Totally Buzzed (A Miller Sisters Mystery)

by Gale Borger

  Mee-Me offered to let me observe, but I declined, saying I'd rather check out the plastic I recovered from Carole's pocket. He suggested we look at it together while we had sole access to his lab. I agreed. Within five minutes we were both staring blankly at what appeared to be flower seeds wrapped in a paper towel. Under a microscope, we could see there were two kinds of seeds in the towel and neither resembled marijuana, but beyond that we were stumped. Malcolm folded his arms across his chest and pushed his glasses up onto his forehead.

  "Why would Carole meticulously wrap a few seeds in her pocket? She owned a nursery with millions of seeds all over the place. Why would these be special?"

  I went over a couple of possibilities. "Perhaps she was saving them to give to someone else. Maybe someone gave them to her. Let's try not to read anything into this that isn't there. She was a professional gardener, and probably had seeds in every room of the house."

  I stared into the microscope again. "Look at the towel, Malcolm. Is that writing?"

  The paper towel had striations on it, which could mean someone wrote on a piece of paper sitting on top of the towel at the time.

  Malcolm peered through the scope and agreed. "It looks like a u, t, h, e, and maybe a capital L."

  I wrote on a piece of paper: luthier, lute, lutecium, Luther, Lutheran.

  "Hey, Malcolm, maybe Carole is a Lutheran." He bobbed his head enthusiastically. I laughed, waving my hands and shaking my head. "Hey, I'm just kidding!"

  He stared at me blankly and I sighed in exasperation. "Malcolm, I was being facetious. Carole is not a Lutheran! This might, however, be a name. 'Luther' could be a possibility. Perhaps Theo L. Maybe he was a contact, or who she got the seeds from. Could it be part of a name of a town? Maybe it's the name of the seeds. We'll let the crime lab figure it out." I made a notation to send along my ideas with the seed sample.

  It's got to be the seeds. If we identify the seeds, we'll be on our way.

  Why was I concentrating on the seeds? Why was I not zeroing in on the bullet wound? Probably because after looking at the shape the body was in, the bullet seemed like overkill.

  "Maybe the reason I think Carole's murder is connected with the seeds is that Carole and Glenn do not have enemies in this town. They have a thriving business but are not millionaires.

  "Their son does not get into trouble with the law, and there is no evidence that either Carole or Glenn was fooling around." In a small town in southeastern Wisconsin, we would know.

  Between grapevine gossip and sauce talk at a local tavern, someone would have seen something and repeated it down at Sal's Diner.

  "I don't know about life insurance or inheritances, but it looks, so far, like we have no other motive outside the business, so our next step is to look inside the business."

  Malcolm looked up from his notes, "Yeah, you're right. Sorry I jumped the gun. Everyone wants to be a detective, you know."

  I replied dryly, "It ain't as cool as it looks, Mal."

  He looked like an eager puppy. "I'd really like to help, though. Maybe I can call the State of Wisconsin Crime Lab in Madison and ask if they know of anyone who could help us identify the seeds. I went to med school with the director up there." He jotted down another note to himself.

  I cocked my head and thought a minute. "Do they really have guys that do that now? I would bet they don't have Forensic Botanists just lying around at the crime lab waiting for someone to call."

  Malcolm sent me a telling look over the tops of his bifocals. I shut up. He continued. "We could also contact the university–they do everything there. In this day and age everyone borrows from everyone. I give the occasional lecture up there; they do some lab work for me that requires diagnostic capabilities, which are beyond my humble lab. The main thing is, we can't rule anything out, so if you agree this warrants a Forensic Botanist, I'll go ahead and try to find one. If this homicide involves the gardening industry, it would be good to make the acquaintance of the professional plant boys anyway."

  Although J.J. was nowhere around, I gave Malcolm the go-ahead to make the calls and ship some of the samples if the state boys could identify them. I thanked him and told him to call me when he wanted me to pick up the autopsy report, and to let me know what the crime lab had to say.

  "Oh, one more thing, Buzz. J.J. went out to the Graff place to break the news to Glenn. He said he'd call you later. Call me if you need me."

  "Thanks Malcolm. Will do."

  I was surprised to see Mag was in the parking lot, shifting back and forth on her feet next to my car, and looking grim.

  I lifted a brow. "What's up, Magpie?"

  She furrowed hers and glared at me. "Coffee," was all she said, and got into her car. 'Coffee' was a secret Miller Sisters word that was serious business. It could mean anything from, 'Yo Bitch, we have to talk', to 'I am devastated and need a shoulder', to 'I'm starving to death, let's eat'.

  I thought I was probably the 'Yo Bitch' as we climbed into our respective vehicles. We automatically drove to the small diner a couple of blocks from the morgue. Actually, the place was a geographical oddity, in that Salvador's Diner (as it is called) is a couple of blocks from anywhere in White Bass Lake. It's the heart of the town in more ways than one.

  The story goes that the owner, Sal Garcia, fell in love and married an American exchange student (Amy) twenty-some years ago. Sal always wanted to be a chef in a five-star restaurant, but after meeting up with prejudice and snobbery in the culinary world, he lowered his sights just a little. He and Amy settled in White Bass Lake, bought the diner, raised three kids, and they run the best little breakfast and lunch place in the Midwest. It is a standing-room-only gold mine, especially when the summer people invade our little hamlet.

  Sal bakes all his own pastries and experiments with different dishes. In front of a grill he is second to none. He is so fast that at times his hands are a blur. People come into his place just to watch him cook.

  We timed him once, and he cooked breakfast for six people in less than five minutes: we are talking pancakes, potatoes, French toast, and omelets. He is, in short, simply amazing.

  We go to Sal's for a number of reasons. First, they are all great people. Second, they don't care how long we sit and have coffee. Third, Sal's is 'gossip central' in White Bass Lake, so if you want to know anything about anyone, you need to be at Sal's. Fourth, Al never goes there, so we do.

  I was banking on the gossip central aspect this morning, hoping to pick up more information on Carole's movements prior to her death.

  Walking into Sal's is like walking into Cheers; everyone knows your name. The drawback to this is that everyone also knows your business, but that's the trade off of small town life for you. Mag and I came in through the back door like we always do. By the time we made it through the kitchen to the dining area, an eerie silence had settled over the room.

  Sal, who usually yells 'hey' across the room, only nodded silently and continued to chop and flip at the grill. Amy, who was behind the cash register stopped in mid-sentence to watch us cross the room to our regular table. The quiet was really giving me the willies, and I could see Mag felt the same way. By the time Donna silently served us coffee, I couldn't stand it any more.

  "Yo, Sal–what's new, amigo? Is something wrong?"

  Sal spun around yelling in Spanish and gesturing wildly with the spatula while bits of egg and ham flew across the room. A green pepper plopped into Mike O'Brien's cup. Unperturbed by these outbursts of Sal's, Mike just fished the pepper out with a spoon and never broke stride in his conversation. Sal looked fit to be tied and switched to English.

  "What the hell you mean what's new? What the hell could be new in this town? Why should anyone tell me, anyway? What's new with me? I got friends who tell me nothing! I got enemies who tell me good stuff. What goes on at your folks' place out there? How come I'm the last to know?"

  I accidentally chuckled, thinking that Sal's quick temper and flying egg shows were really quite funny. It pi
ssed him off even more. It also meant that this particular tirade had been going on for some time–thus explaining the silence when we came in. Mag and I were definitely on Sal's shit list.

  "Nothing much going on Sal, the folks are fine, we pulled a corpse out from under their house, you know, the usual."

  Sal turned back to the grill. I looked at Amy. She just shrugged and made the crazy person sign around her ear. Sal, however, was not finished; he was only taking a breather. He spun and gestured with his spatula again. "I hear it's that lady with the flowers, Missus Graff. But I gotta hear it from someone else, because you don't come to my place and tell me."

  Exasperated, I got up and went over to the snack bar, lowering my voice in hopes that Sal would lower his. "Sal, I just got into town. I had to stop at the morgue and then Mag and I came here. I haven't had time to come before now."

  Sal flipped an order onto a plate and gave me an injured look. "I had to hear it from your snooty sister first. I was having a pretty good day before she came in."

  "Al has that effect on a lot of people. I'm sorry Sal, it's just that–"

  Sal let out a huge sigh. "Like I said, I was having a pretty good day until that Alexandra girl. She comes in and announces it to everyone like she's the star of the show or Headline news or something. Then she leaves and doesn't buy anything. She's not like you." He gestured with the spatula and I ducked. "You sure she's your sister?"

  Mag and I nodded our heads reluctantly, admitting that indeed, Al was related. I contemplated telling him she was the milkman's daughter, or some pod child we found in the garden, but I didn't want the rumors to start flying. People who know Al would believe it.

  I was silent for a moment wondering whether this scenario could get any more bizarre. Finally, the buzz of conversation resumed as the customers lost interest in us and Sal turned back to his grill. Mag and I walked back to our table.

  Before I could say any more, my cell phone vibrated. A quick peek showed it was the morgue number. Mee-Me called to say he had contacted the crime lab, and they happened to have a Forensic Botanist in Milwaukee they would send out this afternoon. "Talk about one-stop shopping Buzz, what a coincidence to have a plant specialist so handy."

  "I agree, Malcolm, what a happy coincidence." I thanked him and hung up, contemplating the odds that a Forensic Botanist was readily available and less than 50 miles away, with a free afternoon. Seemed a little fishy to say the least, and I don't do coincidence.

  Realizing Mag had begun to speak, I pulled my attention back to the conversation. "And really Buzz, I think I should help you on this case,"

  I could only stare at her, fighting off the instant nausea. She now had my full attention. "Oh God, Mag, why on earth would you feel compelled to do that? You do realize that this is a murder investigation, and with few exceptions, murderers are usually really bad guys, right?"

  She stirred her coffee, added sugar, stirred her coffee, and added more sugar. My nausea increased as she explained. "Yeah, I get it, I'm not a moron, you know. Finding Carole at Mom's makes it kind of personal, like it's our duty to find out who killed her. I liked Carole, and she didn't deserve what happened to her. Besides, it's summer vacation at the high school and I'm not working, so I could like, be helping you full time. You know, investigate and stuff, I mean." She bit her lip and added sugar one more time.

  "You already know I'm pretty good at research, and I've watched you work for a million years." She picked up her cup and sipped the sugar-laden coffee, grimaced, and pushed it away.

  I felt it my duty to set her straight. No sister of mine was going to get tangled up in a murder investigation. Twenty three years of unexplained visions of every horrific thing one person could do to another, too much alcohol, nightmares, and bleeding ulcers was something I did not want to share with my little sister. "Mag, most of this stuff is real boring. If, by chance I do run into the bad guys, I mean if it gets ugly, I wouldn't want you in the firing line. Mom would kill me if you got hurt, and Dad would be pretty pissed, too."

  She added more sugar to her coffee. "Not unless we scratched his stupid truck."

  "Hah! You got me there, sis. Still, I'm not trying to be mean, but what do you know about police work? I certainly don't have time to train you, and like I said, it's not like television. What they do in an hour sometimes takes real cops months to figure out, if they ever do."

  There, I thought, that ought to do it. The Maggot loathes boredom.

  Unfortunately for me, it didn't work, and worse than that, she was on a roll. "But we have advantages, Buzz. No one would suspect me–I could be like, uh, undercover! That's it, undercover. I'm on vacation, and you're retired. No conflicts, no other cases, no boss, no muss, no fuss; we can devote all our time to finding out who croaked Carole! And don't cheese me on the police work, Miller. You spend a teaching career ferreting out cheaters, smokers, tokers, talkers, thieves, and vandals, and tell me teaching doesn't involve investigative work!"

  I sighed. "Got me there, Maggot, okay, you're in. We're a team, but we do it my way. No Rambo shit, got it?" I got in her face. "And no pissing people off on purpose." She laughed. "Maggie, I'm serious. You have to develop some people skills, and fast.

  "I can't be pulling your ass out of the fire because you used unnecessary force by lashing people with your tongue. Me, Lone Ranger, you, Tonto. Do we have a deal?" I held out my hand.

  "Okay, Kemosabe, we got a deal." She grabbed my hand then rubbed her hands together. "Oh boy, when do we start?"

  Something told me this was going to be a very bad idea. Mag was well-known as a loose cannon, and controlling her mouth might be a full time job. However, she was smart and had good instincts. She was cool under fire and she worked for free.

  Taking a deep breath, looking left and right in a most conspiratorial fashion, I made a show of telling great secrets. "Well, so far you know what I know about the body and the evidence. J.J. went out to notify Glenn of Carole's death, and to ask why neither he nor Rob reported her missing. You and I will have to talk to them too, as well as the employees, but what J.J. finds out will tell us how we will proceed."

  Mag lifted her chin and spoke with authority. "I will conduct my interviews with the utmost professionalism, even though that rat-bastard Glenn Graff probably murdered her anyway. What that jerk needs is a swift kick in the caboodles!"

  "See, Mag, this is just the kind of behavior I was just talking about. What is up with you?"

  "This is different, Buzz, you just don't get it!" She jumped up out of her chair and started digging in her pockets for money, mumbling to herself. She was visibly upset and creating an 'E.F. Hutton' moment in the noisy diner. While half the town looked on, the backs of Mag's knees hit her chair and tipped it over, causing her to lose her balance and fall backward.

  She waved her arms in circles, trying in vain to keep her balance ala Al in Mom's backyard. She over-corrected and fell sideways into Burt Cheever's lap. Her change flew out of her hand and rained down on the room like pennies from Heaven. What was it with my sisters falling over and causing chaotic scenes?

  I reached for her. It was like she wore strawberry cream sleeves. My hands slid off her arms and I ended up with handfuls of whipped cream and no Mag.

  She wavered for a second and began to fall again. Burt moved his already ruined strawberry pancakes aside. "Oh nooo," she wailed as she toppled sideways.

  "Timberrrr," some smart ass across the room added.

  Like a slow motion replay, we all watched Mag try to catch her balance. She twisted and did a swan dive face first right onto Burt's plate, squishing his strawberry pancakes out the side and spraying all of us with strawberries and whipped cream. Even Sal stopped slinging hash long enough to view the spectacle. He sighed, and reached for the pancake batter to replace Burt's order. He whistled for the kid in the back and told him to fill a bucket and bring a mop.

  "Clean up in aisle five," was heard from the peanut gallery.

  I jumped over the fallen chai
r, skidded through the strawberries and whipped cream on the floor, and grabbed Mag. She had pancake in her hair and a strawberry on her chin. She tried to explain to Burt how she must have had a seizure or been pushed, while still sitting on his lap. Burt looked as if it were more likely she'd had an attack of schizophrenia, and kept inching farther away from the table. I pulled her off his lap, apologized, and dragged her out of the diner, wishing a hole would swallow us up.

  "Mag, what is with you and catastrophes lately? That's more Fred's M.O., not yours. What's up with you? One minute we were talking about interviewing the Graffs and the next you're spazzing out and scraping whipped cream off your butt. What the hell is the matter with you?"

  She flicked a strawberry off her shoe, folded her arms across her chest and kicked the tire on my car. "That rat-bastard Glenn Graff is what the matter is. Like I said, he needs a good swift kick in the caboodles."

  "Whoa, wait a minute Mag, we're not kicking anyone's caboodles, and why is Glenn a rat-bastard? I thought he was a Boy Scout."

  It was easy to see Mag was extremely upset, but I found it particularly difficult to show empathy for someone waggling pancake encrusted eyebrows at me. While I tried not to laugh, she continued her tirade. "That's what he wants everyone to think, but he's a serial ass-pincher! A masher! A lecherous turd! He cornered me in the potting shed at the garden center, and I didn't think I'd escape with my virtue intact. What the hell is with jackasses like him? If someone would cheat on a nice lady like Carole, he'd probably kill her too, right?"

  After getting over my initial shock, I looked behind us to make sure we were alone. Pancake and strawberries plopped off Mag's butt onto the sidewalk behind us. Trying for the lighter side, since I could no longer keep a straight face, I said, "Since when are you so concerned about your virtue?"

  She grabbed my shirt. "Look Buzz, this is serious. You know I enjoy sex just as much as the next girl, uh, or…uh, maybe you don't know. But that doesn't matter because I don't do married men, and I like to say who and I like to say when, and where sure as hell is not among his wife, Carole's, grafted cactus plants!"