what to check next. A throw was partially covering some large sacks on the floor next to the refrigerator. I pulled it back to check the sacks. They were organic soft wheat flour in 100-pound bags, three of them. That was impressive. I was used to seeing bulk ingredients in professional kitchens, but not in home kitchens. Obviously, Monica had done a lot of cake and pastry baking. It was all going to waste now, and I wondered why Marvin hadn’t sold or donated all this stuff. Maybe it was too soon for him.

  I knew from my own experience that there were two schools of thought on what to do with a recently departed person’s belongings. Some people liked to hang onto everything, feeling that it kept their loved ones nearer. In the case of my parents’ belongings, however, everything was a painful reminder of the hole they left in my life. Consequently, I felt an urgency to donate the things that were just things—the items that didn’t have any sentimental value. I guess there was also a third school—the ones who threw everything out because they didn’t care. Looking around again at Monica’s domain in the home she shared with Marvin, I started to rethink my suspicions. Marvin had left a lot of her things untouched. It suggested a depth of emotion that I hadn’t been willing to acknowledge. His only concession to himself was to remove the refrigerator lock. Even that could be read as a compliment—maybe he wanted to see if there had been anything left of Monica’s tasty desserts.

  I was so caught up in my reverie that I practically jumped out of my skin when I heard the front door slam. I started to make a dash for the rear exit but decided I wouldn’t make it out in time. Marvin and Maxi’s voices were quickly getting louder, meaning that they were headed my way. Holy Cooked Goose! I curled up into a tight ball on the floor next to the spare refrigerator and covered myself with the nearby throw, pretending to be just another sack of flour.

  “I’ll make you some tea. A nice cup of chamomile should settle your stomach,” I heard Maxi say.

  “I’m sorry we had to turn back,” Marvin apologized.

  “Nonsense. I already told you that my team is very resourceful. They don’t need me supervising every little thing they do.”

  I heard plops and clanks and clinks, all the usual kitchen noises that indicated something was being made. The next sound unnerved me. The clunks of heavy footfalls getting closer. The refrigerator I was leaning against bounced as Marvin yanked the door open.

  “What are you doing?” Maxi asked, slightly exasperated.

  “I’m just getting some sugar,” he explained.

  “From the refrigerator?” she asked.

  “Mon had it in here. Some fancy sugar for her baking. Keeps it fresher, I guess.”

  “Well, you’re getting it all over the place,” Maxi complained.

  I had heard two tinks, like the sound of metal tapping ceramic. Marvin probably hadn’t bothered to pull the container out, instead doling out spoonfuls directly into his cup and spilling some in the process. Men, I thought.

  “Men,” I heard Maxi say.

  I stifled a chuckle.

  “Sorry,” he muttered.

  “It’s all right, Marv.”

  “Do you want to try driving up there tomorrow?” he asked.

  “It doesn’t have to be this weekend. You’re not feeling well. Besides, I can finally start paying some much needed attention to that neglected garden of yours,” Maxi continued. “Monica never did have a green thumb, the poor thing.”

  “She didn’t really spend much time out there,” Marvin said. “Had her hands full with the baking.”

  “Really?” she asked surprised. “The last time we spoke, she said her roses had aphids and asked if I could suggest a remedy. I thought she was taking a stab at the gardening again.”

  “Maybe,” Marvin said.

  “Well, I’ll just go give Lucy a call and let her know we’re not coming. Be right back,” she said.

  I heard Maxi walk away. Marvin moaned a little and then released an explosion of gases that made me cringe and cover my nose in dread. I prayed to the universe that the air traveled from sunroom to kitchen and not the other way.

  Maxi came back moments later.

  “Good Lord, Marvin. Couldn’t you light a match?”

  “Sorry,” he muttered again.

  I couldn’t believe any woman found this man attractive, let alone two from the same family. I began to wonder if there was something terribly wrong with the Moffit twins. The kettle sounded. A few seconds later, I heard stirring and then Maxi saying, “Here, drink this. It’ll help.”

  Another sigh, and then Marvin said, “Maybe you should go without me.”

  “Don’t be silly. We both need a break from this place.”

  “I love my home,” he whined.

  “I agree. It’s nice here. I just mean that there are too many reminders right now.”

  I heard a pause, then a sigh, and then Maxi continued.

  “It makes me feel guilty being here. With you.”

  “It’s natural to feel guilty when you lose someone. I feel guilty, too.”

  “I know all about survivor’s guilt. I’m not talking about that.”

  “What then?”

  “I’m talking about us, Marv.”

  Another pause followed. Then the sound of gulping. Another sigh, and then he said, “I don’t think I’m ready to move on yet.”

&n
bsp; “I’m not either. We both need time. You don’t think this is killing me? Monica was my twin. She saved my life, for goodness sake! I miss her as much as you do. And I hate myself for feeling this way about you.”

  “No, don’t say that. Don’t say you hate yourself.”

  “It’s true.”

  I heard sniffling and then the scraping of wood against the floor. I imagined Marvin was getting up from the kitchen stool to go over to Maxi. She was crying now.

  “I hate myself for what I’ve always felt for you. I know we haven’t done anything, but it still feels like cheating.”

  “There, there,” he said.

  “I swear, my life is like one of those country-western ballads.”

  I heard Marvin chuckle, which morphed into another gastric eruption.

  “Oh, Lord!” Maxi said.

  “I think I need the bathroom,” he declared with urgency.

  I heard them walk swiftly out of the kitchen. This was my chance to escape unnoticed. I got up and peeked around the refrigerator. The coast was clear. I turned and snuck out the back door, closing it behind me with a tiny snick. I got about five paces away from the house when my heart jumped in my throat at the sound of the door opening behind me.

  “Stop, you!” Maxi yelled.

  I turned and faced her. “Oh, hi!” I said cheerfully.

  She squinted, trying to make out my features. Turning on the back entry light, she looked at me again. “Ms. Braco? Is that you?”

  “Yes, it is. Hello, Dr. Moffit.”

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  The moment I heard the question, I learned a philosophical truth. This came as a surprise because when I went out that night, the questions I had in mind were far more mundane. Yet, here I was, sneaking around in someone’s back yard and discovering knowledge of great import—Dalai-Lama kind of wisdom. I learned first that a person facing imminent death truly does see her whole life flash before her eyes. This was a cliché for a reason—it happened. Because I wasn’t in any mortal danger, of course, I had an abridged version of that experience, but it gave me an epiphany. I realized that brains in distress went into a kind of survival mode where they scrambled for answers. If death and doom were inevitable, the questions themselves became big, meaning-of-life stuff—like, What was it all for? A question of that magnitude required a massive data dump. This was why all the experiences of a lifetime were accessed for analysis. Hence one’s life flashing before one’s eyes. In my case, I just needed a way out of the current situation, so my brain raced through only the information it had processed in the last few minutes—flour, flatulence, tea, guilt, sugar.