Pushing Up Rhubarb (A Millsferry Mystery Book 1)

by Diana Saco

  “It would be my honor, Your Honor. Dr. Moffit, would you please join us again?”

  Maxi got up and retook the stand.

  “You may not be asked any further questions, Dr. Moffit,” Judge Ota explained, “but please remember you’re still under oath.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Mr. Lumski?” Ota called out to Gizmo. “Since you’re here, I wonder if we can impose upon you for help in setting this up.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Gizmo approached the bench and took the tablet from one of the court officers.

  “Do you need to charge it up?” Ota asked, trying to be helpful.

  “No, sir, it appears to have a full charge,” Gizmo answered.

  He opened the tablet and handed it to Maxi for unlocking. Maxi just held the device in front of her and stared at it. This first attempt failed.

  “What’s wrong?” Ota asked.

  “It’s the facial recognition software, Your Honor. It may be detecting slight differences in her face. Dr. Moffit, could you hold the device up a little higher and brush your hair back?”

  Maxi complied and waited. The second attempt failed, too.

  I shifted in my seat getting nervous that Maxi wouldn’t be able to open the darn thing despite all our efforts just to get her to agree to unlock it. Maxi herself was frowning in concern. Evidently, now that she had relented, she, too, wanted to see what was inside it. Gizmo was the only person who didn’t seem worried.

  “Dr. Moffit, was your sister a smiler?” he asked.

  “What? Oh, yes, I suppose so. She was generally a happy person and always smiled in front of a camera.”

  “Then could you smile—please, ma’am?”

  Maxi was one of those people who couldn’t do happy faces on cue if her life depended on it. It also didn’t help that she was the focus of everyone’s attention at the moment. Still, I gave her props for trying. She wedged a grin into her mouth with such effort that I almost heard her cheeks creak. But it worked.

  “You did it!” Gizmo said, congratulating her like she had just solved a difficult puzzle. For a geek, Gizmo was, at times, a surprisingly good people person.

  On hearing the praise, Maxi’s smile became genuine.

  “Mr. Lumski, can you remove the lock now.”

  “Yes, Your Honor. I just need to resubmit the original facial unlock.”

  As he said this, he held the tablet up to Maxi’s face again without telling her. She pulled back a bit in surprise. But because she was still smiling, the tablet accepted the input.

  “There,” Gizmo said. “No more lock. Do you want me to mirror this on the big screen?” he asked Judge Ota.

  “Yes, let’s all see it. Mr. Tidwell, can you guide us through this?”

  “Yes, Judge. Dr. Moffit, do you know which application your sister used for her journal?”

  “It’s that third one in the second row.”

  Gizmo tapped the application, which opened to a video frozen on an image of Monica grinning into the camera. The date and time displayed in the lower right indicated that it was the last thing she ever recorded.

  “Do you want me to play this?” Gizmo asked.

  “No,” Mason answered. “I’d like to establish a context for whatever is in that last recording. Can you tap back to a list of the entries?”

  Gizmo hit the button for the list of contents. Everything was sorted by date and time, as expected for a journal.

  Mason read over the list. “Gizmo, I mean Mr. Lumski, would you scroll up and see if there’s an entry for June eighth, the day Monica would have run into Chloe at the farmers’ market? There, that one. Play that.”

  The video started and revealed that Monica was somewhere outdoors. She looked around, apparently making sure she was out of earshot, and then began talking.

  “I’m at the farmers’ market, and, as usual, thankin’ my lucky stars. Not only do I have access to the best produce in the world, I also got information about my competition. That Chloe Owens has decided to make somethin’ with rhubarb for the Millsferry Annual Bake-Off.”

  I was instantly captivated by the Monica on the screen. The image was the one I’d seen in the posters on the day of the bake-off, with features similar to Maxi’s but far more animated. And there was that two-tone hair, which seemed even more orange than red in the sunlight. Her accent was a lot thicker than Maxi’s, too—especially when she said Chloe’s name, with exaggerated long ‘O’ sounds. Everything about her was broad and bubbly. That’s what hit me the most. She was so alive.

  “And get this,” the video Monica continued. “She was askin’ the produce man for cookin’ directions. She’s never used rhubarb before. I couldn’t believe it. The moxie that woman has, experimentin’ with somethin’ new for a competition. She should be payin’ her dues—perfectin’ a recipe before unveilin’ it. Imagine a concert pianist walkin’ onto a stage and performin’ a piece he’s never played before. I wonder if there are any contest rules against doing that. There certainly should be. It gives us all a bad name.

  “Of course, this means I won’t have much competition. Not that Chloe Owens has ever beaten me, but she did come close once or twice. And speakin’ of beatin’, I thought she was gonna hit me when she caught me spyin’ on her. I was followin’ her for a while to see what she was up to. She only noticed me because Marvin belched or somethin’. Anyway, when she caught me, she got so mad she threatened me. Not that I was frightened or anythin’. After all, how busted up could you get from a little bitty stalk of rhubarb?” she asked with a laugh.

  The video ended there. Talk about foreshadowing! It was creepy. We didn’t learn anything new about the events leading up to her death, but the video did give us a microcosmic view of the world according to Monica Munch. In a few short minutes, she conveyed her reverence for rules, her respect for competitions, and her distaste for Chloe, which I chalked up to personality differences. Monica was careful, even regimental. She was the type who drew inside the lines and always colored the grass green and the sky blue. Chloe, by contrast, was experimental. She didn’t like boxes and biases. Maybe that’s why Monica didn’t like Chloe. Chloe threatened the blue sky, the green grass—the predictability of order.

  Mason asked Gizmo to show the next few days’ worth to see if there was anything more in early June where Monica mentioned the contest. The review was becoming tedious until the video for the twelfth of June started up. Monica appeared to be in her sunroom at her desk, and she was excited.

  “I’ve had the most brilliant idea, thanks to Grandma Moffit’s cooking diaries. I’ve decided to teach that Chloe Owens a small lesson. I remembered a while back readin’ in one of the diaries that rhubarb leaves are toxic. Sure enough, it’s somethin’ called oxalic acid. I’m gonna find some of that acid and add it to Chloe Owens’ rhubarb. Not a lot. Just enough to give the judges a tummy ache and make them think Chloe Owens doesn’t know how to wash her rhubarb.”

  There it was—straight from the albatross’s beak. I was starting to have unkind thoughts again about Monica Munch. I began to wonder if she could redeem herself. The rest of this video wasn’t boding well for that.

  “If I thought I could get her not to notice it, I’d stick some of the leaves in with the rhubarb. How embarrassin’ would that be? She probably won’t even figure out that I did anythin’. I haven’t worked out all the details yet, but gettin’ into her house is easy. She leaves the door unlocked. And she’s so sure of herself that she never tastes her recipes until someone else has tried them. That’s just reckless. This’ll teach her that there’s a right way to do things, and a Chloe-Owens way.”

  The video stopped there.

  “Well,” Mason began, “if anyone had any doubts about Mrs. Munch’s involvement, I think that video speaks for itself. Would anyone object if we skip ahead to July twelfth, the day someone picked up the rhubarb leaves from Jeff Woo’s truck?”

  “No objections,” Loyal said, his hands steepled together
in a pensive posture.

  Gizmo brought up the video in question. The first thing we saw was an image of a woman with large sunglasses and a knit cap pulled down past her ears.

  “Boo!” she said into the camera, followed by a peal of laughter.

  “It’s just me.” She pulled off the glasses and hat as she continued. “I went to the farmers’ market today and got me some rhubarb leaves—incognito. I washed the leaves and put them in the fridge for now. I’ve been readin’ over these instructions for extractin’ the oxalic acid, and I may be in over my head. But I could be in luck. It seems that this stuff is used on bees, and we just happen to have ourselves a new beekeeper who moved into town recently. I’ve decided to pay him a visit. Better keep the disguise.

  “Anyway, enough about the Chloe-Owens project. I just pulled batch number six of my raspberry lemon tartlets out of the refrigerator, and they look promisin’. The fillin’ has just the right balance of sweet and tart. The crust is flaky and golden. And the raspberries are fresh and firm. I think this one’s the keeper, but I won’t know for sure until I repeat—”

  “Pause the video,” Mason instructed. “The rest of this appears to be unrelated. Any objections if we skip to the next video?”

  “No objections. Skip away,” Loyal said sounding a lot like a man about to lose a case.

  Gizmo tapped on the next video.

  “My goodness, what a fright I had today!” Monica began. “I was gettin’ ready to do some bakin’ when I got a call from the country club sayin’ Marvin had been taken to the hospital. Apparently, he mistook a heart burn for a heart attack. Again! Anyway, that’s not the fright part. I left the house so fast that I forgot to check the oven. I had to call that Chloe Owens to come over and check. Thankfully, everything was off, but she spotted the sugar on the table. I realize now that she wouldn’t have been able to tell anything just from lookin’ at the sugar, but I panicked and told her to put it away. I just needed it out of sight. I made up some excuse about not wantin’ Marvin to have any. Of course, I truly don’t want Marvin havin’ any of that sugar. With his constitution? He’d keel over for good. Anyway, Chloe Owens put the sugar away and left, none the wiser.

  “The thing about the sugar is that it’s laced with the oxalic acid crystals that I obtained from that beekeeper yesterday afternoon. Now, when I say ‘obtained,’ I don’t exactly mean that I asked him for it because he wasn’t there. I let myself into his shed and found a container, plain as day, labeled ‘Oxalic Acid.’ It also said ‘Poisonous.’ I thought it was just a little toxic. I’ve made a mental note to look into that more carefully. Anyway, I filled a baggie with the powder and closed the container.

  “When I got home, I pulled out some sugar to compare to the oxalic acid. I wanted to make sure they looked enough alike that Chloe Owens wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. My plan was to sprinkle the oxalic acid on her rhubarb. I even worked out how to get her out of the house on Thursday afternoon, which is the day I heard her tell Mr. Woo that she’d be back to buy the rhubarb for the contest. Anyway, as I was comparin’ the crystals, Marvin suddenly walked in askin’ about dinner. I panicked when I heard him comin’ and dumped the acid powder in with the sugar. This sneakin’ around is upsettin’.

  “Marvin asked what I was doin’. I told him I was puttin’ away some sugar I’d gotten for the contest. I told him it was imported and that I didn’t want him havin’ any. I even put a big ol’ ‘X’ on the top so he’d leave it alone. He asked about dinner again, Lord love him. I announced he was takin’ me out to dinner, which was nice. We haven’t done that in a while. Made it feel like a date. He felt it, too. Even bought me a flower, the big softie. Of course, dinner last night is probably what gave him the heart burn this afternoon. Oh, well. In sickness and in health.”

  When the video stopped, Mason highlighted the key points. “That recording explains why my client was in the Munch house handling the tainted sugar. However, it does put into doubt our theory about how Monica got the poison.”

  “Indeed it does,” Judge Ota agreed. “Is the beekeeper here?”

  “He is, Your Honor,” Loyal chimed in. “Mr. Randall Kirkland was going to be my next witness.”

  “Oh, that beekeeper. He was poisoned, too. Mr. Kirkland, please identify yourself.”

  “I’m here, Your Honor,” Randall said, standing up.

  “Well, this isn’t official, but since it doesn’t look like we’ll be needing your testimony for the jury, can you confirm, unofficially, whether any oxalic acid was stolen from your residence on—what was that date again?”

  “July 12, Judge,” Mason replied.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Randall said. “I learned recently from my neighbor, Felix Exley, that a suspicious woman came around my house on that date. When I checked my supplies, I noticed that the oxalic acid container was missing 318 grams of powder, which is roughly the amount you’d get in a pint-sized bag filled about three quarters of the way up.”

  “Judge, may I ask a follow-up?” Mason said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Mr. Kirkland, why didn’t you notice the theft when you gave Ms. Owens some oxalic acid just two days later?” Mason asked.

  “The portion I gave Chloe was a smaller bottle I set aside for use last winter, but I didn’t need it. The theft came out of the main container,” Randall replied.

  “And how can you be so sure about the quantities? Do you inventory your supplies?”

  “I’m a former assets manager, Mr. Tidwell. I inventory everything.”

  “Outstanding. Thank you,” Mason said.

  Randall nodded politely and sat back down.

  “How much more do you feel you need to show us, Mr. Tidwell?”

  “Just two more, Judge. I’d like to see July 18, the day we believe Mrs. Munch let herself into Ms. Owens’ house to contaminate the rhubarb, and I believe we need to see any videos from July 20, the day of the incident, to determine what compelled Mrs. Munch to eat the rhubarb desserts herself.”

  “Your Honor,” Loyal interceded, “I believe this is getting progressively difficult for the family. Perhaps Mr. Munch and Dr. Moffit would like to step out?”

  “No, I . . . I need to know,” Maxi said.

  “Me, too,” Marvin piped up. “I’m staying.”

  “All right, but Dr. Moffit, why don’t you go ahead and step down from the witness stand. That okay with you, Mr. Tidwell?”

  “Yes, Judge, of course. I don’t have any more questions for Dr. Moffit.”

  “Good,” Ota said. “That way if either you or Mr. Munch feel you need to step out, you’re free to do so,” he added, addressing Maxi.

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Maxi said, stepping down and rejoining Marvin in the gallery. He put his arm around her for comfort as the next video started.

  “Whew! More sneakin’ about today. My plan for gettin’ that Chloe Owens out of her house worked like a charm. I just set up a pretend email account to make like I was a client for one of those gruesome illustrations of hers. Then I set up an appointment in Provincetown, which I hear is popular with her people. That Chloe Owens doesn’t get out much, so I figured I’d do the neighborly thing and at least send her some place where she might meet someone nice. You know, someone to soften up her rough edges and make her a little more pleasant and trustin’. Anyway, while she was out, I snuck into her house and found the rhubarb right there on the counter in a big mixin’ bowl with a dishtowel over the top. She had already stirred in some sugar, which was great because she wouldn’t be able to tell I added any. I opened my container of sugar, and I was careful not to shake it. I think most of the oxalic acid was still on top. I scooped up a couple of tablespoons, give-or-take, and sprinkled that on the rhubarb. Then I put the towel back over the top, grabbed my sugar, and skedaddled back home. James Bond has nothing on me.

  “I also decided to take Chloe Owens’ booth assignment on Saturday. That will throw her off. I know it seems ruthless, and I almost feel sorry for he
r. But she’s the one who wanted to bake with the big chefs. She’s way out of her league. Come Saturday afternoon, the only thing that Chloe Owens will be cookin’ is a big batch of Humble Pie.”

  “That’s it for that video. Are you ready for the one from July 20?” Gizmo asked solemnly.

  “For the record, what’s the time of the final entry?” Mason asked.

  “8:39 a.m.”

  “All right. Go ahead, please.”

  “Well, what a mornin’ it’s been already. Marvin and I came early to set up. Everything’s laid out beautifully, and I’m about to give the competition a lickin’.” She laughed at her own pun. “That Chloe Owens showed up, late as she pleased, and still expected to find her booth available. She was livid, but at least she didn’t threaten to shove rhubarb down my throat this time.

  “And speaking of, I reread Grandma Moffit’s journal on the subject. It just didn’t register the first time that a lot of soldiers died eatin’ those leaves. I don’t know how I missed her drawing of the little headstones. Anyway, I tried to find out how much of that stuff you can eat before it becomes dangerous. Trouble is that I can’t tell how much I had to start with. And with it gettin’ mixed up with the sugar and all, who knows how much wound up in those rhubarb tarts. I don’t think it’s very much at all. In fact, it might not even give anyone so much as indigestion.

  “But the trouble is that I don’t really know. What if it’s enough to do what it did to those poor doughboys? I can’t risk anybody dyin’ over this. Not to teach someone a lesson. And Chloe would feel awful. I want to bring her down a notch. But it just wouldn’t be neighborly to scar her for life. So, I decided that I’m eatin’ the rhubarb before anyone else gets to it. I’ll just take a little bite, come back here, tell the organizers that I’m sick and complain to one of the judges that I think there’s somethin’ terribly wrong with those rhubarb galette-thingies that Chloe Owens is trying to pass off as food.

  “Dear Lord, I sure hope this doesn’t kill me.”

  She ended with a slightly nervous giggle just before the camera stopped on the image of her face with that overly wide, thin-lipped grin.