Killer Confections8 Delectable Mysteries(563)

“It’s apparently not nearly as toxic as that Moroccan plant. People have been known to die from it, but sometimes the symptoms don’t even show up for as much as three days. Although they could show up in a few hours, depending on how much the person ate and their general state of health.”

“I see. What are the symptoms, Melvin?”

“Well, the coroner didn’t say too much about that one, since it isn’t the one that killed her... no, wait, he did say something about the first symptoms being a general tiredness, a gradual weakening of the muscles.”

I tried to remain calm. “Melvin, if it takes a while for the poison in fool’s parsley to kick in, isn’t it possible that others besides Linda might have eaten some? That the poison might be slowly working in some of us right now?”

I thought I heard Melvin scratch his head. “I suppose that’s possible, Miss Yoder, but it doesn’t make any sense, does it? The killer used two poisons, remember? If any of you had been given the Moroccan poison, you’d be dead as a doornail by now.”

“But Melvin,” I foolishly persisted, “what if there are two killers? What if the one who used the Moroccan poison only wanted Miss Brown and Linda dead, but the second one wanted to kill more than just the two women? What if there are two independent killers, with two different agendas, Melvin?”

I’m sorry to say this, Mrs. Stoltzfus, but your son laughed just then. “Magdalena! Susannah was right. You do have an active imagination. Two killers in one place at the same time, with different motives? Do you know what the odds are of such a thing happening?” What did odds have to do with anything? What were the odds of anybody dying in the PennDutch Inn to begin with? I mean, even Mama and Papa didn't die here, and as for Grandma Yoder, she was ninety-seven and should, by rights, have died in a nursing home. What were the odds that Miss Brown would check in, and then “check out” before she even had a chance to check out? So, what did it matter what the odds were, when Susannah walked in and found Linda dead, clutching in her hands a quilt that wasn’t even supposed to be in that room to begin with.

“Forget odds!” I practically screamed. “Use your noggin. Why on earth would someone give a person a slow-acting poison if they were going to give them a fast-acting poison later on? And how come Miss Brown got only one poison when Linda got two?”

“I didn’t appreciate your comment about my head,” Melvin snapped. “And as you are a civilian, Miss Yoder, I don’t think we need to carry this conversation any further.” He hung up.

“But, Melvin, I think I know who one of your killers is,” I said anyway.

Immediately, I tried to call Melvin back, but the line was busy. I called at least six more times in the next ten minutes, but it was always the same.

Finally I gave up and rang old Doc instead. He picked up on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Doc?” But I never got to say any more than that. Because at that very second the door to my bedroom opened and Billy Dee Grizzle stepped in. In his hand he carried the same hunting knife he’d used to skin the buck.





Chapter 23





“Put the phone down,” he said softly.

I obeyed.

“Now come here.”

I got off the bed, where I’d been sitting, and tried to take a step in his direction. But I found that my feet had suddenly been rooted to the floor. I willed them to move, but they would have no part of it.

“I said, get over here.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out.

Billy Dee took a couple of steps forward, the knife plainly in view. “I’m sorry to say this, Miss Yoder, but if you don’t cooperate, I’m going to have to slice you wide open like that buck this afternoon.” He ran the tip of the knife lightly across his clothing, from his throat down to his groin. “Then I’m going to gut you.”

I screamed then, at least in my mind, but no sound came out that I could hear. Like Susannah, I had become a silent screamer.

Billy Dee sprang forward and grabbed me by the hair with his left hand. Then he spun me around and slipped his right arm around my neck. The tip of the knife now rested against that soft spot between the back of my left ear and my skull. “Walk!”

I commanded my feet to walk. Like reluctant and disorganized troops, my feet at last obeyed, and I lurched forward. With each step, I could feel the tip of the knife prick into my skin. With each breath I took, I could smell Billy Dee’s breath, which was saturated with alcohol. Like a monstrous pair of mating beetles, we staggered in tandem to the door.

“The kitchen,” he grunted.