“Yes, I know.”
That stops him, bloody knife in hand. He wipes it on a cloth, slowly, as if awaiting a punch line.
“You delivered that batch of sausage yesterday,” I say. “There was no way of knowing which links would go to Brady, and you wouldn’t poison innocent people.”
“Thank you.” He sets the knife aside and removes his apron. “I did not shoot at Mr. Brady either. I was expecting to see you after that.”
“It was the wrong kind of murder.”
He chuckles, pleased. When Brady first arrived, Mathias had asked if I wanted him to assess or assassinate the prisoner. If I’d pursued that, he’d have claimed he was joking. He wasn’t. I have no doubt that Mathias has killed murderers. He has a modus operandi, though. Poetic justice. What Brady is accused of requires a more fitting punishment than a shot in the head.
“Also,” Mathias says, “you are not convinced he is a killer.”
“Are you?”
“No. But I am rarely convinced until they confess. Even that is never a guarantee. In Mr. Brady’s case, though, I require more interviews to make an educated guess. Which would still not be enough to warrant capital punishment. One must be absolutely certain. Hypothetically speaking.”
“I should have you speak to Roy and his crew about that.”
Mathias sniffs. “Roy is a cretin. I would like to interview him.”
“That can be arranged. We’d appreciate it, actually.”
“So if you did not come to question me . . .”
“Even if there’s no way you poisoned the sausage, I must be seen coming in here to question you. Otherwise it’ll seem as if I’m excusing you because we’re acquainted.”
“ ‘Acquainted’?” His brows rise. “That is an odd word to use, and I will presume you choose it because you have temporarily forgotten the French word for friend. Otherwise, I would be insulted.”
“If I said we were friends, you’d make some comment about that. Now, I do need to get back to the business of finding who poisoned the prisoner. If you have more of that batch of sausage, I’ll take some for analysis.”
“You mean you’ll eat it.”
“That’s the best way to test it. Also, I missed lunch.”
He walks into the back, leaving the door open. “So it was poison.”
I list the symptoms.
“Interesting,” he says as he returns with a package of sausage. “Did Mr. Brady say anything?”
“Sure.” I make retching noises.
He shakes his head.
“At the time, he only mentioned Storm. When we removed his food tray, he was worried she’d eat what was left and get sick.”
His lips purse in thought. “Or worried she would eat it and not get sick, proving the food was not the source of the poison.”
“If so, he could just say it must have been in his water or coffee. That was also the first thing he said when he woke. He was concerned that she’d eaten his food.”
“Interesting,” he says again.
I eye him. “In what way?”
“Just . . . interesting. I would like to speak to him later.”
“I don’t think he’ll be in the mood for your brand of conversation.”
“We will discuss dogs.”
“Uh-huh . . .”
“He apparently has a fondness for them. It would be a topic of conversation—other than himself—that he might respond to.”
I have a suspect for the poisoning. I’m just trying not to fixate on him, because, well, he couldn’t have done it, considering he was locked in the icehouse at the time. Roy is the most obvious possibility. Less than twenty-four hours ago he wanted to try Brady, a sham trial that I’m sure would have resulted in a guilty verdict and a death sentence.
Obviously Roy didn’t do it. But he didn’t act alone yesterday. When I track the path that Brady’s food took, I’m looking for one of those names, somewhere along the line. When there are none, I start to investigate the whereabouts of those five residents who’d been with him.
I’ve found a possible lead. Cecil was supposed to work at the main food depot this morning. He would have prepared Brady’s breakfast . . . if Dalton hadn’t yanked him onto chopping duty. It would be easy, though, for Cecil to pop into the food depot and wander around a bit, poison Brady’s tray . . .
I’m heading to the depot when Val hurries up alongside me.
“It seems I’ve been trailing one stop behind you,” she says. “I wanted to ask if I can sit with the prisoner.”
“Hmm?” I catch a glimpse of Diana up ahead, coming out of the bakery.
“Take a turn playing nursemaid,” Val says. “I think Diana’s up next. Looks like she’s got a coffee to keep her awake.”
“Right.” I’m distracted, and it takes effort to follow what Val’s saying. “So you want to take her shift?”
“Oliver was awake when I went by earlier. Nicole refused to talk to him, so I think he’s getting bored. If I go in when he’s feeling lonely and groggy, it will help establish me as an ally.” She gives a look, like a five-year-old whispering plans to eavesdrop on her parents’ party. “I’ve managed to establish a rapport that I feel will be useful.”
“Uh-huh.”
I could tell her that I’m no longer convinced we need this. But that look really is childlike, her eyes glittering. Val wants to be helpful, and the idea of playing spy with Brady makes her feel both happy and useful.
“Sure,” I say. Then I call, “Diana?” When she stops, I say to Val, “Tell her you’re taking her shift. I’ll swing by in a couple of hours to see if he’s ready to go back to his cell. If not, Diana can take over then.”
20
No one at the food depot saw Cecil there that morning. It’s still possible he was—he’d have access. It’s also possible there were more than five people following Roy’s madness. I’m going to need a complete list of everyone who could have come in contact with Brady’s food.
First, I want some idea of what kind of poison could have been used, in hopes of linking the two—who had access to both the food and the poison. Dalton’s helping me compile a list of potential toxins. We’re walking around Rockton checking labels on everything he can think of. We’re in the brewery at the Roc, where Isabel is explaining that not only is this the most secure location in town, but the only poison there is methanol.
“He’d have spit it out,” she says. “He’s not going to think we just brewed a batch of cheap coffee.”
“We don’t brew cheap coffee,” Dalton says. “He’d know that by now.”
Which is true. Supply issues in Rockton are a matter of transport and storage rather than cost. Our milk might be powdered, along with most of our eggs, but when it comes to dry goods, we can get the good stuff. Which is one reason why the money Brady brings us won’t impact our basic lifestyle.
“Are we sure he was poisoned?” Isabel continues. “I treated enough bulimic patients to know how easy it is to make yourself sick.”
“He had symptoms other than vomiting. They were consistent with poison.”
She’s not the first person to mention this possibility. Each time someone suggests that Brady faked it, I feel a nudge at the back of my mind, the one that says You’re missing something.
“Could it be environmental?” Isabel says. “God knows, there’s enough in our forest that can kill you.”
“We do have water hemlock and false hellebore,” I say. “Which vie for the title of most poisonous plant in North America.”
Isabel sighs. “Of course they do.”
“Hey, at least it’s not Australia. Everything’s poisonous there.”
“I would rather face a kangaroo than a grizzly. Or a cougar. Or a wolf. Or a wolverine. Or a feral dog, feral pig . . .”
“There are no feral pigs in the Yukon.”
“Just the ones Rockton released. Like the dogs, the cats, the hostiles . . . Because our forest really needed more threats.”
“Water hemlock’s rare,” Dalton says. “Only seen it twice this far north. False hellebore is the problem. Which is why I don’t tell folks that real hellebore is edible. Can’t take the chance. The symptoms fit, though.”