October Moon - An Eamonn Shute Short Story

by Tony McFadden

precariously.

  “Huh. Interesting.” While squatting to fix the table leg in place, he noticed a hole in the wood facing of the bench seat on the left of the table shaped like the heel of a shoe and again, fresh. “Very interesting.”

  He took some pictures with his iPhone and made his way to the bathroom. He really did need to go. On the left, heading to the back of the trailer, was a small bookcase, devoted entirely, it would seem, to Mary’s herbs and homeopathy. Books describing wild plants of the eastern seaboard, recipe books focusing on herbs and wild plants and plant taxonomy books dominated the shelves.

  When he re-entered the porch it was as if the temperature had dropped at least 10 degrees. Nicky was standing by the door, waiting for him, while Mary sat, mute, at the table.

  “What book, Mary?”

  “Excuse me? What do you mean?”

  “What book was Julio reading when he died?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Eamonn shrugged. “Just curious. Was it a mystery novel? Romance novel? DIY?”

  Mary frowned. “I really can’t remember. Sorry.”

  Eamonn smiled. “Okay then. Thanks for the hospitality. We’ll leave you to your work.” He took Nicky by the elbow and left.

  He held the car door for Nicky, closed it behind her and walked around the back of the car to the driver’s side. He glanced at Mary as he entered the car. She had a half smile on her face.

  “Okay,” he said as he started the Jag. “She killed him.”

  “Really? How?”

  “Not entirely sure yet, but I’ll find out. She’s not that smart.” He backed out of the drive. Mary watched them exit. “But I have an idea…”

  They travelled in silence, the muted strains of Wynton Marsalis feathering the speakers. Nicky had sunk into the seat, as if the weight of Eamonn confirming her suspicions pressed heavy on her.

  Thirty minutes into the trip she looked over at him. “So what next?”

  “This isn’t going to be easy for you.”

  “I want that bitch to pay. What’s next?” Steel in her voice.

  “Well, the autopsy results. I can drop you home, if you’d like. It’s not a pleasant task, especially for you.”

  “What, me because I’m a girl?”

  “No. You’re his family.”

  Nicky set her jaw. “I need to know what happened.”

  Eamonn sighed. “Alrighty, then.” He nodded. “The autopsy was done yesterday?”

  “Yesterday evening. I’m to collect the body for burial this afternoon.”

  Eamonn nodded. “Did you, by any chance, get the name of the doctor who performed the autopsy?”

  Nicky slid a thin billfold from her back pocket and pulled out a business card. “Dr. Prichard. Estelle Prichard.” She looked across at Eamonn, who had a slight smile on his face, and a raised eyebrow. “You know her?”

  “We’ve met. Let’s leave it at that for now. If I recall, I need to stay on I-95 and head to the University of Miami Medical center. We should be there in ten minutes. Would you give her a call and mention you’d like to talk to her about something. Anything. And, ah, don’t mention my name, okay?”

  He wheeled into visitors parking at the medical center, sorted out his bearings and headed in the direction of the Pathology center, Nicky quick stepping along side.

  She presented herself at the front desk and informed reception that Dr. Prichard was expecting her, then both sat in the generic vinyl chairs and waited.

  And waited.

  Forty-five minutes of waiting later and Dr Estelle Prichard appeared. She was in her mid-thirties. A shade over 6 foot, almost white blonde hair and not a visible ounce of fat on her body, she looked like a Nordic warrior in scrubs. She looked around the reception area, seeing Nicky first, then Eamonn. She took a deep breath, and entered the reception area. “Nicky Muniz. I’m afraid your cousin’s remains won’t be ready for collection for at least another three hours.”

  “I have a couple of things to ask you. Actually,” she pointed to her left, “Eamonn has something to ask.”

  Eamonn stood, smiled and extended his hand, which was ignored. “Good morning Doc. Still as beautiful as ever, I see.” He raised an eyebrow and held the hand out for a few more seconds, then shrugged and slid it back into his trousers pocket.

  “What do you want?” Then to Nicky, “Watch out for this guy.”

  “Can we talk somewhere?”

  Shaking her head in resignation, Dr. Pritchard turned and indicated for them to follow, leading them into a small, unused office. “So. Miss Muniz, I thought it was pretty clear last evening. Your cousin suffered a severe myocardial infarction. It’s not common in someone his age, but not unheard of. The damage to his heart was unmistakable. I’m very sorry, but the matter is now closed.”

  Eamonn smiled a small smile. “What were the contents of the stomach?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Nicky interrupted. “The stomach contents? Please? Eamonn and I think it was more than a heart attack. This could be important.”

  Estelle Prichard sighed and pulled the file out from under her arm and flipped it open. “The stomach was partially filled with a mixture of meat and vegetables, like a beef stew. No alcohol or drugs were found in his system.”

  “Well digested?” asked Eamonn

  “No, it was recently eaten.”

  “The vegetables. Would they be potato, carrot, turnip, that sort of thing?”

  “Yeah. And parsnip. Bit of celery. Why? What is this all about?”

  “I’m afraid the police did a bit of a shoddy job, but I’ve got to assume that her cousin’s wife arranged the scene to fit her story. He was most certainly killed, and I think I have enough evidence to prove it. With some more assistance from you.”

  Dr. Prichard folded her arms across her chest and looked at the two of them. “What’s going on?”

  “For justice to be served here I’m going to need for you to test the stomach contents for toxins. I’ll bet a bottle of your favorite red, which I seem to recall goes for about $200 a pop, that you’ll find something. Text me the results, will you? We need to go, and quickly, before the rest of the evidence is erased.” He took her hand in his. “Listen, this needs to be done quickly. I know I’m right, and I need all the evidence I can get, as fast as I can get it, so the police can get a warrant for the killer’s arrest.”

  “For Nicky, sure. I’ll text her the findings as soon as I get them.” She checked her watch. “I think I can get it to you within the hour. Nicky, I’m going to have to postpone the release for at least a day, just in case this guy is right.”

  Nicky nodded her assent.

  “Fantastic.” Eamonn turned to Nicky. “We need to go back to Homestead, now.” He nodded at the doctor, took Nicky by the elbow and left.

  Back in the car, heading south toward Homestead again, Nicky looked across at Eamonn. “Why back to Homestead? Back to Mary’s place?”

  “Homestead Police. The murder took place in their jurisdiction. No point in talking to Metro-Dade.”

  They spent the next thirty-five minutes in relative silence, listening to the radio reports of impending tropical storms, traffic accidents on I-95 and the latest drug sting in Broward County.

  Just before noon he pulled into a parking spot on W. Mowry Dr, near the intersection of S. Krome Ave. The intersection was the dividing point between East and West Mowry and South and North Krome - the geographical center of Homestead. The police station, a small two story building, stood on the Southwest corner of the intersection.

  The humid heat of Homestead hit them when they stepped out of the air-conditioned car. Thick, dark clouds rolled in along the coast to the east. There would be a thunderstorm within the hour.

  “This is it. If we can convince whoever is in charge in here that foul play was committed upon your cousin, we can stand back and let them do their job.”

  “And if not?”

  “More work for us, I�
��m afraid.”

  Nicky took his large hand in hers. “I wouldn’t mind more time with you.” She pulled him to a stop outside the door. “Listen, I can’t thank you enough for the help you’ve given me, and you hardly knowing me.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. We still have a couple of steps to go through. Let’s go.”

  They informed the desk sergeant that they had to report a murder and were directed to a cramped interview room. Air conditioning was clearly reserved for even hotter days. A reciprocating fan on a floor stand provided the only cooling, hot air escaping through opened louvered windows high on the wall. Less than a minute after they sat down a middle-aged overweight man in cargo shorts, sandals, and a gaudy Hawaiian shirt barreled through the door.

  “Detective Marty Wills. Have a seat, folks, and tell me what’s on your minds. Coffee?”

  “We’re good Detective. For coffee that is. Listen, Detective, -”

  “Call me Marty, folks. And you are?”

  “I’m Eamonn Shute, and this is Nicky Muniz.”

  “Aim ‘n Shoot? You’re shitting me.”

  “E-a-m-o-n-n S-h-u-t-e. I’m originally from Ireland. But that’s not relevant. Nicky’s cousin was found dead in his double-wide caravan – trailer, I believe you call them – two days ago.”

  “Muniz, Muniz, Oh yeah. Julio Muniz. Sorry to hear of your loss Miss Muniz. He was awfully young to go with a heart attack, but there was no evidence of foul play. He was found at his dinner table, slumped over and dead by the wife who called 911. The autopsy was conclusive. But, if you give me a sec, I’ll grab the case file.” He stood and left the room.

  Nicky’s phone beeped indicating an incoming