BAD PICK

by Linda Lovely

  I looked heavenward. “I’ll buy the stress but you can’t keep that figure of yours pigging out on donuts.”

  “I understand Harriett was obese,” she added. “That’s often a contributor to reflux, but heartburn impacts people of every size, every age. My point is Harriett may not have been your only lunch guest with heartburn or reflux.”

  “That opens three possibilities. One, the poisoner wanted to kill Harriett. Two, the unsub hoped to make everyone sick, and didn’t know Harriett’s extraneous pill popping would prove fatal. Or, three, the villain targeted a different guest known to take cimetidine for heartburn, but, for some reason, the intended victim skipped taking it that day.”

  I took a deep breath. Amber might have something. “I guess the simplest way to rule out the third possibility is to straight-out ask our luncheon survivors if they’ve been known to take cimetidine.”

  Amber laughed. “We already know Dr. Swihart’s answer. And we can ask two more of your guests after we walk another block.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Mom retrieved a large tossed salad from the refrigerator along with a variety of fixings. “You can tell us all about Dr. Swihart’s ideas while we eat,” she said.

  I filled my bowl last, adding nuts and grapes and passing on Mom’s cheese and grilled chicken extras.

  “So tell all,” Ursula urged. “Did the good professor solve the luncheon conundrum?”

  Amber and I spoke in unison, our answers slightly different. I replied “maybe,” and Amber, “in theory.”

  “Go ahead, Amber,” I encouraged. “Bring them up to speed. You’re used to giving evidence reports. Since I’m personally involved, I tend to venture off on a few sidetracks, like ‘I didn’t do it!’”

  The vacationing detective smiled. Her succinct summary left nothing out but didn’t waste a single word.

  “Do either of you suffer from reflux or heartburn and take cimetidine?” Amber asked Mom and Ursula.

  Mom shook her head. “Not me. I only get heartburn when I eat cucumbers, so I avoid them. Easy fix.”

  Ursula frowned. “Until last month, I was one of cimetidine’s best customers. I’ve been plagued with reflux for years. But I just went the over-the-counter route to treat it. In other words, cimetidine and I were pals. At my last physical I mentioned the reflux to my family doc. He prescribed a proton pump inhibitor. Have to say it works much better for me.”

  Mom lowered the forkful of salad she’d been ready to pop in her mouth. “Does that mean Ursula might have been the target?” She looked first at Amber then focused on me.

  Mom wanted my answer. I chewed on my lip as I considered the possibility. Toomey had threatened Ursula. Could he have tried to sideline her? Was his hospital threat a promise of more to come because his initial attempt to kill her failed?

  “Ursula as intended victim fits one of Dr. Swihart’s possible scenarios,” I said. “But that would mean her would-be killer knew about her cimetidine habit before she quit.” I turned toward Ursula. “You stopped taking the pills a month ago, right?”

  I purposely didn’t mention Toomey’s candidacy as killer since he’d have needed to check on Ursula’s medicines before he’d become the president’s pick for the high court. She’d stayed quiet for thirty-some years, why would he feel compelled to plan her murder a couple of months ago?

  “The poisoner also had to know Ursula would be at the luncheon,” Amber added. “That still makes Harriett the most logical target. Based on the warning messages Brie received, Harriett’s enemies were aware she’d be stuffing her face at Summer Place. Her foes also seemed to know Harriett quite well. That bumps up the odds they knew about her favorite heartburn remedy.”

  I nodded. “Good points. But we should still contact Della and Bert to see if they used cimetidine. Of course I kind of doubt Bert will speak to me given his lawsuit.”

  “I’ll call Bert,” Ursula offered. “I can pose as a fellow victim. Tell him I suffer from reflux and think that’s why whatever Brie served hit me so hard. I’ll just mention cimetidine in passing. Bet I can coax information out of that restaurant critic without him having a clue.”

  “If anyone can do it, you can,” Amber said. “This afternoon I’ll do some internet research. I have a few thoughts about how a would-be killer or someone out to embarrass Brie might score the prescription drug Dr. Swihart found in those urine samples.”

  My cell phone vibrated and I looked at the caller ID. “Gotta take this. It’s Aunt Eva.” I got up from the table and walked into the living room.

  “Got an errand for you.” Eva started talking as soon as she heard me breathe. My aunt wasn’t one to waste time. “Can you meet some Greenville County muckety-muck at Jamieson Gorge tomorrow afternoon? The county’s interested in renting a passel of our goats to clear some rugged terrain overgrown with kudzu and poison ivy. Too steep and rocky for machinery. Too expensive to clear by hand.”

  A month ago Clemson University had rented a dozen Udderly Kidding goats to eat underbrush on some of its overgrown acreage. Since our goats could be seen from a main thoroughfare, the successful experiment got lots of attention.

  “Uh, sure, I guess. As far as I know I’m free tomorrow afternoon. What am I supposed to do when I get there?”

  “Charm the guy. Take a look at the land. See how hard it would be to keep our goats from roaming off the property. Need to make sure our eat-anything munchers won’t be in any danger from electrical wires, coyotes, or cars if there are highways nearby.”

  Hmm. Maybe I could arrange my “accidental” encounter with Ruth Toomey in Greenville after this meeting. Would be great to take care of Amber’s go-between request on the same trip. Save time and gas and, yes, end the heartburn the idea of that meeting was causing me.

  “Confirm a time,” I replied. “I can do it.”

  “You coming back to Udderly soon?” Eva asked. “I could use some help putting together special orders. No worries about picketers today. Looks like they’re taking the day off for Harriett’s visitation.”

  “Glad to hear it. I’ll be there in about fifteen.”

  I returned to the kitchen to tell Mom and my fellow detectives I couldn’t stay much longer. I found Ursula pacing, phone to her ear, as she bamboozled a variety of newspaper gatekeepers to score Bert’s private cell number.

  “Got it,” she crowed as she disconnected. “Now let’s see if I can share some heartburn with old Bert.”

  “I have faith,” Mom said. “I’ll phone Della from the living room so we don’t talk over one another.”

  It took Ursula under five minutes to wring all the information she wanted from the unsuspecting restaurant reviewer. No, he didn’t suffer from heartburn, and the only medicine he took was an occasional aspirin.

  “You’d make an excellent interrogator,” Amber said.

  Ursula laughed. “And that’s different from being a judge, how?”

  “Guess it isn’t.” Amber grinned.

  Mom, who’d finished her phone conversation even faster than Ursula, gave her report on Della. “Didn’t need any subterfuge. Asked her straight out about cimetidine use. Della didn’t even know why you’d take it.”

  Mom reclaimed her kitchen table seat. “Guess if the luncheon really was the scene of a murder attempt, the killer had to have targeted Harriett or Ursula.”

  I shivered as I tried to read Ursula’s face. The look of triumph she’d worn from successfully extracting information from Bert vanished. Wrinkles I hadn’t noticed before creased the skin around her eyes. Her jaw tightened.

  “Amber, you should head back to Miami,” she said. “If there’s even a remote chance I’m the target, being around me could put you in danger.”

  Amber waved her hand like she was chasing away a pesky mosquito. “I’m in way more danger at home. I’m a detective. Danger comes with the territory. And I do carry a g
un. I have plenty of vacation time. I’m staying until this mystery’s solved. We need to make absolutely certain some nut job isn’t planning a new attack on someone who didn’t die when they hoped.”

  Mom nodded. “I’m ashamed to say it, but I hope murdering Harriett was the end goal. Mission accomplished. Then there’d be no further threat to any of you. Of course, if the theophylline was added to sabotage Brie’s catering business launch then it’s also mission accomplished. The publicity has been plentiful and all of it bad.”

  Thanks, Mom. Just the cheery reminder I needed.

  THIRTY-THREE

  I packaged the last of the cheese orders. All were now ready for FedEx pickup. I’d been eyeing the clock for the last half hour while Eva and I worked, trying to decide if I should accept Fara’s invitation to spy on Harriett’s visitation.

  It seemed a tad unethical even though I intended no harm or disrespect to the woman’s grieving family. I didn’t kid myself that I’d be able to magically ID her killer. I had no illusions of spotting a smug look on the murderer’s face as he stood over the casket. But maybe I could pick up a clue, something to explain if Harriett was intended to be the sole luncheon fatality.

  My phone beeped. Mollye. “Hey, girlfriend, Fara told me about her visitation invite. You gonna take her up on it? If so, better get hustling. I can meet you in the Walgreens parking lot. Figure we ought to ride over in your car. Even if we sneak in the back way, my Starry Skies van might be noticed.”

  What a shock. Moll had invited herself along. The girl did like playing spy games.

  “I don’t know, Mollye. I feel a little queasy about spying. If we’re spotted, it’ll feed right into the True Believers’ paranoia. They’ll be certain we’re out for revenge on the whole church.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll just look and listen for a little while. Don’t you want to see who’s paying their respects to the family? Fara’s plan is foolproof.”

  Foolproof?

  I never liked to hear Mollye utter that word.

  The Ardon Mortuary’s back entrance was as discreet as Fara had promised. I slipped my Prius into a shady corner of the parking lot right beside a big shiny hearse. Between the conifer to my left and the hearse to my right, my car was invisible from most vantage points.

  Mollye’d phoned Fara when we were a block away. She was waiting at the back door to usher us inside the walk-in basement. Since our funeral director friend had warned us bodies were embalmed in this underground level, I braced myself for unpleasant odors like the formaldehyde that made me gag in high school biology.

  The facility’s basement had a definite hospital vibe with its gleaming white tile floors and overhead fluorescents. But I was relieved the hallway’s only scent reminded me of lemon Pledge.

  “Hurry,” Fara urged. “All the cleaning ladies were supposed to be gone, but I just spotted that gossip who tattled about our goat yoga session. Don’t know why she’s still here. Maybe she’s paying her respects to the Quinns before heading home. We can’t let her see either of you.”

  “Where are we going?” Moll asked.

  “There’s an elevator but it’s too exposed. We’ll use the back stairs. Follow me.”

  Fara climbed the stairs two at a time. In her hot-footed hurry, she seemed to forget that a three-person tap dance on metal stairs made one heck of a racket. Our ascent echoed like cymbals in an amphitheater. I held my breath as Fara inched open the door to the upstairs hallway and peeked left, then right.

  “Coast is clear,” she said. “Let’s go!”

  Luckily we didn’t have far to go. Fara’s office was a mere six feet away. Mollye’s wheezes from our staircase aerobics weren’t exactly quiet. Fara pulled the door firmly shut as soon as we were inside.

  “Moll, you should start running with me,” I said. “Sounds like you need more exercise than goat yoga. Have to get you in shape for your wedding and honeymoon.”

  My friend made a less than friendly hand gesture.

  “Have a seat.” Fara motioned Moll and me to comfy visitor chairs opposite her desk. “I’ll turn my monitor around so you can both see what’s happening in the Gold Room. That’s where we’re holding the visitation. Harriett’s immediate family has already arrived—parents, siblings, and a grandmother. There’s just the one camera, and you can’t zoom in for close-ups or anything, but you can see the whole room.”

  “Aren’t you going to stay with us?” I asked as Fara headed to the door.

  “No. I need to deliver refreshments, I’ll check back with you in a bit. Just don’t touch anything and, for heaven’s sake, don’t answer the door if anyone knocks. I’m locking it so that cleaning lady can’t snoop and find you. She doesn’t have a key to my office.”

  Mollye giggled when Fara left. “I have the feeling our friend wishes she hadn’t invited us. ‘Don’t touch anything!’ Like we’d play with her audio system and broadcast sounds of clanking chains to freak out the mourners.”

  I gave Mollye the look. “Don’t even think about touching anything. I’m creeped out enough as it is, locked up watching Harriett’s relatives on the tube. It’s like we’ve been dropped into a reality funeral show.”

  Mollye pointed at the screen. “Might as well do what we came for. Most likely I can tell you who’s who. That man in the black suit with the high-water pants is Harriett’s older brother. The dude with the glasses is Mr. Quinn, the father.” Mollye cocked an eyebrow. “Of course, you’re acquainted with Mrs. Quinn and her sizable pocketbook.”

  Mourners started to dribble in, and Mollye lived up to her reputation. She knew almost everyone. Unfortunately, I knew a few of the visitors, too, including Nate Gerome, the publisher of the Ardon Chronicle. The new owner of the paper was no fonder of the Hooker clan than his now jailed aunt had been.

  I wasn’t surprised that most drop-ins were members of the True Believers’ congregation. While a few of the folks were Harriett’s age—somewhat younger than Moll and me—most of the mourners appeared to be sixty and above.

  Where were Harriett’s friends? Did she have friends outside the church?

  Maybe her pals planned to attend Saturday’s funeral rather than today’s visitation. After all, it was a weekday. Mollye and I might be able to set our own hours, but lots of people our age or younger were nine-to-fivers. They’d either come late or pay their respects Saturday.

  As more and more people crowded the room, the volume of voices rose, making it really hard to decipher individual conversations.

  Mollye prodded me with her elbow. “Well, lookey who’s come to pay their respects. Quite the family tableau. Judge Toomey, and his wife, Esther, just walked in with Toomey’s father-in-law and mother-in-law, Pastor Guy Nickles and Jeannie, his puppeteer.”

  I scooted my chair closer to the screen. I’d shaken hands with the spit-and-polish Judge Toomey and his model-thin wife, and I’d been treated to Pastor Guy Nickles’ spit on my windshield as he frothed at the mouth while proclaiming I was a killer. The Elmer Gantry style pastor looked—if possible—even more wild-eyed today.

  The monitor also gave me a chance to study Jeannie, the pastor’s wife. I found it a little easier to look at her on the screen than I had through my car window. It felt safer to stare. Her poufy white hair hovered around her face like a cloud. Her plump face was unlined. Her complexion flawless. In some ways she looked younger than her daughter, Esther. Studying her reminded me that some of the world’s deadliest snakes were quite attractive.

  According to Moll’s age calculations for Ardon residents—my friend’s sole math superpower—Jeannie was at least seventy-five, while her husband, Guy the pastor, was seventy-three. Of course, I knew Judge Toomey was fifty-nine, same age as Mom.

  Moll said Toomey’s wife, Esther, was nine years his junior, and she did look younger than him despite her gray hair. Esther’s black silk dress hung on her skinny frame. She’d inh
erited the Pastor’s dark eyes. Fortunately, they weren’t hooded by his bushy eyebrows, and they didn’t appear demented.

  Jeannie quickly broke off from her family group to work the crowd. Her smile was relentless as she patted shoulders and squeezed hands. A natural-born politician. I glanced back at her husband. The pastor hadn’t moved. Only his eyes darted to and fro. I couldn’t decide if he looked angry or frightened. Too many wild mushrooms in his pre-clerical diet?

  Jeannie pulled Mrs. Quinn out of the informal receiving line, and the twosome moved to a spot near the mortuary’s monitoring camera.

  I hoped we’d hear at least fragments of their conversation above the background noise. Sensing the opportunity, Moll and I both scooched closer to the monitor. I itched to turn the volume up, but heeded Fara’s warning about not messing with the equipment. Knowing my luck, I’d accidentally turn on the PA system and broadcast a Moldy Munster! to the world.

  Jeannie patted Mrs. Quinn’s arm. “Honey, this is…horrible. We’ll make…Hooker woman pay. Did Harriett take any medicine? We can’t let the authorities latch on to some bogus health excuse.”

  Since we weren’t on a PA system, I mumbled a few cheesy curses. We weren’t picking up the entire conversation. Words dropped out of the audio as glasses clinked and feet shuffled, and I was no lip reader.

  However, Mrs. Quinn’s nonverbal dialogue came through loud and clear. Sobs wracked her body, making me feel a shameful guilt at witnessing her grief.

  “What’s it matter?” the mother finally blurted. “My little girl’s dead…that Hooker girl is free.”

  “Gotta watch those Hookers.” Jeannie’s voice rose as she delivered that verdict. Did she want the whole room to hear? “Iris Hooker’s a lawyer…she’ll try…to bamboozle folks.”

  “Jumping Jehoshaphat! Did you catch that?” Mollye’s eyes grew wide.

  “Shhh! I want to hear what Mrs. Quinn says.”