As the memory of her attacks faded, I secretly took up ballroom dancing. A challenge at first. I hobbled for the good part of two weeks, certain the prosthetic would give out and I’d fall flat on my face, but after I blabbed my secret over a candlelit dinner, Edward set down his knife and fork and guided me onto the kitchen floor for a dance. Oddly enough, I didn’t care any longer how stiff and stupid I looked.
Getting the Polka Palace to host a Dirty Dancing retro weekend is my latest project. After that, who knows? Maybe I’ll work up the courage to return to teaching.
__________
Daryl Wood Gerber writes thrillers and amateur sleuth mysteries. For the latter, she writes under the pseudonym “Avery Aames.” Avery is the nationally bestselling author of the “A Cheese Shop Mystery” series. The first in the series, The Long Quiche Goodbye, was nominated for an Agatha Award for Best First Novel. Find Daryl online at darylwoodgerber.com — and find Avery online at averyaames.com and mysteryloverskitchen.com
FATAL FISH FLOP, by Beth Groundwater
“The guppies killed him.” The middle aged woman with teary red eyes stood in the open door.
Detective Nora Stewart stiffened in surprise. She’d heard all sorts of accusations in her twelve years on the homicide force, even “The butler did it” by those making a lame attempt at gallows humor. But she’d never heard fish blamed.
“Pardon me?”
The woman tucked a lock of gray-streaked hair behind her ear, sniffled and wiped her nose with a balled up tissue.
“See for yourself.” She stepped aside.
Nora entered and waved for her crime tech to follow.
A short entryway led into a living/dining room with green and brown overstuffed furniture and a hardwood floor. The body of a middle-aged man lay on the floor, blood congealing on a gash in his forehead. An EMT looked up and solemnly shook his head.
The dead man lay next to a shattered glass-topped coffee table. The nearest corner of the table had blood on it. A grocery bag, leaking milk and broken eggs, lay on the glass fragments.
A few steps from the front door was a large pool of water, a split plastic bag, and the smear of smashed guppy bodies leading from the spill to the bottom of the man’s left shoe. Other dead guppies lay with glassy eyes in the entryway, and one lying in a large puddle gave a weak flop before expiring with a last flap of its gills. The smell that overlaid the familiar coppery scent of blood was fish. Dead fish.
“I see,” Nora said.
The crime tech nodded his sage agreement.
“He must have dropped the bag of guppies when he came in the door,” the woman said. “He’s always bringing home either guppies or goldfish to feed to his precious Oscars. They’re carnivorous, you know.”
She waved at the large tank resting on a metal stand. Large red-marbled fish looped lazily through the water while an air hose burbled from behind a multi-pronged piece of bleached coral.
Nora’s eyes narrowed. That word “precious” caught her attention.
“Are you Mrs. Hammond?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“After we watched the football game, I went to the neighbor’s to have a cup of tea and some gossip while Herb went out. When I came home, I saw this.” Mrs. Hammond’s voice hoarsened and she took a moment to compose herself before continuing. “I checked for a pulse, but his hands felt cool and his face was gray. I knew he was dead. That’s when I called.”
Mrs. Hammond seemed awfully coherent for someone who had just lost a loved one, so maybe no love was lost. And maybe this “accident” had been staged. It was hard to believe the man couldn’t have checked his fall to avoid the coffee table—unless he was drunk or drugged.
“Have you touched anything besides his hands?”
Mrs. Hammond shook her head. “I watch CSI. I knew I shouldn’t disturb the scene until you came.”
The crime tech, who had moved into the room and opened his case, rolled his eyes.
“Was anyone else here?”
“Yes,” the woman said with a sigh. “My son. He lives with us. He left college, and he’s delivering pizzas now while he figures out what to do with his life.”
“Where was he this afternoon?”
“He watched the game with us then went to his friend Tom’s house. I haven’t called him yet to tell him his father—” With a moan, she put a fist to her mouth, obviously dreading the task.
“I’ll need the name and address of both your neighbor and this friend Tom.” With a gentle hand on Mrs. Hammond’s elbow, Nora steered her toward the kitchen. “And I need to ask you a few more questions for my report. How about sitting down over a spot of tea before you tackle calling your son?”
* * * *
After taking Mrs. Hammond’s statement, and providing a steadying presence while the woman called her son, Nora popped in on the neighbor. She confirmed Mrs. Hammond had indeed been there for about an hour, that a Sunday afternoon chat was regular thing for them. While there, Nora asked the neighbor if she knew if the Hammonds had any marital problems, but as far as the neighbor could tell, they were a happily married couple.
Tuesday afternoon, Nora received a call from the coroner.
“Got a bit of news on that fish flop case of yours,” the coroner said without preamble.
“Spill it.” Nora couldn’t help herself.
The coroner chuckled. “Good one. We did the toxicology test, as you requested, to look for alcohol and drugs, and discovered an overdose of eszopiclone. Mixed with the alcohol he consumed, it would prove fatal. So, the guppies didn’t kill him.”
“Interesting.” Nora made a note to find the pills. “Don’t people usually upchuck when they OD on sleeping pills?”
“Not with eszopiclone.”
“When did he die and how long before his death did he take the pills?”
“I figure he died about a half hour before you arrived. The drug entered his system probably a couple of hours before that. It usually takes about an hour for the drug to take effect, but he’d consumed a large, fatty meal with them. That slowed the absorption.”
“So he could have made it to a neighborhood store and back home again?”
“If the errand took less than an hour. His central nervous system would have been depressed, though, causing lack of coordination toward the end.”
“Okay, then.” Nora made another note. Canvas neighbors to see if anyone saw the man walking—or stumbling—home from the neighborhood strip mall, with its pet and convenience stores.
“Think he staged the accident?”
“To cover up a suicide? Maybe.”
But why go out for guppies, then? Nora tapped her pen on her desk. Maybe Mr. Hammond was so fond of his precious fish that he wanted to make sure they were well-fed before he died. His widow would have so much to deal with after his death that she might forget to feed them. Did the man actually care more for his fish than his wife? Nora made another note to look into Mr. Hammond’s mental state and finances.
* * * *
Over the next couple of days, Nora visited Mr. Hammond’s place of work, a seafood import business. His boss and co-workers could throw no light on his mental state or his marriage. He’d been a quiet man, not inclined to socialize much or to get too personal in his water cooler chit-chat.
The pet store owner said that Mr. Hammond fumbled for change and his speech was a little slurred on the day of his death, but he chalked it up to mid-afternoon drinking, since the football game had been on earlier.
“Has he come in inebriated before?” Nora asked.
“No, but Sunday’s game was special, our first chance to get into the finals in years.”
“How did you know he was watching the game?”
“Oh, I’m a big fan.” The rotund man waved his hand at the triangular banners hanging above the shelves lined with bags of dog food and birdseed. “After I discovered Mr. Hammond followed the team, too, that became a topic of conversati
on when he stopped in twice a week to buy feeder fish.”
Mr. Hammond’s finances told an intriguing story. A second mortgage had been placed on the house, and his and his wife’s joint credit card account was maxed out. He also had taken out a sizeable life insurance policy a year ago, more than enough to pay off his debts and leave his widow and son, joint beneficiaries, financially secure.
When Nora got a copy of the Hammonds’ credit statement, she saw numerous cash advances drawn at the Howling Wind Native American casino an hour’s drive away. The pattern was weekly, and a quick check of the calendar showed her they were always on a Tuesday evening. A gambling addict? Maybe. Time for another visit with the widow.
The second time Nora knocked on the Hammonds’ door, a skinny young man with long dark hair, a soul patch, and an eyebrow stud opened the door.
“Yeah?”
“I’m Nora Stewart,” Nora said. “I have an appointment to talk to Mrs. Hammond.”
“Mom,” the kid yelled over his shoulder. “Lady here to see you.” He stepped aside to let Nora enter.
Mrs. Hammond led Nora into the living room. While Nora settled herself in the side chair and Mrs. Hammond took the sofa, the young man leaned over his mother. “I need some smokes. Can I borrow a twenty?”
Mrs. Hammond sighed and waved a hand at her purse sitting on the dining room table. “Go ahead, Billy, but don’t be long. After I finish talking to the police detective, I need you to go with me to the funeral home.”
Billy’s head snapped up, and a look of fear briefly passed over his features. He quickly extracted not one, but two, twenties from his mother’s purse, stuffed them in his jeans pocket and walked out.
Nora suspected that this was one of many “loans” that never got repaid. And that look of fear could either mean Billy hated the thought of seeing his father’s dead body or he was doing something he didn’t want the police finding out about. Smoking more than cigarettes, probably.
“How’s your son doing, dealing with his father’s death?”
“Poor boy was pretty broken up when I told him.” Mrs. Hammond swallowed a few times. “He’s been a great help to me since then, though. I don’t know what I would have done without him.”
She turned back to Nora. “What was it you needed to talk to me about?”
“I’m sorry to bother you again so soon, but we need some additional information. Was Mr. Hammond taking any medication?”
“Blood pressure medication, that’s all.” Mrs. Hammond looked puzzled.
“Did he ever take sleeping pills?”
“Oh, I do. I have a prescription for them. Very rarely, Herb might take one if he had trouble sleeping.”
“Do you know if he took any Saturday evening or Sunday?”
“I don’t think so.”
“May I see them?”
Nora followed Mrs. Hammond upstairs to the master bathroom, but when the woman went to open the medicine cabinet, Nora stopped her and opened the mirrored door herself. She put her hand inside a baggie, picked up the bottle with it, slipped the bottle into another baggie, and sealed it.
“Sorry, I’m going to have to take these.” She labeled the bag and wrote down the prescription label information to give to the coroner, noting that the primary ingredient was eszopiclone.
“Why are you taking my sleeping pills?”
“The toxicology report found a sedative in your husband’s bloodstream.”
Mrs. Hammond gasped. “But if he took one Saturday night,” Mrs. Hammond said, “it would have worn off by Sunday, right?”
“He may have taken more than one,” Nora replied. “Maybe they made him unsteady on his feet, especially in combination with the beer he drank during the game. How many beers did he have?”
“Just two.” The same answer every drunk driver gave to Nora whenever she pulled one over while she was on patrol.
“Herb didn’t drink to get drunk,” Mrs. Hammond continued. “He savored the taste of microbrews. Ales, porters, stouts. And he never took more than one sleeping pill. I don’t understand.”
“Do you still have the beer bottles from Sunday?”
“They’re in the recycling bin.”
“I’ll need to take those, too.” Nora steered Mrs. Hammond to a chair and took her own seat on the side of the bed. “Now, I need to ask some more questions that may be difficult for you to answer. What was the state of your marriage?”
Mrs. Hammond stiffened. “We had a solid, steady marriage, just what you’d expect for a middle-aged couple. No fireworks, but no problems either.”
No mention of the word love. “What about his mood lately?”
“He was working hard the last couple of weeks, trying to find a new salmon supplier and replace a driver who quit. But he’s gone through busy times like this at work before.”
“We also found quite a few debts,” Nora said, “such as a second mortgage on the house.”
“We had to take that out to cover Billy’s college expenses.” Mrs. Hammond’s hands were tightly clasped in her lap now.
“And your joint credit card account is maxed out. Many cash advances were drawn at the Howling Wind casino nearby. Can you shed some light on these?”
Mrs. Hammond looked shocked. “I didn’t know about the credit card. Herb paid the bills. Are you sure those charges are correct? Herb never said anything about going to the casino.”
“They all occurred on Tuesday evenings. Did he go out Tuesday nights?”
Mrs. Hammond’s eyes widened. “Tuesday’s my Bunko night. I’m gone every Tuesday, and whenever I hosted, Herb went to a movie . . . or so he said.” She unclasped her hands and flexed her fingers. “Why are you asking about all this? What does it have to do with his death? That was an accident.”
“Maybe,” Nora said softly.
“You’re not saying he committed suicide?” When Nora didn’t answer, Mrs. Hammond’s chin quivered before she clamped her teeth and took a deep breath. Anger flashed in her eyes. “Herb would never do that. Never!”
Was Mrs. Hammond angry that people thought her husband killed himself? Or because if his death was ruled a suicide, the life insurance company wouldn’t pay on the policy, since the two-year timeframe in the suicide clause hadn’t expired yet?
“I need to check out every possibility.” Nora saw a family portrait on the dresser. “Do you mind if I borrow that photo for a few days?”
* * * *
After obtaining the photograph and box of beer bottles from Mrs. Hammond, Nora returned to her office. She left the evidence with the fingerprint technician, with directions to pass the beer bottles on to the crime lab for content analysis. Then she called the coroner and gave him the prescription information.
“Could Mr. Hammond have been given the pills without his knowledge?”
“They could be dissolved in a beverage, but they’d give it a bitter taste.”
“What about beer, say a strong tasting one, like a porter or stout?”
“Maybe. If I was to do it, I’d add some sugar to mask the extra bitterness. Do you think this guy was knocked off?”
Given Mrs. Hammond’s remark about the precious fish, her coherent responses on Sunday, the impersonal replies today, she could be angry that the police would find out she killed her husband. Her grief about her husband and her surprise about their credit card debt could have been acting.
“It’s a possibility I’ll have to rule out. Maybe Mrs. Hammond found out about her husband’s gambling addiction, decided to put a stop to it—permanently. Or maybe she was the gambler, and Mr. Hammond found out she really wasn’t playing Bunko all those Tuesdays.”
“The case smells fishy, huh?”
Nora smiled. “Touché.”
Nora hung up. The accident scene had been a little too pat, too perfect. As if it had been set up to hide the poisoning. Well, this open-and-shut case had become very interesting.
* * * *
Late Friday afternoon, Nora drove out to the casino. W
hen she entered, her eyes and ears were assaulted by neon lights in bright colors, the hypnotic, musical pingings of electronic slot and poker machines, and the clinking of coins dropping into payout trays. The next assault—to her nose—was the stench of cigarette smoke from the garish carpets, the gamblers’ clothing, and the cigarettes clasped in their fingers.
Nora asked for the floor manager and gratefully followed him into a clean, quiet office in the back.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” Nora said after taking a seat. “I’m investigating the death of a person who seemed to be a regular customer at your casino. I’d like to see if you or any of your workers recognize this person.”
“Glad to be of help,” the manager answered. But, after looking at the Hammond family portrait, he shook his head. “I don’t recognize any of these people, but if your deceased was a drinker, our bartender or cocktail waitresses might. If not, we can check with the blackjack dealers and cashiers.”
He escorted Nora back out onto the noisy floor and led her first to the bartender, then to the cocktail waitresses serving customers. Nora hit pay dirt with the third waitress.
The young redhead tapped the photo. “I recognize that one. Been coming in every Tuesday night for the past few months. Poor thing never seemed to leave happy.”
“Thank you very much,” Nora said. “You’ve been very helpful.”
* * * *
The next day, when Nora visited the Hammond home, she took a patrolman with her. After Mrs. Hammond opened the door, Nora asked if her son was home.
The woman gestured to the stairs. “He’s in his room.”
“I think it would be best for him to join us.”
Mrs. Hammond put a hand to her face. “Oh no, you’ve got bad news.”
Nora remained silent, and Mrs. Hammond called her son. When he entered the living room, Nora nodded to the patrolman. He positioned himself in the kitchen doorway.
Nora asked Mrs. Hammond and Billy to sit on the sofa. She took out two pieces of paper and two pens and laid them on the new oak coffee table. “I’d like each of you to sign your name on the paper, as if you were writing a check.”
Fish Tales: The Guppy Anthology Page 22