by Linda Lovely
I googled the Greenville paper, called the main number, and listened to a robotic voice offer an endless number of extension options. After what seemed like an hour, I connected with a real, breathing human being.
“Hi, could I speak with Bert Rider, please?” My heart raced as I waited for a response.
“Who’s calling?” the woman asked.
Reluctantly, I gave my name. If the poor guy was nauseous would he even take my call?
“Sorry, don’t know when he’ll be back. Came in for an hour. Then he felt ill and left.”
Cheeses. Not a doubt now. Somehow I’d made everyone sick. That thought roiled my own stomach.
“I need to reach him. I’m afraid he might be suffering from food poisoning. He needs to see a doctor.”
The woman chuckled. “Don’t worry. Hope you’re not the cook he was cursing. Said he was going to an Urgent Care facility. Then, as soon as he could safely get five feet away from a toilet, he’d head to his lawyer’s. Vowed he’d sue the idiot who’d made him sicker than an eight-year-old sneaking a Marlboro from his daddy’s stash.”
Wonderful. Bad press and a lawsuit.
“Thank you,” I hung up.
If Bert had already sought medical help and leapt to the conclusion my cooking was responsible, there was no point hunting him down. Nothing I could do except seek legal counsel.
Good thing Mom was a lawyer. Of course, as the City of Clemson’s attorney, her primary focus was prosecution not defense.
Okay, how to reach Harriett? I called up her website. It only allowed for contact via an email form. No phone number. I opened the Contact Me app and filled out the comment section, asking Harriett to call me. I added that a luncheon item might have been contaminated and I wanted to make certain she was symptom free. As soon as I pushed the Send button, I wondered if Bert’s lawyers could use my wording as evidence against me.
I had Della Doyle’s cell number. She answered on the fourth ring.
“Della, I’m sorry to bother you but Mom and Ursula appear to be suffering from food poisoning, and I want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m feeling a tad nauseous,” Della said. “Nothing serious. Made a couple of, um, productive bathroom visits. I’m feeling much better now.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I can’t imagine what happened.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “You’re a marvelous chef, Brie. Unfortunately none of us can control what we buy in stores these days. I once served my late husband a mushroom casserole that made him so sick he looked like a bleached dish rag. Don’t blame yourself.”
She paused. “And I’m sorry I let Harriett bait me into losing my temper. I didn’t mean to ruin what had been a wonderful lunch.”
The cordial call made me feel slightly better though still plenty worried. Time to phone Mollye. While I was relatively sure we’d escaped whatever plague had attached itself to one of my desserts, I wanted to make certain my best friend was her kick-ass self.
“Hey, Brie.” Mollye’s cheerful answer on the second ring told me she was fine. A big sigh of relief.
I shared the horrible news, then asked, “Harriett’s phone number’s unlisted. Don’t suppose you know it?”
“No, but she works out of her house. We can probably catch her there.”
Mollye gave me the address in a neighborhood that had sprung up on the edge of the town of Ardon. I paid no heed to the posted speed limits as I raced to Elm Street. Still Moll beat me. Mollye looked the picture of health, tapping her foot impatiently as she stood by her Starry Skies van.
“You didn’t tell me helping serve your luncheon could also involve doing CPR on your victims,” Mollye grumped. “I’ll tell you right now, if Harriett has erupted at either end, I’m not helping with clean-up.”
The image made me shudder. I screwed up my courage and marched up the steps to the blogger’s front porch. Her house was a cute but tiny Arts and Crafts style knock-off. Mollye tagged along, taking refuge behind me as I rang the bell. Didn’t blame her. I wasn’t eager to come face to face with someone who wanted to chop my head off. Of course, I’d feel worse if Harriett was suffering like Ursula and Mom, and she had no one to take her to the ER.
No answer. I rang the bell a second time, then a third. I pounded on the wooden door, just in case she couldn’t hear the bell.
“Maybe Harriett didn’t come home after the luncheon,” I said.
“No, she must be here,” Mollye answered. “Her car’s in the carport beside the house.”
My friend strode across the porch to one of three long windows and cupped her hands around her eyes to peer inside.
“Uh…Better start practicing new cheese and meat curses,” Mollye said. “Think you’re going to need a lot of vocabulary. Harriett’s sprawled on the floor. Must be pretty darn sick if she can’t raise up enough to see who’s hammering on her door like a carpenter gone plum crazy.”
I rushed to Mollye’s side and looked through the window. My heart sank. “We have to get help.” I dialed 911.
Just as I finished the call, Mollye walked in Harriett’s front door. “It isn’t locked,” she called to me. Goosebumps rippled up my arms. Less than forty-eight hours ago we’d walked inside another unlocked house and found someone dead. Dear Lord, not again.
I forced myself to follow Mollye inside. Despite my friend’s earlier snark that she wouldn’t offer aid to my victims, she marched straight to where Harriett lay face down on the floor and placed two fingers on her neck.
Moll turned. Eyes wide. Lips quivering. All traces of amusement gone. She shook her head as she jerked her hand away. “Harriett’s dead.”
THIRTEEN
I froze for an instant, standing in a virtual stranger’s house, wondering if something I cooked had killed the woman. Strange what imprints on your brain in moments of stress. Harriett’s calf-link muumuu had hiked thigh high when she collapsed, creating a series of folds. The flowers decorating the tent dress had collapsed upon themselves. The muumuu’s bright orange blossoms looked wilted and clashed with the violet shade of the patterned rug.
Then the smell registered. She’d been sick. Hairy hamhocks! I gagged and swallowed, trying to stymie the bile making a run for it straight up my throat.
Snap out of it. You just took a refresher CPR course. Maybe Harriett’s not dead. Maybe you can revive her.
“Help me roll Harriett on her back.” I wiped my sweaty palms on my pants before I took hold of the woman’s shoulder.
Mollye scooted beside me and grabbed a handful of muumuu by Harriett’s hips. We pulled and tugged. Harriett teetered on her side for a moment before plopping on her back.
One look at Harriett’s pasty and puffy face, and I felt bile make another attempt to climb my esophagus. Thank heaven the newest CPR guidelines emphasized compression, not mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
Shame immediately followed my selfish thought. I checked Harriett’s mouth for obstructions. My ear grazed her lips as I listened for any hint of breath. Nothing. All I could hear was my own hammering heart.
I placed the heel of my right hand on her chest, cupped my left hand on top, and interlocked my fingers. I pushed hard, and set up a fast rhythm. What was the song the CPR teacher told us to hum? Yes, “Staying Alive!” I tried to synch my actions with the song’s rapid beat.
“Holy moly, you’re gonna break her ribs,” Mollye exclaimed.
Tears streamed down my cheeks. Sweat trickled down my back. Breathe, Harriett!
After a minute, I stopped. Forced myself to tilt her chin up. I clamped my lips over hers. Two quick breaths. Back to compression. One, two, three…Staying Alive!
I don’t know how many times I repeated the protocol. I’d entered some twilight zone. Pretended I inhabited an alternate universe. It was almost as if I’d gone outside myself to observe.
Strong
arms lifted me up and away. “We’ll take over,” a man’s voice commanded.
I hadn’t even heard the EMS crew arrive. As the first responders went to work, Moll helped me stagger outside. At the side of the house, I fell to my knees, my cheek almost touching a forsythia bush flush with yellow buds.
I left my lunch there. Dry heaves followed. A strange thought chased through my brain. Was I frozen in a downward dog yoga pose?
I felt a cool hand on my forehead. “You gonna be sick some more?” Mollye asked.
“No.” I squirmed into a sitting position and pulled a tissue from my pocket to wipe my mouth. My hands shook. I wasn’t sure I could stand. My legs felt like disconnected rubber bands. “Sorry even a whiff of a hurl turns me green.”
In my heart I knew it wasn’t the retching that made me so sick. A young woman, younger than me, not yet thirty, was dead. I was to blame. The guilt made me ill.
I curled my legs under me and shook my head to clear the cobwebs. “Dad hasn’t called back. What if Harriett isn’t the only one to die?”
I looked pleadingly at Mollye as the horror of the situation made it hard to breathe. “Dear God, I hope Dad found Professor Swihart alive.”
Moll raised an eyebrow. “Wonder how Della will feel about screaming at Harriett once she finds out she’s no longer among the living?”
I phoned Dad and started jabbering as soon as he picked up. “Harriett’s dead. The coroner’s on the way to make it official. Please tell me is Dr. Swihart okay?”
“Slow down, honey,” Dad pleaded. “I just left Victoria’s office. She’s fine. Not a single symptom of food poisoning. The puzzle seemed to fascinate her. Wondered why she felt dandy when Ursula and Iris got so sick. Victoria volunteered to run lab tests on the food to try to determine cause. Of course, when she made the offer, she didn’t know Harriett was dead. Not sure she’ll want to get involved now that there’ll be an official investigation.”
“What do you mean ‘official’?” I had a good idea what official meant but a girl can always hope she’s wrong.
Mom was the family attorney, but I counted on Dad to patiently explain criminal investigations. His day job might be teaching horticulture, but his passion was crafting mysteries. He was president of the local Sisters in Crime chapter, and he attended the Writers’ Police Academy every year to increase his knowledge of homicide investigations, forensics, and general crime fighting.
Homicide? How did that word worm its way into my head? Though my guilt was a heavy weight, I prayed an accidental food poisoning couldn’t be deemed murder. A niggle of wishful thinking snuck into my brain. Maybe Harriett’s death was totally unrelated. Yeah, right, just a coincidence that three of her lunch mates had simultaneously turned green at the gills.
“Honey, did you hear what I said?” Dad demanded.
Nope. I’d momentarily tuned him out.
“Sorry. I spaced out for a few secs. Could you repeat that?”
“Harriett’s cause of death probably will be ruled ‘undetermined’ until an autopsy’s performed. The medical examiner is certain to request lab screens for toxins. I’m pretty sure investigators will visit your kitchen.”
The idea that my sparkling Summer Place kitchen might be viewed as a crime scene made me feel ill all over again. On the other hand, I was desperate to know what happened. How could I have served something that cost Harriett Quinn her life?
Dad and I promised to keep our cell phones on and let each other know instantly about new developments. He was staying by Mom’s bed at the hospital until she was released.
My next task was to reach Eva, tell her I wouldn’t be home to help with evening chores. No sense trying to phone my aunt. She was certain to be outside on such a sunny day. The odds of Eva carrying a cell phone into the barnyard were slightly lower than her forsaking cheese.
Maybe Andy Green, our handsome veterinarian and my every-other-week beau, was in the neighborhood and could swing by Udderly Kidding Dairy to let Eva know. He answered on the first ring. I explained the situation.
“Do what you need to do,” Andy said. “I’ll come find you after I update Eva.”
The first screams pierced the air as I ended the call. I staggered around the corner of the house to see what was happening. The EMS crew was wheeling Harriett’s now shrouded form into the ambulance as a shrieking woman ran straight at Mollye.
“You murdered my baby,” she wailed. Moll covered her head as the mad haranguer pummeled her protecting arms with her fists.
Then the woman spotted me. “You devil worshipper,” she yelled and made a beeline in my direction. The large shiny black pocketbook hitched over her shoulder slid down her arm. She seized it with both hands and barreled toward me holding the monster bag over her head.
At first, I didn’t place her red, tear-streaked face. She was definitely someone who’d loved Harriett. Knowing why the screamer wanted to batter me with a handbag turned off my fight response. My alternate beat-feet option didn’t kick in until the pocketbook slammed into my right shoulder. It felt like I’d been slugged with a five-pound bag of Idaho spuds. Ouch.
“Run!” Mollye yelled.
Her exhortation pretty much matched my inclination. I could definitely outrun a middle-aged lady dressed in nylons and pump heels. Not only was I decked out in running shoes and loose pants, I had the assailant by at least twenty years.
Was this really happening? It felt more like a bizarre nightmare than real life.
A sheriff’s cruiser swung in front of me and screeched to a stop. Yep, this was real. Deputy Danny McCoy, Mollye’s boyfriend, leapt from the car and swerved into my path. I tried to brake. I bounced against his chest, and he swallowed me in his beefy but solid arms. I teetered for a moment before I rocked to a standstill.
“What in Hades is going on?” Danny swung me around, putting his stocky body between the mad woman and me. She was coming for me as fast as her pantyhose-encased legs permitted. Danny’s peace-making efforts were rewarded with a pocketbook right-hook to his noggin.
“Hey, stop that, Mrs. Quinn,” Danny yelled as she bonked him again while trying to land one on me. “Stop or I’ll arrest you for assaulting an officer. Why are you chasing Brie Hooker?”
“That devil woman killed my baby, my Harriett,” she screamed. “She’s a murderer. Take her to jail before I kill her myself. She lured my Harriett to some pretend lunch to poison her. Bet she killed Karen, too.”
Apparently she hadn’t heard the erotic asphyxiation rumor. I’d rather take a beating than tell her.
Mrs. Quinn’s head darted around Danny’s restraining arms so she could level a hateful glare at me. The woman was Harriett’s mother, and one of Susan Young’s cross-bearing goat haters. That meant she was a comrade-in-picketing of the late Karen Vincent, whose body Mollye and I had discovered.
Holey Swiss on a shingle.
A knot of curious onlookers formed a circle around Mrs. Quinn, Danny, and me. The neighbors had been coaxed from homes by the siren calls of the ambulance and sheriff’s cruiser. A quartet of teens held cell phone cameras high recording the thwarted cat fight for posterity.
Wonderful. The Hooker clan had gained enough notoriety last Halloween after Udderly Kidding Dairy became a major crime scene for the second time. The purpose of my tasting was to grab headlines for my cuisine not for how many people wound up dead in my vicinity.
The Ardon Chronicle would have a field day. I predicted a likely headline: “Brie Hooker Tasting Kills Food Blogger” or “Brie Hooker: Food To Die For”.
I glanced back at the grieving mother and shame mingled with my guilt. How could I be concerned about my reputation as a chef when this woman had just lost her daughter?
“I’m so very sorry,” I said. “You don’t know how guilty I feel. Believe me, I tasted everything I cooked. I have no idea what happened.”
“Did you
hear her?” Mrs. Quinn screeched. “She admitted it. Brie Hooker killed my daughter.”
A pair of strong hands clamped onto my shoulders. The hold was too tight for me to turn anything but my head. I looked up into a pair of emerald eyes. Troubled eyes.
“Danny, is it okay if I take Brie out of here?” Andy Green asked. “Maybe you can escort Mrs. Quinn back to her daughter’s house?”
The sheriff’s deputy nodded. “Yes, but don’t you leave yet. Let me get Mrs. Quinn settled. I’ll be right back for a few words with Brie.”
Andy relaxed his grip on my shoulders. I pivoted to give his lean strong body a hug. His work shirt smelled of cows and sweat. The odors didn’t stop me from hugging him a second time.
Deputy Danny came back in a flash. “I asked the crew of that second ambulance to treat Mrs. Quinn for shock.” Danny fumbled in his shirt pocket for a spiral notepad. “Brie, what made you say you felt guilty?”
I gave a brief synopsis of the tasting, providing Danny with the names of all my guests. I added that his very own Mollye helped prepare and serve the lunch. I also provided an update on my guests’ current health or lack thereof.
“You know where to find Brie,” Andy said. “And Mollye can certainly fill you in on more details. So how about letting us leave? I think Brie’s continued presence will just stir up more trouble with Harriett’s relatives.”
“Go on, get going,” Danny said. “What a nightmare. Mrs. Quinn said she’s calling Reverend Nickles to come pray with her. Sure hope Sheriff Mason gets here soon.”
FOURTEEN
“Thanks, Andy,” I whispered as we walked away from the growing crowd.
“Go on and get in my truck. It’s parked down the block,” he said. “I see Mollye by the ambulance. I’ll let her know you’re leaving with me. Did you and Mollye drive here together?”
