Poisoned (The Alex Harris Mystery Series)

  Mrs. Platz glanced at me. “Oh. I need to get more cups.”

  I didn’t think she should be working, but maybe it helped her cope.

  John walked into the room startling me out of my thoughts. “Alex. What are you doing here?” he asked in a surprised tone, his eyes boring into mine.

  “I’m working here this week while Chantal is away. I told you.” I said this last bit in a soft whisper out of the corner of my mouth.

  John, six-foot two, with dark brown hair and gray eyes that changed color depending on what he wore, ran a hand over his strong chin. “I didn’t realize you worked for the agency,” he said to Chantal. “Would you come with me, please?”

  Chantal got up and followed him into the hall. He turned and looked at me. “You, too.”

  I turned to Mrs. Brissart who sat alone on the sofa. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll be fine. Go with Chantal.”

  We followed John into the dining room where another man, presumably Detective Maroni, sat. The young man looked serious. He wore a thick pair of glasses covering his brown eyes and his skin was clean-shaven and soft looking with just a hint of a leftover tan. Under his tweed blazer, he wore a blue oxford cloth shirt and a dark blue tie. His strawberry-blond hair was cut short and blow dried. With a name like Maroni, I expected him to be dark-haired and olive-skinned. Maybe his family came from northern Italy. By way of Ireland.

  “Have a seat, Mrs. Bradbury. I’d like to ask you some general questions first and then we’ll get down to the events of yesterday.”

  John asked Chantal to state her name and address. “Are you married?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any children?”

  “No.”

  “How long have you worked for Mrs. Brissart?”

  “Since last November. I’ve worked for Always Prepared for some time, and last year this position became available and Alex sent me over here for an interview. We hit it off, Mrs. Brissart, I mean, right away, and I’ve been here ever since.”

  “How often do you come in?”

  “Every morning. I work from nine until usually about three depending on how much Mrs. Brissart has for me to do.”

  “Is there a lot to do?” John asked the question with skepticism in his voice.

  “Oh, yes. Mrs. Brissart is active on several committees throughout town. And she’s on a selection committee at one of the museums in New York. I also do a lot of her personal correspondence. Her eyes aren’t as good as they used to be. She prefers to write her letters but her arthritis bothers her a bit so I type everything.”

  Chantal answered all the questions with a voice full of nervousness. Chantal Bradbury had come to Always Prepared a few years ago when she and her husband moved to the area. They had lived in New York but tired of city living. Her husband still commuted by train every morning, but it didn’t seem to bother him. Chantal’s fluency in French had been a big asset on many occasions.

  “And,” Chantal continued, “I started doing some work for Bradley and his family history project.”

  At the mention of Bradley, Chantal became upset. Somewhere in the house I could hear voices. Many voices. I patted Chantal’s hand and smiled, and John continued.

  “Now let’s talk about yesterday. What time did you arrive?”

  “My usual time, nine o’clock.”

  “And what did you do all day?”

  Chantal shifted in her seat. “Well, let’s see. First I made several phone calls for Mrs. Brissart and then Alex arrived. She’s taking over things while I’m away for a few days so I spent the rest of the morning showing her how Mrs. Brissart likes things done. We had several letters to draft. Mrs. Brissart is on the finance committee for the abuse center and is helping to develop some fund raising schemes. Then in the afternoon Bradley came by with the family history.”

  “Who came by the house during the course of the day?”

  Detective Maroni rapidly took down notes and I thought if he ever tired of police work I could certainly find him plenty of temp jobs.

  “Well, let’s see,” Chantal continued. “Mrs. Brissart, Mrs. Platz, Bradley, and Mrs. Brissart’s two sisters.”

  “That would be May Estenfelder and June Doliveck.” John looked up at Chantal for confirmation.

  “Yes. That’s correct. They arrived in the morning and were suppose to come back in the afternoon.

  “Yes, that’s right. They did come back. Just as I headed out,” I volunteered. At John’s annoyed look I explained. “Chantal left shortly after Bradley arrived and I finished up the history for him.”

  “Just Mrs. Estenfelder and Mrs. Doliveck?”

  “No. Quite a few others arrived but I didn’t know any of them. I did notice three other women and a couple of men,” I added.

  “I can probably tell you who was here. They’ve been here before,” Chantal said with a roll of her eyes. “Besides Mrs. Brissart’s two sisters, I’m sure Mr. Smit showed up. He’s a developer, and Steven Estenfelder. That’s Mrs. Estenfelder’s son. Steven’s daughter, Trish, would probably have come and Larry Estenfelder and his wife. He’s Steven’s brother. I would imagine Marsha Myers showed up as well. She’s Mrs. Doliveck’s daughter.”

  “Was Bradley still here when they all arrived?” John asked me.

  I nodded. “Yes. I wanted to stay and help but Mrs. Brissart assured me she would be fine with Bradley’s help. I think she’s a bit embarrassed by her sisters.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I don’t know,” I shrugged. “Chantal?”

  “Well, the family, I should say the three sisters, own a piece of land outside of Farmington, and Mrs. Estenfelder and Mrs. Doliveck hooked up with a developer, Mr. Smit. He wants to buy the land and turn it into houses and shopping and business complexes. Mrs. Brissart flat out refuses to sell. There’s a house on the land. It used to be the retirement home of her father and she goes up there from time to time to get away. Not too much anymore.

  “Anyway. Her sisters want to sell it and Mrs. Brissart won’t. They need her signature to sell. She says why should she? She doesn’t need the money and she likes the house.”

  “Do you get the impression perhaps the sisters need the money?” John asked.

  Chantal took a moment. “Well, I never thought of that, but it could be possible. They’ve all got money from family investments, I believe, and I know Mrs. Brissart is fine on that front, but come to think of it, her sisters are always saying they weren’t left with as much as Mrs. Brissart after their husbands died. And I get the impression they’re not as frugal as Mrs. Brissart. Don’t get me wrong,” Chantal tapped the table for emphasis, “she is most generous and giving, but it’s not her character to spend money on what she considers foolish things.”

  “Such as?”

  I leaned in closer. This was getting good. I’d have to remember every detail for Sam.

  “Well, trips and jewelry and fur coats and spoiled children and grandchildren.”

  “Mmm. Yes.” John looked pensive.

  “Detective. Could I ask you something?” Chantal said.

  “Certainly.”

  “How did Bradley die?”

  “We can’t be sure yet. Have to wait for the coroner’s report,” John said. “Let me ask you something. Can you think of anyone or any reason why someone would want to kill Bradley Brissart?”

  Chantal shook her head. “Absolutely not. I can’t image why someone would want to kill Bradley.”

  “But kill someone else perhaps?” John asked speculatively.

  “Well...”

  “Go ahead,” John prompted as I leaned even closer.

  “Well, it’s just that Mrs. Brissart’s family really wants to sell that land and she’s always saying they’ll have to kill her to get it.” Chantal’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my!”

  John sat back and smiled. “That’s exactly what I thought.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Not knowing how Bradley died, I couldn’t
figure out how someone could kill him if they meant to kill his grandmother, unless the murder took place in the dead of night with all the lights out. But even then, it seemed farfetched.

  Before letting us go, John gave us the big speech about not letting anything that had been said out of the study. Yeah, right. I knew John knew that I would tell Sam everything, but he couldn’t stop me because I couldn’t see what it would hurt. I grabbed onto his arm as Chantal walked away. “Exactly what is going on here?”

  “Not now.” And then he pointed a finger at me. “I saw how you leaned in closer for all the good bits.”

  Jim Maroni stepped into the hall and walked toward the rear of the house.

  I waited until the young man was out of earshot. “John? How could someone mistake Bradley for Mrs. Brissart?”

  “I can’t get into it now.” John walked toward the living room.

  Mrs. Platz sat next to Mrs. Brissart holding her hand. Seated across from them were two women. The vultures.

  “Detective, these are my sisters.” Mrs. Brissart did not venture to introduce them further.

  “We came as soon as we heard, Detective,” June said. “I’m June Doliveck and this is my sister, May Estenfelder.”

  “Thank you both for coming.” He nodded to both of them and turned to Mrs. Brissart. “I’d like you to make up a list of everyone who came to the house yesterday, if possible, together with telephone numbers and addresses if you have them.”

  June Doliveck stood up. “Whatever for? Surely you don’t think any one of us had something to do with Bradley’s untimely demise. Why, it must have been an accident, or something he ate,” she said, looking pointedly at Mrs. Platz who glared back through misty eyes so dark they could have been black.

  “Interesting of you to say,” John said pointedly.

  “Now wait a minute, Detec— Is that it? Detective? I just made a bad joke in reference to Mrs. Platz’s cooking. I certainly did not mean to imply I have any knowledge that Mrs. Platz killed Bradley.”

  June bored her cold eyes through John, daring him to say differently.

  “That remains to be seen. We’ll be talking with everyone. You, included, Mrs. Doliveck.”

  I wandered out onto the porch and rested along the railing feeling the warmth of the autumn sun on my back. The coroner’s car had long since gone, but plenty of police officers and technicians remained. My sympathies went out to Mrs. Platz. It was a horrific ordeal for someone to have to go through and the poor woman must be numb with shock. The sound of Chantal’s voice brought me back to the current murder.

  “Alex, Mrs. Brissart is going to need someone to help her. She needs to notify Bradley’s parents in London. Stuart’s trying now to reach them. Someone also needs to call Bradley’s girlfriend, Kendra, and arrangements need to be made. I can cancel my trip and stay.”

  “Don’t worry, Chantal, I freed my calendar for the rest of the week so you go help your mother-in-law. I’ll help Mrs. Brissart.”

  “Are you sure, Alex? Anthony could probably take some time off.”

  “Truly, it’s no bother. I heard Mrs. Brissart’s sister saying something about Bradley eating something bad. Do you have any idea exactly what happened?”

  “I guess I shouldn’t have pushed Detective Van der Burg about the specifics. I know he can’t tell me. But I heard some people talking this morning, and Mrs. Platz said a few things. It looks like he was poisoned. But I’m not sure.”

  “Jesus! Well, that explains how Bradley could have been killed by mistake,” I said.

  “They think the poison might have been in the cookies. I know the police took them away. Along with a bunch of other stuff. But Alex, we ate some as well and I’m okay.”

  “Me, too,” I said, hoping that the stuff, whatever it was, didn’t have a delayed reaction.

  “So it must be something else.”

  “Hmm.”

  John stepped out onto the porch and Chantal excused herself.

  “I’ll see you tonight,” I said as I prepared to make a quick getaway back into the house.

  John gently took hold of my arm. “Not so fast. Remember what I told you when we first met.”

  “That you liked my hair? How cute you thought I was?”

  “That I work alone.”

  I crossed my arms and leaned against the railing again. “Oh. That.”

  “Yes. That. It was nice of you to comfort Chantal, but leave it alone,” he warned.

  “Well, that’s not possible, John. Chantal has to take a few days off to help her mother-in-law in New York and I’ve already volunteered to take over. So,” I shrugged, “I guess it’s up to me.”

  “Have Millie find someone else.”

  “No. Mrs. Brissart is a valued client. And besides that, I wouldn’t dream of leaving her alone at a time like this. She needs someone, a familiar face, to be with her and keep the vultures at bay.”

  John sighed and put one hand on the railing and leaned close to me. “Stay out of it,” he said slowly, spreading the words out.

  I started to tell him that I was there for support only when the voice of one of Mrs. Brissart’s sisters refusing to be brutalized by the police thundered through the house.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “I don’t believe it! How do you keep getting mixed up in this stuff?” Sam paced around her office. It was late afternoon and we were just now getting to the details of what had transpired at the Brissart house.

  “Samantha, careful, your insensitive side is showing. I didn’t plan this and I’m sure neither did Bradley.”

  Sam calmed down. “You’re right. Forgive me. I just hate seeing you go through all this again.”

  “Don’t remind me. I’ve already thought about it,” I said, around a mouthful of M&Ms.

  “What else is wrong? There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  I buried my face in my hands. “It’s all my fault. I feel so guilty.”

  “What on earth are you going on about?” Sam came around the desk. “How could it be your fault? You left the house before he died.”

  I looked up. “Yes. But I wished it.”

  Sam scrunched up her face crinkling her nose. “You wished Mrs. Brissart’s grandson would be murdered?” Sam asked.

  “No. Of course not. What’s the matter with you? Geesh. I just, well. I just thought…”

  “You just thought what?” Sam’s impatience showed.

  “I thought with Halloween coming, and the weather getting cold, well, it seemed a perfect setting for a murder. You know how my imagination wanders.”

  Sam stood with her hands on her hips looking down at me. “Yeah, I know all about your great imagination. Like when you convinced me the O’Malleys moved away in the dark of night because the FBI wanted them for God knows what, and we broke into their ‘abandoned’ house only to find Mr. O’Malley engaged in a little afternoon delight with that babysitter of theirs.”

  “How was I supposed to know only Mrs. O’Malley moved out?”

  “How did he die?”

  “Mr. O’Malley?”

  Sam closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Bradley,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “No one is sure, but Chantal thinks it might be poison.”

  “Well, there. You couldn’t have possibly caused it.”

  “How did you come to that conclusion?”

  “Because if someone poisoned him than this murder had to be planned well in advance. Poisoning’s not an act of random violence. When exactly did you wish for a murder?”

  I looked sheepish. “Yesterday.”

  “Well, there you have it.” Sam returned to her desk. “It was already planned by then. You probably just had some kind of premonition or something.”

  “That sounds reasonable.” I brightened, my momentary lapse into martyrdom vanished.

  “Is John the detective on the case?”

  “Yeah. And Detective Jim Maroni. I’m a little worried about John. I’ll be over at the house
until Chantal gets back and I’m sure he’ll be there talking with everyone. He already told me to stay out of it. I work alone,” I said in a mocking tone.

  “Well, just keep your nose out of it,” Sam suggested, as she shuffled a stack of papers on her desk. “Just help Mrs. Brissart with plans and whatever else she needs.”

  “Would you?”

  “Well, no. I’d want to know every last detail,” Sam admitted, looking up at me.

  “Me, too. And that’s what I’m worried about. John’s not going to be very happy if I start asking questions.”

  “So don’t ask, just listen.”

  “Huh?”

  “Okay, so ask when he’s not around. He can’t be everywhere at once. Just make sure to keep notes and tell me everything.”

  I stood up. “We’re being ghoulish. And insensitive. I’m going to be helping Mrs. Brissart and that’s all.”

  “Right.”

  “I’ve got some things to do.” I turned to go back to my office.

  “Who’s Jim Maroni?”

  “Someone new John’s training. Kind of cute, in a very serious way.”

  “Probably trying to make a good impression. Listen, Alex. Before I forget, Mom called earlier and wants us to come over Wednesday night. Mom and Dad have a Trivial Pursuit game on Friday and she wants to practice.”

  “They play Scrabble on Fridays,” I said, a bit bewildered at the sudden change to long-standing plans.

  “They did. But Mom kept on winning and no one wants to play with her anymore.”

  “Well, isn’t practicing for Trivial Pursuit cheating? They could get the same questions on Friday.”

  “We come from a long line of cheaters. You’ve forgotten our grandmother, have you?”

  I brightened just thinking of my beloved grandmother who at this very moment was probably bilking someone out of their life savings over a Pinochle game. “I read some of the Brissart family history Bradley brought over. They sound very illustrious. The boughs of our family tree are not laden with aristocracy, no, we have a bingo-cheating loan shark for a grandmother on our mother’s side and an exhibitionist grandfather on our dad’s.”