Drizzled with Death(8)

“Does it look like a heart attack?” Lowell asked Bob Sterling.

“Maybe. No outward signs of what happened. But then again, you never know.” Bob raised an eyebrow like he had his doubts.

“Considering how popular she was and that she died eating something she didn’t prepare, I’m going to play it safe on this one.” Lowell said. Then he did something I’d never heard him do. He hollered. A deep, rumbling, frightening holler that stopped all noise in the grange, just as Alanza had when she traipsed through it earlier. Back when she still could move her body.

“I need everyone to remain here. I’m going to need to ask a few questions and to take attendance of who was here this morning. But first, has anyone else here taken ill? Anyone who feels the least bit off?” Lowell scanned the room, as did everyone else. All heads rotated in unison, curious about their neighbors. “Please, don’t eat anything else. I expect no one is in any danger but I don’t want to take any chances. Please remain seated and an officer will be by to take your statement or collect your contact information just as quickly as possible.” Grandma stretched to whisper something in Lowell’s ear and I saw him nod. “Families with children will be spoken with first in order to let them get on home. Thanks for your patience.”

He nodded at Mitch Reynolds, my tall, blond, and almost handsome ex-boyfriend, who headed for the the stage, an open notepad in his hand.

Lowell had a notepad of his own out and was jotting down things my grandparents were saying about timelines and consumption. Mostly, I heard Grampa evaluating Alanza’s technique as a pancake-eating contestant until Grandma reminded him that Lowell was more interested in learning how she died. The two high school boys looked both scared and excited at the same time. This was going to be a really big deal at school on Monday.

I looked over the assembled group and thought about how a town that could be counted on to turn out for a firefighters’ fund-raiser could also be one that would murder someone at the same event. Not that I was sure it was murder. Someone as rotten as Alanza might well be poisoned by her own spit. Considering the toxic things she said, it was a miracle it hadn’t happened before now.

Mitch was dismissing families with small children at a surprisingly fast clip. The hall was steadily thinning out. He looked up from the Johnson family and noticed my gaze. He pointed at me and then at a seat at the table in front of him. I was tempted to ignore him and wait for Lowell to be available but decided that if everyone else was doing their best to behave like good citizens, I could, too. I plunked myself down in the chair he indicated.

“What were you doing up there with Alanza at the time of her unfortunate demise?” He towered over me, his notebook in one hand, a pencil with a freshly sharpened tip in the other.

“I was cheering my grandfather on, of course. Alanza just happened to be one of the other competitors.”

“You aren’t going out of town anytime soon, are you?”

“You know we never go anywhere for Thanksgiving. You know how the family is about all the decorating. After the effort that goes into gussying the place up, they want to stick around and soak in the sight of it. Why? Are you telling me I’m a suspect?”

“Of course you are. All the Greenes are suspects. Not only did she die while eating your syrup, you were standing right there when she died. For all I know, you slipped something into her food or drink when no one was paying attention.”

“Why would any of us want to kill her?’

“The pewter pitcher, of course.” Mitch shook his head and rolled his eyes at me.

I looked back over to the stage. Lowell was carefully placing Alanza’s plate into one plastic bag, her jug of syrup into another, her coffee cup into a third. I tried to remember if I’d touched anything on the table, but the only thing I could think of was the coffee I’d handed to my grandparents. I wondered if they would check the surfaces of the items for fingerprints as well as the contents for poisons. There were so many people involved in an event like this, it seemed like fingerprints wouldn’t be much help. Everyone on the kitchen staff could have touched the plates, cups, and flatware. The patrons could have touched anything, including plates they decided not to use. I’d noticed children being asked to stop touching things all morning long. Their fingerprints wouldn’t make them murderers. Then there was my family. We had all helped handle the maple syrup jugs the night before. Who knew whose prints would be on each bottle? There was nothing special about Alanza’s other than her name being on it to serve as a place marker at the table.