by Leslie Leigh
“Who had access to the juice besides you?” Brian asked.
“You mean other than the factory,” she asked.
“Yes, other than the factory,” he responded.
“Melissa,” she responded with a flat look on her face.
Melissa’s face got red, but she controlled her voice.
“Kimmie, was the seal still on the jar when you got home?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Yes, you do,” Melissa suggested. “You’re a smart enough girl to know that you wouldn’t use a bottle that came from the store already opened.”
Kimmie began to cry, and her mother looked at them and said, “Don’t you think she’s been through enough the last couple of days?”
“Kimmie,” Brian started again, gentler this time, “we already know that Jim was going down to The Flying Pig several times a week. What can you tell us about that?”
The tears dried up in a hurry then, and she looked at Brian defiantly. “Maybe you should ask that whore that works there.”
“Debbie?” Melissa asked.
Kimmie nodded, and the tears began again.
“There’s your lead,” Mindy said. “Why not check that out?”
“Just one more thing, Kimmie, if I may. Since I’m an herbalist and understand symptoms, can you tell me what was going on just before the accident?”
It seemed to help Kimmie to hear her call it an accident. Melissa thought that perhaps that was the first time Kimmie realized that their intent was not to hurt her.
“He got up and went straight to the refrigerator like he does every morning. He grabbed the juice, drank the whole thing, and then sat down at the table. He was waiting for me to start cooking his eggs.
“All of a sudden he got all wild-eyed and started babbling. He ran around the room several times, flapping his arms. He kept saying, ‘They’re coming for me! They’re coming for me!’ Then, he stopped and looked out the window. He pointed and said, ‘There they are!’ and he went right through the window. Right through it!” She started to cry again.
Brian and Melissa let her collect herself for a moment.
“You know,” she finally said. “Somebody told me that because he was such a young, strong man, that jumping just from that height shouldn’t have killed him. He kind of rolled. It almost looked like a stunt act.”
Melissa and Brian just looked at her, taking it all in.
“Kimmie, what do you think happened?”
“I--I honestly don’t know.”
“Was James drinking or doing drugs?”
She looked at her hands as she twisted the tissue that she held. “He drank. He drank a lot. But he had never acted like that.” She stared out of the window next to their booth.
“No drugs?”
“You mean like cocaine or heroin or something? None of that,” she said.
The way she said it gave Melissa an epiphany, but she was keeping it to herself at the moment.
“Who, besides you, had access to the juice, Kimmie?”
“Nobody. Nobody but me and Jimmy.”
“Can I ask you about the bottle in the truck?”
“Not right now,” her mother says. “This is enough. I’m taking her home.”
“Home being…?”
“The only home she’s ever had. With me.”
“All right, then,” Brian said, handing her his card. “Both of you ladies know where to find me if you think of anything else you want to say.”
# # #
“I realized something when we were asking her about the drugs,” Melissa said. “I didn’t just pluck the belladonna thing out of the air. When she was answering, I felt she was omitting something. She’s right, he wasn’t doing street drugs.”
“But…?”
“But he was doing belladonna regularly. I remember when he came into the market with her a few times, his eyes were always dilated. I thought then that he was doing drugs, but subconsciously, I remembered that European women used to drop belladonna in their eyes to make them appear more sensual.”
Brian gave her a doubtful look.
“No, no, I don’t think that’s what he was doing, but I think that little detail niggled in my subconscious until it gave me the dream after he died.”
“And you were right about the substance.”
“Yes. Dr. Mercer told me he had prescribed belladonna drops for him a couple of years ago.”
“But that couldn’t….”
“That miniscule amount could not have caused what happened to him. However, thinking now about Kim’s omission, perhaps he was getting it from somewhere. The coroner’s report showed residual in his tissues in addition to what he had in his stomach.”
“Of course, you told this to the sheriff.”
“I did, but I don’t really think they’re going to track down the source of it. That’s not what concerns them.”
“I just think it’s something we need to follow up on. And, we should also probably talk to Debbie. Maybe they had a ‘thing.’ Do you want to go back to The Flying Pig and talk to her?”
Brian shook his head. “I don’t think that’s necessary right now. Debbie’s not going anywhere. You know what I’d rather do?”
Melissa waited.
“It’s a gorgeous day. Let’s get some stuff from the store and have a picnic out at the lake. Maybe we can even go paddle boating.”
Melissa’s jaw dropped. It was the last thing she expected him to say. “I like that idea, very much,” she said. “I’ll just call to make sure everything’s covered at the store.”
“If it’s not, figure out a way for it to be. I’m claiming you right now.”
Melissa grinned. That felt really, really good.
# # #
Their paddle boat floated in the middle of the lake. Melissa dished up sandwiches and salad while Brian opened a bottle of local wine.
“That little deli in Nogales must be new,” she said. “I’ve never seen it before. This chicken salad looks and smells fantastic.”
“Definitely not your run-of-the-mill wrapped-in-plastic croissant sandwich,” Brian observed.
“And this little picnic basket complete with plates, flatware, and wine glasses,” she said. “Who knew?”
“They knew we were coming,” he said, winking, and they touched their glasses together in a toast to solving the mystery. “I hope the next time we clink glasses it’s in celebration of having solved it.”
“I’m beginning to think it’s already solved,” Melissa said, “and I’m asking myself why I even care.”
“Whoa!” he said. “That’s not like you. Was it that silly comment she made about you having access to the bottle?”
“Well, I have to admit that it made me wonder about her logic.”
“Do you think this Debbie is a clue?”
“Well, my policy is to ‘leave no stone unturned,’ but with Kimmie’s vehemence over Debbie, I think it strengthens the case for Kimmie being the perpetrator. If she thought Jim was going to leave her, or even was just having an affair….”
“I keep thinking back to Dale. What about that?”
“Well…I know that just because men get in a fight doesn’t make them wife-beaters, but why on earth would you pick on somebody like Dale? He’s one of the most non-threatening people I’ve ever known.”
“I once read an article by a well-known doctor who said, ‘Hell hath no fury or contempt than a narcissist you dare to disagree with, tell they’re wrong, or embarrass.’ Or something like that.”
Melissa nodded in acknowledgement and said, “Which explains why his fiancée, even after his death, doesn’t want to put him in a bad light. That tells me the kind of threat, even if it was just implied, that he held over her.”
“But does she think he’s going to jump out of the grave? Would she actually go to prison rather than risk public embarrassment for either him or herself?” he asked.
“You would be surprised what abused women will do for
the men who hold them captive,” she said.
Brian doodled in the water with a stick as he thought. “Could she be covering for her mother?”
“Because…?”
“Because she would be the only other likely person to have access to the refrigerator, right?” Brian said.
“If we focus on the juice and the refrigerator, our suspect pool is really narrow: Kimmie, Mindy, or James, himself. But, thinking outside the box—”
Brian put up his hand to forestall any further comment and leaned back, taking a deep breath. “Where else can you find sunny and 70 on a lake in late October?”
She gestured, and he turned around laying his head in her lap.
They sat listening to the slap of gentle waves against the side of the boat.
Cottonwood tops were yellow, and the breeze brought their leaves floating gently down into the water.
“Someone once told me,” Melissa said quietly, “that the way to learn to meditate was to think of a flowing stream and to place each thought on a leaf as it floated down into the water, allowing the stream to carry it away.”
“Sounds like a great idea. Perhaps the respite could refresh our minds and allow us to see another perspective into our conundrum,” Brian said.
They held silence for a little while.
“Who told you that anyway?” he asked.
“A druid,” said Melissa.
“You know a druid?”
“Yes, he used to live in Tucson. Now he owns a monastery in Washington State.”
“A druid monastery? In the twenty-first century?”
“Yes,” she said, smiling. “In fact, I had forgotten that they bury their silver in this very lake.”
“Bury their silver…in the twenty-first century? Are you telling me a modern-day myth?”
“Perhaps,” she said, mischievously, “but you’ll never know.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon floating lazily until the sun started to drop behind the surrounding hills.
“Let’s go back to The Pink Pig,” she said as they returned to the car.
“You mean The Flying Pig,” he said, “and why on earth…?”
“I’m curious to see what kind of business he actually does there on a week night.”
“I’m guessing it will be dead, but I thought you said you didn’t care anymore.”
“I don’t like unanswered questions,” she said.
“How do you get along in this life, then?” he asked, sardonically.
“I have no desire to end a very peaceful afternoon listening to a blaring juke box at The Flying Pig.”
“Okay, then,” she said. “Some other time.”
“I can’t wait,” he said, dryly.
Chapter 7
“Tell me why you keep saying you don’t care about this case anymore,” Brian said that evening in Melissa’s living room.
They sat on the couch with Sweet Pea curled up between them. Brian scooted back into the corner in order to see Melissa better as they talked. Sweet Pea raised her head at the adjustment, but then lay back down.
“Actually,” she said, “our peaceful afternoon did open me up to other possibilities that we’ve not yet discussed.”
He tipped his head, inquisitively.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s say Kimmie is not stupid enough to use the belladonna to poison him and then toss the empty bottle in the truck. That could mean that he did it himself, but then how would he get the bottle into the truck after he used it?”
“I follow you. Remember what I said about cranberry juice being a great mixer for vodka? Let’s say he comes home with a bottle of vodka and…let’s see…thinking this out as I go…wants to give it a little kick, so he dumps the belladonna into the vodka and then the vodka into the juice.”
“Hmmm…,” Melissa said, “that’s a lot of dilution for that much reaction.”
“More variables, I’m afraid. We don’t know how much vodka he would have had, or how much juice was left in the bottle, but doesn’t it make some sense?”
“Maybe we’re on the right track. Hey!” she said, brightening, “I’m sure they’ve run prints on the bottle. Can you find that out?”
“Yes, I can,” he said, “first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Awwwwwwww.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, looking at his watch. “I guess it’s only a little after nine. Let me make a call.”
He picked up his phone and pressed a single number. “Hey,” he said in a few seconds. “It’s Brian. I need you to do me a favor. I need you to check out the CSF reports for a certain case.” After a moment of silence, he continued, “Yeah, I’ve got the case number right here. CF-20149. Nogales Justice. Yeah, that’s the one. Fingerprints, on a bottle.”
There was a bit of silence. Brian could only hear the faint clicks of the computer. After a moment longer he said, “Three bottles?” Then, “Oh, okay…give me the results of all three.” Another moment passed before he said, “Uh-huh…uh-huh…oh, is there any kind of designation on that one?” Then, “Really? Okay. Thanks, I appreciate it.” Brian ended the call.
“Three bottles?” Melissa asked.
“Mm-hmm. I’m guessing by the descriptions that it’s the juice bottle, the vodka bottle, and the belladonna bottle.”
“Oh, good. Let’s hear it.”
“Well, the one I suspect to be the juice bottle only has Kimmie and Jim’s fingerprints on it. The vodka bottle has Jim’s on it, as well as an unidentified set of prints. The third bottle, which I suspect is the belladonna because it’s blue glass…”
Melissa nodded.
“…was wiped clean of prints. There’s only a partial on the lid, and it’s different from the ones on any of the other bottles. And none of the two mystery prints come up in the database, which means they’ve never had occasion to be fingerprinted before.”
Melissa sat staring for a moment, her cognitive processes obviously in progress.
“Okay,” she said, “wow. This is like a logic puzzle.”
“Aren’t they always?”
“Yes, but I didn’t have to deal with fingerprints last time. Especially not multiple sets of fingerprints. So, Mindy didn’t touch the juice bottle.”
“Ah-ah. Can’t jump to that conclusion. Maybe she had sense enough to use gloves.”
“Now you’re complicating things. Well, heck, anybody could have been wearing gloves at any point. Kimmie could have done something with the vodka bottle wearing gloves.”
“That’s right. The only thing we’re really sure of is that the belladonna bottle was wiped clean of prints, except for the one partial.”
“Which…could belong to the shipper.”
“Okay, then, let’s say this. Chances are Jim is not the one who handled the belladonna. He might have discarded it in the truck, but it’s highly doubtful he would have wiped the bottle clean, especially if he was at least partially intoxicated.”
“Yes, if he had handled it, his prints would be on it. So that is a step toward ruling out self-inflicted.”
“I would concur with that statement,” he said, sounding all official.
They both started giggling.
“I think I’m getting punchy,” he said.
“Let’s sleep on it,” he said.
Melissa’s heart started to thump.
“And meet somewhere early for breakfast.”
Oh, she thought. She wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or disappointed.
“It’s not even ten yet,” she said, wanting to prolong his presence.
“I didn’t say I’m leaving. When I leave, we’ll sleep on it and meet somewhere for breakfast.”
Melissa felt a pang of guilt. “You know tomorrow’s Chelsea Bun Day. How can I disappoint my fans?”
He laughed. “You’re right. I’ve kept you away from your place of business all week. I’ll just join you there for breakfast. Does that work?”
“That works,” she said, “but if that’s the case, you d
o need to leave now. I have to get up at three.”
“Oh, gosh. That’s right. See ya,” he said, fishing his shoes out from under the coffee table and putting them on.
She walked him out onto the porch.
“It’s still nice,” he said.
“When you’re outside of Tucson the weather is very different. I love autumn down here.”
“Yes, you actually get autumn down here,” he said. He took a step toward the gate and then turned back, coming to her.
He wrapped his arms around her. “I had a really nice day today. Thank you for sharing it with me.”
“I did, too,” she said, and he kissed her. They stood, looking out at the stars, and kissed again. Without another word, he walked down the walk, closing the gate behind him.
# # #
Chelsea Bun Saturdays were nearly overwhelming. Melissa had started making them bigger, and serving them warmed. She had to bring both Flora and Vivian in to manage the counter and was thinking of expanding the sales counter and adding a third. All because of Chelsea buns!
As soon as Melissa finished the first batch, she started a second. Previously, the market would open at eight, and the first batch would be gone by nine. Melissa didn’t want anyone to miss out, so she advertised that on Saturdays, there would be plenty to go around, so she kept baking batch-after-batch. More people were coming from farther away, and the town was so quaint and cute that everyone from out-of-town stayed and shopped afterward, meaning the town’s economy was boosted by the tourists. It felt good to Melissa to know that by making something she loved to make she was helping the town.
She held a dozen back, some for her and Brian, and some for her crew, and the ones she promised Dr. Mercer.
With some of the extra money from the sale of the Chelsea buns, she had bought a high-tech, fast coffee brewer. The customers had to come to the counter pick up their coffee; but, this morning, she could see that she needed someone to bus and wipe tables. She was glad she didn’t have to have someone wash cups at least. She had found a company that made compostable hot cups in which she served the coffee.
She had also bought three trash containers for the compostable cups, one for inside and two outside, one for each side of the street. People were really good about using them, and Carl had greatly increased the size of his compost pile. By this time next year, he would have enough compost that they wouldn’t have to buy any for the gardens.