by Lois Winston
Kim’s smile faded, his eyes looking past me at something else. His voice was hardly more than a whisper when he answered.
“No.”
“Janet Bernstein wasn’t above blackmail.”
“No.”
“Furthermore, Hawaii doesn’t have community property laws, so judges in divorce cases are allowed to divide up the property any way he or she sees fit. As your lawyer wife is also the daughter of a well-known Hawaiian judge, were she to file for divorce, you’d more than likely wind up with zilch. That’s if your wife found out about the affair. It was a chance you didn’t want to take.”
“She can be very jealous.”
“Janet phoned you when she arrived in Kauai, probably for a showdown. I’d say she wanted money or she’d tell your wife about the two of you.”
Something scurried from the detective’s mind. His eyes focused on me again. His smile returned and he spoke again in his normal tone.
“You’ve been seeing too many movies, Lee Alvarez.”
“She used her friend, Caroline Osborne, as a front. Once Janet was here, you arranged to meet her on your boat late at night so no one else would see her. She probably lay in the chaise lounge on your deck, enjoying the warm night air. I’m sure she was drinking a lot, especially with your prompting.”
“Maybe prompting wasn’t necessary. Maybe she was celebrating. Maybe she thought she was going to be one hundred thousand dollars richer by the end of the night.”
“When she passed out from the booze—”
“This is all pure conjecture, by the way.” His voice never lost its merriment, but his eyes were like ice.
I kept talking. “That’s when you injected her with a syringe containing the strychnine.”
His eyebrows raised in surprise. “How did you…?”
“We alerted the medical examiner. He found the point of entry, a puncture mark of a needle in between her toes. But that night you had a problem. Death by strychnine causes a body to become unusually rigid almost immediately. You found you couldn’t move her off the lounge chair.”
“Again, maybe.” A slight smile played on his lips.
“You did some fast thinking. You started up your engine, and headed for the nearest beach—this one—bringing the boat in as close to land as you dared. You’re a strong, wiry man, so it wasn’t hard for you to put the chair containing Janet into your dingy and row to shore. Then you arranged chair and woman artfully on the beach. The hat was a nice touch. And it hid her contorted face from view.”
“You have a vivid imagination. I admit nothing.”
“You were hoping she’d lie unnoticed all day, along with the other chaises on the beach. The longer she lay in the hot sun, the more confusing the time of death would be. If she were there long enough, the body would return to its normal state of rigor mortis, because after twenty-four hours’ strychnine leaves the body. With a little luck, the verdict might come in as ‘cause of death unknown’, especially if you were assigned to her homicide.”
His smile faded. “You’re getting on my nerves, Lee Alvarez.”
“Am I? Good. A lead investigator can do all sorts of misleading things with evidence, especially if he was the guilty party. Speaking of evidence, after you dumped her body on the beach, I’m betting you went to her hotel room to find anything that might tie you with her. The hotel’s running surveillance tapes now.”
“Maybe I did a thorough search of her room. Maybe my plan was to assign myself to her case. Maybe I thought I was good. But you found her on the beach much sooner than I’d hoped. Then you just had to keep sticking your nose in it.”
“You shouldn’t have tried to hang it on my husband.”
“I can see now I may have made an error in judgment.” He stood, withdrew his revolver from its holster behind his back, and still smiling, pointed it at me. “Get up.”
TEN
I stayed put. “I don’t think so.”
“I’m not going to tell you again to stand up. You and I are going on a boat trip. I stowed emergency funds on my boat, in the event something like this were to happen. I need you as a possible bargaining tool until I’m in international waters.”
“Sorry, I don’t do boats,” I said, leaning back and settling in. “Things seem to happen to me every time I get on one, so I’m not moving. Besides, you haven’t admitted your guilt, so why should either of us go anywhere?”
“You mean I haven’t said the exact words. I see your ego needs to hear you’re right, no matter what.”
He considered for a moment.
“Well, you’re right on all counts. I did kill her. Jan was going to pay a visit to my wife the next morning if I didn’t give her the money. My wife is not any easy person to manage. There has been an incident or two in the past she’s already forgiven. She wouldn’t overlook one more. I had some rat poison in my cabin left over from a bout with them we’d had on the pier. I boiled the poison into a liquid. I guess I should mention, I am a diabetic, and have to take an insulin shot every day. It all seemed too easy.”
He stepped closer. “And now that you know everything, we are left with two possible scenarios. The first: You come with me. The second scenario: If you don’t come with me, I’ll shoot you right here and wait for your husband to return from his outing. I’ll shoot him and dress it up to seem like in a fit of remorse for having killed Jan, your husband murdered you and shot himself. This is your call. Which one do you like best?”
He released the safety on his gun and pointed it at my chest. I gasped but stayed put.
“I vote for scenario number three,” said Gurn, as he stepped through the lanai doors into the living room with his service revolver pointed at Kim. Two policemen, also with drawn guns, followed behind. “That’s the one where you get arrested for killing Janet Bernstein and Lee and I go on with our honeymoon.”
Kim wheeled around, still with gun in hand, to look at the three men.
“What took you so long?” I heard the wail in my voice and didn’t care. “I thought he was going to shoot me.”
Gurn didn’t answer at first, but moved forward, taking the gun from Kim’s extended hand. “I’ve been outside the whole time. You wouldn’t have been shot. One of these officers removed the firing pin from his gun earlier.”
Kim looked astonished then something clicked inside his head. “When I was called out of the office for a wrong number. It was in my desk drawer. I should have known. But I was only gone a minute.”
The shorter one smiled and waved at me. “I teach pistol safety, so it didn’t take long to disable the gun, Miss.”
As if to prove the point, he took the gun from Gurn’s hand, pointed it to the ceiling, and pulled the trigger. A mighty blast went off, raining plaster from the ceiling down on us, plus the tip end of one of the blades from the ceiling fan. Gurn and I stared at each other in horror.
“I thought I did this right,” the policeman muttered, looking down the barrel of the revolver.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Detective Kim took off running, and fairly flew out the front door. Gurn and the two cops followed in hot pursuit.
Again, I stayed put. My phone rang. It was my mother. I answered with a trembling hand.
“Hi, Mom,” I said before she could speak. At least my voice wasn’t shaking.
“Did you get it all?” I listened for a moment. “Good. Yes, yes, we got him, but we’re still working out the details. I’ll call you back in a few.”
I disconnected and heard what I thought were the sounds of one of the potted palms on the front terrace being smashed to bits and a man’s yelp, followed by several grunts. A few seconds later, Gurn walked through the door, out of breath, shirt torn open, and hair in disarray.
He stared at me. I could tell he was distraught. Crossing the room, he dropped into the chair by my side then reached for my hand. I noticed his hand was shaking as much as mine. His voice filled the silence.
“Are you all right, darling?”
&
nbsp; “Yes, and you?”
“Kim could have killed you. That’s the last time I let anyone besides me disarm a gun. I don’t want to think about what might have happened.”
“Me, either. I’ve still got the shakes. And I probably should have told you Kim’s a master of Korean Martial Arts, Kuk Sool Won. Sorry,” I said.
“No wonder it took three of us to bring him down, and then I had to hit him over the head with a potted plant. Did Richard get his confession?”
“Yeah. Mom called and said it came in crystal clear. It’s been transferred to the Kauai Police Department.”
“So it’s done.”
“It’s done. We’ll give our depositions and soon we’ll be able to leave paradise and go home. I’m so glad it wasn’t one of our new friends.”
“Or either of the hotel managers. I’d like to come back here someday.”
“Or Carolyn Cookie Crumbs.” I thought for a moment. “I thought he’d never actually say the words he killed her. We needed that for a solid case.”
“It was a long time coming. Congratulations on figuring it out, Lee. I’m glad you paid attention to what he said the first day.”
“Thanks, but you’re the one who followed him to the marina. And brought your own gun. That was smart.”
“Well, I’m supposed to carry at all times. Even honeymoons.” Gurn looked at me. “I thought you knew that.”
“That was a gun in your pocket? And here I thought you were happy to see me.”
I’d done a fair to middling imitation of Mae West, one of my favorite old time actresses, and we burst out laughing. After a moment or two, we wiped tears of laughter from our eyes. As they say, humor is a great release.
“He tangled with the wrong couple, darling,” I said.
“He did, indeed, beloved.”
There was another silence. Looking up at the damaged ceiling, Gurn went on.
“So how’s this honeymoon been going so far?”
“Truthfully? I was hoping for something a little less lively.”
“And more romantic.” Gurn looked at me, his lopsided grin in place. “Just you and me.”
“Isn’t that a song?”
“Forget the song.”
He leaned over the side of the chair and toward me. I followed suit. We met somewhere in the middle for a long and languorous kiss.
“Got any plans for the next hour or so?” He nuzzled my neck.
“Not that don’t involve you.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Gurn stood, stepped toward me, never letting go of my hand. “How’s your ankle?”
“Getting better by the minute.”
He pulled me up into his arms and we kissed again. I felt my shaking stop and my body temperature rise.
Love can do that.
~*~
Lee Alvarez’s adventures continue in other books in the Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries.
About the Author
In the midst of her eleventh novel, Heather is also a writer of short stories, comedy acts, television treatments, ad copy, commercials, and plays. The daughter of Ringling Brothers showfolk, she has won numerous awards and accolades for her novels and short stories, for which she is most grateful. Heather and her husband of thirty-five years are allowed to live with their two cats, Ellie and Yulie, in the foothills of San Jose, California.
Connect with Heather at the following sites:
Website: www.heatherhavenstories.com
Heather’s Blog: http://heatherhavenstories.com/blog/
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Email: [email protected]
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Books by Heather Haven
The Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries
Murder is a Family Business
A Wedding to Die For
Death Runs in the Family
DEAD...If Only
The CEO Came DOA
The Culinary Art of Murder
The Lee Alvarez Mystery Novellas
Honeymoons Can Be Murder
Marriage Can Be Murder (October 2017)
The Persephone Cole Vintage Mysteries
The Dagger Before Me, Book 1
Iced Diamonds, Book 2
The Chocolate Kiss-Off, Book 3
Noir Mystery Stand Alone
Death of a Clown
Multi-Author Boxed Sets
Sleuthing Women: 10 First-in-Series Mysteries
Sleuthing Women II: 10 Mystery Novellas
Collection of Short Stories
Corliss and Other Award-Winning Stories
SMOKED MEAT
A Carol Sabala Mystery Novella
By Vinnie Hansen
In this novella prequel to the Carol Sabala Mystery Series, Carol visits her mother for a family Christmas get-together. It’s murder, in more ways than one.
ONE
Santa decided I deserved coal. A great big lump. Maybe he saw me poring over one too many articles on murder weapons.
My worst Christmas ever started with a rare call from my mother, one Bea Sabala.
“Are you coming, Carol?”
Since my baking job at the swanky Archibald’s required me to work holidays, I was often able to dodge family get-togethers. But I hadn’t received a Christmas off for years, a detail noticed by my boss, who had granted me the holiday as though bestowing a championship ribbon. I could hardly refuse his offer. And going home was marginally better than spending Christmas Day alone, my hunky roofer boyfriend being occupied with his mother.
“As it happens, I can come this year.”
“Good,” she said. “Because the secret gift I have for you is way too heavy to mail.”
That was it. My mom hung up her phone.
A week later, on Christmas Eve, an assemblage of guests converged on my mom’s ranch-style house in Ferndale, California. My mom must have specified a time because everyone arrived at once.
To keep the driveway open for others, I parked my poor man’s Porsche, a faded red ’66 Karmann Ghia, on a dirt pullout down the road. I dallied, unbraiding my auburn hair, before carrying my backpack and armful of gifts toward the arriving entourage.
My Uncle Beanie pulled his Mercedes into the driveway and my Uncle Teddy edged his RV in beside it, so close Beanie had to squeeze his bulk from his car. Beanie’s latest paramour, Maureen, climbed from the passenger side of the Mercedes. A fitted green jacket trimmed with real fur snugged around her voluptuous body. Uncle Teddy immediately glommed onto her, eyeing her up and down, before lugging her green suitcase toward the house.
You see, like any family, ours has dynamics, and part of the dynamics was that Uncle Teddy thought he was entitled to whatever Uncle Beanie had. After all, Teddy was taller, much younger, and better looking. The fact he’d done nothing to deserve Uncle Beanie’s fortune never seemed to enter his thinking.
Teddy had brought along his son Brandon, my only cousin and favorite relative. Since Teddy’s parking job had pinned Brandon’s exit, too, he clambered over the driver’s seat. The nine-year-old jumped from their RV and sprinted down the street, whooping, long brown hair streaming behind him. But who wouldn’t be whooping after being stuck in a vehicle with Teddy? I was thankful to have Brandon’s kid energy to break up the tension a bit.
Although blissfully unaware of his role, Brandon played it to perfection. Just as Uncle Beanie yanked Maureen’s Samsonite suitcase from Teddy, and my two uncles glared at each other, Brandon leaped onto the steps between them. “Aunt Bea, did you make hot chocolate?” he shouted.
Brandon’s Aunt Bea, my mother, had of course prepared a thermos of hot chocolate, perfect in her opinion. As a dental hygienist, now scaled back (so to speak) to front office work, that meant not very sweet and no marshmallows, God forbid.
In the distraction Brandon created, my mother swooped
in and seized Maureen’s luggage, not only the suitcase, but the matching overnight bag Uncle Beanie had plopped in the entryway. Several inches shorter than my five-eight and slightly built, my mom teetered with the weight. I frowned. Either Maureen had packed bricks, or my mom was losing her Herculean strength.
“I’ll put these in Carol’s room,” Mom said pointedly. I guess this meant I’d be sleeping in some undisclosed location. “You can have Donald’s room,” she said to Beanie.
Uncle Beanie raised his bushy eyebrows in my direction, asking me to side with him in protest of these sleeping arrangements. He and I often allied, but I wanted to save my energy for more important skirmishes. As long as my mom didn’t assign me to bunk in Uncle Teddy’s RV, I was okay.
Tugging the suitcase from my mom, Uncle Beanie followed her down the hall muttering, “Really, Bea? Same as Thanksgiving?”
Uncle Beanie’s business partner Nikos and his wife Anna completed our group. Taken into our family fold many years ago as a lonely immigrant, Nikos was a pro at dealing with our family’s dysfunction. Ignoring the spat between my mom and Beanie, he hung his large overcoat and fiddler’s hat on the hall pegs and smoothed his thick salt-and-pepper hair.
His young wife Anna stiffly took up residence before the fireplace, watching our interactions with big black eyes. About ten years ago, Nikos had gone back to Argos, Greece, and three months later returned with this tiny, olive-skinned treasure with long, thick, naturally curly black hair.
So here we were, gathered in what had been my home until I fled to the sunnier, larger city of Santa Cruz. From the green shag carpet to the paper-and-pipe-cleaner angel atop the Christmas tree, this part of the house remained the same as when I’d grown up in it. The consistency stirred a blend of disgusted pity and overwhelming nostalgia.