Eat, Pray, Die Mystery Box Set

by Chelsea Field

  I watched in horror as Connor’s mom picked up one of the cookies.

  If I didn’t say anything, it was probable that nobody would die thanks to the small dose, but it would definitely ruin Christmas. If I did say something, I’d blow my cover, break my Taste Society oath, and blow up years of Connor’s deception. No one was allowed to know the truth of our jobs. Including family.

  Mae raised the cookie to take her first bite. I had to stop her. Give myself time to think.

  I leaped to my feet, startling everyone and the dog. “I’d, uh, like to propose a toast,” I announced, grabbing my wineglass and making it up as I went along. “You guys have welcomed me like I’m family, and I really appreciate it.” My brain raced frantically. Connor’s mom had picked up her wineglass but was still holding the cookie in her other hand. “Um, I thought I’d be alone today, missing my loved ones back in Australia. I would’ve had Meow for company, of course. Uh, that’s my housemate’s cat. Long story. But never mind that, the point I’m trying to make is, well, thank you.” Everyone was waiting to hear the actual toast part of the toast: Mae smiling sympathetically, Harper trying not to laugh. Agatha looked like she wanted to hear more about the cat. “So, here’s to family and to Christmas.”

  “To family and to Christmas,” they all repeated. Except for Agatha, whose attention had shifted back to the food.

  Connor was regarding me with a perplexed look that only made me madder. I wasn’t going to forgive him for this.

  My hand trembled as I met his eye and thrust the glass into his as hard as I could. I was envisaging it shattering, sending a shower of glass and wine onto the cookies. Instead, he saw my glass coming too fast and reacted to soften the collision. Half my wine sloshed over the rim onto Connor’s arm. It served him right, but that left less liquid to drown the cookies in. Thinking quickly, I dropped my glass on top of them. I was seconds too late for it to look like reflex, but I had to hope no one else would notice.

  “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry! What a klutz I am.” I gave a tremulous smile, wishing I could disappear. In part so I could be alone with my mortification and in part so I could use my invisibility to gain the upper hand in kicking Connor’s ass.

  His mom put her cookie down and hurried to get a cloth to clean up the spillage. I made as if to follow her, then snatched the unspoiled cookie from her plate and stuffed it into my jeans pocket. With my jeans already too tight, it was going to make an awful mess, but I couldn’t ditch it under the table or Agatha would eat it.

  I looked down to check there were no telltale crumbs to give away my hiding place. It was then I remembered my pants were undone.

  4

  Feigning that nothing was wrong and keeping up with the banter over dessert, tea, and coffee was nearly impossible. Acting had never been my strong suit. By the time we walked back to the SUV, I was ready to burst. I still couldn’t believe what Connor had almost allowed to happen.

  I turned on him as soon as we’d waved goodbye and were out of sight. “How the hell could you?”

  “What?”

  “You know exactly what. Don’t play with me.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  I considered digging the mutilated cookie out of my pocket and throwing it at him. Instead, I continued my rant. “Enough. It wasn’t funny from the moment you let me serve poisoned cookies to your family, and it sure as heck isn’t funny now!”

  His voice was quiet, a stark contrast from my own. “Start at the beginning.”

  I was going to keep yelling, but for all his faults, Connor wasn’t one to deny being a jerk. And he didn’t look amused. Not in the least. In fact, he looked a bit scary.

  “The cookies?” I prompted.

  Nothing.

  “That you sent me this morning?”

  Still nothing.

  “As an apology for missing our date yesterday?”

  “I didn’t send you any cookies,” Connor said.

  “Oh.” Weird that a part of me was disappointed he hadn’t sent me cookies. Especially when they’d turned out to be poisoned, but there it was. “Then who did?”

  “No idea, but if they were poisoned, I’ll be damned if I let them get away with it.”

  All hint of the man who’d cupped my head in his hands and kissed my brains out this morning was gone. I felt another pang of disappointment since I’d been hoping that I’d see more of that man tonight. But there was no chance of it now. He’d switched into professional PI mode.

  “Tell me everything. When, where, and how did you get them? What were they poisoned with?”

  It’s not that I didn’t want him to have my back. I loved that about him. It was only that this evening, I wanted him to have my front as well.

  “Can’t this wait until tomorrow?” I asked. Now that I knew he wasn’t behind the “prank,” I really, really wanted to go ahead with my original plans.

  Connor didn’t answer, just looked at me.

  I slumped down in my seat and started talking.

  I was grateful to conclude the pool of people who might send me poisoned cookies was not large. In fact, ruling out my current date’s possible idea of a prank and my ex-husband due to his lack of poisoning knowledge, I could only think of one.

  Albert Alstrom. The celebrity chef who’d become scarily fixated on me after I’d played the star-struck fan as part of an investigation. We’d ruled him out as the person behind the murder attempt but learned he had no qualms about using date rape drugs to get his women to cooperate. When I still didn’t cooperate, he upped the game by poisoning Meow and then me as well.

  Lucky for the bastard that Meow hadn’t suffered any lasting harm, or he might not have gone to jail with all of his body parts.

  The jail was where we were heading now, despite my protests.

  I had a feeling Albert would enjoy a Christmas visit from me all too much. And I still thought that since the threat was already minimized, the damn case could wait till tomorrow.

  Connor had other priorities.

  Maybe if I made a move on him, I could convince him to change those priorities, but what if it wasn’t enough to change them? What if he brushed me off? My confidence wasn’t high enough to take the risk. Especially in my stupid cartoon T-shirt.

  I let a sigh escape. Hopefully Albert would admit to doing it, Connor would feel like he’d protected me, and then we could spend some time together, for the first time in our entire relationship, doing something other than working a case.

  Albert had managed to weasel his way into Seal Beach’s pay-to-stay jail program for nonviolent, affluent offenders. It was his first conviction, and since I’d escaped before he could do anything (and some might add because he had the status and wealth of a celebrity), he’d gotten off lightly. The jail offered relative luxury confinement compared to the county prison, but as I followed Connor’s broad shoulders down the narrow corridor, I was glad to see it was a major step down from Albert’s mansion in Bel Air.

  I was also glad for Connor’s strength and quiet competence. Despite logic telling me I had nothing to worry about, my palms were damp. I wiped them on my jeans.

  We entered the crowded visitors’ area. Crowded because of Christmas, I guessed. Albert was waiting for us in an orange jumpsuit. It was not his color, and without the benefits of a stylish haircut and tailored clothes, he reminded me more of the kid who’d been bullied in school than the successful, scheming celebrity. Even so, as his pale blue eyes stalked me across the room, I found myself wiping my hands on my jeans again.

  “Isobel!” he practically sang, the goofy grin I remembered making an appearance. It was a grin that might put you at ease if you didn’t know better. “I’m so glad to see you. Wow. I never expected this. A visit on Christmas? How blessed am I? I mean, I know Christmas is a time for second chances and all, but I never thought you’d forgive me.”

  He was acting weird. Usually he’d be trying to play it cool. Trying to impress me. Trying to act like he h
ad more power than he did. Now he was like a little kid presented with ice cream.

  “What the hell makes you think she’d forgive you?” Connor cut in.

  Albert jumped as if he hadn’t noticed Connor’s existence. “The cookies. You got them, didn’t you?”

  Connor’s knuckles whitened. “So you did send them, you little shit.”

  Albert raised his hands, revealing the long, slender fingers that I’d always found creepy. “Hey, man. There’s no need for jealousy. I wasn’t trying to make a move or anything. I only wanted her to know I was sorry for what I did.” Albert’s focus returned to me. “Didn’t you get the note? ‘I’m sorry. Fresh start?’ I’ve joined the Brotherhood of the Enlightened Path and I’ve been transformed. One of the steps to ascension is to go back and try to make amends with everyone you’ve hurt. Of course I couldn’t visit you”—he gave a self-deprecating shrug—“but I wanted to do something.”

  I shook my head. “Albert, the cookies were poisoned.”

  “What? No way! I swear on all my awards and accolades they were a genuine apology. I was trying to make amends. I’m a different person now. Really.”

  I was starting to believe him. Sadly, his own achievements were probably the most important thing in his life. Plus, his attention hadn’t strayed once to my chest or my crotch; his former favorite places to look.

  “Then why didn’t you sign the note?” I asked.

  “I didn’t? I mean, George, my butler should’ve signed it from me. But then how did you know they were from me?”

  I mustered the courage to meet his eyes. Eyes I’d had nightmares about after what he’d done, or tried to do, to me. “Because they were poisoned.”

  “Oh.” He looked genuinely crestfallen. “I… Well, I don’t know what to tell you. I swear they weren’t meant to be poisoned.”

  Connor cracked his knuckles. “Who else had access to the cookies? How did you arrange the delivery?”

  “George made them from an old recipe of mine. I couldn’t send her the store-bought variety, could I? He was supposed to deliver them as well, but I guess he might have paid someone to do it…”

  “Give us his details.”

  Albert recited them and wrote a note to George requesting full cooperation. Then he looked at me anxiously. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but would you maybe tell me when you’ve got this figured out? I’d hate to go on thinking that my peace offering had caused you further harm.”

  Connor pushed off the table and stood up. “We’ll think about it.” Then he ushered me out, shielding me from Albert’s gaze as we left the jail.

  5

  It turned out that after Albert had become “enlightened,” he’d invited George and his family to move in to his Bel Air mansion while he was away. He’d already been paying the butler to upkeep it in his absence, so it was more convenient for George to live on-site.

  We passed through the ten-foot security fence and walked up to the bright blue door. The building was made of two rectangular prisms set atop one another and cantilevered at a forty-five-degree angle, like the toy blocks of a giant child. Floor-to-ceiling dark windows contrasted with the smooth white walls. Beautiful but comfortless, the way I remembered.

  I almost expected George to answer the door in a tux as he had the last time I stood on the doorstep, but of course, even perfect English butlers didn’t play butler to their own families on Christmas. He was wearing the bottom half of a Santa suit and a T-shirt that said “World’s Greatest Dad.”

  Regardless of his outfit, he still had his hauteur. He looked down his long nose at me, unhappy recognition on his face. “Ms. Avery. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company on this special day?” His tone was faultlessly polite yet somehow managed to convey that it was very rude of me to interrupt the aforementioned special day.

  Connor flashed his PI credentials. “We have a few questions. Did Mr. Alstrom ask you to make and deliver cookies to Ms. Avery?”

  “May I enquire as to what this is about?”

  Connor handed him the note Albert had written.

  “Yes, he did,” George confirmed after perusing it with care.

  “Be specific. What did he ask you to do?”

  “To make cookies for Ms. Avery, following his recipe exactly. He was very particular on that point, as he always is about anything food related. Then he dictated a note for me to attach to the gift and asked me to deliver it so she’d get it on Christmas.”

  “Did you do as he instructed? And did you deliver them yourself?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why did you leave them outside rather than delivering them in person?”

  “Mr. Alstrom only made his request last night, and it was too late to knock by the time I finished baking them, but I had to deliver them yesterday because I had other commitments today.”

  I wasn’t imagining the double layer of meaning George gave to the reminder that he “had other commitments today.” He wasn’t pleased by our intrusion.

  Connor either didn’t pick up on it or didn’t care. Probably both. “Then do you have any idea how they ended up containing the drug chloral hydrate?”

  George’s tone became more haughty. “I most certainly do not. I don’t even know what that is.”

  “Where did you cook them?

  “In Mr. Alstrom’s kitchen.”

  “Is that where you normally cook?”

  “No. We have a separate kitchen, but Mr. Alstrom wanted me to use his for the cookies. He was particular about that kind of thing, as I said.”

  “We’d like to see the ingredients you used.”

  George let out a sigh. “If you must.”

  I figured there would be rules against sighing along with any other visible form of exasperation in butler school. George was slipping. Maybe because he’d had no one to serve for three months.

  Granting us entrance, he escorted us the exceedingly long distance to the kitchen. Although with Connor by my side and a more sensible choice of shoes, it felt less long this time.

  Albert’s glossy black and stainless steel kitchen was a mess. As if sensing my thoughts, George said, “I planned to clean it up tomorrow. It was terribly late by the time I’d finished, and I still needed to help my wife wrap presents and finish cooking our own Christmas meals. Which reminds me, my daughters are getting ready for bed and won’t want to go to sleep without me saying goodnight. May I leave you here for a few minutes?”

  “Are the ingredients you used on the bench?”

  “A lot of them are, and the recipe I followed is there too.”

  “All right. Say goodnight to your daughters.”

  The rum was worth $200 a bottle. The spices had been bought fresh from the Santa Monica Farmers Market, their flavors preserved by vacuum-sealed jars. The vanilla beans were plump and juicy, the sugar the expensive coconut variety, and the butter the real deal, homemade from organic cream. The cornstarch and all-purpose flour were… well, cornstarch and all-purpose flour, but not the generic-brand kind that stocked my own shelves. The self-rising flour was missing. After I’d tasted everything and found no trace of chloral hydrate in any of them, we found an empty packet of self-rising flour in the trash can. Grudgingly I pulled it out and searched for a clean sample in the crinkled paper. Connor waited expectantly.

  “Clear,” I said, feeling defeated. Every failure to identify the poisoner led me further and further from my former plans for the evening. “So I guess that means someone poisoned them after they’d been delivered?”

  “Or Alstrom is lying, has already covered his tracks, and organized George to waste our time,” Connor pointed out.

  I brushed a weary hand over my face before remembering it had just been in the trash can. “But he seemed so upset about it.”

  “That’s the clever thing to do if he’s lying. He’s probably bored out of his brain in prison, and the old Alstrom would’ve delighted in the elaborate ruse. Either that or it’s George who’s lying.”

  �
�Why would he want to poison me though? I never did anything to him.”

  “It most likely isn’t about you at all. Think about it. He’s living in this mansion and getting paid for it, with nothing to do except maintain the place and fulfill Alstrom’s occasional request from jail.”

  “So he’s trying to extend Albert’s sentence?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then why wouldn’t he claim Albert told him to poison the cookies?”

  “Because Albert has control of his assets despite being in prison. He’d kick George out.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “So I get poisoned on Christmas to save George from having to go back to working for a living?”

  “Maybe. Let’s ask him.”

  “Why didn’t you sign Albert’s name on the note?” Connor asked.

  George had changed out of the bottom half of his Santa suit but was still wearing the “World’s Greatest Dad” T-shirt.

  “Mr. Alstrom didn’t ask me to,” he said. “I wrote exactly what he instructed.”

  “And he didn’t mention how to sign it?”

  “No. I assumed he wanted it to be anonymous.”

  Sounded plausible enough. Which wouldn’t help us convince George to reveal his secret.

  Connor tapped the recipe on the kitchen counter. “You said you followed this recipe to the letter, right?”

  “That’s correct.”

  I looked over the recipe again, wondering if we could’ve missed an ingredient. Then it struck me.

  “Then where’s the rest of the self-rising flour?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you expect us to believe that you had the exact, perfect amount of one and a quarter cups of self-rising flour left in that packet in the trash can? I’ve been baking for years, and that never happens.”