The Little Burgundy: A Jeanne Dark Adventure

by Bill Jones Jr.

  We’d come to the restaurant directly from the Institute in order to meet Mr. Rao’s wife, Helen, before the police could intrude and question her. Our contracts with the U.S. government required us to cooperate with all legal authorities, but there was nothing in our agreements preventing us from staying ahead of them. Grand-père used to always say the best way to avoid becoming a sheep was to assume the role of shepherd. Likewise, I had found the easiest way to gain cooperation from those in authority was to have information they want. Fortunately, being ahead took no great effort. The Metropolitan Police is a formidable force, but it is not hard for a swallow to outmaneuver an albatross. Interviewing Helen in the restaurant would be risky, as the crowd could interfere with my abilities, their voices buzzing in my gut like worrisome bees. However, I had Foss for backup should I be unable to gain information. I had never failed before, but I’d rarely attempted readings under the influence of medication.

  Surprisingly, we found the restaurant doing a robust business. The ground floor was small, gently lit, and filled to capacity as far as I could discern. We were led to the lower level, which heralded even more subdued lighting and warm furnishings dominated by maroon and gold accents. It was a pleasing environment and quite feminine in its appointments. Indeed, the balance of sound, color, and the harmonious arrangement of the pillowed seating was the work of a emotionally centered person, and surely not the work of a murderous mind. I was looking forward to meeting Helen, despite the displeasing circumstances. Judging by the bustle and the jovial, ordered frenzy of the wait staff, it was clear that no one from the police or the Institute had thought to tell Helen about her husband’s death. Foss insisted that we do not, saying, “The police likely have a protocol they’re following,” which dictated in which order they revealed information. When I inquired as to why they would have such an insensitive policy, he said, “Well, they obviously consider her to be a person of interest. They probably want to eyeball her when they tell her to see if she reacts appropriately.”

  I eyed him though the warm glare of the candle at our table, but could find no sign of sarcasm. Confident that he intended to comply with the police’s protocol, I nodded my understanding and excused myself, not bothering to ask what the appropriate response to the death of one’s spouse was.

  “Why do women always go to the restroom when they get to a restaurant?” he asked.

  “Men love a mystery,” I answered.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Exactly,” I said. I left him to his puzzle then found our waitress and asked her to take me to the newly widowed Helen. I have found two sets of rules worth following when I am on a case: whatever my instincts tell me and whatever rule is imposed on me at gunpoint. Foss was not armed, as far as I knew.

  The restaurant was dim enough that I could see clearly while wearing only my lightest sunglasses, so I had little trouble navigating through the crowded space. However, it was not as easy traversing the pockets of emotive turmoil in the room. I quickly spotted its epicenter—a woman in her early twenties whose dull expression masked tension so raw that I found my own stress level rising. She was cloistered with two other members of the wait staff whom I read as being her emotional support … no more than that. The girl stood as a young lioness, head of her small pride. The other wait staff, some men and some women, stood by her, spoke softly, and awaited direction. They tried to mask their watching me, but it was obvious. Seeing that I was watching her in return, the girl turned away and the group scattered in concentric rings like ripples in a pool, but not before I caught the barest flash of hot anger emanating from the small pride. They would require further examination, but not this night. Beyond them, and directing the operations in the kitchen, was my target, Helen.

  Helen was a small woman in her late fifties and of mixed Australian and Chinese descent, judging by her accent, her physical traits, and the particular sense of touch they elicited. With some visuals—for instance human faces—I feel a tactile sense that varies according to, I suppose, the response they elicit in me. A few, for whom I have a powerful emotional response, I may see in terms of colors or on rare occasions, smells. A tactual response is more normal for me, however. It makes walking though crowds difficult, as I am bombarded not only with powerful emotional signals but visual and physical ones as well. Imagine surfing through a crowd of people whom you can feel, both in your emotional core as well as along your body. It is no wonder that I cherish my partner’s calm demeanor, no?

  Difficult though it may be for others to accept, my synesthesia is an asset I treasure. For example, I can remember faces based on the sense memory that goes with them. People with typical Chinese features evoke a feeling that I have been touched along my left arm, whereas with Koreans, for instance, the feeling tends to be along my left shoulder. It is an instantaneous response, like a greeting that quickly passes. Of course, there is great variability among people and so this is hardly infallible. Helen, for instance had lovely, Asian eyes and dark hair, but almost bronze skin more characteristic of other regions than China. Still, I was certain in her case that I was correct.

  I took Helen aside and gave her the bad news regarding her husband. She exploded into a torrent of tears that I recognized as genuine. I was inordinately blunt, I am afraid, in part because I needed to evoke a true emotional response for my reading. In addition, I needed to act fast as I could feel the cavalry’s reproachful summoning. Once I was certain as to the nature of her involvement in her husband’s case, I provided some comfort to her, I believe, as she could sense my genuine pain for her. She took me to her office in order not to disrupt the staff. However, once there, I recognized the faint smell of monkshood, as I expected, and told her so. It was at this point that Foss rode up on his emotional wounded steed, nostrils flaring, having been escorted by the same waitress who brought me. As he entered, he gave me a scowling stare that I chose to ignore. There would be time for his hurt feelings later.

  Helen pushed by him on her way to the restroom to gather her composure. She was still the boss, and it wouldn’t do for the staff to see her distraught. I didn’t try to stop her.

  “You want to tell me what’s going on?” he asked. I informed him that I told Helen her husband was dead. It seemed a simple act of decency as far as I was concerned. “That may be true,” he said, “but the cops won’t be happy if your act of decency compromises their case.”

  I waved that off. “It doesn’t matter. She did not kill her husband.”

  “Because she told you so?”

  “I didn’t ask her.”

  “Then how did you come to that conclusion?”

  “It’s obvious.” I was beginning to find the discussion tiresome.

  Foss ceased frowning and lowered his voice. The man could read me, which both aroused and annoyed me in equal measure. “For a moment, let’s pretend only half the people in this room are geniuses and just relay the obvious for the other half of us.”

  He stole a smile from me, which he returned, so I spoke. “If she had killed him, she wouldn’t have been so careless about having monkshood lying about would she?”

  “Careless about having … ?”

  His inquiry was interrupted by Helen’s return, accompanied by the young lioness I spotted before. She was dark-haired with alabaster skin and a partly developed epicanthic fold on the outer corners of her eyes. She was quite impressive close up, judging by my partner’s quickened breathing and dilated pupils. The woman helped Helen to her seat, met Foss’s unspoken query with an equally unsaid, “Maybe,” and departed.

  “I’m sorry,” Helen said. “I—I knew this was coming, you know, based on what the doctors were telling me and how bad things were getting, but I … I still wasn’t prepared.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, if you knew your husband’s condition was worsening, why weren’t you at the Institute?” I asked. She looked down, stumbled over an answer, and turned silent. I spoke again, this time, softening my voice into the blue range
, like the sound of a warm shower. I placed a hand on her knee. “The police will ask you and will insist on an answer,” I said.

  She nodded, blew her nose, the sound of which made me briefly nauseous, and answered. “I couldn’t … I know I should have done and he deserved it, but he was almost comatose … I just didn’t want to watch him die.” She looked at me and I could see pain in her eyes. It was combined with other emotions, but the pain was genuine. “I didn’t want his death to be the last memory I had of him.”

  “Why were you so sure he would die?” Foss asked. “Dr. Phillips certainly wasn’t.”

  Helen stood, walked to a cabinet, and pulled out a ceramic container. She placed it on a coffee table in front of us. I could smell the contents and made no move to open it. Foss reached out, and I stopped him. “Monkshood,” I said. He pulled his hand back as if it had been burned. “It won’t bite,” I said. “People grow it in gardens all over the UK.”

  He looked at Helen. “You know how this will look to the police, right?” She nodded. “You want to tell us the story?”

  Helen took in a deep breath and relayed that for years, her husband had been fighting a losing battle with joint pain caused by arthritis and long hours on his feet in the restaurant’s kitchen. I had no trouble empathizing. She’d tried to convince him to retire, but cooking was his passion as well as their sole source of income. Some six months prior, he’d developed symptoms of acute gout, likely worsened by his rich diet. “He couldn’t wear shoes.” She shook her head in a shivering motion. “He couldn’t even stand the pain of putting on socks. After watching him in agony for weeks, I finally went to a herbalist I know and bought the aconite.” She looked at us imploringly. “My grandmother used it. She taught my mum, and Mum taught me. I know how toxic it is. I only used very small doses, certainly not enough to be fatal.”

  “Why not just find a decent doctor?” Foss asked.

  “We don’t have private insurance. Besides, Arjun didn’t trust doctors and what that man didn’t want to do, he didn’t do.” A flash of emotion crossed her face that I read as anger, but not enough, in my opinion, for murder. It was barely pink, while hot anger is usually crimson or reddish-orange. She began to cry again, attempted to suppress it, and leaned forward to me. I could feel her energy and it made me tear up as well. I put an arm around her, which gave her leave to cry openly. That earned me another disapproving look from my partner that I attempted to ignore. Helen spoke again, interrupting his silent chastisement. “Miss Dark, I only applied it externally to his joints and feet as an analgesic. He never got a single dosage internally.”

  I took her hand and held it, which Foss also saw as a sign of unprofessionalism, based on his reaction. Rather than waiting for me to complete the interview, he asked, “Mrs. Rao, if you only gave him small doses, and only applied them externally, why did you expect him to die? The doctors didn’t even know about the monkshood.”

  “I told you. I was trained in its use almost since I was a little girl. I know the dangers and I know all of the symptoms.”

  “You saw him?” Foss asked.

  She dabbed her eyes with tissue she’d used to blow her nose. Foss looked horrified. “No, they called me from the Institute to tell me how he was doing. I knew then I’d lost him.”

  “Well, if you knew that,” he asked, “why didn’t you just tell the medical staff?”

  Helen began to weep so uncontrollably that she couldn’t speak, so I answered him. “Because, she believed he had convinced one of the restaurant staff to bring him the plant.”

  She nodded through her tears. “If Arjun had decided to die, there would be no stopping him,” she stammered out.

  I opened the ceramic container and found it to be almost empty. Helen gasped, clasped her hand to her mouth, and broke into heaving sobs. She uttered an expletive that left the taste of earwax in my mouth. “How much monkshood was in here before?” I asked.

  She spoke softly. “It was more than half full.”

  “Enough to kill four men.”

  She nodded.

  “Who besides you have access to this office?” Foss asked.

  Helen answered, “My assistant managers,” although it was clear that her attention had shifted. Her emotions became a fog, as if she were barely aware we were still in the room with her. She rose as if to leave. Foss looked as if he would stop her, but I shook my head at him and he calmed. I stood, leaning heavily on my cane, and escorted her to the door. There, I found the young woman who had accompanied her before and asked that she take Helen home. Foss was unhappy until I suggested he call Inspector Arnold and tell him of our discussion and Helen’s whereabouts. In addition, I made some suggestions as to follow-up lines of questioning with her that the police would be more adept at handling. I insisted that Foss inform the Inspector I was positive she was innocent, though I doubted the policeman would listen.

  Foss hung up and made certain I knew how upset D.I. Arnold was. I feigned concern sufficiently that my friend quieted his rage. Foss is so funny when he is mad, panting about like a dragon. After we returned to our table, where he managed to eat a feast of lukewarm curry—a feat I did not accomplish—he began probing. “I think I get most of it, but why would she stand idly by if she thought her husband tried to kill himself with the monkshood?”

  “You did not believe her?” I asked.

  He dabbed his mouth with the napkin. “I think she was hiding something, but not lying. She sat with her feet pointed at the exit near the end, like many liars under questioning, but that could have just been indicative of how badly she wanted out of that room.”

  Once again, I was convinced I had chosen the right man for the job. “Helen believed he used the poison to end his own suffering. He was in tremendous pain, with almost no chance of surviving due to the polonium poisoning.”

  “He couldn’t have known that.”

  “No, he probably thought he had terminal cancer. That’s still sufficient reason to try assisted suicide.”

  Foss wiped his mouth and set his napkin on the table. “So you believe that in the end, Rao committed suicide and involved one of his staff members in his death.” It was a statement, not a question. My very smart partner was helping to tie up the loose ends—completely incorrectly.

  “Of course not. Who in his right mind would choose such a horrible death?”

  Foss glared at me. “What? You just said …”

  “You aren’t listening. I said that is what Helen thought he had chosen. I do not, and now neither does she.”

  Foss’s eyes narrowed. “That part at the end, when she started acting anxious to get out of there.”

  “Oui. She began to suspect the truth.” I pulled on my coat and hat in preparation to leave.

  Foss placed his hand on mine, and I unintentionally interlocked my fingers with his. It was a trap and I was snared. “What do you think happened?” he asked.

  “That someone who knew about the monkshood managed to get it to him without his or Helen’s knowledge.”

  Foss looked skeptical. “Without anyone in the Institute’s noticing?”

  “Did you notice the empty soup bowl in Mr. Rao’s rubbish bin?” His blank visage said he did not. “Then would you have noticed the poisoned soup in it if you had been the only busy doctor working there?

  He drew back. “You didn’t mention that when we were at the Institute.”

  “I am mentioning it now. Careless to leave the murder weapon at the scene, no?” I had found, with the trash, a plastic food container that still smelled of chicken, curry, and monkshood. If the police were competent, they would discover the traces via their laboratory tests; however, we would remain ahead of them.

  Foss paused. I felt something akin to admiration in his eyes. The warmth made me flush and I withdrew my hand. “And who would’ve killed him?” he asked, now smiling at me.

  “The pretty girl you were flirting with. The one I sent home with Helen to be interviewed when the police show up.” I took
a sip from my chai tea. It was warm and filling, a perfect brace against the upcoming cold rain into which we were about to embark.

  Foss looked at me with his familiar furrowed brow. “You mean the little brunette who was acting like she owned the place?”

  I smiled. “Oui. Your girlfriend, Rosie, who was sleeping with Helen’s husband.”

  He shook his head, I assumed to shed himself of the last of his incorrect reasoning. “Wait, you sent Mrs. Rao home with someone you think killed her husband and who could possibly try to kill her too?”

  “No, I sent her home with her caring daughter, who I assume felt quite justified in killing her stepfather. The police will find out why and whether the sex with the decedent was consensual. It is not germane to our case.”

  “Stepfather? You’re talking Incest?” The people at the next table looked at him. I hushed him. Foss stopped, raised his hands in surrender, leaned forward, and placed his arms on the table, speaking softly but emphatically. “This is not germane to our case?

  “Non. We are investigating the attempted political murder of Arjun Rao, not his revenge killing by abused family members. It is tragic, but I think there are larger issues afoot.” I stood and began walking to the exit. I had been sitting too long. Either I would need a massage, or Foss would need to find me some monkshood of my own. I saw him fumbling to pay and he rushed to catch up with me.

  “You wanna slow down the detective work a little, Sherlock, so the rest of us can catch up?” he said.

  “I prefer Jules Maigret, if you don’t mind. After all, I am French. However, I do not share his fondness for strong drink.” I smiled at him. “If you are nice, I’ll let you play Jules’s wife.”

  He tried not to smile, but I could see it glowing in the darkness. “Larger issues afoot, huh? Sounds like Sherlock Holmes to me.”