Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

‘Paralytic Shellfish Toxin,’ and maybe some ‘Relics of the True Cross of Mount Davidson.’”
    “Alan, you’re fired.”
    “Hey, boss, you’re young yet. By real loose standards, I mean. It’s never too late to start a new career.”
    I ignored him, stalking in a dignified manner into my office and deeply regretting having thought well of him for half an hour several months ago.
    “You’re going to need a business manager.”
    I slammed my door.

18
     
    Dad was already in court when I arrived the next day, wearing a tie with only one spot on it and looking ready for anything. I hoped he was—today Liz was scheduled to present the most damaging part of her case. The first witness was a man named George Henderson, manager of Full Fathom Five.
    “Mr. Henderson,” said Liz, “have you ever seen the defendant before?”
    “Yes. He worked in the kitchen at the restaurant for three days last April.”
    “Did anything out of the ordinary happen during those three days?”
    “On the third day, we inadvertently served quarantined mussels to some of our customers. Eleven people became ill, and of those, one died.”
    “Had you bought any local mussels during the previous few days?”
    “I hadn’t bought any in a month because of the quarantine. We’re very careful to use only eastern mussels if there’s any danger at all. In fact, we don’t even buy many of those when there’s a quarantine because fewer people order them then.”
    “When did you last see Mr. Zimbardo?”
    “He was there the night of the tragedy. But I don’t remember seeing him after people started getting sick.”
    “He left the restaurant?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did any of the other employees leave the restaurant?”
    “No. They helped me take care of people until the paramedics came. Some of them helped calm people down. I don’t even think any customers left—everyone was kind of—uh—paralyzed.”
    A nervous titter rippled throughout the courtroom.
    “Did Mr. Zimbardo have access to the refrigerator where the mussels were kept?”
    “Yes.”
    “No further questions.”
    “Mr. Henderson,” I asked, “did anyone else have access to that refrigerator?”
    “All the employees did.”
    “How do the kitchen employees dress?”
    “In white. With white hats.”
    “Do you ever find it difficult to tell them apart—at a distance, say?”
    Henderson’s hands twitched. “Not particularly.”
    “From the back?”
    “They look fairly similar from the back.”
    “If someone had come into the kitchen dressed as an employee on the night of the shellfish poisonings, is it possible he or she wouldn’t have been noticed?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Were you very busy that night?”
    “Extremely.”
    “So an imposter might have gone unnoticed?”
    “I don’t see how.”
    “Mr. Henderson, do you pride yourself on fine service at your restaurant?”
    “Yes, we do.”
    “Would you say that most of your employees are very wrapped up in their jobs?”
    “They wouldn’t last a week if they weren’t.”
    I sat down, but Liz got up again: “Did you see a stranger in the kitchen the night of the poisonings?”
    “No, I didn’t.”
    “Did any of your employees report seeing one?”
    “No, they didn’t.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    I said to Dad, “Pretty bad, wasn’t it?”
    “It could have been worse.” He paused. “And it’s going to be.”
    The next scheduled witness was the medical examiner, then some doctors who’d taken care of the victims, and after that the big guns—an expert on paralytic shellfish poisoning, one of the surviving victims, and Mrs. Baskett, the wife of the man who died. “You take everybody but the last two,” said Dad. “I’ll do the victims.”
    The coroner’s man and the doctors were fairly technical, but the expert was another matter altogether. Dr. Dan Ervin was a physician who worked for the State Department of Health Services, a distinguished white-haired chap who looked as if he ought to smoke a pipe.
    For about ten minutes, Liz led him through the steps of his career, establishing his expertise on the subject of mussel neurotoxin. Then she got down to it: “Dr. Ervin, what causes paralytic shellfish poisoning?”
    “The substance is called saxitoxin. It’s produced by a land of plankton—a dinoflagellate that goes under the name of
Gonyaulax catenella
.”
    “Do shellfish feed on the plankton?”
    “Yes. Mussels are filter feeders; they concentrate what is in the