by Ed Lacy
“I don't know,” Bessie said, starting for the table.
I grabbed her shoulder, told her, “Don't move. Did you touch anything when you came in?”
“No. Soon as I opened the door and saw Matty, I yelled. I don't understand how I could have been so careless as to leave those vegetables out of the refrigerator. It isn't like me to....”
“What's in the bowl?” I asked, my eyes still covering the room.
“I was going to make keftethes for supper, so I....”
“What's that?”
I must have been snapping the questions at her, for Bessie sort of blinked and backed away from me as she said, “It's a... uh... fried meat ball. But there isn't any meat in the dish—just some vegetables I intended to saute first—tomato paste, peppers, mushrooms, olives, herbs and.... Obviously the heat must have turned the food and Matty ate some and got ptomaine and... oh, Matt, I know how fond you were of the beast... I'm sorry I was so careless, really!” She was on the verge of tears.
“Stop it, Bessie.” My voice was hard and curt; I knew I had to simmer down, cool off and use my head. “It wasn't your fault, you didn't do anything to Matty.”
Andy said, “Gee, think what would have happened if we had eaten the food. I bet....”
Bessie nodded, her face a sudden sickly white. “Matty saved our lives. But—even if it has been a hot afternoon, why should vegetables spoil that fast?”
There was a moment of silence. I was trying to think a few steps ahead. Then Bessie said, “Matt, will you take... him... away? I'll clean up and....”
I told her, “Bessie, I want you to stay out of the house, for awhile. You and Andy eat out.”
“Why?”
“I have some things to do here.”
She shrugged. “Well, if you wish. We'll change and eat in the village.” She started for the bedroom.
“No! I want you both out right now!”
“In our bathing suits? Please, Matt, while I realize how deeply you felt about the cat, I said I was sorry about the accident but....”
“Will you stay the hell out of here! I don't care where you eat—just leave me alone!” I heard the roar of my own voice and Andy's shrill, “Grandpops!”
I suddenly relaxed, got my nerves somewhat under control. Even tried to smile at Bessie as I took her trembling band, told her, “Honey, don't you see, I'm not only thinking about Matty—he's dead and gone. This wasn't any accident. This is a warning.”
“A warning? About what?”
“An attempt to frighten me off the Doc Barnes murder.”
Bessie tried to hide the anxious look mat slipped across her soft face. “But, Matt, that's over, solved.”
“The killer thinks I'm still on the case, didn't fall for that Nelson suicide thing.”
“Matty ate some bad food, that's too bad, but aren't you going overboard trying to connect a simple accident with...?”
“Bessie, Bessie, are you blind? You know what a fussy eater Matty is—was. You commented upon it several times. He wouldn't have eaten that food—I've never seen him jump on the table to steal food in his life! Don't you see, this is a plant, and a clumsy one at that, to scare....” I saw Andy staring up at me with big eyes—and bigger ears. “Andy, without saying a single word to anybody about what's happened, run over to the Johnsons, or whoever has a phone, and call the police. Just tell Roberts I want him up here pronto.”
“Yes, sir!” the boy said, taking off like a sprinter.
I waited until I heard him running down the road.
“Bessie, honey, this isn't any joke—it's damn serious. The killer came around to put the fear of God in me. He found Matty. Suppose he'd found you or Andy?”
Her face said she still didn't believe me. “Matt, doesn't that sound rather—fantastic? The heat spoiled some food and Matty ate it.”
“That's exactly what he wants us to buy—well, no sale! The killer has been riding his luck high, but with Matty he made his first mistake. He couldn't know Matty's eating habits, that Matty would never leap on the table for food.”
“Who knows how hungry the cat was?”
“Look, I certainly know all about his dainty appetite—it's impossible!”
“Now, Matt, be reasonable. I mean Matty could have.... He? You know who the killer is? Why Barnes was killed?”
“I don't know the why, but I have a hell of a strong idea as to who did it Bessie, what are we wasting time and arguing about? Whether you think I'm crazy or not, let's not take any chances. Take Andy over to the Johnsons and stay there for the night. Or until I call for you. I have a lot of work to do here: fingerprints and other clues. Okay?”
“Oh, Matt, you're not making much sense. I think you're....”
“Damn it, honey, what do you know about murder? Listen, at least humor me, even if you think I'm an old fool!”
“Matt, you know I don't think that. I mean, it's simply that.... All right, I'll wait for you at the Johnsons. Can I at least take some meat out of the refrigerator to cook over there?”
“No. After I have it analyzed, I'm throwing out every bit of food here. Forget food, you ate enough clams to last you a week. Honey, just turn right about and get. And don't worry.”
She giggled nervously. “Now you tell me—don't worry! I'll be waiting for you at the Johnsons. Matt, please take care—don't do anything foolish.”
I nodded, watched her cross the porch, go down the steps. It suddenly came to me how right she was: the chips were down and I'd damn well better be a good detective —no more second guessing.
I walked through the house slowly. Things seemed okay. But then he hadn't been hunting for anything—except me. I returned to the table and Matty. There didn't seem to be any skin or blood sticking to his claws. Yet I couldn't see him being manhandled without a fight. His mouth was wide open in a sort of gasp and some of the tomato-red food stuck in his throat. I sniffed at the bowl, the food smelled spicy and good. I took another sniff, bending so low the tip of my nose touched the mess. I jerked my head back, laughing aloud like a goon—the food was cold! I stuck a finger in: it was all cool—proving Bessie hadn't left it out on the table. There wasn't any doubt, it had been deliberate.
There wasn't anything to do until Roberts showed. I brushed away a fly buzzing Matty, washed up at the sink. I went outside, “locking” the screen door. It wasn't a lock, merely a catch.
I dropped in on the three cottages nearest ours. No one had been home in the afternoon—they'd all been at the beach. But he could have easily checked that first... seen me on the sand, too, or out digging those damn clams.
The entire End Harbor police motor pool was parked in front of the cottage—Roberts leaning out of the radio car. He waved a lazy hand at me. “Nobody home. What's all the excitement about now?”
My old distrust of him returned—hard and fast. Not that I thought he did it, but the motive behind everything had to be this small town scandal—and Roberts' main job was to keep a lid on it.
“Come inside,” I said, “unlocking” the screen door. He got out of the car, straightened his shirt, followed me in. When he saw Matty on the table Roberts whistled, pushed his hat back on his head, asked, “Ate some rat poison?”
“No, he was killed.”
“Got to be careful leaving these insecticides around. Too bad. What you want to see me about, Lund?”
“What kind of fingerprint equipment do you have here?”
“Not much—actually nothing to speak of. They've got a complete outfit at Riverside, of course, and Hampton Point. Guess if we ever had any need for taking prints, we could call on them. Why?”
“Why? To see if the killer left any prints!”
Roberts pulled at one of Matty's stiff legs. “What killer? Left what prints?”
“The guy who killed my cat. I think he also killed Doc Barnes and maybe Nelson. It's obvious.”
Roberts gave me a queer look, as if I was nuts. He sat down on a chair, fanning his face with his fancy cap. I asked,
“What's the matter with you? If there were prints on the chair, your big ass has smeared them.”
“I'm far from getting the message, Lund,” he corned. “Send it to me slower. Now what about the cat?”
I told him about coming home from the beach, finding Matty dead, added, “But it's all a clumsy job. First off, the food was cool, meaning it hadn't been spoiled—that it was taken out of the icebox recently and poison added. Secondly, it must have been forced down Matty's throat, he never in his life ate off the table. It was done to scare me off.”
“Scare you off what?” Roberts asked, his voice sarcastically polite.
“Come on, Roberts! Off the Barnes killing.”
“Lund, you can't be starting that again? The case is over.”
“The killer doesn't know that! Listen to me, Roberts, before I was sticking my nose in for no real reason, but from now on I'm in with both feet. That's my cat!” He still was looking at me as if waiting for the punchline of a gag. The hell with you, I thought. You won't get off those glamour-pants, you're too much of a jerk. And the devil with trying for prints. Killer would be too smart for that And there wasn't time, anyway.
“Lund, I got a dog I'd flip over if he died. So I can understand why the death of your cat has upset your better judgement, but....”
“Stop it.”
He got up. “Yeah, I can stop it. I can get back to some paperwork I was doing when your boy phoned. Talk sense, man, you're basing a lot of wild talk on what? That you think the cat would never jump on the table! You know how curious cats are, and he might have been very hungry, so he ups and eats some of this spoiled food and....”
“Damn it, it isn't spoiled! Stick your ringer in the stuff now, see if it feels like it's been out all afternoon.”
Roberts touched the mess with a thick finger, said, “Yeah, does feel cool.” He cleaned his fingertip on the tablecloth. “Let's start again; maybe he choked on a bone or...?”
“And maybe somebody is being murdered while we're gassing!”
“You're not sure how the cat died—why don't you ask a vet before shooting off your mouth about murder?”
I was too mad to even get riled. “Where can we find an animal doc?”
“Nearest one is in Hampton. You see what he says and then. Your car is still in the shop. I'll drive you there.”
“Thanks!” I got Matty's basket, gently placed him in it I couldn't bend his legs, so I left the top open. I put the bowl in a big saucepan, held that in my left hand and took the basket under my right arm, said, “Let's go.”
Roberts nodded at my trunks. “Your legs aren't that good. Ordinance against walking around in swim trunks— even old ones. Get dressed.”
I slipped on my clothes, wondering how much more of this patronizing “humoring” I could take. Even a hick cop should take murder seriously. Roberts carried the pot out to the car as he said, “I'll have to stop at the station, tell 'em where I'm going. Kind of late—best we phone the vet and see if he's around.”
I didn't say a word. When we pulled up in front of the “police station” I had cooled off enough to admit Roberts was at least trying to work intelligently. I should have thought of seeing a veterinarian. I should have used my head instead of my temper. I had to play it careful, not risk Andy or Bessie—or myself. I stared out of the car window, Matty heavy and silent in his basket on my lap, watching the people pass by on the street, wondering if I were being watched, too.
About ten minutes later Roberts came out, waved to a couple of passing girls before he told me, “It's after six— the vet shut at four. Wife says he's on his boat fishing, won't be back until late.”
“Another vet around?”
“In Riverside. I phoned him, too—no answer. Tomorrow morning well....”
“Tomorrow will be too late. Where can I get this food analyzed?”
“At this hour?”
“Right now!”
“We haven't a lab and the county lab at Riverside will be shut. Doc Barnes would have been our man. Guess Jessie—the druggist—might help us.”
“Think he's out fishing, too!”
Roberts gave me a stupid grin. “Let's walk across the street and see.”
The druggist turned out to be a serious-faced kid of about twenty-six or so, wearing a loud yellow sport shirt and Bermuda shorts. We went to the back of the store, waited while he made a soda for an old lady. Then I told him we wanted to know what had killed Matty, showed him the dish of food. He sniffed at it, rubbed some between his slender fingers. He ran water over a spoonful of the stuff, washing away the red tomato paste. He held up a small white sliver. “I don't have to be a research chemist to spot this—piece of toadstool. There's a quantity of mushrooms here and at least one of them is toadstool.”
He handed it to Roberts who said, “Yeah, it is a toadstool. That makes for a simple answer, Lund, your daughter-in-law picked wild mushrooms and....”
“She buys her mushrooms.”
“Lucky you—got a good lawsuit. Hope she got 'em at the supermarket.”
“I doubt that, Artie,” Jessie the druggist said. “Store mushrooms are cultivated and there's little chance of a toadstool mixing in. Beside, this type is a cinch to spot. Of course, remember there could be something else in the food and if you give me a few days to....”
I cut in with, “What would have happened if we—I— had eaten some of this? Would it have caused death?”
“You understand, I'm not a toxicologist, so this is far from an expert opinion. There are various species of poisonous mushrooms, or toadstools, as they are commonly called, and I imagine some are quite deadly. However, judging by the structure of this sample, it's a local variety. I used them for doll umbrellas when I was a kid. I believe you'd have to eat a far larger quantity than could be found in this plate to possibly cause death. But there's enough here to have made you miserably ill for several days.”
I nodded. “One thing more, doc, wouldn't...?”
Jessie gave me a solemn grin. “I'm not a doctor.”
“But you're a country lad and maybe you know about animals. Wouldn't an animal by instinct leave a toadstool alone?”
“I couldn't say. I suppose an animal might know food was poisonous by the smell, but mushrooms are odorless. And it seems to me I recall pictures of cows dying out West when they were driven by thirst to drink at alkaline wells. Notice how the cat's neck is swollen and the large, almost abnormal amount of food in the throat, as if the food were forced down his throat.” He gave me a suspicious glance.
“But, Jess, couldn't the swelling be caused by the toadstool making the cat sick?” Roberts asked.
Somebody called out from the front of the store, “Jessie?”
“Yes.”
“Leaving a dime for the paper on the counter.”
“Thanks.” The druggist turned to Roberts. “That's possible. I really don't know. Say, Artie, what's this all about?”
“Nothing,” I said quickly. “Thanks for your time, Mr.... Jessie.” I picked up Matty's basket and the pot of food. Roberts followed me out to the police car, opening the door for me. I told him, “I'd appreciate it if you'd drive me back to the cottage.”
“Why, sure, I always give door-to-door service,” he said, starting the car. “Well, guess you're convinced now it was an accident.”
“Accident? How often have you had a case of toadstool poisoning in the Harbor?”
“Never heard of any, but they do happen,” he said, glancing at a car making a brake-screeching turn off Main Street, muttering, “Dumb kid drivers.”
“I'll tell you what happened. The killer came to our cottage with a toadstool while we were at the beach, found the food in the icebox, cut in the toadstool. He figured after eating the food we'd get sick enough to pack up for New York. I'd be off his back. Then he saw my cat, thought he had a better way of making sure his plan worked fast—forced food down Matty's mouth and left the bowl beside him on the table.”
“You're going of
f half-cocked, Lund. All that is only what you think.”
I patted Matty's basket. “I didn't think up this!”
“But you can't be positive that...?”
“I'm positive!”
“Look, Lund, all we know is your cat ate a toadstool and died. That doesn't prove a thing. You heard Jessie, he wasn't even certain how the cat died. And don't keep saying 'he'—if you think the cat was deliberately killed— I recall hearing your daughter-in-law wasn't keen on the cat. And her boy—some kids get kicks out of hanging dogs and....”
“Oh cut it. I've had enough talk.”
“What the hell do you expect me to do? If the cat was killed deliberately, so what? I'm not the SPCA. Killing a cat isn't any crime. As for this being part of the Barnes business, old man, you're way off your rocker.”