Sympathy for the Devil (7 page)

M
y car phone has a feature for frequently called phone numbers. With the touch of a button, it automatically dials for me. I usually enjoy hearing the electronic arpeggio of rapid tones speeding through their drill. Today, the joy had gone out of my electronic gizmos.

One ring. Come on Wesley, answer. Two rings. I was pretty sure he'd be home. Three rings. Please, just ans…

“Hi…”

Damn!

“…this is Wesley Westcott. Leave a message at the beep.”

“It's me. It's ten after one and I have to talk to you, like,
now
. Call me in the car or at the office.”

What if they had already arrested him? Would they move that quickly? I was driving in the direction of home, but I changed my mind and headed toward the Huntley place. I had a few questions, and the sooner I asked them, the better.

I pushed a button. The electronic notes played their tuneless tune. One ring. I could drive home faster than I'd get the call through. Hmm. Maybe I better slow down.

“Madeline Bean Catering, good…”

“Holly! Thank god you're still there. Is Wes in?”

“No. Is something wrong? You sound kinda…”

“Holly, everything is wrong. I've got to find Wes and he's not picking up his phone. Go over to his apartment
and knock. Wake him up if he's still sleeping. It's important.”

“Calm down. It's okay. He called here right after you left for lunch. He asked if you'd please do the Fryman brunch tomorrow? He's gone away for a while to unwind.”

I had that seasick feeling when you realize all your problems are not going to be over in fifteen minutes. “What do you mean he's gone? Where gone?”

“He wouldn't tell me. Wes said he'd never get any rest if the whole world could find him and drag him back.”

My voice got very tight. “Did he actually say those words, Holly? Think. That he thought people might try to drag him back?” Wes was running. What did this mean?

“What's going on? Why are you so upset? Tell me something!”

“At lunch, I met up with people who really need to get some things straight. I have to find Wes, that's all.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Holly didn't get it. Just as well.

“I'm on my way over to the Huntley house. Just in case Wes should call again, tell him I have got to talk to him. It's urgent. Tell him I love him and I want to help.”

“That's a pretty odd message.”

“These are pretty odd times.”

My old Grand Wagoneer had no problem climbing up the steep driveway leading to the Huntley house. Once I got up to higher ground, I had to find a place to park amidst several unfamiliar vehicles. Looked like the cops were still at it, picking through the remains of the party. It was a big job.

As I hopped down from the driver's seat, Lily opened the big mahogany front door and ran to me. I had hoped to avoid the grieving widow. No such luck.

“Madeline! Thank goodness you're here. It's been unbearable, all these people in my trash. Can't you make them stop?”

“I don't think so. They're cops. Better to just go away and not be bothered by all this…” I gestured at the cars and strangers milling about.

“I can't leave. They told me I couldn't leave. I wanted
to take Babalu and Rosa and go somewhere quiet, where we could rest. But the detective told me last night to stay put.” Lily sounded strung out, frazzled. She was not used to being in charge.

“I can't believe they would force you to endure all this when you just lost…” I didn't actually want to say it. Lily didn't notice my delicacy.

“My husband was murdered! Right at our own home! And now they think I did it! Can you believe that? Me!”

“No, Lily, they can't!” My mind raced. Could it be true that the police suspected Lily? Maybe they had lots of suspects. Of course. They wouldn't tell me everything. Maybe they just went around throwing accusations and the first person to panic and run…Oh dear. I just had to find Wes and bring him back before anyone got wind that he'd split.

Lily walked me up the front steps and into the house. As we approached the kitchen, sounds of male voices grew louder. Lily stopped and shook her head in a tight little shudder.

“I can't go in there. My kitchen has never looked like that…I…” Her tears formed little rivulets that looked like they knew the quickest path down her pale cheeks.

“Why don't I come and see you later?” I suggested.

Lily just stood there, mute and in tears. After a few more awkward seconds, I pushed open the swinging door, leaving Lily weeping in the hall.

In the kitchen were four men and a woman, all sifting through dirty dishes. They had dozens of cartons of dishware and glassware open all around them, and they were examining each plate, each knife, each goblet. It was ridiculous. Everything had been rinsed and packed up the night before, in preparation for return to the party rental shop.

“Has anyone told you all that stuff was handled by my cleanup staff and rinsed off hours ago?” I asked the room.

One of the men looked up. “Who are you?” he asked.

“The caterer for last night's party. My staff cleaned all this up and stacked it long before Mr. Huntley's…uh…death. I don't see what you could possibly hope to find in
all that.” I looked down to see hundreds and hundreds of dirty salad plates, bread plates, dinner plates spread over every counter, and even on the floor. No wonder Lily couldn't face it.

“Well, what we have here is a case of murder by deliberate poisoning,” said the man who had spoken up, “and so far we haven't been able to find out what food was dosed. We don't usually get ten thousand possible plates,” he noted, exaggerating only slightly, “but this investigation is standard procedure.”

He had been looking at me pretty closely, taking in my tight jeans, my long curly mop, held back with a ribbon. He had that look like he was going to get talkative. I've seen it before.

“My name is McGee, Richie McGee. I'm heading up the team of criminalists on this investigation.” He held out his hand.

I shook it. “Madeline Bean,” I offered.

He was a tall, bony, youngish man. His light hair was already in mid-retreat. He'd be bald by the time he was thirty-five.

“Are you sure the poison was in his food?” I had to ask.

“No, Madeline.” First name. Yep, he'd get talkative. “But that's the usual deal. We're going with the assumption that all the symptoms were consistent with strychnine poisoning. We'll know for sure in about a day when we get the toxicology reports. With strychnine, the onset of severe convulsions can begin anytime between ten to thirty minutes after ingestion. But usually by fifteen. So that means whatever Mr. Huntley was eating or drinking at approximately 11:45 p.m. was pretty heavily dosed with poison.”

“Oh,” I said. That was all the encouragement McGee needed.

“We've asked around. No one remembers seeing Huntley holding a plate at that time. But, there were desserts set up on tables, and a lot of dirty dessert dishes left all over. We spent most of our time out there in the early hours this
morning, dusting dessert trays and plates and forks for prints. None matched the deceased. We bagged quite a few for the lab, but I doubt we found anything.”

“Bruno didn't eat desserts. No sugar,” I said, thinking aloud.

“That right?” McGee seemed interested. “There was alcohol in his system. We don't have the lab tests back yet, but the strychnine could have easily been put in a drink.”

“Easily?” I asked.

“Well, yes. From a covert standpoint.” McGee moved closer, taking me into his confidence. I could see this man as a twelve-year-old, reading Ian Fleming under his blanket by flashlight.

“Most folks know that strychnine is used in commercial rat poisons. But get this! In its pure form, strychnine has a peculiar, bitter taste. Did you know that? It's not a very popular poison, from a murderer's standpoint, because strychnine pretty much tastes like poison. Heh-heh.” McGee grinned, looking way too into this. I think he thought we were flirting.

“So you're saying that if strychnine had been used to poison Bruno, he should have been able to taste it.”

“Right,” McGee looked at me. Then pulled out his notebook and started writing. “Odd, isn't it?”

“And if it wasn't in his food, which you seem fairly sure of after all this…investigating,” my slow gaze took in the mess on the floor and the kneeling officers who had stopped shuffling through china, “then it was likely in something he drank.”

“You know anything about his drinking habits?”

“Well…” Actually, I did. But I wasn't sure how helpful I was prepared to be to the police who were looking for evidence to lock up Wesley. “Bruno was fond of brandy.”

“Brandy?” McGee snapped his finger at a short, red-haired officer. “Harold, get me the list of liquor!”

I had perched on one of the pine bar stools at the kitchen's large center island. McGee took the list from Har
old, came over to my end of the island, and showed it to me.

“Did your company supply the liquor for the party?”

I nodded.

“Do you see anything missing?”

I looked over the list. It was an inventory of all the bottles that had been used to set up the three bars. I went over the list slowly. They were the right quantities and the right brands. They had listed the number of bottles of mixers, and they, too, seemed okay. Some of the bottles were listed as empty, some partially filled, and others unopened.

I looked again to see if the amount of booze that had been consumed seemed appropriate to that stage of a party where the majority of six hundred guests were blotto. I couldn't find anything suspicious and told McGee so.

He seemed disappointed. “We sent every last bottle to the lab. It will take some time, but we'll find out if any of them contain the strychnine. I just thought if you had any suspicion, we could have the lab test those bottles first. Like that bit about Huntley drinking brandy. I've made a note to have them test the bottles of Courvoisier and the Remy Martin first. Who knows, it might save us some time.” He beamed at me.

I figured I'd gotten as much useful information from Richie as he could provide, but you never knew when you'd need more. I smiled back.

Just then, a young man poked his head in the swinging door.

“TerryRents pickup?” His voice squeaked.

“Right here,” said McGee, still grinning into my eyes.

The TerryRents boy blankly looked at the counters, the sink, the floor.

“Ten cents extra for packing. Per item,” he informed us without blinking, and then started racing through the plates, stacking them in boxes faster than the thought that was racing through my mind: that the cops should really pay for this mess.

McGee handed me his card. “If I think of something else
I need, could I give you a call?” Right question, wrong cop.

We traded cards. After all, I just might need an update on what they found in those bottles. But I really didn't think so.

McGee and his troops left the kitchen, leaving me alone with the TerryRents kid. He was screeching the words to “Love in an Elevator,” plugged into his headphones, and at the rate he was packing plates and silverware, he was going to be three hundred dollars richer in about an hour. I went out the back door, looking for Rosalinda.

She was sitting in a patio chair, watching little Lewis as he stood on the first step of the large pool, his thin legs immersed right up to just under his knees. He was kicking and splashing. Rosalinda was sitting close enough to save him from disaster, but far enough to avoid most of the water droplets as he splashed.

The day was warm and fine. It was the start of November, but the series of high pressure systems that had been dominating the West Coast had pushed the temperature up into the low eighties for most of the week.

Rosalinda watched me cross the wide lawn and walk along the flagstone patio until I reached her. The area had been returned to its regular appearance. All the rented dining tables and chairs from the night before had been moved out and replaced with heavy wrought-iron furniture. The chaise lounges and armchairs sported thick cushions with wide stripes of forest green and white. I sat at the foot end of a chaise next to Rosalinda and she smiled at me.

“I need to talk to you about what you heard last night. About Bruno's last words.”

Rosalinda nodded. Little Lewis was just beyond earshot, and with the splashing, he couldn't hear what we were talking about.

“Tell me again, if you would. What did Bruno say?”

“He say, ‘happy, happy.' And he talk about a curse. He don't say it too clear. He choke, you understand? Then he say ‘happy' again and he die.” Rosalinda crossed herself.

“Rosa, is my daddy happy?” It was Lewis. He was now standing right behind her.

“Oh, Babalu!” She turned and hugged the boy. He held on, his arms wrapped around her neck. “There, there,” she said.

“I love you, Rosa.” The boy's voice was almost lost as he spoke into her dark hair.

“Go, play,” she told him, with a final hug. He let go and skipped back to the pool step. He sat down at the pool edge and swung his legs over and began, again, to kick.

Rosalinda turned to me. “Do you know why Mr. Bruno would say these terrible things, Mrs. Madeline?” Her eyes were troubled, like they were earlier.

“No. And I'm confused. Someone else heard Bruno talking and they said it was something quite different. They told the police Bruno said a name. He said ‘Mal.'”

“But Mrs. Madeline, that is what I hear! Mr. Bruno he say, ‘
maleficio
.' ‘
Maleficio
' it mean a curse like a witch would make. The other people, maybe they do not speak Spanish. They do not know what they are hearing. I know. He say ‘
maleficio
' and it make me so scared I cannot sleep.”