“Weren’t you counting the cards? You could have prevented us taking the overtrick.”
“I forgot to count anything but trumps.”
Laurene shook her head, a sorrowful look on her face.
It took less than two hours to stumble through our usual three rubbers and, to no one’s surprise, Laurene garnered the most points. “I was at the top of my form today,” she said. “I’m certainly ready for the brownie contest.”
Emily carried in the three maraschino-topped brownies on three delicate china plates of different design and put them on the end table beside Laurene’s chair. Marion served coffee. I sat twiddling with my cup and wishing I were somewhere else. Anywhere else.
“These look lovely,” Laurene said. “Did you all use the same recipe?”
“No,” Emily replied. “We thought it would be more interesting if we each tried something different.”
“Ah, but that will make them more difficult to judge. You should have thought of duplicate bridge, where all the partnerships play exactly the same hands. It’s an excellent approach because no luck is involved, only skill. Winston and I adored playing duplicate when we lived in Vancouver. I have almost a thousand master points, you know.”
We knew.
Laurene picked up the brownie from the plate with pink roses and took a bite. She chewed slowly, raising her gaze to the ceiling as if communing with her taste buds by long distance. I tried to go on breathing; it was my brownie she was eating.
“Hmm. Tasty, though perhaps a little dry.” She dabbed at her lips with a serviette and sipped coffee before attacking the brownie on the bluebell plate. Marion shifted restlessly in her chair.
When the second brownie had disappeared down Laurene’s throat, she said: “Acceptably moist, but the chocolate was rather overshadowed by peppermint. The use of artificial flavouring requires a light touch, girls.”
The third brownie was on a daffodil plate. Laurene tasted it, frowned, tasted it again. My palms were sweating. “At first I thought there was far too much sugar in this one, but there is an underlying bitter tang. Perhaps unsweetened chocolate? Interesting, though.” She finished the brownie and held out her cup as a hint she was ready for a refill.
“So give us the word,” Marion said. “Which brownie takes the prize?”
Laurene smiled. “Definitely the second one. It had the proper moist texture and the right chocolate smoothness. Go easy on the peppermint next time, though.”
“Congratulations, Marion,” Emily said, pouring second coffees for all of us.
Marion rose, gave a mock curtsey and took a brownie from the plate Emily had placed beside the cream and sugar on the coffee table.
“Oh, but girls,” Laurene said, “where are your maraschino cherries? Those brownies are plain.”
Emily’s face went pale. I said quickly, “No one likes them but you, Laurene. We put them on yours as a special treat. As a reward for judging, you might say.”
“Well, aren’t you sweet,” she said. “They do look delicious, even without the cherries. But I’ll pass. Winston and I are guests of honour at the Rotary Club dinner tonight. I mustn’t ruin my appetite.”
Twenty excruciating minutes later, Laurene finally put her coat on.
“I should leave, too,” Marion said. “Harvey and I are going to the movies tonight. American Beauty is on. The one that won all the Academy Awards, remember?”
Laurene stood in the open doorway, smiling. “You’ll love the movie. And you’ll never guess the ending. Kevin Spacey’s character gets shot.” She left, and Emily waved at her from the front window as she drove away.
Marion, face red, slammed her fist on the coffee table, bouncing the brownies on their plate. “Not only did she ruin the movie for me, but now I’ll have to sit through it while Harvey watches.” She shoved a brownie in her mouth and bit down as if it was Laurene’s neck. “And to think that for a moment there I was regretting this brownie caper.”
We retreated to the kitchen to help Emily wash cups and plates. “Barbara, what did you put in your brownie?” Marion asked, drying the same cup for the third time.
“Amanita mushroom. The death angel.”
“I used methanol and a lot of peppermint essence to cover the taste. What about you, Emily?”
“Mashed ripe privet berries. And a great deal of sugar to hide the bitterness.” Emily polished the sink. “I was so afraid she’d catch on when she asked about the cherries. Thank you for your quick thinking, Barbara.”
“I was terrified she’d eat a fourth piece and find out it tasted different yet again from the others,” Marion said. “For sure she’d have wanted to know why.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Emily said. “Now we just have to wait. Two of those poisons take several hours to work.”
“A grand slam,” I said, “doubled and redoubled, if all three work. Will you pour me a scotch, Emily? Waiting will be the worst of all. What if she finds out? What if the police find out?”
By ten the following morning, I was such a wreck that I invited myself to Emily’s for coffee and moral support. Marion arrived a few minutes later.
“I’d put some Drambuie in the coffee,” Emily said, “but if anyone comes asking questions, it won’t look good if we’re all drunk before noon.”
We settled into our usual soft chairs, drank the rocket fuel that Emily calls coffee and gazed out the window at the clear-cut scarred mountain. There seemed to be nothing to say. Twenty minutes later, the phone rang.
Marion and I listened as Emily murmured, “Oh, dear,” and “I’m so sorry,” not once, but several times. When she hung up, she said, “Our grand slam didn’t work.”
The blood drained from my face and the starch from my knees. “What do you mean, it didn’t work?”
Emily patted my hand. “It’s all right, Barbara. Laurene was killed on the way home from her cake decorating class yesterday afternoon. A logging truck rammed her car into that stone wall the other side of the bridge. The car was crushed almost flat and, fortunately, she died instantly. Then the car burst into flames, and the firemen had a terrible time putting it out. Laurene’s body was virtually destroyed.”
“Oh my God, we’re in the clear,” Marion said, a trace of hysteria in her voice.
“Yes,” said Emily thoughtfully. “Apparently Winston is going to lay criminal charges before he goes back to Vancouver.”
Marion’s face paled to ghastly grey, and her voice quavered. “Why? Who? Emily, what are you saying?”
Emily smiled. “Winston is going to charge the truck driver. The man said Laurene was weaving all over the road and driving on the wrong side.”
“That would be the privet berries.” I clutched my coffee mug in shaking fingers. “They’re supposed
