Stuart Kaminsky - Show Business is Murder

Evelyn could see another little blonde eating a salad, then going out into the sweltering Fair Saint Louis sunshine. She could see her white throat swelling and closing up, and the blonde staggering and dying just before the paramedics arrived.

Then Evelyn saw herself taking back the fair assignment that was rightfully hers.

Granny had given her the solution to the Tiffany problem after all. In fact, she’d served it on a plate.

“What’s this phenomenon called?” Evelyn asked.

“Photo… photo… photo-something,” Granny said.

Photosensitization.

“A pathological sensitivity caused by eating certain plants that are not ordinarily poisonous,” Evelyn’s researches at the library revealed.

“A form of light dermatosis,” said one old book that was a virtual manual for poisoners. Evelyn couldn’t risk checking it out, so she stole it from the library, burying it in her briefcase. At home, she read the section on photosensitization over and over, gloating over each sentence.

“Its symptoms are an inflammatory swelling of the ears, face, and eyelids, with throat and lung disturbances, dizziness and a tendency to stagger,” the book said. “When, in rare instances, death follows, it is due to mechanical asphyxia from the swelling of the nose and throat.”

Death would be nice, Evelyn thought. But she would settle for seeing the golden girl swell up like a red balloon. Maybe she’d pop, right on camera.

Evelyn giggled, but it was not a cute Tiffany Tyler Taylor giggle.

Her researches only got better: Rue and celery, especially the green leafy parts of celery, were rich in furanocourmarins. The name alone was enough to make you turn red and swell.

Some people were supersensitive to them. They’d get a horrible sunburn-like reaction. The lighter-skinned you were, the more intense the reaction. Especially if you went out into the sun.

And if you were taking a drug like Coumadin, it further intensified the reaction, Evelyn read. Lots of people took the blood thinner Coumadin. It was also the main ingredient in rat poison.

All Evelyn had to do was make a nice salad with rue and celery, then spice it with a little rat poison. Not enough to make a brunette sick. Just enough to blow up a little blonde.

It was so easy.

Evelyn knew where to get the rue plants. The pasture near Granny’s was filled with them.

Evelyn knew how she would serve them, too. She’d make a field greens salad, then add the rue. It was a field green, too. When people were chomping baby oak leaves and stuff that looked like it had been raked off a lawn, who’d notice some rue? Then she’d sprinkle on green celery leaves for color. Everyone used celery.

A cheese dressing would disguise any bitter taste. I’ll make raspberry vinaigrette with Gorgonzola, she thought. I’ll add walnuts and dried cranberries to make it nice and healthy .

For everyone but Tiffany.

For good measure, she’d Cuisinart a little rat poison and add it to the dressing. It would blend in with the herbs and spices. She’d calculate exactly the medicinal dose for a small woman-divided by three salad eaters. Sun, celery, rue-and rat poison. Tiffany would rue the day she went after anything of Evelyn’s.

There was one problem. How would she get Tiffany to eat the salad? Everyone knew Evelyn hated the woman. She barely said hello to Tiffany in the newsroom. She had one month to make friends with her enemy: Evelyn would have to swallow her pride so Tiffany would swallow her salad.

Next morning, Evelyn walked into Margaret’s office and said, “You’re right. It’s time I buried the hatchet.”

“In Tiffany’s forehead?” Margaret said, suspiciously.

“For real,” Evelyn said. “Yesterday, I had some time to think about what you said. I’m only hurting myself. I want to take Tiffany to lunch. My treat. Would you come as referee?”

“Delighted,” Margaret said, her pale face turning pink with pleasure. “I’m so happy you’re taking my advice.”

Tiffany was wary when Evelyn invited her, even when she explained that Margaret would be there, too. But she could not resist Evelyn’s handsome apology. “I’ve behaved stupidly, Tiffany,” she said. “I want this lunch to be a peace offering.”

Tiffany looked flattered. She considered Evelyn’s olive branch a tribute to her power. During a two-hundred-dollar lunch at a premier power spot, Tiffany prattled on about her favorite subject-herself.

“Tiffany Too and I are the marshals for the Hill Day parade,” she said, while the worshipful waiter refilled Tiffany’s water glass, and forgot Evelyn’s.

The Hill was the Italian section of the city. “Your dog will love the fire hydrants,” said Evelyn. “They’re painted red, white, and green.”

“Oh, no, she isn’t allowed out of the parade marshal’s convertible,” Tiffany said seriously. “Not in those crowds.”

Tiffany babbled on. Mentor Margaret smiled benignly. Evelyn cut her swordfish into smaller and smaller pieces until the waiter took her plate away. No one ordered dessert. The reconciliation lunch was over, and declared a success.

Evelyn suffered through two more Tiffany lunches with Margaret’s approving company. Because she silently endured Tiffany’s monologues, the beastly blonde now considered Evelyn her friend.

“I can talk to you,” she said. “You’re such a good listener.”

Peace was declared. The nasty newsroom rumors ceased, and the gossip mongers went after the noonshow anchor, who was having an affair with the consumer reporter. The jokes about what she was consuming were relentless.

At their third lunch, Tiffany finally gave Evelyn the opening she needed.

“I’m not looking forward to covering the fair,” Tiffany said, sighing dramatically. Evelyn knew Tiffany was dying for an excuse to talk about her big assignment. At least, Evelyn hoped the twit would be dying.

“It’s going to be such a long day,” Tiffany cooed. “Almost ten hours. The station is keeping Tiffany Too in the air-conditioned satellite truck. My little puppy will be cool, but I’ll be out on the hot fairgrounds all day from eleven o’clock on.”

Evelyn ground her teeth as she thought of Tiffany’s taking over her assignment, but she forced herself to sound sympathetic. “That is a long day. What are you doing about lunch?”

Tiffany shuddered delicately. “I can either eat the station’s food-tuna salad and ham sandwiches-all fat-or the fair food-hot dogs and buffalo burgers. Yuck.”

Actually, the fair offered delicacies from chicken satay to, yes, buffalo burgers. But how would Tiffany know? She’d never covered the fair.

“I come in at noon,” Evelyn said. “How about if I bring salads for you, me, and Margaret? I have this terrific recipe, with field greens, Gorgonzola, walnuts, and dried cranberries. A good healthy salad will get us through the day.”

“Super!” said Tiffany. “You’re a lifesaver!”

Yeah, thought Evelyn. I’m saving my life. And my career .

The night before the fair, Evelyn drove to the pasture near Granny’s and climbed over the fence. Her pants were full of stickleburrs and her hands were scratched with brambles, but she picked the plants she needed by moonlight. The lights were off at her grandmother’s house. Deep shadows along the pasture fence hid Evelyn. Even the night conspired to help her.

In the morning, she concocted the salad, adding the freshly picked rue to the store-bought field greens. She made her salad dressing with a carefully calibrated dose of rat poison. It was the exact dosage for one small healthy woman. Divided by three, of course. Because they’d all be sharing the salad.

She put the salad into a big disposable bowl. She would make sure everyone saw there was only one salad container. At lunch, she served the salad on paper plates, dividing the poisonous portions exactly in three.