'… When I first saw it, the shrimp plate was under the warming lights, the table number and order tucked beneath it. The Cobb salad sat beside it, not under the warming lights. You never put salads under the warming lights.' Mr. Graves blinked, cleared his throat. 'I took both plates to Senator Hoffman's table and automatically put the fried shrimp plate in front of Senator Hoffman. He laughed, told me not today, he had to lose an inch, but the lady was fit as a fiddle and so it was for her enjoyment today. I was embarrassed, I'll admit it. To make a mistake like that with Senator Hoffman, but as I said, he only laughed, wasn't put out or anything, not that he ever is. He's been coming to the Foggy Bottom Grill for maybe ten years now, once a week, like clockwork, and he always orders that shrimp plate-' He looked at Savich and his eye twitched again. 'That poor woman, it was horrible, Agent Savich. One of the busboys pulled my arm, and I looked up to see her holding her throat. I remember thinking she looked more confused than anything, like she didn't know what was happening to her. It was so fast, it's hard to remember, but then she toppled off her chair and onto the floor and she was vomiting and writhing and then she just seemed to freeze. White foam was pouring out of her mouth, I can see it so clearly, that white foam just gushing out of her mouth, so much of it, then she lay there perfectly still, and I just knew she was dead.
'Senator Hoffman was with her, talking to her, trying to find out what was wrong, shaking her, but it didn't do any good. She was gone. It was horrible.'
Mr. Graves put his head on his folded arms on the table. His shoulders were shaking. Lucy reached over and patted him.
Suddenly Mr. Graves raised his face, now white and drawn, his eye twitching again. 'What if Senator Hoffman had ordered the shrimp? What if I'd given him the plate? He would have died.' He stopped cold, as if appalled at what he'd said. 'It didn't matter, did it? No matter where I put the plate, one of them would have died.'
'I know, sir. Mr. Graves, do you have any idea how the poison got into the shrimp batter? Are there any new employees?'
'Yes, I already told Agent Hamish. There are a couple of young kids working in the kitchen, busing, washing dishes, that sort of thing. It's a low-paying job, but enough to give high school kids walking-around money. All the waitstaff, we've been there for years. It's a good job, and we have our own clientele, really, who come in and ask for us specifically.'
'I want you to think back, Mr. Graves. Picture the kitchen in your mind after you placed Senator Hoffman's lunch order. That's right, think about it. Just relax. Now, tell me what you see.'
Mr. Graves said slowly, 'I see Gomez, he's one of the sous chefs, a real mean little pisser, chewing out one of the new kids because he dropped a pan of sauteed mushrooms on the floor. There's lots of commotion because the mushrooms were going on the filet mignon Senator Reinwald had ordered. The chef's screaming for quiet, the dishes are getting scrambled around, everyone's on edge.' He paused a moment, then shook his head, opened his eyes. 'I'm sorry, Agent Savich, but I really can't recall anything else. Just the chaos. Do you think those mushrooms were spilled on purpose? The kid said someone bumped him, he didn't see who, so it wasn't his fault. You think that person could have slipped into the kitchen and put the arsenic in the shrimp batter?' He closed his eyes again.
'Who normally prepares the shrimp batter?'
'One of the sous chefs, always. The chef himself sometimes. Today? I honestly don't remember.'
'Thank you, Mr. Graves,' Savich said, and put his hand on his shoulder. 'I know this is very hard for you. You've been a great help.'
26
STONE BRIDGE, CONNECTICUT
At two o'clock, Sherlock and Erin pulled into the Royals' impressive tree-lined circular driveway on Maple Lawn Drive. Sherlock knew Caskie Royal was at the office, probably being worked over by the Schiffer Hartwin lawyers trying to ensure he stayed with the program and kept his mouth shut.
The house was a huge white Colonial, at least eight thousand square feet with a four-car garage, its newly painted white doors glistening in the September sun. The grounds were beautifully groomed with thick full bushes and well-spaced maples and oaks.
There was a new black Audi coupe in the driveway, a motorcycle beside it, and a bicycle propped against the garage.
Sherlock knew Erin was psyched, nearly jumping out of her skin, but trying hard not to show it. She'd called Erin a short time after Dillon had left for Washington and asked if she'd like to come with her to interview Mrs. Royal, saying it might help to have another woman with her, even if it was official FBI business. The truth was that in her gut Sherlock knew there was something going on with Erin, something she didn't understand yet, something Erin knew and she didn't. Her interest in this whole case seemed excessive. Sherlock wanted to find out more about Erin Pulaski, P.I. And what better way than to invite her along to interview Mrs. Royal? She hadn't told Bowie.
Erin said, 'You're sure Mr. Royal isn't here?'
Sherlock pulled the key out of the Pontiac's ignition. 'Nope, Caskie's at the office, either being pounded by the Schiffer Hartwin lawyers or huddled with Ms. Carla Alvarez, or all of the above. Nice spread, isn't it?'
Erin, who'd driven by the Royal house several times on Sunday evening, merely nodded. 'It would appear there's lots of money in drugs.'
Sherlock grinned. 'Sure enough.'
A young Hispanic woman with beautiful glossy hair answered the door. She was wearing an actual uniform. Sherlock gave her a big smile and showed her FBI creds. She watched her study them carefully before she said, voice wary, that Mrs. Royal was playing tennis. Well, Sherlock thought, of course there were tennis courts. The maid handed back her ID, and led them through an immense entry hall, through an equally impressive family room, through glass doors into a large covered patio. Jasmine wove in and out of white beams overhead, scenting the air, and baskets of flowers spilled out of Italian pots lining the patio, their scent mixing with the scent of the jasmine. Sherlock said to Erin, 'This is beautiful. Sean would really like that swimming pool.'
'Georgie would, too.' Erin shaded her eyes with her hand and looked toward the tennis court some twenty yards beyond them, then on to the woods behind the six-foot gray stone fence that separated the woods from the property. At one time the fence had enclosed the entire property, but now gray stones lay scattered in small piles along a section of it, probably left there on purpose to add atmosphere. 'So would I, actually,' and Erin grinned.
'I would, too,' the maid said, smiled, and left them. They skirted the pool area and walked down a flagstone path to the tennis court. A double, of course, not a single. One for family, one for friends.
'I wonder why the original owners built that fence all around the property,' Sherlock said. 'It would make this place feel like a prison. Just look at the height of that back wall.'
Erin said, 'I wonder why they left that last piece. Surely not for protection. Walk around it and you're inside.'
'Probably to keep the woods from encroaching. It's stark but beautiful, isn't it?'
Erin nodded. 'I'll bet you there are alarms all along where the fence used to be.'
'That was good, Erin.'
'Yeah, well, I saw an alarm box on the back of the house. Wow, look at her move. She's got a great backhand.'
They stood alongside the court watching Jane Ann Royal playing a vicious game of tennis with a hunky young guy, probably her instructor. When she aced her serve, she tossed her racket in the air and did a victory dance. The young man, perfectly tanned in his tennis whites, called out, 'Very nice game, Jane Ann. You really got some heat on that last serve. Sharp English, too. Well done.'
'Yep, that's a teacher, not a friend,' Sherlock said. 'A friend would be properly pissed at losing.'
'Lover too?' Erin wondered aloud.
'We'll soon see. She sure seems like a happy camper, doesn't she? All caught up in winning the game, not a single worry to her name. You'd think her husband hasn't spoken to her about any of the trouble camping at their door.'
