Breach Of Promise

“But you hardly ever cook. You grill. And then, only steak.”

“That’s true.”

“So?”

“So guess what? Dad had a heart attack two years ago. They’ve cleaned up their act. No more greasy bad stuff. Only fresh. And only pure.”

Nina tried to keep her patience. “What are you talking about?”

“Pure canola.”

She threw her napkin on the table, continuing to hold her sticks aloft. “Are you going to tell me what you’re talking about?” she said. “Don’t force me to torture you.”

“This restaurant catered Clifford Wright’s last meal,” said Paul. “Doc Clauson said he must have eaten peanuts in some form. They said they didn’t use ’em. He thought they were lying.”

“And?”

“They don’t use peanut oil anymore. They don’t serve anything with peanuts. They only use cashews.”

Nina heard the bewilderment in her own voice. “But aren’t cashews nuts?”

“He wasn’t allergic to nuts. He was allergic to legumes, and that includes peanuts.”

“How do you know that?”

“Various sources.”

“So… so he accidentally ate peanuts from somewhere else. What difference does it make?”

“Nina, if he didn’t have an allergic reaction to the lunch, what killed him?”

She pushed her plate away. “Paul, no. No, no, no.” She put a hand to her forehead and shook her head.

“Tan-Kwo in the kitchen says Clifford called the restaurant to check about the use of peanut oil in cooking before he touched his lunch. Wright told them then how serious the allergy could be, but they already knew about it.

“In spite of sounding like he’s just off the boat, that’s just an act. For most of the year, Tan-Kwo is premed at UC Berkeley.”

“Paul… you’re… you’re…”

“I spoke to Clifford Wright’s family this morning. They’re very distraught. They’d like to know more about what happened.”

Nina sat very still, her thoughts beating around in her mind like Ping-Pong balls. “If someone tampered with the jury, the judge will throw out the verdict. We’d have a mistrial. You’re suggesting someone spiked his food with peanuts.”

“Just considering the possibility.”

“You really think there’s something to find out?”

“It just doesn’t feel right to me.”

“Why can’t you just let this alone? Paul, if this verdict is set aside I am in so deep I might never be able to dig my way out. I bet everything on wi

It was a plea. Paul’s brow furrowed.

“So, what are you going to do?”

He took her hand. “You tell me.”

31

They had an uncomfortable ride back to Nina’s car at the courthouse, during which she pled exhaustion and turned the radio up and closed her eyes to drown him out both visually and aurally. She gathered her things to get out of the car and stepped out. She held the door open and leaned in.

“Okay, Paul, do it. Damn you. I won’t sleep until you tell me you’re wrong.”

“That’s my Nina,” Paul said.

She slammed the door in his face.

Paul headed straight for the South Lake Tahoe police department to root out an old acquaintance, Sergeant Cheney.

Cheney welcomed him with a smile, motioning him to sit. He had a phone glued to his head, and a pen scribbling in one hand. “Uh-huh,” he said. “Yep.” This continued for several minutes, while Paul examined the photographs on Cheney’s desk, especially the one of his wife, a lovely toasty-brown-colored woman with hair lighter than her skin, looking much younger than the overweight Cheney.

Finally, Cheney hung up. The phone rang. He ignored it.

“Haven’t seen you around in a while,” he said. “If you don’t count the fact that you’ve been involved in two out of the five deaths I’ve investigated in the past coupla years.”

“I can see you’re busy,” said Paul. “I appreciate you taking the time to see me. I’ll keep it short.”

“Let me help you along,” said Cheney. He looked down at his papers. “Clifford Wright, white male, thirty-two. Died from a severe allergic reaction called anaphylactic shock, presumably from ingesting some form of peanuts. Have I got it so far?”

“Well, yes,” said Paul, utterly taken aback. “How did you know I was here about Wright?”

“I’m a detective, remember,” said Cheney, “and then there was that phone call just now from Doc Clauson. He says you came nosing around the medical examiner’s office this a.m. You got the Doc’s curiosity bump itching. He’s asked me, unofficially, to look into a couple of things.”

“Such as?”

“They use peanut oil at the Five Happinesses or not?” asked Cheney. “I’ll probably mosey over there this evening. I feel a hankering for kung pao prawns. They have that over there? You know?”

“I didn’t notice.”

Cheney clapped his hands together. “Figured you’d already been. Bet you noticed a bunch of things about peanuts.”

“Like, they don’t use them or peanut oil.”

“Seeing you here, figured they might not.”

“I guess you’ve already answered my question.” Paul got up to leave.

“Which was?”

“How final is the medical examiner’s ruling on Wright’s death? Legally, I mean. The family is hiring me to find out.”

“Now, how’d you hook up with them?”

“Called with my condolences and happened to mention that insurance companies don’t pay as well for a natural death. They’ll inherit more if somebody else hurried him along. Turns out Wright had a hefty life insurance policy. If I come up with some proof that Wright’s death was less than kosher, how hard will it be to get Clauson to change his ruling on the cause of death?”

“Oh, his report’s final. Unless he changes his mind.”

“He can change it.”

“Yep. Quick as popping one of those sticks of gum he’s always got lying around these days. But the real answer is, our files on that case remain open. And now you’ve opened up a brand-new direction for our ongoing inquiries. Keep in touch, why don’t you?”

“Be glad to,” said Paul.

Back in his car, he punched numbers into his phone. “Sandy,” he said. “Any idea how I could reach Wish?”

“He’s right here.”

“Put him on.”

“Why?” asked Sandy.

“I have some work for him.”

The phone must have flown to Wish, because he answered only a second later. “How,” said Wish, “Chief Wish Whitefeather here,” and that greeting was followed by a thumping noise, then an “Ouch.” Sandy’s son had a sense of humor about being Native American his mother apparently didn’t appreciate.

“So you’re a chief now,” said Paul. “Too important for me to corner you for a couple of hours for a project I’m working on?”

“I’ll check my calendar.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” said Wish, hurt. “I’m taking classes at night, you know. Police administration.”

“Oh. Sorry,” said Paul.

“When do you need me?”

“Today, possibly into tomorrow.”

“What are we doing?”

“Interviews.”

“You ru

“Nope. You’ve been promoted from assistant to detective-in-training.”

“Outstanding! But… how will I know what to ask? Are you going to fill me in on what’s going on?”

Paul did.

“Okay, let me see if I have this straight. You think someone put something into the Chinese food this juror ate right before he tossed in his chopsticks.”

“Yeah, someone out for a puff, or a stretch. Someone went out there and took care of our friend Clifford Wright.”

“How do you know that’s what happened?” asked Wish, sounding dubious. “I never heard anything about him being killed by someone.”

“I don’t know it. Yet. It’s just a hunch.”

“Oh,” said Wish.

“I spoke very briefly with one of the jurors this morning already, Grace Whipple. She said the bailiff brought lunch in a little late, at about twelve-fifteen. They jumped on that food like prisoners of war. Said it was a real high point in a nasty morning. They had all probably been thinking about it for at least an hour. Nobody could have fiddled with anything in full view of the rest of the jury under those circumstances.”