black. Crap. I had show choir rehearsal in a matter of hours. The last thing I needed was Chessie reporting my blackened, guilty-looking fingertips to her influential parents. I’d lose my job for sure.
I was still feeling put out when Detective Frewen escorted me to the front door and thanked me for my time. My annoyance over the ink on my fingers was probably why, when he asked if I had any questions, I was brave enough to say, “Why didn’t David taste the poison in his water?” When the detective didn’t answer right away, I explained, “I was watching his face when he drank. He never tasted it. Why?”
Detective Frewen’s steel gray eyes met mine. “You’re Mike’s friend, right?”
The whole “friends” thing was debatable, though that probably wasn’t of interest to Detective Frewen. “We met a couple months ago.”
“Right.” His expression said he was aware of how Mike and I had met.
“I’m not looking to stick my nose into police business,” I assured him, just in case Mike told him otherwise. “I just . . . I watched David die. It would help if I could understand why it happened.”
The detective’s eyes softened. “The lab reports haven’t come back yet, but if you ask your fellow singers they’ll tell you that David Richard was known for adding two things to his water: zinc and a dash of vodka. That was probably the reason he was worried you had the right water bottle after your confrontation.”
Zinc was a favorite tool of performers to keep healthy and in good voice. I kept a stock of zinc lozenges in my bag. In fact, I’d been taking them since I started sneezing on Saturday. This meant I was familiar with the strong metallic, bitter flavor of zinc. One that would have no problem masking the taste of the poison. And if I were to place a bet, I’d say the killer was familiar with the taste of zinc, too.
I’d intended to avoid my well-meaning but overly protective aunt today. Instead, I found myself smiling as I spotted her signature pink Cadillac in the garage. If anyone could remove fingerprint ink before show choir rehearsal, it was Millie.
“Do you know how to get this stuff off my hands?” I asked as I spotted Millie stirring something on the stove.
“The police fingerprinted you?” The spoon Millie had been using dropped into the pot, spattering red liquid across the counter and onto her hot pink apron. “There’s no way you killed David Richard. This is police harassment. I’m going to make some calls. By the time I’m done, those cops will never eat donuts again.”
Before my aunt could dial the National Guard, I said, “I’m not a suspect. They needed my prints for elimination purposes. But now I can’t get the ink off my hands. Do you have anything that will help?”
Aunt Millie put her cell phone on the counter and walked over to look at my hands. When faced with a choice between righteous indignation and a skin-care emergency, my aunt picked skin care every single time.
It took almost two hours and a half-dozen phone consults with fellow Mary Kay associates before the ink was removed along with what had to be half of my skin. The air smelled of smoke from the pan my aunt forgot to move off the stove, and my fingers stung from the combination of lemon juice, nail polish remover, passion-fruit sugar scrub, and whatever other products my aunt employed. Ouch.
Aunt Millie handed me a bottle of moisturizing lotion. “I’m going to set up a meeting with research and development. We could make a killing with a skin-care line aimed at law enforcement.”
Leave it to my aunt to turn my personal crisis into a business opportunity. “Your company is lucky to have you.”
“The high school is lucky to have you.” Her eyes narrowed behind her pink-framed glasses. “I was going to make some phone calls this morning, but Aldo told me I should wait and talk to you first.”
When I next saw Aldo, I was going to kiss him atop his semi-bald head. “I
I was still feeling put out when Detective Frewen escorted me to the front door and thanked me for my time. My annoyance over the ink on my fingers was probably why, when he asked if I had any questions, I was brave enough to say, “Why didn’t David taste the poison in his water?” When the detective didn’t answer right away, I explained, “I was watching his face when he drank. He never tasted it. Why?”
Detective Frewen’s steel gray eyes met mine. “You’re Mike’s friend, right?”
The whole “friends” thing was debatable, though that probably wasn’t of interest to Detective Frewen. “We met a couple months ago.”
“Right.” His expression said he was aware of how Mike and I had met.
“I’m not looking to stick my nose into police business,” I assured him, just in case Mike told him otherwise. “I just . . . I watched David die. It would help if I could understand why it happened.”
The detective’s eyes softened. “The lab reports haven’t come back yet, but if you ask your fellow singers they’ll tell you that David Richard was known for adding two things to his water: zinc and a dash of vodka. That was probably the reason he was worried you had the right water bottle after your confrontation.”
Zinc was a favorite tool of performers to keep healthy and in good voice. I kept a stock of zinc lozenges in my bag. In fact, I’d been taking them since I started sneezing on Saturday. This meant I was familiar with the strong metallic, bitter flavor of zinc. One that would have no problem masking the taste of the poison. And if I were to place a bet, I’d say the killer was familiar with the taste of zinc, too.
I’d intended to avoid my well-meaning but overly protective aunt today. Instead, I found myself smiling as I spotted her signature pink Cadillac in the garage. If anyone could remove fingerprint ink before show choir rehearsal, it was Millie.
“Do you know how to get this stuff off my hands?” I asked as I spotted Millie stirring something on the stove.
“The police fingerprinted you?” The spoon Millie had been using dropped into the pot, spattering red liquid across the counter and onto her hot pink apron. “There’s no way you killed David Richard. This is police harassment. I’m going to make some calls. By the time I’m done, those cops will never eat donuts again.”
Before my aunt could dial the National Guard, I said, “I’m not a suspect. They needed my prints for elimination purposes. But now I can’t get the ink off my hands. Do you have anything that will help?”
Aunt Millie put her cell phone on the counter and walked over to look at my hands. When faced with a choice between righteous indignation and a skin-care emergency, my aunt picked skin care every single time.
It took almost two hours and a half-dozen phone consults with fellow Mary Kay associates before the ink was removed along with what had to be half of my skin. The air smelled of smoke from the pan my aunt forgot to move off the stove, and my fingers stung from the combination of lemon juice, nail polish remover, passion-fruit sugar scrub, and whatever other products my aunt employed. Ouch.
Aunt Millie handed me a bottle of moisturizing lotion. “I’m going to set up a meeting with research and development. We could make a killing with a skin-care line aimed at law enforcement.”
Leave it to my aunt to turn my personal crisis into a business opportunity. “Your company is lucky to have you.”
“The high school is lucky to have you.” Her eyes narrowed behind her pink-framed glasses. “I was going to make some phone calls this morning, but Aldo told me I should wait and talk to you first.”
When I next saw Aldo, I was going to kiss him atop his semi-bald head. “I
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