Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 05 - Just Ducky

by Jeanne Glidewell

“Yes and no. She was incredibly unpredictable, and so terribly moody. But, yet, she also seemed to have a zest for life, and, like she told you, she had things she was anxious to do during her retirement.”

  “Yes, she even went into detail about a few of them. Some were expected, some not, but all of them showed a desire to live and enjoy life. I still don’t believe it was a suicide, and I told the detectives so.”

  “Really?” Colby asked. “What was their response?”

  “They said there wasn’t enough concrete evidence to prove otherwise, but if anything came to light that pointed to murder, they’d take another look at the case. So, I’m trying to uncover the truth about what happened Tuesday night in the library after I left to go home.”

  “I don’t think it’s wise for you to get involved in something of that nature. Probably best to leave well enough alone, and spend your time and efforts concentrating on working at the library.” He looked a bit agitated, but I didn’t really take his suggestion as a threat. It was said more in a fatherly fashion, as if trying to steer one’s child down the right path, and protect them from some unforeseen danger. “Besides, it’s pretty apparent she actually did kill herself, and I guess no one ever really knows what goes on in other people’s minds.”

  I merely nodded, not agreeing or disagreeing with his remarks. I watched Colby swipe the back of his hand across his forehead, and thought he looked a little flushed. His wife was yawning on the couch next to him. I was not surprised when they rose in unison, thanked us for a wonderful supper, and said it was time for them to head home.

  We walked them out to their car, and waited while they drove down the driveway. I asked Stone for his opinion of Colby Tucker, and if he thought he might have anything to do with Ducky’s death.

  “I’m not really sure how to take him, but I got the impression that, although he and Ducky had their differences, none of them were significant enough to kill her over. He did seem a little uncomfortable when he left, however,” Stone said. “Oh, well, at least he doesn’t seem as disagreeable as I thought he might. Sometimes people under a lot of stress at work can be short-tempered, or incredibly unpleasant, and nice as can be in a more relaxed setting. And I think that might just be the case with Colby Tucker.”

  “Probably so,” I said. “Guess I’d better get the kitchen cleaned up and get ready for bed. Something tells me tomorrow might be a long day.”

  Chapter 10

  Sunday morning was bright and sunny, but I felt a bit unsteady as I descended the stairs and entered the kitchen. I nearly tripped over the throw rug at the bottom of the staircase.

  Stone was leaned up against the sink, holding his right hand against his belly. I’d seen the look on his face before, and it was not a good omen.

  “Wow, my stomach is sure churning. Something must not be agreeing with me.”

  By the time we got settled into chairs at the table, I was feeling a bit nauseated myself. When I realized a cup of coffee did not sound appealing, I knew something wasn’t quite right. I couldn’t remember the last time coffee had sounded unappetizing to me. In fact, before that moment, I didn’t even know if it was possible.

  However, being a creature of habit and somewhat insane, I poured myself a cup of coffee anyway. Then another, and another, and then one more, even though none of it tasted even remotely good. I sipped at the strong brew while I struggled through the motions of fixing bacon and eggs for our guests, who would be checking out shortly after breakfast. Neither Stone nor I felt up to eating breakfast, and I found the smell of bacon frying unsettling to my stomach. Now I knew something was dreadfully wrong. If there were bacon-scented candles, I’d have one burning in the kitchen all the time.

  An hour later, I joined Stone on the back porch with another cup of unsavory coffee, which I felt obligated to drink whether I was enjoying it, or not. Stone’s complexion was a ghastly shade of green, his face appearing completely drained of blood. Before we knew it, Stone and I were both throwing up what little we had on our stomachs, which in my case was nothing but coffee. It tasted even worse coming up then it had going down.

  “My goodness, Lexie, what could be affecting us this badly? Was it something we ate?” Stone asked, as he staggered back into the kitchen, where I was resting with my head on the table. I was experiencing severe stomach cramps, and puking up a full carafe’s worth of coffee had zapped my energy. I very slowly lifted my head off the table to answer Stone’s question, trying to prevent the room from spinning in circles and making me dizzy as a loon.

  “Well, I’m starting to wonder if the chicken was thoroughly cooked. I did leave it in the oven at least an hour less than the recipe called for, but I figured it was long enough to kill any bacteria that might have been in it.”

  “That doesn’t sound very promising,” Stone said, bending over to alleviate the severe stomach cramping as much as possible.

  “Oh, Lord,” I mumbled, as I rushed for the restroom. “I think I’m getting diarrhea now. And I might need to throw up lunch, which I haven’t even eaten yet.”

  “I’ll use another john upstairs,” Stone said, holding his hand tightly over his mouth as he fled the room.

  * * *

  I was lying on a hospital bed, completely enveloped by a floor-length drape, which ran along a metal track attached to the ceiling. Stone was in the cubicle next to me, stretched out on another hospital bed. After blood cultures and stool samples were evaluated, we were informed we each had a mild case of salmonellosis. I asked for crackers, or at least something to stop the nausea and diarrhea, and was told it was best to let it run its course and get out of my system, or it would just prolong the infection and symptoms of salmonella poisoning.

  It suddenly occurred to me I had fed the contaminated chicken to the Tuckers too, and Colby had eaten a mind-numbing amount of it. I whispered Stone’s name to get his attention. “Oh, Stone, you don’t think I’ve killed my new boss, do you? We need to contact the Tuckers, I’m afraid.”

  Just as I finished my comments, an emergency room nurse, one who recognized me from my numerous former visits to the E.R., walked in, and said, “Hey! Lexie, did you just mention the name Tucker?”

  “Yeah, why?” I asked, with a bad feeling that I wouldn’t like his answer.

  “We just admitted a Colby Tucker and put him in a room upstairs. He came into the E.R. terribly ill, and very dehydrated. We had to put him on intravenous fluids.” The nurse frowned and gently patted my hand. “Like you and your husband, he also had food poisoning.”

  “Oh, dear God! Was Mrs. Tucker with him? Is she ill too?”

  “She’s with him, but she seems just fine. In fact, she drove him to the hospital. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m pretty certain I’m the one who poisoned the Tuckers, with a bacteria-laden raw chicken last night. Fortunately, Mrs. Tucker didn’t eat very much, so she wasn’t affected like Colby, Stone, and I. Colby ate the bulk of it though, so I’m also not surprised he’s now hooked up to an I.V. and getting fluids.”

  I was relieved to hear that Colby’s wife was fine, but not totally surprised. There was little room for bacteria to hide on the minuscule piece of chicken she’d placed on her plate. And after scooting everything around, making it appear as if she’d eaten more than she had, not much of anything was actually ingested.

  “Well, there you have it, Stone!” I said, loud enough for him to hear. “I’ve gone and poisoned my new boss. Should I go up to his room right now and submit my resignation, or wait until he’s up and about and able to have the satisfaction of firing me himself? I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t opt to sue me for assault and battery, using poultry as my weapon.”

  “He’ll be all right, now that’s he’s here being taken care of by medical professionals. The salmonella poisoning was not premeditated, Lexie. A bit foolish, perhaps, but certainly not intentional. The nurse said we would both be able to go home soon. The worst of it is over, considering neither of us ate much of the chicken last night. But I gue
ss we really should go up to Colby’s room and see how he’s doing,” Stone said.

  “Yes, and I need to fall all over myself apologizing. I feel absolutely awful about what’s happened. He has every right to fire me for being stupid enough to not test the chicken with a food thermometer. I was just a bit frazzled from burning the rolls, and felt rushed to get the food on the table. Colby had been making comments about being on the verge of passing out from lack of nourishment, you know. And, after all, he hadn’t eaten since lunch.”

  “I understand why you felt pressed for time, and undercooking the chicken could have happened to anyone, Lexie,” Stone said, reminding me of why I loved him so much. “I think Colby will be understanding too, at least once this is all behind him, and I doubt he’ll fire you. He needs you. I’m sure he knows you’re the best person around to handle the librarian job while he searches for a full-time replacement for Ducky.”

  “I hope so, but I’m almost too embarrassed to even speak to him now, much less work for him. I’d wanted to make a good first impression on him, and this dinner party fiasco was certainly not apt to impress him much. This is not a very promising beginning to a good working relationship.”

  “Colby may be more forgiving than you think. Try to relax, and don’t fret over it,” Stone advised.

  Easy for him to say, I thought. He wasn’t the poor sucker who had just poisoned his new boss, the person he’d have to report to for the next several months. And Colby was a man who’d already proved to me on the phone he didn’t handle stress well. I most certainly would be going to Wal-Mart to purchase a new keyboard in the near future. I hardly wanted to start my job off by requesting one, because Colby might now have a hankering to put a fox in my chicken coop too. And the last image I wanted to help Colby Tucker conjure up was a chicken!

  * * *

  When I called the Wheatfield Memorial Hospital the next morning, I was glad to hear I hadn’t killed Colby. Using a contaminated chicken as a murder weapon would be a hard thing to live down with my fellow inmates, while I wasted away in a maximum-security women’s prison.

  His wife did tell me, however, they were keeping him in the hospital another day because his symptoms had not abated much. As a matter of fact, Colby was currently experiencing projectile vomiting, she told me, just from having taken a few sips of water to moisten his dry mouth.

  She told me she appreciated my concern, and my call to inquire about his condition, but she needed to get off the phone so she could help Colby put in a meal order for lunch. The man couldn’t keep down water, was in fact spraying the room with it as we spoke, and yet he wanted a tray of food delivered to him? The way I felt, just the smell of food would be enough to drive me over the edge. I’d be spewing all over the poor soul who brought the tray into my room before she’d even placed it on my bedside table.

  Well, at least it didn’t sound as if Mrs. Tucker was angry with me. She appeared to have a “shit happens” attitude about the incident. Of course, she wasn’t the one cramping, puking, and pooping nonstop either. Colby’s opinion of me was obviously still in question. When we hadn’t been allowed to visit him in his room Sunday, I didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved, but relieved beat out disappointed after the nurse told me he couldn’t get off the pot, anyway.

  So after we’d been released from the emergency room, we’d gone home and spent the rest of the day lying around the house, thanking our lucky stars we’d let Colby Tucker eat the bulk of the foul fowl the evening before. We had gradually begun to feel like we could tolerate a little food, so I made us each some toast. I’d gone to bed dreading the phone call I felt obligated to make to Colby’s hospital room the next day.

  Now I hung up the phone and retreated back to the couch, glad there were no longer any guests currently staying over at the inn. They might have been a little disappointed in the toast and cold cereal I would have fed them for supper. And, although the risk of poisoning someone with Cheerios had to be slim, if anyone could do it, it was me.

  * * *

  Monday was spent lounging around the inn, accomplishing very little. Stone and I both felt much better, but the affects of the food poisoning had made us weak and lethargic. I was distressed to discover Mr. Tucker was spending yet another day in the hospital. He’d probably not realized yet, that continuing to eat large amounts of food, even as he was regurgitating it all back up, was not allowing the salmonella poisoning to run its course, and he was only prolonging his agony, as the E.R. nurse had explained to me.

  Knowing there was nothing I could do about it, I tried to keep my mind on other things. And as much as I’d have rather been doing something proactive about discovering the truth behind Ducky’s death, it was all I could do to walk from the kitchen to the back porch without needing a walker to lean on.

  I vowed to throw myself back into the investigation the following day. The number of days before the library reopened was getting smaller with each passing hour spent accomplishing nothing.

  Chapter 11

  By the time I got out of bed Tuesday morning and had showered, dressed, and gone downstairs, Detective Wyatt Johnston was sitting at the kitchen table having coffee with Stone. I was happy to discover that coffee sounded very appealing to me, and I felt almost completely like my old self again. Stone was laughing, and appeared as if he too, was completely back to normal.

  “Good morning, Wyatt,” I greeted the snickering detective. With my hands on my hips, I continued, “I can tell by that silly grin on your face, Stone has already told you about my cooking catastrophe . You can quit laughing at me now.”

  “Yes, he did, but I’m not laughing at you, Lexie, I’m laughing with you.”

  “I’m not laughing, Wyatt. Don’t I need to be laughing for you to be laughing with me?” I asked. “I don’t find it at all funny. When I tell the story to my grandkids, maybe ten years from now, I’ll probably find it mildly amusing, but for now I just feel like the biggest nincompoop in the world.”

  “Hey, don’t feel badly. People expect that kind of thing from you,” Wyatt said, in a lousy effort to console me.

  Watching Stone try to contain his laughter, I said, “Swell. Thanks, Wyatt! I feel so much better now that I know everyone expects me to behave like a ninny.”

  “I’m sorry. You know what I mean,” Wyatt said, looking toward Stone for help.

  “Go on, Wyatt,” Stone said. “I’m anxious to see how you try to climb out of this hole you’ve dug for yourself.”

  “Okay, guys,” I said. “Enough amusing yourselves at my expense. I know it was a senseless thing to do, and also that I have a tendency to do idiotic things on occasion, but this is the first time I’ve actually harmed someone else, and not just myself. And hurting an innocent bystander, who has the misfortune of stepping in the deep doo-doo I’ve created, really upsets me.”

  After Wyatt and Stone both tried to placate me, and convince me everything would work out okay, I apologized to Wyatt for not having any Danishes, tarts, cookies, or other treats, to offer him to enjoy with his coffee. I’d been too ill to cook anything on Sunday. He assured me he wasn’t at all hungry, and probably wouldn’t have eaten any even if there were some available. This was as believable as the beefed-up eating machine telling me he was giving up police work to become a ballet dancer.

  Wyatt’s obvious lie led me to believe he was now scared spitless of eating anything I prepared. Most of the pastries I baked contained eggs, and eggs were another common cause of salmonella poisoning. Apparently, the detective was not anxious to be occupying the empty bed in Colby Tucker’s room at the hospital.

  “I do have a bag of Keebler’s Chips Deluxe cookies I bought at Pete’s Pantry a couple days ago, if you’d like to have some to dip in your coffee,” I offered.

  “Well, yeah, I could probably handle a few of those,” Wyatt said, with his eyes lighting up. Sure, I thought, he wants nothing to do with anything I’ve slaved over, but he’ll jump all over cookies baked by a bunch of blaste
d elves!

  * * *

  Right before Wyatt left to report to work, he asked me, “Remember Clint Travis, the detective that questioned you at the library and rubbed you the wrong way?”

  “Yeah. What about him?” I asked. “He’s been fired, I hope.”

  “No, that’s not it. Last night there was another robbery in town. This time it was at the Jazzy Jigger Liquor Mart over on Elm Street. Mostly cash stolen again, plus three cartons of Marlboro Lights, and a couple bottles of Three Olives Vodka off a display shelf near the cash register.”

  “Any suspects in this string of robberies yet?” I asked.

  “No, and few leads. But Detective Travis was the first one on the scene. In fact, he noticed the back door kicked in while on his beat, and called it in to the station. I heard the transmission on the radio, and was in the area, so I joined Clint in scrutinizing the crime scene. Same M.O. as the others, back door kicked in, crowbar used to open the cash register, and the alarm system and security cameras disabled.”

  “Wow, somebody’s on a real spree, aren’t they? I thought you always worked the day shift?” Stone asked his friend. “What were you doing on duty last night?”

  “I’ve been picking up an extra shift here and there. I can use the overtime income to upgrade to that Ranger bass boat with the Mercury one-fifty horsepower motor. You know, the one I had my eye on at the boat show.”

  “Yeah, I don’t blame you. That one’s a dandy!” Stone said. “Wouldn’t that be nice to take walleye fishing next spring?”

  “Yeah,” Wyatt said with a nod. “I thought if we could troll the flats and—”

  “Hey,” I cut in. I might be viewed as having a one-track mind, but once the men got off the subject about the rude detective, and more involved in talking about crank baits, and drift fishing with a windsock, Wyatt might never get back to his story. “You two can discuss boats and walleye fishing later. Go on with what you were saying about Detective Travis.”