Something Fishy (13 page)

“I thought the movie was good, but not that good.”

“1989. Danish guy.”

“Were there subtitles?”

It was the sort of remark Hy might have made, Ian thought, as he turned back to the computer. Jamieson was loosening up.

“This is interesting.”

Jamieson looked up from the page that was filled with cases, modern and ancient, of people dying from laughing. What caused the laughter? None of that was answered here.

“What?”

“Spontaneous Mass Bodily Fluid Discharge.”

“That doesn't sound like what we're looking for.”

“It might be. Listen. It's a condition that occurs at random and includes tears, laughter, ejaculation, explosive defecation, projectile vomiting, coughing, sneezing, burping, and urination.”

“I'm glad she stuck with the laughing.” Again, it was something Hy would say, one of the reasons he liked her.

“So the condition could be the cause, and that could have brought on a heart attack.” There had been two cases of explosive defecation recently. Was there any link?

Ian squinted at the screen. “I suppose. I wonder if it's for real, or a joke. I found it in the Urban Dictionary, but I don't see it on any medical sites. Death by laughing, yes. But this so-called condition? I don't see it anywhere else.”

“Thank God for that.”

Something was still nagging at Jamieson. Anton's too-white smile. His bright eyes full of expectation. His smarmy manner. His relationship with a fragile, elderly, rich woman. Yes, he might have an elderly patroness who had died of a heart attack – but he might have helped it along. By making her laugh, with the surety that it would do her in.

Wasn't it more plausible that the woman had died of natural causes?

Then why didn't it seem natural to Jamieson?

Jamieson left reluctantly. She'd found the research and
discussion with Ian fruitful. It hadn't provided any answers, but it had helped with the questions. What was slowing her steps was that she had to write a report about this. A serious report. None of the fooling around that she'd been up to.

Shortly after Jamieson left, Hy burst into the room, waving a paper.

“Here.” She shoved the paper at Ian who turned in his chair, and craned his neck to read it.

He looked at Hy, shock mixed with realization.

“My God.” He read the paper again, more slowly this time. He looked up.

“Not the blowfish.”

Hy shook her head. “Nope.”

“But it could be murder.”

“Yup.”

Hy slumped down on Ian's couch.

“By a flower? She was killed by a flower?”

“Crocus.” She appeared to be struggling to keep her expression neutral, but she felt like laughing.

“Those are the symptoms. Sometimes it takes the form of falling asleep. All the guests did that, but Viola laughed. That's the other symptom. Laughed and laughed until she had a heart attack – or asphyxiated herself. Or both. Yes, I think both.”

“Really laughed herself to death.”

“That's right.”

“How? Where does the crocus come in?”

“Saffron. Saffron comes from the crocus. It's one of the ingredients listed in Anton's menu for the night.”

“How did you know?”

“It was in all the papers, the ingredients of the dangerous meal, and, anyway, Jamieson asked me to have a look at the list. She knows nothing about cooking.”

“Neither do you.” He was used to Jamieson coming to him for her research problems. Like today. But she hadn't put it all on the table. He didn't know she'd asked Hy to look into the menu.

“Enough to know that saffron comes from the crocus. That it can be – and obviously was – dangerous dining. The question is, who put it there?”

“Anton, of course.”

“That's what I thought, too. Viola had told him about her plans to leave her money to fish.” She hadn't had a chance to tell Jamieson yet.

“Any crocuses in the flowers he sent you?”

“Croci. And no. A few nasturtiums and pansies I'm planning to stew for supper.”

“Nuts.”

“No nuts. People have allergies to them.”

“I mean you – nuts.”

“I'm just mad about saffron…” Hy rose from the couch, singing. She shoved her fists into Ian's belly and began tickling him. “She's just mad about me…” She continued to knead at his belly, and he stood up and struggled to get away from her, laughing.

Then he stopped struggling. He grabbed both her arms, to stop the pummeling. A long pause and he pulled her close and planted a large kiss on her lips. And another. Another. Softer now, smaller. He put his arms right around her and the small kisses dissolved into one, long, deep kiss as both lost the sense of where one ended and the other began.

Jamieson almost couldn't tell either, so closely were they pressed together when she returned for her notebook, left beside Ian's computer. She stopped and stared. She didn't dare interrupt them. She wanted to turn and run, her emotions spinning around something more than the forgotten notepad. Her professionalism told her to march forward and grab it. But that something more made her turn and head for the door, her notebook left where it was, less important to her than her two friends, her only friends, whose interest in each other was so obvious and so difficult for her. It was clear that neither would be showing an interest in her notebook.

How long?
She wondered.
How long before I can go back?

A soft, low moan propelled her from the house.

It wasn't Ian, nor Hy.

It was Jasmine who brought Hy and Ian to their senses.

The moan that had chased Jamieson from the house became deeper and longer. It was followed by big, fat kissy noises, intertwined with the moans that could not be ignored.

It was Hy who pulled away first, and though he'd tried to hold onto her, Ian found the mood was broken.

Jasmine was hopping on the table next to the computer desk. She shoved something to the floor with her beak.

Ian and Hy saw it at the same time. Jamieson's notebook. They looked at it. They looked at each other – any embarrassment they may have felt lost in this tantalizing discovery.

They stood frozen in place. Then Hy jumped forward and snatched it.

“Hy!” Ian wasn't shocked. He was upset that she had grabbed it before he could.

He lunged at her. She fell back.

“Let's not get started again.”

That sobered him up. Yes, where had it got him?

She was flipping through the pages, and stopped suddenly.

“Anton Paradis. Hired Fiona Winterbottom to help in the kitchen. Spilled saffron into the rice and bean salad. Anton upset. Very expensive.”

She stopped reading and looked up.

“And very deadly.”

“Wonder if she remembers the interview.”

“Did Fiona do it by accident?”

“Does Anton know how deadly it would be?”

“Surely he'd have to. Isn't it all part of dangerous dining?”

Ian lunged again for the book. She jumped back. He chased her around the living room until they were both laughing and gasping for air.

Hy raced up the stairs, notebook in hand, Ian in pursuit, with mixed feelings about what he was after – Hy, or the book? She stopped. Backed up slowly, holding the notebook over her head, teasing him slowly forward.

Just as he got close, she tossed the book over his head. It arched the full length of the stairwell, and landed at the bottom on the floor.

Right in front of a pair of boots. Hy didn't have to look up to know whose boots they were. Only one person would wear boots in summer.

Jamieson bent down and picked up the notebook. She straightened out pages that had become creased from the fall down the stairs.

Her eyes riveted on Hy's face, flushed and glowing. Jamieson felt a small stab of pain, in that place she had thought well- protected. It was the part of opening up to The Shores that was hardest, this opening up of herself.

What had McAllister seen? Ian – what had he read?

“Did you look in it?”

Hy's flushed skin coloured a deeper red.

“… I…uh…”

“In other words, yes.” Jamieson tucked the book in her breast pocket.

“… Uh…yes.”

Hy came down a few tentative steps.

“Yes…a peek… Ian, too.” As if that made it better.

“And what did you observe?”

“Saffron.”

“Saffron?”

“Yes. Your notes say – ”

“I know what they say,” Jamieson snapped. Snapped, because even though it had been tickling at her mind, she didn't know if it meant anything. Now Hy and Ian knew something she apparently didn't.

“Saffron. It comes from the crocus.”

“I know that.”

“Too much of it can cause death – by laughing.”

“What?”

“Death by laughing. No one worries about it because it's so expensive you never get too much.”

“Unless someone spills it and tosses it all in one dish.”

“Exactly.”

“Good work, McAllister. Come help me write it up.”

As if he weren't there, the two women left the house. No good-bye. No resolution of what was going on between him and Hy.

Ian sat down on the top stair, wondering what it was all about.

He felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach.

When Hy left, Jamieson spent a lot of time thinking about her and Ian. The two of them were the closest she had to friends, except maybe Murdo. He had become more distant because of his relationship with April Dewey. The truth was there wasn't a need for two officers at The Shores most of the time. She still didn't know how Murdo had swung it. She'd never have accepted it, had she known. Murdo had something on a superior officer that he'd used to keep the two partners together on this assignment.

Instead of Murdo, she seemed to have inherited Hy and Ian, who were always involved in the crime-solving even when she tried to put them off. They wouldn't be put off.

They were helpful, thought Jamieson, but they were not police officers. It made for a strange relationship, an odd team. Together, the three of them had solved murders, each cracking key clues in different cases. That was a team, wasn't it? Not strictly by the book, but…

She stood up and looked out the window for a long time, her thoughts rolling on the waves, floating with the gulls on the breeze. She smiled benignly at the children playing on the cape.

She sighed. Too bad. She'd have to clear them off again. It was pretty easy. She didn't even have to get out of the car and they ran off. They were afraid of her.

It was what they call in the Maritimes a large day, with a great big blue sky and the sun burning clear, with exactly the right amount of breeze.

Today she'd walk down.

Chapter Fifteen

Had Viola Featherstonehaugh left her money to her fish? Was Anton cut out?

Two questions that everyone wanted answered, but they'd have to wait. Thanks to Gladys Fraser.

Viola was trying to do in death what she strived to do in life – the unusual. No one had “readings of the will” anymore – except in movies and novels, for dramatic effect.

That is precisely why Viola wanted hers read. For dramatic effect.

For the most dramatic effect, she had wanted it open to the community. In the village hall. She'd phoned her lawyers in Boston the morning of the day she'd died, instructing them to do it at The Shores, were she to “go here.” They thought nothing of it. They were always getting instructions like that from her, from all over the world. Anton had been aware of the call, but couldn't make out most of what she was saying – some raving about Newton and a writ. It had made him uneasy. Had she been demanding changes to her will?

He expected to find out soon, along with almost the entire village. This promised to be the most entertaining event next to the annual Christmas pageant. Everyone had shown up at the designated time and place – including a sleek young lawyer from Boston, who would read the will.

Chesley Ryan had dressed down for The Shores, wearing a casual Armani jacket and khakis with a pale blue silk shirt, open at the neck. He was about to step up onto the stage – the villagers all seated in the main hall below – when Gladys Fraser went charging past him.

“Wait a minute,” she bellowed. “We can't have a will reading now. It's the monthly meeting of the Women's Institute.”

“Oh, Gladys,” Annabelle called up from the front row of seats. “We're all here. We could agree to put it off until tomorrow.”

Gladys crossed her arms over her chest.

“No, Annabelle,” said Rose, the minister's wife. “I have my shut-ins tomorrow.”

“Or later today.”

There followed a litany of reasons why later today would not be possible – visits from grandchildren, appointments with the doctor, the usual round of ammunition always at the ready should a change – any kind of change – be requested.

They didn't like change.

Gladys smirked, and set her arms more stubbornly.

“Well, some other day. Any day.” Annabelle gestured toward the young lawyer, who appeared relaxed, as if he could wait all day. He could. He was on Viola Feaherstonehaugh's meter.

“This man's come all the way from Boston to honour this appointment.”

“Then he should've checked first.”

“How could he? You only came out with this announcement now. We all naturally assumed that if this reading was taking place, our meeting wouldn't be.”

“We all knew it was today.”

“You should have phoned to confirm.”

“I can't be taking care of everything.”

“So what now?”

“Clear the hall,” said Gladys. “You're like a bunch of crows feeding on roadkill. What business is it of yours if an old lady you didn't know did or didn't leave something to someone?”

Anton, standing at the back of the hall, thought it might be his business. He was swinging between despair and elation over what the will might say.

Jamieson was watching him closely, taking notice of his hands curling up into fists and uncurling. Tense. Impatient. Guilty of murder? She was hoping the will would tell her something.

It was odd to see Newton there. He kept to himself, so what had brought him? Curiosity like the rest of the villagers and tourists, or was there something Jamieson needed to know?

Those interested in the reading of the will left the hall and convened outside, the lawyer setting his papers down on the picnic table and his rear on the bench. The villagers circled around him, some looking over his shoulder. Only Gladys had remained in the hall, with her lackey, Olive. She dearly wanted to be outside with the others, but she didn't dare face the wrath of Gladys.

Gladys wanted to be outside, too, but she'd made her stand and had to stick with it. Instead, she opened a window “to let the air in.”

The lawyer cleared his throat. The villagers shuffled a little closer to hear over the machinery haying in the field behind. It was a busy time for Annabelle's husband Ben. To sea at dawn. In the fields by noon.

“I, Viola Featherstonehaugh…”

It sounded as if he'd swallowed half the word. The hay-baling in the field below the hall had drowned him out. Never mind. Everyone knew it was that old bat Viola.

“…being of sound mind and body…”

She wasn't, was she?

“…declare this to be my last…blah…blah…blah…”

They were anxious for him to get past the boring bits and on to the juicy stuff.

Jamieson surveyed the crowd. Most of the villagers were there. More women than men. Not Gus. She was watching from her kitchen window, and reading lips, at which she'd become very good. It helped mask her growing deafness.

There were a few words of gratitude to “my longtime companion Anton…”

As if he had known her for more than a year. As if he had been her lover. He would live with that designation. He didn't mind if there were money, but –

The lawyer droned on. The women, if any were paying attention, were admiring the young lawyer's good looks. Black hair, not too long, not too short. Pale blue eyes that beckoned.

“Irish,” Estelle whispered to Moira. “Black Irish.”

The one person who was really paying attention to Ryan was Anton.

It was between him, and the fish. When it came, it was sudden, dizzying, slicing through his composure.

“…to my fish.”

Of sound mind and body?
It was a communal thought.

The fish had won.

“She'll have cut him out,” said Gus to Abel, who was rooting about somewhere in the back room. She'd had her eye pasted to the picture window, reading Anton's features.

Anton was no poker face.

He was out and the fish were in.

He was very nearly spitting in shock and anger.

“If he hadn't already killed her, he'd kill her now,” Hy whispered to Ian.

Ryan read the details of the foundation of the aquarium, the names of the administrators. Nowhere, nowhere did Anton get a piece of the pie. A slice of the filet.

“These measures have already been taken, the money dedicated and spent. In life, I supported the helpless, the innocents, and, in death, this work will go on. Fish everywhere will find a sanctuary in my aquaria.”

The crowd broke up as the lawyer read some formula incidentals, and Jamieson once again surveyed the group.

No Gus, no Abel, of course. Gladys and Olive stubbornly inside. Who else was missing? No one important. Who was here that she should make note of?

Newton Fanshaw.

What would he be doing here?

Newton Fanshaw, who'd tipped the saffron and tossed it in the rice.

What was his relationship with Viola?

Jamieson had come to learn that the odd things, such as spilled saffron, that occurred around a murder should not be ignored. Anything out of the ordinary might be significant.

There was no saying it had been a murder. Officially it wasn't. The coroner had ruled natural causes, but he wasn't here to see unnatural things going on.

Like the stiff smile on Newton's face. Almost a grimace. Was he fighting to keep his expression neutral? If so, he wasn't succeeding.

The lawyer had brought with him a vase – and a box. The vase contained Viola's ashes. It had been Viola's choice, kept in Ryan's office in Boston “against the day.” It was a priceless Qing dynasty porcelain ginger jar, highly detailed, with goldfish leaping on the front. It was too small to contain all of Viola, tiny though she was. Most of her had been stuffed in the vase; the rest had been relegated to the box. The vase would go back to the undertaker's, where it would be in good company; dozens of Red Island deceased had been left there for years until taken to a final resting place. She had designated it be on display in a glass case in the lobby of her future aquarium. She'd have to wait on the island until then. She'd forgotten to make an express wish about that.

That did not solve the problem of the ashes in the box.

There had been no instructions. She'd expected that she would fit in the vase, the way a woman expects she'll fit into a dress that's too small.

No one offered to take the box off Ryan's hands.

She would have to be scattered.

Ryan enlisted the help of Hy, who looked sympathetic, and Ian.

Anton followed them down to the cape. Following the money, thought Hy, making a show of his attachment to Viola in case there was any chance…perhaps already plotting to challenge her sanity. Newton trailed behind them. It wasn't clear why. He followed all the way to the edge of the cape.

Ryan opened the box. Pulled out the plastic bag, opened it, and tossed the contents off the cape. Only they didn't fly and scatter to the four winds, they fell in a big lump of ash, at his feet, all over his Boston lawyer shoes. The ash that had escaped into the air was blown by the wind straight into Newton's face, grits of it into his eyes. The last “cremains,” as they were called in the industry, settled on his lips, bitter with the taste of her.

Hy was trying to make things better, scooping up the hill of ashes on the cape, and vainly tossing them into the wind. They kept coming back. Ryan rubbed Viola off his shoes, and kicked at the lump of ashes at his feet.

In the end, Hy tore the lid off the box, shoveled up the remaining ashes into the box, and walked with Ian down to the shore, to a sheltered place behind some rocks, where Viola could be flung in peace – by two people she'd never known, and wouldn't have liked if she had.

The dazzling white teeth hid behind a frown for the next several days. The flashing eyes were dulled with disappointment. Anton's only consolation was that once word of the deaths got around, he was soon booked for the entire summer and into the fall. He took only one booking a week, and now he had a waiting list. The famous names on that list were gratifying. Perhaps, amongst them, he would be able to find a new patroness. Or patron. Anton could swing that way, too.

If only that pesky police officer weren't constantly nosing around. Jamieson appeared immune to floral bribery and to his masculine charms.

Still he greeted her with his Hollywood smile when she came knocking on his door – again – to “chat.”

This time she was armed with her new knowledge of saffron, thanks to Hy.

“So, tell me, is saffron one of your dangerous foods?”

“No, not at all. It's on the menu because it's so expensive. The clients appreciate what their wealth can buy them.”

“Like death?”

“What do you mean?”

“Death from saffron.”

“No – ”

“Yes. Too much saffron can kill.”

He laughed. “Too much saffron? Not even my clients could afford that.”

“But there was too much saffron, wasn't there?”

“Too much – ” he hesitated, looking quizzical.

“Saffron. Too much saffron.”

“You would have to ask my chef.” His eyes were no longer flashing. They were half-closed, examining the floor.

He was being evasive. Definitely evasive.

“You know I can't do that. He has not only left the country, we cannot seem to find out where he is.”

Anton shrugged.

“Besides, he was the chef for the pufferfish. You are the chef for everything else, I believe.”

Anton inclined his head, agreeing.

“So, spill.”

“Yes. It spilled. When I found out, I was very angry. I saw it had been mixed into the rice, rice that was now worth a fortune. I have told you that.”

“Yes, but you gave me no sense that it might be dangerous.”

“It is not.”

“It can be.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “You hear things, but I do not believe them.”

“You may have to believe them. Saffron may have killed…your patroness.”

“How am I supposed to know all these things? These obscure things?”

“If you're running a business based on food that can kill, I would fully expect you to know these…obscure…things.”

Did he know what she knew? Had he used that knowledge to kill?

“You should think about my motive,” he insinuated. “The will speaks. It says I'm suspect if she had favoured me and suspect if, as she did, she cut me out. In the first case, I wanted to cash in. In the second, wreak revenge. And, oh yes, there's the third possibility.” His lips curled in a sarcastic smile. “She was old. She had a heart attack. She died.”

“That's why I'm here. Trying to figure that out. Maybe you just took a chance. That's what you do, isn't it? Your business? It's about risk-taking, right?”

What evidence did she have? A dead…rich…elderly woman and an overturned bowl of saffron.

Oh yes. And a suspicion. That annoying tingle in her stomach she tried so hard to suppress. The image that disturbed her rational brain of Viola Featherstonehaugh laughing herself to death while Anton of the flashing eyes watched and chuckled. She shook her head. These thoughts had no place in a police investigation.

She would talk to the fudge woman. Now the saffron had moved to centre stage, she wanted to know exactly what had happened before and after the saffron had spilled.

Frank got down on his knees and made the proposal in the kitchen, as Moira was clearing the supper dishes. The dining room she saved “for good,” and though Frank had tried to convince her to eat there tonight, he couldn't without giving the secret away.

They'd had hot dogs and beans for supper – the same beans that had given Frank such distress weeks before. Moira had grudgingly boiled them the requisite ten minutes, frozen them, and produced them with a bottle of Beano beside his plate.