by Lois Winston
“Of course not.”
Marty handed Anastasia her package and watched as she pulled out a box of eye drops.
“Why did you send for eye drops? I’ve never seen you use them.”
“It’s a long story.”
~*~
Dinner—one long table full of family style dishes—was uneventful. All the guys and gals, except for the missing Garrett, told stories, shared pleasant, sometimes riotous memories of dorm parties, dissed some profs, exalted others. Office politics came under attack, as did major sports teams. Anastasia was aware of only a few touchy moments, ones that skirted around Lucas’s dating life, and a traffic ticket or two.
Anastasia and Marty took off for their room early, pleading a work schedule the next day. Jessica followed Anastasia to the elevators and thanked her for understanding the sensitive nature of the weekend’s state of affairs.
“I’m sorry we didn’t cooperate more,” Jessica said. “Everyone is still so . . . raw.” She rubbed her bare arms as if to massage away the pain and sorrow.
Anastasia was about to utter a platitude—time heals, et cetera—but instead smiled and said, “Don’t worry about it.” Not much better than, “Get some rest,” but it wasn’t an especially creative time for her.
“We should get together with Aunt Keicia sometime,” Jessica said.
“That would be great,” Anastasia said, just before the elevator doors opened.
“Not going to happen, is it?” Marty said, once the doors closed.
Anastasia shook her head. “Unlikely.”
Back in their room, Anastasia took out her phone. “I’m going to call Paul.”
“Now? While we still have this amazing room? Come and look at the Bay Lights.”
Anastasia loved the monumental light sculpture on the Bay Bridge. From her home in the Berkeley hills, she’d been able to see the show nearly every evening since the installation had been reinstated. Which reminded her, she now had three emails and two text messages from her real estate agent and the title company, all of them, she knew, about the sale of that home in the hills. She’d return the call tomorrow.
She dialed the mortuary.
“Anastasia, what’s up?” Caroline’s voice, sounding like she’d been sitting by Paul’s phone, waiting for Anastasia’s call. Anastasia wondered what Caroline would have done if the caller had asked, “When can you pick up the body?”
Anastasia did her best to convey the bad news. “In a way, this is good news,” she told Caroline. “It means that all of Terry’s friends, the people she was so close to that she wanted them in her wedding, were true to her and cared about her to the end.”
The silence made Anastasia nervous. She was about to start in again, searching for a different platitude than the ones she’d used with the bridal party, when Caroline spoke up. “I suppose you’re right. You talked to all of them? They’re all accounted for? Did they have any other ideas?”
How to fudge this. Fortunately, there were several questions entwined and Anastasia felt she could be equally muddled. “Marty and I both spent time with them and it seems the police and forensics lab were correct.”
A big sigh from Caroline. It was unclear to Anastasia why a mother—or a mother’s BFF in this case—would prefer that her daughter be murdered rather than die of natural causes. Unless it was simply a case of intuition that wouldn’t quit.
Anastasia was assured that Caroline would convey the news to Laura, and, by the way, she was sure that Laura was very grateful to Anastasia.
Anastasia clicked off her phone. “Done.”
“Now can we watch the light show?”
Another knock on the door foiled Marty’s plans.
“More eye drops?” he asked.
“Very funny.”
Once again, Marty opened the door to Olivia. The slight woman in the pigeon-gray pant suit held a large envelope addressed to: Ms. Anastasia Brent. “A messenger dropped this off earlier this evening,” she said. “I didn’t want to just leave it at your door because of the return address.” She pointed to the preprinted label. “Berkeley Police Department.” Her face was a map of wonder.
Marty pulled off a neutral face—he was, after all, a performer—and thanked Olivia.
“Okay, well, have a good evening.” Anastasia read disappointment in the concierge’s expression, left in the lurch without an explanation. She wouldn’t be surprised if Room 247 would be the talk of the break room this evening.
“Shall I trash this?” Marty asked, holding the thick envelope over the wastebasket.
Anastasia grabbed it from him. “Not yet.”
She opened the envelope and found a note clipped to a stack of eight-by-twelve photographs. Inspector Dennis Russell had scribbled Nothing better to do here on a Saturday. Have to wake up the errand boy to send these. Regards to Frank. D.R. PS, here’s my number if you have any questions.
Anastasia circled the number and was already planning orders for See’s Candies, California’s best chocolates, to Russell and Frank Galigani. Maybe also to Frank’s friend, the Revere, Massachusetts cop, Matt Gennaro and his wife, Gloria. And maybe even to the “errand boy.”
Anastasia poured over the photos while Marty watched TV and served up drinks and snacks. She sat at the desk so as not to be tempted by the glorious nighttime view out the patio doors. She looked at photos of a king-size bed, not unlike their own except that the spread was white and the skirt a bright red. Two easy chairs and elaborate draperies matched the chosen palette.
Lovely as the bed and seating area were, the Abrey seemed to specialize in bathrooms. The white and mirrored space was easily as large as the living room in Anastasia’s home in the hills. The stacks of towels alone were too numerous to fit into one shot.
The police had been thorough; every item in Terry’s room seemed to have been assigned a number, from lamps to wastebaskets to sundries on the shelves. Anastasia assumed that it was Inspector Russell’s choice to hold back views of Terry’s body. Maybe he wasn’t aware of her profession.
“How’s it going?” Marty asked.
Anastasia took a deep breath, stood from her chair, and stretched. “Nothing.” She paused, yawned, then looked down on the top photograph. She bent over and began to shuffle through the stack at a rapid pace.
“Haven’t you already looked at all of those?” Marty asked.
“Where’s the package?” she asked.
“What package?”
“The box of Epsom salt. The package that Rachel delivered to Terry.”
“Maybe she used it up?”
“Even so. Where’s the empty box?” Anastasia was excited now.
“Maybe the police took it for evidence.”
“The photos are from before the police take anything from the room. Where’s the package?”
Anastasia didn’t wait for another answer from Marty. She rushed to call Inspector Russell. She was nearly breathless when he answered and listened to her theory.
“You’re saying this Rachel Willows tampered with the Epsom salt,” Russell said. “That she maybe added magnesium, and caused an overdose that made Terry comatose, or at least very drowsy, then pushed her down into the tub.”
“And kept the package so no one would realize that’s what happened. If she’s still in the hotel, it must be in her luggage. She wouldn’t leave it behind. I can—”
“What you can do is call hotel security and ask them to detain her until I can get a car and myself there. Give them my number if there’s a problem.”
He hung up.
Anastasia pushed the SECURITY button on the hotel phone and rushed through her emergency request. She was sure that having the name and number of a Berkeley PD detective was what got her the attention she needed.
She hung up and called Jessica. She was happy to hear that the youngsters, as she thought of them, had moved from dinner to the bar and that all except Lucas were still there.
When she put on her shoes and reassembled her purse for
a trip outside the room, Marty clicked off the TV and put his own shoes on. “You’re not going alone,” he said.
“I knew that.”
~*~
On the trip down in the elevator, Anastasia and Marty decided it would be a little too déclassé to march into the bar area, where they expected the action to take place.
They had hoped to find an obscure corner from which to observe the drama. But they hadn’t counted on the efficiency of the Abrey security staff. They exited the elevator to find a man who could have passed for an FBI agent—dark suit, coiled cord coming out of his collar—who politely asked for their ID and then requested that they return to their room. They had only a moment to notice that two other similarly dressed men were at the entrance to the bar.
“Bummer,” Marty said.
“We can watch it on TV,” Anastasia said, smiling, and they rushed to their room.
NINE
Rachel Willow’s arrest made all the local papers. TECH WRITER TURNS DEADLY CHEMIST was one headline, MAGNA AMOUNT OF MAGNESIUM IN LOVE TRIANGLE another. One major article described how the would-be bridesmaid had been passed over by the bride, who was younger, to a top position in a pharmaceutical company just blocks away from the hotel. Rachel was described as a killer who had access to deadly chemicals at her workplace. The more sensational articles recounted a secret affair between Rachel and the groom.
Anastasia wanted to write a letter to the editor and explain that magnesium was not deadly, nor was Epsom salt, except for how they could be used as a weapon. Marty persuaded her that no one would care.
“What if I compare magnesium to a knife, for example. It can be used to slice cheese, or to stab someone. In itself, it’s neutral.”
“Don’t bother,” Marty said.
“You’re no fun.”
Anastasia accepted extravagant thanks from Laura, Terry’s mother. The note was attached to a giant gift basket of gourmet foods and a generous prepaid credit card gift certificate. Paul and Caroline added their gratitude with a bonus of double-time pay for one week.
The best outcome was Keicia’s hand-delivered arrangement of flowers from the garden behind Dziva’s. Anastasia now thought it was entirely possible that she, Keicia, and Jessica might have lunch together.
Marty accompanied her to the title company and turned the signing into a special occasion. As the ink was drying on Anastasia’s new life, Marty led her and the staff in a happy jump—up in the air, and click your heels.
And, because it was Berkeley, Anastasia thought, no one in the office was surprised.
~*~
Anastasia Brent’s adventures continue in other books in the Periodic Table Mysteries.
About the Author
Camille Minichino, a retired physicist turned writer, is the author of twenty-five mystery novels in four series: the Periodic Table Mysteries; the Miniature Mysteries (as Margaret Grace); the Professor Sophie Knowles Mysteries (as Ada Madison); and the Postmistress Mysteries (as Jean Flowers). She has also written short stories and articles. Camille is past president and board member of three major writers organizations and currently serves on the Board of NorCal MWA. She teaches science and writing in the San Francisco Bay Area.
Connect with Camille at the following sites:
Email: [email protected]
Website: http://www.minichino.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/camille.minichino
Sign up for Camille’s newsletter: http://minichino.us13.list-manage1.com/subscribe?u=79e71485387e84db55cc5d270&id=dd7690e985
Books by Camille Minichino
The Periodic Table Mysteries
The Hydrogen Murder
The Helium Murder
The Lithium Murder
The Beryllium Murder
The Boric Acid Murder
The Carbon Murder
The Nitrogen Murder
The Oxygen Murder
Single Title Mystery
Killer in the Cloister
Multi-Author Anthologies and Boxed Sets
Six Scattered Stories
Happy Homicides
Sleuthing Women: 10 First-in-Series Mysteries
Sleuthing Women II: 10 Mystery Novellas
Nonfiction
How to Live With an Engineer
Cozy Food
The Miniature Mystery Series
(writing as Margaret Grace)
Murder in Miniature
Mayhem in Miniature
Malice in Miniature
Mourning in Miniature
Monster in Miniature
Mix-Up in Miniature
Madness in Miniature
Manhattan in Miniature
Matrimony in Miniature
The Professor Sophie Knowles Mysteries
(writing as Ada Madison)
The Square Root of Murder
The Probability of Murder
A Function of Murder
The Quotient of Murder
The Postmistress Mysteries
(writing as Jean Flowers)
Death Takes Priority
Cancelled by Murder
Addressed to Kill
HONEYMOONS CAN BE MURDER
A Lee Alvarez Mystery Novella
By Heather Haven
In the first in the spinoff series of the Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries, PI Lee Alvarez goes on her honeymoon with bridegroom, Gurn Hanson. But in love land, they find a dead woman practically on their doorstep. Kauai breezes may be soft, but there are gale force winds of accusation against Gurn. Will Lee find the real killer before her new hubby gets sent to a Hawaiian hoosegow?
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank firefighters across the globe. They are the good guys. They run in when everyone else runs out.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my much loved and missed mother, Mary Lee, my husband, Norman Meister, and families of all types everywhere. When we are fortunate to share our lives with others, bound by love and hopes for a good future, we are, indeed, a family. And very blessed.
ONE
“Gurn, darling, wasn’t that woman lying in exactly the same position when we left for breakfast?”
Shading my eyes, I looked in the direction of a chaise lounge about seventy yards away sitting half in the lapping waves of the Pacific and half on the warm sands of Hanalei Bay. Dragged into position by sunbathers looking to have the best of both worlds, it seemed to be a common practice on the island. Ten or fifteen others dotted the Hanalei Bay coastline near their respective beachfront rooms.
I’d noticed the woman around seven o’clock in the morning when I stepped outside with my coffee and the morning’s newspaper. I would have liked to take a run along the beach before breakfast, but was recuperating from a sprained ankle, so instead I read “USA Today” while slurping my latte. A poor substitute.
Our honeymoon bungalow was set off in a corner of the Royal Kauai Hotel’s expansive beachfront property. Other than the mandatory public access, which allowed for occasional wanderings by guests along the beach, it was private, quiet, and heaven.
The slender woman was lying on her back in a rather racy red bikini. Legs outstretched, arms by her side, large floppy black hat covering her face, neck and hair, she hadn’t moved in over three hours. I unwrapped myself from my own lounge chair and stood.
“She was, wasn’t she? In exactly the same position.”
My husband of less than a week remained seated in one of the two turquoise and white beach chairs on our lanai. But he leaned forward, removed his sunglasses, his grey-green eyes focusing on her.
“You could be right, but I wasn’t paying attention to her, not really.” He reached up and grabbed me around the waist, pulling me on his lap. “I only have eyes for you, sweetheart.” He then proceeded to kiss my neck with loud, smacking noises, intentionally more comical than romantic.
“Yes, darling,” I said, wiggling within his embrace. “But seriously, I don’t think she’s moved in h
ours.”
Gurn glanced in her direction in earnest. “She could be sleeping one off.”
“She could.” My tone was doubtful.
“You think she might be sick or something? Why don’t you walk down there and have a chat with her? But if you wake her up and she gets a mad on, remember I told you so.”
“Why don’t we go together?”
I flashed him what I hoped was a winning smile. It must have been along the winning lines because he let out a sigh of resignation and released me. I removed myself from his lap and got to my feet. Gurn looked at me, the lopsided smile springing to his face.
“You’re lucky you’re so gorgeous I’ll do anything you want. You and your twilight colored eyes,” he added.
“Aw, I’m not so gorgeous,” I said modestly, batting said eyes at him.
“If you say so.” He shrugged.
I feigned shock at his words, gave him a playful smack on the arm, and we both laughed. Gurn stood, and with a groan stretched his now tanned six foot one frame. We’d been married right after he returned from a covert mission a little on the banged up side. It was just a few scrapes, bruises, and a black eye, nothing serious, but he’d made one weird looking groom.
To civilians, he was known as Mr. Hanson, CPA extraordinaire and owner of Hanson Accounting Firm. To the U.S. Navy, he was known as Lt. Commander Hanson, ex-navy SEAL, often called away on highly classified and secretive missions. To me, he was Gurn, the man I loved.
In fairness, I was a little on the banged up side, too, having just completed a case where the villain was unwilling to see my side of things i.e. going to jail for murder. I was for; villain against. After a few rounds, I had my way but not without sustaining a sprained ankle and a black and blue hand. The ankle was currently embraced by a support boot. The hand was on its own. Everything hurt. I was icing various parts, taking Advil, or downing the occasional Mai Tai. Rum can be very medicinal.