Chapter Twenty-Eight. The Body with The Knives
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE BODY WITH THE KNIVES
Our next interview is going to require a different approach. Unlike Malia, I don’t think Mr. Namura is going to enjoy being a suspect. I check this theory with Felix as we head to the kitchen.
“Are all chefs a little sensitive?”
“I assume you’re asking because of my mad culinary skills?” Felix preens, but he’s not wrong, so I let it pass. “Based on a statistically small sampling, I’d say yes. But it could also be a Mr. Namura thing.”
We find him in the kitchen, which isn’t unusual. The odd part is that he isn’t cooking. My detective skills suggest this might have something to do with the empty cupboard shelves.
“What’s going on?” Felix asks.
“I’m restocking the spices,” Mr. Namura replies as he wipes down the inside of a cabinet. “Might as well give it a good cleaning while I’m at it.”
I peek into the reusable shopping bags lined up against the wall, confirming that they are, in fact, full of jarred spices. “What happened to the old ones?”
“They took them in for testing.” His tone is flat, but there’s a bite-size huff at the end that tells us how he really feels.
“But it wasn’t an allergy,” I argue, as if Detective Ortiz is in the room and interested in my opinion. “You can’t poison someone with cinnamon.”
Mr. Namura shrugs. “Perhaps they think I replaced the turmeric with arsenic.” He finishes wiping down another shelf and sets the cloth in the sink before reaching into one of the bags.
Each spice gets a quick wipe with a tea towel, after which he sets them on the counter, label facing forward.
Is he—yes, he is arranging them alphabetically.
Thank goodness my mother isn’t here to get ideas.
“I didn’t want to leave the shelves empty,” he says without looking at us. “In case they come back and lock me up.”
“They’re not going to do that.” It’s a reflexive response, but also come on. Would a guy who treats paprika with this much care kill a human being?
“Who can say?” Mr. Namura slides a jar of cardamom next to the caraway seeds.
Felix reaches into the bag, handing him another spice without looking at the label. “Did he happen to mention what kind of poison it was?”
“The detective is too cunning for that.” Despite the ransacking of his kitchen, there’s a lingering trace of admiration in Mr. Namura’s voice. “But I notice they also searched medicine cabinets. And the waste bins.”
I share a quick glance with Felix, who seems to be thinking the same thing. They were too late to find a certain missing tumbler. I can’t help wondering what Detective Ortiz would have made of finding Bernie’s big cup in the trash: a smoking gun, or a meaningless coincidence?
“The outside dumpster has been emptied since then,” I note.
Mr. Namura smiles. “You realized much sooner than they did. Two of the deputies had already climbed inside.” He frowns. “Not that I want them to fail.”
“I wouldn’t blame you for feeling resentful.” Felix bends to grab a couple more spice jars. “They basically accused you of murder.”
“Justice is a sun that shines unequally on the rich and the poor.” Mr. Namura nods, appreciating his own wisdom. His Killing Me Softly scripts are always full of philosophical asides.
“What else needs to be done?” Felix asks, looking around the kitchen.
“This is your vacation,” Mr. Namura protests. “You should enjoy yourselves.”
“I think that ship has sailed.” I try to soften the words with a what-can-you-do shrug.
“Because of the murder,” he sighs.
“It’s not just that,” I reassure him. “There’s Claude not being here, and his will, and then his horrible sister trying to ruin everything—” I suck a whistling breath through my teeth.
“What?” Felix sounds panicked, like he might need to Heimlich me.
“I was thinking of my ring and whether Bernie was going to try to take that too, and then it hit me.” I spread both hands like an explosion. “It’s a poison ring. What if somebody used it to off Bradley?”
When did I last lay eyes on it? Yesterday? The day before? The top of my dresser is nowhere near as neat as Mr. Namura’s arrangement of spice jars. “It probably looks bad that I didn’t mention it to Detective Ortiz.”
Not that he’s pulled me aside to ask for my insights into the crime, but still. That’s the kind of thing you’re better off volunteering.
“Eh,” Mr. Namura huffs. “That’s nothing. I didn’t tell them about the poison garden.”
Felix slants me a look, but I shake my head. “What poison garden?” he asks Mr. Namura, who has begun casually transferring spice jars from the counter to the shelf.
“One of Claude’s fancies, when we first moved in. He thought it would be exciting to have a corner with deadly plants. Artistically arranged, with signs explaining the side effects.”
We are so cooked. “Are they still there?” I ask, wincing in preparation for bad news.
To my relief, Mr. Namura shakes his head.
“Do you remember Claude’s boyfriend Reggie?
” He frowns as if he’s doing some mental math.
“That would have been before your time. Reggie was an animal lover, and he worried some of the plants might be harmful to birds or stray cats. And when Claude wouldn’t listen, Reggie brought it up in front of Mervyn. He was a bit of a tattletale.”
“Is that why they broke up?” Felix asks, like the gossip hound he is.
“I suspect so, in hindsight. At the time we thought it was because Reggie got cast in a touring production of Annie,” Mr. Namura explains.
“What did Mervyn say about the poison garden?” I ask, since someone has to get this conversation back on track.
“He was—not pleased.” His pause suggests this is an understatement. “Mervyn could be a soft touch for some things, but he put his foot down on that one. Because of the liability issues.”
Poor Mervyn, surrounded by renegades and scofflaws. I wonder how many times he’s had to save this crew from themselves over the years—and whether he’ll manage to do it again.
Swallowing that depressing thought, I turn to Mr. Namura. “The courtyard is no longer full of toxic plants?”
“Correct.”
Finally, some good news. Though I’d feel more like celebrating if we’d gotten any closer to solving the mystery of Bradley’s death.
“If you’re sure you don’t need any help,” Felix says, “I might take Virginia out.”
“Yes, go.” Mr. Namura waves us off, looking substantially more cheerful. “You kids have fun.”
I keep my smile in place until we’re standing in front of the elevators. “Felix.”
“Hmm?” Neither my scowl nor the crossed arms that go with it seem to have penetrated his good mood.
“Are you pretending to be into me to entertain a bunch of older people who are weirdly invested in our social lives?”
He presses the Up button. “Fake dating is always a public service.”
It’s a slippery answer if I’ve ever heard one, but there’s a more pressing question right now. “I thought we were going out?”
“Not until we find your ring.”
Okay, that’s thoughtful, because otherwise the worry would keep tickling at the back of my brain. It’s almost like he knows me. “Are we going someplace fancy or is there a chance I’ll need to poison someone?”
“I wouldn’t risk it. Tough to make a clean getaway from a police station.”