Punch, Pastries, and Poison

by Harper Lin

  I sat back on the couch as Matt leaned forward. “Come on, Mike, don’t be so hard on her.”

  Mike fixed that dark glare on Matt. “You may not like my tone, but tell me you wouldn’t feel better knowing she was safe at home instead of out interacting with the public when we know for a fact that someone is trying to kill her.”

  Matt sat in stunned silence. Mike looked from one of us to the other. “I’m sorry if I’m coming off a little harsh, but this is serious, Fran. Whatever was in those chocolates killed Ephy, and the box had your name on it.”

  I nodded silently. He was right. Someone had tried to kill me, and an innocent bystander had died in my place. It wasn’t safe to go back to the café. “Okay. I’ll call the girls and let them know we’ll be closed for a few days.”

  “It may be longer than a few days,” Mike said.

  I nodded. Whatever he said. Whatever it took to keep everyone safe.

  Mike opened his mouth to speak, but his cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the display. “I have to take this,” he said, and he stepped into the kitchen.

  Matt reached over and pulled me against him. I leaned into his chest, breathing in his smell and the comfort of his arms. I couldn’t quite wrap my head around the situation I found myself in. Someone was trying to kill me—and not just a spur-of-the-moment thing, like when I’d been pushed down a flight of stairs. Someone was actively, premeditatedly trying to kill me. Why would anyone want me dead? What had I done to anyone to make them hate me that much?

  The low sound of Mike’s phone call ended, and he reappeared in the living room. “State lab. They have the preliminary results on the chocolates. No fingerprints, but the chocolates appear to have been injected through the bottom with large quantities of pure nicotine, easily enough to kill. The holes on the bottom were covered up with a smear of chocolate. Easy enough to notice if you look at the bottom, but why would you do that?”

  “Oh God.” I buried my face in Matt’s chest. I should have told Ephy to poke the bottom. I should have told her to at least look. She could still be alive if we’d just looked at the bottoms of the chocolates.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Franny,” Mike said quietly.

  Matt rubbed my back, murmuring softly in my ear that it was going to be okay and that it wasn’t my fault. But it was. I knew it was. Maybe he didn’t think so, but I knew it was.

  “I’m, uh, I’m gonna get out of here. I’m gonna head over to the café to start the search if that’s still okay.”

  I was crying, but I felt Matt nod against my head.

  “I’ll give you guys a call if I have any trouble finding Ephy’s emergency contact.”

  Matt nodded again.

  There was a pause and then, for the second time that day, Mike crossed the room and left while I sobbed.

  Chapter 19

  I had the curtains drawn and all the lights off when Matt got to my house sometime around noon the next day. He had gone in to work that morning but only after Mike’s assurances that the attacks had all been fairly passive—food or drinks left for me or someone else to consume at our leisure. There was no reason to think I wasn’t safe alone in my house. So he had gone in, but he promised me he’d take a long lunch and come back to the house to check on me.

  “Franny?” he called from the doorway.

  “In here.” I was in virtually the same position on the couch that I’d been the night before—curled up with Latte, staring mindlessly at bakers on the TV screen.

  Matt stood in the entry for a moment, looking at me, before walking over to the window. “Let’s get some light in here,” he said, jerking the curtains open.

  “Don’t!” I covered my eyes with my forearm. The light from outside was blinding.

  “You’ll get used to it in a minute.” He moved over to the other window.

  “No, really, please don’t.”

  He turned and looked at me with his brow furrowed. “Why not?”

  “I just—” I shook my head. “I don’t want them open.”

  Slowly, Matt closed both the curtains. “I could turn the lights on?” he asked, moving over to the switch.

  I shook my head. “No, I want it like it is.”

  He came over to where I was sitting on the couch, sat down beside me, and pulled me close. “What’s going on, Franny?”

  I pulled away and turned so I could look at him. “What’s going on? Someone’s trying to kill me, remember?”

  “Yeah, but Mike said—”

  “I don’t care what Mike said. He’s not the one being chased down by a crazed murderer.”

  “In fairness, whoever it is isn’t exactly trying to chase you down.”

  “No, they’re just trying to poison me.” I glared at him. “What happened to you being worried about my safety? Yesterday, when Mike was here, you were all for me closing the café and staying at home, but now all of a sudden you want to act like everything’s normal.”

  Latte jumped down off the couch and slunk away. He wasn’t used to me raising my voice about anything other than the occasional yelp when I burned myself in the kitchen—or the odd occasion when he got a little too close to something dead on one of our walks.

  “Franny, I—” He reached out to take my hand, but I pulled it away. “Of course I’m concerned about your safety. I just don’t think it’s healthy for you to be afraid of opening the curtains.”

  “I don’t think poison is healthy.”

  Matt looked at me for a long moment before pulling me close again. This time I let him.

  “I’m scared, Matty,” I whispered after a few minutes. “I’m scared of what might happen to me, to you, to Latte, to Sammy and Rhonda. I’m just really scared.”

  “I know.” He stroked my hair and brushed his lips across the top of my head. “I know. I’m scared, too, but I would never leave you if I didn’t trust Mike’s judgement and trust that you were safe here.”

  I nodded my head against his chest.

  “I love you, Franny.”

  “I love you, too,” I murmured.

  Matt held me for a few minutes until his stomach grumbled—loudly. Latte lifted his head and tilted it back and forth, trying to figure out what the noise was and where it came from. Despite myself, I giggled. And then Matt chuckled. He looked down at me with a warmth and softness that made me wonder why I’d ever been afraid when I knew he would do anything to protect me.

  “Want me to reheat the rest of the pizza for lunch?” he asked. After Mike had left the night before, Matt admitted that he hadn’t gotten any further than knocking half the pots out of the cabinet and splashing water everywhere when he dropped the pot he was filling up for spaghetti. We ordered a pizza instead.

  I nodded. “Yes, please.”

  He kissed me softly before getting up. “Is it okay if I turn some lights on so I can see what I’m doing?”

  Remembering the disaster he’d made of my kitchen the night before, I agreed. Twenty or so minutes later, he was back next to me on the couch, lights on, eating our leftover slices. It wasn’t the best pizza—you’re not really setting yourself up for success in that regard when you order at nine o’clock at night—but it had been edible, and it reheated well, so I was happy. It also helped that that pizza was the first thing I’d eaten all day. In fact, Matt ended up handing over his last slice after I inhaled everything on mine and he caught me eyeing his plate.

  When we were finished eating, he sat and watched until the end of the current episode of the baking competition with me. He even tolerated my commentary as I yelled at the bakers to put their dough in the freezer instead of the refrigerator and then to get it out of the freezer before it froze solid.

  “You should apply for one of these,” he said at one point, a sly smile spreading across his face. “Since you know everything they should be doing.”

  “Oh, like you should apply to play for the Patriots? You seem to be forgetting that I hear you yelling at the TV during football season
... and basketball season... and hockey season.”

  “Point taken,” he said, but the twinkle didn’t leave his eyes.

  When the show was over, he patted me on the knee. “I better be getting back to work.” He gave me a tender look. “You going to be okay here on your own?”

  I nodded. “I have Latte. He’ll protect me.”

  Matt looked down at Latte, who was currently asleep on his back in the middle of the floor, his paws in the air, looking like he wouldn’t harm a fly, let alone an intruder. “Vicious mutt.”

  “His DNA test said he’s a purebred.”

  “Vicious purebred.” Matt grinned at me. “I’m glad you’ve perked up. I was worried about you—” He held up his hand to keep me from cutting him off. “And not just because someone tried to poison you. The Franny I know and love doesn’t give up and sit in the dark when things go wrong.” He paused and chuckled. “The Franny who annoys the crap out of Mike doesn’t either. Before you get any ideas, I’m not saying you should leave the house and go investigate or anything, just that you’re always saying you don’t have enough time to do the things you want—like experiment with new recipes, or move into the downstairs bedroom.”

  He was right. The café kept me too busy to really experiment in the kitchen the way I would have liked to—everything from new drinks to new baked goods took time for me to figure out, time I didn’t usually have. And I’d been trying to move into the downstairs bedroom practically since I moved back into my childhood home. Maybe spending a few days at home wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

  “Okay, you’re right,” I conceded and quickly made a face at his expression of faux shock. “I’ll try to find something productive to do this afternoon.”

  He moved in and gave me a goodbye kiss then started backing towards the door. “Just don’t watch the next episode without me,” he said, gesturing at the TV.

  “I’ve seen it three times already.”

  He gave me a dirty look. “Just for that, I’m not making you my trademark spaghetti Bolognese tonight.”

  “You mean destroying my kitchen?” I teased.

  He rolled his eyes. “I’ll see you tonight.” He left, and I stared at the TV, trying to decide how to spend my time. Spending my day—or days—at home was just giving in to whoever had it in for me, and I wasn’t the type who gave in.

  “What should I do, Latte?”

  He rolled onto his side but didn’t wake up.

  “A lot of help you are.”

  I wandered into the kitchen. Some coffee would help get me going. Some coffee was my standard solution for almost everything. I briefly considered playing with a new recipe using my home espresso machine, but I quickly decided that I’d rather stick with a classic latte. I did take the time—as always—to create a little latte art, pouring in a picture of a phoenix to inspire me.

  When the coffee was ready, I went back out to the living room. Latte had taken advantage of my absence and moved back on the couch, sprawled out on top of my blanket. I wedged myself in and tried to think of what to do next. When it finally occurred to me—sometime shortly after the caffeine hit my bloodstream—it was so obvious I didn’t know how I hadn’t thought of it sooner. I had the list of people who’d been at the party, and I’d been working at the café yesterday. I could easily compare the list to who I’d seen the day before to figure out who had the opportunity to commit both poisonings.

  Matt and Mike couldn’t possibly begrudge me a little detective work while I was holed up in my house, could they?

  Chapter 20

  An hour later, I had a complete list of everyone I could think of who had been at the party and at the café the day Ephy was poisoned. I was sure I didn’t have everyone, though. I picked up my phone and dialed Sammy.

  When she answered, I could hear kitchen sounds in the background.

  “Hi, Sammy. Do you have a few minutes to talk? It sounds like you’re busy.”

  “Sure,” she chirped. “I was just starting dinner. Ryan and I are both off tonight, and I actually have time to cook, so I decided to make something nice.”

  We chatted for a few minutes about the roast chicken she was making before I managed to turn the conversation around to the party guests who had been at the café the day before.

  “Are you trying to investigate the poisonings yourself?” she asked immediately.

  “I’m just trying to think of who had opportunity, that’s all,” I replied.

  “I don’t know, Fran. You know Mike doesn’t like you getting involved in his investigations.”

  “I’m not getting involved,” I tried to assure her. “I’m just thinking about it. I’ll tell Mike anyone we come up with.”

  Sammy still hesitated. I could hear faint sizzling through the line as she started her gravy base. “You are going to tell him, right? You’re not going to go confront anyone yourself?”

  “No, I’m just trying to get a list together.”

  Another pause. “Don’t you think the police have thought of that already? Ryan said that this case is killing Mike.”

  “Gosh, I hope not.”

  “You know what I mean, Fran!”

  I did. But I also knew that I was the one whose life was actually in danger.

  “I’m sorry for being flippant,” I said, genuine contrition in my voice. “It’s just driving me crazy sitting here at home with nothing to do.”

  “You said you wanted to add some new drinks to the menu for the summer season. You could work on that. You always come up with really creative stuff.”

  “Have you been talking to Matt?”

  Sammy giggled. “No, did he say the same thing?”

  “Yes,” I groaned. “I know I could work on that, but I want to feel like I’m doing something useful. Like I’m not just sitting here waiting for the poisoner to figure out what they’re doing and actually kill me.”

  I could feel Sammy’s stillness through the phone line. “I’m so sorry, Fran,” she said in a small voice. “You’re right. Who do you have on your list so far?”

  I rattled off a handful of names, including Mary Ellen and her beau, Todd Caruthers, and Dean Howard.

  “Mr. Paul was at the party, and I remember he came in early yesterday.”

  “Mr. Paul?” I asked.

  “That’s just what I call him to be polite. It’s Paul. I’m not sure of his last name. I think he’s a lawyer or something over in Barnstable. He comes in early every day.”

  I vaguely remembered him being the first customer through the door the day before. I wrote his name down, even though “Paul something who might be a lawyer” wasn’t the most helpful information. As far as I was concerned, it was better to include too many names than to leave off an important one. Besides, even if I didn’t know this Paul guy, maybe he knew me. I shivered. The thought of someone I didn’t even know wanting me dead was even more chilling than someone I did know wanting me dead. “Anyone else?”

  “Ummm…” Sammy thought for a minute. “I don’t think so. Oh! Melissa. Melissa was in.”

  “Really? I don’t remember seeing her.”

  “Yeah, she was in for just a minute. She bought some cookies for her office.”

  I jotted down Melissa’s name. I didn’t think she was capable of hurting a soul, even when not heavily pregnant, but if I was putting Paul on the list, I needed to put Melissa down too.

  Sammy couldn’t think of anyone else, but she promised that she’d call me back if she did. I wished her luck on her chicken then said goodbye.

  Rhonda was next on my list.

  “Hey, Fran!” she answered. “Stop it! You’re being rude!”

  I sat in silence, wondering what I’d said or done to merit that greeting. Then I heard the distant but distinct sounds of gas being passed, accompanied by vigorous burping.

  “Not you, Fran. I have the boys in the car and—stop it!—they’re having an armpit fart competition. And burping, just for good measure. You two are disgusting! You’re on spe
aker, by the way. We’re in the car.”

  “I caught that,” I said, determining that the last bit was for me. “Should I call you back later?”

  “No. No! No! Stop it! Get out! Go! Get out! Stop it, you’re disgusting, get out! You’re fine, Fran, go ahead.”

  “Um—” I hesitated, not sure I wanted to be part of Rhonda abandoning her teenage sons on the side of the road.

  “It’s fine. We got to the soccer field. I have some peace for an hour or so.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “You don’t need to go watch them or anything?”

  “It’s just practice,” Rhonda said. “I’ve seen enough hours of soccer practice for my lifetime and yours. What’s up?”

  Hoping to avoid the grilling I’d gotten from Sammy, I gave Rhonda a vague explanation of what I wanted to know—just that I was trying to remember which regulars we had at the café yesterday afternoon. She knew me too well, though.

  “You’re trying to figure out who the poisoner is, aren’t you?” she said immediately.

  The long silence while I tried to come up with a plausible denial gave me away.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Mike a thing. His kids practice at a different time anyway,” Rhonda said with a chuckle. “So, who do you have so far?”

  I rattled off the names on my list, including the two Sammy gave me.

  “Mrs. D’Angelo,” Rhonda said immediately.

  I went to write her name down then stopped. “Wait, was she?” I didn’t remember seeing her on either occasion. I wondered how I’d missed her.

  “Oh, yes. She cornered me both times. I think I still have talon marks.”

  Mrs. D’Angelo was known for, among other things, her lengthy fingernails, always perfectly manicured in blood red, which she frequently used to grasp her unwilling conversation victims. “Conversation,” of course, was a generous term for what was really a monologue on Mrs. D’Angelo’s part.

  “She didn’t get sick at the party, did she?” As annoying as the older woman could be, I hoped she hadn’t been ill. While not frail, she was old enough that I worried about the eye drops’ effects on her. Of course, knowing Mrs. D’Angelo, she’d probably just order her body back to health, and it would comply out of sheer fear of the consequences of doing otherwise.