Trace Evidence: A Virals Short Story Collection

by Kathy Reichs

  I barely heard, eyes glued to her uniform.

  Specifically, to the royal blue piping on her pants, hat, and smock.

  I scanned the other two cooks. They were dressed identically to the first woman.

  Biggs wasn’t wearing the same uniform.

  A cold feeling formed in the pit of my stomach. I spun.

  Shelton, find that jerk. See where he goes and what he’s doing.

  Shelton ran a hand across his face, but hurried out. Can’t even go to a freaking wedding . . .

  Oblivious to my anxiety, the three caterers unlocked the cart’s wheels and began wheeling the cake toward the double doors. They hadn’t noticed the damage to the icing. As they disappeared into the ballroom, I felt a twinge of panic.

  Hi, follow the cake. Just . . . keep an eye on it.

  That I can do. Hi slipped through the doors behind them.

  Ben and I were alone. He grabbed my hand, worry lines creasing his forehead. What is it?

  I shook my head as a shiver swept through me. I don’t know.

  But my instincts screamed in warning.

  Applause thundered inside the ballroom.

  The wedding cake had arrived, and another speech was taking place.

  I knew what came next. Cutting. Pictures. Whitney and Kit hand-feeding each other like dorks. Tiny plates being distributed amongst the guests.

  I broke out in a cold sweat.

  The bowl. The liquid. The brush. Smeared icing.

  Biggs had done something terrible, I just knew it.

  I let them wheel that sucker out of here, without saying a word.

  Should we stop it? Ben asked. I must’ve inadvertently broadcast my thought.

  I wavered, unable to decide. Was I being paranoid?

  I didn’t know anything. Biggs had definitely messed with the cake, but what if he really was supposed to be there? It’s not like I had the freaking catering staff memorized. Maybe being a suspicious jerk just came naturally to him.

  No. I trusted my gut. This felt all wrong.

  I reached out with my thoughts. Shelton, where did Biggs go?

  His response was faint. We couldn’t see each other, and were almost out of communication range. We’re in the men’s room. I found him inside, but he didn’t notice me. Right now he’s washing the bejesus out of that metal bowl.

  “Not good,” Ben grumbled, eavesdropping on our communications.

  I wholeheartedly agreed. Hi, you have eyes on the cake?

  Affirmative. It’s parked near the dance floor, but they haven’t touched it yet. Kit’s mother is blabbering about horseshoes or something. I think she’s drunk. Tempe’s trying to pull her aside. Oh man, the cake looks delicious.

  Don’t let anyone eat a piece. Not yet.

  Hiram’s reply was laced with annoyance. How am I supposed to do that?

  Use your imagination.

  Shelton’s voice cut into our headspace. Biggs trashed the bowl, and then flushed the note! That’s weird, right?

  My stomach dropped. Worse and worse. Don’t let him leave the building!

  What? HOW?!?

  Improvise! I had no idea either.

  “You think he’s trying to poison people?” Ben asked me in a sharp voice. It was almost jarring to hear words spoken out loud.

  “I don’t know!” I was suddenly pacing. “Should we barge in there and stop the cake ceremony? We’ll look like lunatics. No one would understand, and I can’t prove anything!”

  Ben winced. “Whitney might burst into flames.”

  My eyes fell on the notepad lying on the carpet. I rushed forward and grabbed it.

  “What’s that?” Ben said.

  A blank sheet stared up at me. I flipped through the rest of the pages. More of the same.

  “Nothing.” Then an idea struck me. “Unless . . .”

  In the corner of the room was a small table with a desk lamp. I raced over and switched on the light. Held the notepad close to the bulb. Angled it slowly. “Ben, look!”

  When tilted just so, I could see faint characters indented into the top sheet.

  I stared at the marks until my eyes watered, but even with my enhanced vision I couldn’t make anything out. I handed the pad to Ben, but he had no better luck.

  “Damn it!” Ben growled. “Whatever was written here, he really didn’t want us to see it.”

  “But we can!” I blurted, eyes rounding. “I need a pencil!”

  Ben gave me a puzzled look, but he’d learned when to hold his tongue. A quick survey of the staging room turned up nothing, so he ran into the kitchen. I heard drawers being yanked open, followed by a triumphant “Bingo!”

  Ben raced back in with a weathered number two pencil covered in bite marks.

  “Gross.” But I snatched it from him anyway. “It’s sharpened, at least.”

  I placed the pencil tip flat against the top sheet of the notepad. Softly, carefully, I began sliding the graphite back and forth across the indentations on the page.

  Ben scratched his temple. “Care to explain?”

  “If I do this correctly,” I said, tongue wedged between my teeth, “the graphite will darken the paper around the indentations without reaching inside them, leaving the valleys white.”

  He was already nodding. “Revealing on this sheet whatever’s been pressed into it by the handwriting on the page above.” Ben squeezed my shoulder, sending a surge of warmth through my body. “Tory, that’s brilliant.”

  “Hold the applause. We haven’t found anything yet.” But internally, I preened.

  Shelton’s voice arrowed into my brain. Still faint, and panting like he’d run a marathon. Okay. So. I ran two brooms through the bathroom’s door handles and . . . and . . . well . . . Biggs is currently locked inside there. He’s . . . he’s . . . uh . . . he’s pretty mad about it. But the door seems to be holding up.

  Ben looked as shocked as I felt. You imprisoned him in the men’s room?

  YOU TOLD ME TO STOP HIM! Shelton mind-shouted, his voice jagged as a live wire. What was I supposed to do, politely ask him to wait in the lobby!?!

  No. Right. I tried to sound reassuring, though my arm hairs were standing on end. Good job.

  Then to Ben: Oh my God. If I’m wrong about him, we’re in serious trouble.

  I heard that! Shelton yelled. I knew this was crazy! I’m now officially a kidnapper.

  Speeches are done! Hi sent from the ballroom. Whitney is waving a giant knife.

  “Crap.” I couldn’t rush my shading work without compromising the results. I need five more minutes, Hi. Stall them.

  You’ve got sixty seconds, he replied tersely. Whitney’s jabbering right now, but she’ll be ready to slice and dice at any moment. Hey, if everyone else takes a piece, there’s no reason why I can’t have one, is there?

  Ben slapped his forehead. It might be poisoned, you moron!

  All life is risk.

  I jumped as Shelton burst into the room. “Biggs is pounding the bathroom door!”

  Ben covered his face. “He’s probably a bit upset. I’d be.”

  Shelton’s hands flew up. “What were my other options!? Tackle him? Hogtie him in the handicapped stall? He washed the bowl, flushed the note, and was about to bail. There was nothing else I could do except just let him go!”

  “Everyone zip it!” I finished the last pencil strokes and gently blew excess graphite from the page. Two cursive lines were now legible.

  Two parts per thousand into the icing

  Ipecac commercial syrup—1/14 extract roots/rhizomes

  “Oh mamma,” Shelton moaned. “There is something in the frosting!”

  “But what?” Ben said. “Some kind of syrup? That doesn’t sound bad.”

  Time’s up! Hi’s voice was as tense as barbed wire. They’re cutt
ing the cake together.

  My mind blanked. I stared at the notepad without any idea what to do next. The second line was a total mystery. What the heck was commercial syrup?

  Whitney and Kit have the first slice, Hi reported.

  “Ipecac commercial syrup,” I mumbled, thinking furiously. “Made from . . . plant roots?”

  “I feel like I’ve heard of that before,” Shelton muttered.

  My head whipped to him. “What? Which word?”

  “Ipecac.” Then Shelton snapped his fingers, eyes rounding like dinner plates. “I remember now! My cousin Dudley! One time when we were kids, he drank a bunch of Windex on a dare. My grandmother found out, started screaming for that stuff. Ipecac. The word stuck with me. She had some in her medicine cabinet.”

  I was practically bouncing up and down. “Why would Biggs put medicine in . . .”

  My eyes popped as the answer hit me. Ipecac.

  Forks are out! Hi sent. Repeat: forks are out! The photographer is lining up a picture!

  I took a running step toward the double doors. Realized I’d never make it in time.

  Hi, you have to stop them! I sent urgently.

  I think that ship has sailed, Tor.

  Do whatever it takes! The frosting is spiked!

  What am I supposed to do, freeze time? I’m not an X-Man!

  HIRAM! This is SERIOUS! STOP THEM!

  Raw panic from Hiram. How the heck am I—

  JUST DO IT!

  ALL RIGHT ALREADY!

  Adrenaline flooded the bond. Shelton, Ben, and I shuddered with the force of it.

  Shelton reached for his earlobe. “What’s he doin—?”

  Something crashed in the ballroom. Followed by screams.

  A voice boomed through the double doors. “Somebody stop him! He’s crazy!”

  “Ho boy,” Ben breathed.

  Shelton winced. Removed his glasses.

  I shook my head, bereft of speech.

  As one, we barreled into the reception.

  Flustered guests had formed a circle on the dance floor.

  Someone was lying facedown in the middle of it.

  “Well,” Ben began, but didn’t follow up.

  Shelton swallowed.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “He didn’t have a lot of alternatives.”

  Hi was sprawled out on the hardwood, covered in crumbs and icing. The rolling cart was upended to one side. Plates and forks littered the parquet around him. He’d clearly thrown himself onto the cake, knocking everything over in a desperate attempt to prevent it from being eaten.

  “HIRAM!” Kit was still holding his fork, mouth hanging open, his face a rare shade of purple. Whitney stood beside him, dumbstruck, gripping a now-empty plate. Everyone was staring at my friend, clearly unable to comprehend why this insane teenager had thrown himself atop a perfectly good wedding cake.

  “This will be difficult to explain,” Ben whispered.

  Shelton giggled involuntarily. “That’s an understatement.”

  I rushed over to Hi, who’d rolled onto his back and wasn’t moving. “Are you okay?”

  “I even got the slice in Whitney’s hand,” he mumbled through a layer of icing coating his face. He rose to an elbow, wiping sugar from his eye sockets. Sighed. I could tell he was trying to come to grips with what he’d just done. He lay back down on his back. “I’m gonna need some help smoothing this one over, Tor. Plus a gurney. I broke my everything.”

  “My . . . my . . . wedding cake!” Whitney stifled a sob, her hands shooting toward the wreckage on the dance floor. “It’s ruined!”

  Best Man Eric elbowed a path through the crowd, red-faced and struggling for balance. “You’re dog-meat, pal!” he slurred. “You ruined my sister’s big day!”

  He reached for Hi, but I shoved him sideways. “Back off! I’ll explain.”

  But how? All I had was the shadow of a note, and a wild hunch.

  Plus a red-haired chef imprisoned in the men’s room.

  Lightning raced down my spine.

  I felt every eye in the room. Stunned gazes, quickly growing angry.

  Then Ben was at my side. Inside my head, steadying me. Take it slow. Step by step.

  Shelton snaked around Eric, positioning himself protectively over Hi. My skinny friend watched Whitney’s brother warily. “You need to step back, dude.”

  I took a moment to marshal my thoughts. Start strong.

  “This cake was poisoned!” I said loudly, eliciting horrified gasps.

  There. Good.

  Kit’s mouth worked, but no sound emerged. Whitney glanced at the smeared plate clutched between her fingers, then squealed, dropping it like a snake. Shattering china sparked a fresh round of exclamations.

  “Tory!” Kit shook his head roughly, as if chasing away a bad dream. “Why would you say such a thing?”

  Captain Corcoran preempted my response.

  Which, admittedly, I hadn’t quite formed yet.

  “Did the girl say poison?” Corcoran began maneuvering his bulk through the circle of onlookers, projecting so everyone could hear. “Tory Brennan, are you accusing someone of . . . attempted murder?”

  Shelton’s eyes found the ceiling. Man, I can’t stand this guy.

  Feed him the cake, Hi suggested, still lying over most of it.

  Slow, Ben repeated, catching my eye and holding it. Step by step.

  I sucked in all Ben’s confidence I could absorb. Gave his hand a quick squeeze. Then, clearing my throat, I addressed the ring of glowering faces. “The icing on this cake was spiked with something dangerous. Hi learned at the last moment, and did what he could to stop you guys from eating it. Everyone should be thanking him. You just dodged a bullet.”

  A tremor rippled through the crowd. Hissed denials. The band huddled together onstage, shaking their collective heads. They’d probably seen it all, but not this.

  My gaze darted from face to face, assessing the impact of my words. Chance and Ella had wormed to the inside of the group and were eyeing me strangely. Beside them, Tempe and Harry wore matching frowns of concern. Madison and Jason together stood with his parents, while Ashley and Courtney were huddled a step behind them, whispering and hiding smiles. God, I hate those two.

  But people were listening. I had a shot at this.

  Corcoran crossed his arms. Glared down from his high horse. We’d never had a great relationship—or even a good one—but he knew better than to dismiss me outright. “Whaddya mean, spiked?”

  I pitched my voice to reach everyone. Not that it was difficult—at that moment, despite the dozens of guests, you could’ve heard a mouse sneeze in that ballroom.

  “A few minutes ago, an unknown individual was tampering with this cake.” I spoke formally, aiming to be as precise as possible. “The man was dressed like a chef—with the name Biggs embroidered on his chest—but his uniform didn’t match the ones worn by tonight’s catering staff. My friends and I caught him mixing an unknown liquid into the icing. When we asked him what he was doing, he stormed away, but my friend Shelton caught him cleaning out a metal bowl in the men’s bathroom. Then he threw it away.”

  Furious whispers. A tense-faced server sprinted toward the kitchen, likely to retrieve the head caterer.

  I caught Kit’s eye. Registered his complete bewilderment.

  Whitney’s shoulders were trembling. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”

  “Just hold on!” Corcoran held up a hand before giving me a hard look. “You saw a cook fixing the wedding cake, and just assumed he was up to no good?” The captain crossed his arms, displaying his skepticism to the rapt audience. “Sounds like your imagination may’ve gotten the best of you. And this poor cake, unfortunately.”

  Choking back my irritation, I held up the notepad. “When we found him, the suspect was
referring to something written down on this pad. Instructions of some kind. He balled up the page when we confronted him, and later flushed it down the toilet. But we were able to recover the message by shading the sheet directly beneath it. See for yourself.”

  The crowd stirred. Ella and Chance exchanged a glance. What were they about?

  As I handed the pad to Corcoran, I noticed Tempe nodding, which gave me confidence.

  “Two parts per thousand into the icing,” the captain read, frowning through his mustache. “And what’s this here about . . . ip-e-cac syrup?” He sounded the word out slowly, then rubbed his chin. “I swear, everything you kids touch never makes any plain sense. And how are we supposed to locate this mystery chef? Biggs, you said? Sounds made-up to me.”

  I glanced at Shelton, who gulped, but nodded.

  “We know where he is.” Keeping my voice level. “He’s been . . . detained.”

  Corcoran’s eyes shot to me. “Detained? By whom?”

  Ben stepped between us. “He’s locked in the men’s bathroom. We were just coming to find you.”

  Before anyone could react, Eric DuBois stepped forward and grabbed my arm. “Are you saying that someone put ipecac syrup in the wedding cake?”

  I nodded. “In the icing. We think.”

  Eric grew wide-eyed. “Oh jeez.”

  Ben clamped a hand on to Eric’s wrist. Met his eye. Shook his head.

  Eric released me with a shrug. “That’s bad news,” he said to Whitney, who was standing stone still and blinking like an owl. “Remember when I ate those urinal cakes as a kid? Mom made me drink that stuff. It makes you puke something fierce.”

  My eyes darted to Tempe, who’d paled. I spoke over the murmuring crowd. “He’s right. For years, ipecac syrup was a household medicine.”

  “So it’s not poison?” Hi had propped his elbow again, but otherwise made no effort to rise from the dessert-pocalypse he’d created. “We can eat the cake?”

  I shook my head. “Ipecac syrup makes people throw up. Immediately. It tastes very sweet, like concentrated sugar, but get some of that junk inside you and it’s coming out. Period. But doctors stopped recommending it because its side effects are worse than the benefits. It can kill you.”