Poisoned (The Alex Harris Mystery Series)

  We finished off our dessert while John tried to stifle a yawn. A half hour later we were back at my house. When I came out of the bathroom John was sound asleep across the bed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  In case I haven’t mentioned it, I love Connecticut, especially autumn in Connecticut. So it gave me great delight that Saturday began with one of those mornings one would normally see on a postcard. The few clouds that lingered in the deep, ocean-blue sky were of the white and fluffy variety; the air crisp like a Pippin apple straight off a tree. Oaks, birches, and maples swayed gently, dropping leaves of rich russets and golds to an earth already covered in a quilt of autumn colors. It felt good to get out of Indian Cove for the day.

  The five of us drove along the turnpike in Sam’s minivan, which we packed with enough food and drink to last for a seven-day, cross-country trip.

  “Where are we headed?” Millie asked from the back seat where she sat next to Meme.

  Sam, who took the Merritt Parkway to the Eight and now traveled north to the One-Eighteen said, “Litchfield. That direction anyway. We’ll just see what we find.”

  “I don’t care where we’re going. It’s just nice to be out with young people for a change,” Meme said.

  A short while later we arrived at one of my favorite places, Litchfield, the perfect example of a New England village centered around a church and town common. All of Litchfield County, in fact, was heavenly. Bordered on one side by Dutchess County in New York, and on another side by Berkshire County, Massachusetts, it was hard to imagine this beautiful land had been settled by Calvinists who would surely be appalled by the pleasures found in this part of the country. The area had become a playground for the rich, and the land prices grew to nothing short of scandalous. The Puritan forefathers would most certainly be ashamed, but we five driving along in the minivan gave no thought whatsoever to the founding fathers.

  Country inns dotted the entire county, and judging by the amount of people, I knew better than to think John and I would have been able to find a room at the height of the fall colors.

  Leaf peepers, as the locals called the tourists who came from all over to get a glimpse of the foliage, packed the streets. We played tourists for a bit, taking in the glorious day and the fresh air while popping into an occasional shop.

  Back in the van, Sam did the driving while I held on for dear life.

  “Hey, Millie,” Sam called from the front, “it must be time for some of those snacks you brought, don’t you think?” Sam smiled sweetly into the rearview mirror.

  Millie pulled out the container filled with the goodies her grandmother made. “What do you want? A cheese ball, a little quiche, or some vegetables?”

  “I’ll take a few of each.”

  “Sam, if you want to eat, then let me drive,” I volunteered more out of a sense of wanting to live my life for a few more years than out of being helpful to my sister.

  “Thanks, but it’s no problem. I can eat and drive at the same time.”

  I rolled my eyes at Meme. “Are you alright, Meme?”

  Meme, who sat between Millie and Mary-Beth, gave me a wave of the hand. “Oh, this is nothing, honey. I usually drive with Theresa and she’s got a lead foot and a bad eye. Not a good combination for driving a car. And sometimes Fred likes to take the wheel and he’s over ninety. Sam is doing fine.”

  Millie handed a napkin with little munchies to a smirking Sam and I thought I might as well eat something too. It might be my last meal.

  “So, when are you going to tell me all about this murder you’ve gotten yourself mixed up in, Alex?” Mary-Beth teased from the back seat.

  I told the group what I learned so far ending with my visit to J.T.’s office the day before.

  “So that’s where you went to in such a hurry. I could have gone with you,” Sam said sounding a bit hurt. “What’s he like?”

  “Well, let’s just say that he is a modest little man who has a good deal to be modest about.”

  “Is that your opinion or Winston’s?” Sam asked cutting her eyes at me.

  “Winston’s. I think J.T. is a complete jerk. I’m not as eloquent as Winnie.” I adjusted my sunglasses and ran a hand through my short hair. “I feel guilty telling you all I know. John told me to keep my lip zipped. I seem to vaguely remember him saying something to the effect of ‘Alex, we are not a team where murder investigations are concerned. This is my area of expertise. Just let me handle it.’”

  Meme gave a short cackle from the back seat. “He knows you’re going to tell us. He just has to say something to cover his butt.”

  “Well, I’m certainly not going to tell him,” Mary-Beth offered. “Do the police have any concrete suspects?”

  I hesitated, wondering if I should share the Mrs. Brissart-as-the-culprit theory. Why not, I rationalized. If Mrs. Brissart was guilty, everyone would know soon enough, and if she wasn’t, well, then it didn’t much matter. “John is looking at Mrs. Brissart as a possible suspect.”

  “The grandmother?” Mary-Beth asked.

  Sam momentarily lost control of the car, though it was hard to notice. “Still? Alex, he can’t be serious.”

  I shook my head. “I’m afraid he is. Though I think he’s faltering on that front. I think even John would admit there’s not much to go on. And while I don’t think for one moment she could possibly be guilty,” I continued, “June said a few things about her that seem to be totally out of character with the Mrs. Brissart we all know and love.”

  Sam pulled into the second lane to pass an elderly couple pulling a camper. “Like what?”

  “Well, June says Mrs. Brissart throws her relationship with Charles in June’s face every chance she gets. That’s a petty, vindictive thing to do. I don’t see Mrs. Brissart acting like that.”

  “June could be lying or she’s just so consumed by her own hatred that she perceives Mrs. Brissart to be acting that way,” Millie said.

  “I’m sure that’s it,” I mused, “but I would sure like to know what happened to Charles and if he’s still around.”

  “A grandmother couldn’t kill her grandchild,” Meme said in such a soft voice that everyone turned to look at her—even Sam.

  Mary-Beth took Meme’s chubby hand. “Mrs. Redmond, we didn’t mean to upset you.”

  I reached to the back seat and patted my grandmother’s arm. She had tears in her eyes. “Meme, John doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Of course Mrs. Brissart didn’t kill her grandson. He’s just trying to cover all bases.”

  “You said something about the family history,” Millie said as she passed the container of food to Meme who smiled and took a little quiche.

  “I printed up a copy for myself and took it home to read.” I paused for a moment while I chewed on a carrot stick. I reached for another and continued, “It’s all very interesting, but I don’t see how it fits into things.”

  “Maybe it doesn’t. I mean, maybe it’s not the long ago history. Maybe it’s something more recent,” Mary-Beth suggested.

  “Like what?” I asked, turning in my seat.

  “Maybe Bradley found out something about one of his aunts or cousins. Like an abortion or a prison term.”

  “Would someone kill over an abortion?” Millie asked.

  “Probably not. But if something like that happened to May or June, I know they would want it kept quiet. You know, Mary-Beth,” I said, “It could be something like that. I’ve read the history and there’s nothing there as far as I can see. It just might make sense that while doing the research, Bradley found out something a little closer to home and modern times.”

  “All this makes sense if Bradley was the intended victim all along, but didn’t you say something to me over the phone that the police think it was Mrs. Brissart they were after?” Mary-Beth asked. “If so, then why does John suspect her?”

  “Good question. He’s a cop. He suspects everyone. That’s the problem. Without knowing who was supposed to die in the first place, we’re
not sure where to search. If it was Bradley, then the history seems to be the only logical reason. Though there’s nothing there worth killing over. Now, if it were Mrs. Brissart, then the land would be the reason or maybe her past relationship with Charles. And we have a whole slew of suspects. But like I mentioned to Millie and Sam yesterday, why did they wait so long to kill her?”

  Mary-Beth reached into the container and took a cheese ball. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “As far as I can gather, the family started to badger Mrs. Brissart about the land during the summer. She refused to sell right from the first. So why wait until now to do something?”

  “Interest rates are going up,” Sam offered.

  I rolled my eyes. “Seriously. Why wait?”

  “Probably just an act of desperation. The killer never thought about murder before, but as time goes by, realizes it’s a hopeless cause trying to rationalize with Mrs. Brissart and has had enough and voila! Brings a bit of poison to the party,” Mary-Beth said.

  “But if June wanted to kill her over this Charles thing, why all the waiting?” I asked.

  “You don’t forget your one true love,” Meme said wistfully. “I loved my James ’til the day he died, even if he did cheat and we were separated for all those years. If June loved this man like that and her sister pried him away, she wouldn’t forget. Believe me.”

  “Meme, if you loved Grandpa so much why didn’t you go after the other women he went with?” I asked.

  “He always came back. Even when we got separated, he came over every night for dinner and, well, we always had a thing for each other in the bedroom.” Meme gave her little cackle again and we all smiled. “That man was hot!”

  “Mrs. Redmond, why didn’t you ever just divorce after all those years?” Millie asked.

  “Getting separated was just a formality. I wanted to show him I meant business with all his cattin’ around. But divorce? No. He was Irish Catholic and I’m Italian Catholic. Besides, I loved him and he loved me. He couldn’t help himself.”

  “Maybe something new surfaced with regard to Charles or maybe there’s something about him in the history,” Mary-Beth said getting back to June and Charles.

  “No. The history stopped when Mrs. Brissart and her sisters were born,” I said pensively.

  “Going back to Mrs. Brissart as the main suspect, how about if Bradley found out something truly disturbing about his grandmother?” Sam suggested in between bites of carrot and maneuvering the car. “Then that would support John’s theory of her being the killer.”

  “Okay, not that I want to entertain the theory Mrs. Brissart could harm a fly let alone kill someone, I’ll play along,” I conceded. “It would have to be something horrific for a grandmother to kill a grandson. I’m not sure there could be anything that bad. And if it was that bad, wouldn’t it have been brought to light well before this? You can’t keep certain things secret forever.”

  “What does John say about the history?” Sam asked.

  “Nothing to me. And I somehow neglected to tell him I had a copy.”

  “You little devil,” Mary-Beth chuckled from the back. “So the way I understand it is this, if the grandmother did it, the family history must fit in somewhere or else why would she kill her own grandson? And if the family history has nothing whatsoever to do with Bradley’s murder, then Mrs. Brissart must have been the intended victim all along.”

  “Which,” Millie said, “seems to open up a lot more slots for suspects.”

  “How so?” Sam asked.

  “The only reason we can think of for Bradley being killed is his work on the family tree. If Mrs. Brissart was the one the killer was aiming for, well then, we have the whole family after her, don’t we?”

  “True, Millie, but if the poison was meant for Bradley, and the history is the motive, we have all the same suspects,” I corrected. “I haven’t spoken with everyone yet, but I assume most knew about his interest in the history. Any one of those goofy relatives might have good cause not to have something revealed by Bradley’s searching. Though they all seem very forthcoming and proud of their background.”

  Millie sighed. “Yeah, I see. I guess you’re right. So the suspects remain the same no matter who the victim should have been because if Bradley found out something terrible, none of them would want it known.”

  “Seems that way to me,” I said.

  “Unless,” Sam added, “Bradley was killed by his girlfriend. She would have no reason to kill his grandmother.”

  “That’s right!” Mary-Beth leaned on the back of my seat. “So there might be a few different things going on here that we haven’t thought about. Jeez, Alex, I don’t envy you. You have your work cut out.”

  “I guess I do,” I said contemplating this last bit of information.

  The minivan continued on its journey north to the towns of West Cornwall and the covered bridge over the Housatonic, on up to Falls Village. We drove a little while longer, through an area crisscrossed with stone fences made when farmers cleared the earth for farming, before finding a roadside park and settled in for our picnic.

  Everyone grabbed something from the back of the van and brought it to an area not far from the river. I grabbed a chair from the back of the van and brought it out for Meme, and then the rest of us each took a corner of the blanket and started to pass the food around.

  “Getting back to the subject of murder,” Mary-Beth said when we settled down, “I think the discovery of two poisons is very interesting.”

  “How so?” Millie asked.

  “Well, it lends itself to all sorts of possibilities, doesn’t it?” explained Mary-Beth. “I personally think it indicates two people plotting murder rather than one. Though separately, not together. Which is a bit mystifying.” She leaned back on her elbows and crossed her legs at the ankle. “One person would have to be awfully devious to think up two different poisons.”

  Millie shook her head. “What better way to throw the investigation off than to cast suspicion on another party with the introduction of a totally different substance.”

  “Well, someone is certainly partial to poison. Boy, I sure am glad I moved out of Indian Cove years ago.” Mary-Beth shook her head and sat back up and took another bite of her ham and cheese sandwich.

  “I’m a little intrigued by your theory, Sam, of Kendra killing Bradley. I never considered her myself,” I said.

  “Lovers’ quarrel,” Sam said.

  “But this looks like a premeditated murder. Could she stay mad long enough to find just the right moment to poison his food?” I asked.

  “Maybe she just couldn’t stand it anymore.”

  “Then why not just break up?” Millie asked.

  “Maybe she wanted Bradley’s money,” Mary-Beth said, “but they weren’t married yet. If she did kill him, she should have waited until after the ceremony.”

  “I can’t think of murder anymore with all this good food around. This pasta salad is great, Millie. Sam, try this.” I passed a forkful to my sister.

  “Oh, I will, just as soon as I’m done with my potato salad.”

  A ski lift, lodge, and several skiers could fit on the mound of potato salad Sam attempted to consume. And no doubt would.

  “Enough about murder! What good stuff do you have to tell us?” I eyed Mary-Beth gold ball earrings firmly placed in her lobes just like always, dark hair cut short in a sort of updated Dorothy Hamill look, and rich brown eyes always bursting with mischief.

  “I second the motion,” Meme said from her chair where she sat with a baseball cap firmly placed over the little veil hat, and a pair of sunglasses resting on her nose. “No more murder.”

  “Why do you always think I have some gossip to spread?”

  “Well, do you?” I asked.

  “It just so happens that I heard something interesting.” Mary-Beth leaned back on her elbows again tilting her face up to the sun. She closed her round, doe-shaped eyes. “Now let me just think a minute what I told
you the last time.”

  “It’s been almost a year ago since you enlightened me with something tantalizing.”

  “Has it been that long?” Mary-Beth asked. “Right, I told you about how Jane and Mike broke up. And you know, this is all very apropos with the murder of Bradley Brissart.”

  “How so?” I questioned my friend with more than a bit of skepticism.

  “Well, Mike used to mow Mrs. Brissart’s garden one summer way back when, when that gardener of hers broke his leg.”

  “Mr. Kaminski,” I said.

  “Who? Oh, yes. The gardener.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “Alex, he did. Trust me. So, you see, it’s all connected.”

  “Uh-huh,” I gave Mary-Beth a half smile. “Continue.”

  “I ended my story last time with the breakup of Jane and Mike. Well, now he’s married to Cathy Lyon.”

  “Who’s Cathy Lyon?” Millie asked as she stretched out on the blanket to soak up some of the afternoon sunshine.

  “Okay, let me give a little background for those of you not lucky enough to have heard this last year. Alex and I went to school with a real nerdy girl named Cathy Lyon, and she ended up marrying the cutest guy in the whole school, Mike McGill, after his first wife caught them in bed together.”

  “Sounds a lot like Esther going after Fred,” Meme said.

  “Viagra Fred?” Sam asked.

  “Generic Fred. Shhh, you two. Let Mary-Beth talk,” I chided my sister and grandmother.

  “Actually, Mike cheated with many others before Cathy. He’d been doing it since the week he and Jane got married.”

  “The week? What kind of a guy is this?” Millie shielded her eyes from the bright sun with one hand.

  “Not a very nice one. Now let me continue. He cheated with a couple of women on his honeymoon in Hawaii. His wife stepped on a sand shark or something equally disgusting and was confined to her bed. Being a nice person, stupid, but nice, she told him to go out and have a good time. Well, he certainly did.”