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Authors: Jeanne Glidewell
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door and hung the dishtowel up to dry.
"Are you all right?" Crystal asked as I stumbled, reaching for the phone. I nodded
and gratefully sat down on the stool she slid across the floor toward me.
I greeted Wendy, who was calling from the coroner's lab again. She was excited about
executing the autopsy on Horatio Prescott III without a single hitch. "As suspected,
he was killed by a single gunshot wound to the head," she said. "I extracted a thirty-two-caliber
slug from his skull, just behind the right eye socket."
Wendy said this in the same manner anyone else's daughter might when bragging about
being named Employee of the Month. I found it a little distasteful.
"Surprise, surprise," I said. "Are you certain it wasn't something he ate? You know
those chicken bones can be hazardous."
"What was unexpected though," Wendy continued, ignoring my sarcasm entirely, "was
the damage we found to Mr. Prescott's organs. Prior to being shot, he'd ingested some
form of toxin."
"Ahh, so it was something he ate," I said, even as I realized I was being too glib. A man had been
murdered, and I was making light of it. The giddiness was partially due to the almost
intoxicated sensation I was suddenly experiencing.
"He hadn't ingested enough to kill him, but it's safe to say he wasn't feeling too
whoopee this morning at the time he was murdered. There was also quite a bit of scotch
in his system, so we think the poison might have been slipped into a drink and probably
ingested just before midnight. I determined he died somewhere between four and six A.M., and Nate concurred with my conclusion."
"How could you determine the time of his death?"
"By the temperature of his liver. The liver also showed signs of degeneration from
the presence of the poisonous substance."
"That would agree with the time I heard him hit the floor in the room above me, which
was 5:08. What exactly is the poisonous substance found in his system?"
"Don't know yet," Wendy said, "but we should have the toxicology report back soon."
I tried to answer but began to cough as a result of a dry, burning throat that had
been bothering me off and on all evening. I hacked again, and Wendy asked, "You okay,
Mom? You haven't started smoking again, have you? You're coughing, and you just don't
sound like yourself."
"No, honey, I haven't started smoking again, and I don't plan to. It's just a sore
throat causing me to cough. It's nothing to worry about. I'm probably just catching
a cold. Or it could just be the dry winter air in this place."
"Have you taken any Alka-Seltzer yet?" Wendy's answer to everything from a splinter
to congestive heart failure was Alka-Seltzer. She swore Alka-Seltzer, if taken early
enough, could ward off anything, whether it is a cold, the flu, or the black plague.
"No, not yet, but I'll check to see if Stone has any in his medicine cabinet. So,
anyway, is it safe to assume Mr. Prescott was shot because the poison failed to do
the trick?" I asked.
"That'd be my guess. No need to kill a guy twice."
* * *
After the Historical Society guests retired to their rooms for the evening, I joined
Stone in the parlor to discuss the day's events. I had poured myself another cup of
espresso and carried it in the room with me.
Stone gave me a long, tender kiss before he noticed the cup in my hand. "Good Lord,
Lexie, are you still drinking coffee? Haven't you had more than enough of the stuff
today already? You'll never get any sleep tonight."
"I gave up the prayer of sleeping a long time ago. But, actually, I'm feeling a bit
nauseated at the moment, so I don't think I'd better drink anymore of this, anyway.
I was just going to go check your medicine cabinet for Alka-Seltzer."
"I'll go buy a box of it for you if there isn't any in the cabinet. And maybe I'll
pick up some Nyquil to help you sleep—so you won't be up all night."
"By the sounds of the floorboards creaking and groaning upstairs, I
"Are you all right?" Crystal asked as I stumbled, reaching for the phone. I nodded
and gratefully sat down on the stool she slid across the floor toward me.
I greeted Wendy, who was calling from the coroner's lab again. She was excited about
executing the autopsy on Horatio Prescott III without a single hitch. "As suspected,
he was killed by a single gunshot wound to the head," she said. "I extracted a thirty-two-caliber
slug from his skull, just behind the right eye socket."
Wendy said this in the same manner anyone else's daughter might when bragging about
being named Employee of the Month. I found it a little distasteful.
"Surprise, surprise," I said. "Are you certain it wasn't something he ate? You know
those chicken bones can be hazardous."
"What was unexpected though," Wendy continued, ignoring my sarcasm entirely, "was
the damage we found to Mr. Prescott's organs. Prior to being shot, he'd ingested some
form of toxin."
"Ahh, so it was something he ate," I said, even as I realized I was being too glib. A man had been
murdered, and I was making light of it. The giddiness was partially due to the almost
intoxicated sensation I was suddenly experiencing.
"He hadn't ingested enough to kill him, but it's safe to say he wasn't feeling too
whoopee this morning at the time he was murdered. There was also quite a bit of scotch
in his system, so we think the poison might have been slipped into a drink and probably
ingested just before midnight. I determined he died somewhere between four and six A.M., and Nate concurred with my conclusion."
"How could you determine the time of his death?"
"By the temperature of his liver. The liver also showed signs of degeneration from
the presence of the poisonous substance."
"That would agree with the time I heard him hit the floor in the room above me, which
was 5:08. What exactly is the poisonous substance found in his system?"
"Don't know yet," Wendy said, "but we should have the toxicology report back soon."
I tried to answer but began to cough as a result of a dry, burning throat that had
been bothering me off and on all evening. I hacked again, and Wendy asked, "You okay,
Mom? You haven't started smoking again, have you? You're coughing, and you just don't
sound like yourself."
"No, honey, I haven't started smoking again, and I don't plan to. It's just a sore
throat causing me to cough. It's nothing to worry about. I'm probably just catching
a cold. Or it could just be the dry winter air in this place."
"Have you taken any Alka-Seltzer yet?" Wendy's answer to everything from a splinter
to congestive heart failure was Alka-Seltzer. She swore Alka-Seltzer, if taken early
enough, could ward off anything, whether it is a cold, the flu, or the black plague.
"No, not yet, but I'll check to see if Stone has any in his medicine cabinet. So,
anyway, is it safe to assume Mr. Prescott was shot because the poison failed to do
the trick?" I asked.
"That'd be my guess. No need to kill a guy twice."
* * *
After the Historical Society guests retired to their rooms for the evening, I joined
Stone in the parlor to discuss the day's events. I had poured myself another cup of
espresso and carried it in the room with me.
Stone gave me a long, tender kiss before he noticed the cup in my hand. "Good Lord,
Lexie, are you still drinking coffee? Haven't you had more than enough of the stuff
today already? You'll never get any sleep tonight."
"I gave up the prayer of sleeping a long time ago. But, actually, I'm feeling a bit
nauseated at the moment, so I don't think I'd better drink anymore of this, anyway.
I was just going to go check your medicine cabinet for Alka-Seltzer."
"I'll go buy a box of it for you if there isn't any in the cabinet. And maybe I'll
pick up some Nyquil to help you sleep—so you won't be up all night."
"By the sounds of the floorboards creaking and groaning upstairs, I
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