Floral Depravity (4 page)

I shrugged. “Not a clue. I just met the man this afternoon. Although I did get the impression that he was not universally liked in the community.”

Bixby's phone beeped, and he pulled it out to read a text. He shook his head.

“Well, if you're right, then we might just have a murderer on our hands. Brooks was pronounced dead when he arrived at the hospital.”

Bixby stood, practically agape, staring at the large cast iron cauldron. He shook his head. “I don't envy the sheriff at all. That's going to be hard to log into evidence.”

“There's more.” Nick pulled a flaming torch from a pole and held it over a wet mark in the dust.

“What happened there?” I asked.

“Mr. Brooks didn't like the stew, apparently. He threw it on the ground and marched off.” Nick winced. “While threatening to stop payment on the check.” He sighed. “And telling me that I'd never work one of these gigs again.”

“And the stew came directly from the pot?” I asked.

“Before the wedding. He came here demanding to try it. I dished it out for him and handed it to him myself.”

“But you said you had some and are feeling okay? No dizziness?” I pressed my hands against his cheeks, and then his forehead. His skin felt normal, not the sweats or chills that Barry Brooks had experienced.

“No, I feel fine,” he said. “But I'm wondering . . . could something he'd eaten before the stew have affected his taste buds? 'Cause it tasted normal to me. Thrilled, in fact, with how it turned out.”

“What's in it?” I asked. “Beef? What else?”

“Venison, actually. Let me think. Onions, carrots, cabbage. The old recipe I found called for parsley roots, but I could only find parsnips. Then there's pears and currants, things they would have had in the Middle Ages. And honey for sweetness.”

“Did you bring all the ingredients in with you?”

“All except the venison. That I . . . locally sourced. And the spices and herbs I got from the camp herbalist. And the water from the main supply.” Nick looked around his work area, as if trying to make sure he had listed all the ingredients.

I gave his hand what I hoped was a reassuring squeeze.

Ken Lafferty leaned over the pot. “It smells good, that's for sure.”

“Get away from that,” Bixby said. “Until we know what we're dealing with.”

“Oh, right,” Ken said. “Something could be in the air.” He then forcibly exhaled until his eyes were about to pop.

Bixby rolled his eyes.

“Halloo there,” a boisterous voice called as a high-powered lantern swept our location.

Even in the torchlight, I could see Bixby's posture straightening. Town gossip had it that Bixby didn't have a high regard for Sheriff Foley.

I'm not sure I disagreed with Bixby. Reports of Foley's arbitrary appointments and law enforcement policies had circulated all over the county. Justice for all, but not always for his supporters, at least if they were at fault. That went double in an election year. Rumor had it that he'd never pulled over a car with his own bumper sticker on the back.

As for his appearance, the man's face was almost a perfect square with big ears jutting out from under his mop of silver hair. His head was mounted directly, sans neck, onto a bulbous body trying to bulge out of its too-small uniform. Still, he walked with a purposeful stride and his ever-present whistle, which combined could be attributed to either confidence or arrogance.

“What's up?” Foley said. “And why all these fires?”

“Apparently, they have an exemption from the burn ban,” Bixby said, pulling out the paper that a member of the encampment had provided him earlier.

“Half the county is up in smoke,” Foley said. I couldn't tell if his face was turning red or just reflecting the glow from the torches. “What fool would issue an exemption?”

“Let's see . . .” Bixby focused the beam of his flashlight on the paper. “I can't quite make it out. Oh, yes. I think it says Ronald Foley.”

Sheriff Foley ripped the paper from Bixby's hands and studied it. He missed the half smile that streaked across Bixby's face, then disappeared. No doubt these two men did not get along.

“Yeah, well.” Foley shoved the paper into his pocket. “What do we got?”

“Possible homicide, actually,” Bixby said. “Suspected poisoning, unless they discover natural causes. Victim died en route to the hospital. The last thing he ate was that.” He pointed to the caldron.

Foley walked to the pot and took a big sniff. Bixby didn't correct him, even when Lafferty opened his mouth to say something.

“And there”—Bixby pointed to the ground—“is where he threw what he was eating. Apparently he didn't like it.”

“Smells good. Anyone else sick?” Foley asked.

“No,” Bixby said.

Foley spun to look around the group. “Anyone else eat any of the stew?”

“I did.” Nick stepped forward.

“And you're not sick?”

“No, sir.”

Foley turned back to Bixby “And you think it's poisoning . . . why?”

Bixby gestured to me. “Miss Bloom supplied some basic first aid to the victim. It was her assessment that he might have been poisoned.”

“Are you a doctor?” he asked.

“No, but—”

“A nurse?” He loomed about a foot from my face now.

I could smell the smoke from those wood fires on his hair and clothing. “I had some nursing training, but I never finished—”

Foley turned back to Bixby. “Has the hospital determined cause of death?”

“You know toxicology won't come back for weeks.”

“So”—now he was in Bixby's face—“based on the guess of a nursing school washout, you're going with poison?”

“Miss Bloom was on the scene and did her best to aid the victim. And she's proved . . . helpful . . . in a couple of previous investigations in Ramble.” Bixby's hands went to his hips. “But
I'm
not going with anything. My job was to secure the scene. The scene is secured. Have a nice day.”

He started to walk off.

“Wait a minute,” Foley said. “Don't go getting all uppity with me. I've been up for days dealing with that dad-blamed fire. If you say it's a possible homicide, I'll say let's run with that.”

Bixby turned around. “
Let's
run? Oh, no. You're not saying—”

“Yup.” Foley grinned. “I'll clear it with my good friend, your mayor, at whose pleasure you serve, but Kane Bixby, I hereby deputize you and put you in charge of this investigation.”

Bixby said nothing, but clenched his jaw so hard he was in danger of snapping a molar.

Foley just grinned and started his signature whistle. He'd taken two steps back toward the path to the road before he whipped around. “Oh, yeah. You know what? You're going to need manpower, and I can't spare any of my people.” He pointed to Lafferty. “How about this man?” Then he looked in my direction and smiled. Or perhaps he smirked. Hard to tell in the torchlight. “And since she's been so helpful, as you say . . .” He pointed to me. “What's your name again, sweetheart?”

“Audrey Bloom.”

“Well, Audrey Bloom, consider yourself deputized, too.” He turned to Kane Bixby. “See? I'm even giving you help.”

*   *   *

“Over there, son.”

Bixby had commandeered Brad and his still camera to take crime scene shots. Maybe he was grateful he didn't have to walk two miles in the dark to retrieve his own camera, but given their past skirmishes, “son” was probably overdoing it.

Brad took a few more shots of the stew lying on the ground, the flash lighting the area in brief bursts. Bixby had already decided that the dust was too disturbed by people tramping all over it to get a decent footprint, but he had wanted to document the scene.

“What should I be doing?” I asked.

“Stay out of the way?” Bixby said. “Look, thanks for jumping in and trying to get the victim to the hospital. I only wish it had turned out better. But as far as the investigation goes, let the police handle this.”

“If you haven't noticed, I kinda am the police, too. I've been deputized. I should be helping.”

Bixby turned to face me. Even the darkness couldn't hide the sneer on his face. “You know he only did that to irritate me, right? The next time I have a conversation with his good friend the mayor, I plan to tell him how irresponsible it was to put you in possible danger. You're not trained in evidence collection or experienced in police procedure. Or armed, for that matter.” He lowered his voice. “And if it is murder . . .” He flicked his head toward the crowd still behind the makeshift police barrier. No yellow tape here, just a string of colorful flags.

“You
did
tell him I was helpful,” I said.

“I could see he was leaning toward assuming some natural cause of death. Key evidence would be lost if—”

“But you believed me.”

“As the closest thing to a medical professional on the scene. You know, it's still possible that the medical examiner will discover he died of natural causes.”

I glared at him.

“I just don't want anyone further contaminating this crime scene.”

I crossed my arms and waited. Grandma Mae always said that women had no greater weapon than well-timed silence.

He threw up his hands. “Fine. Tell you what, Miss Poisons Expert. How about that as a job? It's going to take quite a bit of time to get toxicology results back. Go and see if you can find the murder weapon.”

*   *   *

I paced up
and down on the dirt floor of the “cottage” we shared with the girls. It turned out to be more of a low-ceilinged hut with a thatched roof. The one small room was jammed with sleeping mats on the floor, so only about three feet of pacing room was available. One tiny lone window faced the stocks in the courtyard, gleaming in the moonlight, empty but foreboding.

“Will you try to get some sleep?” Amber Lee said. “Some of us older folks need our beauty rest.”

“I can't.” My brain was spinning. My father was here. And then the murder. My argument with Bixby. “Find the murder weapon.” I sighed.

Opie hoisted herself up to sitting and crossed her legs. In the privacy of the cottage, she had changed into modern sweatpants. “Maybe you should do it.”

“Find the murder weapon? You know he just said that to get rid of me.”

“That might be true.” Amber Lee yawned and rolled over to face the rest of us. “But I have every confidence you can do what he said.”

“How am I supposed to find a murder weapon when we don't even know if a murder has been committed?”

“Well, what do we know?” Melanie slapped a card onto the hand of solitaire she was playing in the light of her cell phone. Why she wasn't just playing on her cell, I have no idea.

I stopped pacing and ticked the one thing I knew off on my finger. “Barry Brooks is dead.”

“What else?” Opie asked.

“There is nothing else,” I said.

“You got a good look at him before they carried him away,” she said. “What were the symptoms?”

“Okay.” I sat down on the mat and raked my brain. “Chills. Vomiting. Racing, erratic heart rate. Probably a fever before the chills, because he was all sweaty. Convulsions.” I rubbed my forehead, as if that would fire up the old neurons. “Headache.” Maybe it worked.

“You have a headache or he had a headache?” Amber Lee asked.

“Yes,” I said.

Carol tossed me a bottle of Tylenol.

“Thanks.” I shook out two and washed them down with a bit of water before tossing the bottle back to her. “I would have thought you'd suggest blood-letting or something. After all, you're a history major.”

She drew up her knees to her chin. “Just not as hard-core as some of the folks here.”

“She's the best TA,” Opie said.

“Which only means I let you get away with too much,” Carol said, but with a smile.

I nodded, but my brain still cycled through the symptoms. “Maybe . . .” I pulled out my cell phone, then let out a disgusted sigh. “Low battery.”

“We can fix that.” Opie dug around in a dusty backpack and pulled out a small device with a hand crank. “It's a generator. It has a light, a weather radio—and a USB charging port. Not quite all the comforts of home, but not even a pound of extra weight to carry.”

“Brilliant,” I said. “You come prepared.”

“Well, it's mostly because of my Candy Crush addiction,” she said. “But you're welcome.”

“Do I have to crank it?”

“It should be fully charged. Just plug it in.”

As my phone connected, the low-battery message disappeared, and soon I was sitting on a straw mat in a medieval village while surfing the Internet.

“You have an idea?” Amber Lee said.

“Just wondering if I could narrow down the type of poison by entering the symptoms.”

The room hushed while I typed the various symptoms in, with the keyword “poison,” and then looked for a reputable source. Or maybe they kept talking and I just didn't hear them because of my concentration. I had no idea how much time passed before I came across the National Institutes of Health report that best fit the bill.