Sell Low, Sweet Harriet

by Sherry Harris

  I remembered a class CJ had taken about household poisons. Acetaminophen was such a common painkiller. But even doubling the dose in one day could cause liver failure and death. It was even worse if combined with alcohol. Eleanor had told me the smoothies they drank had alcohol in them.

  “Why would she tell you that?”

  “She knew what we would find when the lab results came in. Combine that with the other evidence and the case against her was about as airtight as a case can get.”

  “Then why did Becky hit Alicia on the head?” I asked.

  “She thought the poisoning would happen quicker. When it didn’t she went over and watched her house. Waited for an opportunity.”

  “That means it’s premeditated. If she’d just hit her on the head it might have been a moment of insanity.”

  “Yes. It’s so horribly sad,” Frank said. “The worst part is Alicia was dying anyway. Cancer. Only she and her husband knew at that point.”

  “So Becky robbed her of her last precious days.”

  “Of her being able to say her final goodbyes.” No wonder this case had hit Frank so hard. And maybe it’s why Alicia had spoken her mind at that Spouses’ Club meeting. That incident seemed to have set Becky in motion.

  I remembered Walter, Alicia’s husband, saying that the puppy would give him a reason to get up in the morning. They’d found Norton together. It must have comforted Alicia to know that Walter wouldn’t be completely alone.

  “It’s one of the reasons we asked for your help. We couldn’t let this one go.”

  “How long have you known?” I asked.

  “Since the beginning. Alicia’s husband came to us right away. We asked that he not share that information with anyone else. And he agreed. At first we thought maybe he didn’t want to see her suffer. It’s one of the reasons we arrested him.”

  There was nothing more to say. We said our soft goodbyes. I was grateful to have work to keep me busy.

  * * *

  After spending the day working at Jeannette’s house, I came home and took another stab at making chicken marsala. After chopping, dredging, sautéing, and simmering, I took the lid off on my latest batch. It smelled good. The sauce was smooth as silk instead of clumpy like it had been on my previous attempts. I dipped a spoon in, almost afraid to taste it. I blew on the spoon to cool the sauce and waited a couple more moments. Now or never. I sipped. It tasted good. Delicious even. I did a little happy dance after I turned off the burner. Next, I cut into the chicken. It was tender, not like the jerky I’d inadvertently made the time before. Last time I’d been so determined to make sure it wasn’t raw in the center that I overcooked it. Cooking wasn’t easy. So many things could go wrong and they usually did for me.

  I transferred half of the contents to a Pyrex container for later. This batch was good enough that I could pour it over the pasta I had boiling and share it with Mike. I drained the pasta and put half the pasta into the gently simmering pan on the stove. I topped the other pasta with oil and butter for later. Once it cooled I’d stick it in the fridge. I gave the marsala on the stove a quick stir. I took the pan and carried it carefully to the door to take over to Mike.

  I balanced the heavy pan against my hip as I went to open the door. Ouch. It was hot. A thump from the hall was followed by a groan. My heart started hammering as I heard a banging sound and yelling. I opened my door and peeked out. Francesco was out cold on the floor. A man stood in Mike’s doorway with his back to me. His arm was out and he had a gun pointed at Mike’s face. A face that was paler than the snow on the town common.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  “Hey,” I yelled. I ran a few steps. The man turned, swinging the gun toward me. I flung the contents of the pan at him. He screamed as the hot liquid splashed onto his face. I bolted at him and whacked him upside the head with the heavy pan. To my astonishment he fell to the floor next to Francesco.

  Mike and I stared at each other for a second. Then Mike had the good sense to grab the gun up off the floor where it had fallen. Mike took the gun into the apartment and came back out.

  “Who is that?” I asked, pointing a shaking finger at the man. Marsala dripped from his thick curly hair. He wore a disheveled black pinstripe suit.

  “A nobody,” Mike said.

  “A mobster?” I leaned against the wall. My apron suddenly too tight around my waist. Had I just thrown chicken marsala in a mobster’s face? Was I going to be the one that would have to leave and go into hiding? “He’s got to be somebody and he’s not going to be happy with me when he wakes up.”

  Mike came over and grabbed me by the shoulders. “It’s okay, Sarah.”

  “He had a gun pointed at your face.” I stabbed a finger dramatically at Francesco, who groaned. “He tried to kill Francesco. None of this is okay.”

  “Let’s go back to your apartment. Get you out of the hall,” Mike said.

  Francesco sat up. Mike looked at him. “Keep an eye on him.”

  “Is that—”

  “Yes,” Mike said. “I’m taking Sarah to her apartment. She’s a little upset.”

  “What’s on his face?” Francesco asked.

  “Chicken marsala,” I said. “I made it. And it was good.”

  Mike put his arm around my shoulders and walked me back to my living room. I peeled the apron off and just dropped it on the trunk by my couch. I sat down in my grandmother’s rocking chair and stroked the wood of its curved arms. It was good, solid, comforting. What had I just done?

  “You have to tell me what’s going on,” I insisted.

  Mike sat on the edge of the couch, turned toward me. He put his forearms on his knees and clasped his hands together. “I went out with that guy’s younger sister,” he said. His face was composed and sincere looking.

  I wasn’t sure I trusted that sincerity. He’d lied to me before. “How much younger?” I asked.

  “Just a couple of years younger than me. Jeez, what do you think, I’m a cradle robber?”

  “No. Sorry. I’m just a little upset right now.”

  “She broke up with me. But her brother out there”—Mike jerked his thumb toward the door—“decided it was because I’d hurt her in some way. But I treated that woman like a princess. To tell the truth, it hurt when she broke things off.”

  “He was going to kill you because you aren’t dating his sister?” What was he going to do to me then?

  “No, Sarah. It wasn’t even a real gun.”

  I’m not sure I believed that. That gun looked real to me. I’d been around guns since I’d met CJ because of his jobs with the Air Force. Why was Mike so pale if it wasn’t real?

  “He’s just a little strange,” Mike said. “Great with computers, but strange. I’m going to call his sister and take him to her.”

  “What about me?” I’d be furious if someone threw hot chicken marsala in my face.

  “Don’t you worry. He’s not going to come around here again.”

  “He’s the one that broke into your store and made the fondue?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I finally got a look at him on a neighbor’s security camera this morning. We’ve been searching for him all day. I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I let a guy like that run me out of town.”

  I wondered again if Mike was lying. He had looked rattled and had hustled me out of the hall quickly. Was it because he didn’t want Francesco to say anything else to me? Something that would contradict what Mike was telling me right now? Was I going to have to move? Go into witness protection? Or trust Mike was telling me the truth. I guess for now that’s what I’d have to do.

  “How did he find you here?”

  “Like I said, he’s a genius with electronics. We must have slipped up someplace and he found me.”

  “Should we call the police?”

  Mike shook his head. “There’s no reason to.”

  “He could charge me with assault.”

  “He’s not going to admit to anyone that a woman got the best of him.�
��

  “I have to tell Seth.”

  Mike opened his mouth, but I cut him off. “I’m not keeping secrets from him.” I stared right into those icy blue eyes. I’d kept a secret for Mike once before and I wasn’t doing it again with Seth.

  “He’s not going to be happy. It might put him in a compromising position, him being the district attorney.”

  “I know. But I don’t care. I’m not lying to him.”

  “Not telling him about this isn’t lying.”

  I shook my head. “No secrets.”

  “Everyone has secrets.” Mike headed toward the door and then turned back. “You’re something. You were going to save my life even when you thought the gun was real.” He gave me a long look. “I owe you.” With that he walked out.

  * * *

  Seth and I sat on opposite sides of the couch while I recounted what had happened in the hall earlier this evening. By the time Seth arrived there weren’t any signs of chicken marsala on the floor or walls in the hall. The place was scrubbed clean. Even the pan was gone. No one sat outside Mike’s door, so they must be out somewhere. I watched Seth’s face as I told the story. Concern, relief, and interest skimmed across it as I explained what had happened.

  “You cooked chicken marsala?” he asked.

  “That’s what you got out of all of that? That I cooked?”

  He laughed. “No. I’m glad you’re okay. I’ll talk to Mike.”

  “I hope this doesn’t put you in an awkward position.”

  “It’s okay. So you cooked. For Mike.”

  Seth sounded a bit jealous. I blushed. “I cooked for you. I know it’s your favorite. But there was so much I took some to Mike.”

  “There’s some left?”

  “Yes. Stay right there. I’ll heat it up.” I went into the kitchen, grabbed a pan, and started the process of heating the marsala. While it heated, I put a clean vintage tablecloth on my small kitchen table. It looked French provincial with its red roosters and fleur-de-lis. After a quick search I found a candle and stuck it in a wine bottle I had in my recycling. I checked on the marsala and gave it a stir.

  I bustled out to the living room. Seth looked up from his phone and smiled at me.

  “Just a few more minutes,” I said. I opened the small door to the attic and crawled through. I found the box of china I’d bought at the thrift shop and took out a few pieces. I smiled. Maybe Seth was china worthy. Back in the kitchen I washed and dried the dishes, then set the table. It all looked lovely. Now to taste the marsala. I grabbed a spoon, dipped it in the sauce and blew on it before I tasted it. I did another silent happy dance.

  After doling out pasta and marsala onto our plates, I lit the candle and called to Seth. “It’s ready.” Fingers crossed the chicken hadn’t dried out.

  Seth’s eyes lit up when he saw the table. He swooped me into a kiss. “Want me to open some wine?”

  “Yes, please. The bottle of chardonnay you brought last time is in the fridge. The one you said had a buttery finish. It should go with the creaminess of the sauce.”

  “Sit,” he said. He pulled out my chair and gave me a swift kiss on the cheek when I sat. “Thanks for this.” He gestured toward the table.

  “You might not want to thank me until after you eat.”

  “It smells great.”

  I didn’t want to tell him, based on past experience, that just because it smelled good didn’t mean it was. He opened the wine, poured two glasses, and set them on the table. He moved his place setting and chair next to mine.

  Seth held up his glass. “To you.”

  We took a sip of the wine and it did indeed have a buttery finish. I sat nervously as Seth cut into his chicken. It looked juicy still, but perhaps reheating, even on low heat, wasn’t its friend.

  He took a bite and set his fork down.

  Uh-oh.

  “It’s delicious.”

  I took a tentative bite. Seth was right. I sighed with relief.

  “Thank you,” Seth said.

  “You’re welcome.” I thought back to my lunch with the DiNapolis. Maybe this is what they had been talking about—that cooking was love, because I felt warm with happiness.

  Chapter Forty

  Thursday afternoon Jeannette and I sat in her living room. “How are you doing?” I asked her.

  “Okay. I can’t believe this mess with that Sam and his friend.” She shook her head. “My brother feels so guilty.”

  “It’s crazy. And you are sure you want to sell some of the jewelry?”

  “Yes. I kept a few pieces that I remember my mom wearing. But most of it I’d never seen.”

  “Okay. The friend I told you about, Charlie Davenport, is going to come price it for us. She agreed to be here the day of the sale too.” I’d met Charlie through another friend last spring. She was a Vietnam veteran, who was a bit hard of hearing, but loved karaoke. After she’d come home from Vietnam she’d worked in the family jewelry store until she’d retired. The store had a great reputation here in Ellington, so we were lucky to have her onboard.

  Jeannette handed me a black velvet box. “Here’s the jewelry that can be sold.”

  “Charlie said she could keep it at the jewelry store until Saturday.”

  “That would be great. I have to run.”

  “Okay, I’ll make sure everything is locked up tight before I go.”

  After Jeannette left I took the rings with me and worked in one of the bathrooms until I heard the doorbell ring.

  Charlie hugged me, when I answered the door bashing me with her big purse and a tote bag. With her Afro and unlined face she looked too young to have served in Vietnam. She wore an African print caftan in bright greens over a pair of jeans.

  “Come in,” I said, pointing to the living room.

  “Dum sim?” Charlie looked puzzled. “You want to eat Chinese food? I came here ready to work.”

  I tried not to chuckle because I knew the dish was called dim sum. “I said, come in.” This time I said it louder. We went to the living room and sat down on the couch.

  Charlie laughed. “Darn hearing aids. Battery must have gone out again. Hang on.” Charlie pulled a little case out of her purse and did some quick switching around of things. “There. That ought to be better.”

  “I’m not sure how you handle those tiny batteries without dropping them.” I still spoke louder than normal.

  “Don’t need to shout. I’ve got this now. As for the batteries, I’ve been working with watches and jewelry all my life. Gives one a certain dexterity. Now let’s see what you’ve got.”

  I grabbed the box I’d stuffed in a bathroom drawer when I answered the door. I was still a little freaked out about all that had gone on here. “Here you go,” I said, handing Charlie the black velvet box. Jeannette was still pondering what to do with the coins and unset jewels.

  Charlie set the box on the coffee table, opening it carefully. About twenty rings winked and sparkled at us, lined up in slots in the velvet. “Umm, umm. This is going to be fun.” She nodded her head. “I’ve been missing this more than I realized.”

  I plucked the pink ring I’d admired the other day out of the box and put it on my ring finger. Perfect fit. “What kind of stone is this?” I asked. I held out my hand like girls always did when showing off an engagement ring, watching the stone catch the light. The ring was set in swirls of gold filigree with tiny diamonds in the swirls.

  “Let me get my loupe.”

  I continued to hold out my hand while Charlie studied it with her loupe. She nodded and then looked up at me. “Pink ruby. One minor flaw. It’s a beauty.”

  I took it off and placed it in Charlie’s upturned palm.

  “Do you need my help?” I asked. Jewelry was so much more fun than bathrooms. There were some towels and washcloths that could be sold. I’d been dumping out tubes of old toothpaste, cold cream, and makeup.

  “You know how to appraise rings?” Charlie asked.

  “No.”

  “Well,
then you just go do whatever you need to.” Charlie extracted a small scale and some other equipment from the tote bag she’d brought with her.

  * * *

  Friday evening I came home from putting the finishing touches on Jeannette’s garage sale. Harriet had been a huge help and I’m not sure I could have finished pricing without her. I sat on my couch with a glass of cabernet and turned on the local Boston news. Ellington was too small to have its own television station. There was a breaking news story that Jimmy “the Chip” Russo had been fished out of Boston Harbor in what looked like a mob hit. They showed a picture of him.

  I choked on my wine and set my glass down. It was the guy from the hall—the one Mike knew. The reporter said it looked like he’d been tortured first because he had burns on his face and a lump on the back of his head.

  Tortured? What I’d done was now being called torture? I’d saved Mike and maybe Francesco. I should have insisted that Mike call the police. I threw on my coat, grabbed my purse, and ran down to my car. Thirty minutes later I stood in Il Formagio, Mike’s cheese shop. I recognized the girl behind the counter and she recognized me from previous visits.

  “Get Mike over here now. Or he’s going to have a bigger fondue party than the last one.”

  The girl got on the phone. After she hung up, she told me that Mike was on his way. I paced around the shop, declining offers of cheese, crackers, or a drink—the nonalcoholic kind. A real drink I might have considered. Fifteen minutes later Mike strolled in.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” he said.

  I assumed this was because he was worried someone was bugging the place—either other mobsters or the FBI. Who knows, maybe both.

  Out on the sidewalk streetlights shone on the now dirty snow. Mike moved like he didn’t have a care in the world. Snow was melting, people milled about, standing in lines waiting to get in restaurants. It was the first decent day we’d had in over a month.

  “I had nothing to do with what happened to Jimmy,” Mike said. He nodded and smiled at a little Italian grandmother dressed all in black. “I promise you.”

  “It said he’d been tortured. They think what I did was torture.”