Alex Harris 00 - Poisoned

did Venetian blinds originate in?”
    We put our heads together. “It can’t be Venice, Italy, that would be too easy,” Mom said.
    “I haven’t a clue. Probably some place you would never associate with them,” I said.
    “Yeah, but what country, Alex? Think. We’re almost out of time.”
    “Times up.” The men looked smug. Sam designated me the spokeswoman, which meant the final answer came down to my decision.
    I thought long and hard for the most obscure country I could that would be associated with Venetian blinds. “Okay, I say....Japan?”
    Michael slapped the card down on the coffee table sloshing a bit of coffee over the side of his coffee cup. “I don’t believe it!”
    “You mean I’m right? We won? We won!” I said turning to my mother and giving her a hug.
    “Well, you know what this means, don’t you?” Dad asked of no one in particular. “It means there will be no living with any of them for at least a week. If we’re lucky.”
    Everyone sat around for another half hour while Sam and I each took several more thin slices of cake.

CHAPTER TWELVE

    The next morning, I pulled into the Brissart driveway for the fourth time this week. The sight of all the other cars made my heart race. None of them looked familiar and I wondered if something else had happened. Probably just suspects, I mused. And hoped. After John fell asleep last night, I tossed and turned for almost an hour thinking of the murder. I was loathe to admit this to anyone but myself, and even myself was a bit disgusted with the realization, but murder intrigued me. It always had. Back to when I would hear nursery rhymes like Humpty Dumpty having a great fall. I just always assumed he had been pushed. I mean really, how could he fall if he just sat there? Anxious to start my own investigation, I got out of the car and climbed the steps.
    Chantal would be back tomorrow morning meaning I wouldn’t have much of a chance to come back to the house. I needed to talk with as many people as I could. Standing outside thinking about it wasn’t going to solve the murder. I purposely walked into the house and heard voices—a lot of voices. The vultures.
    “Good morning, Alex. Come in, I’d like you to meet a few people,” Mrs. Brissart said, giving me a knowing look. Today Mrs. Brissart wore a burgundy colored dress with small pearl buttons down to the waist. A thin belt in the same fabric pinched in her delicate waist. Peeking out from under the dress, which landed mid-calf, I spied the high-tops.
    I walked into the living room and found several people seated around drinking coffee and eating fruit and croissants. I hadn’t expected to see people eating in a place where one of their own had recently been poisoned. But then Mrs. Brissart said they would eat anything free. Mrs. Brissart introduced me to everyone explaining how I volunteered to help Chantal.
    “This is Kendra Merchant, my grandson Stuart, my nephew Steven, and his daughter, Trish, Mrs. Brissart said, motioning to each person in turn. “Kenneth and Lillian are in the study making some calls.”
    I smoothed my black skirt and took a seat next to Mrs. Brissart on the large sofa. Mrs. Platz came into the room to refill the china teapot from a large kettle. The color had returned to the housekeeper’s face, though her tiny hands still shook a bit as she poured. Maybe they always did.
    Everyone chitchatted amongst themselves. Kendra was a petite blonde and probably only an inch taller than Mrs. Brissart. She wasn’t overly pretty but had a pleasant face and almond-shaped amber eyes, which unfortunately were red and puffy today. She dressed conservatively in shades of black, though I thought this was probably the color she usually wore rather than a color of mourning. I often wore black and liked it though today I had tossed on a russet sweater to complement my dark skirt.
    On the other hand, Trish Hollander, Steven’s daughter, was dressed, well…why beat around the bush? She looked like a tramp. Her way-too-short skirt exposed a pair of shapely legs, and the tight ribbed turtle-neck encased a pair of breasts without benefit of a bra. Her short hair held an amount of mousse and hair spray that would last me a year. She looked up, and, seeing me staring at her, a warm smile spread across her face. I smiled back, all the while chiding myself for judging a book by its cover. Not a very nice thing to do.
    Trish’s father, Steven, popped a piece of apple into his