by Jaye Watson
"A friend?" He eyed her, and must have seen the blush that was burning her cheeks. "A male friend, perhaps?"
"Hand me those napkins." She kept her back to him while she arranged them. "It's Harry. Harry Jordan. I met him at the store last night, and invited him to dinner. We got to talking and...one thing led to another."
"Aha!"
She spun to face him. "Not that, you idiot. I mean we talked about how we were both alone, so I suggested we share Christmas dinner."
"After which might one thing lead to another, only this time something more interesting?"
She considered his words while she finished putting the serving utensils in the various bowls, casseroles, platters and pie pans. "I don't know. I'm not sure he's interested in me that way. Or maybe I'm not interested in him that way. I just don't know, Roger." She looked over the big table one last time, and dusted her hands. "There. It's done. Let's summon the ravening hordes."
He squeezed her shoulder as he passed her on his way to the door. "This conversation isn't finished, Banister. Just postponed."
As far as she was concerned, it was finished, but she just smiled. Roger was a good friend, but sometimes he was way too nosy.
* * * *
Emaline was at the end of the buffet line, just behind Alyssa Kent, a mousy little lab tech. She'd never warmed to Alyssa, who struck her somehow as sly and sneaky. She had absolutely no justification for her dislike, except Alyssa never sounded quite sincere, no matter what she said.
"Who made the salad?" Alyssa said, poking around in the half-full bowl of mixed greens.
"I did," Emaline told her, as she dished up a small helping of cheesy scalloped potatoes. She hoped the woman wouldn't take the last deviled eggs.
Alyssa lingered, taking her own sweet time. She touched half a dozen serving spoons, never quite picking one up. She used a pickle fork to poke the gherkins and dill spears, dig around in the assorted olives, and finally took one Spanish olive. Her nose wrinkled over the sauerkraut salad, and her mouth pursed as she stirred the green bean casserole, burying the crisp french-fried onions under the soupy beans.
Emaline wanted to tell her to stop playing with the food.
"I guess I'll have to come back for dessert." She surveyed the assorted cakes, pies, and cookies. "It all looks so good."
Roger finished filling his plate and paused at the door. "Want me to save you a place?"
"Please," she replied, rolling her eyes in Alyssa's direction.
His sympathetic grin shouldn't have irritated her, but it did. It was his fault she'd ended up behind Alyssa, whom he'd sent to the kitchen for more napkins, rather than getting them himself.
Alyssa got to the doorway and stopped. "Oh, gosh, I forgot to get any salad dressing." She bumped Emaline's arm as she stepped past her.
It was just enough to tip her plate, sending its contents cascading across the front of her lab coat.
"Oh, gosh, Dr. Banister, I'm sorry. Here, let me clean you up." She snatched a handful of napkins and started scrubbing at the mess.
"No! Stop! I can--"
"Oh, look, it's all over your sleeve." Somehow she'd managed to shove the sleeve up and her hand, wet and sticky, wrapped around Emaline's forearm. "I'll just--"
"Let go, Alyssa. You're making it worse." She tried to free her arm but the young woman held it tightly. With teeth gritting, Emaline stood still for about ten more seconds, before she pushed Alyssa away. "Stop it! Take your hand away and let me do this myself."
Alyssa let go as if burned. "I-I'm sorry. I was just trying to help." Her bottom lip quivered.
"Look, just go get your salad dressing. I'll take care of this." Emaline set the nearly empty plate on the edge of the table. Once she'd removed the soiled lab coat, she used a saucer to scrape spilled food off the floor. Fortunately only the scalloped potatoes were likely to stain the carpet, and most of them had landed on her coat. She bundled the whole mess into the lab coat and stuck it in a corner, then used a napkin to blot the few damp spots on the carpet. No sense in making a big fuss now.
Alone in the empty room, Emaline got a fresh plate and worked her way along the table again, taking tiny dabs of almost everything except the mysterious Jell-O salad and the stirred-up green beans. She was just about to walk through the door when Mary O'Neill barreled in, nearly sending her plate flying again.
"Oh, excuse me, Dr. Banister. I just came back for more of that delicious salad. And some dessert."
She stood aside, not answering. If she had, she'd say something she'd regret, something about people with allergies who still managed to eat twice as much as anyone else. She'd seen Mary's first plateful, even more mounded with rich food than Alyssa's. So full, in fact, that she'd taken a second plate to hold her salad.
"This is the best salad. " Mary dug into Emaline's contribution. "I'm so glad you decided to bring it instead of dessert."
"Quite all right," Emaline muttered, and escaped to the lobby, where tables were set up for diners.
People were already talking about going back for dessert when she took the seat next to Roger. Without enthusiasm, Emaline looked at the contents of her plate. She really didn't care for plain oil and vinegar dressing, but she forked up a bit of her salad anyway. A fat caper rolled off her fork and fell to the floor. She looked, but couldn't see where it had gone.
At least it wasn't as likely to stain the carpet in here, like the spilled spaghetti sauce had last year.
Conversation swirled around her, but she found nothing to add. Roger was, for a change, equally silent as he chased the last bites around his plate. She sampled the mysterious casserole she'd taken a small spoonful of and discovered it to be a risotto made with blue cheese. But what was the green and brown topping? Tasty, whatever it was.
Her second bite of salad had a strange flavor, like nothing she'd put into it. She picked up her napkin and spat the half-chewed mouthful into it. Turning slightly, so no one would see, she opened the napkin and looked at its contents. Most of the lettuce had been masticated into an unsightly mass, but there were some shreds of dark green she didn't recognize. She sniffed, but smelled nothing beyond greens, so she closed the napkin around the mass and set it aside. There was so much on her plate, she didn't really need the salad.
Everyone was happily munching on dessert when someone cried out, a high, ululating cry that faded off into a moan in the suddenly silent room.
"Mary! Mary!" The shriek echoed and re-echoed.
Rather than jump to her feet along with almost everyone else, Emaline sat quietly and finished her chocolate mousse. With two MDs on staff, plus a couple of ex-nurses, a mere biochemist wasn't needed, no matter the emergency. Besides, she'd have had to fight her way across the room, through the mass of excited people clustered on the far side.
Roger eventually returned, pushing his way through the crowd. He sat down beside her and reached for her wine glass. His was empty.
"Help yourself," she told him, but he didn't smile as he usually would have.
"I think she's dead," he said. "They're still working in her, but I don't think there's a chance in hell they'll revive her." He swiped a hand across his face. "God, Em, I've never seen anaphylactic shock work that fast. And her skin. Like she'd been dragged through a bramble patch."
Emaline put down her fork, appetite gone.
Just then the front door opened and two firemen entered, carrying an oxygen tank and other emergency gear. They pushed their way through the crowd. A few steps behind them came a pair of EMTs, each toting a large duffle.
The crowd gradually dispersed, but no one left. Instead they found chairs and sat, most of them staring vacantly. Dr. Burton sent his Admin Assistant to lock the conference room door, and then he hovered at the firemen's elbows, as if he suspected them of evil intentions.
The front door opened again, sending a draft of cold, damp air across the floor. Emaline shivered.
She shivered again when Harry Jordan walked in.
* * * *
It was just like one of those mysteries in the movies. The police held everyone in the lobby until questioned. Then they were let go.
Dr. Burton continued to stand guard on the conference room, quivering to attention every time one of the investigators went in or out.
The questioning went quickly. From what Emaline overheard, most of the questions were aimed at discovering what everyone had contributed to the potluck and where they'd been sitting. Gradually the crowd dispersed, until only the senior scientists remained.
It was pretty obvious that the cause of Mary's death was being questioned.
Harry and another detective came to the table where she and Roger waited. Harry introduced himself to Roger first. "This is Detective Armbruster, Dr. Banister. Would you go with him? He's got some questions for you."
Well, of course he couldn't treat her like a woman he'd dated. Still, Emaline was miffed at his brusque manner. "Certainly." She followed the detective to an empty table against the opposite wall.
Once she'd identified herself and described her job at BioLogic, he sat back and looked at her, a speculative gleam in his eyes. "I understand you brought the green salad, Dr, Banister. Can you tell me what was in it?"
Startled, she simply stared a moment. When he prompted her with a formless little sound, she started ticking the ingredients off on her fingers.
"Capers? What are those?"
"Fruits of a plant in the Capparidaceae--the Caper family. They're pickled." She made a circle with her thumb and finger, a quarter-inch in diameter. "I used the fancy ones, about this big."
"And what do they look like?"
"Sort of olive green, a little shriveled, more or less round."
He scribbled in his notebook. "Can you tell me where you purchased the salad ingredients?"
"New Seasons, for the most part. I had the artichoke hearts on hand, and the oil and vinegar. Oh, yes, and the capers. In fact, they'd been in my cupboard a while and I wanted to use them before they got too old."
"Too old? How long had you had them?"
"A year? I don't know for sure. I remember I bought them when I was going to try a new recipe, then I changed my mind. That had to have been last summer--no, the summer before last. Good heavens!"
"And the artichoke hearts. When and where did you buy them?"
"Costco, in September, I think."
"Do you still have the containers?"
She thought a moment. "Yes, they're in my recycling bin."
His glance was sharp. "You washed them?"
"Of course."
Again he scribbled. At last he stopped and said, "Thank you, Dr. Banister. I haven't any more questions for you right now, but I may want to talk to you again later."
Had that been a threat? Or just his standard exit line? Emaline looked across the room to where Harry had been questioning Roger, but the table was empty. Then she saw Roger at the door, speaking with Dr. Burton. Harry was nowhere in sight.
Exhaustion resulting from tension as much as a long day made her movements slow and clumsy as she fetched her coat from her office. Was it her imagination that her co-workers eyed her with suspicion when she came back into the lobby?
"Have a nice weekend, Dr. Banister," someone said.
She forced herself to smile, even though she had no idea who she was smiling at. "Thank you."
"Dr. Banister," her boss said as he held the front door for her.
"Dr. Burton," she replied, wondering if she imagined the frost in his voice.
She trudged the two blocks to the bus stop through drizzle, her way lit only by a street light on Scholls Ferry Road and the occasional passing car. What time was it, anyhow? After six, the ingoing busses only ran once an hour.
Once at the bus stop, she pushed back her coat sleeve and looked at her watch. Quarter of seven. "Damn." Well, at least she'd only have to wait fifteen or twenty minutes.
Drizzle matured into stingingly cold rain, and a gusty wind whipped her coat around her wet legs. Whatever had possessed her to wear a skirt today? A passing car threw up a rooster-tail of oily spray, soaking her already damp coat and drenching her feet. Not that it mattered. They were too cold to feel anything.
For about the fortieth time she stepped into the street to see if the bus was coming. It wasn't, but almost as soon as she stepped back, a sleek, dark car slid up to the curb beside her. The passenger door swung open. "Get in," someone growled.
She bent down and peered inside. "Harry?"
"Get in," he repeated.
She did, not caring that her coat was probably soaking the upholstery. The heater blew a blast of hot air on her feet. She almost wept in gratitude.
"Why didn't you wait for me?" he said, as soon as they were moving.
"It never occurred to me. You were busy, and for all I knew, you weren't allowed to fraternize with a suspect."
"Oh, for Christ's sake, Em, what kind of wise-ass remark is that? You should have known I'd take you home when I got done."
"And how should I? You're not my keeper? You're a cop."
"I'm the man you invited to Christmas dinner. The least I can do is see you get home. This is no night to be out."
"I've been out in worse," she muttered, not quite sure whether to be angry at his assumption they owed each other something or insulted at his assumption of responsibility for her.
He drove in silence until they were across the river. Finally he said, "How well did you know Mary O'Neill?"
"She's been receptionist at BioLogic for three or four years. We saw each other every day." She shrugged, knowing he couldn't see the gesture. "I guess I knew her as well as anyone, under those circumstances. We certainly didn't socialize."
"Did you get along?"
"Yes, of course." She looked across the car at his strong profile. "Harry, there's something odd about her death, isn't there?"
"What makes you say that? I was just making conversation."
"Bullfeathers."
His reply was a grunt. A noncommittal one.
Emaline watched his profile, now shadowed, now highlighted by streetlights or oncoming headlights. A basset-in-training, she'd described him to herself upon their first meeting, because of the pouches under his eyes. They were less obvious tonight, or perhaps she just didn't notice them so much. His steel-gray hair would have made him appear distinguished, if he hadn't looked so sympathetic, so kindly, sort of like a big brother who was always on your side.
She snorted, quietly, so he wouldn't hear. She'd bet Harry Jordan was neither kindly nor sympathetic toward murderers.
So maybe he didn't suspect her of killing her grandfather. Maybe he never had, not really.
If only she could be sure she hadn't.
"Are you going to be all right, staying alone tonight?"
She came to herself, realized they were just pulling into her driveway. "Of course," she said, in surprise. "Why on earth wouldn't I be?"
He shifted into neutral and turned toward her, setting his arm across the top of the steering wheel. "You don't get upset easily, do you?" He sounded almost accusatory.
If only you knew. The training of many years living with her grandfather made her say, "Not usually. What good does it do?" She really wanted to say, I'm scared to death, and I'm shocked that someone I know might be a murderer, and why don't you put your arms around me and kiss me and promise me everything will be all right?
He shrugged. "Sometimes it makes you feel better to scream and yell and throw things." For a moment he stared at her, then he turned away and climbed out of the car.
Knowing it bothered him when she didn't wait, she let him walk around and open her door. His hand cupping her elbow was strong, steady, as he escorted her up the sidewalk. He took the keys from her hand and unlocked the door. Before she could enter, he leaned inside and stood still, as if listening.
When he straightened, he was standing close, almost too close. "Good night," he said, just before he cupped her face between his big, callused hands. His
lips were cool, and they lingered all too briefly on hers. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"At the lab. Try to be on time, will you?"
She stared after him as he strode rapidly down the sidewalk. The compleat cop. On duty twenty-six hours a day.
She slammed the door shut and turned the key with such force that she bruised her thumb.
* * * *
Under any other circumstances, Emaline would have called in sick. This morning she didn't think she'd be believed. She did pamper herself by driving to work. The prospect of spending more than an hour on the bus, where anyone might have bumped against her arm, was something she simply couldn't face.
A uniformed policewoman sat behind Mary O'Neill's desk. "May I have your name, please?" she said, before Emaline could turn toward her office.
"Emaline Banister. What's--"
Instead of answering, the cop said, "Please take a seat in the conference room, Dr. Banister, and don't speak with anyone until you're called for an interview."
Definitely something suspicious about Mary's death. I wonder if Harry will tell me what. She chose a seat at the far end of the room, noticing as she did so that her lab coat was no longer wadded in the corner. I forgot all about it. She craned her neck, trying to see if the carpet was badly stained where her food had spilled, but she couldn't see around the table's near pedestal. I'll have to remember to email maintenance.
Two of the lab techs were sitting together near the door, whispering. Stan Vilocek leaned against the opposite wall. She hadn't been there five minutes when the door opened and Georgia came in, followed by two other secretaries and another lab tech. All three hesitated, then took chairs separated from each other.
Georgia glared at the whispering men. "They told us not to talk to anyone."
"Who's to know?"
Again the door opened. Detective Armbruster stuck his head in. "Chad McBride? Will you come with me, please?"
One of the talkative lab techs followed him out. The other one hunkered down in his chair and closed his eyes.
Emaline pulled out her Palm and turned it on. Yesterday morning on the bus she'd just gotten to a good part of the thriller when she had to get off. With any luck she'd be able to read the exciting scene before she was summoned.
