Fatal Fruitcake by Mary Kay Andrews Page B

drive-by murders. You know, somebody drives by, chunks a fruitcake at you and peels off.”
    “Hey,” the kid said, slapping his side. “That’s a good one. Drive-by fruitcake killing. Wait’ll I tell that one to the dispatcher.”
    Everybody was laughing except me. “I happen to like fruitcake,” I said, to nobody in particular.
    After the body was gone, Bucky gathered up his notebook and got ready to leave. “It’s okay if you hang around and wait for your friend,” he said. “But no snooping. This is a closed case. Understand?” “Perfectly,” I said. He was still laughing, shaking his head as he went out the door. “Death by fruitcake. Wait’ll I tell the guys at the party.”
    As soon as he was gone, I went into the conference room. It was, as Jacky had promised, a mess.
    Nearly empty platters of food were strewn around a long, polished walnut table. all that was left of the honey-baked ham was some greasy rind. There was a half-full bowl of potato salad, some stale-looking rolls, and the dregs of a cheese platter decorated with stray grapes and a couple of rogue strawberries. A credenza held what was left of the desserts: a single slice of pound cake, a few broken sugar cookies, a foil tray smeared with what looked like chocolate icing, and, yes, there on a white plate stood a shimmering jewel of a fruitcake.
    Its top was studded with glistening pecans, whole dates, figs and honeyed apricots. It was a thing of beauty, that fruitcake, but only one slice was missing.
    I heard a noise in the doorway. Jacky pushed a cleaning cart into the room. “I’ve been dreading coming back here,” she admitted. “It’s spooky.”
    “I’ll stay and help,” I told her. “Maybe if I stall long enough, Edna will trim the tree without me.”
    “That would be great,” Jacky said. “I’m no scaredy-cat, but I really don’t want to be here by myself.” She looked distastefully at the end of the table, where a half-full plate of food had been pushed out of the way. There were fingerprint powder smudges on and around the table and chair, and a chalk outline on the tabletop to show where the body had rested.
    “That’s where I found him,” she whispered. “I am never gonna get that out of my mind.”
    “Don’t look at the table,” I suggested. “I’ll clear the food away. You move the chairs and start vacuuming.”
    We worked fast. I tossed all the food remnants in the trash, wiped off the table and moved to the credenza. I tossed out everything but the fruitcake. “Waste not, want not,” Edna, the child of the depression, always says.
    I picked up the cake. Bucky was right. The thing was heavy as a concrete block. But handsomer. The fruits and nuts had been arranged in patterns, like flowers. I held it up to Jacky. “You want to take this home?”
    She shuddered. “Are you kidding? That thing killed a boy. I don’t want no killer fruitcake. Throw that thing in the trash.”
    She was right. I was just about to toss it in the trash when I smelled something; I sniffed the cake, set it back down, picked a pecan off the top and put it to my nose. I held the fruitcake out to Jacky again. “Does this smell like any fruitcake you ever smelled?”
    Reluctantly, she walked over and sniffed and wrinkled her nose, “Smells like my grandmama’s spare-room closet.”
    I bent over and inhaled again. “You’re right,” I told her. “It smells funny.”
    Carefully, I set the cake back down. I picked a tiny morsel and put it on my tongue. the taste was sweet, and then bitter, like chemicals. I spat it out into the trash; then headed to the water cooler for a long drink.
    I knew they were having the PBA party at Manuel’s tavern, a local watering hole that’s a favorite hang-out for cops, newspaper reporters and doctors and nurses from Grady Memorial Hospital’s emergency room. I tried calling Deavers’s cell phone, but my call went directly to voicemail. So I called Manuel’s, and told the bartender who I