A Geek Girl's Guide to Arsenic

by Julie Anne Lindsey

  “She’s broke. Had a tough upbringing. Ran away. She found comfort at the local Ren Faire and made it her family. She’s scared and angry, but she’s not a killer and she sure doesn’t have money for bail. There’s a good chance her record will be enough to get her some immediate probation with time served.”

  “Maybe I can swing the fire story as faulty outlets?” It would never work long term, but I could start a rumor that didn’t scream “poisoned products”!

  A commotion drew my attention from the cruiser to the front gates. Bright lights beamed into the night. A familiar silhouette floated toward us.

  I squinted, unable to adjust my eyes to the spotlight.

  “Set up here,” the voice snapped.

  My tummy churned. “Oh no.” So much for my rumor.

  Mindy Kinley and her crew were back. A pair of officers corralled the trio as much as possible, enforcing crime-scene preservation and securing proper distance from our booth, but it didn’t matter.

  Mindy shook her long hair over one shoulder and stood directly before the charred remains of Guinevere’s Golden Beauty booth. She held three fingers in the air. The cameraman gave a thumbs-up and the third leech hoisted a boom mic over her head. “Tragedy strikes again at Ye Ole Madrigal Craft Faire. As you recall, I was the first to report a murder at this very location yesterday. Now I’m back at the scene of the crime where fire broke out, consuming a Faire staple. Guinevere’s Golden Beauty.”

  I rubbed both temples. “If I kill her, can I get off on temporary insanity?”

  Dan chuckled. “No, and you shouldn’t have told me. It’s premeditated now.”

  “What if you forget I asked?”

  “Not going to happen.”

  Mindy overacted her way through the report. “Is it a coincidence a local man died of poisoning after sampling Guinevere’s Healing Hand Cream? Could someone blame these products for his death?” She turned a wrinkled nose back to the camera. “Maybe it’s time they change the name of that hand cream.”

  “It’s Healer’s Hand Cream.” I stalked through frosty grass toward Mindy, intent on removing her forcibly. My arm snapped back, snared at the wrist by steel fingers before I could get my hands on the microphone-wielding opportunist. I shook hard against Dan’s grip.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “Fine.” I jerked free. “But I hate that woman.”

  A dark form in the distance seemed to move with human qualities. I squinted, trying to force the shape into something ethereal, a shadow or trick of the moonlight. It blended into the dark trunk of a tree and didn’t budge. Clearly, I needed rest.

  “Who doesn’t? She’s a regular at every car accident and town hall meeting.”

  Figured. “Anywhere she might have an opportunity to say ‘You heard it here first.’”

  He nodded. “How about I buy you a cup of coffee?”

  “Sure.” I had a long day ahead of me. “Make it two.”

  * * *

  Bernie stepped outside the guard gate at Horseshoe Falls, wearing a fringed coat over her usual park ranger-esque uniform. A replica—I hoped—coonskin cap covered her cropped black locks. She waved.

  I stopped to swipe my card. “Hi, Bernie.”

  Bernie was at least twice my age, with a round face and kind eyes. Her parents had named her Bernice, after a Hawaiian princess, and she kept a blog, Aloha from Ohio, about growing up on the Big Island. The blog served as an unofficial Horseshoe Falls who’s who and gossip guide.

  She sashayed to my window. “Nearly seven. You’re just getting home? Oh, Lord.” Her face dove toward mine.

  I leaned away. “It was a long night.”

  “Heaven have mercy. Doing what? Grave-digging? You’re filthy.” Panic seized her features. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine. It’s ash from the wind. I’m going to clean up, read your morning post and get to work. What’s today’s topic?”

  The look she gave bordered on lunacy. “Pioneer Days.”

  I dropped my forehead against the steering wheel and contemplated an impromptu trip to Peoria. I lifted my face. “Right. Have a nice day.”

  The road to my apartment was closed, forcing me to travel the entire perimeter of Horseshoe Falls to get back to where I started. My building sat beside the guard gate, unfortunately. The community blocked the area during Pioneer Days. Making room for festivities jammed up modern methods of transportation in favor of horses and carriages.

  Despite the early hour, people filled the roads and sidewalks dressed like everything from Pocahontas to Civil War soldiers. The Native American costumes were borderline offensive, and the trio of retired judges in saloon girl garb was enough to send me under the blankets until Wednesday. Clearly, I wasn’t myself.

  My soot-covered hands and cheeks earned unending stares as I walked from my car to the building. I scared an older couple exiting the elevator. “Sorry.”

  I rode to my apartment on tiptoes, hoping not to spoil more of the pristine floor than necessary with my mud-soaked sneakers.

  Thirty minutes later, I stuffed freshly shampooed but still-damp waist-length hair under a blue bonnet and covered thoroughly exhausted legs with the white ruffled knickers and a matching blue hoop skirt of my Southern Belle ensemble. Costumes were an upside of Pioneer Days. I tucked in the blouse and rolled my eyes at the purple crescents and puffy lids of sleep deprivation. Time for work.

  On the street, I inhaled history. Fresh bread baked in stone ovens near the waterfall. Eggs scrambled over open fires beside newly erected pup tents. My tummy tried to eat itself as I hustled to Dream Bean for a triple-shot café au lait and pain au chocolat. I measured my gait, careful to maintain the balance of my hoop skirt. Nothing screamed amateur like a swinging hoop.

  The clip-clop of horses’ hooves added to my morning trip through time. Slowly, my pace settled into a casual stride. Music and laughter energized the cool autumn air. Maybe Pioneer Days wasn’t the worst thing ever. Maybe I was a grouch in need of sugar and caffeine treatments.

  “Morning, Mia.” A man on horseback tipped his hat.

  “Hi, Mark. How’s it going?”

  Mark was the head of Horseshoe Falls’ security. He’d taken a leave of absence over the summer when the FBI contacted him about an outbreak of identity thefts centralized around our community. They’d thought I was a criminal mastermind and sent Jake in to play temporary head of security in Mark’s stead.

  He slid off the horse and tied him at a bicycle rack. “Not bad, yet. I’m checking in on the Kubickas.”

  “Uh-oh.” I glanced at the side-by-side doors behind us. Dream Bean and Sweet Retreat. The Lindseys owned Dream Bean and sold the best coffee and pastries in town. The Kubickas owned the Sweet Retreat and served the most delicious ice cream and gossip around.

  The shop owners had a long and colorful history of feuding.

  Mark sighed. “Pioneer Days started two hours ago, and I’m already here to document a complaint. I believe this is a record.”

  “Good luck.” I tried to smile but couldn’t manage without more coffee.

  I tugged the door to Dream Bean open and suppressed the immediate urge to twirl when warm scents of caramel and brown sugar climbed my nose. I leaned against a stool at the end of the bar and shoved my skirt under the counter.

  The soft pink-and-white décor reminded me of a French candy shop, complete with white twisted-iron chairs and small round tables. The best seats, though, were along the beautiful glass counter.

  Stew Lindsey winked at me. He filled a display with fancy pastries, éclairs and macarons in every color. “Can I get you something, Mia?” He leaned an elbow on the case and dusted his palms.

  “Café au lait, triple shot, please.”

  “Okay. Can I get you something sweet to go with that?”

 
My mouth watered. How could I choose? He might as well have asked me to pick a favorite book or pair of shoes. “I came in for pain au chocolat, but everything looks amazing. I can’t decide.”

  “How about I surprise you then?” Stew turned to prepare my coffee.

  His wife, Darlene, dumped a load of empty cups into the sink. She dried her hands and headed my way. “Morning, Mia.”

  “Good morning.” I beamed. The promise of coffee and surprise treats had completely remedied my earlier disposition. Today was a good day.

  Darlene stopped moving. Her gaze fixed on a smudge, she grabbed a fancy cloth from her apron and scrubbed the glass display case.

  Stew hummed behind her, cheerfully filling a plate with a rainbow of assorted sweets. He delivered my order with a flourish. “Surprise.”

  “Thank you.” I gripped the cup with both hands.

  Darlene shoved the cloth deep into her apron pocket. “Enjoy.” Her smile seemed somewhat counterfeit.

  Mine, on the other hand, was born of pure bliss.

  Stew tapped her shoulder. “Honey? Everything all right?”

  “There was a smudge.” She turned for the prep sink without another word.

  Stew raised his gaze to mine. “I guess she’s a neatnik now?” He laughed and gave the counter another wipe. “I left powdered fingerprints again?”

  I sipped the heavenly drink and imagined floating above the stool. “Something gooey. Butter maybe.”

  Stew was always covered in the fruits of his labor—powdered sugar, flour, butter. He lifted each arm and examined the white material of his smock.

  I pointed to a greasy mark on one sleeve and swallowed a pastrygasm. Bits of flaky croissant filled with melted chocolate clung to my tongue and lips.

  He stripped off the soiled chef’s coat. “Ready for a refill?”

  How’d my cup get empty? “Yes, please. In a to-go cup?”

  Stew returned with fresh coffee in a cup I could take with me, and bagged the remaining treats with a handful of monogrammed napkins. “Enjoy your day.”

  “The bill.” I laughed. “Nothing this delicious is free.”

  “On the house.” He disappeared into the back room. Darlene followed.

  “Okay then.” I stuffed a ten into the tip jar and headed for the clubhouse, where I worked as Horseshoe Falls’ IT Manager.

  I barely had both feet on the sidewalk when Bernie rounded the corner. She barreled in my direction, pad of paper in hand, crazed look in her eyes.

  I braced myself for impact, but she whipped open the door to Sweet Retreat and disappeared.

  A handful of costumed residents took notice and followed, gathering at the shop window and speculating about the scoop big enough to drive Bernie from her post.

  Mark and the Kubickas stood akimbo inside the shop, glaring into the window display, transfixed by a mound of cream-colored goo that roughly resembled a melted dog.

  Bobbie Kubicka pointed frantically at the slop. Her face turned pink, and her voice rose to penetrate the glass. “They melted our butter sculpture! Do you have any idea how long it took Steve to carve an authentic-looking Civil War horse from solid butter? Fine them! Close their shop! Do something.”

  I took a baby step away and spun on my heels, vividly recalling the smudge on the Lindseys’ countertop and their combined reaction. I hustled toward the clubhouse at a clip, before the butter started flying.

  Chapter Eight

  My office in the Horseshoe Falls clubhouse was a tomb, albeit a gorgeous one, decorated by Bree and designed to simultaneously stimulate and relax me. Soft shades of gray for peace and tranquility. Punches of yellow to keep me awake. A reed diffuser that smelled like vanilla and cinnamon. Bree had exacted Feng Shui on the space, and it was a long and expensive process. One I’d adored until I found my best friend dead in my office chair. Now it gave me the creeps. It was too quiet and full of sad memories. Unfortunately, I couldn’t change offices the way I’d changed apartments. I’d tried.

  I set my coffee on the desk and carefully maneuvered my hoop skirt underneath without sending it over my head. The pile of papers awaiting my review was mind-boggling. Office memos. Flyers for Pioneer Days events. An office birthday calendar for November. I tapped the days for free cake into my phone and threw the calendar in the trash.

  Coffee scented the air and warmed my mood. I booted up my computer and logged into the work email, expecting ten to twelve emails had appeared overnight. Instead, I found nearly thirty. “Good grief.” A quick scan of subject lines left me spinning. Can we cut off Wi-Fi until after Pioneer Days? Can you create a Pioneer Days app for our phones? Can we order a green screen for souvenir photos? Yep. Let’s turn off that modern-day Wi-Fi and haul in a green screen. Have to keep Pioneer Days as authentic as possible.

  I responded to those with messages of hope for next year. If they wanted it, I could make it happen, but not with zero hours’ notice.

  I moved on to the things I could fix. Residents with new devices needing to be networked to the community Wi-Fi. Residents needing help creating or maintaining their clubhouse accounts. Others with spyware or viruses slowing their speed and threatening their work systems via remote sessions.

  I gave the empty desk beside me a weary glance. I needed to fill the tech support position. It wasn’t fair to make residents wait while I went door to door on my own. We’d always had two bodies in IT. I had to face my issues.

  I pulled up the resumes sent from a local temporary service and gave them a once-over, skipping the male names and focusing on the most interesting applicants. The ages weren’t listed, thanks to the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, so I couldn’t make the feeble old lady request I wanted. I chose my top three from the list and shot an email to the company, asking if any of those workers were available for a trial run. With any luck, none were homicidal, roofie-wielding maniacs.

  Another email popped into my inbox. Then three more. I cracked my knuckles. Time to start putting out fires. I stuffed earbuds into my ears and set my playlist to shuffle. One benefit to a lonely office: I could sing to myself without being judged.

  After I tackled the email, I grabbed the black file seated atop my paperwork. The attached business card was my calling card. Someone needed information. Carriers of the card knew my secret. For a small fee, I would retrieve or redact online information as needed. More often than not, the card showed up when a middle-aged resident wanted proof their significant other wasn’t a gold digger or long-con artist. Dating in the millennia was complicated. Personally, I avoided it at all costs.

  The card was intentionally blank except for one small embossed almond leaf, to keep my anonymity. The leaf signified a mutual promise. The customers trusted me to keep my digging on the down low, and I trusted them to return the favor.

  “Whose secrets will I unearth today?” I asked the folder before flipping it open. Ah. Mr. Fillmore wanted to know about Daisy Evans.

  As it turned out, Daisy was a human rights attorney and standup citizen. I printed several sheets of information and stuffed the empty folder. Sorority photos. Credit report. Speeding tickets. Nothing of interest if Mr. Fillmore didn’t mind a little boob flashing circa Mardi Gras 2001. Seemed harmless enough to me, and it hadn’t stopped her current employer from promoting her twice in the past four years.

  By early afternoon, I’d responded to all company email and set appointments to visit the residents who needed me to stop by for assistance. Shockingly, not everyone owned a laptop. I still made house calls to those with desktop computers and outdated towers.

  “All About That Bass” boomed through my earbuds, and I spun in my seat, caught up in the sass. My hoop skirt popped loose from beneath the desk and I pumped both arms as I twirled, singing along, quietly but enthusiastically.

  “Mia?”

  My
eyes popped open.

  Marcella, the community relations head, smiled sweetly across the desk from me. Her cheeks were as red as poison apples. “You didn’t answer when I knocked. There’s someone here to see you.” Her thick Latina accent clung to every word.

  Jake Archer leaned against the doorjamb behind her, thoroughly amused.

  I nearly swallowed my tongue. I jerked earbuds from my ears and shoved the hoop dress back into position under my desk.

  Marcella ducked out before combusting with laughter.

  Jake lumbered to the guest chair and took a seat. “You can finish the song if you want. I told her not to interrupt you.”

  “Shut up.”

  His brilliant smiled disarmed me. “I’m not joking. You can sing, too. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Is there anything you can’t do?”

  “I can’t seem to get rid of you with any permanence. Does that count?”

  “Funny.” He rubbed his palms against jean-clad thighs and surveyed my office. The marshal badge on his belt shone under fluorescent lighting.

  “Why are you here?” Impatience bubbled in my tummy as I waited for the answer he wasn’t in a hurry to give.

  He leaned forward. “I spent the morning at the Faire.”

  I matched his body language in my best you-can-trust-me-with-your-secrets move. “Is this about my booth? Did Dan send you? Was there a break in the John Francis case?”

  Jake averted his eyes.

  “This isn’t about any of that?”

  He didn’t speak.

  “Jake, please. I don’t understand why you’re here or why you haven’t made that clear, and you know I’m terrible with social cues and small talk. So, at the risk of sounding rude, I’m begging you. Why are you here?” I enunciated the last four words. Politely.

  He rolled his head to one side, a mixed look of defeat and aggravation in his eyes. “The vendors weren’t very forthcoming with me.”

  I imagined a lasso around his tongue and how much effort it would take to physically remove the information from his mouth. “Yeah, and?”