“How about coffee?”
“Depends where it’s grown, how much might have collected in the soil….”
“I mean, could you give it to someone in coffee. How does it taste?”
“Get me your laptop. I’ll do some background reading while I eat.”
Ray ate in silence, watching Hanna handle a fork with her left hand and keyboard with her right. Finally she looked up and said, “Okay, I know just enough to be dangerous. So don’t take anything I say as the final word. What were your questions?”
“Given a very discriminating coffee drinker, could you slip some arsenic in his brew without him noticing it?”
“Yes, especially if you were only lightly lacing the brew. Arsenic is odorless and tasteless.”
“Would a physician be able to diagnose the poisoning based on symptoms?”
“Well, that depends on how the patient presents. They would have some moderate to severe gastrointestinal symptoms, depending on the dosage. If blood work were done, an usually high level of arsenic would show up. But, I don’t think most physicians would start there. At a fairly low dosage, the symptoms would look like an intestinal virus or food poisoning, the kinds of things that usually resolve themselves in a few days on a bland diet. No one is going to order blood work for a common ailment unless there are extenuating circumstances.”
“How about shrimp and prawns?” asked Ray.
“Give me a few minutes?” Hanna set down her fork, both hands flying across the keyboard. Then she stopped, her eyes scanning the text as she scrolled down the page. “Naturally occurring. Subject to inspection. No reports of arsenic-related illness.” She looked across the table at Ray. “Seafood is usually a leading suspect in cases of food poisoning. I don’t know if it is more fragile than other meat sources, or if it is a problem with shipping, storage, and handling.
“So what’s going on here?” she asked. “This time you talk while I eat. Give me the back story.”
“One of the people I interviewed this afternoon told me that Wudbine had been very ill sometime in June. She said that shrimp or prawns were thought to be the source of the food poisoning. The arsenic finding changes everything.”
“How does the coffee fit into this?”
“My speculation. The person who usually prepared his coffee was out of the country. There’s a lot here I still don’t understand, but I think the pieces are starting to fall together. I need to call Sue. We need some search warrants.”
“Tonight?”
“No, just starting the process. Hopefully we can serve them tomorrow morning. I like to start early, keeps people off balance.”
Hanna remained silent for several moments.
“What’s going on?” asked Ray.
“I think the data just indicates the presence of arsenic in his system at a greater than expected level for a number of days. You would need to study hair samples from other household members and employees to prove that he was an outlier.”
Ray nodded his agreement as his mind whirled with the language of the proposed search warrant.
43
“Everything go okay with the judge?” asked Ray, as he climbed into the passenger seat and buckled the seatbelt.
“He was running late and had just recessed for lunch. He wasn’t happy to see me,” Sue reversed out of the parking place and then headed for the highway. “I had carefully laid out the information from the autopsy report, focusing on the part dealing with the arsenic poisoning. I’m not sure he was completely convinced, but he signed it. I did lay out all the brand names for the household and garden products containing arsenic that we would be looking for, so it didn’t look like we were just on a fishing trip. I think we got this one by based on our positive history.”
“How much time did you spend on the document?”
“Most of the evening.”
“I imagine Harry was thrilled by that. A nice romantic evening in the north woods.”
“It worked out, Ray. It worked out. We were on dueling laptops researching arsenic. When I had absorbed enough information, I drafted the affidavit. He helped with the rewrites, anticipating the questions and concerns the judge might have. We had a really good evening, sharing our expertise, strategizing back and forth. We’re both too mature and type A to spend a lot of time pitching woo. I did a final draft this morning when I came in. Then it was just a waiting game. There’s a copy in the folder tucked next to your seat. Tell me what you think.”
Ray carefully read through the search warrant affidavit, looking up occasionally to take in the passing scene. “I’m convinced,” he said, returning the affidavit to the folder. “So our search is basically limited to the food and coffee preparation area at Gull House and Brenda Wudbine’s greenhouse.” He looked over at Sue, “The place will probably be clean. They would be less than bright to leave that kind of evidence around. But nothing ventured…”
Ray started to check his e-mail on his phone. His attention was pulled back to the present moment when Sue turned onto the long drive that ran up to Gull House.
“I wonder what’s happened?” she said, motioning toward the ambulance parked near the greenhouse. She pulled in across the drive and they got out of the Jeep just as three EMTs rolled a gurney to the back of their unit and quickly loaded it. Ray could see Brenda Wudbine’s motionless body secured to the stretcher. “How is she?” he asked just before the doors were closed. The last paramedic to climb aboard, a young woman, didn’t respond verbally, her dispirited expression said it all. As soon as the rear doors swung shut, the heavy unit, its diesel engine laboring under the sudden acceleration, rolled down the drive, lights flashing, siren silent.
Richard Grubbs was standing outside the greenhouse.
“What happened?” asked Ray
“Brenda, it must have been her heart. I know her health has been declining. I put her on my calendar today. I wanted to spend some time with her. That poor woman has been marginalized by everyone.”
“Was she alone?”
“Yes. She came down here every morning to cut and arrange the fresh flowers. This was her mission in life. I’d try to stop in and see her occasionally. Brenda, I don’t think anyone in the household even bothered to talk to her. She always seemed starved for conversation.” Grubbs stopped for a minute and took several long breaths before continuing. “Doing the flowers, that’s all that was left for her. She’d prepare the flowers and do the arrangements. Then Pat Eibler, he’s the handyman, would carry them up to the house.
“I knew I’d find her here. Like always, the door was open. I walked in and didn’t see her right away. I usually stand over there out of her way on the other side of her work area,” Grubbs pointed. “So I walked around, and there she was on the floor. I got down next to her. She wasn’t breathing. I called 911. They were here in just a few minutes.”
“And you’ve been alone the whole time?”
“Yes. As I was walking down here I saw Pat in his pickup with Grace, the cook. I think he was taking her grocery shopping. And just before you arrived, I got Elliott on the phone. He’s on his way over.”
Grubbs was silent. Ray watched as a wave of sadness swept across his countenance. “Brenda died alone.”
Ray and Sue stood by silently, leaving Grubbs to his thoughts. Finally, Ray said, “Please show us where you found her.”
They followed Grubbs into the greenhouse, stopping short of the large worktable still covered with roses. “Brenda was right there on the floor. I imagine she was working and just collapsed.”
“Should I get my camera?” asked Sue.
“Yes.”
“What was her position?” asked Ray.
“She was on her back. Her eyes were open, like she was looking at the ceiling.”
Ray surveyed the table. Two piles of roses were separated by an open space. A pair of gardening gloves, several thick rags, and pruning shears lay on the near side of the table along with a large coffee mug, a crystal ashtray, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter. A brandy bottle stood near the coffee mug. A toppled-over stool laid at an oblique angle.