by Jan Dunlap
“Her townhouse?”
“Absolutely,” he replied. “She’s got an awesome deck with a fire pit out back. There were some beautiful nights this weekend, let me tell you. Gina must know the names of every constellation in the sky.”
“Wait a minute. Are you telling me you’re dating Gina Knorsen? When did this happen?”
He dropped into the chair and set the bag of flour on the front edge of my desk.
“When I asked her out two weekends ago. You were out of town. You and Luce went to that bed-and-breakfast place in Stillwater for your anniversary, and I took Gina out to dinner.”
He rubbed the diamond stud in his ear, his mouth curling into a smile.
“We really hit it off,” he added. “I just didn’t want to tell you about it yet. You know … I didn’t want to jinx it.”
“Afraid I’d tell her about your sordid past and all your serious character flaws?”
“Something like that. I don’t know, I’ve just got a feeling about Gina.”
“I hate to remind you, Stud, but I’ve heard the ‘I’ve just got a feeling’ speech from you before,” I pointed out. “Several times, in fact.”
I glanced meaningfully at the diamond in his earlobe. Rick had come home with it after a vacation cruise with his then-girlfriend. Four years later, the stud was still there, but the woman was long gone.
“Yeah, well, we all make mistakes,” Rick chuckled. “At least I didn’t go for the nipple ring.”
“I don’t want to know,” I assured him.
He pointed at the flour on my desk. “So where did you find this?”
“I didn’t,” I said. “Sara Schiller asked me to babysit.”
“Did you agree?”
“Well, yeah,” I conceded. “But that’s because she said she had an appointment to talk to you about her truancy last week, and she was too embarrassed to be carrying in the flour. Plus, she said that she didn’t want an F in the class. I thought that alone was significant progress as far as Sara is concerned, so I said I’d take the baby for her.”
Rick steepled his fingers and considered the flour.
“So, technically, Sara did not leave her child unattended,” Rick concluded. “Though she lied to do so, she did obtain care for her baby.”
I dropped my head on my desk again. “Yes.”
“That’s awfully generous of you, Counselor.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“I’m not turning Miss Schiller in, then. I am, however, returning the baby to your custody.”
He stood up, lifted the bag of flour, and carefully laid it back on the visitor chair.
“What time do you want to leave on Thursday for Morris?” he asked.
“I don’t know. If Sara doesn’t come back and get her baby by then, I might be busy babysitting. By Thursday, that girl could drive all the way to Florida.”
A buzzing sound filled my little office. Rick pulled out his cell phone and answered the call.
“No kidding?” Rick asked whoever was on the other end of the connection. “My, my. That does change things, doesn’t it?”
His eyes met mine, and he smiled. “Thanks, Kurt. I’ll be in touch.”
He returned his cell to his pants pocket.
“Looks like the widow was right: somebody wasn’t delighted with Mr. Delite,” Rick reported. “Kurt just saw a preliminary report from the medical examiner. Unless Sonny D was pulling a Socrates, it looks like somebody else did the honors.”
“Socrates?” I said, just before I realized what Rick meant.
Socrates, one of the founding fathers of Western philosophy, was sentenced to death with a cup of poison hemlock.
“Sonny was poisoned?”
“Give the man a cigar,” Rick said. “According to Kurt, the examiner initially thought the cause of death was respiratory paralysis, but then a sample of the stomach contents—”
I held up my hands to make him stop. “Whoa. Too much information, buddy.”
“Wuss,” Rick said.
“Okay, I’m a wuss,” I readily agreed. “Just spare me the gory gastric details.”
“They think they found traces of hemlock in the stomach. It’ll take a little time to confirm it, but as of right now, Sonny D’s untimely demise is looking pretty suspicious.”
Rick sighed.
“Put a new notch on your binoculars, Bob,” he told me. “I think you found another murder victim.”
Chapter Five
“Honey, I’m home!” I called as I walked into the house just after four o’clock. I dropped my briefcase by the front door and set Sara’s bag of flour down next to it.
“Sleep tight, Goldie,” I told the flour. “We’ll find your mommy in the morning. I promise. And then we’ll make sure she spends lots of time with you—in detention.”
Yes, I was still the designated sitter because Sara had—no surprise!—gone AWOL from school for the entire day. By ten o’clock in the morning, I stopped kicking myself in the head for falling for her empty pledge to reform, and, instead, committed myself to setting an example of trustworthiness for every student at Savage High School. I christened the bag Goldie in honor of the yellow medal emblazoned on the face of the sack and dutifully carried it with me all day long. When I ran into Gina Knorsen in the cafeteria at lunch, I caught her smiling even as she shook her head in disapproval.
“I keep my promise, even if a student doesn’t,” I’d told her. “Honor is my middle name.”
“Mine’s Patience,” she’d replied. “But your Sara Schiller is sure testing it.”
“Is that a tongue-twister?” I asked.
“No,” Gina said. “It’s the truth.”
I walked through the living room and headed for the kitchen.
Luce wasn’t home yet, but thanks to her new schedule at Maple Leaf, I could now look forward to a leisurely dinner with my wife every night. Aligning our work days had taken us almost a year of marriage. After an initial couple of months of strained nuptial bliss due to her long evening hours as executive chef, Luce had switched to the early morning catering shift at the conference center, which, unfortunately, wasn’t much better in allowing us newlywed, let alone birding, time thanks to her pre-dawn departures and seven o’clock bedtimes. Finally, she’d hit on the current solution: she was the noon banquet and pastry chef. The result was two-fold: for the first time in our lives, we had similar working hours, and for the first time in my life, I had all the desserts I could eat.
I knew there was a good reason for marrying her.
I took a turtle éclair out of the refrigerator and walked out to the deck to check on my birdfeeders. Just last evening I’d seen a river of Red-winged Blackbirds heading south. I must have watched for a good five minutes as thousands of the birds streamed through the sky. Thankfully, they hadn’t needed to make a refueling stop at my feeders, so I figured what I had left in my bag of sunflower seeds would probably last till the end of the month. After that, I was going to switch over to suet blocks to keep all the woodpeckers happy. Humans weren’t the only species that enjoyed having a full belly.
As long as it wasn’t a belly full of hemlock.
I leaned on the porch railing and ate my pastry.
Sonny Delite was a skilled birder, a man totally at home in the natural world. Often, when we birded together, he pointed out dozens of plants to me and recited both their common and scientific names. To think that a man like that could mistakenly ingest poisonous hemlock was nothing short of an unbelievably long stretch.
But that only left two equally disturbing possibilities: Sonny either committed suicide or was murdered. His wife had jumped without hesitation to the second option yesterday at Millie’s, and, I supposed, without any suicide note or other mental distress indications, the police had to take her allegations seriously.
So who would be mad enough at Sonny Delite to feed him a toxic plant? And who would have the opportunity to do that at a public place like the Minnesota Landscape Arboretum on an ear
ly Sunday morning?
If you listened to Prudence Delite’s accusations, I guess you’d have to look for someone who might have held a grudge—and a murderous one, at that—against Sonny because of his opposition to utility projects that impacted the environment. Considering that there was a conference about energy sources underway at the Arboretum, it wouldn’t be surprising if a lot of the folks in attendance knew Sonny from past projects. Determining whether those people were his friends or foes would take some legwork, but unless I missed my guess, the police were already sifting through the conference rosters looking for anyone who might have had some past history with the newly deceased. Then, if the police could place any of those people at Millie’s during lunch the previous day when Red had made a scene with Sonny, they’d have a head start on investigating suspects.
Piece of cake, I thought. Make a list, check it twice, narrow it down to naughty and nice. Pick a killer, and you’re done.
Except then you had to find the evidence to prove that your designated killer did it.
Which meant you also had to identify the motive.
And pin down the opportunity.
I swallowed the last bite of my éclair, licking some wayward cream filling off my fingers.
Man, I loved éclairs. They were definitely not any old piece of cake.
But neither was solving a murder.
A Downy Woodpecker flew in from the woods and perched on the porch railing a few feet away from me. He gave me the once-over and then took off. I guessed that since I wasn’t a block of suet, he didn’t have much use for me at the moment.
Sort of like Officer Kurt at Millie’s yesterday.
Not that he was looking for a block of suet, but he could have been a little more generous with his evaluation of my usefulness to a murder investigation that I had unwittingly and unwillingly initiated.
Oh, that’s right—I was only a high school counselor, for crying out loud. Heaven forbid that I tread on the sacred territory of local law enforcement, despite the fact that I’d made significant contributions to solving three Minnesota murders last year.
Granted, I didn’t set out to become an amateur sleuth, and much of what I had contributed, I discovered through blind luck, but what could I say? When it came to birding or solving murders —if you’ve got it, you’ve got it.
And if you’ve got it, you might as well use it.
Or lose it.
And I had no intention of losing my birding skills at the ripe old age of thirty-six.
“Honey, I’m home!”
I turned in time to see Luce stepping out onto the deck.
“Red’s in the hospital,” she announced. “I stopped by Millie’s Deli on my way home to drop off a sample of my new quiche recipe for Chef Tom, and he told me that Red went to the emergency room right after we left yesterday.”
“For what?”
My wife gave me a kiss.
“For a concussion,” she said. “Red fell down the steps to the deli’s basement storage area, and hit her head. She doesn’t even know her own name. Tom said he overheard Red and Prudence arguing when they went to the basement, and the next thing he knew, Prudence was yelling for someone to call 911.”
“Prudence Delite?”
“Yes, Prudence Delite,” Luce repeated. “Red asked her to help her bring up some supplies. I gather they’re old friends, from what Tom said.”
Red’s comment that Sonny and his wife had been regular customers at Millie’s came back to me. I’d assumed that was the extent of the women’s acquaintance. Although, now that I reconsidered what I’d seen of their interaction at Millie’s, I’d thought the whole girl-slap thing had been way out of line for a server-customer relationship. And the way Red had handled it also seemed like she was pretty familiar with Prudence’s behavior. What had Red said?
“Think about what you’re doing.” And “Put a lid on it, Pru.”
That sounded like a lot more than a passing acquaintance, I’d say.
That sounded like some kind of warning.
About what, though?
If I had to guess, it might have been that Red was reminding Prudence about her martial arts superiority so Sonny’s widow wouldn’t find herself laid out on the floor of the deli. I doubted, however, that Chef Tom would be pleased with that kind of customer service from his employees. It was one thing to knock your customers out with great food, but literally landing them between the tables was a culinary approach I wasn’t familiar with.
At the same time, if Red’s military experience was common knowledge among Millie’s regular clientele—did that make me “irregular” since I hadn’t heard about it?—Mrs. Delite should certainly have known better than to launch an assault on a trained combatant. Last I heard, attacking a skilled fighter was rarely a good idea, unless you were equally skilled. I knew that I, for one, was going to be especially diligent at work about not angering the Bonecrusher, once I knew who he was. And until I did, I was going to be sure I didn’t antagonize anyone … just to be safe.
But if Prudence and Red were old friends, as Luce had learned from Chef Tom, then Red must have been warning Sonny’s widow about something else.
Making a scene in a public place?
Could be. But if that was the case, Red was too late. According to Officer Kurt, Prudence had already done that at the Landscape Arboretum.
Yet I could still hear the particular register of the tone in Red’s whisper, and it had sounded urgent. It had reminded me more of a Killdeer’s cry as it protected its young, rather than a Blue Jay calling to stake out its territory in defense.
Okay, that’s weird—trying to interpret human behavior through bird calls, but what can I say? Given the choice between figuring out birds or humans, I think birds are a whole lot easier. With birds, what you see—and hear—is what you get, which is definitely not the case with a lot of humans.
Trust me. I was the one who’d been suckered by the faked sincerity of a habitual reprobate into babysitting a bag of flour for a day.
Two American Crows flew across the yard, followed by a pair of Blue Jays.
So, had Red been trying to protect Prudence from something else, or was she just reminding her friend of her physical prowess? Did it even matter? As Luce had reminded me, Prudence had just learned that her husband was dead. Of course, she was out of control. As a counselor who dealt with students and their families, I’d seen the whole gamut of reactions to stress and crisis. In fact, Red gave Prudence the same advice I offered in those situations: take it one step at a time.
And Prudence had immediately responded, which, I had to say, wasn’t always the case with my students. Gee, maybe I should ask my favorite waitress for some pointers in that department the next time I saw her.
Assuming that Red had her memory back by then, that is. Until that happened, no one would be asking Red much of anything, I guessed.
Including the police trying to place suspects at Millie’s Deli on Saturday.
Ouch. Bad timing for a concussion.
I watched two dull-colored American Goldfinches fly in and land on the feeder’s perches. Without the usual collection of summer birds around, they had the feeder all to themselves for the moment. I wondered if they would stick around for the winter or fly south before the end of fall.
Talk about timing.
“Salmon or tilapia?” Luce asked.
“Salmon,” I said, “with that really tasty glaze you put on it.”
She lifted a shapely blonde eyebrow at me.
“And which glaze would that be? I’ve only tried about six different ones in the last month, and as best as I can recall, you said they were all very tasty.”
I gave her beautiful lips a big smacking kiss.
“They were,” I agreed. “But the one I’m thinking of had a half-cup of teriyaki base, a pinch of ginger, a tablespoon of rice wine vinegar, a clove of garlic, and, I believe, one-third cup of oyster sauce.”
Luce laughed. “If I had your memory for
details, I’d never have to write down another recipe.”
“Speaking of memory,” I said, “don’t you think it’s a little odd that Red just happened to fall down the stairs and lose her memory on the same day that Sonny Delite was murdered, especially when the police might need to question her about who was in the deli the day before?”
She pulled the clip that had held her hair back during her work day at Maple Leaf and shook it loose down her back. “Are you suggesting that Red knocked herself out on purpose?”
“No,” I replied.
At least, that hadn’t been my first idea.
My first idea was that Prudence had attacked Red in another surge of crazed fury over Sonny’s death and sent her tumbling down the stairs. My second idea was that Prudence did it deliberately to keep Red from talking to the police about Sonny, the husband she adored, but also claimed was a liar and a cheat. If Red and Prudence were such good friends, it certainly was possible that Red would have information about Sonny that the police might be interested to learn. Prudence had, after all, told me she would have done anything for Sonny. Could that include guaranteeing that nobody spoke ill of him, especially to the police investigating his unexpected demise?
I mean, his murder?
Now that Luce had proposed another way of looking at Red’s fall, though, I couldn’t help but wonder if my wife might have a point. Maybe it wasn’t Prudence who wanted to keep the police from questioning Red.
Maybe Red didn’t want the police to question Red.
And why would that be?
“You’re such a suspicious man, Bobby,” Luce said, demonstrating once again her eerie talent of reading my thoughts. “I’m going inside to start dinner. Let me know when you solve the case, Sherlock.”
A lone House Finch landed on one of the feeder’s perches and gave me the once over.
“So I’m not Sherlock Holmes,” I told the bird. “Doesn’t mean I can’t play detective, does it?”
