“I can see why you’re upset,” he said. “Watching a guy who seemed strong and healthy get so sick all of a sudden, having him die — I’d be upset too. And after what you went through those other four times, it’s no wonder you expect somebody to get murdered whenever you take a temp job. But I stopped by the hospital on my way over here, and it sure looks like a natural death this time. The doctors agreed on that, and nobody from our department is giving them an argument. The guy was fifty-two, he’d been obese all his life, he lost so much weight so fast, he was still starving himself and overdoing the exercise even though his doctor warned him to slow down — all adds up to a heart attack.”
“I know,” she said. “But so many things seem so odd. What about the water in his thermos? The doctor said he’d have that tested — did he?”
Brock nodded. “Yup. Pure mineral water. No trace of poison of any kind.”
“Oh.” Leah rubbed her forehead. “Will there be an autopsy?”
“No reason for one,” Brock said. “Cause of death seems clear. The guy’s only heir — an estranged son from his second marriage — flew in from Chicago to arrange the funeral. He hasn’t requested an autopsy.”
“But you could request one,” Leah said. “Couldn’t you? Lieutenant, I really think this man was poisoned.”
Brock sighed. “Testing for poisons is expensive, Mrs. Abrams, especially since we don’t have any idea of which poisons to test for. Let me ask you this. If this guy was poisoned, it pretty much had to be by someone at the Cocoon Center. Now, nobody there will profit from his death — his son’s gonna get everything. Can you think of any other reason why anyone at the center would want this guy dead?”
“I can’t,” Leah said. “He wasn’t a nice man — he insulted almost everyone in our group. But none of the insults seemed harsh enough to provide a motive for murder. And I don’t know how the poison could have been administered. It wasn’t in the oatmeal he had for breakfast, evidently, or in his thermos. Maybe it was in a medication — he probably took vitamins. You could have those tested, couldn’t you?”
“I could,” Brock said, “if I had any justification for it. And we’ve got a lot of other stuff on our hands right now — trying to find that embezzler and figure out who killed that small-time drug dealer and track down that drunk who shot two people.” He paused, drumming his fingers on the table. “Well, hell. You’ve helped us solve four murders. You’ve got damn good instincts — you’ve proven that time and again. I’m gonna request that autopsy, Mrs. Abrams. If the captain gives me a hard time, I’ll weather it — and if the autopsy reveals anything interesting, I’ll call you. Why don’t you see if you can get into this guy’s room at the center, check out his medications?”
“I think I can manage that.” Her shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“No problem.” He took a last sip of coffee and stood up. “Say, what’s happening with that book of yours, the one about impactful disclosure through nonarticulate signifiers? Is it coming out soon?”
“I didn’t find a publisher for it, actually,” she said. “An intern at a university press seemed enthusiastic about my proposal; unfortunately, he couldn’t get it past marketing. I’m working on a new book—
A Hermeneutics of Workplace Communications: Contra-Experiential Expectations, Obfuscated Infrastructures, and Exertion-Intensive Behaviors. I feel sure this one will have wider commercial appeal.”
“No doubt about it,” Brock said. He winked and left.
Thursday, April 28
When I volunteered to pack Brian’s things, Fred accepted gratefully. Just as I’d expected, I found several bottles of vitamins. There wasn’t much else to pack — just toiletries, sweatpants, tank tops, underwear. As I was rolling up socks, I heard something crinkle. Odd, I thought, and reached into the toe of a thick white sock and pulled out two crumpled Snickers wrappers.
So even our dieting fanatic cheated sometimes, I thought, smiling sadly — the cheating made Brian seem more human, and that made my task feel more poignant. I started to throw the wrappers away, then paused.
Brian had boasted that he’d conquered his sweet tooth. He’d said he hadn’t tasted or even craved sugar in months. That, obviously, had been a lie. Sometimes, obviously, he’d sneaked sugar. What if the sugar craving had hit him again? When I’d walked into the Caterpillar Room yesterday morning, he’d been doing frantic crunches. Had he been working off calories he’d just indulged in on the sly?
Sitting on the bed, I pictured Brian’s almost empty thermos, pictured Martha taking a sip of sweet tea, frowning, and setting her thermos down. Had Brian come to the Caterpillar Room early to guzzle down most of Martha’s tea? Had he covered up his theft by pouring most of his mineral water into her thermos? Unlike other guests at the center, Martha hadn’t been pampered all her life. If her tea tasted too weak, she probably wouldn’t complain. She’d probably just frown and stop drinking.
I pressed my hand against my forehead. Last night, I’d lain sleepless for hours, trying to figure out why anyone at the center would want to kill Brian. Should I have been trying to figure out why anyone would want to kill Martha?
Immediately, the inconsistencies started hitting me. “Martha hadn’t been pampered all her life” — a ludicrous understatement. She’d been fired. She’d been subsisting on freelance copy-editing and tutoring. She probably didn’t have health insurance. How could she afford this place? Maybe she was independently wealthy. But her sweater was worn at the elbows, and she didn’t act like an heiress. She acted like a bitter woman used to being treated shabbily. I looked around Brian’s room again. He’d brought only a few things here — only clothes, vitamins, toiletries. Only the sorts of things one would expect someone to bring to a rehab center. Martha had brought an antique clock and a recipe file. Why?
My cell phone rang. “We got lucky, Mrs. Abrams,” Lieutenant Brock said. “I put a rush on that autopsy — the coroner owes me a favor — and the first test he did turned up positive. Oleander poisoning. Probably ingested in liquid form, the coroner said — that’s probably why it acted so quickly, especially since this guy didn’t eat much and his stomach was always mostly empty. Probably, someone stuck oleander stems in water, extracted the poison that way, slipped it into something he drank. Only problem is, the coroner says the water would taste really sweet. And this guy didn’t drink anything but water, right? You’d think he’d have noticed—”
“Actually, he may have had some sweet tea yesterday. It’s too complicated to explain now, but would adding the poisoned water to sweet tea hide the taste?”
“I’d think so, yeah. Now, you said there are lots of flowering plants at this center. Any oleander?”
“I don’t know what oleander looks like. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay. I’ll head over to the center now and check. Just sit tight till I get there. Don’t confront anyone. Looks like we’re dealing with a killer, Mrs. Abrams.”
I closed my phone and glanced at my watch. Almost 10:00. I had to go meet my group. And someone in that group might be a murderer.
When I got to the Caterpillar Room, Felix sat in his usual chair near the back of the room; Martha sat in a pastel print armchair, working on her sampler, not looking up. Did she suspect someone tried to kill her yesterday? Probably not — she looked tired, but not frightened. Both Roland and Courtney sat on the dark green couch, rather close together. He’d piled up all three of the red throw pillows and was leaning back against them as he told Courtney about his movie.