by Krista Davis
“Botulism would be a very clever method of murder. Think about it. Whoever made the food that was tainted with the deadly botulism can simply pretend it was accidental. Better than that, there are no fingerprints, and virtually no way to follow the trail to the killer. You can find out where someone bought a knife or a gun. But how are you going to figure out where the poisonous food came from?”
“Yeah!” Velma’s voice was loud and strong.
“Francie, I’m going to have to keep an eye on you,” teased Wolf. “We can indeed follow the botulism to the source. That’s what we’re doing right now.”
“Oh, please. You youngsters are so naïve. You see everything in technological terms. Can you even imagine how many cowering wives killed their husbands this way in the old days? Back then, the doctors probably wouldn’t have even known it was botulism. Plenty of food spoiled on the prairie and on farms where they didn’t have refrigeration. It wasn’t uncommon for wives to slip nasty things into food to dispatch men who were cruel to them.”
“Ugh.” Nina stuck out her tongue. “That’s scary and revolting.”
“It’s just the truth. The ones that do the cookin’ have always been in a position to eliminate people.”
“How did you say your husband died, Francie?” asked Nina.
We all burst out laughing.
“How long will The Parlour be closed, Wolf?” asked Francie.
“Probably just another day or two. Unless they find it’s the source of the botulism.”
“Velma and Francie go there every day,” I explained.
Wolf looked at each of them. “Any symptoms? Nausea, vomiting, general weakness?”
“Not at all. I can assure you that Martha Carter runs a very clean establishment.” Francie toyed with her fork.
“That’s what the health department said. She hasn’t been open too long but her tearoom has passed their inspections with flying colors.”
Suddenly it dawned on me that Francie could be worried about her birthday celebration. She might be a nosy Peeping Tom but I loved the old coot. “What if we had a birthday tea for you here? It won’t be as fancy as The Parlour, but we could try.”
Francie perked up for a second but soon sagged. “It wouldn’t be right. Not when Robert just died. We need to bury him first, give him the respect he deserves.”
Maybe she was right.
“Aww, I was looking forward to crumpets,” Nina complained.
Velma looked confused. “Just what are crumpets? People always talk about them but I don’t know what I would be ordering.”
“I think they’re sort of a cross between little griddle cakes and English muffins,” I said.
“I’m having trouble imagining that,” Wolf said.
“Would you make us crumpets sometime?” asked Francie.
“I can give it a shot.”
Velma sniffled. “If Sophie is willing, I think we should celebrate your thirty-ninth birthday anyway.”
Francie looked down at her fingers, decidedly unhappy.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“You’re so sweet to be doing this for me. I feel guilty asking for any other favors.”
“Spill, Francie,” I ordered.
“Would it be okay if we invited Callie?”
Velma gasped with excitement. “Oh, yes. She’s such fun! She won’t have to work if The Parlour is closed. And she might be glad to get out. Have you seen her place? I swear I have bigger shoeboxes.”
Wolf carried his plate and mug to the sink. “I need to get going. Thanks for the notes, ladies.”
“Don’t you go throwing them out!” cried Velma.
“Trust me. I won’t.”
I walked him to the front door. “Thanks for being so nice to them. They’re convinced that Robert was murdered.”
Wolf sucked in a deep breath. His eyes met mine, dead serious.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Dear Sophie,
I’m not a terrible baker but those beautiful little macarons simply won’t turn out right for me. What can I be doing wrong?
—Florrie on the Farm in Egg Harbor, Indiana
Dear Florrie on the Farm,
The answer may be in your eggs! Make sure your egg whites are at room temperature. And you’ll have more success with older eggs. Don’t use the farm fresh ones!
—Sophie
“Are you kidding?” I whispered. “You think that’s a possibility?”
“Ordinarily? No. But no one else has turned up sick. Not even one report of it. The incubation period for botulism poisoning is twelve to seventy-two hours. Kinda makes me wonder. Let me know if you hear of any developments.”
I was reeling when I closed the door behind him. I had dismissed Francie and Velma’s theories as silly.
Of course, those notes were very odd. Stranger than odd, actually. Someone had been intentionally tormenting Robert.
And then he said Rosie to me. Why? What had the note said? Rosie is dead. If Rosie was dead, why would he say her name? Unless . . . she wasn’t dead!
I dashed into the kitchen so fast that the dogs jumped to their feet and barked. “What if Rosie isn’t dead? What if Rosie killed Robert?”
The three of them stared at me like I had lost my mind. “Velma, think! Who was Rosie?”
Velma sat back, crossed one arm over her abdomen, and touched the fingers of her other hand to the bottom of her chin.
“Did Wolf tell you that?” asked Nina.
“No. I just don’t know why Robert’s last word would have been Rosie if she’s dead.”
Nina’s eyes went wide. “You think this Rosie could be alive? Was he trying to finger his killer?”
“Now, girls,” Francie said. “I know I’m the one who thinks botulism would be a great way to kill someone, but there are some big flaws in your logic. In the first place, the killer was taking a chance that Robert might survive. If this Rosie”—she chuckled—“rose from the dead, she would surely have used an instantaneous method to kill him. Otherwise she would have run the risk that he would reveal to everyone that she was alive. Right?”
“Maybe she didn’t care about that,” Nina said.
“There’s another problem. Nina, if you felt deathly ill today, would you blame someone?” Francie asked.
“I might if I knew what made me sick.”
“You see? I doubt that he even knew who was responsible for the tainted food. He probably ate it without realizing that it would poison him. If he had known, wouldn’t he have sought medical care sooner?”
“I think that supports my original theory that his death was an accident. But then why did he say Rosie?” I asked.
“Francie, I think we’ll have to do a little more snooping around Robert’s house.” Velma threw her hands in the air. “Don’t look at me like that. As his only kin it falls to me to clean out his house, doesn’t it?”
Nina grinned. “It sure does!”
“You could help us, Nina,” Velma said.
They made arrangements to meet at Velma’s house in the morning. Nina, Daisy, and I walked the elderly ladies home. I left three eggs on the kitchen counter to come to room temperature while we were gone.
It wasn’t too late to bake when I returned, so I set about making macarons, the fine, light cookies that were the delight of every tea party.
I cracked the eggs and separated the yolks from the whites. In my food processor, I ground almonds with powdered sugar as fine as I could and pushed them through a sieve to make sure there were no little lumps. After whipping the egg whites, I folded in the sugars as gently as possible, and added a little raspberry juice to give them a faint pink color. I piped the resulting dough in one-inch circles on parchment paper. While they were in the oven, I tackled the filling.
Around eleven, I placed the adorable little coo
kies in the fridge and headed up to bed.
Just past midnight, someone hammered the knocker on my front door. Daisy and Mochie flew down the stairs to investigate while I lumbered along behind them, half-asleep.
I peered through the peephole. Natasha? What did she want at this hour? I opened the door.
Natasha barged in. “I can’t sleep.”
“I was doing just fine.”
“Sophie, I have a problem, and I don’t know who else to go to. But let’s be clear that I have not forgiven you for throwing yourself at Mars.”
Great. This couldn’t have waited until morning? I closed the door behind her. Maybe if I made her some hot milk she would get sleepy. I staggered into the kitchen and flicked on the lights.
“How about some hot milk?”
“Eww. A skin forms on top. How can you drink something like that?”
“Hot chocolate?”
“A glass of white wine, perhaps?”
I poured two glasses and sat down with her. “So what’s the problem?”
“I guess you heard about Robert?” she sniffed and dabbed at her nose with a lacy hankie.
I felt ashamed for being a grouch. I’d forgotten that she was crazy about him. “I’m sorry, Natasha. I’m sure he was fond of you, too.”
She bit her upper lip like she was trying to compose herself. “We were perfect for each other. Who knows what would have happened if he had lived?”
Natasha closed her eyes and paused. I thought it best to let her have a minute, so I sipped my wine and waited.
“I know how much you like my mother,” Natasha said.
“I do.”
She reached out a trembling hand. “I think she killed him.”
Natasha couldn’t have said a thing in the world that would have surprised me more. I spoke as soothingly as I could. “I’m sure that’s not the case. Robert died from botulism poisoning.”
“Exactly!”
“I’m not following you.”
“You know my mom is a little unusual.”
“A free spirit. That’s what’s so great about her!” I said.
“That’s a nice way to put it. But I’m terrified. She was the last person to see him alive.”
“Actually, I think the doctors and nurses were the last people to see him alive.”
“Why are you being so difficult? She went out with him the last night of his life.”
I nodded. “And?”
“And he didn’t feel well,” Natasha said.
“So he had already been poisoned.”
Natasha almost shouted. “Would you just listen to me? She gave him some of her potions!”
“Oh, honey, they probably didn’t contribute to his death.”
Even though we were the only people in the house, she whispered. “How do you know they weren’t tainted with botulism?”
Now I saw the problem. “She makes them herself?” I asked, even though I thought I knew the answer.
“Of course she does! She picks flowers and gathers weeds and weird pods and makes tea out of them. It’s just like canning. She has all these little bottles of herbal potions. Mars used to be afraid to eat anything when she was visiting, because she’ll pour some of that vile stuff right on your food and you won’t even know it!”
“She wouldn’t do that,” I said.
“Wouldn’t she? She thinks she’s doing good. But, Sophie, what if her canning method went wrong? What if she gave Robert something to cure whatever ailed him and it was loaded with powerful botulism?”
I desperately wanted to assure her that couldn’t be the case. What had Wolf said? A twelve to seventy-two hour incubation period. If Robert had felt queasy for some other reason and Wanda had given him one of her potions at dinner, twelve hours could have easily passed by the time I found him. Maybe Natasha was right to worry.
Horrified and now fully awake, I set aside the wine. What would happen to Wanda if she had poisoned him? It wouldn’t have been intentional, of course. I would have to ask Alex what happened under that kind of circumstance.
“I don’t know what to do,” Natasha said. “I can’t turn in my own mother. She may drive me nuts. She may be a little different from most people—”
“A free spirit.”
“—but I’m scared to death that she murdered him. What do I do?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But let’s not be hasty. After all, we don’t know for sure that she gave him anything. He could have already been sick from the botulism when she met him at The Parlour.”
Natasha gazed at the floor.
“Natasha! You can’t just go jumping to conclusions. Besides, wouldn’t it have looked and smelled icky?”
“Not according to the Internet. It’s odorless and tasteless. You can tell because a can is bent out of shape or the top on a jar has bulged.”
“Surely Wanda knows that and wouldn’t have given him anything that was tainted.”
“Sophie,” Natasha said gently. “What if Mom wanted to get rid of him? What if she thought he was scum for dating me?”
My breath caught in my throat. “Seems awfully drastic. She could have alienated him in some other way. Right?” Of course, if Wanda had used one of her magical potions, that would explain why no one else had gotten sick. But it didn’t explain Rosie or the notes.
I told Natasha about them, concluding with, “So you see, most likely Robert’s death was an accident. And even if it wasn’t, it was probably connected to this Rosie person.”
Natasha burst into tears.
I reached over and patted her shoulder. “There, there.” It was stupid to say. Who said that? Yet somehow, it seemed appropriate under the circumstances. “Let the tears flow. You don’t have anything to worry about.”
She bawled even harder.
“Natasha! You should be happy. You should be relieved.” I handed her a box of tissues.
With a totally congested nose, she blurted, “Wanda Rose Beasley Smith. Her middle name is Rose!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Dear Natasha,
My foodie girlfriend turned her snooty little nose up at the lemon curd I made with lemon juice from a bottle. I think there’s no difference in flavor. I can’t imagine you wasting your time squeezing lemons! Back me up on this!
—Sour in Lemon Grove, California
Dear Sour,
I can’t believe you used bottled lemon juice. Your girlfriend is right. Squeeze the lemons yourself for a pure lemon experience.
—Natasha
I felt like crying, too. Surely Wanda couldn’t be the Rosie of the notes?
I stepped away on the pretense of washing my wineglass.
It wasn’t out of the question that something else had made Robert ill, and Wanda had fed him a potion that contained botulism to cure what ailed him.
“Okay, here’s what we’ll do. Where does she keep those vials of medicinals?” I asked.
“In an old-fashioned doctor’s bag.”
“It’s in the room where she’s sleeping?”
Natasha nodded.
I thought fast. What could I do to get Wanda out of the house for a little while? “Tomorrow morning, tell her to meet me at the grocery store on King Street at ten o’clock.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Because you have no food in your house?”
“That might work,” Natasha said.
“I’ll buy her a latte and while we shop around, you grab the medicinals and take them to be analyzed. Okay?”
“What if they contain botulism?”
The answer seemed clear to me. Wanda would have to turn herself in. Clearly, it would have been an accident. I wasn’t sure Natasha could take that news, though. “Let’s wait until we have the results. Okay?”
Daisy and I walke
d Natasha home. “Any news on your attacker?” I asked.
“Wong says there weren’t any fingerprints. Unless something is missing and it turns up somewhere, it’s a dead file.”
“I’m sorry. Are you scared?”
“Not as scared as I am for my mother. I forgot all about the man who attacked me when I ran over to your house.”
I wished her a good night and watched to be sure she made it in the door safely before Daisy and I turned back. Daisy stopped dead on the sidewalk.
“What is it, Daisy?” I murmured. I peered into the night. Just past Nina’s house, I thought I saw movement. Just a shadow, really. Why hadn’t I brought my phone? I squinted and stared, alert for any sound or movement.
I didn’t see anything. I coaxed Daisy across the street and ran for my front door. When we were inside, and it was locked, I sagged against the door with relief.
“Was there really someone out there?” I asked Daisy.
She wagged her tail and walked into the kitchen, where I kept the dog cookie jar.
“You’re so smart.” I fed her a cookie and, with the lights off, I looked out the bay window at the quiet street but saw no one. Still, I double-checked the doors to be sure everything was locked, and it took some time to fall back to sleep.
In the morning, after a strong cup of tea while taking care of Daisy and Mochie, I walked over to the hotel where the lawyers were staying.
The conference liaison was engaged in what appeared to be a heated conversation with the tour guide and bus driver. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but there was no doubt that something had gone awry.
“Good morning. Everything okay?” I asked.
The conference liaison turned weary eyes toward me. Dark blue rings hung under her eyes. “It’s that Elise Donovan. The woman is driving us nuts. She thinks everyone is supposed to be her personal assistant.”
Were they talking about Alex’s new flame?
“Sophie,” said the tour guide, “I hope you don’t mind that I made a decision without consulting you. She asked us to take her little boy with us today, unaccompanied by an adult. Honey, it’s hard enough keeping up with the adults. I am not a babysitter! How could I guide everyone if I was chasing after a little boy the whole time?”