by Diana Saco
“Was it Jeff Woo?” Mason continued.
“I think so.”
“Did your wife usually buy produce from him?”
“No, not usually. She didn’t like buying from him on account of the fact that he likes to take his clothes off.”
“Are you saying he exposes himself in public?” Mason’s eyebrows shot up for effect.
“No, nothing like that! He’s decent enough. Friendly, too. But he’s a nudist. He doesn’t wear any clothes at home.”
“And that bothered your wife?”
“Well, she just thought it was unsanitary.”
Mason approached the jury box pensively, as if considering his next question.
“So if she didn’t like buying from Woo because he’s a nudist, do you think that maybe the two of you were there because your wife was following the defendant?”
“I guess that’s possible,” Marvin allowed.
“And was she close to the defendant and Mr. Woo while they were talking?”
“Yes.”
“So did she hear what they were talking about?”
“We both heard. They were talking about rhubarb,” Marvin said significantly. “Chloe said she was thinking of making rhubarb for the bake-off and wanted to know how to cook it. Monica shook her head at that. She told me later that she couldn’t believe Chloe would consider entering the contest with something she’s never cooked before. She said it was irresponsible and showed how Chloe didn’t take the contest seriously.”
“So Mrs. Munch knew in early June, almost two months before the bake-off, that the defendant was intending to make a rhubarb dessert. Is that right?”
“Yes, but I don’t see what difference that makes. A lot of people knew what Chloe was making. That gets posted, too, right? On the website. Monica used to read that list every year,” Marvin said defensively.
“Yes, it gets posted, but not until the beginning of July. Do you suppose your wife was so eager to know what Ms. Owens was baking that she just couldn’t wait for the list?”
“I guess.”
“Well, I appreciate you giving us a clearer picture of what happened at the farmers’ market.”
Marvin nodded. “Do you have any more questions because I’m not feeling too well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Munch. I think we can stop now. Thank you for being so patient.”
Marvin shifted and started to get up, but Loyal stopped him.
“Just a second, Mr. Munch. Redirect, Your Honor? I’ll keep it short.”
“Go ahead,” Ota said.
“Mr. Munch, was the defendant’s reaction at the farmers’ market as angry as she usually got at your wife or angrier than usual?”
“I’d have to say angrier. She was definitely mad when she saw us there. And I told Monica afterward that she should steer clear of Chloe.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Because I was worried about what Chloe might do to get back at Monica,” Marvin said.
“You were concerned the defendant would retaliate? Just because she caught your wife following her?”
“Yes.”
“That seems like an overreaction.”
“They were like that. At odds. They pushed each other’s buttons. Maybe Mon pushed one button too many.”
Loyal smiled. “No more questions, Your Honor.”
“Any follow ups, Mr. Tidwell?” Ota asked.
I didn’t register Mason’s reply because at that moment, someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was Al. A few weeks back, he told me he was going to be moonlighting as a process server. I knew it was a bad idea even then. Still, I couldn’t deny him the extra income given that he has a family to support. But when he handed me a subpoena and whispered, “You’ve been served, Sha,” I returned to my original opinion. And when I saw who the subpoena was from, I genuinely considered killing the messenger. Unfortunately, Al had already disappeared into the milling crowd as everyone started moving toward the exit. Court was over for the day. I went back to reading the papers Al had handed me. They were from Loyal’s office. I had been called as a witness for the prosecution.
What the hell would I tell Chloe? This was going to make her mad at me all over again. My mind flashed to an image of a stalk of rhubarb stabbing toward me repeatedly as Psycho violin notes screeched in the background.
5. The Nightmare was Nothing Compared to the Coffee
When I was in college, I took a course in Communication Theory and another in acting thinking they would each teach me skills that would make me a better writer. A key focus of the communications course was something called the signal-to-noise ratio. In a sense, all communication is about that ratio. To understand each other, we have to ferret out the signal or message or meaning in a world full of noise, of unintelligible signs and sights and sounds. From the theater course, I learned that an old British stage trick for creating the effect of conversational white noise was for actors to say “rhubarb, rhubarb.” I remember thinking it quirky that the name of a vegetable, said repeatedly, actually did sound like the unintelligible murmur of a crowd. These two unrelated pieces of information were stored in my brain for many years without ever bumping into each other even as random thoughts. Yet in the predawn hour of the morning I was to appear in court as a witness for the prosecution, these snippets of knowledge collided and mutated in nightmarish fashion.
In my dream, I was in the courtroom with all the usual suspects. Loyal was asking me something, but all of a sudden his words became unintelligible. Or rather, the only thing I could hear him saying over and over again was “rhubarb, rhubarb.” Since I didn’t understand him, I didn’t answer, which just made him repeat the same words again, only louder. I turned to Judge Ota, who was suddenly talking to me sternly, but the words were just “rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb.” Mason stood up as if to object, but that, too, came out as “rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb.” And then suddenly everybody was yelling at me, louder and louder, until they were all shouting “Rhubarb! Rhubarb! Rhubarb! Rhubarb! Rhubarb!”
“Stop!” I screamed, sitting up in my bed panting for air. “Holy Hubbub! That was weird.”
I was tired and wanted to sleep some more, but I hated reruns of bad dreams. As a kid, I learned that the only way to avoid repeating the same nightmare was to awaken fully before trying to go back to sleep. I checked the alarm clock, which read 5:30 a.m. Since it was going off in a half hour anyway, I decided I might as well get up. I threw on my bathing suit and sweats and went to the gym.
The nightmare was still on my mind as I dove into the pool and started my laps. How could it not be? I knew I was nervous about testifying against Chloe. This was a new experience for me. As a private investigator, I had testified in court before, so that part wasn’t a big deal. But I had always believed what I was saying. Had always believed in the strength and veracity of my testimony. I was Joe Friday on the stand—“Just the facts, ma’am.” But today, I felt that the facts Loyal was going to ask me to lay out for the court were going to construct a parody of the truth. They would tell a story about Chloe that I didn’t believe to be true. Loyal would ask me to recite only the facts that would make her look guilty.
Chloe was innocent. I knew that. But the facts in this case were like so much noise. Rhubarb mocked me. Monica Munch was killed by rhubarb, but she really wasn’t—it was only something in the rhubarb. It was Chloe’s rhubarb that poisoned Monica and Randall, but it really couldn’t be Chloe’s poison—why would she even use rhubarb? If her target was Monica, why would Chloe put the poison in a dessert that wasn’t meant for Monica Munch’s consumption?
On the surface, Chloe’s guilt in Randall’s attempted murder seemed more straightforward since she handed him the jar of the poisoned rhubarb jam. However, her alleged motive hinged entirely on whether she willfully poisoned Monica. In other words, if she wasn’t responsible for poisoning Monica, what possible reason could she have for wanting to hide the fact that she got oxalic acid from Randall? None. And
if it was Monica who was somehow behind everything, how could we prove it? Was it believable that she would deliberately poison Chloe’s rhubarb galettes and then eat one?
Rhubarb, rhubarb. It seemed at every turn that rhubarb was both the signal and the noise. The meaning was there in the details. I was sure that I could isolate the truth about what happened to Monica Munch. If only I could filter out all the noise.
A piercing whistle blew these thoughts out of my head. At the other end of the pool, a swim team had started training for the day, and the coach was signaling the swimmers to start their laps. I checked the pool clock. I was late. I headed back home remembering that Chloe still needed to go to her house for a change of clothes before we left for court. I showered and dressed quickly and considered skipping breakfast. Fortunately, I didn’t have to. On my way out the door, Aunt Dottie handed me a bag with a foil-wrapped egg sandwich. Marvin’s testimony the day before had made me crave one exactly as he had described—grilled bread, a buttery fried egg over-medium, cheddar cheese, and crispy bacon. Despite my distraction over the subpoena, I was going to ask Aunt Dottie if she would make me one for breakfast the next day. The weird part is that I never got around to saying anything. How did she do that? Maybe Chloe asked her to make egg sandwiches for us because I noticed she got a bag, too.”
“Thanks, Aunt Dottie,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us to the courthouse?”
“Errand first,” Aunt Dottie replied. “Soon. See you.”
They hugged, and Chloe planted a kiss on Aunt Dottie’s cheek before pulling away. She was standoffish with most people. With Aunt Dottie, however, she was tender and demonstrative. It was kind of sweet. I must have had a goofy, longing look on my face because Aunt Dottie turned to me next and pulled me into an unexpected hug. I yelped in surprise and patted her back, feeling awkward at first. And then I just gave into it and hugged her back.
“Thanks, Aunt Dottie,” I said, and then because things felt too mushy, I lifted my breakfast bag as if that’s what I was thanking her for. She smiled back knowingly before gently shoving us both out the door.
I didn’t bother waiting until we arrived at Chloe’s house to eat. I just pressed the start button on the dash, put the car in reverse, opened the wrapping, and began chomping happily on my egg sandwich as I drove one-handed.
“You know that’s not safe, right?” Chloe asked.
“What?” I said around a mouthful.
“Eating and driving.”
“You’re eating.”
“I’m not driving,” she replied smartly.
“Fine. I’ll just finish it at your house.”
Unable to help myself, I took one more big bite before putting the rest back in the bag. I chewed slowly to savor it. The sandwich was salty and buttery and crunchy and about as far from rhubarb as you could get and still be eating food. I let my senses overwhelm me, quite forgetting all about nightmares and poisonings and trials and subpoenas.
Until Chloe cleared her throat and said, “I heard you’re testifying against me today.”
Moments later, I pulled into Chloe’s driveway. I still hadn’t responded to her statement, and she called me on it.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?”
“What do you want me to say? Loyal subpoenaed me.”
“Why?”
“Best guess? I investigated Munch’s death and Kirkland’s poisoning for the sheriff’s office and am responsible for a lot of the evidence that was gathered. I assume he’s going to ask me to lay out for the jury what I discovered in the course of my investigation.”
“A lot of that evidence points to me.”
“Some of it, yes. And then Mason will get to ask questions. And some of the answers he elicits will point in other directions.”
Chloe got out of the car and slammed the door. She went inside the house and slammed that door, too.
“Oh, boy,” I sighed.
I didn’t really want to go in, but I girded my girl-loins and did it anyway. Suddenly feeling less brave, however, I headed for the kitchen.
Kitchens, in my experience, were neutral territory. When I was growing up, my family never fought in the kitchen. That was the place where the meals were cooked that brought us together as a family. It was also where the sharp knives were kept. So treating it as a no-war zone was like a religion to us. It was sacrosanct. Of course, that’s not where we ate our meals. We ate in the dining room, and that was a place for conversation, which could get heated. In other words, we could and did fight while eating dinner but never while making it. We had an excellent rationale for this policy. Fighting in the kitchen was a distraction that could ruin the food. You could accidentally over-salt the stew while reacting to a barbed comment. Temperatures raised in anger could lead you to burn the rice. An inappropriate curse might cause you to forget to add fennel to the sausage (Italian style) or smoked paprika to the chorizo (Spanish style). Since nobody likes a bad meal, we left our bad feelings at the kitchen door. Furthermore, once our bellies were full, we became slow, dull-witted and too tired to fight. So not only was the kitchen the locus of hope and promise in the making of a meal. Because we had to return there after eating to clean up, it also turned out to be the place where we worked out our problems, smoothed over hurt feelings, and apologized while doing dishes together.
I considered wryly that Chloe might not hold to the same beliefs about the inviolable neutrality of kitchens. Still, I doubted she would want to stir up trouble in the very room that brought her the most joy and solace. I felt I was playing dirty. In my defense, I just didn’t like it when my friends were angry with me. And it wasn’t as though I had a choice about testifying for the prosecution.
While Chloe dressed, I put on some coffee and sat down to finish my breakfast. The second half of my sandwich didn’t taste as good as the first, probably because I was dreading round two with my friend. She came in as I was pouring each of us a cup of coffee. I left hers on the counter and went back to the breakfast nook to drink mine. She still hadn’t said anything, and that was making me even more nervous. I grabbed the sugar bowl, but it was empty. Chloe noticed.
“Hang on,” she said.
She went to her pantry and came back with a plastic container that looked exactly like the one I had gotten from Maxi. Chloe had a few of the same types of containers around and apparently hadn’t noticed that this one wasn’t hers. I fervently hoped she would never find out about the night I broke into the Munch house. Suppressing the very idea and hoping Chloe had calmed down, I opted for small talk.
“You’re the first dessert maker I ever met who doesn’t have sugar in the house.”
“Bakers use sugar. Therefore, we do run out of it on occasion. But I’ll have you know, Smarty, that I have at least two unopened five pound bags back there, and that’s just the granulated white sugar. I must have had some left over from a previous recipe,” she added, idly studying the plastic container.
She was talking to me. And she hadn’t called me a traitor—only “Smarty.” These were all good signs.
“I guess you never touch the stuff otherwise, huh?” I joked, peering into the empty sugar bowl.
“As a matter of fact, I don’t.”
“So does this thing ever have sugar in it?” I asked, indicating the sugar bowl.
She grabbed the container and emptied the rest of the sugar into the bowl. “It does now,” she said with a triumphant smile.
I smiled back.
“Chloe,” I began, “I was going to tell you this morning about Loyal’s subpoena. I wasn’t trying to hide anything from you. And if I had a choice, I’d be the defense’s witness, not the prosecution’s.”
I watched her swallow before responding. “I know,” she said, finally meeting my eyes. “Mason told me the same thing last night when he called with the news. Aunt Dottie, too, when she overheard the conversation and saw that I was upset. I just wish you had told me right away.”
“Okay, I und
erstand that. I didn’t say anything because I knew it would bother you. That’s the only reason I put off telling you. I just didn’t want to upset you.”
“Nina, no matter how much something may upset me, I will always want you to be honest with me. Deal?”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“In that case, I hate to tell you this Chloe, but you have the worst coffee in the world!”
She laughed but protested. “What do you mean? This is great coffee.”
I took another swallow and made a face. “Seriously. It’s bad. I’m only drinking it because I need to wake up. I had nightmares all night.”
“You, too? Aunt Dottie said the same thing to me this morning. She said she couldn’t stop dreaming about rhubarb. Isn’t that funny?” Chloe asked.
“Yeah, funny,” I said. In a monumentally creepy, odd, super bizarro, weird sort of way, I mentally added.
6. The Mortification of Nina A. Braco
I gulped the rest of my coffee and broke most of the speed limits in town barely making it to the courthouse on time. Mason rushed up to us outside the courtroom.
“I was about to call you two to find out what was holding you up,” he said.
“I’m sorry, Mason. I had to pick up a change of clothes,” Chloe explained.
“That’s what Aunt Dottie told me when she arrived ten minutes ago. Nina, Maxine Moffit is up first, then you.”
“She’s testifying?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Didn’t I mention she was on the witness list?”
“What for?” I asked.
“I assume as a character witness, initially for Marvin in case we pointed the finger at him. But I’m guessing Loyal has figured out that we’re trying to pin this on Monica herself. Anyway, we’re about to find out. Let’s get in there.”
I spotted Aunt Dottie in her usual seat—in the first row, directly behind the defendant’s table. I settled in next to her.