Alex Harris 00 - Poisoned

something out,” I got up, it now being my turn to pace. “So what? Why would it have any bearing on the present day sale of the land?”
    “Good point. I haven’t a clue,” Sam admitted. “But leave it on your list for now, anyway.”
    “Any other names besides the entire family,” I asked, frustration creeping into my voice.
    “I can’t see J.T. killing him. Probably didn’t even know him all that well.”
    “Unless,” I added, “June told him about the possibility of Bradley finding out something. That would squash J.T.’s deal.”
    “Right. And Marsha knew what Bradley worked on because she helped him at the library so she could have let her mother know he found something. Or maybe she just kept it to herself.” Sam tapped her chin with a pencil. “I think we can leave out the gardener unless he was really mad at Bradley for trampling some flower bed or something.”
    “Likewise the housekeeper,” I added.
    “You know, we have everybody on your list. We haven’t been able to eliminate anybody.”
    I bent my head and pounded it on the desk in frustration.
    “By the way, I really like that sweater. Did I tell you that already?” my sister asked.
    I looked up at her. “No. Thanks. I think it’ll become one of my favorites,” I smiled, as I looked down at the animal print, a mixture of black and hazelnut brown. I had a tendency to wear dark colors, mostly black, with some others thrown in for variety.
    “Black looks good on you.”
    “I know. It’s my signature color.” I looked back at the list and sighed. “I guess that about does it.” I hesitated for a moment.
    “But?” prodded Sam.
    “Well, John mentioned something about footprints under the window of the room where they found Bradley. They got messed up by Mr. Kaminski’s watering, but there was obviously someone there.”
    “So you’re saying we’re looking at some lunatic wandering the streets of Indian Cove with a jar of cyanide looking for a possible cookie to contaminate. Peering through windows, waiting for their big chance?”
    “I know it sounds farfetched, but we’ve got to consider every possible scenario. You know, it all makes sense.”
    “What does? Have I missed something?” Sam sat back at her desk with her hands clasped together.
    “No. No. Just thinking out loud. If Bradley was the right victim all along, it explains why the murder hasn’t been solved—why nothing has turned up. The police have been investigating the wrong murder.”
    I sat in silence for a few moments while Sam made a quick call to our accountant that she had forgotten to make earlier in the day. I had looked over the family history several times, finding nothing. But if this whole new theory was correct, there had to be more. I needed to get back into Chantal’s computer to see if there were any more notes about the history that I had overlooked. And there was something else.
    “What are you thinking about?” Sam asked, having concluded her conversation.
    “Huh? Oh. I’m thinking about Mrs. Brissart and her dislike for the cookies.” I sat up straight and slowly fingered a strand of my bangs. “In all the interrogations that have taken place over the last week, why hasn’t anyone mentioned that Mrs. Brissart didn’t like macaroons?”
    “Maybe in the aftermath of Bradley’s death, they just didn’t think about it,” Sam offered.
    “No. That’s not it. Whoever killed Bradley knew Mrs. Brissart wouldn’t eat the cookies, but they couldn’t say that, could they? It would have given them away.”
    “I suppose,” Sam sighed. “Look, all this detecting is making me hungry. I’m starving. Feel like going out for something?”
    “I’m ready when you are,” I said, suddenly remembering my grumbling stomach and forgetting about family histories. For now.
    “Listen, do you mind if we go to the mall? I’ve got to get Henry a pair of red tennis shoes to go with his costume.”
    Two hours later we were back at our office along with a forest-green sweater I found to go with my khaki slacks. By six I had cleaned up quite a bit of paperwork that had accumulated on my desk when John stopped by.
    “You look beat. Please tell me you’ll be able to get some rest this weekend?” I said.
    John took a seat in the chair opposite me and stretched out his long legs. “Sorry, it doesn’t look like it.”
    “Who have you been speaking with?” Sam asked pulling up the other chair.
    “June. What a wicked woman. You’d think