A Geek Girl's Guide to Arsenic Read online

  “Thank you, sir. Would you care to try some hand cream? A painter’s hands must get quite worn.”

  “Aye. They do.”

  I opened the sample bottle of Healer’s Hand Cream and squeezed a dollop into his palm. “This will soften your calluses and work the paint loose in those rough crevices, all while making your skin as smooth as a baby’s bottom.”

  He cocked a brow and worked the cream into his skin. “You make all these products yourself or do the elves help?” He motioned over my shoulder.

  I turned, half expecting a group of rennies in elf costumes. There was only a line of small white-haired women. “No. No elves. Most of the products are made in a factory now, but they’re all Lady Mary’s secret recipes. Grandma’s been perfecting these all her life.” I nodded to the energetic septuagenarian teetering enthusiastically on a chair outside the booth.

  He barked a laugh and wrung his hands. “Nice. She floats like an angel.” The inflection of his voice wavered and a bead of sweat formed at his temple.

  “Are you feeling okay?”

  A camera crew traipsed across the jousting field, ridiculously out of place in the carefully designed Renaissance village.

  John scoffed. “I know the local news has to cover local stories, but there should be a limit for preserving the integrity of the Faire. Why not visit and write a nice piece on the event instead of bringing a half dozen schmucks with lighting screens and boom mics? These are Renaissance times, for crying out loud.”

  I laughed. “You seem to have slipped from England to Jersey, sire.”

  He nodded in good humor, raising his eyes to mine. “You caught me. What can I say? It’s easy to let my guard down in the presence of beauty.”

  My cheeks burned, stupidly. John was a relentless flirt with at least ten years on me. If I wasn’t careful, Bree would spring from the ground and marry us for conversing. I checked over one shoulder. She and Tom were gone, hopefully not to retrieve Adam the accountant. “I’d better get back to work.”

  He cleared his throat and stroked his forehead. “I do understand, but first, may I trouble ye for a glass of water?” He rubbed his lips with freshly lotioned hands. A fresh line of perspiration appeared at his graying hairline.

  I scanned the area behind me, thankful for his change in tone. “No water, but we have wassail brewing for the even. I’m afraid it’s warm. The cold cider has been consumed.”

  He dragged a wrist over his brows. “Aye. That’ll do.”

  “Of course.” I ladled a small cup of warm wassail from the crock on our handy-dandy, five-hundred-BTU camp stove and passed it over the counter to him. The tangy sting of cider and clove bit the air. “Mmm.”

  My parents appeared in the distance, swinging interlaced fingers between them. Their matching gypsy costumes were nearly as old as Bree and me.

  “Hey,” I called as they drew nearer. “Where’ve you been?”

  Their smiles were bright and their hair ruffled.

  “Drinking rum punch and necking beyond the privies again?”

  Mom blushed and Dad grinned.

  Their Ren Faire behavior used to bother me, but they deserved happiness. As a retired teacher and cop who’d survived raising Bree and me, they’d earned some lightly liquored canoodling. We couldn’t all be cats.

  Grandma finished her spiel on Guinevere’s Golden Beauty products and the crowd applauded.

  Mom’s smile waffled. “I’d better help Mom off that chair before she falls.”

  Dad swatted her backside as she passed and turned sparkling blue eyes on me. “How’s it going, darling?”

  “Bree tried to set me up with a man from the brothel.”

  Dad rolled his eyes and turned to John. He enjoyed the idea of me dating even less than I did. “How’s it going, John?”

  John dotted his cheeks and neck with a handkerchief. He’d unbuttoned the front of his jacket and his cuffs. “Not too bad.” He rubbed his eyes as if to clear them.

  Dad gave him a long look. “Feeling okay?”

  A man in an Action News-logoed polo and khakis leaned against the counter and fingered the lotion samples while frowning at John. “You don’t look so good, buddy. Maybe you’ve got whatever the jousters had.”

  I frowned. “The jousters are ill?” The jousters were Ren Faire’s equivalent of high school jocks. They were never sick. Rumor was they’d put their mouths on anything. It served to reason that over the years they’d probably built an immunity to most common viruses. The worst thing I’d ever seen any of them come down with was a hangover.

  The Action News guy turned his attention to a bath set. “I think the jousters had too much ale, or maybe jousting is less exciting than it sounds. Who knows?”

  “I think it’s fun to watch.”

  He frowned. “Do you gift wrap?”

  “Aye.” I grabbed a stack of bags and arrayed them on the counter. “I can slip your items into a fine satin cinch sack for a small fee. You choose the color. I’ll do the rest. Do you have any questions about the Bonnie Bath line?”

  He snorted. “I think I can figure it out.” He looked to Dad and John for support, as if their shared Y chromosome would somehow make them laugh at his jibe.

  Dad sucked his teeth and stared.

  Action News sniffed a lavender bath bomb and sneezed. “What’s it gonna cost me for the set? You know you charge twenty bucks to get in here?”

  I inhaled and counted to ten before answering. “Vendors don’t set the entrance fee. Besides, didn’t you get in free with the news team?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  I refocused on his initial question. What would the bath set cost him? I touched each Bonnie item, stating its name, purpose and price. “If you buy the lot you’ll save ten percent and get the satin cinch bag as our gift. Just one hundred dollars.”

  His chin dropped. “A hundred bucks? You want a hundred bucks to put salt and oil in my wife’s bath?”

  Dad stepped forward, and I turned my head side to side in warning.

  “Sir.” I put on my sweetest smile. “I’m happy to bag them for you with a fresh sachet and a personal thank-you note from the company. Guinevere’s Golden Beauty products are all-natural and guaranteed to pamper your wife. I’m sure she’d appreciate something so personal. Though it is early in the season. There’s still plenty of time to visit the local shopping mall before Christmas.”

  His eyes bugged, and he reached for his wallet. “Make sure you throw in that sachet.”

  I suppressed a full Cheshire grin. He’d sneezed at one whiff of the bath bomb. “There you go, sir. All my best to your lady.” I’d cheerfully filled his sack with all lavender products.

  He scowled at the receipt and stuffed it in his pocket, murmuring something sounding suspiciously like, “Ye Ole Madrigal Thieves.”

  Dad laughed as the man disappeared into the crowd. “Mia, he was clearly allergic to lavender.”

  “Well, his wife will thank me every night after her bath.”

  John groaned. “You’re quite the little fox in a fancy costume, aren’t you?” His words slurred slightly, and he swooned. He covered his mouth with a fist and choked on the words. The pallor of his skin darkened and he stepped away, coughing.

  “John?” Dad followed him several paces. “Can I get you something?”

  I walked the length of the booth, keeping pace with Dad and John. “He asked for water earlier.”

  Dad set his palm on John’s shoulder. “Let’s find you a seat and some water.”

  John nodded. His wheeze grew louder and devolved into a shudder. His brown eyes glassed over. His knees buckled.

  “John!” I ran from the booth, bringing the attention of the crowd with me. “Is he okay?”

  Dad caught John from a free fall and settled him against the
ground as he convulsed. When he grew still, Dad hovered an ear over his mouth. “I think he’s had a seizure.”

  I fell to their side, pressing two fingers to his neck. “I don’t feel a pulse, but I’m shaking.”

  “Call an ambulance,” Dad yelled into the crowd.

  I patted my sides on instinct. No phone. Grandma had collected our phones upon arrival. No breaks in the Renaissance façade. Ambiance was the bulk of the sell.

  Dad pressed a hand over mine. “The pulse might be weak, but it could still be there.” He laid his head on John’s chest. His grim expression sent ice shards through my heart.

  I steadied my breath and set up on my knees, ready to perform CPR.

  “Stop.” Dad pulled me back. “Not without a barrier device. You don’t know what made him sick. Never put yourself at risk.”

  “But he’s dying!” I stood and cried into the gathered mob. “We need CPR supplies. Someone call the medics.”

  Mom joined us and squeezed me against her side. “They’re on their way. I saw him go down and called right away.”

  Grandma climbed onto her chair and scolded the crowd. “Stay back. There’s nothing to see. You wouldn’t want to be stared at if you were ill. An ambulance is coming and the Faire medics are on their way.”

  As if on cue, the faint whir of sirens crept into the air.

  A set of men in navy blue EMT shirts shoved free from the crowd. I recognized them from the Faire’s first aid station. They dashed to John’s side and set a plastic device over his lips. CPR began immediately.

  I calculated the time elapsed from his collapse. Less than five minutes. If he’d been breathing during part of that time, there was a chance...My eyes stung with emotion, confusion and poignant memories of a dear friend I’d recently lost. The EMTs worked seamlessly to operate his heart until it would beat again on its own.

  Mom leaned her head on my shoulder.

  I fixed my eyes on the medics. “I’m okay.”

  I couldn’t say the same for John.

  Chapter Two

  “Tragedy at the Ren Faire!” The Action News reporter made a live announcement of John’s collapse and, ten minutes later, his death.

  The crowd grew to celebrity-sighting proportions after the Action News’s second announcement. Throngs of holiday shoppers clamored for a look at the gruesome scene.

  Mom stepped away. “I’m going to see if there’s anything I can do to help with the crowd.”

  “Sure.” I rubbed the chill off my arms and scanned the area for Nate.

  Finally, his ginger head bounced into view. Light on his feet, he cut through the masses with the ease and skill of a trained fighter, with a presence that was impossible to ignore.

  “Are you okay?” He looked me over with a frown. “I saw the cops and ambulances out front and followed the crowd to the gate. They aren’t letting anyone else in and they wouldn’t tell me what happened. I tried calling.” He rubbed a heavy hand through his hair. “Your grandma has your phone?” He scanned the scene near my booth.

  “Yeah.”

  I pulled back for a better look at his face. “If they aren’t letting anyone in, how’d you get here?”

  “I snuck over the fence. When I saw the crowd gathered at your booth...” He paused. “That was terrifying.”

  “You climbed the fence?”

  “By the privies. First time I’ve ever seen that place empty.” He laid his cheek against the top of my head and cradled long arms around me. “You’re okay? Your family, too?”

  “Yeah.”

  His heart pounded against me. “What happened?”

  “John Francis collapsed. He stopped breathing. He died.”

  Mom led a group of rennies to the front of the crowd. They held hands, forming a human chain around John and the paramedics, protecting them from the morbidly curious.

  Nate raised onto his toes and craned his neck. “Are you sure he’s dead?”

  “The medics stopped CPR right after they got here. The news crew made an announcement.”

  He grimaced. “I’m sorry. Did you know him well?”

  “Kind of.”

  A white van with the medical examiner’s logo parted the crowd, casting workers and spectators onto either side of the dusty path. Two police cruisers and a large black truck followed. A nondescript sedan brought up the rear.

  I wrapped my arms around my middle. “Does that seem excessive to you? Four cars plus the ME? Is that normal for a guy with a heart attack or a stroke or whatever happened here?”

  Nate rocked back on his heels. “Do you know what happened? Did anyone say it was a medical reason? Natural causes?”

  “You think it wasn’t? What are you saying?” A gulp of air lodged in my throat. “Murder?” I croaked.

  “Maybe.”

  “No one came near him. Just Dad and me. We were talking to him half an hour ago. He was fine and now...” How could this happen again?

  Nate and I had lost our friend Baxter in July. I’d been accused of the murder then stalked by the killer. John probably wasn’t murdered, but still, any day was too soon to lose someone else.

  The officers from the cruisers parked and joined local security at the gates, turning newcomers away and interviewing visitors as they left. I shaded my achy eyes and looked skyward, toward Nate’s worried face. “They’re talking to people before they leave. Maybe they think someone saw something.”

  Intrigue lit his eyes. “They think this was foul play. You’re good.” He turned in a small circle, inspecting the scene. “If you’re okay here, I can go find out what they’re asking and see if I can overhear something useful.”

  “Yeah. I’m okay.”

  “Excellent.” He jogged into the crowd.

  I shivered from the chill left in his absence. “Good luck,” I mumbled, moving toward the family booth. A hot cup of wassail might help shake off the shock creeping through me.

  A shadow fell over me. “Mia?”

  I spun toward the familiar voice, heart pounding. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Detective Dan Archer was several feet away and closing the gap at a clip. His open tan trench coat whipped in the breeze. Shiny black shoes carried him to my side. He looked oddly dismayed.

  “Did you know John Francis?”

  He pointed a pen in the direction Nate had run. “No. So are you and Nate an item now?”

  Heat rose along my neck. I lifted my chin. “I never expected to see you again.”

  Dan’s older brother, Jake, had rolled into town four months ago, accused me of murder and stole my heart. I hadn’t heard from him since. My traitorous gaze drifted over the crime scene as if he might appear.

  I squinted at the badge hanging from a metal chain around Dan’s neck. “Why are you here?”

  Dan narrowed his eyes. “I’m a homicide detective, or have you forgotten?”

  “So it was murder?” I whipped my head in the direction of poor John. The word soured on my tongue. “I knew there were too many cars. I think you’re wrong about the murder, though. I was talking to him when he got sick. He was fine and then boom. Probably an undiagnosed heart condition.”

  “We disagree.”

  I scowled. “You just got here. I was with him. I saw it happen.”

  Dan’s cheek twitched. “I’m not sure about what you saw, but it’s unlikely this wasn’t a murder.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Based on what evidence?”

  “Based on federal marshal opinion. I’m assisting Deputy US Marshal Archer on this.”

  I gaped. A slew of mental curses stampeded through my mind.

  “Someone call my name?” Deputy US Marshal Archer sauntered across the grass, glaring at his phone and tapping furiously at the screen.

/>   A strangled sound escaped me.

  Dan raised a hand. “Mia, you remember my brother, Jake.”

  Jake jerked to a stop.

  “Yep.”

  “Miss Connors.” Jake gave me a cranky look. “I’d like to say I’m surprised to see you here, but considering this is how we met last time...”

  My hackles rose. “Really? You’re surprised to see me at Ye Ole Madrigal Craft Faire? Working at my family booth? Maybe you should rethink your career choice.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Care if I ask you a few questions?”

  I squared my shoulders. “I don’t know, Captain Insinuation. Planning to investigate me for murder again?”

  He shrugged. “Why? Did you do it?”

  I scowled. “What are you really doing here, Archer?”

  Dan released a long whistle, like the sound of a bomb falling, and left.

  Jake rubbed his chin. “I’m assisting Dan with his investigation.”

  “He said he’s assisting you with your investigation. Why is there an investigation? Why are there officers stationed at the gates talking to everyone who leaves?”

  “I’ll ask the questions.”

  I shook my head. “No. You first. Start talking.”

  His grouchy expression wavered. “It’s classified. Now, can I please ask my questions?”

  I shot him a crazy face. “No.”

  “I can’t do this with you right now, Mia. This hasn’t been a good day.” He motioned to the body being zipped into a black coroner bag.

  The sound drew ice up my spine.

  “Did you know the vic?”

  I scrunched my face. “His name’s John Francis, not The Vic. He’s a painter. He does oils, landscapes, people. Some on commission. Some just hang in the gallery. They’re all beautiful. He could’ve been famous.”

  Jake marked something in a little notebook.

  I bristled. “What’s this about? Why are the marshals involved? How’d you even know this happened? Why did Dan say he was murdered?”