Case of the Muffin Murders

by Jeffrey M. Poole

  “Meaning you drink it,” I interrupted.

  “Right. Or consume it, in some fashion. The trivalent arsenic, the one that’s way more toxic than the other, is absorbed by the skin. Zack, do you know what this means? Clear your schedule tomorrow morning. It looks like PV has another murder on its hands.”

  THREE

  “So now it’s murder?” I asked Vance the following morning, once he called. “Do we know for certain? You know what? Scratch that. Someone dies and arsenic is found in your system? That was a stupid question.”

  “That’s what I don’t get. If someone poisoned Ms. Landers on purpose, why use such an obvious choice?”

  “What’s so obvious about it?” I wanted to know.

  “Really? What’s the first thing you’d think of if I say to you that we suspect someone died by poisoning? You’d suspect arsenic, right? It has to be the epitome of poisons. I would think that, if this was a murder, then the murderer wouldn’t want it known that it was death by a toxic substance. Besides, arsenic poisoning has gotta be one of the lousier ways to go. I was talking to the ME about this. Apparently, the symptoms of arsenic poisoning are very unique. And, uhh, very disturbing. If you’re familiar with the symptoms, then you know without a doubt what was responsible. Our crime scene techs took one look at the body and noted it was a potential death by arsenic consumption. The only thing they got wrong was the method in which the arsenic was introduced into the bloodstream.”

  “I forbid you from telling me about those symptoms,” I ordered. “You’ve told me enough. If it grosses you out, a homicide detective, then there’s no way I want to hear about it.”

  “You’re no fun. It did gross me out. I need to spread the misery around. Are you sure I can’t tell you what I saw?”

  “Nuh-uh. Zip your lip.”

  “Fine. Are you close?”

  “Sorta. I’m just passing Gary’s Grocery now.”

  “Nice. You should be here in about five minutes, provided you don’t get lost.”

  “Bite me. I haven’t been lost in several months.”

  Not true. I did lose my bearings last week when I went looking for my favorite roadside fruit stand, but ended up heading north, to Portland. Seriously, if I had not noticed the sign informing me that I had 225 miles to go before I reached Portland, then I’m sure I would have made it all the way there. There’s a reason why GPS devices were invented, and that reason is for people like me. However, there’s no way I’m giving Vance the satisfaction of knowing he was right. Again.

  “Did you know that Captain Nelson has given me the authority to bring on consultants to any case I’m working on now?”

  “He has? That’s cool, right? Wait. Is that why I’m heading over? You worked your magic to get me assigned to this case?”

  “Yes and no. Yes, I was going to suggest it, but no, Captain Nelson mentioned it before I could bring it up. That’s when he decided that I could have the authority to hire consultants whenever I needed one.”

  “I’m flattered. I think.”

  “We only have two official consultants working for the PVPD, and you’re one of them.”

  “Who is the other guy?”

  “The other consultant is a lady by the name of Polly LeMaster. We haven’t used her in over a year, and quite honestly, if I have any say about it, it’ll be longer than that before I have to see her again.”

  “Why?” I asked, as I turned right, onto 5th Street. “Did she screw something up?”

  “She’s a self-proclaimed psychic.”

  “Oh, snap. Whose idea was it to make her a consultant?”

  “I’m really not sure. I think the general consensus is Ms. LeMaster and the captain’s wife are friends. I can find no other logical explanation why.”

  “Has she ever given a correct prediction? Er, premonition? Er, helpful piece of advice?”

  “You mean ‘reading’? No. Not once. She’s never done a blasted thing to help solve a case, yet she claims it was her influence which turned up clues, identified witnesses, and so on. I say, ‘bullshit’. And yes, you can quote me on that.”

  “Well, I’ll do my damnedest not to let you guys down.”

  “You’ve already proven your worth, Zack. Your track record puts Ms. LeMaster’s to shame. Ah. There you are. I see you pulling up to Shafer Lane now.”

  I arrived at the two-story building and gazed admiringly at it. This duplex sat about twenty feet back from the street, had stone accents around the lower portion of the house, and had matching stonework on each of the twin support beams for the dual front entry gables. The second story of each unit had a large window overlooking the street, and a little round attic window directly above that.

  Each of the two units had a single stall garage, a common cedar plank wood fence defining the backyard, and matching flower beds next to the front entry. All in all, the duplex looked very cozy; inviting. Whoever was in charge of this building’s maintenance was doing a fantastic job.

  Vance was waiting for me in front of the right-hand unit’s garage door. Several police cars were parked along the street, which were unfortunately drawing a small crowd of curious onlookers. Two police officers, whose names escaped me at the moment, had been tasked with keeping the area clear of unauthorized personnel.

  Sure enough, as soon as the crowd spotted Sherlock and Watson, fingers began pointing. A handful of whispered conversations suddenly erupted, along with one squawk of indignation. Both the dogs and I had to stop to take a look.

  One older woman, whom I figured had to be in her early 70s, was desperately fiddling with her phone and was growing more agitated by the moment. She was hastily sliding her fingers across the screen, following immediately by her poking a bony finger at it. I can only assume she was trying to unlock her smartphone, and it wasn’t cooperating. The question was, what did she want her phone for?

  I looked down at the dogs and smiled. Apparently the woman was a fan of the corgis, and wanted to take their picture. I glanced over at Vance, who tapped his watch and made a ‘hurry up’ gesture. I walked over to the woman, introduced myself, and then introduced the dogs.

  “Oh, I don’t believe this,” the woman exclaimed miserably. “I finally get to meet the famous Sherlock and Watson, and I can’t even take a blasted picture with this blasted phone.”

  I held out a hand, “Would you like me to take a look? You’re just trying to unlock it, right?”

  The woman nodded, “That’s right. There’s something wrong. It just won’t turn back on.”

  Turn back on? I looked down at the smartphone and rotated it in my hands until I found the power button. I pressed it down for a few seconds and waited for the manufacturer’s logo to appear on the screen. Right about then, Sherlock shook his collar, which had the effect of sounding like someone ringing a few jingle bells. When the woman looked admiringly down at the dogs, I surreptitiously wiped the phone clean with my shirt and handed it back as soon as she looked back at me.

  Ever since my prints had been taken without my permission last year, and then had been used to try and frame me for a murder a while ago, I had become a little paranoid. Whenever I handled anything belonging to a stranger, I always wiped it off before I handed it back. Yeah, sure. Laugh if you must, but I’ll bet you’ve never been accused of murder. If you had, you’d be taking precautions now, too.

  “The phone was completely off,” I explained, as I held the phone in the same hand that had the leashes wrapped around it. And yes, it was so the phone couldn’t make physical contact with my skin. “You just needed to hit the power button to wake it back up.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” the woman exclaimed. “I’ll never get used to these god-forsaken technological contraptions. Okay, there’s my camera app. Would you mind if I took a picture of your dogs?”

  I smiled, “Go ahead. Sherlock? Watson? Look up for a moment, would you?”

  Have you ever heard of a phrase called ‘corgi stink eye’? It’s where a corgi shows their dis
pleasure by looking at you as though you were the stupidest thing walking around on two legs. Well, that’s the look I got from Sherlock. Watson, thankfully, did as she was asked. She looked up at the strange woman just as the picture was taken.

  “Thank you! Thank you so much! The ladies from my bridge club will never believe this!”

  “You have yourself a nice day,” I told the woman as I felt the dual tugs on the leashes. Both dogs were raring to get started.

  “Those cantankerous crones can take their damn kitty pictures and shove them up their…”

  The woman fell out of earshot before I could hear her complete her sentence. I snorted with surprise. Since when do little old grandmothers talk like that?

  The world was changing. Whether for the good or bad, I wasn’t sure. I heard the shake of a dog collar and then felt the pull from both corgis, as though they both had morphed into sled dogs.

  “He doesn’t have treats for you this time, guys. Geez! Slow down! You’re going to choke yourselves!”

  Vance had a penchant for keeping doggie biscuits in his jacket pocket. I didn’t think he had any with him, but seeing a biscuit in each hand had me laughing. No wonder the dogs wanted to get over to him. That’s a corgi for you. They had to be the most highly food-motivated dog I had ever encountered.

  “Hello, Sherlock,” Vance said, as he gave the tri-color corgi his biscuit. “You, too, Watson. Here’s yours.”

  Sherlock lowered himself to the ground and slowly started crunching away. Watson, however, had hers gone before Sherlock’s rump had hit the ground. Okay, what can I say? Watson eats fast. I’m still trying to get her to slow down. Why? Well, Watson has a tendency to gobble down air in addition to her food whenever she ate that fast. Has that ever happened to you? Do you know what your body will do in order to release the built-up gas? Ever smelled a dog fart? It wasn’t pretty. Watson could clear a room in less time that it takes to reach for a can of air freshener.

  “So, what do we have in there?” I gleefully asked.

  No, I’m not a fan of death, or dead bodies, but, I was glad to be working on a case again.

  “The DB has already been removed. The investigators have completed their preliminary investigation. It’s the same rules as before. You’re allowed to look, but don’t touch. Got it?”

  “Yeppers. Okay, you two. Let’s go check this place out, okay?”

  We stepped foot inside the right-hand unit and I immediately came to a stop. I could smell a strong, sour, acrid stench that instantly made my stomach queasy. I knew what that smell was: vomit.

  Have you ever heard the term ‘sympathetic puker’? Well, that’s me. If I smell it, or hear it, or (shudder) see it, then I was more than likely going to do it myself. I needed fresh air, and I needed it fast.

  I took a giant step backward so that my head was back outside, sucked in a huge breath, and then stepped inside again. Vance looked at me and nodded. He pointed to his nose. I could see that he was wearing nose plugs.

  “Where did you get those?” I wheezed out. “You could’ve warned me.”

  “I can’t stand the smell of puke,” Vance confided. “So, I keep a set of plugs with me whenever I’m on duty. I would encourage you to do the same.”

  “Noted,” I gasped, between breaths. “If I start puking, I’m gonna blame you.”

  “If you end up barfing, then this will be the day that our puke mingles together.”

  I stared at my friend with a look of bemused horror.

  “Eww. That’s gross.”

  Vance chuckled and pointed at a set of stairs to the right of the entry.

  “The three bedrooms are up there. The large one on the left is the master bedroom. There are two guest bedrooms on the right. The kitchen is through the hallway straight ahead of us. That’s where we found the body.”

  I had taken two steps down the hallway when I froze, “Tell me that it’s been cleaned up.”

  Vance shrugged, walked down the hall and peered into the kitchen. After a few moments, he turned to look back at me and nodded.

  “It’s clean. Kinda. They managed to get the, uh, vomit and the, uh, rest of the bodily fluids off the linoleum. However, it smells pretty rank in there, even with the nose plugs. I’d cover your nose if I were you.”

  I pulled my shirt up and then clapped a hand over my nose, to keep the shirt in place. The smell was absolutely foul. Perhaps I should rethink my role as police consultant. No amount of bragging rights was worth this.

  Sherlock and Watson appeared unfazed by the rancid smell in the duplex. They both pulled on their leashes until we were standing inside the kitchen. Vance was right. Everything looked clean, but smelled as though we were standing in a dung heap on a hot summer day.

  My eyes were watering. Either that, or else they were melting. I wasn’t sure.

  Sherlock pulled me over to the sink. He sniffed once at the cabinets. I looked over at Vance and pointed at one in particular.

  “Would you?”

  Vance snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and gingerly opened the cabinet. We found some dish soap, dishwasher tabs, and some scrub pads on the left, and a trash can on the right.

  Sherlock nudged the trash can. I looked at Vance, who sighed. He pulled the can out and looked in.

  “It’s just trash, fella,” Vance told the corgi. “I can see an empty orange juice can, several banana peels, a yogurt container, a coffee cup, and several crumpled pieces of paper. That’s what I can see on top. Do you want a closer look at anything?”

  The detective held the trash can down low, so that the two corgis could look inside. Watson sniffed the contents, snorted once, and then looked away. Sherlock thrust his nose into the trash, which earned him a surprised ‘Hey!’ from me, and then extricated his snout. He was holding a small piece of wadded up paper.

  “What is that? Sherlock, you drop that right now. You have no idea what that is, or where’s it been.”

  I took a single step toward Sherlock, trying to look as menacing as possible. The last thing I wanted to happen was to have one of my dogs make a mess inside a crime scene house. However, right away I noticed that it had been the wrong thing to do.

  Sherlock saw me take a step and instantly dropped into a crouch. The little booger was ready to bolt. He knew it and I knew it. I held up both hands and backed away.

  “C’mon, Sherlock. Don’t do this. I don’t want to chase your furry butt through someone else’s house. Give that back. We’re not doing this now. I mean it.”

  Sherlock decided otherwise.

  There was a mad scrambling of doggie toe nails on the linoleum as Sherlock tore out of the kitchen, raced through the dining room, and then bolted down the hallway, toward the front entry. He paused briefly to ensure I was following, then executed a flawless 180° turn and sprinted straight at me. I should’ve been able to catch him, only the cunning little snot made it by me by zipping between my legs.

  “You little pain in the ass! Get back here! We are so not doing this right now!”

  “You’ll have to let me know how that works for you, buddy,” Vance casually quipped, as he continued his investigation, as though a canine sprinting through the kitchen at Mach 1 was a common occurrence.

  Finally, after a 5 minute FRAP session (that’d be Frantic Random Acts of Play for you non-corgi people), Sherlock returned to the kitchen and spat the soggy wad of paper at my feet. Vance tossed me a set of disposable latex gloves. After gingerly unwrapping the wadded up piece of paper, I sighed. It was just a wrapping from some type of pastry. It was food, which was why Sherlock zeroed in on it. That’s just great.

  I was ready to toss it back into the trash when I hesitated. I pulled out my phone, snapped a pic, and then threw it away. Vance wandered over.

  “So? What was it? Anything important?”

  I shook my head, “No. Just a food wrapper. Sherlock probably thought it was something to eat.”

  Sherlock looked at me as though he believed I was missing something and then m
oved off to join Watson at the sliding glass patio door.

  “So, what am I supposed to do with this?” Vance wanted to know. “It’s trash. I don’t want to have to search through that mess.”

  I pulled out my phone and took a couple of pictures of the trash can and the contents I could see without having to touch it.

  “What are you doing?” Vance asked. “You’re taking pictures of the trash?”

  “For reference,” I explained. “Seeing how whatever catches Sherlock’s attention usually ends up being relevant to the case in some fashion, I thought I’d document anything that catches his fancy. In this case, the trash, as disgusting as that happens to be.”

  “Ah. That’s not a bad idea.”

  “Thanks.”

  The dogs wandered back down the hallway and hesitated at the stairs. In unison, both dogs turned to look up at me. Without saying a word, I stooped to pick up Sherlock. Vance carried Watson. Not a word had been exchanged. So, who was training whom here? I know full well they can make it up stairs like those by themselves. I’ve seen ‘em do it.

  We checked out the master bedroom, the adjoining bathroom, and the two guest rooms. Sherlock and Watson wandered around the top floor for close to 15 minutes before I threw in the proverbial towel. They hadn’t paused at anything. No hidden receipts tucked away under a mattress. No obscure photographs hanging on the wall, and no desire to investigate the attic, even though I walked them by the attic access in the master bedroom closet several times.

  Vance appeared and suggested we head back downstairs. The one area of the house we hadn’t checked yet was the backyard. Hopefully it would yield a clue or two.

  “What are they looking at now?” Vance inquired.

  Both corgis were standing, motionless, at the patio door. Both sets of ears were sticking straight up and both dogs had their noses plastered to the glass, leaving behind matching doggie nose prints.

  “Do you want to go outsi-?”

  “No!” I interrupted. “Don’t say that word!”