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

flu?”
    “Oh, sure. It gets me about two or three times a year.”
    “Would you describe the way you felt at the restaurant as something like having the flu?”
    “Oh, not at all. Like I said, I was lucky—it only lasted a little while, and sometimes I can’t even remember it too well. But of course if I’d eaten more mussels—”
    “Are you absolutely sure you had paralytic shellfish poisoning?”
    “Well, sure—everybody else did.”
    “Did they do any tests at the hospital?”
    “Oh, no. They were real busy with everybody else; I was the lightest case, so they hardly bothered with me at all.”
    “They didn’t do tests to make sure you had it?”
    “I don’t think they really needed to.”
    “You’re from Oklahoma, aren’t you?”
    “Yes.”
    “And you were willing to come all this way to testify?”
    “Bob and I thought it was important.”
    “Do you by any chance have a lawsuit pending against the restaurant?”
    “I don’t see—Why do you want to know?”
    She looked at Liz, then at the judge, who said, “Answer the question, please.”
    “Yes,” said Alice, now slightly less the helpless victim.
    “No further questions,” said Dad. He hadn’t demolished her, but he’d taken some of the shine off.
    Next up was Hallie Baskett, wife of Brewster Baskett, the man who died at Full Fathom Five. She gave her age as seventy-two, but she looked ten years younger, with excellent color and a good, stout, small-town woman’s figure. She looked so strong I figured she could probably have ordered mussels that night with impunity—but she’d had prawns.
    “Was this your first visit to San Francisco?” asked Liz. “Last spring?”
    “Yes. Our son and his family moved here six months before, so we decided to visit. It was like a dream come true.”
    “How’s that?”
    “We’d always wanted to come here.” A brief sadness crossed her face, but she didn’t cry; instead, she set her lips in a hard, unattractive line, not nearly as good for Liz’s purposes as tears would have been.
    “Had your husband been ill for a few days before you went to the restaurant?”
    “Yes. He caught the flu—from the fog, I guess. But he said he wasn’t going to leave without eating at a fish restaurant.”
    “I know this is hard for you, Mrs. Baskett, but can you tell me what happened the night you went to Full Fathom Five?”
    “Well, Brewster had to have mussels. Never had had them and said he was damned if he was going to go to his grave without trying them.” Her voice was getting a little unreliable. “Said he’d have ordered cockles, too, if they’d been on the menu.” She reached in her purse for a handkerchief, dabbed at her eyes, then looked bravely back at Liz. “Well, he thought they were the greatest thing since sliced bread. Tried to get me to try one, and our son and daughter-in-law, too. But we wouldn’t do it. I said, ‘Everybody to their own taste, said the old lady as she kissed the cow.’ Ugly things.” She made a face. “Brewster always was a fast eater. He ate all of ’em before I’d hardly started my prawns.”
    “Did he complain of tingling or numbness in his mouth or his fingers?”
    “Nope. Just sat there looking like the cat that swallowed the canary. He liked doing adventuresome things, you know—things people his age don’t usually do. I could tell he was real proud of himself. Then I noticed his breathin’ started sounding funny—real gaspy. I said, ‘Brewster, what is it? That flu’s got you again?’ But he didn’t answer; just sort of toppled over on the floor.” Her words had come out in a great burst, and now her sobs did. Liz asked if she wanted a recess, but she shook her head.
    In a moment, she said, “I’m a lifelong Presbyterian and I know what happened was God’s will. I don’t want you to think I’m a crybaby.”
    “Can you tell the jury what happened to your husband after he fell on the floor?”
    “He couldn’t catch his breath. Just struggled and struggled to breathe. And I couldn’t do nothin’ to help him. Then the ambulance came, but he was quietened down by then; I don’t know but that he was already dead. ” Her voice was firm again, the voice of a woman doing what she knew she had to do.
    Taking a leaf from Dad’s book, Liz said, “I think you’re very brave, Mrs. Baskett. I have no more questions.”
    But Dad wasn’t about to be outdone. He said, “I think you’re very brave, too. You must miss your husband