Steven Havill: Red, Green, or Murder

“Sure. More or less. I was supposed to have lunch with him today.”

“Huh. Interesting fare, Bill. Nice and light, low-calorie, easy on the spices…” He shot me one of his thin-lipped smiles.

“Some things are best withheld from the authorities,” I said, and Perrone grimaced with impatience.

“But we find out sooner or later, even if we have to do a post mortem ,” he said. “Did he have any food allergies that you know about? Ones that he ‘withheld’ from me?”

“Don’t know. You might ask Maggie, but all the times that I ate with George, there was never any mention of anything. He loved Mexican food the way Fernando Aragon cooks it at the Don Juan. He loved a big glass of red wine before he ate to whet his appetite, and then another with the meal.” I turned and looked at the table.

“That’s not exactly a conservative wine glass,” Perrone said, turning to look at the juice tumbler. “Two of those?”

“Sure.”

“Wonderful kick that must have given his kidneys.”

“He’s been eating this same thing for twenty years, doc. For what it’s worth, he stayed clear of red chile because he said that it irritated his gut. The green didn’t.”

“Until today,” Perrone observed. “Something sure as hell kicked his system.”

Estelle slipped past me. Hands gloved in latex, she slid the glass serving dish, contents and all, into an evidence bag and sealed it. I watched as she labeled it in fine, precise penmanship.

“I can’t imagine what that might be,” I said. “Maybe a wasp or hornet or something got into the house.” I glanced around at the floor, along the walls. “We have those damn centipedes all over the place this time of the year.”

“And maybe nothing at all,” Perrone added. “I’ll have to check his file, but to the best of my recollection, George never discussed allergies like that with me. I don’t recall any intolerance to meds…what few he ever took, that is.” He nudged the pill organizer that I’m sure Maggie had purchased and organized for her father. “Around here, juniper pollen bothers about 90 percent of the population-that and the ragweed along the highways. George could have stood in the middle of a blooming juniper grove holding a bouquet of ragweed and never offer up a sneeze.”

“Maybe it was one of the meds he didn’t take,” I said.

“Unlikely. But it’s something to check.” He nodded at the food. “We’ll take a good hard look at that and the stomach and esophageal contents. We’ll look for insect bites or stings, and who knows. Maybe something will turn up.” He turned a full circle. “But you know, I doubt it.” He shrugged philosophically. “My impression is that it was just the moment his general system chose to say, ‘enough.’” He gathered his bag. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said. “You want me to give the go-ahead to the EMTs?”

“Sure,” Estelle said. “Thanks.”

In another couple of minutes, the silent, white-sheeted figure of George Payton was packed aboard a gurney for his final ride. Estelle held the kitchen door for them, then closed it carefully and went back to work. The fork that George had been using went into a separate bag, and then she cracked open the sealed plastic wrap around a fair-sized test tube. Methodically, using a disposable spatula made out of a slip of sterile paper, she collected more red wine from the spill on the floor than I would have thought possible, sealed the tube, and labeled it. The tumbler went into its own bag. She was filling out the label when she paused and glanced up at me.

“Everything but the kitchen sink,” I said.

“I checked that already, sir,” she said. “The garbage can underneath the sink has a fresh liner. One empty wine bottle, one paper bag.”

I tipped open the small cabinet under the sink, and saw that the blue plastic liner of the garbage can wasn’t soiled by as much as a coffee ground. The sole contents were a wine bottle nosed down into the can, with a crumpled bag wedged in with it. No doubt, Estelle would empty all that into evidence bags, too. “So tell me,” I said, glancing back at the table. The bottle of wine that stood open on the table was fresh, minus only the tumblerful that stained the linoleum.

“Sir?”

“Something about all this,” I said. “You’re thinking again, sweetheart.”

“Oh, no,” Estelle said in mock horror. “It’s that obvious?”

“’Fraid so.”

“The allergic reaction is interesting,” the undersheriff said. “That’s all. That and the bag from the Don Juan.” That souvenir was folded into a plastic evidence bag as well.

The yellow ribbon blocking the kitchen door was down, the kitchen empty, George’s body gone. Just like that. Phil Borman stood out on the front step, smoking. He held onto the screen door as if the light breeze might tear it from its flimsy hinges. I heard him talking to someone out on the front step, a neighbor perhaps.

“There’s something apropos in all this,” Maggie Borman said. She reached out a hand to me and used my grip as leverage to rise from the sofa.

“How so?”

She held my hand in both of hers. “Dad wouldn’t have wanted to wait around until he didn’t have the strength to lift a fork, Bill. He said as much to me on a dozen occasions, you know. And more often here recently, after his last stroke. I think he could see what was coming.” She reached out and retrieved George’s unused alert button from the top of the piano. “Even this,” she said. “I bought this for him.” Maggie looked up at me, eyes appealing. “There it was on top of the piano, untouched. I wonder now if it could have saved his life.”

“Probably not,” I said. “But we’ll never know. George was George, Maggie. That’s all there is to it. He knew what he wanted.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” she said. “He missed Mama so much.” She turned toward the kitchen just in time to see Estelle drop the small evidence bag holding George’s fork into the briefcase.

A small cooler with the Sheriff’s Department logo on the lid now rested on the floor. Arranged inside, as if for a picnic, were the various items that Estelle had gathered from the kitchen-the serving dish with its plastic lid, now encased in its own plastic cocoon, the empty wine bottle and its paper bag from the trash in one evidence bag, the almost full bottle in another.

“I was going to clean all that up…” Maggie said, starting toward the kitchen. She stopped as if the yellow tape was still in place.

Estelle smiled sympathetically. “That’s all right, Mrs. Borman. We’ll take care of it.”

“You’ll need to refrigerate that,” Maggie added, and I wasn’t sure what she was thinking-that somehow the undersheriff wouldn’t know that food spoiled?

“It’s routine to run some basic lab tests, Maggie,” I said. “We’ll all be just a little more comfortable when we know what triggered the episode.” We , I heard myself say.

She looked at me, puzzled. “Well, that’s certainly all right,” she said. “I don’t know what the procedure is. Will you see that the serving dish is returned to the restaurant?”

“You bet.” I was not surprised that Maggie was concerning herself with such trivialities. It’s trivia that sometimes gets us through the toughest moments. “And Maggie, if there’s anything I can do,” I added, resorting to the well-worn exit line, “you let me know.”

She looked as if she was about to take me up on that offer, holding up a finger and taking a deep breath. Then she deflated. “Oh, there’ll be lots to do, I’m sure,” she said.

I helped Estelle lug her equipment out to her car. With no further spectacle to watch, most of the neighbors had gone about their business. Depressed as hell, I waited on the sidewalk as Estelle finished up.