Alex Harris 00 - Poisoned

suspects and asking questions no sane person would ever have the nerve to ask. Quite simply put, I realized with a start, I was nosy. This kind of caught me off guard because I always thought my sister was the nosy one. And now, here I was, pretty much the same.
    I walked to the window and lifted the pane. The pungent aroma of a leaf fire somewhere in the neighborhood came to me on a sudden breeze and all at once I knew—everything was just right for murder.

CHAPTER TWO

    At nine-fifty, I pulled into the circular driveway of the Brissart home, a very large and stately house surrounded by a parcel of land I thought resembled the city park. The house looked lovelier than I remembered. Potted mums planted all along the perimeter of the lawn added glorious color. A wrap-around porch draped the old house and a big glider provided comfort on summer nights. It wasn’t a pretentious home at all. Given the financial status of Mrs. Brissart, neither house nor owner put on airs.
    I parked my black Honda next to a cherry red Ford Focus belonging to Chantal Bradbury, an employee of Always Prepared. I stepped out of the car and took a deep breath filling my senses with the scent of raked leaves and the pungent smell of the Sound, only a few blocks away. I sighed with complete contentment. Autumn—my favorite time of year. I walked along the path toward the grand house and purposely crunched leaves under my shoes like I did as a kid. A year ago, the agency paired Chantal with the owner of this house and the union worked perfectly. Chantal’s fluency in French—a skill attributed to her French-Belgian mother, appealed to the eccentric Roberta Brissart.
    The old woman didn’t speak a word of the language but liked the idea of someone who could speak it working for her. I knew another quirky New Englander when I saw one and with French in both their backgrounds, no matter how far back, it served as a common denominator that made the pairing a success. And now, with Chantal taking a few days off to help her mother-in-law recover after an operation, I couldn’t let just any of my many temporary staff take over. I’m saying many with a bit more optimism than perhaps I should. That new agency, Paulson’s Professionals, now employed some of my best people. Paulson’s Professionals. What kind of name was that, for pity’s sake? It sounded more like an escort service.
    “Hi, Alex,” Chantal smiled as she opened the front door. “I saw you coming up the walk.”
    I entered the house and removed my sunglasses and tucked them into my purse.
    Chantal took my hand. “I’m so glad you’re going to fill in for me while I’m gone. I’ll just feel better knowing Mrs. Brissart is in good hands.” Chantal’s brows inched closer as a cloud of concern covered her face. “I do feel bad, though. I mean, you’re the owner. Oh, gosh, Alex. I’m probably taking you away from more important things.”
    I gave Chantal a warm smile. “It’s fine. Mrs. Brissart is very important to the agency. Besides, it’ll give me a nice change of pace to come here for a few days.” And maybe get my mind off of the other agency, which had captured not only our people, but also another one of our clients judging by the figures Millie printed out this morning.
    “Fresh coffee on the table. Help yourselves, ladies, and come into my study.”
    I jumped an inch at the sound of Roberta Brissart’s voice behind me. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Brissart. I didn’t hear you.”
    Chantal and I sprinted after the very spry woman. Chantal nudged my arm and pointed to Mrs. Brissart’s feet. “She always wears her high-top white Reeboks when she’s home. I didn’t know they still made them anymore. They make her stealth-like. It can be very unnerving. You’ll get used to it.”
    In addition to the high-tops, Roberta Brissart wore a beautifully tailored dress. At eight-three-years old and barely five feet tall, she had a lovely head of silver hair and soft blue eyes that hadn’t lost their luster. And she still possessed all her own teeth, she once told me—a fact that delighted her to no end as her two sisters, May and June, the bane of her existence, did not. I never met May and June but the family was so prominent in our little town that word of some of their antics over the years kept the gossip mill running.
    We followed the woman into the study and took the two seats next to the massive desk.
    “I have a few letters,” Mrs. Brissart began, directing