A Taste of Death

by Suzanne Rossi

  “Oh well, things weren’t clear during the previous murders either,” she said out loud.

  Her train of thought was interrupted by her phone ringing. She didn’t recognize the number, but answered anyway.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Anne Jamieson?” a male voice asked.

  “Yes, who’s this?”

  “My name is George Harrison—Fran’s husband.”

  “Oh, Mr. Harrison, you didn’t need to call me back.” But now that he’d done so, she didn’t see the harm in asking a few subtle questions. “I just called to offer my condolences. I believe I spoke with your sister-in-law.”

  “Yes, you did, and I wanted to thank you for your concern. It’s…it’s been a trying few days.”

  “I understand. And I’m so sorry for your loss. Poor Fran. What an awful thing to have happened. I suppose there must have been a mix up in the kitchen. I remember her telling me about her peanut allergy. Was she allergic to anything else?”

  “Un…unfortunately, Fran had a lot of food allergies. Made it tough to dine out, although she rarely had a problem. She’d…she’d alert the waiter and he’d tell the kitchen.” A sob escaped. “What am I going to do without her? She was everything to me. We’d been married for over twenty years. I…I still can’t believe it.”

  Anne felt like crying herself. “Mr. Harrison, I just don’t know what to say. Is there any information on the funeral? I’m sure many of our members would like to attend.”

  “The arrangements are in place at Matthews Funeral Home. As soon as the coroner releases her…her body…” He choked a bit on the last words. “…we can hold services. I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Harrison. And once again, my personal and the chapter’s deepest condolences.”

  She hung up and cupped her chin in her hands. The poor man was broken up. His voice had been shaky and his frequent pauses during the conversation suggested he was on the verge of tears.

  I guess I would be, too, if I was in his shoes.

  She shoved her phone aside, poured a glass of wine, and headed out to the patio to enjoy the cooling night air.

  Tomorrow was going to be a busy day.

  ****

  As soon as the kids left for school the next morning, Anne settled behind her desk to plot the next two chapters of her work in progress. A quick check of her voice and e-mails had shown numerous messages. She’d deal with them later. However, images of Fran and the conversations she’d had with others intruded on her work. Eventually, she gave up and tackled her cell messages first. Most were from people wanting information on Fran’s funeral or from friends offering support from Susan’s posting.

  Her e-mails dealt with much of the same. To save time she issued a post saying that as soon as she had information on the funeral, she’d send it out. She also publicly thanked the dozens of members who suggested she ignore Susan.

  Let Susan choke on that!

  Anne finally decided to call Janine Barrett. She was a fairly new member who, according to Nancy, had had problems with Fran. She couldn’t remember if Janine had been at the meeting.

  “Janine, this is Anne Jamieson. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. What can I do for you?”

  “I’ll be honest, I can’t remember if you were at the meeting or not.”

  “I was, and sitting as far away from Fran as possible. I was at one of the back tables. It was awful what happened. I feel guilty now for not liking the woman.”

  “Fran rubbed a lot of people the wrong way, but she was dedicated to the chapter. I understand she hassled you when you first joined.”

  “I’ll say. I joined last November and the first words out of her mouth weren’t ‘Welcome, nice to see you;’ they were ‘For which conference committee would you like to volunteer.’ When I told her I wasn’t ready for that yet, she got rather contentious saying I should show support for the chapter, it was a great way to meet the members, et cetera. Made me feel like a shirker. I may have actually volunteered to help at the sign-in desk if she hadn’t been so annoying. Pissed me off.”

  “I can understand that. I’m sorry she was so insistent. People should volunteer because they want to, not out of a feeling of obligation.” Anne paused. “You say you sat at the back of the room?”

  “Yes, at the same table as Barb Hamilton. Now there was one pissed off woman!”

  “I know. Did you happen to see someone dressed up as a ghost?”

  “Sure did. Strange outfit. Looked like she’d tossed a king-sized sheet over her head. I’m surprised she didn’t trip on it. I mean the thing was huge.”

  “Any idea who it was?”

  “Not a clue. She never spoke and was up and down a lot. I couldn’t help but see every time she left the room.”

  “Was that often?”

  “Often enough. I thought maybe she had bladder problems.”

  Anne laughed lightly. “Was she there when Fran died?”

  Janine was silent for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. In fact, she hadn’t been around since the salad was served, and I’m not too sure about that either. Why?”

  “Oh, no reason. Just curious. Nobody seems to be able to identify her.”

  “Well I didn’t see her face, but at some point I went to her table to talk to Valerie Harding. She was sitting next to her. Maybe Val can tell you more.”

  “I’ll give her a call. Thanks, Janine. I hope you’re enjoying the chapter. We really are a nice bunch of people. Have a good one and I’ll talk to you later.”

  She hung up and drummed her fingers on the table top. After consulting the roster, she called Valerie Harding.

  “Hello, Valerie. It’s Anne Jamieson.”

  “Hi, Anne. How’s it going?”

  “It’s going. I wanted to ask you about the person dressed as a ghost seated at your table on Saturday. Can you tell me anything about her?”

  The woman drew in a sharp breath. “Are you investigating? Oh my God, was Fran murdered?”

  Valerie, a longtime member, had been around for years and knew of the Snoop Group’s activities investigating other murders. The last thing Anne needed was that information getting out prematurely. Gil would be furious. And Valerie was a notorious busybody who loved gossip. She needed to think on her feet here.

  “Good heavens, no. We had a couple of people who didn’t pay. We tracked down one of them, but no one knows who the ghost was. She may owe us money. I understand you sat next to her. Notice anything unusual?”

  “Only that her costume was ridiculous. She left just prior to the meal being served. At least I was able to nibble something before Fran fell out. Did Fran die of a food allergy?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose we’ll find out eventually. What a way to begin a presidency.” They talked for a few more minutes before Anne cut it off. “Well, it’s been nice chatting with you, but I have other calls to make. Someone must know who the ghost was. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Anne terminated the call as quickly as possible and crossed her fingers Valerie wouldn’t expand on her assumptions that Fran’s death was murder.

  Remembering her promise to fully report to Gil, she made notes from the people she’d called. A pattern had formed. So far, the consensus was that Fran was pushy concerning the chapter, self-serving considering her role in it, embittered about the election, and not greatly missed by many.

  Anne sighed. Not the best endorsement in the world. Then a thought occurred to her. Oh Lord, please don’t tell me that as President of the chapter, I’m expected to give a eulogy at her funeral.

  The mere idea sent her into a semi-panic.

  “How the hell do I eulogize a woman I didn’t like?” she said out loud.

  Don’t borrow trouble. Maybe the subject won’t come up. And if it does, then there must be someone else in the chapter who’d do a more sincere job of it than me.

  Shelving that potential problem, Anne called Barb Hamilton. She wanted more information on her issues with
Fran.

  “Hello, Barb? It’s Anne. Have you got a minute?”

  “Sure, what do you need?”

  “What happened between you and Fran—about the election, I mean? I didn’t know anything about it until I got to the meeting.”

  “Julie Bishop, Carnie Watts, and I were the nominating committee. Fran seemed to be fine with that until your and Rose’s names appeared on the ballot. Suddenly, she suggested that the voting be by a show of hands at the September meeting.”

  “Not exactly a secret ballot,” Anne commented.

  “Julie pointed that out. I guess Fran’s theory was that some of the people who were undecided on who to vote for wouldn’t want to raise their hands as being against her or something. When that was vetoed, she demanded that all ballots be cast at the meeting and that Susan Lynch be the one to actually count them.”

  “So much for impartial.”

  “We all three said no to that idea, too. It’s no secret Susan is Fran’s toady. At any rate, Julie, Carnie, and I decided on our own that ballots would be sent out electronically and could be returned the same way, and that paper ballots be available at the meeting. Fran was not happy, but really couldn’t do anything about it.”

  “So how did you prevent people from voting twice?”

  “Once a member clicked on, filled out, and sent an electronic ballot, they were blocked from doing so again. The program sent me a list of who had cast a vote. Then at the meeting I checked that list against anyone who asked for a ballot. If their name was already on the list, I didn’t give them one. Those who used a paper ballot checked who they wanted to vote for at the far end of the table and dropped it into a box.”

  “Sounds like you had it covered.”

  “I had it covered as best as I could. The only person who tried to vote twice and complained when I refused to let her cast a paper ballot was Susan Lynch.”

  “Why is it that doesn’t surprise me?” Anne said with a sigh.

  “She claimed she hadn’t voted electronically and was on the list by mistake. I know she wasn’t. To be honest, I think this is where the whole ‘you cheated’ crap began. Not with Fran, but with Susan.”

  Knowing Susan, that didn’t surprise her either. “Well, I doubt anybody took Fran’s accusations seriously.”

  “Is there any way the membership or the board can toss another member out of the chapter? Because Susan Lynch is becoming a real problem. Her postings on the loop are personal attacks against you. Someone should do something.”

  “I talked to Georgia Yancey. She sent Susan a warning. Hopefully that’ll be the end of it.”

  “She needs to send her another one,” Barb stated. “She’s been on again just a while ago.”

  Anne groaned. “Oh crap. I’d better go see what she’s up to now. Thanks, Barb. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Upon hanging up, Anne checked the loop and groaned again. Susan, Susan, what the hell is wrong with you?

  The message, while not naming her personally, was clearly aimed at Anne.

  I don’t understand how you people can condone rigged elections, harassment by board members, and turn against me. If you think I’m going to be quiet, you’re sadly mistaken. I plan to run for the presidency of this chapter next year and I can guarantee I’ll be a damned sight better than what we have now.

  Shaking her head, Anne marveled at the woman’s thick-headedness. Did she think this kind of rhetoric would win her any votes? The change in Susan since they’d first met was astonishing. A year ago, her former critique partner had not been nearly as vocal as she was now. The conference had changed much of that. Her confrontation with Carmella Radcliff had opened Anne’s eyes to Susan’s real personality, allowing her and the rest of the critique group to see how manipulative and passive-aggressive she could be. Cutting comments that brought a reaction were met with feigned surprise and the insistence that no offence was intentional.

  Plus the woman craved sympathy and pity as was evidenced by her total inability to take criticism of her work—usually in the form of tears. The group had no choice but to ask her to leave. Her negativism brought them all down.

  That’s when she decided to pal around with Fran. I’m sure much of what is coming from her now, is based on Fran’s influence.

  Anne scrolled farther down her e-mails and found one from Georgia Yancey.

  Anne, just wanted to let you know that I am suspending Susan Lynch from the loop for a month. She replied to my warning earlier with such venom that she left me with no choice. I e-mailed her that the suspension would be lifted immediately if she publicly apologized. If I were you, I’d take care around this woman. I think she’s dangerous.

  Anne wasn’t sure if Susan was dangerous, but she sure was nasty. The passive from passive-aggressive was no longer a factor. At least she’d have a month without having to fear opening the chapter news.

  She paused as her phone rang. Called ID identified Gil.

  “Hello, Gil. How’s your day going?”

  “Better now that I’m talking to you.”

  Anne chuckled. “Same here.”

  “Can you, Nancy, and Rose come into the station say around nine tomorrow morning to view those tapes?”

  “I suppose. I’ll call them and get right back to you.”

  She hung up and placed the calls. Nancy quickly confirmed the time. Rose wasn’t sure, but called back a few minutes later with news she had a babysitter until noon, no later.

  “Gil, we can all make it,” she informed him when she called back.

  “Good. It’ll mostly be identification of people coming and going on the second floor where you held the meeting.”

  “Did you ever get a hold of the busboy and the missing waiter?”

  “The busboy, Miguel, swears he never served anyone. Film seems to back that up.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “Black pants and shoes—not unlike the wait staff—but had a gray T-shirt under a black bib apron.”

  “Darn, I was hoping he was the man Jane says served her and Fran.”

  “He did mention that he saw a man in dark clothes near the freight elevator as he exited with a cart of food about the time Ms. Harrison died, but couldn’t give a description. Said he was walking at a fast clip toward the stairwell at the end of the hallway.”

  “Well, that’s frustrating. So who killed her? The ghost or the man in dark clothing—if it was a man.”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “What about the waiter?” she asked.

  “Wainwright? Friday night was the last anyone at the hotel saw him. He doesn’t answer his door or his phone. A neighbor says she saw him talking with a man in the parking lot when she came home around nine-thirty Saturday night. His car is missing from his parking slot. We’re checking phone records.”

  “So everything’s more or less a bust as of now?”

  “With Wainwright, yes. We knocked on his door on Sunday morning and again Monday evening. The neighbor said she’d call if she saw him. Just a minute…What is it, Strock?” A voice she couldn’t hear distinctly spoke. “Okay, I’ll be right there. Honey, I’ve got to go. Another case is breaking. I’ll see you tomorrow at nine.”

  Anne hung up and sighed. It sounded like another night without Gil. She glanced at her watch. Not even noon yet.

  I’m tired of calling people and tired of my work in progress. Maybe I should visit Candace and tell her what’s happened.

  The more she thought about it, the better it sounded.

  It took almost no time to dash on some lipstick and a splash of cologne before heading for the kitchen and her car keys hanging on a board by the garage door. Bruno stood nearby, his ears up and his tail wagging. He loved car rides, but even though Candace would love to see the little shih-tzu, Anne didn’t want to confuse things by letting him see his real owner. He’d taken months to accustom himself to a new home almost a year and a half ago.

  “Sorry, baby, not this trip,” she crooned stooping to sc
ratch him behind the ears. “Next time, I promise.”

  Traffic was light and she made good time to the prison. These trips were always awkward, but Anne knew Candace enjoyed hearing about friends and the chapter. So, it was the least she could do for the poor woman.

  On the drive home, Anne wondered what Candace would do when released. Continue her life in San Sebastian? Start over somewhere else? In spite of having killed Isadora Powell and trying to kill her, Anne had always liked Candace and hoped she could turn her life around.

  As she pulled into her driveway, Anne looked forward to tomorrow morning. She’d not only see Gil, but also those tapes.

  And who knows, I might see a killer.

  Chapter Seven

  Anne decided police stations came close to being the most depressing places on the face of the earth. The colors were drab, the lighting inadequate, and the people downright scary—not the cops, but the visitors. Some gazed around the room as if expecting to be shot, while others stared at the floor perhaps in the assumption doing so would make them invisible.

  She shifted on the hard plastic chair in the waiting area. Rose and Nancy hadn’t arrived yet. Not even Gil had made an appearance to escort her back to his office or the surveillance viewing room.

  The main doors opened and Nancy walked in.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” Anne said with a sigh. “I thought maybe you’d forgotten.”

  Nancy checked her watch. “You said nine o’clock. It’s only eight-fifty-five,” her friend replied as she took a seat.

  “I know, but I really hate police stations. And I’ve been in this one way too many times.”

  “Quit finding bodies and you might not.” Nancy smiled to soften the words.

  “Technically, I didn’t find Fran’s body. Everybody at the meeting did.”

  “From what you said, this looks like murder, too. I know Fran was an irritating pain in the ass, but who’d she piss off so badly that they’d want to kill her?”