by Meera Lester
“So . . . what happened?”
“Well, that’s about it.”
“Well, a woman died, Jack, so there must be more to it,” Abby said, no longer trying to hide her frustration. After stepping away from the credenza, she reached over to retrieve the bowl of mints.
Jack made a tsking sound. “The woman had the baby, but . . . then the trouble began.”
“Tell me. I’m all ears.”
Jack sighed. “It bothers me to talk about it.”
“I can see that,” Abby said, deciding to try a different approach. She flashed a disarming smile, leaned in toward him, and gave him back the bowl.
“I can’t be seduced that easily,” he said, with a wink.
Abby straightened her back, put her hands on her hips, and shook her head.
His pale blue eyes focused on her. “The labor was long. It was the woman’s first pregnancy. Only pregnancy.” Jack cleared his throat, picked up another mint, thought the better of it, and dropped it back into the bowl. “The baby had turned the wrong way in the womb. And it had grown too large to fit into the birth canal. The midwife was trying everything she knew, but the husband and the woman’s mother called an ambulance after twenty-two hours. At the hospital, the doctors performed a C-section and saved the baby. The mother suffered a brain embolism. Fiona felt devastated. Of course, everyone did. A few weeks after the birth . . . well, and death, Fiona and her midwife friend were sued by the deceased woman’s family, who claimed they should have sought medical intervention, instead of waiting for the frightened family to do it.”
“Oh, my gosh. How terrible for everyone involved,” Abby said. She walked back to the credenza and removed the drawer. Kneeling, she guided her fingers around the inside top lip, as she’d often seen Kat do.
Jack heaved a heavy sigh. “The deceased woman’s family lost the suit. But that didn’t stop them from trying Fiona in the court of public opinion. It was an act of God and nobody’s fault, but they continued to contact the media and to make it open season on Fiona and the midwife.”
“And that’s why Fiona ended up here?” Abby tried to angle her arm up and inside the credenza to continue her search.
Jack nodded. “She had heard that Las Flores had a commune in the mountains above the town. She wanted a fresh start. And she needed new friends. So she took the Ryan name and continued working with herbs. She never looked back.”
“Found something,” said Abby as her fingers felt a ridge. Unable to make out the object, she reached for her daypack and removed a small flashlight. She turned it on, and the circle of light revealed a business envelope taped to the credenza’s top underside. “Eureka!”
Jack jumped up and hurried to her side. “What is it?”
“Dunno yet.” Abby’s stomach felt the flutter of butterflies. She tugged at the tape securing the envelope and then pulled the envelope out before laying aside the flashlight.
“Open it,” Jack said.
“No, you do it,” said Abby. “Better that a family member does it.”
Jack slid a thumbnail beneath the envelope’s top flap and eased it up. He pulled out a folded piece of paper and another key, which looked to be identical to the one Abby had found in Fiona’s journal.
He handed Abby the key and she stuck it in the same pocket that held the other key.
She read the note. Cocked her head to the side and frowned. “Well, this is strange.”
Jack stared at her, waiting for her to explain.
“See here?” She pointed to a sequence of numbers. “One. Nine. Seven. Five.”
Jack considered the numbers in silence for a moment. “Hold on . . . That is her birth year.”
Abby continued, “And below those four numbers are letters. E. L. O. H.”
“It’s not a word, is it? What are we to make of that?” asked Jack.
Abby studied the paper. “Perhaps it’s a password with four letters and four numbers. Although, using your birthday as a password is never a good idea.” Her brow furrowed. “It could also be a mnemonic. You know, like FCGDAEB. Fat Cats Go Down Alleys, Eating Bread.”
Jack stared at her as if she’d lost her mind.
“Letters of code. In that particular mnemonic, each word stands for a note in the order of sharps in music. The word Fat stands for F sharp. Cat, for C sharp. And so on. There’s a mnemonic for flats, too.”
“So the fact that there is a sequence of numbers, code that must be deciphered, and an identical key can only mean what?” asked Jack. He stared at her, fingers across his mouth, as if to keep from diving into the bowl again.
“Beats me,” said Abby. “But it suggests that Fiona might have hidden something and then devised the memory prompt so she’d know where she hid it. She cleverly concealed the prompt so no one would find it or the item’s location. It’s rather elaborate. Where would she get an idea to do such a thing?”
Jack ran his fingers through his hair, leaving it tufted near the crown. “We used to pretend as kids that we were spies. We made up secret words and codes.”
“And that suggests something else,” Abby said, pursing her lips. “Your sister apparently could trust no one. When she called me, she needed advice but didn’t want to talk about it over the phone. But instead of telling her I would be right there or insisting that she go to the police, I waited and planned a luncheon. By then, it was too late.”
Jack’s expression grew tender. “She never made it. And you’ve been blaming yourself ever since.” He advanced a step toward her. Anticipating a hug, Abby got busy returning the flashlight to her pack.
Jack tapped his watch face. “I’m supposed to meet the priest at Holy Names in about ten minutes. We’re going over last-minute funeral details. Come with me, Abby.”
Abby felt she should protest that she had other things to do, but Jack’s pleading expression made her reconsider. “Well, I suppose so, if it won’t take too long. I’m working through a long to-do list today.”
“I’ll help,” Jack said with a broad grin. “I owe you. But just one more little thing.”
“And that is?”
“I’d like to see Tom sooner rather than later. Could we do it together after I meet with the priest?”
Abby began figuring out how to rearrange her schedule to accommodate his request. Could she still squeeze in seeing the DA about some part-time work, make it to the feed store to buy some calcium for the chickens, and pick up the extra nails for Clay at the big-box DIY? She sighed, “I suppose.” Somehow, it would all get done; if it didn’t, there was always tomorrow.
Jack locked up Ancient Wisdom Botanicals. They crossed over to the other side of Lemon Lane and turned the corner. In a matter of minutes, they approached the gate in front of the Church of the Holy Names. Just as Jack opened the gate and stepped into the churchyard, Abby felt her phone vibrate and heard the ring that told her Kat was calling.
“Good to hear from you, Kat.”
“Sorry it wasn’t sooner,” Kat told her. “We had a fracas at the fair. Cowboy poets were going at each other. Can you believe it? Hurled cobs of roasted corn and discarded cones of cotton candy from a Dumpster. They weren’t playacting. And little kids were watching. Took a while to sort it all out, but we did. Anyhow, I got called back to the station. Where are you? What’s up?”
“Surprised to hear you are working the fair when the investigation into Fiona’s death is in full swing. But hang on a sec.” Abby pointed to her phone, whispered Kat’s name, and pointed Jack toward the rectory adjacent to the church, where the priest lived and maintained an office. She sank onto the bench positioned directly in front of a life-size statue of the Virgin Mary.
“Thanks for waiting, Kat. So to answer your question, I’m roasting on a hot bench in front of Holy Names, waiting for Fiona’s brother to finish his meeting with the priest. And then we’re going to see Tom Davidson Dodge. I thought you could tell me Dodge’s whereabouts.”
Kat replied, “As far as I know, he’s up at the commune
. And I’m at the service station, gassing up the cruiser. I’ll swing by if you can hang tight for five minutes.”
“Of course.” Abby tapped the END CALL button and left the sunbaked spot in front of the Virgin to stand by the gate until Kat arrived. She found herself wishing she’d brought along her wide-brimmed straw hat for protection against the sun’s searing rays. Just then, an ambulance siren wailed from the direction of Las Flores Boulevard. It grew louder on the ambulance’s approach up Main, in the direction of Chestnut. When a series of short beeps told Abby the ambulance had entered the intersection by the post office, she resisted the urge to check it out, in spite of her impulse to find out what the emergency might be. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Abby wiped the beads of perspiration gathering across her nose. What was taking Kat so long?
Presently, Kat pulled up to the curb and climbed out of the cruiser with a water bottle. Abby noted droplets clinging to the vehicle’s windshield and bumper.
“You stopped to wash the car?”
“Yeah, well, you know Chief Bob Allen’s controlling nature, constantly worrying about the department’s image as if it were his own. Cars have to be cleaned and gassed up. Uniforms pressed. Boots shined. Tasers and shotguns returned and locked up. I’m surprised he hasn’t whipped out that tiny measuring tape on his key chain to check the length of our hair and fingernails. Next thing you know, he’ll have us waxing our nightsticks.”
Abby chuckled. “I feel for you, Kat.” She motioned Kat toward a stone bench under an ash tree that provided shade. As they walked to it, Abby said, “I heard an ambulance pass. It sounded like it was headed down Chestnut. What’s going on?”
“It’s the smoothie shop. Dispatch took the call about a middle-aged man complaining of chest pain, nausea, and fatigue. Probably overheated,” Kat said. She took a swig from her water bottle before sitting down with Abby on the bench. “So Fiona’s brother is with Father Joseph?”
Abby nodded. “Planning a funeral is such a personal thing.... I thought it best to hang around out here until he’s finished. Then he wants me to come along while he talks with his brother-in-law. Wants to ask Tom face-to-face if Tom knows anything about the murder.”
Kat locked her baby blues onto Abby. “You won’t be shy about sharing information if you learn something we don’t already know, now will you?”
“No problem. Just tell me what you know.” Abby grinned.
Kat made a contorted face. She smoothed a wrinkle from her uniform shirt and stretched out her long legs. “Well, I can tell you that as far as we’re concerned, Tom’s in the clear.”
Abby frowned. “Even though he was with Fiona the night before and the morning of her death, and he has no alibi for the time of death, and he pawned her jewelry? How did you rule him out?”
“He passed the poly. He offered to take the test right away to eliminate himself as a suspect.”
“Wish we could catch a break in this case,” murmured Abby.
“We just have to keep digging.” Kat sniffed and gazed philosophically out over the churchyard.
“So why were you working the fair?” asked Abby.
Kat removed her hat and ran her fingers through her sweat-damp blond tresses. “Why else? Chief Bob Allen said somebody had to do it. And Otto was planning to meet with a couple of San Jose homicide detectives to help us in Fiona’s case.” Kat took another swig from her bottle. “I would have rather met with those detectives, but I swear, Abby, the chief has got me on speed dial for grunt work. But if I complain, I’ll get the horse poop detail until the fair ends. Pardon the pun, but that’s not fair.”
Abby smiled. She leaned against the bench back and stared at a lady beetle crawling across Kat’s boot. “Oh, I hear you.”
“And pee-yu, does that horse dung stink when you are downwind of it. I don’t know what they feed those horses, but there are piles of manure everywhere. There’s a ready supply, if you could use some.”
Abby looked up and made a face. “No. That stuff is too fresh. Like a fine wine, poop has to age.”
Kat laughed. “You didn’t just say that!”
“On that acre behind mine, where the stone house is, the heirs had some guy come out last fall and dump a load of horse dung, apparently to keep down the weeds. This year, wild oats sprouted everywhere. The oats have turned from green to paper dry now, and my chickens love them. I’m no expert, but I do know some things about manure.”
“It’s a dubious distinction,” Kat said with a chuckle. She glanced at her watch and stood up.
Abby rose, too. “In farming, like in detective work, Kat,” said Abby, “you can’t help but notice when you’re knee-deep in a pile of crap. Know what I mean?”
Kat nodded.
A moment passed in silence as the downtown clock-tower bell chimed twice to mark the hour.
“Before you take off, Kat, I’ve got a question. Do you know of any reason anyone might want to run me down in a crosswalk?”
“Were you jaywalking?”
“Of course not.”
“Catch a glimpse of the driver or the license plate?”
“Not the plate, but the driver, yes. Premalatha Baxter. And she had that creepy Dak Harmon with her.”
Kat screwed the cap down on her water bottle. “He’s an ex-felon with a rap sheet for assault with a deadly weapon. Personally, I can’t see why a preacher or a commune manager would need muscle like that. Also, I can’t see why you’d be a threat, especially to them. You don’t have business with those people, do you?”
Abby’s expression clouded. “Not much directly, but the smoothie shop buys my herbs and honey.”
“I’ve heard they don’t like people bad-mouthing their peaceful community,” said Kat. “But you would never openly criticize their policies, now would you?”
Abby shrugged.
“So why worry? People fly up that ramp from the highway into town without slowing, in spite of the speed being posted. They don’t pay attention. That said, be vigilant.” She smoothed her hair and put on her hat. “What you and I both need is a girls’ day out. With Clay back in your life—”
“Yeah, well, it’s not the same anymore. You haven’t told anyone about us, have you?”
“Didn’t have to. Ours is a small town, Abby. Five minutes after he registered at the Lodge, it was all the gossip at Maisey’s.”
“Oh, great.” Abby rolled her eyes. “I should’ve known the gossip mill would start spitting out speculation as soon as somebody saw him.”
After walking Kat back to the gate, Abby gave her a hug. “So where’s the evidence pointing you now?”
“We got an anonymous tip to check out the commune’s businesses, in particular their financials. So we’re sniffing around.”
“Personally, I think that bunch has been led astray by a rigid idealist with a belief in a Bible-based utopia,” said Abby. “Those commune residents have always been a hardworking bunch. But under the cultish leadership of the new guy, they seem more like a slave labor force turning over their paychecks to the guru. I can’t imagine one of them killed Fiona. What would be the motive?”
“Well, she was pretty outspoken about that new leader and the changes he has been making. Perhaps she rubbed someone the wrong way. Three days before the murder, Fiona was seen in the smoothie shop, arguing with Premalatha Baxter, who had authorized changes to the smoothie recipes. Fiona claimed that people might get sick and that Premalatha didn’t have enough knowledge to be mixing things up like she was doing.”
“Fiona was outspoken, for sure,” Abby said. “I hadn’t heard about the confrontation over changing the ingredients. But the shop had a right to change recipes. Do you think Fiona’s complaint led to her murdering Fiona?”
“Tick off the wrong person and crap can happen. Fiona might have been right about misusing herbs. Her tox screen showed high plant alkaloids and traces of fruit and berries in her stomach. Sounds like a smoothie to me.”
“Holy chicken feathers! But who made it f
or her?” Abby’s thoughts zeroed in on the obvious. “Premalatha?”
“Not if we’re to believe what she told us,” said Kat. “She called Fiona and briefly spoke with her around the time of the murder and, therefore, couldn’t have been there. She told us in retrospect that she was shocked at how normal Fiona sounded. Cell phone records back up her story.”
Wondering if she should tell Kat that the day before Fiona died, Abby had delivered farmette herbs to Smooth Your Groove, Abby decided to shift the focus of her questions. “So, Kat, no customers of the shop have become ill from consuming the new versions of the smoothies, have they?”
“Matter of fact, they have. Nettie cross-checked the logs of the ambulance company calls with the hospital,” said Kat. “She found out that the EMTs have responded three times in the past two months to transport people with stomach pains. All three said they’d had smoothies within half an hour of feeling ill.”
Abby thought about that for a moment. Her brow furrowed in concentration. “Except the morning she died, she hadn’t gone to the Smooth Your Groove shop, right?”
“Right.”
“But someone could have delivered a smoothie to her that morning.”
“With Fiona’s body having such high alkaloid levels of aconitine, you’ve got to wonder how she got that poison in her system. In that respect, ingesting a smoothie with the poison in it makes a lot of sense,” said Kat.
Abby took a deep breath. Her thoughts free-associated at a dizzying speed as she considered the horrific death aconitine poisoning could cause. Suddenly, the warning Abby had received from the two women in the bathroom about not eating at Smooth Your Groove flashed through her mind. Abby turned and looked directly at Kat. “I overheard something in Zazi’s powder room, I think you should know.”
Banana–Chocolate Mint Smoothie
Ingredients:
2 ripe bananas, peeled and cut into 2-inch pieces, plus 1
ripe banana, peeled, cut into 2-inch pieces, and frozen
½ cup almond milk
1 tablespoon unsweetened cocoa powder
1 scoop good-quality vanilla ice cream