by Gail Oust
Bill shrugged. “You said yourself Eula often gets things confused.”
“But what if Cora is poisoning her sister?”
“Kate, you’re really grasping at straws. Haven’t you ever heard of Occam’s razor?”
“No,” I grumbled, “but I think you’re about to put an end to my ignorance.” I picked a mushroom off my pizza and popped it into my mouth. I really wasn’t in the mood for a lecture on philosophy. It irked me that Bill didn’t readily agree with my theory and was now trying to poke holes in it. If I couldn’t convince my significant other of Cora’s devious intent, I’d no hope of convincing the sheriff.
“According to Occam’s razor, the simplest answer is usually the correct answer,” Bill explained. “The most likely solution is that an empty prescription bottle was probably the handiest container for Cora to use for a small quantity of this maca powder.”
I wanted to pout, but it’s unseemly for a woman my age. “I hate it when you use logic to spoil my ideas. Sometimes crime solving takes . . . imagination. A good detective has to think outside the box.”
“Kate, Kate, Kate,” Bill sighed. “What do I have to say to convince you that you’re not Nancy Drew? Finding Waylon’s killer is the sheriff’s job, not yours.”
“I suppose you’re right,” I admitted grudgingly.
“Now, how is the decorating for the home tour coming along?” Bill shoved aside his plate, took a sip of soda. “Do you have everything you need for the outdoor decorations?”
I stared down at my plate. The pizza no longer looked as appetizing now that the cheese was beginning to congeal. “More or less.”
“Which is it?” Bill asked with a twinkle in his eye. “More or less?”
“Less is more, right?” I raised a brow and smiled. “Call me a minimalist.”
“I interpret that as saying you haven’t started yet.”
Getting up, I cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher. “Honestly, I’ve been too preoccupied lately to give outside decorations much thought. I’ll go over, maybe tomorrow night, and drape some lights over the vines in the arbor. Add a wreath to the front door, and voilà!”
“Good idea. You’ll get a better perspective for spacing the lights if you do it after dark.” Bill stuffed the empty pizza box in the trash basket under the sink. “Remember, I’m available if you want my help.”
• • •
I was wired, not tired. I should have been exhausted after a busy day but wasn’t. Upon arriving home from Bill’s, I changed into comfy PJs, then drifted through the house like the Ghost of Christmas Past. Finally, I settled in my home office—a room I used to refer to as the library/den/study before binge-watching HGTV and rechristening it “home office.” It’s become my favorite retreat. Bill had done an outstanding job crafting built-in cherry bookshelves, which held everything from The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Forensics to The Pioneer Woman Cooks. Pale sage green walls, white plantation shutters, and caramel-colored leather love seat made the room cozy and inviting. Ignoring the siren call of Nora Robert’s latest hardcover, I sat down at my desk and turned on my laptop. I’d been madly in love with Google ever since craft night, when it had come to my rescue and unstuck my thumb and index finger, and then again when it had led me to Betty Washington. Yes, Google was a wondrous thing—all the information you ever wanted at the touch of a keystroke.
So keystroke I did. I typed “Bentafazine,” the name I’d seen on Cora’s prescription bottle, into the search engine, and like magic, over three million results were available for my perusal. The magnitude of such a search never failed to blow my mind. Imagine, over three million results in a fraction of a second! It’s hard to comprehend.
Concentrate, Kate, I ordered myself. Bentafazine, as it turned out, was a popular antidepressant. Did Cora suffer from depression? She always seemed happy enough in my opinion, but depression didn’t come with a neon sign. Further research stated that the drug came in both extended-release capsules and tablet form. Next, I scanned through the list of possible side effects: Hmm . . . somnolence, insomnia, and mental status changes. The last item especially caught my attention.
The side effects were all recognizable in Eula. Eula recently complained about her inability to sleep at night and took frequent catnaps, as she called them, throughout the day. But the most striking change had been memory lapses and periodic episodes of confusion. Coincidence? Maybe yes, probably not. I’d said it before and will say it again: I wasn’t a huge believer in coincidence; I was more of a follow-your-gut kind of gal.
I’d observed Cora adding a powdery substance to Eula’s smoothie. Was it really a probiotic like she claimed or was it an antidepressant? If it was the latter, what was her motive? Why was she deliberately trying to push Eula out of a home she’d owned for years and into a nursing home? In addition, Cora didn’t seem proactive in trying to prove Eula’s innocence. Now that I thought about it, I don’t recall hearing her come to her sister’s defense even once.
My thoughts circled around to an even bigger equation: Who murdered Waylon, then hid his body in the root cellar? The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that the secret lay deep down in Eula’s subconscious, buried days, months, and years. The time had come for me to think outside the box.
Way outside.
I’m certain a clue, a tiny detail, might have been overlooked, like one of those cold case mysteries that are solved thirty years later. All I had to do was tap into Eula’s brain and pry it free. Piece of cake, right? I leaned back in my desk chair and rocked, my mind going a mile a minute. Just that afternoon, Monica had said “smells ring bells.” Was there any truth in the saying or was it merely Monica spouting misinformation?
Again, Google to the rescue. I typed “smells ring bells” into the search bar and presto! I had my answer. Researchers, I read, agreed that certain smells do, indeed, trigger vivid memories and emotions. And these memories and emotions can sometimes be negative ones. I stared at the computer monitor like a seer into a crystal ball, hoping answers would miraculously scroll across the screen. But no such luck.
It was a long shot, I knew, but what if Eula had overlooked a memory that had seemed insignificant at the time of her husband’s disappearance. She’d mentioned how she’d planned to make Waylon his favorite dinner that evening. Would the smell of Swiss steak evoke any memories? I’m no Bill Nigh the Science Guy, but I was ready to conduct a little experiment of my own.
• • •
Timing was key, and I chose mine with care. I waited until our ad hoc decorating committee had departed for the day. Eula’s home looked spectacular, I had to admit. There were still finishing touches, a few tweaks, left to do, but the century-old house had taken on the characteristics of an enchanted cottage. I bid goodbye to the girls on the pretext of staying until after dark to put twinkle lights over the arbor.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay and help?” Pam asked, zipping her jacket.
“Thanks for the offer, but this shouldn’t take long,” I told her. “Besides, you said you were going out to dinner with your husband’s friends.”
“I’m on my way, but don’t grumble that it was too much work all by your lonesome.”
I waved Pam off then set my plan in motion.
Tammy Lynn had been putty in my hands. When she’d learned I planned to stay late that evening, she asked if I’d “Meemaw sit” while she and Eric had a heart-to-heart. I assured her I’d not only be happy to accommodate her, but I’d see to her grandmother’s dinner then drop her off later at her son’s place. Tammy Lynn had eagerly accepted my offer. As a bonus, she brought Ralph to keep her meemaw company. Eula, who had already had her afternoon smoothie courtesy of Cora, was now asleep on the living room sofa covered with a red and green afghan. Ralph, her ever-faithful companion, snoozed nearby.
Now it was time to get down to business. I intended to prepare an old-fashioned Swiss steak dinner for Eula Snow. Earlier I’d stashed the ingredients I’d
brought from home—top round steak, green pepper, onion, and a can of diced tomatoes—while the others had been busy elsewhere. My experiment was both a little crazy and a lot desperate.
I hummed to myself as I sliced onion and green pepper, enjoying a quiet respite after an active day. Then, using a meat mallet I’d brought from home, I tenderized the daylights out of the round steak that I’d dredged in flour. I was about to add canola oil to the cast iron skillet prior to browning the meat when a voice startled me.
“Pray tell, what do you think you’re doing?” Cora whispered in my ear.
The canola oil almost slipped from my fingers. I breathed a sigh of relief when I managed to catch it before it hit the floor. Monica’s angry face flashed before my eyes. She’d issued strict orders that the kitchen was to be off-limits until after the tour. To her mind, a spilled bottle of cooking oil in Eula’s pristine kitchen would be a greater catastrophe than the one caused by the tanker Exxon Valdez off the Alaskan coast.
Chapter 32
“What does it look like I’m doing?” I shot back, recovering from my fright. “I’m fixing dinner.” It didn’t take a rocket scientist or brain surgeon to figure out what I was doing from the paraphernalia spread across the counter.
Cora didn’t have a ready comeback. “This isn’t necessary,” she said at length. “My family is perfectly capable of taking care of their own.”
I eyeballed a tablespoon or two of canola oil into the frying pan and turned on the heat. “I’m planning to conduct a little experiment.”
“What kind of experiment?” she asked, her voice ripe with suspicion.
“When the men brought in the Christmas tree yesterday, all of us started reminiscing about Christmases from our youth. Monica mentioned a rather interesting phenomenon. She said ‘smells ring bells,’ which started me thinking. On several occasions, your sister mentioned she was going to prepare Waylon his favorite dinner the night he vanished.”
“So what if she was?” Cora snapped.
“According to studies, certain odors often trigger a sensation of being brought back in time. In your sister’s case, the smell of Swiss steak cooking might trigger a forgotten but vital piece of information regarding her husband’s death.”
“That’s not only nonsense but a waste of time.” Cora shoved a milk glass pitcher containing a red, white, and green floral arrangement out of her way to make room on the table for her large, squishy handbag. “My sister can’t remember what she ate for lunch, much less recall what happened twenty-five years ago.”
“Well,” I continued, “it’s worth a try. I’m running out of ideas.” And time, I added silently.
Folding her arms across her chest, Cora regarded me skeptically. “My brother-in-law owned a business and probably crossed paths with any number of people. Businessmen make enemies all the time.”
“True, but the two most likely suspects have alibis.” Very carefully so as not to splatter the hot grease, I added pieces of round steak to the pan.
“Waylon was an attractive man. Women were constantly flirting with him.”
“Were you one of those women?” The question sprang out of my mouth before I could stop it. Polly wasn’t the only one with few filters.
Cora’s eyes narrowed into slits. “How dare you!”
I reached into the cupboard above the sink for the prescription bottle filled with what was purported to be a probiotic. Cora paled when she saw what I was holding. “The prescription is in your name,” I said.
Cora tried to grab it from me, but I drew back out of reach and slid it into the pocket of my jeans. “Give it to me,” she demanded.
“I looked Bentafazine up on the internet. It’s prescribed for depression.”
“It’s not a crime to be depressed.”
“I never said it was,” I said, keeping my voice even, though my heart was starting to race. I felt I was on the brink, the very edge of a discovery, and one false move would send me hurtling over the rim.
“Why are you trying to stir up trouble?” Cora made a wide sweeping gesture with her arm. “Eula doesn’t need you interfering in her life and neither do I.”
“The side effects of the drug mirror your sister’s symptoms—the drowsiness, the confusion, the forgetfulness. I think you’ve been adding Bentafazine to her smoothies, but I don’t know why.”
“Get out of my house,” Cora fairly screamed. “Now!”
“Shh! You’ll wake Eula.” I calmly flipped the round steak so it would brown evenly. For some strange reason, the familiar task had a calming effect. “And this isn’t your house—yet.”
“You needn’t worry about waking my sister. I’m conducting a little experiment of my own. With the amount of drug in her afternoon smoothie, she could sleep through an explosion in a fireworks factory and not wake up.”
I darted a look beyond Cora’s left shoulder. Eula hadn’t budged one iota. Ralph lay quietly next to her on the floor, his head on his paws, his eyes bright, watchful. I caught my lower lip between my teeth. Just how much of the drug had Cora spooned into the smoothie? Eula was small, barely one hundred pounds. It wouldn’t take much to cause an overdose.
Cora didn’t seem to share my concern. “I wanted to test the effect of a larger dose. If it was too much and I happened by too late, then too bad. She’s old, you know. People die in their sleep. These things happen all the time. Everyone will understand.”
“What do you propose to gain from this? Eula isn’t wealthy by any stretch of the imagination.”
“With Eula out of the way, I’ll move in here permanently. It’ll be nice to have a mortgage-free home. Not have to worry about rent. I’m on a fixed income. Since my latest ex-husband’s death, I no longer receive spousal support. It isn’t easy making ends meet, and,” she said and laughed, “you’ve heard the saying, two women can’t live under the same roof.”
Talk about cold-blooded. Cora Prentiss could be the poster child. “All this conniving for a roof over your head? Besides her home, did you also covet your sister’s husband?”
Cora snorted in derision. “Waylon was such a prude. I came back home to Brookdale after my second divorce. At first, my dear brother-in-law was very considerate, very charming, but when I offered to take our ‘friendship’ to the next level, he ordered me to leave, or he’d tell Eula.”
“What did you do?” I asked, alternately knowing and fearing her answer.
“He made me so angry I wanted to hit him.” Her lips curled into a thin smile at the memory. “So I did.”
Just like that? Unbelievable, yet after all these years, the mystery of Waylon Snow’s disappearance was finally solved. But now what? His killer—Cora, his very own sister-in-law—still hadn’t been brought to justice, and without proof, or a confession, maybe never would be. Needing to buy myself time to plot my next move, I resorted to simple tasks, which consisted of dumping the onions and peppers into the frying pan, then adjusting the heat. “So,” I said, “you grabbed the closest object at hand—which happened to be a meat pounder—and struck Waylon hard enough to crush his skull.”
Cora sidled toward the table. “I never meant to kill him, but I was so angry he’d rejected me that I couldn’t help myself. When I realized what I’d done, I had no choice but to hide his body and clean up the mess before Eula came home. I dragged his body down to the root cellar. To this day, I don’t know how, but I managed to lift him into the coal bin. Some might blame it on adrenalin. I spotted a box of mothballs on a shelf so I spread them over the body and then added pine and eucalyptus branches for good measure, to keep down the odor. Shortly afterward our cousin in California was diagnosed with ovarian cancer and needed help. I persuaded Eula to go, telling her she needed a distraction. She was gone for nearly a year, and when she returned the world had moved on. Waylon Snow’s disappearance was ancient history.”
“Why are you telling me this? Aren’t you worried I’ll go to the sheriff?”
“It’ll be your word against mine. There�
�s no proof.”
“No, but . . .” I darted another peek at Eula asleep in the living room. Was she still breathing? I wondered. I strained to see if her chest moved but couldn’t tell from that distance.
“But what?”
“We need to call 911 for your sister before it’s too late. Once in the hospital, they can give her something to counteract the antidepressant.”
“Don’t even go there. The first thing they’ll want to know is how she got it and then you’ll point the finger at me. Next thing I know, I’ll be arrested for attempted murder.”
“So what do you plan to do?”
“There’s only one thing to do.” She dipped her hand into her handbag and pulled out a gun no bigger than a toy water pistol. “You leave me no alternative.”
I stared at the gun in disbelief. I felt trapped in the final scene of a who-done-it, the situation so ludicrous I almost laughed out loud before I caught myself. “Your plan is to shoot me? Then what? Hide my body in the root cellar like you did with Waylon?”
“No, I have a far better idea. I’m going to make your death look like it was my sister’s doing. When the police arrive, they’ll find the gun in her hand. I’ll be hysterical, insisting I tried to reason with her, but she became agitated, violent, even paranoid. She mistook you for a burglar and shot you.”
“That’s crazy.” Instinct told me to run but the front and rear doors might as well have been miles away. I felt behind me for a weapon of any sort, a knife, a pan, anything to use in my defense. My fingers found and curled around the handle of the meat mallet I’d used to tenderize the steak. “You’ll never get away with this,” I said as I hurled the mallet in Cora’s general direction.
I half turned to flee as the mallet sailed across the kitchen, where it crashed against the wall. The noise galvanized Ralph into action. In full combat mode, the dog bounded into the kitchen. He lunged at Cora, seizing her wrist between his powerful jaws and his razor-sharp teeth. The gun exploded, but Cora’s aim was off and the bullet hit the ceiling, sending a shower of plaster raining over the kitchen. Cora howled in pain and dropped the weapon.
