Fatal Fruitcake by Mary Kay Andrews Page A

lots of employees. the door was closed. I opened the door to go in there and...”
    She swallowed hard. Tears sprang up in her eyes. “He was sitting down at the end of the table away from the door, head down on the table. I thought he was drunk, passed out. I was gonna wake him up, you know, call a cab and send him home. I shook him and shook him. that’s when I saw...you know.”
    “No gunshots or stab wounds,” Bucky put in here. “No real sign of a struggle. The M.E.’s in there with him now.”
    “Oh, my God,” Jacky whispered. “it was awful. I never saw a dead body before. I didn’t know how things...would be.”
    Just then, a door from the reception area opened, and a petite blond woman dressed in flowing red chiffon party pants and a hastily buttoned white lab coat came into the room. She was removing a pair of rubber gloves, which she tossed into the trashcan beside the receptionist’s desk.
    “Deavers?” she said, ignoring Jacky and me. I knew Sonia Patterson when she was just an assistant medical examiner. She knew me, too.
    “Death by asphyxiation,” she said. “No foul play. The fat jerk literally ate himself to death.”
    Jacky gasped. “What do you mean?”
    “A chunk of food got lodged in his throat and he choked,” Dr. Patterson said. “It looks like fruitcake, but we’ll run lab tests to be sure.”
    “That’s it?” Deavers asked, pleased. “No foul play? Excellent.”
    By now Sonia Patterson had removed her lab coat. “For this I left the Medical society dance. “Unbelievable.” Underneath the lab coat she was wearing a sequined strapless top that showed plenty of cleavage.
    “You can wrap up the crime scene by yourself—right?” she asked. “I’ll have the paperwork done for you by Monday. Accidental death.” She looked closely at Deavers, noticing now that he, too, was dressed for a party. “Nice dinner jacket,” she said.
    Then, she was gone.
    Deavers stood up, stretched and grinned. “We got lucky this time. Tonight’s the Police Benevolent Association Christmas party. They’re raffling off a new Jeep at midnight. If I get these guys moving, we’ll be out of here by 10, tops.”
    He got Jacky’s phone number and address and promised to call if he had any more questions.
    “What about the cleaning?” she wanted to know. “Can I finish?”
    He thought for a moment. “Yeah, what the hell. Dr. Patterson says it’s accidental, it’s accidental. Don’t need a homicide this close to Christmas— right?”
    Jacky made a face. It was clear she’d had enough of Schubert Showalter Quinn for one night. But she was a pro. She squared her shoulders, picked up a cleaning caddy and sighed. “I’ll get the bathrooms now. Could you let me know when the, uh, body is gone?”
    Bucky nodded. He was busily jotting notes. I stood up and got ready to leave. But I dreaded going back to all that forced holiday cheerfulness at home.
    “By the way,” I said, trying to sound off-handed. “Who was the dead guy?”
    “Mail clerk,” Bucky said, still writing. “Moreland Reynolds. 22. His aunt is married to one of the big guys at this agency. Harrison Showalter. Kid’s sort of a dim bulb, from what the family says. Uncle Harry hired him as a favor to the wife.”
    He laughed briefly and shook his head.
    “What?” I said sourly. “What’s the joke?”
    “Death by fruitcake,” Deavers said, laughing again. “How’d you like to have that on your death certificate?”
    The conference room doors opened then, and the ambulance attendants wheeled out the stretcher. Moreland Reynolds was zipped into a tasteful maroon body bag. One of the attendants, a gangly, pimply-faced kid with a Braves cap on backward stopped to high-five with Bucky.
    “Hey, Detective Deavers,” he said. “you hear what happened to this poor stiff?”
    “1 heard,” Bucky said grinning. “Could’ve been worse, though.”
    “How’s that?” the kid said.
    “Could have been one of them senseless