Alex Harris 00 - Poisoned

at my own pace with the weights and other equipment.
    “Yeah. That was Steven Estenfelder. Do you know him?”
    “Not really. I know his family, though.” I moved to another machine and Ann followed. “Is he a member here?”
    “No, but he’s been here a few times so I wonder if he’s planning on joining. He’s a member at that exclusive country club in Westport but maybe he’s thinking about changing. If you want to know the truth, which I will deny to my dying day that I told you, I think it’s too pricey for him.”
    I wiped the sweat from my forehead. “The country club? How can that be? He’s loaded, from what I hear.”
    “I think that’s the impression he tries to project and, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure he has a lot, more than I’ll ever see. But he’s trying to cut back on expenses, I’m sure of it. See that guy over there?” Ann pointed to a beefy sort across the room who was lifting a zillion-pound weight. “That’s Asir. He has a concession at the track in New York. He saw Mr. Estenfelder come in here last week and told me he’s seen him at the track a few times with some guy.”
    “Hmmm. Interesting.” So Stuart and Steven liked the ponies. “Oh, good, one of the treadmills is free.” I sprinted across the room and managed to hop on just as an overweight man made his way toward me. He turned with a sigh and I felt a bit guilty—but not enough to give it up.
    “I tried to convince management that we need a few more,” Ann said eyeing the treadmill. “They’re the most popular things here, next to my class, of course.”
    “Of course.”
    “Well, I’ll be off. My class starts in about ten minutes. Sure you won’t do it?”
    “Not tonight. But thanks.”
    “See ya, Alex. Take care.” Ann walked across the room with just about every male eye on her.
    I increased the speed to a brisk walk and set the incline to a steep hill. Across the room, Steven Estenfelder now talked with a young man I knew to be one of the sales representatives for the club. It seemed almost everyone in Mrs. Brissart’s family needed money except for Mrs. Brissart. And who knew if that was true or not? I chided myself for my sudden doubts of the woman but I needed to remain totally impartial in my investigation of her. I suddenly felt sorry for John. He was in an awful position.
    After forty-five minutes of hard walking, I relinquished the treadmill to a young man who promptly turned it up to high and jogged his way to a better body.
    Steven Estenfelder still sat at the bar drinking a fruity concoction when I walked over and took the seat next to him.
    “I didn’t know you were a member here,” I said brightly.
    Steven turned to me. A vague look crossed his face momentarily before he placed me. “I’m not.”
    “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
    Steven took a sip from his glass and wiped a frothy bit of juice from his lips. “Yes, it’s a terrible thing. Kenneth and Lillian are devastated. Not to mention Aunt Roberta.”
    I wanted to get home but I also wanted to know Steven’s thoughts on who the killer might be.
    “It seems to be the consensus of your family that one of you did it.”
    “It would seem so,” Steven said and then drained his glass, wiping a bit more juice from his mouth. “I’m sure the police will figure it all out before too long. Shall we leave it to them?” He gave me a steely stare and placed a ten-dollar bill on the counter and got up. “Nice to see you again, Miss Harris.” He left before I had a chance to ask him if he planned to join the club.

CHAPTER TWENTY

    I took the large bowl of salad, with a can of tuna tossed in, to the sofa and placed it on the coffee table. I turned the TV on very low, and picked up the papers I printed a few hours earlier.
    I found the association Mrs. Brissart’s ancestor had with Napoleon fascinating. It was almost like reading a history book, but with real people, people I had a connection with, if one wanted to stretch the facts quite a bit. I read the pages and paused when I came to the murder of Raymond. It brought a sudden sadness to think such a wonderful and long friendship and partnership ended so tragically. How difficult it must have been for Raymond’s wife, alone in a foreign country and not speaking the language. I picked up the papers again and reread the passage.
    In 1820, Lucien’s young, beautiful wife gave birth to their first child, Pascal. While she attended to the increasingly luxurious home fires,