Alex Harris 00 - Poisoned

Maybe I’ll cheat some more at bingo or better yet I’ve always wanted to rob a bank.” Meme cackled and my mother rolled her eyes.
    “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” My mother shook her head.
    We watched our parents go through security and waved until they were out of sight.
    “London. What a wonderful place. You and John should go,” Sam suggested. “Kids, come on. We’re leaving.”
    We walked slowly back to the car with our arms looped through Meme’s.
    “It does sound heavenly. Maybe when he’s through with this case.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

    “Price check on three!” the voice boomed over the store intercom. I absently turned over the bottle of salad dressing in search of a price. A bar code on the back would have to suffice. If everything had bar codes, why did someone need a price check on three? Modern technology could only go so far, I thought. Heading for the produce section, I smiled at the thought of someone trying to put tiny bar codes on each and every cherry tomato or apricot or string bean.
    It was late, but after dropping my parents off at the airport and then convincing Meme it was too cold to rob the Bank of Indian Cove, I felt restless and thought it would be a great time to get some shopping done. Inspecting every head of lettuce in the bin, I finally settled on a small one and added tomatoes, an avocado from California, radishes, and a cucumber to my cart and then headed to checkout. There seemed to be a ruckus in full swing on checkout four, so I moved into the next aisle. Trying not to get involved in the argument, I nevertheless got drawn to the action. The angry young man at the counter yelled at the checker and tossed in a few choice words along the lines of “check again!” and “I don’t fucking believe this!”
    Something in the voice registered in the recesses of my mind and I craned my neck trying for a better look over a display of tabloids—this week’s edition announcing that the Kardashians were really aliens under all that makeup and hair. I had long suspected as much. My eyes, momentarily averted to a smiling Kardashian and an artist’s rendition of what she really looked like under the makeup, I then turned my attention back to the blowup on four and saw a very angry Stuart Brissart.
    My turn approaching, I compassionately let a young mother with a cranky toddler go ahead while I craned my head trying to hear Stuart.
    “I’m sorry, sir,” the young woman began again, “but your credit card has been rejected. I’ve run it through twice. Now you’ll have to pay for these things with cash or step aside and let the next person through.”
    A man I recognized as the assistant manager arrived and told Stuart to either pay for the things or please leave the store. After a few more exchanges, Stuart threw a few bills down on the counter and left.
    Dumping my groceries on my kitchen table fifteen minutes later, I went to light the pumpkins and squash on my front porch. Although late, I felt as if I was never home and Halloween was slipping away from me. Their bright faces and crooked teeth smiled up at me and I faced them toward the empty street. The people across the road had several pumpkins on their front walk along with a scarecrow in the middle of their yard. Somewhere in the neighborhood someone had a fire going and the acrid scent filled the night air. It was certainly a good night for it. The sky looked like a blue-black carpet dotted with silver and the moon, a soft yellow, peeked through the branches of the maple in my front yard.
    As I put my groceries away, I thought about what had just happened at the store. I knew Stuart gambled but could it possibly be so bad that he couldn’t afford to buy food? I wondered if Mrs. Brissart knew of her grandson’s trouble.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

    “J.T. is still missing, so to speak,” John said very early the next morning.
    “Huh?” I asked from my position snuggled under my snowman-printed down comforter.
    “Did I wake you?” John asked over the phone with mock innocence.
    It was literally the crack of dawn. He didn’t want to come all the way over to my house—all five extra miles—so he said he would meet me at my office in half an hour with a cup of hot tea. I told him to give me forty-five minutes and there had better be a few vanilla scones to go with it.
    “No one has seen him for a while. I’d really like to talk with him, though I can’t imagine why he would kill Bradley. Unless he didn’t