Page 61 of June's First Murder
Sara Lee chuckled, breaking the emotional moment as she plopped cross-legged onto the floor. Her hand reached out automatically to rub over the little dog's scruffy coat, fingers working through the tangles behind Pippi's ears. The dog leaned into the attention, making a small grunt of contentment.
Suddenly Sara Lee looked around, her hand stilling on Pippi's head. "Where's Mister Smee? He must be getting hungry."
"You're right. It is time for dinner." June glanced at the clock on the mantle. Where had the afternoon gone? Lost in thought, apparently, while the day slipped away.
June and Sara Lee stood and walked out of the study. They glanced into the living room first, checking Mister Smee's usual afternoon napping spot in one of the reading chairs, but he wasn't there.
They walked into the kitchen, and June immediately spotted him. "Why on Earth is this cat ignoring the no-cats-on-the-counter rule?" she asked, though there was more amusement than annoyance in her voice. These past few days, she'd been lax about enforcement. They both had. Murder investigations had a way of making household rules seem less important.
Mister Smee lay on the kitchen counter with perfect feline dignity, curled up right next to her open cookbook. His enormous eyes blinked at them slowly, deliberately, as if to say he had every right to be exactly where he was.
June pulled the container of yesterday's chicken vegetable soup from the refrigerator while Sara Lee retrieved the bread from the bread box and began slicing.
As the scent of warming soup filled the kitchen, Pippi pranced around their feet in her excited dance when food was being prepared, convinced that something would surely fall for her to snap up. Mister Smeefinally stood from lying on the open cookbook on the counter, stretching with the liquid grace only cats possessed.
"There is something that just tickles the back of my mind with all the suspects we talked to," June mused, moving closer to the counter. She rested her hip against it, looking down at the cat. "Means and motive haven't been difficult to discern. But opportunity? That's elusive."
"Because there were no opportunities?" Sara Lee asked, coming to stand beside her grandmother. "But someone had to take the poison and put it into his flask."
The words hung in the air. June's gaze drifted to the cookbook, to Mister Smee sitting so deliberately beside it, and something shifted in her mind. A puzzle piece almost sliding into place.
Sara Lee looked over and spied the small bottles of homemade extract near where Mister Smee had been lying. "Were you making more homemade vanilla? I’m sure Barb could use some more for her lattes."
"Yes. I was making both vanilla and almond extract, and thought about making lemon, as well." June moved to the stove to stir the soup. "Mister Smee must have liked the scents to lie right next to the bottles and on the book." She laughed, the sound lighter than she'd felt all day. “I’m glad it wasn't mint, or he would have thought it was catnip and knocked the bottles over!”
Sara Lee moved closer to the cookbook, looking at the page Mister Smee had been occupying. "I love thatyou still use the cookbook that your mother used and made notes in the margins."
“Not only my mother, but my grandmother as well,” June said, pride in her voice. “It’s an old cookbook that I’ve used for so many years, I rarely have to look at the recipes anymore. I know them by heart. But seeing the notes in my mother’s and grandmother’s handwriting is always special.”
June walked over and looked at the page, running her hand over it absently. The paper was soft from years of use. Suddenly, her gaze landed on specific words, and everything stopped. She read the passage she hadn’t had to think about in years. Her finger followed the lines.
"Creating Your Own Signature Extracts
The beauty of homemade extracts is that you control the ingredients. Use quality spirits as your base—vodka for neutral flavor, bourbon for warmth. Store in small amber bottles to preserve potency.
Add vanilla beans, almond pieces, citrus peel, or herbs. Let steep for weeks, shaking occasionally. The result is far superior to store-bought.
CRITICAL WARNING: Small bottles of homemade extract look identical to certain medicinal bottles, tinctures, or other liquids. Always label clearly. Store separately from any medical supplies. A recipe that calls for 'a few drops of extract' could become deadly if you store medications in similar bottles and keep them in the kitchen. What flavors a cake could kill if mislabeled."
June's breath caught. Her hand pressed flat against the page as understanding crashed over her like a wave.She looked at her own row of extract bottles on the shelf… vanilla, almond, lemon, peppermint. Small, dark amber bottles, each carefully labeled in her neat handwriting.
They look so much like the old vials of medication her mother and grandmother used to keep. She thought about what would happen if they weren't labeled. Someone could take the wrong one, thinking it was something else entirely.
"Of course!" she said aloud, and leaned her hip against the counter, her mind racing. "What was the book Mister Smee led to the other day? Agatha Christie's The Pale Horse."
Sara Lee nodded, turning from the stove where she'd been watching the soup. "Yes. Did you think of something else?"
But June was already heading to the study, her movements quick and purposeful despite her age. Once in the room, she flipped the pages of her copy of The Pale Horse, finding the passage she'd marked years ago when she'd first read it. Her finger traced the words.
"The victim administered the poison himself, never knowing what he truly held in his hand."
"That's what I've been looking for..." June said quietly, the pieces assembling themselves with perfect clarity now. "The last key."
"Are you sure?" Sara Lee asked, hurrying after her into the study.
June walked back toward the front hallway, purpose in every step as Sara Lee tried to keep up. She grabbedher sweater and purse from the coat rack. "I'm going now. Call the sheriff."
"I'm coming, too. I don't want you to go alone?—"
