Pushing Up Rhubarb (A Millsferry Mystery Book 1)

by Diana Saco

  “That sounds like a second objection,” Mason quipped.

  “Indeed it does,” Judge Ota agreed. “Mr. Bingham, one objection at a time, if you please. The first objection is sustained, by the way. On the second one, you started that line of questioning yourself. So you’re overruled on that one. Mr. Tidwell, rephrase your question or move on.”

  “Dr. Peebles,” Mason began again, “for an average-sized person with two normally functioning kidneys, what would be the effects of eating a rhubarb tart with the levels of oxalic acid that were found in the defendant’s dessert?”

  “Irritation in the mouth and throat, with a strong burning sensation there. Stomach aches, vomiting, diarrhea.”

  “So basically, it would ruin the dessert for them,” he said.

  “Yes, and probably the whole experience,” she added. “It’d be like getting food poisoning at a restaurant. You probably wouldn’t want to go back there.”

  Mason smiled, evidently getting the testimony he was after.

  “Now, you stated that the levels in Mr. Kirkland’s jam were higher. Dr. Peebles, have you ever made jam?”

  “No, I don’t work with preserves.”

  “One could argue otherwise,” Mason joked.

  The Doc didn’t see that one coming. “What?” She caught on when she heard the chuckles from the courtroom. “Ah, a bit of pathology humor. That’s disgusting, Mr. Tidwell,” she said with a smile.

  “Agreed,” he admitted.

  “I do know how jam is made, however.” Dr. Peebles continued. “The process involves boiling a large volume of fruit or vegetable until it reduces. The reduction can be sweetened and may also be thickened further with pectin or some other jelling agent.”

  “Would this process account for the higher levels of oxalic acid in Mr. Kirkland’s jam as compared to the rhubarb tart that Ms. Munch ate?” Mason asked.

  “Indeed it would. The reduction is denser. This would lead to more concentrated amounts of the contaminated rhubarb.”

  “Is it possible, then, that no additional oxalic acid was added to the rhubarb that Mr. Kirkland was given?”

  “Yes.”

  “So to summarize your testimony—someone adds a non-lethal amount of oxalic acid concentrate to a batch of rhubarb Ms. Owens used in her entry for the Millsferry Annual Bake-Off. Monica Munch eats a contaminated rhubarb tart and dies because she only has one kidney. The leftover rhubarb is boiled to make jam, which winds up being more toxic as a result. And this more poisonous preserve is given to Randall Kirkland, who manages to survive because, well, he’s a lucky son-of-a-gun. Is that scenario consistent with your medical findings, Dr. Peebles?”

  “Yes,” she said, adding with a smile, “except the last part. I have no scientific evidence as regards Mr. Kirkland’s luck.”

  “Well, he was lucky enough to recover from being poisoned,” Mason stated.

  “Yes, but unlucky enough to have been poisoned in the first place,” Doc shot back dryly.

  “Right,” Mason said, conceding the point with a smile. “Thank you, Dr. Peebles.”

  Judge Ota turned to Dr. Peebles and advised that she could step down from the witness stand. A couple of jurors forgot themselves and started to applaud, apparently appreciating her testimony. She took a false step when it started and was completely nonplussed when others joined in, the claps rippling across the courtroom.

  I had never seen anything like it. But I couldn’t help joining the rest of the lemmings.

  Ota called the court to order. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, while I’m sure Dr. Peebles appreciates knowing she has fans, please try to refrain from applauding the witnesses,” he said, obviously amused despite himself.

  Poor Dr. Peebles was embarrassed by the attention. I was thrilled because I knew that after seeing her face turn Scarlet, I would never mistake her for a Kelly again.

  4. An Egg-celent Sandwich

  Mason’s cross went better than expected. He was going to need that win because the next witness wasn’t going to be as cooperative—or as entertaining. Loyal called Marvin Munch to the stand.

  Munch began by recounting the morning’s events, filling in more of the timeline for the jury, going into excruciating detail over irrelevant minutia, like what he had eaten for breakfast. I watched the jury. A few were smirking, and I even caught one looking at her watch. No one had quite the knack Munch had at making everything revolve around him.

  On the surface, Loyal acted the same as always—he had this unhurried intensity and quiet authority that made a lot of people feel compelled to talk just to fill in the pauses that he laid like traps. The problem was that Marvin Munch didn’t need any coaxing. Like now. He was still describing how the waitress had brought him a runny egg, and he had to send it back. Then the next egg was overdone, with the yolk completely solid. He explained that he liked his eggs over medium, cooked through but with the yolk still oozy. He couldn’t understand why that was so hard to get right.

  Actually, I sympathized with his complaint because I liked my eggs the same way, too. My next thought was that it felt creepy having something in common with Marvin Munch. I vowed to have omelets for the next several days, or maybe a nice bowl of oatmeal—cinnamon vanilla, with dried blueberries, walnuts, yogurt raisins, and chocolate chips. My stomach growled.

  Aunt Dottie shushed me, drawing my attention back to the stand. Despite his outwardly calm demeanor, Loyal was not unflappable. Over the years, I’d learned to read some of his tells. When he got impatient, he would start adjusting his tie or tugging on his ear. At the moment, he seemed to be doing both. Lily started chuckling next to me, evidently recognizing her husband’s dilemma, too. Twice, Loyal tried to interrupt his witness to lure him back on topic. On his third attempt, he got more direct.

  “Mr. Munch, did your wife take a bite of your egg sandwich?” he asked.

  The question confused Marvin, causing him to stop abruptly to consider it. “No, of course not,” he said finally.

  “In that case, let’s mooove on,” Loyal prodded.

  I heard several people laugh. Marvin seemed not to have noticed. He continued recounting the morning’s events, this time focusing on more relevant details.

  “Okay, so once the cook got my eggs right, I returned to the Loop to bring Monica her coffee.”

  “What time was that?” Loyal asked.

  “About 8:30. While I ate my sandwich, Monica told me how Chloe Owens, the defendant,” he added, addressing the jury to underscore the significance, “had caused a big scene when she arrived because Monica had made a little mistake with her booth assignment.”

  I expected Mason to object to what I thought was hearsay. He told me once, however, that he didn’t like objecting when family was on the stand since it looked like an attack. He apparently decided to let this one slide. I did notice that Chloe was ready to object to Marvin characterizing her reaction as “a big scene,” but Mason put a restraining hand on her wrist. Loyal must have anticipated an objection, too. He paused momentarily and looked at the defense table. When Mason didn’t say anything, Loyal continued.

  “Was your wife upset by the altercation?”

  “Mon? No, she was a very forgiving person. She just brushed it aside and went about her business.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Well, she was done setting up and wanted to take a look at the other entries before the judges started coming around. So she gave me a kiss good-bye and headed off with her coffee.”

  “You didn’t accompany her?”

  “No, I had some errands to run. So I left,” Marvin said.

  “But you returned later?” Loyal asked.

  “Yes, I was finished early, so I came back to see how Mon was doing and to try some of the goodies myself. When I got there, I noticed the crowd and the police and the tape. And then I saw my poor wife. On the ground. She was dead,” he added, genuine tears streaming down his face.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Munch. I know this is difficul
t. I understand you had a seizure of some sort?”

  Marvin wiped his face with a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly before continuing. “It was a sneezing fit. I get those sometimes, especially when I’m upset. The doctor helped me, just like she said. That nice Dr. Peebles.”

  “What occurred next?”

  “I asked the sheriff what had happened. He wouldn’t say, but I could tell from his questions that Monica had been poisoned. And then I saw her, Chloe Owens, the defendant,” he added, again addressing the jury. “She was skulking around in the crowd. I asked her if she did it, but she didn’t answer. I told the police. Later, at the station. I told them she did it.”

  “How did you know she did it?” Loyal asked.

  “Objection!” Mason blurted.

  “I’ll rephrase,” Loyal offered immediately. “What made you think the defendant did it?”

  “She hated Monica. Was rude to her. Hated that Mon was a better baker than her. Plus they had that fight earlier over their assigned areas.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No! That woman threatened my wife!” Marvin said, again pointing at Chloe.

  “When was this?” Loyal asked.

  “About a month before the bake-off. We were at the farmers’ market. Early June. Chloe was there talking with one of the vendors. I think Monica accidentally bumped into her or something, while reaching for some produce. Chloe got furious and accused Mon of following her. And then she said, and I quote, ‘You’d better mind your own business, Monica, or I swear I’ll shove this down your throat!’ That’s what she said. Just like that.”

  “And what was the defendant holding when she made this threat?” Loyal asked.

  Marvin looked at the jury meaningfully. “A stalk of rhubarb.”

  *****

  When Mason approached the witness stand for his cross-examination, Marvin looked at him smugly, like a man who had just won a large bet. While his last remark wouldn’t help Chloe’s case, however, it wasn’t nearly as devastating as he supposed. How frightening could a single rhubarb stalk be?

  “Mr. Munch,” Mason began sympathetically, “I can’t imagine going through what you’ve had to endure. My condolences for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” Marvin replied, slightly surprised.

  “My family feels her absence, too. Millsferry has lost a genuinely great baker. Monica’s dessert entries were always among the best at our annual contest, especially her Marzipan-Capped Mint Marshmallow Mousse Cake.”

  “Oh, that’s a good one,” Marvin enthused nostalgically. “And her Bodacious Butterscotch Brownies. Oh, and her Choco-Loco Chocolate Chip Cookies. Gosh, I hope she wrote those recipes down,” he added absently.

  “I’m guessing you suffer from the same affliction I do,” Mason mused.

  “I suffer from a lot of afflictions. Which one are you talking about?”

  A couple of jurors chuckled. I also noticed Ota stifling a cough that sounded suspiciously like an aborted laugh.

  “We both have a sweet tooth that won’t be denied,” Mason explained.

  “Oh,” Marvin said with a sheepish grin. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

  “Good thing Ms. Munch liked to bake, then.”

  “She preferred ‘Mrs. Munch.’ And yeah, she loved it! She baked professionally and for pleasure. She was a true artist in the kitchen. Heck, you should know. She won more ribbons at the Millsferry Annual Bake-Off than in any other contest.”

  “And Mrs. Munch also liked entering contests, didn’t she?”

  “She liked competing. She said it kept her skills sharp. Because she always had to improve her recipes and her techniques. To stay at the top of her game.”

  “And she liked winning?”

  “Well, that’s the point, isn’t it? She worked hard in the kitchen. Stands to reason that she would enjoy it when people showed their appreciation,” Marvin said with a shrug.

  “Of course. Now, on the day of the bake-off, you missed the exchange between your wife and Ms. Owens, is that correct?”

  “Yes, I was away getting breakfast. But I saw Chloe arrive. I passed her in the parking lot as I was leaving.”

  “Around eight in the morning, right?” Mason asked.

  “Yes,” Marvin said.

  “And when the restaurant finally got your order right, you took it back to the Loop to have breakfast with your wife.”

  “Yes, and I ate while Mon told me what happened. That Chloe had caused a scene.”

  “Right,” Mason said, checking his notes. “Your testimony was that Mrs. Munch told you the defendant ‘caused a big scene’ because your wife made ‘a little mistake’ on the booth assignments. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how was the sandwich?” Mason asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “The egg sandwich that the restaurant finally cooked the way that you wanted. How was it?”

  “Oh, it was reeealll good!” Marvin said. “The edges of the egg were crispy where the butter had browned them, but the yolk was soft. You know, still liquid but without being raw and runny. The bread was grilled, too. And it had bacon and cheddar cheese.”

  “Sounds delicious, Mr. Munch.”

  “It was,” he said with a nod.

  “And you noticed all of this while your wife was telling you about her exchange with Chloe?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “And were you paying attention to your wife or to your egg sandwich?” Mason asked.

  “Huh? Well, to both I suppose.”

  “I’m just saying, an egg sandwich that good? Maybe you were distracted,” Mason suggested. “Are you sure your wife didn’t say that Chloe caused a small scene because your wife had made a big mistake with the booth assignments?”

  “Hey, you’re twisting my words around,” Marvin complained.

  “I’m just trying to determine where your focus was, Mr. Munch. Since there was no recording of the conversation, we’re counting on your memory here. So we need to make sure that you were focused on what your wife was saying and not on that delicious egg sandwich with the crispy edges.”

  “Well, I might not remember the exact words my wife said that morning. But big or small, she did say that Chloe caused a scene.”

  “Fair enough. And she also said she made a mistake about the tents.”

  “Yes, a little mistake,” Marvin said emphatically.

  “Okay, but are you sure?” Mason asked.

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s what she said.”

  “No, I mean are you sure that she made a mistake?”

  “What?” Marvin asked confused.

  “Well, as you may know, the booth assignments are posted on the website for the bake-off a few weeks before the contest day. My impression of Mrs. Munch was that she liked order and efficiency. Making a mistake about her assignment just doesn’t sound like her. Did she actually get confused about which tent was hers?” Mason asked.

  “Um, well, no, not really. When we got to the Loop, she told me she was taking a different tent because she didn’t want the sun hitting her desserts.”

  “Ah, I see. So when she said she made a mistake in the assignments, that was, what—a little white lie?”

  Marvin struggled to come up with a reply. I could tell from his expression that he didn’t want to diminish his wife’s memory in the eyes of the jury or of anyone else in the courtroom. I actually felt a bit sorry for him.

  “I, I think she meant that it was a mistake not to have asked first.”

  “I’m sure that was it,” Mason allowed. “Did she know whose booth she was taking?”

  “Well, yeah. Like you said, the assignments were posted.”

  “Did she mention the defendant by name?” Mason asked.

  “Yes, she said she was taking Chloe’s tent because it wasn’t facing the sun. And she said it shouldn’t matter to Chloe because it’s not like her desserts are real contenders. You know, for ribbons.”

  “I see. That’s not very char
itable, is it?” Mason casually observed.

  “Mon didn’t mince words. Besides, she and Chloe were like that with each other. They were direct.”

  “So when the defendant told your wife at the farmers’ market in June that she was going to shove rhubarb down her throat if she didn’t stop following her, was that a typical exchange for them?”

  “Pretty much. I mean, they didn’t always threaten to get physical. Usually, they would just say mean things about the other one’s cooking. But yeah, sometimes they got feistier.” He chuckled as he remembered something. “Like last Halloween. Monica got upset about Chloe’s eyeball treats. She thought they were too gruesome for kids. Chloe said ‘it’s the style’—meaning, for Halloween. And Mon said, ‘too bad witch burning has gone out of style’—which is funny, you know, because Chloe is a witch.”

  “You’re referring to the defendant being a practicing Wiccan,” Mason clarified.

  “Yes,” Marvin said.

  “So you’re saying that—as a joke—your wife mocked my client’s spiritual beliefs and suggested it would be a good thing if she was burned alive?”

  Marvin frowned. “Well, when you put it that way, it doesn’t sound so funny.”

  “I’m sure I’m taking it out of context.”

  Marvin shifted uncomfortably as Mason checked his notes again.

  “Okay, so on the day you and your wife ran into the defendant at the farmers’ market, you said Ms. Owens was talking to the vendor, noticed the two of you, and then accused you of following her.”

  “And threatened my wife! Don’t forget that part!”

  “No, how could I?” Mason asked rhetorically. “The image of a rhubarb stabbing is indelibly etched into my memory.”

  Several people laughed quietly and then tried to cover it with a cough out of a sense of decorum.

  “So was the defendant right?” Mason continued. “Were you and your wife following her?”

  Marvin frowned, obviously considering that possibility for the first time. “I don’t think so. Monica said she needed some produce.”

  “And do you know who the vendor was?”

  “It was that Asian fellow.” Marvin darted his eyes at Judge Ota nervously. Ota was Japanese-American, so I’m guessing Marvin wanted to see if he took offense to the word “Asian.” He didn’t, of course.