Jobs Weddings and Murders: Det. Lt. Nick Storie Mysteries, #1

By C. D. Moulton

A collection of three books in the Det. Lt. Nick Storie Mysteries series that cosists of five stories.

Bon Appetite!
People who shopped at Watson's Market are dying. Is it a serial killer or a nutcase – or something much more sinister?

A Killer of a Detail/Odd Jobs
A detail can be insignificant – or not.
A body in a vegetable bed. Introduces Lonnie

Better Never than Late/The Wedding
Sometimes an old trite homily turns out with an opposite use.
Nick marries Janet, and Pancho is charged with murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. D. Moulton
• Release date: Oct 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215159897

Book preview

Nick Storie Mysteries

Jobs Weddings and Murders

Three books

© 2020 by C. D. Moulton

all rights reserved: no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright holder/publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to actual persons or events are purely coincidental unless otherwise stated.

Three books

Bon Appetite!

People who shopped at Watson’s Market are dying. Is it a serial killer or a nutcase – or something much more sinister?

A Killer of a Detail/Odd Jobs

A detail can be insignificant – or not.

A body in a vegetable bed. Introduces Lonnie

Better Never than Late/The Wedding

Sometimes an old trite homily turns out with an opposite use.

Nick marries Janet, and Pancho is charged with murder.

Contents

About the author

Bon Appetite!

Prologue

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Epilogue

A Killer of a Detail/Odd Jobs

A Killer of a Detail

Prologue

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Odd Jobs

The Job

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Epilogue

Better Never than Late/The Wedding

Better Never Than Late

Prologue

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

The Wedding

Interim

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

Chapter twelve

Chapter thirteen

Chapter fourteen

Chapter fifteen

Chapter sixteen

Chapter seventeen

Chapter eighteen

Epilogue

About the author

CD was born in Lakeland, Florida, in 1938. He is educated in genetics and botany. He has traveled extensively, particularly when he was a rock rhythm guitarist with some well-known bands in the late sixties and early seventies. He has worked as a high steel worker and as a longshoreman, clerk, orchidist, bar owner, salvage yard manager, and landscaper and more.

CD began writing fiction in 1984 and has more than 300 books published in SciFi, murder, orchid culture, and various other fields.

He now resides in Gualaca, Chiriqui, Panamá, where he continues research into epiphytic plants and plays music with friends. He loves the culture of the indigenous people. He funds those he can afford through the universities, where they have all excelled. The Indios are very intelligent people, they are simply too poor (in material things and money. Culturally, they are very wealthy) to pursue higher education.

CD loves Panamá and the people, despite horrendous experiences (Free e-book; Fading Paradise). He plans to spend the rest of his life in the paradise that is Panamá

CD is involved in research of natural cancer cure at this time. It is based on a plant that has been in use for centuries, is safe, available, and cheap. Information about this cure is free on the FaceBook page: Ambrosia peruviana for cancer.

Bon Appetite!

Nick Storie Book one

© 1986 & 2020 by C. D. Moulton

Introducing Det. Lt. Nick Storie, Homicide and some of the continuing characters

People are dying who shopped at Watson’s Market for produce. Is it because of a psycho – or to get rid of specific persons?

Prologue

Allison McEvers clutched her thin grey plastic raincoat over her hair, pushed the Toyota door open, jumped out (striking her ankle on the sharp edge of the rusty rocker panel), swore earnestly as she slammed the damned undersized pain trap's door, and ran for the entrance to the supermarket.

Good evening m'am. It's a little wet outside tonight, isn't it? Gloria Todd, clerk, greeted disinterestedly, for about the ten thousandth time that shift as Allison pushed into the store. Allison grunted sourly, glared, took a wet cart (with a sticking wheel yet) and headed up the aisle.

Baking powder, garlic, corn starch, salt, sugar, saltines – those fresh macaroons looked good – baby peas, beets. Now dairy. Milk, cheese, margarine, sour cream, biscuits – God but I hate those frozen things! Taste liked baked paste! Now over to housewares. Foil, napkins, towels. Need toothpicks. Comet, Dawn, toilet paper. Now for the veggies. Celery, bananas, onions – Oh, good! Mushrooms that haven't turned black! Potatoes – watch out for the softer ones with strings and black splotches. Carrots, celery – I'll pay that for tomatoes when hell freezes over! Beautiful broccoli. I can get a lot of it while it's so cheap and freeze it. Very good spinach. Cabbage. Zucchini. I shouldn't, but cherries. Now the flour. All purpose. Season All. Chili powder. Boston Kitchen is best. That should do it!

Oh, yeah. Toothpaste. Hair spray. Now I can get the hell out of this dump!

Check out time. Oh, right! Drop the damned mushrooms – I didn't get eggs! Oh, well. I have four. Don't crush the mushrooms, as pretty as they are.

What in hell am I doing with two celeries? Oh, well. I can make a pepper pot. It'll be good in this chill. I’ve got onions. I have stew meat. Do I have cayenne?

Who cares. I can use black.

She finished, and ran, pushing the stupid damned resisting cart to her car, threw the sacks into the back seat, and headed home, cursing at the way idiots drive in the rain.

It’s after seven thirty! I missed Wheel of Fortune! Shit! It's been that kind of day!

Eight hours later, she was dead. So was Gloria.

Sam Nestin tapped his pipe against the wall, shook his head at the way the rain dripped off the brim of his old Homburg into the bowl, grimaced at the thought that only he and his secret lover, Johnny Watts, even wore hats, anymore, noticed the wet chill, and buttoned the top button of his trench coat.

As he entered Watson's Choice Market, some stupid broad almost ran him down with a cart coming out the In door, then had the brass to swear at him for not watching where the goddamned hell he was going. She swore at the cart, for some reason, and rushed on out into the rain, swearing at the weather.

She got into one of those older tinny foreign cars and almost backed into the car across.

Sam grinned and rolled his eyes at Gloria, who grinned back. He went in to get a few things for the peppered chicken he'd fix for when John came in, at ten.

Some nice Bordeaux to go with it. Need a few fresh vegetables, especially for the peppered chicken. Good mushrooms tonight. Onion, celery, bellpepper, garlic – they'd both eat it, so it wouldn't bother them much – sour cream, and bean sprouts. He had the rest. Some of that broccoli for steeping in the stock. Maybe a few of those carrots.

Gloria teased him, a bit. She knew he was gay, but always tried to pick him up, anyway. They had a lot of fun at the checkout, and there was no one to gripe at the delay while they visited and joked.

It was a miserable night, now, but he was an optimist. Later would be great, and tomorrow there was a good chance it would clear up. Sunny and cool.

He didn't wake up in the morning, so he never knew. Neither did John.

Bertha Carter told the two kids to stay put while she was in the market, or she'd fix them to where they couldn't sit for a week, heaved her well-rounded body out of the old station wagon, and plodded into Watson's Market under her big bright red-and-white umbrella.

That overly-handsome Sam fellow held the door open for her, and smiled. She smiled back, and went in. She suspected he was queer, but he was always nice. She liked him. He was one of the few who greeted her and Lamar into the neighborhood, three years ago. It wasn't easy being the first blacks in the place.

The clock over the checkout said seven thirty two. Lamar would be home at about eight fifteen, so she'd have time to fix Spanish rice. The kids liked it, too, so that would work out pretty well. She'd splurge a little bit, and put in some of those beautiful mushrooms!

Onions, celery – she'd get canned tomatoes, at that price! – carrots. Some bananas for on the cereal, in the morning. They were especially nice. Velveeta was getting awfully expensive. She'd get the store brand. Now, for the hamburger. She had rice.

She spent a few minutes gossiping with Gloria about the Lambs and how Cissie was running around with Ham Trevor while her ever-loving husband, The Doctor, was too dense to see what was going on, right in front of his face. It was a little embarrassing as she went out to see Cissie getting out of that fancy expensive car.

She nodded curtly as Cissie haughtily swept on by, ignoring her existence, and into the market. She pretended not to hear Calvin mutter, Damned rich bitch! because he'd picked that up from her. She'd have to watch her tongue. Little pitchers have big ears.

Did anyone say that, anymore? Her mother always did. She sighed heavily, and carefully drove home to fix supper, glad that she and Lamar didn't play those stupid dangerous and silly games. Their marriage and lives were very stable, thank you! She and Lamar were very happy with their lives, and with each other.

Lamar, the kids, and Bertha were found dead in their beds by her sister, Mary Ann Johnson, the next morning.

Cissie Lamb threw her furpiece around her neck, slid out of the red Jag, and swayed toward the store.

God! she hated to have to shop in that place, but nowhere else was open, way the hell out here, after six.

That black family were parked between her and the door, and the wife was unloading groceries. She'd be damned if she'd be civil to them! The very nerve of that trash to move into such a nice, quiet, affluent neighborhood and start putting on airs! Beulah or Bertha or something. Trash, even in the name!

It would never happen up home!

Everyone said they were model neighbors, and that Leroy – or what the hell ever – was always helping everyone in the neighborhood. Half the damned neighborhood spent its summer weekends at their place, having those lowbrow barbecue things.

Definitely not the Arnold Lambs! There would be no connection, whatever, between the Lambs and such as the Carters! Her husband was a highly respected professor and scientist! She would not, now or ever, lower herself to their standards!

Speaking of her darling husband, he was off to some lecture tour, or something. He wouldn't be back until late the following afternoon, so she'd invited Ham Trevor over for a cozy late-night gourmet snack, and an even cozier early morning tumble.

It looked like dear sweet Arnold could tell her earlier when he was planning to be off on some university thing. Five to six before he even said he wouldn't be there for dinner!

Well, the rice pilaf was already scheduled and set up. Even special appetizers were prepared, so Sylvia could fix it, as planned, before she went home. She knew all about what everyone was doing, anyhow.

Why the hell couldn't Sylvia have bought the stuff earlier? Why did the mistress (quick grin) of the house have to shop while the housekeeper sat on her lazy ass, watching TV?

Cissie could use a bit less modernity. Those fresh mushrooms were beautiful! Odd, in some isolated little market that catered more to the bourgeois trade. They didn't need much for dinner, but those couldn't be passed up!

Avocados! At this time of year! Even Henri's didn't have them now! Maybe she should come here more often! Those carrots looked tender, and the onions were just perfect! What beautiful tomatoes – and everything was so cheap! The celery was crisp, and exactly the right color!

Now some good imported cheeses – and they were also surprisingly cheap, and of rather good quality! Jacques LeBouef Bleu that cost twenty four dollars a pound at Henri's was eight nineteen a pound, here! Saltines. Ritz. Tonic water and lime juice – but didn't she see fresh limes back there?

Definitely, she'd have to come here more often! And fresh Key limes? This time of year? And so perfect?! Everything looked like it had been put out no more than ten seconds before. This was certainly better than Henri's! It was too bad everything was so cheap here. She'd always felt you get what you pay for, but this didn't fit that mold, at all, at least, to look at.

She managed not to be too overly rude to the silly moronic girl at the checkout. She even had to carry out her own purchases, and it was in plain plastic bags, not the designer containers she was used to.

Just as well! Why advertise where you found this stuff? She would definitely come back here to grocery shop, at night, when no one would recognize her.

Both Hamilton Trevor and Cissie Lamb's bodies were found on the following afternoon when Dr. Arnold Lamb returned from his lecture in Orlando.

Sylvia Gonzalez had been discovered, dead, by her boyfriend, about an hour earlier.

Doc was sad about Sylvia. He'd miss her. He couldn't work up much emotion for Cissie and Ham.

Gloria Todd closed the store at eleven sharp, cleared out the register, put everything in the safe, saw George, the produce manager, and Fred, the meat cutter, out. She took her own bag of groceries to her car, and stopped to ask George if he was feeling all right. He looked queasy.

I think I got a touch of flu, Glo. I'll take something when I get home. I'll drive carefully. I'm only a little lightheaded, is all.

They said their goodnights.

George Masakis didn't make it home. Neither did Fred Lecoufle.

Donald and Ethel Green, retired, shopped at Watson's Choice Market, about eight fifteen. They were found dead, early the next afternoon.

Tami French shopped there, just before nine. So did Olga von Schmidt. They both died the following night.

Chiaou Sim Leun shopped at Watson's Choice about ten thirty, or so, on his way home from his job at the local SuperAmerica filling station. He died the second day after.

Fifty six other patrons of Watson's Choice Market that same evening were not affected, in any way.

Det. Lt. Nick Storie finished the night shift at South Station, and went home. He was getting into bed at about the time someone broke into Watson's Choice Market, at three thirty AM. Nothing was stolen there, so far as could be determined.

Chapter one

Det. Lt. Nathaniel Storie, better known as Nick, poured a cup of hot black coffee, took a sip,and made a wry face. It was from last night. It was bitter.

He looked out the window at the dripping eaves,and shook his head. The rain was now only a drizzle that would leave the yard soggy so he couldn't cut it – besides, he knew it would start raining again, soon. The TV last night said it would clear up, and they hadn't been right in two months. It had been a sloppy year, so far.

He glanced at his barely six foot reflection in the big mirror behind the kitchen counter, noted the slight stubble shadow on the square jaw, and the shock of dirty blond hair hanging down the middle of his forehead, and decided he needed a haircut.

Well, I have nice blue eyes, and keep myself in shape, so I do all right, despite the fact I look like a reject from a beer ad, he mumbled.

He flipped on the set to get the eight o'clock news. He wanted to see if anything new came up about the grocery clerk who had a stroke or something driving home the night before. He'd been sent out on the routine.

The guy didn't look like a stroke case. None of the usual signs were there. Something was definitely not quite right about that one.

"...founnd the second victim. Police are not releasing any further information before notification of his next of kin, but channel eleven investigation reveals that both the victims worked for Watson's Choice Market at Brad Street Mall, both had worked the night shift, and both were on their way home when they died. The two died only minutes apart, both while driving their cars, and in different parts of the county.

"Channel eleven will bring you regular updates as soon as more information is released.

Well, the local weather scene has once again contrived to foil our intrepid meteorological department. Dave's report, after these words.

Nick grabbed for the counter phone and pushed autodial for the police department's number. Marsha put him straight through to Jim Hill, his day shift co-worker.

Nick here, Jim. Run down what in the hell's going on there! Second victim? Watson's?

"Hi, Nick. Yeah. You said Masakis didn't look right, and this one's even a lot worse. Name of Fred Lek-you-ful. Meat cutter at Watson's. Pulled off the side of the road and laid back to croak, exactly like Masakis.

"Also, burglary reports Watson's was broken into, last night. After three. Three to three forty five. Lloyd's there, now.

I've got two more calls I was going out on. I was gonna call you to take one. It's crazy down here!

Two?

Yeah. Some Hispanic woman's boyfriend found her dead in bed this morning. A Sylvia Maria Gonzalez. Lived over in Golden Gate. I'll take that one. The other one is Allison McEvers, over near your place. Beachview Condos, off Beach Road. Apartment six sixteen.

What?

"Don't know. Either one. All the reports say is that they were both found dead in bed. I wouldn't think they're connected. McEvers is over near your place and Watson's, but the Gonzalez woman's clear over here.

Tiny's saying for me to call him. Hang on. I'll be right back as soon.

Tiny is Dr. Anthony R. Menthorne, coroner. He stands six foot six and weighs well over three hundred pounds – so everyone calls him Tiny.

Nick waited for about three more minutes, running his electric shaver over his stubble and sipping the terrible coffee.

"Nick? Tiny says prelim indicates that both Masakis and Lecoufle died of some kind of weird organic complex poison, perhaps food poisoning. He'll try to isolate it, but it's one of those potent things, like botulism, where enough to see would kill off half the county. They probably ate something at the store that was spoiled.

"I don't like this! That break-in makes me wonder! I do not like coincidences! I don't believe in coincidences!"

Me, either. I'll check out the condo and come on in. Tell Paddy I'll want overtime!

You'll be deader than any of 'em before you get it! Jim shot back, with a short laugh.

Nick sighed, and dressed.

Nick plodded in through the depressing thick and oily looking drizzle toward the condos, noting the white Toyota Celica parked in 616's slot. He gave it a quick onceover, then went on up. Bill Jenks saluted and waved him through the group he was holding back. Nothing had been touched.

A pretty girl was sitting on a chair to one side, scrunched down in the cushions. The place was neat, and spotlessly clean. There was a door to the left that would be the bathroom, straight ahead was the bedroom, with the door open. The backs of two officers were visible through it. Toward the right was a kitchen/dinette with sliding glass doors onto a small balcony.

Ed Goins came out, nodded and said, "Miss Kilian, here, worked with the deceased woman, Miss Allison McEvers, originally from Benton, Ohio. Miss McEvers was employed at Hair Today, a beauty parlor at Springs Mall.

"Miss Kilian came here to have her breakfast with Miss McEvers every working morning, then they would go to work together.

Miss Kilian cooked their breakfast, then went in to awaken Miss McEvers, who was usually up and in the shower when Miss Kilian arrived, but wasn't yet up, this morning. Miss Kilian shook her to waken her, noticed she wasn't responding, and immediately called nine one one, who dispatched unit four paramedics, who called us.

Cause of death?

Undetermined. She went to sleep, and didn't wake up. No signs of violence, anywhere.

Nick asked Miss Kilian if that was substantially what she had stated happened. She nodded, and Nick said she could go, that they would be in touch.

The bedroom was as neat and clean as the rest of the place. There were no signs of anything out of the ordinary. Nick spent more than an hour, making a careful survey of the bedroom and bath area, then went to the kitchen, where there was a pot of strong coffee, scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, on two plates.

He looked in the refrigerator and cabinets. Normal. There was a large stewpot of some kind of dark soup in the refrigerator. Mushrooms, onions, celery, beef. In the refrigerator vegetable bin, he found a stalk of celery, broccoli, cauliflower, zucchini, and carrots.

Everything was normal.

He glanced through the garbage bins. She recycled, as most people do, nowadays. There were aluminum pop cans in one bin, glass items in another, newspapers in another, and plastic bags in another.

There was a receipt in the plastic grocery bag on top, so he took it out, glanced at it, and groaned loudly, then yelled for Ed to call in and have the forensics lab come out with medical to test everything in the place for food poisoning.

The receipt read:

Watson's Choice Market

Springs Mall, Naples, FL

February 3, 1995

7:21 PM

Sub total: $31.06

St. Tx.: $0.67

Total purchases:  $31.73

Thank you for your patronage

The soup kettle was full of it, whatever it is, Dr. Klein reported. It has some characteristics of several odd organic complex poisons.

David Klein was a thin, nervous little man with thick short salt-and-pepper hair and thick hornrimmed glasses. He did all analysis work for the department, and was an ace assistant medical examiner.

Plant or animal? Nick asked.

"I'd say plant. It isn't based on protein breakdown, like most of those animal things. It has some properties of botulism, but is a hell of a lot faster. There are a few things that tell me it isn't related very closely.

"It must be either almost painless or act as an immediate relaxant – such as curare – or perhaps both. No indication of discomfort in the victims.

"Before you even ask me, it was definitely in the mushrooms, but in everything else, too. It's very damned soluble! They're bringing over everything from that market for me to test. I really tend to doubt it was in the mushrooms, originally."

Then ... what? Jim Hill asked, shifting slightly from one foot to another, indicating he was already getting tired. It took a lot to get the big officer tired. He was the one who got Nick to work out. He was always in perfect shape, stood six two, wore his dark mahogany hair long, and had piercing grey eyes. He was a bit vain about his body, had bunches of women chasing after him, all the time (if you could believe him), but was loyal and dependable. Nick couldn't think of another officer on the force he'd rather work with in a dangerous situation.

That's what I can't figure in this! Nothing there carries any toxins vaguely related to this thing! Klein cried. It has to be the mushrooms, but there are so many factors that tell me it couldn't be!

Such as? Nick asked.

Those extremely complex organic chemicals require energy to form. That energy is generally in the form of sunlight being absorbed through a cee oh two cycle. Mushrooms just don't grow in sunlight. Not those commercial types.

Okay. What we have is three victims of some kind of weird food poisoning, all of whom had connections at Watson's Choice, Nick said. I shop there, so it's sort of scary, in a personal sense.

Four, now, Jim corrected. Sylvia Maria Gonzalez worked for some college professor who lives at the golf club, so she could have stopped by Watson's on her way home. Just a sec!

He picked up the interphone, asked for Tiny, asked a few questions, then hung up to say, The poison's in her. Four.

What the hell can we do? Nick asked.

We must risk a public panic and tell people not to eat anything from Watson's Choice Market produce department until we've found the source! Klein demanded.

Nick and Jim agreed. They called Capt. James Paddy James, who roared and fumed, then called the news desk to tell them to blanket the media with the message.

Klein went, out and Jim took Nick to lunch.

You have a report about a couple more dead bodies at Golfview, Officer Marsha Blevins greeted, as Jim and Nick came back into the station. Old retired couple. Name of Green. Twelve twenty three Niblick Drive.

Cause of death? Jim asked.

No info, she replied, shifting through the file in her hand.

Marsha was everyone's best pal at the station. She was smart, efficient, attractive, and fun. When some young hotshot failed the test to become a detective, and started yelling it was racial discrimination, she'd stood in front of the TV cameras and said she was living proof there was no discrimination because of race. Note that she ran the place, but there was, and would be, strong discrimination of another kind – against moronic probationary rookies who couldn't read a report!

"You, Bro, should go to school and learn the basics before you shoot off your mouth about my department!" That ended that.

She was special aide to Paddy James, but she actually did run the place, in many ways.

This isn't likely, is it? Jim asked.

Damn! It's only a quarter mile from my place! Nick cried. It's right in the middle of the same area.

Marsha picked up the flashing phone, listened a few seconds, then almost screamed, "Berth and the kids?! And Lamar?! Mary Ann! What are you saying?!"

Nick spun, and ran back.

Nick! You remember Lamar Carter? The fellow who cooks the great mesquite barbecue steaks at the park? Marsha asked. Mary Ann, Berth's sister, is on the phone! She says the whole family's dead in their beds!

The people a street over, behind me? Right across from that professor who...! Nick started, then yelled, God! Jim! What professor did that Gonzalez woman work for?!

Sheep or Lamb or something.

"Jesus H. Christ! Nick exploded, loudly. That's almost across the street from Carter! Three blocks from my place!

"I'll go to Carter's. You take the others. Paddy can get off his duff and take one.

"What the hell do we have here, Jim? What in the hell have we got here?!"

Shirley gets this place, Marsha said. I'm going with you. Those people were friends of mine!

Did you hear? Paddy asked, as Jim, Marsha, Nick, and Ed Goins walked into his office. A Gloria Todd didn't show up for work, so they called her up. She didn't answer, so they called us. She was dead in her bed. Gloria Todd was the checker at Watson's last night.

"Is there any clue as to what it's in?" Ed asked.

Not much to go on. Everyone, so far, had the mushrooms, celery, and onions, Paddy read. Tomatoes. I say it has to be the mushrooms.

Could it be something someone put in or on all the stuff? Jim asked. What about something like that cyanide in the grapes, awhile back?

Doc Klein'll find it, Nick replied. I wonder how many more before it stops?

The news media are all telling everyone not to eat anything from Watson's produce, Paddy said. Maybe it'll be the end of it.

Your phone's been blinking for a good two minutes, Marsha pointed out.

I know! I'm scared totally shitless to answer the damned thing anymore! Paddy wailed, as he picked it up.

They waited, knowing it was bad news by the way Paddy's huge bulk seemed to slowly sink in on itself in its rumpled, ill-fitting blue suit.

You were saying something about a Doctor Lamb, earlier? Paddy asked dejectedly. You were right across the street from him this afternoon?

The prof got it? Ed asked.

Not him. The prof found his wife and some strange man in the bedroom when he got back from a lecture, this afternoon, Paddy replied. "They're dead. The prof said he knew she was having an affair, but he didn't care. He seemed pretty much broken up about the maid, though.

Maybe he's having one, himself?

Jeez! Jim said. Did you tell him not to eat anything in the house?

No. I didn't talk to him. Shirley did, Paddy replied. "Nick, you take this one. You know those people. Marsha, you can take the rest of the day off.

Jim, help me with the paperwork while we wait for the next one.

Nick saluted, sighed, and went out. He drove to the Lamb house, where he found Dr. Arnold Lamb standing outside on the verandah. The professor said the forensics team was inside, so he came out to let them look wherever they pleased.

Lamb was an impeccable dresser who looked a lot like the Cary Grant of a few years ago, with a thin moustache and some graying at the temples. He had perfect teeth and manicured nails. He was thin, and a bit formal.

Was there any food around? Nick asked.

Yes. All over the kitchen, Lamb replied. "Cissie was never one for cleaning up her mess. Sylvia was supposed to come in this morning. She would have cleaned it up.

"Excuse me if I appear a bit callous about my wife's death, officer. It was a marriage of convenience, for the past eight or ten years. I never loved her – never really liked her, much. She was merely physically attractive and acceptable in society. I married her as a career move.

This character wasn't her first. I simply didn't much care. It was almost a relief to not have to entertain her.

You had other interests, too?

I guess I really should have, but no. I get involved with the research. Don't really have time or energy for such things as affairs.

Don't eat anything you find in the house. We have to find what was contaminated, and how.

Um. So I've heard, Lamb returned, in his staccato delivery style. I'm a research biochemist. Perhaps I can be of some assistance. It appears a rather intriguing problem. Some kind of complex organic fusion poison. Most interesting!

How do you know what the poison is?

"Dr. David Klein was a student of mine. He called me, not more than a half hour ago. While I was waiting for your department to appear, as a matter of fact. Told me about it.

Brilliant man, Klein! If it stumps him, it must really be something.

Well, I'll see what I can learn, inside. This makes thirteen victims. Maybe it'll stop with that. We can hope!

"Thirteen!? I didn't think ... I had no idea there were so many! This is terrible! The way Klein talked, I thought there were four."

Just one would be terrible, but thirteen sort of numbs you. It only registers when there are no more than three. My fear is that there are more certain to come. Nick went on inside to look around, took a close look at the boyfriend, looked thoughtful, and told the forensics crew to get prints to Washington ASAP.

Name's Hamilton Hugh Trevor, a detective reported. DL, SS, credit cards, insurance – all right in his wallet.

Gee! You don't think maybe I don't care about that, do you? Nick snarled. Maybe I want priors?

The detective looked sheepish.

I'm sorry. This is bodies number twelve and thirteen. I've been running around looking at dead bodies all day, and my shift doesn't start for almost three more hours.

I suppose it can get to a person. I was at some Gonzalez woman's, this morning, with Hill. I hear there's already a lot of pressure from the commission.

Not too much. This kind of thing can only bring bad publicity so those turkey-asses stay as far away as they can. Paddy'll give them a lot of press they don't want if they try to start anything. We've done about everything anyone could. There's just so much you can do.

A man from the coroner's came over to say they were ready to transport, so Nick said he'd seen enough. He told them to take everything from the dinner leftovers. Any and all vegetables from the kitchen.

Lamb came in to say there was a call for Nick. Pick up any phone. Punch call waiting.

Nick? Paddy greeted. "I'm with Nicole Lecoufle, the wife of the meat market manager. Jim's on a domestic in Golden Gate.

"There's another couple out there close. Six blocks from where you are. Two more bodies. Nine twenty six East Somers. A Samuel Nestin and a John Watts. Seems it could get messy. They were found in bed, together. Nestin was a known homosexual, but John Watts was a supposedly happily married man.

"Handle it, will you?

I'll see you get extra overtime for this, Nick. I guess you know how seriously I take it if I say that.

Okay, Paddy, Nick replied, and hung up. Lamb was standing there, so he said, Fourteen and fifteen. Lamb looked physically sick.

My god! Will Hampton cried, shrilly. I came in and found them laying there, dead, like that! I thought they were asleep, and was going to sneak back out until a more opportune time, then I remembered all those dead people and Watson's Choice Market. I know Samuel shops there, all the time, because that fish at the checkout keeps trying to put the make on him. I told him to tell her to ... oh, my god!

Did you touch anything?

TOUCH THEM!? WHAT?!! ARE YOU TOTALLY INSANE?! Will screeched.

I mean anything in the room, inside the house. We have to know if anything has been moved, or even just touched.

"Oh, I'm just so upset! Let's see. I came in through the back door. I remember how I was thinking what a pig Samuel was becoming to leave all that crap on the table and in the sink, then I.... Oh! My god!"

What?

"That stuff from dinner! It's full of poison!"

Most probably. If it is, this is another part of that.

"And if it isn't? I mean, what else could it b.... Yeep! MURDER?! You think someone...! You think it was me?! My god!"

"Calm down! If you'd killed them you rather certainly wouldn't call us to come investigate, and stay here, you'd get the hell out! I think it's another case of some weird kind of food poisoning, myself. We're required to investigate every possibility, no matter how remote.

Tell me from when you came in. What did you touch or move in the house?

"Well, the doorknob to the bedroom. I mean, I never expected to find anyone in there with him. I thought he may have overslept. Alone.

"I started to back out, and thought of Watson's, so I said, 'Samuel?' – like that.

"He didn't move, so I said it louder. He was always easy to wake up, and I got sort of really scared then, and yelled.

I only touched the doorknob and the phone – to call nine one one, you know, then just sat out here and cried. Samuel was a very special kind of person. Very special.

You were lovers?

"Oh, no! We've been very close friends for a long time. We haven't had sex in several years. It wasn't like that. Honest! – not that I wasn't very interested in him. I'm a bit of a pushover, really. Samuel just didn't believe in the free sex theory. He said it didn't mean anything if no one even cared.

"He's so handsome. Like a movie actor. He could have probably anyone at all, but he said it wasn't right.

He was right, of course. I can't help myself. I'm scared to death I might end up with AIDS, or that I already have it. I keep promising myself I'll stop it, but as soon as some sexy guy so much as raises an eyebrow, I.... I'm a whore. Samuel was not.

I see. Maybe you'd better go home. It must be painful for you to have to stay here.

I couldn't leave him like that, officer!

Listen, Will. I've seen a lot of this, and, believe me, it's far better if the family and loved ones aren't around to see body bags being hauled off.

Will looked shocked, then sick.

You're right. I couldn't stand that! I just couldn't stand that.

"Go home. Remember him like the last time you met, when he was alive. You don't want to remember finding them there, and you damned certainly don't want to ever remember anything ... more.

Give me your address. I'll have to talk to you later.

Eight seventeen. The one with the pink roses on the fence. He nodded, and went slowly down the sidewalk to the left.

Nick went back inside, checked over the whole house, carefully, then headed for the Watts' home, several miles away, on Bonita Bay Place. 121. He hated having to inform anyone about a death, and these circumstances made it far more difficult.

Louise Watts opened the front door to see a police officer standing on her doorstep with his ID opened, and said to come on in.

She was a small, rather pretty woman, in her early forties. Don't tell me anything about it for a few minutes, she pleaded. "I know, because you wouldn't be here if he'd.... He didn't come home. He always called, and he didn't.

Would you like some coffee? Is it too late at night for that? I have some Cokes, I think.

I'd really appreciate some hot coffee, about now. I go on regular duty in about five minutes, and this has been a very long and busy day, already. I won't get any relief until two AM.

She led him into the kitchen, poured them each a cup of hot coffee, then sat across the table from him.

Car? Robbery at the store?

"I'm afraid not.

You've heard about the food poisonings?

From Watson's Choice Market? Why would John buy anything way over there?

He had some food at a friend's house – maybe a client at the store, or something. We don't know yet. They both died.

Oh, I'll bet it was at Sam's? Sam Nestin?

Er, yes.

"They go ... we go ... went deepsea fishing together, all the time. It's the only relaxation John ever gets. Got. The store kept him worn out, all the time, you know. All those extra work hours with the books and restocking. Half the night, every Monday and Friday.

The TV says the poison doesn't have any symptoms, and isn't ... painful?

From what we can discover, the victim simply gets drowsy and goes to sleep. There's really no pain, at all. It might even act like a narcotic, or something on that order. As sick as it might sound, it might be a very pleasant way to go.

I'm glad. I hope, when my time comes, it'll be as easy. Thank you for coming here to tell me, personally. I'll have to call the kids and my sister. She can come over to be with me. I'd appreciate it if you'd stay until she gets here. Maybe half an hour?

Yes, certainly. She nodded, and went to the phone.

They chatted about her two children – the 19 year old boy at Florida State, and the 18 year old girl at Florida, and how they always teased each other. She cried quietly, at times.

Her sister came, about twenty five minutes later, so Nick left. He immediately got on the radio to Paddy.

Paddy? John Watts was at Nestin's place to plan a deepsea fishing trip. That's it! Nothing more, at all! Is that clear?

"Fair enough. No need to cause more pain than we have to. There haven't been anymore bodies, so maybe it's over – that part of it.

Wife didn't have a clue?

Definitely not. No reason she ever has to. She's a very nice person, and there are two kids in college. I'm gonna stop for a bite before I come in.

We've finished most of the paperwork.

I'm gonna stop, anyhow!

Slow tonight? Pat Matheny asked, as he came in to relieve Nick, at shift end. No more bodies turned up?

Pat was a slick type. Dark and glib. He was a good officer, in a field report way, but not the type Nick (or anyone else) could get close to. He seemed to always have a hidden agenda, to Nick.

I've just been sitting here, thinking, for most of the night, Nick answered. I'll need a lot more to go on before I can say it's anything to do with us. It could even be something natural.

Lord have mercy, I hope not! That means it'll start happening all over hell and back! I hope it's some psycho who left clues!

It's no-win. Either way, we've got some real problems.

Tiny doesn't have anything?

"The poison, whatever it is, is in all the cooked food, but isn't in any of the uncooked stuff we've found – so far. All through the cooked crud.

"Mushrooms at the Lamb's were unopened, and celery full of cheese was in a dish on the table. Two hadn't even opened the tomato packages. None of the unused onions had anything in them. All carrots tested negative.

"That's all they all had. It doesn't make any damned sense!

"There are a few more things that have to be tested from the houses. Tiny went to Watson's and personally took some of everything there in produce. He even took some hamburger and stew meat, because some of them had that.

"Nothing.

This doesn't feel right, Pat! Something doesn't fit!

Maybe it's something cooking forms? You know what I mean? Synergic reaction. When you add the onions to the mushrooms. The combination forms a poison.

"Klein and Tiny are trying every possible combination. The basic ingredients aren't there.

I'm grabbing some shut-eye. I'll be in early. We need an angle to say it's ours – or not.

I'll hold down the fort. Maybe I'll get lucky and be bored, all night. I get to read a lot. That's why I like the graveyard shift.

Nick sighed, and went home to bed. He was going to sleep very well tonight.

Unhh? Nick said, picking up the buzzing phone. Whah time zit?

It’s seven fifteen, Paddy's voice replied. We've got one over near your place. Someone called Olga von Schmidt?

Teller at Federal? Nick asked. He was wide awake, in seconds, anytime he needed to be.

Uh-huh. Best friend stopped by to take her to work. Just came in. Can you cover it?

Yeah, why not? I'll be in, a bit later. They talked a few seconds more, then Nick rolled on out of bed, turned on the automatic coffee maker while he quickly shaved and dressed. He poured the coffee into his thermos, and headed out.

The crew was just arriving as he pulled up to the little white cottage at 4419 Fairway Lane. They checked everything, but it was the same. He made sure nothing would be missed, then drove toward the station. Paddy called on the radio to say that Jim was at another scene. A Tami Anne somebody, on Hillbond.

Seventeen, Nick said, bitterly. I wonder how many more!

Tiny found something odd.

Like?

It's in that extra celery stalk you found at the McEvers place. All through it. Klein's doing a biological study, on the cellular level, to see if there's some micro-organism at work.

What's so odd about that?

"There was plenty of celery at the market, all of which tested clean and safe. It was, apparently, in all of it everyone dead got, but there's none in what's at the market, and there's none in the uneaten stuff at Lamb's, so it must be in two things.

"Crap! So we have a psycho. A nutcase. He broke into Watson's to get rid of the poisoned vegetables, then put the store's own crap back.

How do we prove it? The produce man's dead, so he can't very well testify. The checkout girl's dead, so we can't even question her or the meatcutter – who's also dead! Those are all who could have answered our questions!

I shopped there. I always stopped in late, and there were always fresh vegetables. They put them out every night after the day business is over.

I'll call Watson and ask. Come on in.

Nick went to the station, said hello to Marsha, at the desk, and burst into Paddy's office.

Fresh vegetables are put out at six, every afternoon, and at nine in the mornings, Paddy greeted. "The cooler's off a loading ramp in back, so it's possible someone came in and fooled with the stuff between five and six. The regular crew goes home around five or so, and Masakis didn't get there until about a quarter to six. He worked five hours at night, and three in the morning. He wanted it that way.

"It looks more and more like we have a psycho.

Here's a report from Washington. Forensics said you wanted it? Hamilton Trevor? How did you know?

Nick took the fax sheet, read it over, quickly, then replied, I vaguely recognized him, somehow, as someone I'd seen, somewhere. From some old report, maybe.

What was in some old report somewhere? Jim asked, coming into the office.

Cissie's lover was a known con man, Nick replied. "His