by D E Dennis
When she was gone, Michael turned to his sister. "You realize what this means?"
"Yes," she said gravely. "Preston was poisoned right here in this house, and the poison might still be in his room."
They took the stairs two at a time and burst into the former room of Preston Charming. It was just as it appeared in the police photos, and just like the police photos, there was no bottle of alcohol in sight.
"The poison must have been in the alcohol," Michael announced as he got on his hands and knees next to the bed. He lifted the bed skirt and peeked under.
"Azalea poison strikes within six hours and Preston met Ella at eleven," said Monica. "Which means Preston was poisoned around five o'clock."
"Well after school ends."
Michael felt a tap on his back. He pulled his head out from under the bed.
"The cops looked there, bro. They didn't find it and neither did Bryan. If Preston was smart and we've established that he was, he must have had a clever hiding place for his stash."
Michael blinked at her. "Clever hiding place for his stash," he repeated. "Clever hiding place or... the same hiding place."
Michael turned his head and zeroed in on Preston's desk. He recalled the police photos clearly and there were no pictures of a desk with a false bottom.
Clambering to his feet, Michael ran over to the desk and yanked open the bottom drawers. Just like he guessed, one drawer was shallower than the other. Monica leaned over Michael's shoulder while he forced one side down and the other popped up revealing one lone bottle of alcohol.
Monica gasped. "I'll call Mira."
Monica drifted to the side of the room and dialed Samira while Michael studied the bottle.
He stuck to eyes only since he had no gloves to handle the evidence but he didn't need to pick it up anyway. It was a half-empty bottle of Swashbuckler's Whisk. The label was ripped and the “ey” was missing, but Michael could make the educated guess that the drink was actually called Swashbuckler's Whiskey.
This was it. He felt in his bones that he was staring at the murder weapon. The only question was who knew about this stash to poison it?
MICHAEL WAS STILL CHEWING that question over while the crime scene investigation unit tore the room apart for the second time.
"I can't believe we missed this." Samira cursed. "Poisoned. We've wasted so much time."
"We still don't know it was poison," Spencer reminded her. "That is the ghoul's theory, but until the lab confirms it we have to work the evidence we have."
Michael listened with half an ear. He and his sister stood just outside of the door, keeping out of the way of the people working.
He turned to his sister. "It's almost noon and I doubt they are going to find anything else. We should get lunch before we tackle round two."
"Sounds good,” she said mildly. "Come on, let's go."
They exited the grand foyer and stepped out onto the porch. Monica looked back at the mansion just as the door opened once more.
“Wait!”
Michael twisted around to see Penelope with a bag in one hand and the jacket she didn’t have time to put on in the other.
“Is something wrong, Mrs. Charming?” he asked.
“Well, I...” Shifting from foot to foot, Penelope struggled to meet their gaze. “The police will be doing another search of the house from top to bottom. It’s been a trying day and I could use some time to myself.” She lifted her eyes off the gravel and looked them full in the face. “If you don’t mind, I would like a lift to a hotel, please.”
Michael blinked at her. “I— Yes, of course. Just tell us where to go.”
“Thank you.”
They piled into the car and Michael pulled out onto the main road.
“It’s just for the afternoon,” Penelope continued. A peek in the rearview mirror told him she was fidgety. She clutched the collar of her jacket. “I’ll take a nap and try to eat something. Then I’ll come back home and start making dinner for Bryan.”
“Why don’t you spend the night?” Michael suggested. “Get a full night’s rest.”
“No, no, no,” she said hurriedly, clutching her collar tighter. “Just the afternoon is fine. That is all I need.”
“Would you like us to give you a ride home after?” Monica asked gently, twisting around in her seat. “We would be more than happy to.”
Penelope gave her a trembling smile. “You both have been so kind to me, but I can’t ask you to do anymore. I can call a taxi or have the hotel staff bring me home.”
“If you’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” she said in a voice firmer than Michael was used to. “I will be fine now.”
Michael and Monica dropped Penelope at the Fairy Tails Hotel & Spa. They waved as she went inside.
Monica turned her head toward him.
"Do you think Penelope will be okay?"
"I think she will be. She is stronger than she gives herself credit for."
"She'd have to be to endure what she has gone through."
Michael unlocked the car and slid inside just as Monica’s phone chimed. She paused to answer the call while Michael waited.
"It was Ella," she said when she finally got into the car. "She has a request."
Michael started the car and rumbled toward the gate. "What request?"
"She wants to speak to Faralene Gudmor and admit what she did. Taking the shoes, leaving one behind, all of it. She just doesn't want to do it alone."
"She wants us to go with her? Why us?"
"Because, my dear brother, she's rather fond of us. She trusts us. That tends to happen when you fight to prove someone isn't a murderer."
"When does she want to go?"
"Tonight. She's scheduled to work there from six to ten and she wants everything out in the open as soon as possible."
"Well, I don't have anything on, so I’m happy to go with her.”
"I'll let her know."
"Good." Michael turned onto the street leading out of Fairy Tails. They made the long drive to the café in a companionable silence. When they arrived, Monica put an order in for the both of them, while Michael snagged a table at the back.
Monica pulled out her seat and plopped down with a sigh. “I think I’ll sleep for a week after this case is over. It has taken such an emotional toll on me. We’ve never had to deal with things like this before.”
“We were hunting down stolen property and treacherous spouses before,” Michael pointed out. “We’ve never had to deal with poisoners, abusers, or assaulters. It seems like everyone has been hurt in some way, even Preston.”
Monica massaged her temples. “Preston made his own choices, there’s no getting around that, but still Bryan Charming failed that boy. He should have spent less time screaming about being a man and more time showing his son a good example of one.”
Michael could not argue with that.
She sighed. “We were so lucky to have Daddy.”
That one he could argue with.
“I wouldn’t say Glenmore Grimm was a shining beacon of fatherhood. He never abused us sure, but last I checked, there was more to being a dad than just that.” He could hear the bitterness in his voice even if he couldn’t do anything about it. “Like being there for example.”
“Daddy was always there for us, Michael,” Monica protested hotly. “It was complicated because of the separation, but Dad loved us then and now.”
Michael pressed his lips together, stemming the tide of arguments that begged to be voiced. He knew better than to bring up their dad with Monica. She was a daddy’s girl through and through and she’d fight him down until he said, “We have different feelings about Dad. Let’s just leave it at that.”
Monica huffed, crossing her arms, but she dropped it.
Sometimes, like right then, it struck him how dissimilar they were. Raised in the same house, with the same parents, and experiencing the same circumstances, but still his sister was happy, confident, warm, and forgiving while
Michael was quiet, brooding, cautious, and closed off. Maybe if their positions had been switched. If Michael had been the innocent little three-year-old, oblivious to the world around him, instead of the lost, scared nine-year-old who watched helplessly as his entire life fell apart. Maybe—
“Stop it.”
Michael blinked back into reality. “What? Stop what?”
“Stop looking at me like you’re trying to figure me out,” she snapped. “You know I hate that. You know me, bro. You know who I am and how I think. You want to pick someone apart then save it for our murder suspects.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I just got lost in my thoughts.”
Monica accepted his apology with a terse nod and they lapsed into silence.
Their food arrived after a few minutes and Michael let the task of eating his pasta save him from having to make conversation.
“Thinking about the case?”
Michael looked up. Monica stared at him over her coffee mug. The cup rested against her lips, but she made no move to drink it.
“Yes,” he admitted, putting down his fork. “Just wondering how the poison got into the bottle. Did the killer find his stash, poison it, and then sat back to wait? Did they give Preston the bottle with the poison already inside? If so, when? And above all that, why azaleas? Of all the things to use as a murder weapon, why that flower?”
“Well, to your last question,” Monica began, putting down the cup. “I wonder if they just didn’t do a quick search on the internet for natural things that most people don’t know are poisonous and got the idea that way. Azaleas are all over the place. They are growing in the Inos’ front lawn. The Charmings’ driveway is lined with the stuff. They are even on school grounds. If they wanted something they could get their hands on easily, they made a good choice.”
Michael inclined his head in agreement.
“Now for your other questions.” She bit her lip, thinking. “I’ve been wondering about it too and what makes the most sense is that someone got into the stash while he was out of the room.”
“That’s true. He could have told anyone about it.”
“Yep. Lance. Augustus. Abigail. Delilah.”
Michael was nodding right along.
“Penelope.”
He stopped. “Penelope?”
“Penelope,” she said firmly. “We completely dismissed her as a suspect, but the truth is she had as much opportunity as anyone else.”
“Monica,” he said incredulously. “You’ve seen what a wreck she’s been. Those tears are real.”
“Yes, they are, but is she crying because she lost her son or because she was responsible for the death of her child.”
“I don’t understand where this is coming from. You were comforting her and offering to help her a little while ago. Now you think she’s a killer?”
She frowned. “I’m not saying she’s a killer. I’m just saying that she’s been through some tough stuff. She has probably felt powerless for most of her life. She watched her sweet baby turn into a cruel monster. She sat back while Preston and her husband tossed Peyton aside and now she finds out Preston is guilty of even worse sins.”
“You think she may have known more about what her son has gotten up to than she let on.”
Monica deflated, resting her head in her hands. “I don’t know what I think. Listen to me. I’m accusing grieving mothers of murdering their own children. I don’t know which way is up anymore.”
Michael scooted his chair around to pat her on the back. “No, sis, you’re right. I don’t think Penelope was involved, but we do need to consider every angle. We can’t ignore a possible motive just because we feel bad for the suspect.”
She tilted her head up to give him a sad smile. “I feel bad for all of them— Well, almost all of them.” No doubt, she was thinking of Bryan Charming. “Is that awful? That I sympathize with what they have gone through?”
“If it is, then I’m awful too.”
Monica sighed and reached for her coffee once more.
No one ever said living in Fairy Tails promised a fairy-tale life.
Michael gave a sigh to match Monica’s.
“NO ONE PROMISED A FAIRY-tale commute either,” Michael grumbled.
Their lunch was resting happily in their bellies and now they were sitting unhappily in an idling car in front of the Fairy Tails’ gate.
“You know the line to get in and out always gets backed up around this time,” Monica said. “People just got off work and school.”
“I don’t care about these people, as much as I do the one we’re going to see. Please tell me Lance is home right now and his parents aren’t.”
Monica held up her phone. “Gracie has confirmed the chick has landed into the nest and mommy and daddy eagle are away.”
Michael swung his head around, looking at her sharply. “No code names. We’ve discussed this.”
She grinned sheepishly. “How many times do I have to apologize for that?”
The that she was referring to was an incident from when they first started the business. They were hired by a client to track down some lawn equipment a neighbor had borrowed and refused to return. The old man wanted it back and was willing to pay their fees to get it. Michael had his sister distract the man at the front door while he snuck around the back and tried to slip into the garage. He almost made it when he heard Monica going on about ghosts and taking care of haunting infestations.
Michael ignored this until he turned the hallway corner and found the owner of the house in his path, fists up and ready to fly. The man thrashed him, sending him running from the house, and after all that, Monica blamed him for not listening when she said his code name: Ghost.
“You have to keep apologizing until you remember you can’t give people code names and not tell said people about them.”
She laughed, and Michael rolled his eyes. “I got beaten up because of you.”
She laughed harder. “That story changes every time you tell it. The man was seventy-six and all he did was pelt you with a bowl of fake fruit.”
“I still have the lump.” He tilted his head and pointed. “See. Right there.”
“Aw, poor baby.” Michael cried out when she dealt him her usual whack to the head.
He grumbled under his breath. “And to think I wanted a little sister.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
They eventually got through the gate and on the road to Lance Hart’s house. Gracie buzzed them in as soon as they got off the intercom and greeted Monica warmly when they stepped inside.
“Hey, Mo. Hey, Michael.” She gave him a small wave instead of a hug. Michael waved back. All of Monica’s friends were at least six years younger than him. He didn’t hang out with them growing up and they didn’t hang out now. They were all just acquaintances which made it amusing that he was getting to Lance by pretending Gracie was one of his best friends.
“Where’s Lance?” Monica asked.
“He’s upstairs.” For some reason, she was whispering. “But he should be down in a few minutes for his snack. He likes to have something to tide him over until dinner.”
“Perfect. We’ll hang out with you until he comes down.”
Gracie giggled, her light brown curls bouncing as she jumped up and down. “This is so exciting. All this sneaking around, arranging meetings, tricking people into talking. No wonder you decided to become a detective.”
They laughed and trailed her to the kitchen. She pulled out two bar stools and patted the seats. “You guys sit down. We can chat while I cook.”
They did as she ordered and fell into an easy conversation while Gracie prepared a sushi salmon roll with pickled ginger.
“That is considered a light snack in this house,” Monica said with a scoff. “On our side, hand-rolled sushi is a special birthday-level treat.”
Gracie chuckled. “That’s true. Which is why I looked for jobs in Fairy Tails. I wanted to do more high-end co
oking, but you know we don’t have any fine dining restaurants on our side.”
“You could be the first to open one,” Monica said. “Wasn’t that your dream?”
Michael observed the conversation but kept out of it. He noticed Gracie’s shoulders tense.
“It was my dream, but I’ll never have the money to open a restaurant on this side and the people on our side won’t have the money to be regular customers. No, this is fine. I still get to make the kind of food I want.”
“Gracie!”
A bellow echoed down the hall and drew their conversation to a close.
“Gracie, where’s my food?”
Lance loped into the kitchen, his face the picture of irritation. That was until he caught sight of Monica and Michael. Then it became the face of irritation and loathing.
“You? What are you doing here?” he spat.
Monica calmly swiveled in her seat to face him. “We’re here visiting a friend.”
He leveled a finger at them. “You’re not allowed to talk to me without a lawyer.”
Monica gave an exaggerated eyeroll. “We haven’t tried to talk to you, Lance. We’ve been sitting here for the past twenty minutes minding our own business.”
His scowl slipped. “Uh, right. Fine.”
He stomped over to Gracie and snatched the outstretched tray from her hands. “See ya.”
“But I mean, if it was me,” Monica continued slyly, “and I knew I was innocent. I wouldn’t hide behind a lawyer. I would want everyone to know as soon as possible that I had nothing to do with the death of Preston.”
Lance pulled up, hesitating in the kitchen doorway.
“I’d explain why I lied about not going out the night Preston Charming was killed. I’d tell the investigators why I pretended to be Preston’s friend, when I couldn’t stand the guy. I’d just get it all out in the open, so they would have no reason to suspect me.”
Lance slowly turned his head. He suddenly looked unsure.
Sighing breezily, Monica shrugged. “But that’s just me. You do what you need to do, Lance. Enjoy your raw fish.”
Monica turned her back to him, seemingly dismissing him, but Michael kept his eyes on Lance. He watched him cycle through many emotions before he finally settled on one: anger.
