by Valley Sams
Chewing her disheartening salad, Mac punched cyanide poisoning into the search engine and waited for the results. Almost as quickly as she pressed enter, multiple articles were available to her.
She clicked the first one…
“Some symptoms of cyanide ingestion include bizarre behavior, difficulty breathing, cardiac arrest, seizures, coma and death.” Mac’s voice bounced off the tiled walls. Toby looked up from his bowl of meaty muck for a moment. “Those experiencing acute cyanide poisoning will often go into seizures leading to death within three to five minutes of ingestion and the skin will turn a distinctive shade of pink which, like the distinctive almond scent, is one of the hallmarks of the poison.”
Mac’s forkful of tuna salad was suspended in midair. Three to five minutes. She had been witness to Benson’s collapse, just like most of the room had been. As soon as he swallowed, he had collapsed and began seizing. There was no lag time…no precise three to five minutes before he met his unfortunate end. In fact, Bevacqua’s death had been almost instantaneous.
Her heart began to beat rapidly in her chest. She dropped her fork back into the bowl with a clatter, her hands going to her mouth. As morbid as it was, she found she was unable to stop herself from smiling.
This was it. This was the tear that would allow her to rip into the whole package. Where was the coma? Where was the allotted pause before the poison hit? There was something else going on, something that she had to figure out - and quickly.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Of course she hadn’t slept!! Sure, she might have missed an entire night of rest, but by the time she was opening the shop the next day, Mac was an expert of the effects of cyanide ingestion. She could even recite the precise chemical formula, if asked.
The temptation to keep the shop’s closed sign up and rush to Louis with the information she had gleaned was almost overpowering. While she was deep in her studies that night she had even found herself reaching for the phone to wake him up and blabber her findings into his no doubt deaf ears. But she couldn’t.
“Keep out of it, Catherine…” The sound of his voice, so cold and unfeeling, had looped in her head every time she began to dial his number. If he knew what she was doing, interviewing judges, pretending to be police, gathering information… there was a very good chance he’d never talk to her again. She’d lose him and her best friend. She’d be swallowed up into that house like the first girl to wander off in a horror film.
Instead, she had decided to move further. She would keep her head down and get what she needed without anyone knowing….
And her head could certainly benefit from being down. As she turned the lock in the shop door she could feel the effects of being awake for twenty-four hours pounding behind her eyes. It was going to take more than a few painkillers to keep herself afloat today.
The storm that had begun last night was in full force. It tore down the street with what can only be described as rage, flooding the pavement and searing into the side of her face as she struggled with the lock.
The ancient door finally squeaked and allowed her entrance. She pulled it open and was about to enter when she saw something move out of the corner of her eye.
Brenda Davies was skittering down the sidewalk, a beige raincoat pulled up around her neck to protect her from the icy onslaught. She was cradling a brown paper bag against her chest with what Mac knew immediately to be one of Cheryl’s pink cash receipts stapled to the top.
Mac was frozen, hardly noticing the rain that was now beginning to dribble down her neck.
Brenda looked like the definition of furtive. She kept her eyes to the ground and her head lowered. If she could’ve curled into a ball and rolled to go faster, she would’ve.
Mac looked back where she’d rushed from and caught a glimpse of Cheryl, eerily framed in the doorway, watching her customer leave. For a second she looked across the street at Mac. Those dark eyes of hers grew wider and she retreated from the door, seemingly disappearing into the dark of her shop.
Without a second thought, Mac closed the stubborn door and locked it. Shoving the keys into her jeans pocket, she jogged across the road and into the smoky depths of MoonPhase Remedies.
It had been completely restored. Less that 24 hours and Cheryl with her ‘glaucoma’ had somehow managed not only to replace the windows, but all of the trinkets she was so proud of. Even the wall of tinctures and herbs behind her was exactly as it was, stretching out behind her like great glass wings.
She was sitting in her normal spot, but instead of looking numb as usual, she had the faintly panicked look of someone who had been caught.
“It’s fixed!” Mac exclaimed. She had a million other questions, but she was a little startled at how quickly this eccentric creature had repaired the insurmountable damage from yesterday.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” Cheryl said. She was twitchy. “You’re dripping all over my stuff; stand on the mat at least,” she said, her voice finding strength in her complaining.
Mac hastily wiped the rain from her face and where it was pooling on the shoulders of her sweater.
“You too cheap for an umbrella?” Cheryl grunted.
“That woman that just left,” Mac said, unable and frankly unwilling to play all the social games felt it best to get straight to the point. She disliked Cheryl and didn’t want to waste any more of her day on her than she had to. “Do you know who she is?”
Cheryl looked at her blankly, as if Mac had just asked the stupidest question she’d ever heard.
“Yeah. It’s that fancy pants judge from yesterday. She’s on TV or something. Thinks she’s so much, but then again, so does everyone in this town.”
Mac stepped off the mat she had been assigned to, causing Cheryl to open her mouth, presumably to begin another tirade about how wet she was.
“Can I ask what she bought?” Mac asked, before Cheryl could spit any more nonsense out of her craggy mouth.
The blank look Cheryl had before returned, but this time it was with the contrived innocence of someone who knew something they weren’t willing to share.
Mac had seen it plenty of times before. It was just as obvious as clearing the throat for attention.
“Some herbal stuff. Women’s stuff. For cramps and things.” Cheryl busied herself with her ridiculous pipe again, shoving a velvet pipe cleaner inside rapidly. Nervously.
Mac was at the counter now. She placed her hands on the scuffed wood and ducked her head to try to meet Cheryl’s averted eyes.
“She doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman that would a frequent a shop like this.”
“What do you mean ‘shop like this,’” Cheryl mumbled, still plunging her tar-plugged pipe.
“Herbs. That woman is as far away from natural as they come. You don’t suppose you sell anything here that might have some other use besides menstrual cramps, do you?”
The plunging stopped. Cheryl’s hand seemed to tremble slightly as she put the filthy pipe cleaner to the side.
“I got no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, still not making eye contact.
“Cheryl.” Mac ducked her head again. If she had been bolder, she would’ve grabbed the filthy woman’s head and forced her to make eye contact. However, with the hints of faded tattoos that poked out from under all of Cheryl’s hand woven kaftans, Mac had an idea she might be on the wrong side of that kind of confrontation. “Cheryl…” she said again, “Is there a possibility, just a possibility, that you might sell herbs that could be considered poisonous?”
Cheryl suddenly flushed pink (cyanide pink, Mac thought) and looked at Mac directly. There was anger in her eyes but with a depth that Mac understood to be fear.
“I ain’t selling poison to anyone. Don’t you start that with me.”
“I didn’t say you were,” Mac said, keeping her voice calm. “What I did ask was whether, with enough research, a person could combine some of your ‘supplies’ to make something with the potential to hurt someone.”
Cheryl’s eyes darted around the room, looking anywhere but at Mac. This was a challenge as Mac had positioned herself directly in front of the woman in the most imposing fashion a 5’6, dripping wet woman could muster.
“I suppose,” she said, “if someone knew enough. But that…that has nothing to do with me. I just sell the stuff. I don’t give a crap what they do with it when they get home. Ain’t my business. Go ahead and poison something if it makes you happy, knock off your old man…I could care less. I just want the money.”
Mac rolled her eyes. Cheryl’s callousness pushed her over the edge and she found herself speaking again without editing it first…a habit she was starting to get used to.
“Do you sell cyanide?” she asked, her voice a bit louder than she intended.
“Now why on earth would I do that?” Cheryl barked. It was her turn to lose patience now. “Why the hell would I sell poison in an herbal shop? You see the rainbows? You see the unicorns? The books? I’m in the business of helping folks, not killing them.” She had stood up during her tirade, almost knocking her chair backwards into the jars behind her.
She leaned in to Mac, pointing one threatening finger in her face. Mac could make out her weary tattoo, spreading exhaustedly across her arm. ‘Only God Can Judge Me.’
“Keep your nose out of my business, sweetheart, and get your tiny little backside out of my store before I kick it out for you.”
Mac raised both hands in surrender, her face as calm as she could keep it with a screeching harpy in her face.
“Fine. My apologies.”
She made a hasty exit back into the hurricane outside. When the door slammed behind her, she paused. The shop could stay closed one more day. She had bigger things to accomplish today than doling out truffles to land-locked tourists.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The bar at Brenda’s beachside hotel was just as pseudo-glamorous as the rest of the property. It had once been the courtroom in the city hall and the owners had decided to reinvent it as ‘The Pounding Gavel’. Where the judge’s bench and witness stands had once been now stood a bar made of the same deep rosewood that lined the walls. Behind this was an impressive collection of liquor bottles, lit from behind so that they practically glowed in the dark.
And dark it was. There were no windows to allow any natural light and the owners had decided to take advantage of the moody atmosphere. Seeing that the entire building was listed as ‘Mackenzie Bay’s premier romantic getaway’, they had ensured that the room was not only dimly lit, but filled with the kind of tall backed booths that ensured privacy for the patrons.
It was the ideal place for lovers….and amateur detectives. Amateur detectives that were soaking wet and exhausted from tailing food network celebrities on foot back to their hotel.
As soon as Mac knew Brenda was headed to the bar, she had ducked into the restroom in the lobby. She needed to catch her breath. Seeing that Brenda was on foot, she had managed to catch up to her, thanks to her running background. It should’ve been easier than the daily beach runs she tortured herself with, but Mac had been so pumped full of adrenaline that by the time she reached the hotel she was out of breath and tight-cheeked with exertion.
She hastily splashed some water on her face and used more than her fair share of paper towels to dry her now soaked sweater and hair. She didn’t need to draw attention to herself, which was hardly the point.
When she entered the bar, she was happy to see that there were at least two other couples there. They were huddled together in the rosy embrace of the velvet booths, reveling in the illicit thrill of day drinking and what were most likely extra marital affairs. They were the perfect shields.
Mac immediately found Brenda where she sat at the bar. Of course she wouldn’t seek out the privacy of the tables. Mac was certain the idea of privacy was so repellant to the superstar that looking for a position that offered the most visibility was second nature to her.
She had removed her beige raincoat and was seated, her slim legs crossed, directly in the center of the bar. She wore a typically skin tight cream sweater and a matching leather skirt short enough to showcase a stunning amount of thigh. How was it they had both walked the same distance, in the same downpour and Mac ended up looking like a drowned rat?
As furtively but as calmly as she could, Mac made her way to a booth that allowed her the best view of Miss Davies.
She slid into the oversized booth and was almost immediately set upon by an overeager waiter.
“Court is in session,” he said, obviously quite proud of himself. “What can I get you?”
Mac spared him a quick glance and ordered a tea. He looked disappointed and shuffled off. Obviously he was hoping for shame driven drinker to run up a big enough tab to warrant a good tip.
As soon as he was out of the way, Mac settled back into the shadows of her seat to watch Brenda.
The brown bag she had carried like a refugee child against her chest was now placed beside the flute of champagne she was delicately sipping from. Flute and bottle…Brenda wasn’t a woman to do things by half measures. Mac was close enough to determine that she had predictably expensive tastes. It was Dom Pérignon she was celebrating with this afternoon. But what was the occasion?
Brenda tipped the contents of the flute effortlessly down her throat and poured another before opening the bag.
Mac stopped breathing as she watched Brenda gingerly pull three glass vials, as thin as her champagne glass, from the moist paper.
Those definitely weren’t herbs. Nor were they essential oils or anything else that she had seen in Cheryl’s shop for that matter. They looked much nastier – more like something you’d see created in a lab or worse, in someone’s dank suburban basement.
Mac’s tea arrived and the waiter made a second attempt at being charming. Unfortunately, he was also directly in Mac’s line of sight and it was all she could do to not push him out of the way.
When he finally left, Mac numbly set about the ritual of making her tea. She barely even noticed what she was doing; she was so fixated on Brenda’s glowing form, perched at the bar like she was at some soda stand in the Deep South...
Brenda reached into her designer purse and pulled out a small notebook and a dog-eared paperback. Taking a sip from her cup, Mac strained in the darkness to make out the book’s title.
“Leaves and tinctures – a safety manual for hobby herbalists.”
Mac dropped her cup to the saucer with a clatter. Her heart felt like it stopped, not just because Brenda looked up momentarily from the notes she had begun to make but because Mac was suddenly struck with a painful realization. Had this golden goddess fooled her? Had all those tears and sincerity in her hotel room been an act?
Why wouldn’t they be? That’s what the woman did for a living. Mac was no better than the bartender who was too eager to fill her champagne glass and the waiter who hovered at a distance in the off chance she might need him. What an amateur she was, a sopping wet, sloppy amateur.
What were the chances that Brenda was the murderer? A person scorned when they spent their lifetime being worshiped could be a terrible thing, capable of the most inhumane and irrational acts. Particularly when love was involved.
It had always been clear that Brie had been framed, but was it possible that a national celebrity had framed her?
Her heart still thumping and her cheeks burning with self-admonishment, Mac pushed her tea out of the way and tossed a ten-dollar bill on the table. That should keep Mr. Comedy happy. She didn’t have time to wait for the bill anyway.
She wasn’t entirely an amateur. Before she picked up her phone and sent her itchy dialing finger in search of Louis’ number, she had one more visit to make.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The drive down to Samuel’s hotel had been treacherous. At least twice the waves that crashed into the cliffs had threatened to hurl themselves over the embankment and wash the rickety VW away. There were no other cars on the road, which
Mac was more than thankful for. She couldn’t imagine how well the van would fare if required to make a sudden stop. She was doing her best to keep the image of the green and white vehicle soaring over the concrete barriers and into the whirling froth below from her mind. Even though she half believed it would be a suitable ending for her, it was hardly a productive thought at the moment.
She needed to focus on Samuel. She was at least 90 percent sure that Brenda was the one who deserved to be locked up in Louis’ jail, but she wasn’t about to stake her best friend’s well-being and her own love life on something that she wasn’t completely certain about.
