by Kathy Reichs
He reached for Hi, but I shoved him sideways. “Back off! I’ll explain.”
But how? All I had was the shadow of a note, and a wild hunch.
Plus a red-haired chef imprisoned in the men’s room.
Lightning raced down my spine.
I felt every eye in the room. Stunned gazes, quickly growing angry.
Then Ben was at my side. Inside my head, steadying me. Take it slow. Step by step.
Shelton snaked around Eric, positioning himself protectively over Hi. My skinny friend watched Whitney’s brother warily. “You need to step back, dude.”
I took a moment to marshal my thoughts. Start strong.
“This cake was poisoned!” I said loudly, eliciting horrified gasps.
There. Good.
Kit’s mouth worked, but no sound emerged. Whitney glanced at the smeared plate clutched between her fingers, then squealed, dropping it like a snake. Shattering china sparked a fresh round of exclamations.
“Tory!” Kit shook his head roughly, as if chasing away a bad dream. “Why would you say such a thing?”
Captain Corcoran preempted my response.
Which, admittedly, I hadn’t quite formed yet.
“Did the girl say poison?” Corcoran began maneuvering his bulk through the circle of onlookers, projecting so everyone could hear. “Tory Brennan, are you accusing someone of . . . attempted murder?”
Shelton’s eyes found the ceiling. Man, I can’t stand this guy.
Feed him the cake, Hi suggested, still lying over most of it.
Slow, Ben repeated, catching my eye and holding it. Step by step.
I sucked in all Ben’s confidence I could absorb. Gave his hand a quick squeeze. Then, clearing my throat, I addressed the ring of glowering faces. “The icing on this cake was spiked with something dangerous. Hi learned at the last moment, and did what he could to stop you guys from eating it. Everyone should be thanking him. You just dodged a bullet.”
A tremor rippled through the crowd. Hissed denials. The band huddled together onstage, shaking their collective heads. They’d probably seen it all, but not this.
My gaze darted from face to face, assessing the impact of my words. Chance and Ella had wormed to the inside of the group and were eyeing me strangely. Beside them, Tempe and Harry wore matching frowns of concern. Madison and Jason together stood with his parents, while Ashley and Courtney were huddled a step behind them, whispering and hiding smiles. God, I hate those two.
But people were listening. I had a shot at this.
Corcoran crossed his arms. Glared down from his high horse. We’d never had a great relationship—or even a good one—but he knew better than to dismiss me outright. “Whaddya mean, spiked?”
I pitched my voice to reach everyone. Not that it was difficult—at that moment, despite the dozens of guests, you could’ve heard a mouse sneeze in that ballroom.
“A few minutes ago, an unknown individual was tampering with this cake.” I spoke formally, aiming to be as precise as possible. “The man was dressed like a chef—with the name Biggs embroidered on his chest—but his uniform didn’t match the ones worn by tonight’s catering staff. My friends and I caught him mixing an unknown liquid into the icing. When we asked him what he was doing, he stormed away, but my friend Shelton caught him cleaning out a metal bowl in the men’s bathroom. Then he threw it away.”
Furious whispers. A tense-faced server sprinted toward the kitchen, likely to retrieve the head caterer.
I caught Kit’s eye. Registered his complete bewilderment.
Whitney’s shoulders were trembling. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”
“Just hold on!” Corcoran held up a hand before giving me a hard look. “You saw a cook fixing the wedding cake, and just assumed he was up to no good?” The captain crossed his arms, displaying his skepticism to the rapt audience. “Sounds like your imagination may’ve gotten the best of you. And this poor cake, unfortunately.”
Choking back my irritation, I held up the notepad. “When we found him, the suspect was referring to something written down on this pad. Instructions of some kind. He balled up the page when we confronted him, and later flushed it down the toilet. But we were able to recover the message by shading the sheet directly beneath it. See for yourself.”
The crowd stirred. Ella and Chance exchanged a glance. What were they about?
As I handed the pad to Corcoran, I noticed Tempe nodding, which gave me confidence.
“Two parts per thousand into the icing,” the captain read, frowning through his mustache. “And what’s this here about . . . ip-e-cac syrup?” He sounded the word out slowly, then rubbed his chin. “I swear, everything you kids touch never makes any plain sense. And how are we supposed to locate this mystery chef? Biggs, you said? Sounds made-up to me.”
I glanced at Shelton, who gulped, but nodded.
“We know where he is.” Keeping my voice level. “He’s been . . . detained.”
Corcoran’s eyes shot to me. “Detained? By whom?”
Ben stepped between us. “He’s locked in the men’s bathroom. We were just coming to find you.”
Before anyone could react, Eric DuBois stepped forward and grabbed my arm. “Are you saying that someone put ipecac syrup in the wedding cake?”
I nodded. “In the icing. We think.”
Eric grew wide-eyed. “Oh jeez.”
Ben clamped a hand on to Eric’s wrist. Met his eye. Shook his head.
Eric released me with a shrug. “That’s bad news,” he said to Whitney, who was standing stone still and blinking like an owl. “Remember when I ate those urinal cakes as a kid? Mom made me drink that stuff. It makes you puke something fierce.”
My eyes darted to Tempe, who’d paled. I spoke over the murmuring crowd. “He’s right. For years, ipecac syrup was a household medicine.”
“So it’s not poison?” Hi had propped his elbow again, but otherwise made no effort to rise from the dessert-pocalypse he’d created. “We can eat the cake?”
I shook my head. “Ipecac syrup makes people throw up. Immediately. It tastes very sweet, like concentrated sugar, but get some of that junk inside you and it’s coming out. Period. But doctors stopped recommending it because its side effects are worse than the benefits. It can kill you.”
“What?” Eric looked incredulous.
“It’s true.” All heads swung to a grim-faced Tempe. “For decades ipecac syrup was used to induce vomiting. Pediatricians used to advise parents to keep some in their homes in case of accidental poisonings, but current guidelines strongly advise against it. In fact, you’re supposed to dump any remaining ipecac syrup down the drain. There’s little evidence it actually helps in poisoning cases, and overdoses can be fatal. They don’t even make it anymore.”
Corcoran held up a finger, spoke as slowly as the ponderous wheels of his reasoning. “So . . . whoever wrote that note . . . was trying to . . . kill . . . all these people?”
Shouts erupted, but Tempe jumped in before the panic could spread. “I highly doubt it. Ipecac was a trusted medication for years. I bet whoever did this just wanted to give everyone a really terrible night.”
Whitney stomped a foot. “My night!” She was seconds from releasing the waterworks.
“Sabotage,” Kit growled, clenching his fists. “When I find this bastard . . .”
“Find him?” Someone said with a laugh. Chance stepped into the limelight, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “Isn’t the culprit currently imprisoned in a toilet?”
Corcoran flinched, then sprang into action. “Johnson! Vorhees! On me!” He tossed the notepad at me, clamping a hand on Shelton as his remaining subordinates hurried to obey. “This young man will tell us where the suspect is.”
“Sure,” Shelton agreed, eyeing Corcoran apprehensively. “No problem. Since I clearly did the right thing by locking him up
in the bathroom, right? The legal, not-in-any-way-criminal, correct call. Right?”
Corcoran huffed impatiently. “We’ll see.”
Whispers spread like wildfire as Shelton told the cops where Biggs was. I blocked them all out. Something Corcoran had said was bothering me.
“Whoever wrote that note,” I muttered, testing the phrase in my head.
Then it hit me.
Not just the cook.
The boys shot me puzzled looks as Corcoran’s team hurried from the ballroom.
Spiking the cake, I sent. It can’t be Biggs working alone.
I grew excited and nervous at the same time.
Think about it! Biggs wouldn’t write such a simple note to himself. Someone else did!
I glanced down at the notepad. The cursive script was neat and tidy.
Flowery.
Distinctly female-looking, though I’d been wrong on that count before.
An accomplice? Hi rose awkwardly, wiping cake debris from his ruined tuxedo. The other guests gave him a wide berth. Seems overly complicated, don’t you think?
Not if you want an alibi. Ben was scowling like old times. Throw people off your scent.
I stared at the floor as pieces of evidence clicked together in my mind. The note lists an active ingredient, ipecac syrup, and gives specific instructions on how to administer it. It’s very precise. Whoever wrote this was familiar with the substance. Knew the exact proper dosage.
My head rose. I scanned the faces surrounding us, my thoughts streaming freely for the boys to hear. This morning, someone killed flowers using a toxic mixture. Later, the altar nearly collapsed just as Whitney and Kit stepped onto it. The precisely correct pins had been pulled. I spun in a slow circle as I sent, inspecting the crowd. Then we caught Biggs messing with the cake, carrying specific instructions on how to insert a dangerous substance into the frosting.
I stopped as a familiar face came into view.
Someone wanted this wedding to be a disaster, I said.
Someone vindictive, Hi agreed.
Petty, Ben added.
And carrying a major grudge, Shelton finished.
Anger ignited within me. Now who’d want to do a thing like that?
Mike Iglehart was lounging at the back of the circle, a strange smile on his face.
Iglehart.
My blood boiled at the sight of his smug little grin.
He hates Kit, I sent, Chance told us so. And he’s got an advanced degree in chemistry!
Hi nodded like a bobblehead. He’s a veterinary PhD. Does boatloads of lab experiments. Knows biology, chemistry, and physics. Even medicine.
Shelton whistled. Everything you’d need to pull off these moves.
Ben stared daggers at the wormy scientist. Want me to grab him?
I pounded my thigh, stymied. We have no proof.
Iglehart abruptly noticed our attention. The self-satisfied smile vanished. With a lurch, he began edging backward, angling toward the exit, no longer looking so entertained.
Kit turned to speak with me and noticed the direction of my glare. His frown deepened as he spotted his coworker sneaking toward the door. “Mike?”
Heads turned in Iglehart’s direction. He straightened quickly. “What?” he demanded loudly, blinking and fidgety under all that scrutiny. “Why are you staring at me? I had nothing to do with this!”
“Nothing to do with what?” Hi asked innocently.
“With anything!” Iglehart backed up another step. Those standing near him inched away, leaving the twitchy little man isolated. “Stop twisting my words!”
Kit looked at me. I shrugged, still glaring at Iglehart. “Biggs probably had an accomplice. He wasn’t here this morning when the flowers arrived, and didn’t attend the service. Plus, who wrote that note?”
“You think it was all intentional?” Kit hissed, evidently considering the prospect for the first time. I nodded.
“All what?” Whitney demanded. We hadn’t noticed her listening.
Kit blanched, then took his wife’s hand and patted it gently. “The lilies, honey. We talked about how they died so quickly this afternoon, and had to be replaced. Then the altar nearly fell apart during the service. It’s all very . . . suspicious.”
The crowd had been listening, and now held its breath in shocked silence. Whitney looked as if each of Kit’s sentences had been a physical blow. Biting her bottom lip, she pointed dramatically at Iglehart. “And this scoundrel may be involved?”
“No!” Iglehart squawked. “I’m an important scientist!”
“This freaking guy.” Hi snorted. “His mother obviously didn’t hug him enough.”
“Is it him?” Ben whispered to me out of the side of his mouth.
I shook my head, unsure. Frustrated. I knew Iglehart hated Kit, but that didn’t prove he’d tried to poison everyone. “Biggs may be the only one who can ID his accomplice.”
I watched the kitchen door. What was taking Corcoran so long?
“What about the ipecac syrup?” Hi asked suddenly.
“Nothing left,” Shelton said sourly. “Biggs cleaned out his bowl before he dumped it.”
“No, wait!” I punched Hi’s shoulder in excitement. “You’re a genius!”
“Ow!” Hi rubbed his arm. “Don’t hit the genius.”
“Biggs came through the garden gate empty-handed.” I grabbed Shelton’s scrawny arm. “What did he have with him in the bathroom?”
Shelton eyed me skittishly, hoping to avoid any follow-up blows. “Just the crumpled-up paper and the bowl. Nothing else that I saw.”
Hiram’s eyes bulged. “His uniform didn’t have any pockets!”
Ben nodded, catching on. “So the ipecac was already inside the building when Biggs arrived. He knew where to find it, must’ve located a bottle of the stuff before we followed him into the staging room.”
“The notepad as well,” Hi added. “He picked up both. Quickly, too, since we weren’t far behind him.”
“We know he flushed the note.” Ben frowned. “But not the bottle?”
Shelton shook his head firmly. “And he didn’t trash it, either. Just the bowl.”
“Which means the ipecac bottle is still here somewhere.” Blood rushed to my face as I laid out my theory. “Biggs sneaks inside, locates the notepad and a bottle of ipecac syrup—”
“Probably together,” Hi interjected.
I nodded. “Then he fills a bowl and gets to work. But we catch him in the act. So he hides the medicine bottle from us behind his back, then storms out and stashes it before Shelton catches up to him in the men’s room.” I snapped my fingers. “I bet you anything he put it right back where he found it. Probably didn’t have time to do anything else.”
Hi tapped his temple. “That means the bottle’s currently hidden where his accomplice left it in the first place.”
“That location might tell us a lot,” I said excitedly. “We just have to find the bottle.”
Hinges creaked. Every head swung toward the kitchen doors.
Captain Corcoran reentered the ballroom, a trio of shadows at his back.
“Okay,” Shelton said cautiously. “So how do we find the bottle?”
I smiled, eyes gleaming. “We use our best nose.”
My eyelids slid shut. I sent the call.
Moments later, a gruff voice answered.
I come.
“He’s not talking,” Corcoran grumbled.
The captain was huddled with Kit and Tempe beside the stage. Biggs stood between the other two officers, at the edge of the dance floor, sneering arrogantly. Guests were giving the big man a wide berth.
The crowd had clumped into chattering groups, observing the bizarre scene with varying degrees of shock and titillation. Ella and Chance were whispering animatedly, their expressio
ns guarded. Ashley and Courtney couldn’t keep their mirth in check. Agnes Taylor loudly instructed her husband to gather their things, proclaiming the wedding to be a scandal unfit for Magnolia League participation. Whitney, being comforted by her bridesmaids, nearly crumpled in mortification.
Kit sighed. “What do we do?”
Corcoran moved closer, dropping his voice. Every Viral still heard, of course.
“We’ve got nothing to hold him on.” His tone was laced with frustration, but also carried an undercurrent of anxiety. “No evidence of anything at all, to be honest. We still don’t know for sure that the cake is bad. And those fool kids locked that man in the john!”
“At the very least he’s trespassing,” Tempe argued. “We’ve proven he’s not on the catering staff.”
“That’s the only thing that might save our butts.” Corcoran frowned. “He claims he’s a wedding crasher looking for a free slice of cake. Can’t toss him in a cell for that. Or cage him in a bathroom, FYI!”
Tempe nodded unhappily. “Then let’s sweat the rat.”
But questioning Mike Iglehart proved no more fruitful. Called forward by Corcoran, the little scientist wasn’t happy about it, standing before the captain with his head sunk between his shoulders like a man facing the guillotine.
“You know this man?” Corcoran demanded, motioning to Biggs. The false chef stood with his arms crossed, a statue of brash poise, unmoved by the glares raining down on him.
“Of course not!” Iglehart glowered at Corcoran, but his nervous gaze kept darting to the mass of onlookers. He shrank visibly from the collective scrutiny, much of which came from his LIRI coworkers. The man couldn’t have looked guiltier. “I’ve never been more insulted in my life!” he huffed.
“You know about this ip-e-cac stuff?” Corcoran clearly didn’t understand the particulars, or seem in a hurry to learn them.
“I mean, um . . . throughout my career, I’ve . . .” Iglehart glanced at Kit, who was eyeing him sternly, then slapped his side in frustration. “Yes, of course I know what it is!” he spat. “It was a very common medicine. Every LIRI employee here knows about ipecac syrup!”
Corcoran swung to Kit. “You keep some of this stuff on your crazy monkey island?”
