Alex Harris 00 - Poisoned

needed some care. Mrs. Brissart’s suspicions of her sister’s financial woes might be right on the money—not to mention what Marsha told me. The house didn’t have any of the quiet charm of Mrs. Brissart’s home—no flowers, no potted mums to lend some color. A few pines stood in front but looked out of place with the rest of the landscape.
    But if the size of the exterior represented the status quo for this part of Indian Cove, it was the interior that intrigued me. Over the years I heard rumors that it resembled something right out of the Jetsons.
    I walked up the path, tripping on an uneven paving stone, and rang the bell. Expecting to see some sour-faced maid, or perhaps a butler, it surprised me when June Doliveck opened the door. She stood there, ramrod straight with an inquisitive look in her eyes. Then recognition dawned on her weathered face and she became, if possible, haughtier. “I take it my sister sent you.”
    “No. Not at all, Mrs. Doliveck. She doesn’t know I’m here.”
    “Just why are you? Here, I mean.” She arched one eyebrow and stared at me.
    This is where I found myself in trouble. I hadn’t managed to come up with any truly bright idea of why I would show up unannounced. I had just taken the address and flew out of the office before Sam decided to tag along. I knew why I stood here, on her doorstep, but would the words nosy and interfering have any clout with Mrs. Doliveck? Thinking that they would most assuredly not, I decided to give honesty a try.
    I took a deep breath and plunged in. “Because someone killed Bradley and I aim to find out who that someone is.” Aim to find out ? I sounded like a sheriff in a bad western.
    “I believe, Miss Harris, that there is a police force to handle such things. One with which you are well acquainted.” June Doliveck gave a small smirk and raised her penciled in eyebrow again. I wondered how she did that?
    I blushed. “Yes, we do have a fine police force and I am sure they’re doing everything possible, but Mrs. Brissart is a client of mine. A very good client. I have an employee working for her.”
    “And this gives you the right to snoop into people’s lives?”
    “ As long as we have faith in our own cause and an unconquerable will to win, victory will not be denied us , Mrs. Doliveck.” I said indignantly. The words worked for me yesterday, maybe they would work on June. Pushing my own shoulders back trying for an imposing stance, I continued. “People I care about are involved and that gives me every right.” To my utter amazement, June Doliveck stepped aside and let me through.
    “You’re here. You might as well ask your questions. Who knows, it might be amusing to see what you can come up with.”
    The first thought I had upon entering the living room was that I needed a camera—Sam would never believe the sight unless I could produce a photo for verification. My cell phone took pictures but could I whip it out and snap off a few shots without June noticing?
    The room, which ran the width of the house with views of both front and back yards, had floor to ceiling glass windows along the back wall. On the other, less fortunate walls, gold-veined mirrors or flocked wallpaper covered the surface. If I peered into a mirror at just the right angle, I saw myself over and over and over. Cream-colored shag carpeting enriched by an occasional spot covered the floor. Choosing not to dwell on the origin of the stains, I turned my attention to a small fireplace on the far side of the room; the only vestige to the original decor long forgotten.
    A horrific lemon-yellow sectional sofa, strewn with lime green and magenta throw pillows dominated the room—as if all the mirrors didn’t—along with several glass and chrome tables.
    “It’s quite breathtaking, isn’t it?” June Doliveck asked.
    “Yes. It certainly knocks the wind out of you,” I said, as I took a seat and tried very hard not to stare. I felt dizzy and wished the sofa came equipped with something to grasp. A sudden image of belly dancers entering from the hall and encircling me in a whirl of gyrating flesh and flowing veils slipped into my mind.
    “As soon as my husband died, I re-did the entire room,” June gushed, bringing me back from my Arabian nightmare. “He never let me have a free hand where decorating was concerned.”
    “I can’t imagine why.”
    “Pardon?”
    “Nothing.”
    “I want to do the same with the rest of the house one of these