Read Online A Geek Girl's Guide to Arsenic by Julie Anne Lindsey - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Julie Anne Lindsey
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I couldn’t be positive the sampler hadn’t been poisoned while I was distracted by the crowd, but my gut said the odds were too slim to mention. I’d sensed John wasn’t quite himself from the moment he approached. Besides, no reason to increase public fears and perpetuate the crazy. For good measure, I offered a full refund to anyone who had a change of heart about our products, and I promised responders to the email a love package in time for Christmas. Anyone willing to contact the company with their thoughts, worries or words of encouragement would be rewarded. I’d post the positive comments online and hopefully nip the negative ones in the bud.
I arched my back and stretched. Much as I wanted to crawl into bed, something itched my restless mind. Something I’d wanted to research since Jake said the name.
I opened a new window and typed Bennie the Bean. I marveled at the number of entries, though most were speculation, blogs and alleged sightings. It seemed Bennie dabbled in everything from money laundering to racketeering. The guy was practically an urban legend. The most recent photograph of Bennie was outside a courthouse in the 1970s, based on attire. No accompanying article. Apparently, he hadn’t made a public appearance in ages, increasing to the man-myth-legend persona.
One article became two dozen as I devoured information on my subject. How could John have been tied up with this guy? Weren’t there better choices for a painter with his talent? What about art school? Teaching? Anything other than working for the mob.
Hypotheses whirled in my addled brain, mixing with coffee-laced adrenaline and fear. John had died in front of me. How close had the killer been at that moment? Chills swept over my arms. I flipped through more articles on Bennie. Murder. Shootings. People found in the river. Crushed in cars at junkyards. If there was a theme, it was that Bennie’s known associates met untimely deaths by the busload.
There was also an anomaly. None of his alleged victims were poisoned.
I rubbed tired eyes and set my glasses aside. Maybe he’d gotten bored and wanted to switch up his MO. Who knew what went on in a mobster’s mind? Then again, maybe this was more complicated than a mob boss locating a guy in witness protection and taking him out. Though, that scenario seemed complicated enough. Maybe I’d been right when I told Nate it probably wasn’t a mob hit at all?
Melanie’s wild outbursts came to mind. She’d been livid, but would she have killed him? She’d whacked his body and screamed professions of undying love. Unstable? Maybe, but who was I to judge? Was she a killer? Not likely, but not impossible. She had motivation and opportunity.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. My elbow slid over the cool desktop, and I rested my head on my arm. Everybody loved John.
Maybe it was his business partner. Money was a powerful motivator.
A wide yawn split my tired face.
Poison was so unusual. So specific and personal. Wasn’t it? Not a crime of passion or a typical mob hit. People weren’t poisoned in the heat of the moment. Someone had planned his death, boldly placed the poison in his way, and moved on as if nothing had transpired. Would they have stayed to watch? To be sure it worked?
The crowd in my mind’s eye had pitchforks circa Frankenstein and unruly expressions. They were different than today, ready to charge on me at any moment.
“It wasn’t me.” My voice barely rang above their rage.
The feral crowd snarled and lunged.
I ran.
They chased me into the forest outside the Faire. My bare feet caught on twigs and branches, spearing my skin and hobbling my movement. The trees were tall and barren. No way to climb and
I couldn’t be positive the sampler hadn’t been poisoned while I was distracted by the crowd, but my gut said the odds were too slim to mention. I’d sensed John wasn’t quite himself from the moment he approached. Besides, no reason to increase public fears and perpetuate the crazy. For good measure, I offered a full refund to anyone who had a change of heart about our products, and I promised responders to the email a love package in time for Christmas. Anyone willing to contact the company with their thoughts, worries or words of encouragement would be rewarded. I’d post the positive comments online and hopefully nip the negative ones in the bud.
I arched my back and stretched. Much as I wanted to crawl into bed, something itched my restless mind. Something I’d wanted to research since Jake said the name.
I opened a new window and typed Bennie the Bean. I marveled at the number of entries, though most were speculation, blogs and alleged sightings. It seemed Bennie dabbled in everything from money laundering to racketeering. The guy was practically an urban legend. The most recent photograph of Bennie was outside a courthouse in the 1970s, based on attire. No accompanying article. Apparently, he hadn’t made a public appearance in ages, increasing to the man-myth-legend persona.
One article became two dozen as I devoured information on my subject. How could John have been tied up with this guy? Weren’t there better choices for a painter with his talent? What about art school? Teaching? Anything other than working for the mob.
Hypotheses whirled in my addled brain, mixing with coffee-laced adrenaline and fear. John had died in front of me. How close had the killer been at that moment? Chills swept over my arms. I flipped through more articles on Bennie. Murder. Shootings. People found in the river. Crushed in cars at junkyards. If there was a theme, it was that Bennie’s known associates met untimely deaths by the busload.
There was also an anomaly. None of his alleged victims were poisoned.
I rubbed tired eyes and set my glasses aside. Maybe he’d gotten bored and wanted to switch up his MO. Who knew what went on in a mobster’s mind? Then again, maybe this was more complicated than a mob boss locating a guy in witness protection and taking him out. Though, that scenario seemed complicated enough. Maybe I’d been right when I told Nate it probably wasn’t a mob hit at all?
Melanie’s wild outbursts came to mind. She’d been livid, but would she have killed him? She’d whacked his body and screamed professions of undying love. Unstable? Maybe, but who was I to judge? Was she a killer? Not likely, but not impossible. She had motivation and opportunity.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. My elbow slid over the cool desktop, and I rested my head on my arm. Everybody loved John.
Maybe it was his business partner. Money was a powerful motivator.
A wide yawn split my tired face.
Poison was so unusual. So specific and personal. Wasn’t it? Not a crime of passion or a typical mob hit. People weren’t poisoned in the heat of the moment. Someone had planned his death, boldly placed the poison in his way, and moved on as if nothing had transpired. Would they have stayed to watch? To be sure it worked?
The crowd in my mind’s eye had pitchforks circa Frankenstein and unruly expressions. They were different than today, ready to charge on me at any moment.
“It wasn’t me.” My voice barely rang above their rage.
The feral crowd snarled and lunged.
I ran.
They chased me into the forest outside the Faire. My bare feet caught on twigs and branches, spearing my skin and hobbling my movement. The trees were tall and barren. No way to climb and
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