The glass flew onto the floor, splashing cola onto every dry surface and shooting ice across the carpet like hockey pucks.
“What’d you do that for?” he barked.
“It’s you!” I cried, firing my accusation at Patrice like a bullet from a .45. “You saw his ring!” I jerked Woody’s hand upward and flashed his ring finger. “You know its history. It’s why you want to kill him!”
Eyes big as plates, Patrice backed slowly toward the bar. “I don’t know what you say, madame.” He stretched his hand out in warning. “You should mind where you step. The ice. You might slip.”
“I couldn’t figure out the one detail that connected all the events, but it was you. You were the connection.”
I heard loud thumps and scuffling as the gang stampeded across the room to form a wide circle around me.
“It’s him what’s been doin’ the killin’?” asked Nana.
I nodded. “It’s him. When the police analyze the contents of the highball he just mixed for Woody, I suspect the jig will be up.”
Woody snorted his outrage. “He put something in my drink?”
“Blood thinner,” I said. “Warfarin. Most probably left over from the hip replacement surgery he underwent last year. The drug that killed Krystal. The drug that sent Victor to the hospital.”
Patrice took another step backward, chest heaving, eyes skittish. He shook his head. “A mistake. A terrible mistake. I did not mean for the girl to die. I did not mean for the gentleman to suffer.”
“Then why did they?” I demanded.
“The mademoiselle. It was a terrible confusion. The day she died, she ate the food I intended for him. Cochon,” he spat at Woody.
Woody looked stunned. “You mean to say, if I’d eaten Krystal’s breakfast, I’d be dead?”
“That was the idea,” snarled Patrice.
“How did the order get mixed up in the first place?” I urged. “They both ordered the same thing, so—”
“Two omelets,” snapped Patrice. “One for the man in place setting one, and one for the mademoiselle in place setting two. She should be alive. He should be dead. So I ask, what happened?”
“They switched seats,” I said, recalling breakfast that morning. “Krystal complained about having to sit in the sun, so Woody offered to change seats with her. If you’d been the one who actually served the food, you might have noticed the switch, but, as I remember, you conveniently found someone else to do your dirty work for you.”
He had the decency to look sheepish. “What can I say? The dining room was very busy that morning.”
“Let this be a lesson to all you men,” Helen blasted. “Giving up your seat to a lady might save your life one day. YOU HEAR THAT, DICK?”
“Krystal didn’t complain to anyone about the food tasting funny?” I pressed Patrice.
“She would have no cause. The drug has no taste, no odor. And when mixed into the horseradish-infused sauce for the omelet, it would have been undetectable. But again, it pains me greatly that she died. She was not my intended target.”
“And what about Victor? How did you make a mistake with him?”
“The Bloody Marys last night.” He trained a damning eye on Woody. “I placed the drink directly in his hand, but what does he do? He sets it on the table so close to Monsieur Martin’s cocktail that the other gentleman picks it up and drinks it.” He thrust an angry finger at Woody. “Why are you so hard to kill? You belong in Hell with the scum who executed my grandfather on the morning of D-Day!”