Chapter 5.

Charlie was up out of his seat like a shot, and charged over to where Wendell Butterworth sat with a satisfied smile on his face. He barely acknowledged Charlie looming over him. His dead gray eyes were fixed on me.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Charlie said with controlled anger.

Wendell glanced up at him and, with an innocent shrug, replied, "Just having some lunch." And then he looked back at me, and gave me a flirtatious wink.

Charlie's imposing six-foot-two frame towered over Wendell as he reached down, grabbed him by his shirt collar, and hauled him out of his chair, which tipped over in the scuffle.

Charlie pulled him forward in his grip until their faces were mere inches apart. "I want you out of here . . . now!"

"I'm just here to get something to eat," Wendell said calmly, going limp in Charlie's grasp. He wasn't going to give Charlie the satisfaction of fighting back.

The seen-it-all waitress, who'd just come out of the kitchen carrying my club sandwich on a rectangular plastic tray, apparently hadn't seen anything like this. Charlie let go of Wendell's collar and hooked an arm around the back of his neck, securing him in a headlock. Then, he yanked him toward the front door. Wendell let his feet drag across the floor, making it even more difficult for Charlie to maneuver him out of the restaurant.

The waitress dropped her tray in surprise, and let out a squeak before she turned back to the kitchen and screamed, "Joey, Lanny, you guys better get out here now!"

Charlie kicked the door open with his right foot, planted the palms of his hands squarely in the middle of Wendell's back, and shoved him hard outside. He then was instantly back at our table, where I sat trying hard not to show him how scared I was. He put a comforting hand on my shoulder.

"You okay, babe?"

"Yeah, it just kind of freaked me out, that's all."

I lovingly placed my hand over Charlie's and we were both still for a moment, contemplating the surreal nature of what had just happened.

Joey and Lanny, the cook and busboy, and prime contenders for a tag team WWE Smackdown title, came bursting through the revolving kitchen doors. They charged up behind the five-foot-two waitress, their bulky size dwarfing her.

Without taking her eyes off us, she said, "The tall one just accosted one of my customers. Kicked his poor ass out the door."

Charlie reached into his back pocket to retrieve his badge, but I stood up and took his hand under the judgmental stares of the obviously straight brutes.

"Let's just go," I said, noticing the remnants of my club sandwich littering the scuffed, dirty floor. "We'll stop somewhere else to eat."

I tossed a ten-dollar bill down on the table. Lanny, hairy everywhere except on the top of his head, waddled over to the front door and pushed it open. He glared at us as we passed by in a vain attempt to intimidate us as we were leaving.

With Charlie's martial arts background and advanced weapons training, it would take a lot more than a three-hundred-pound goateed gorilla in a stained white cook's uniform to intimidate me. On the other hand, if Charlie hadn't been by my side, I probably would have peed in my pants.

Out in the parking lot, we both cautiously looked around for any sign of Wendell Butterworth. He had obviously been released from prison for over a week now. Plenty of time to drum up a handgun. But Wendell had disappeared as quickly as he first appeared, like a ghost. I never once deluded myself into thinking he wouldn't pop up again to haunt me.

Charlie and I climbed into his Volvo, Charlie behind the wheel, and we pulled back onto the highway, riding south toward home in silence. I stole a brief glimpse of Charlie as he drove. He was lost in his private thoughts, and there were worry lines creasing his forehead. He hadn't been there for the hell and pain that Wendell's wrath had brought upon my childhood. But he was acutely aware of the scars and nightmares it had left on me. And it troubled him. He noticed me watching him, so I offered him a reassuring smile. I didn't want him to think I was going to let this guy get to me again. After all, I was older now, stronger, and wiser. I could handle one loony tune. But the reality was, all the fear and anxiety that had paralyzed me as a child was starting to come back. And the idea of this monster kicking off a new campaign of terror made me shudder.

"Monkshood. Very lethal. They call it that because the plant it comes from resembles a monk's cowl."

Charlie and I listened with rapt attention to Susie Chan as she talked while devouring her blackened swordfish at The Little Door on Third Street in West Hollywood. This quaint French bistro, aptly named for its small wooden front door, was one of the top dining spots in LA, and, with even the Diet Coke imported from Europe, very expensive. But the splurge was worth it tonight because in exchange for a forty-dollar piece of fish and a couple of hundred-dollar bottles of wine, Charlie and I were gathering invaluable bits of information.

"It was used in ancient Europe and Asia to poison enemy water supplies during times of war. Hunters also used its sap to poison spears, arrowheads, trap baits, you name it," Susie said between bites of her swordfish.

After returning from Laurette's wedding, Charlie had called his ex-wife, who was the best medical examiner the county of Los Angeles had to offer. She was a five-foot dynamo, appearing on television as a coroner to the stars. She had made quite a name for herself. But despite her enormous career success, she never quite got over her husband coming out of the closet. And she blamed me for breaking up her marriage even though Charlie and I met years after they'd divorced and he'd declared himself gay.

Relations between Susie and myself had always been strained, but lately they had been particularly dicey thanks to a blowup we had when Susie intimated on television that I was directly connected to the murder of my friend Willard Ray Hornsby last year. Of course I didn't do it, and I subsequently unmasked the real killer. But an apology never came from Susie, and we had barely spoken since. Charlie, in the interest of diplomacy, had maintained a cordial relationship with his ex-wife, and they still met for dinner once a month to catch up on each other's lives. I rarely attended these evenings, but tonight was an exception. Susie had agreed to conduct an independent autopsy on Austin Teboe to clarify the cause of death. And owing to her celebrity status, the San Simeon police were more than willing to accommodate her. Some of the officers probably even secretly hoped they'd make the pages of her next book.

Nobody seriously believed Austin Teboe had died of a heart attack. He was still in his early forties and in reasonably good shape. No, there was something else at work here, and Susie was more than willing to help out because, well, let's be frank, she was still in love with her ex-husband.

Susie gulped down a mouthful of a pricey Chardonnay. We were almost down two bottles, and Susie, the lush she was, would undoubtedly order another knowing full well it was my acting residuals picking up the tab.

"Interesting fact. In ancient Greece, legend had it that the plant originated from the slobber dripping from the fangs of Cerberus, the three-headed dog Hercules supposedly brought back with him from the underworld." I didn't give a rat's ass about the Greek myth of a poisonous plant. But I nodded as if I were caught up in a riveting Discovery Channel documentary.

Susie poured herself another glass of wine and then batted her big brown eyes at me. "Should we order another bottle?"

"Sure," I said, clenching my teeth.

Charlie flagged down the waiter.

"So, you're sure this is the poison that was mixed into Austin's champagne?" I said evenly, trying to get as much out of Susie as I could before she got too drunk to speak coherently.

"Yes. It's very bad. Causes burning and tingling, numbness in the tongue, throat, and face, followed by nausea, blurred vision, and paralysis of the respiratory system. Mr. Teboe probably felt as if there was ice water in his veins. And with the amount we found in his glass, it's fatal within ten minutes."

"Was there anything we could have done had we known what it was?" Charlie asked.

"Nope. There's no antidote, at least not that we know about." She pushed her plate away with a third of her swordfish still left. "I don't want to get too full. I hear their dessert menu is fabulous."

"So he was definitely murdered," I said just to confirm it out loud.

"Absolutely. Even the ME in San Simeon, who does maybe one autopsy every two years, knew there was foul play involved before he even cut Mr. Teboe open."

"Where do you think the killer got the stuff?"

"In Nova Scotia, monkshood survives as a garden plant. It's not impossible to come by. So I don't think it's going to help narrow down your lists of suspects."

"You've been a big help, Susie, thanks," Charlie said with a smile.

I felt it was in my best interest to agree. "Yes, Susie, thank you. You never cease to amaze me with your crime scene investigation talents."

Susie knew she was the best, and was always open to fawning accolades. She simply sat back and enjoyed letting them wash over her.

The waiter returned with our third hundred-dollar bottle of wine, and Susie nearly clapped with glee as he twisted the corkscrew into the top of the bottle and popped it open. He poured a small amount into one glass, which Charlie tasted and approved, and we commenced with another full round. Susie signaled another waiter, who was carrying a tray with the evening's dessert selections, and he hustled over to her side so she could ponder over which sweet appealed the most to her. She just couldn't decide, and the poor guy, who had about seven other tables to attend to, was left standing next to her, holding a silver tray lined with seven different dessert selections. At least Susie and Charlie had had one thing in common when they were married: culinary indecisiveness.

As Susie debated between the creme brulee and the chocolate mousse cake, my mind wandered to Laurette's wedding. The killer had to be somebody in attendance. Austin Teboe had apparently known only two people at the ceremony. There was a definite history between him and Dominique, though it was still a mystery what exactly it was. But she left early, long before the wedding toast, so it would have been impossible for her to mix the monkshood poison into his champagne. That only left one other person: Juan Carlos Barranco. Charlie had made a few calls to Miami Beach, and found out Teboe had worked at a trendy Lincoln Road eatery called the Nexxt Cafe, which was one of the more popular spots in South Beach. He'd served as a chef, having resigned just two weeks prior to the wedding. Still, we weren't sure that was the restaurant where he had met Juan Carlos; Charlie couldn't verify whether Juan Carlos had ever worked there, or even dined there.

But although I wasn't yet sure about the details, I was convinced Laurette's new husband was behind the murder. And with the happy couple returning from their Maui honeymoon the following morning, I knew this already precarious situation was about to get a hell of a lot more complicated.

Chapter 6.

Brave soul that she was, Laurette rang me the morning she got home from her four-day honeymoon at a resort world-renowned for their sumptuous all-you-can-eat buffets, and suggested we rendezvous at a Weight Watchers meeting so we could both weigh in. She decided that if either of us had dropped even a fraction of a pound, we could immediately drive to Hugo's, a West Hollywood brunch spot, and split a plate of their delectable pasta alla mama, to celebrate. From what I could speculate from our brief conversation, the honeymoon did not go well. Her voice was hushed and strained, and when I asked her if everything was all right, she deflected the question by asking how many Weight Watchers points a McDonald's breakfast burrito would cost her.

I hopped into the car and drove to the nearest Weight Watchers location, which was on Beverly Boulevard, in the heart of Los Angeles's teeming Russian immigrant community. There was no reason for Weight Watchers to be in this particular location as far as I could tell. The Russians in the neighborhood didn't look any heavier than the Americans.

I parked on a side street, walked to the two-level glass building, and made my way to the back where a line formed out the door with nervous-looking dieters awaiting their weekly weigh-in on a sturdy, top-of-the-line scale you just can't buy at Sears. There was no getting around the numbers that would pop up on the digital display screen. These industrial, professional machines were designed for accuracy. Which was good or bad, depending on what kind of week you'd had. Today was bad since I had overindulged at The Little Door with Charlie and Susie the night before.

Laurette and I had tried every kind of diet there was, but Weight Watchers was the one that seemed to do the trick since it was very easy for both of us to get caught up in counting points. It became a game we could play together as we spent hours trying to figure out how it would be possible to eat a filet mignon and half a pepperoni pizza in the same day. Unfortunately, with only twenty-seven points to spend a day, and one slice of French toast with a dollop of maple syrup totaling a whopping eight points, I was done eating for the day after breakfast.

I had been standing in line for just a few minutes when I heard a commotion up at the front counter. It was Laurette. She had arrived just before me and was determined to stock up on the three-point chocolate bars you could gorge on between meals during the week. But there was only one box left on the shelf and a formidable three-hundred-pound newcomer was certain her hand had reached the box first. I loved watching Laurette in action. She was a force to be reckoned with, and most rue the day they foolishly choose to get on her bad side. I had come close on her wedding day. It scared me to think about life without Laurette. She was just too bright a light in my world. And despite my misgivings regarding her new husband, I didn't want to jeopardize our friendship.

To my utter shock, Laurette let go of the box and muttered to the obese woman, "Fine. You take it."

The obese woman grunted, a victorious smile on her face, and took her seat in one of the hard, gray folding chairs that had been set up for today's lecture.

Laurette was clearly upset. Otherwise, she would have chewed up this woman and spit her out, in spite of her enormous size. Whatever was bothering her had to be big. It was extremely unusual for her to give up without a fight. And the stakes involved chocolate. Suddenly I was worried.

She spotted me in line, and ambled over to give me a hug. Her eyes were red, as if she had been crying, and she wore no makeup. Laurette never left the house without makeup. She prided herself on always looking dazzling. The more I studied her, the more concerned I became.

"How was the honeymoon?" I said.

"I think Juan Carlos is cheating on me."

Well, at least I didn't have to pull what was wrong out of her. That was what made Laurette such a good talent manager. No bullshit. She always just cut right to the chase.

"What makes you think that?" I said.

"While we were in Maui, someone kept calling our room at the hotel and hanging up. Juan Carlos said it was probably just kids playing a prank. But I know it was her."

"Who?"

"Dominique, his ex-girlfriend."

"Maybe he was right. Maybe it was just kids," I offered weakly.

Laurette shook her head. "No. Juan Carlos kept leaving me on the beach, said he was going to take a nap in the room. Finally, I called the room and there was no answer. He wasn't there. I think he was meeting her."

"She was in Maui? Are you sure?"

"No. Not a hundred percent sure. But one morning we got up early and did one of those sunrise bike tours down the side of a volcano. Halfway down, our group stopped for breakfast at a small restaurant, and I thought I spotted her outside, just standing there, staring at us. Juan Carlos told me I was being ridiculous. He refused to take me seriously, which just made me all the more suspicious. I know it was her, Jarrod. I saw her."

By this time, Laurette and I were at the front of the line, and it was my turn to bite the bullet and step up on the scale. I tore off my belt and shoes, and dropped my keys and loose change on one of the folding chairs. I was a seasoned pro at this. I didn't need any random coins or metal weighing me down.

I turned and let out a sigh. Operating the scale was Richard, this rail-thin former fatty whom I affectionately referred to as the "Diet Nazi." Richard had lost a hundred and forty pounds on Weight Watchers, and so was a self-proclaimed expert on what was good for the rest of us. When I lost ten percent of my body weight after four grueling months in the program, Richard called me up in front of the class and hailed me as a hero. Until he discovered I had celebrated my monumental weight loss with a huge Thai dinner. He berated me in front of the class, and told me I was not an example to follow, and that earning a few activity points by walking Snickers around the block did not give me license to splurge on pad Thai noodle with peanut sauce. Tension had brewed between us ever since.

Richard gave me a cursory glance, and waved me up onto the scale. I closed my eyes and did as I was told. There was an agonizing moment as Richard waited for the digital numbers to settle down, and then a sly smile broke out on his face.

"It seems we've put on a couple pounds, Jarrod."

I opened my eyes to see the digital readout: 172 pounds. Not good. Not good at all. It was more than a couple of pounds. It was five. The Diet Nazi could barely contain his euphoria.

"And it's not even the holidays. Looks like someone needs to work a little harder. Better luck next week."

I wanted to punch him in the face. Normally I would have found solace in Laurette taking her turn. One smart mouth remark from Richard, and she would have done what I fantasized about doing. She would have socked him square in the mouth. But instead, after witnessing my public embarrassment, Laurette was too distraught to even attempt a weigh-in.

"I'm not up for this," she said and we hauled ass out the door.

As I walked Laurette to her car, she began to cry. I stopped and took her into my arms. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, I really am."

She pulled away, placing a hand on her chest in a vain attempt to regain her composure. "I love him so much."

"I know you do. Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?"

"Yes."

When I said it, I thought it was one of those rhetorical questions that would have triggered an automated response such as, "No, just being my friend is enough." But I should've known with Laurette, I was being lured into a plan.

"What?" I said, unable to hide my hesitancy.

"Follow him."

"What do you mean?"

She wiped away the last tear from her cheek, and looked at me with fierce resolve. "I want you to follow him and prove that he's a no-good philandering son of a bitch."

Now every little voice in my head was screaming at me to say no. Just tell her I don't feel comfortable staking out my best friend's husband to catch him in the act of adultery. But to be honest, my own curiosity was peaked. I wanted to know his story, and by tailing him, I just might come up with some answers to the questions surrounding Austin Teboe's murder.

Although Charlie would undoubtedly need to be kept in the dark about what I was doing, it proved to be too enticing to pass up. "All right. I'll do it, honey. But remember, this stays between us. If Charlie found out . . ."

"I won't breathe a word."

I nodded and our pact was sealed.

"I can't start on an empty stomach," I said. "Hugo's? My treat."

"Meet you there."

Laurette opened her car door as I walked up the street toward mine, but before she climbed in, she called out to me. "Jarrod?"

I turned around.

"If you do find out he's cheating on me, then will you help me do one more thing?"

"What's that?" I said.