Chapter Three: Making Lemonade
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"I may have been wrong," Sherlock Holmes says as he and Watson exit the precinct building and head down the sidewalk. At his side Watson almost stumbles.
"Mrs. Jefferson wasn't murdered?"
"Of course she was. I mean that I may have been wrong that there are two possibilities. I can think of at least four. Possibility Three is that someone in the class of 1993 has been slowly poisoning your teacher and gave the lethal dose at the reunion, hoping to make her death appear to be the result of natural causes. You saw how she looked ill beforehand."
Watson nods and he continues. A crowd of people comes up behind them on the sidewalk and Holmes steps to the side and pauses, letting them pass.
"You see the problem with that theory, naturally."
A flicker of understanding crosses her features as she follows his line of reasoning.
"Anyone with that sort of access to her could have killed her at any time and still made it look like a natural death. Why choose the reunion for the lethal dose?"
"Exactly, Watson. Which leads us to the fourth possibility."
Before he can answer, she says, "Someone not in the class of 1993 wanted to make it look like the class of 1993 was responsible. They assumed the fast-acting poison would show up but not the slow-acting one."
"The perpetrator may not be familiar with toxicology reports. Might, in fact, be an amateur at murder."
They come to an intersection and he angles right. Watson trails for a moment before catching up.
"The most obvious route for the fast-acting poison was through something Mrs. Jefferson ate or drank at the reunion," Holmes says.
"I can call someone on the reunion committee and find out who the caterer was," Watson answers, pulling out her phone. It is endearing, actually, how eager she is to help. He's almost sorry to have to disappoint her.
"No need. I saw the caterer's van outside the school when we first arrived that night. Ah, here we are. Marciano's."
He pushes open a heavy glass door into a stone-fronted office building. Seated behind a desk just inside the door is a puffy-faced woman in a pink suit, her fingers curled over a computer keyboard.
"Sherlock Holmes," Holmes announces as he slides into one of the chairs facing her. "I called you earlier. This is my…fiancée…Joan Watson."
As Watson settles in the chair beside him, he sees her react. A mistake, apparently, not to give her more warning.
"Oh, yes, I got your message, Mr. Holmes. So, when's the happy day?"
"The wedding, you mean?" he says. The woman—Adriana Marciano, according to the nameplate on her desk—frowns slightly and nods.
"We haven't quite decided that. What is next Saturday, Watson? The 5th?"
The caterer's eyebrows disappear into her bangs.
"Oh, we couldn't do anything that soon," she says.
"He means April 5th. That's the…happy day," Watson says, cutting her eyes in his direction.
A good save, that. He'd almost bollixed the whole thing.
"Six months?" Ms. Marciano says, her frown deepening. "That's still cutting it close."
She taps on the keyboard, obviously looking at the appointment calendar for April.
"But you're in luck," she says. "We only have one other wedding scheduled that day, at 4. What time is yours?"
"5:00," Holmes says, and again Watson gives him a glare.
"Or we could make it at 6. Surely you'll be through by then," he says. "How long does an American wedding take? Less than a minute for the clergy—if one is involved—to give a welcome. Four minutes to say the vows. If rings are exchanged, another two minutes. Add seven minutes for music, including the procession in and the recessional out. Then cake and champagne or some such thing afterwards. One hour, tops. Not like a proper English wedding, mind. No finger foods posing as a reception there. Not. At. All. A sit down dinner after the nuptials, three glasses of wine with toasting and other nonsense. An entire evening wasted."
From the corner of his eye Holmes can see Ms. Marciano exchanging a glance with Watson. Watson makes an odd noise—a cross between a huff and a laugh—and says, "He's just nervous."
Holmes opens his mouth to contradict her but her expression makes him pause.
"Well, yes," he says at last. "It's a big decision. Getting married, I mean. Watson and I took quite a while examining all the reasons for and against it before we agreed to tie the knot. Interesting metaphor, that. Tie the knot. Puts one in mind of a noose."
The caterer stares at him, her lips slightly parted.
"The food?" Watson says. "We need to talk about what to serve?"
Another endearing trait, the way she rescues him sometimes.
"Indeed we do," he says with exaggerated enthusiasm. "We were recently at an event you catered—the Midwood High Class reunion—"
"That was so sad," Ms. Marciano interrupts, "what happened to that teacher."
"Did you know her?" Holmes says. If she finds his question out of place, she doesn't show it. Instead, she takes her hands from the keyboard and turns to face him directly.
"Me? No, I never met her. But I was there with two of my workers when it happened. After she died, people left so fast that we ended up having to throw away most of the food."
"The menu that night," Holmes says. "I recall some cookies, cut vegetables, a cheese platter. Was that all? Watson and I were thinking we might want the same things."
The caterer looks up at her computer monitor and taps on several keys, obviously calling up different screens.
"They had some fruit and nuts, too, and some finger sandwiches. You know, nothing really fancy. Most of the guests had probably eaten before they came. It wasn't like we were hired to serve a full meal."
"And there was a bar? Did you have a bartender working for you that night?"
At that the caterer purses her lips and shakes her head.
"Are you kidding? In a school gym? No alcohol on the premises, school district's rules when someone uses their facilities. All we can serve are soft drinks."
"Or punch. In point of fact, Ms. Marciano, it is your punch that brought you to the attention of Watson and myself. When we began planning our…wedding…we remembered the lemonade that you served at the reunion. Watson remarked at the time that it was exceptionally sweet."
"Oh, yes," Ms. Marciano says, leaning forward a fraction and looking closely at the computer monitor. "I remember now. We added extra sugar to the lemonade we served that night. The man who hired us made that request when he came to take our taste tour."
"The name of that person?"
"I'm sorry," the caterer says, her tone changing abruptly. "Exactly why do you need to know that?"
Holmes can sense her starting to shut down, her suspicions raised. Before he can react, he hears Watson take a breath.
"You'll have to forgive Sherlock," she says, putting her hand on his forearm. He jumps at the unexpected contact but hides his surprise by looking away. "I dated one of the reunion committee members in high school. I used to tease him about how much sugar he put in his tea and his lemonade. I mentioned it to Sherlock when we were at the reunion. I'm afraid he got a little jealous."
"I was not jealous," Holmes says, pulling his arm out of Watson's hold. "But after hearing so much about him, I wanted to see him for myself. Reginald Buttrick. Doesn't sound like the name of a star athlete, does it?"
"We weren't hired by anyone named Reginald Buttrick. My contact sheet lists a Steve Colby."
Watson shifts almost imperceptibly in her chair. Not a name she recognizes, then.
"Well, thank you," Holmes says, standing up. "We'll be sure to get in touch with you soon."
As Watson stands up, Holmes hears Ms. Marciano say, "That's it? Don't you want a price list?"
"Price is of no concern," he says as he turns and starts to walk out. Reaching the door, he hears the tattoo of Watson's boots on the floor behind him, the caterer calling out, "If you want me to save that date for you, you need to hurry!"
Back on the sidewalk, Holmes slows down until Watson catches up.
"The name Steve Colby doesn't ring a bell?"
"I don't remember everyone from my senior year, but I can check my yearbook. I think it's in my mother's attic."
"Easier just to Google him," he says with a wave of his hand, and again he has the impression that he's disappointed her somehow. "You recognized the member of the reunion committee who gave Mrs. Jefferson her award?"
"Marcus Lattimore. He was in the band with me my junior year."
"You play a musical instrument, Watson? The flute? Wait, that's not quite it. You began on the flute, but knowing you, you wanted a more challenging instrument, one that most people would not even attempt to learn. The French horn is widely considered the most difficult instrument in a marching band. When your band director asked for volunteers to take it up, you didn't hesitate. At first you thought that giving up the flute was a mistake, but you doubled down and eventually became quite skilled, surpassing everyone's expectations, including yours. Eventually you went on to lead the horn section, driving your fellow classmates as hard as you drove yourself."
The noise of Watson's boots on the concrete stops abruptly and he takes several steps before he realizes that he has left her behind. Holmes turns and sees her standing in the middle of the sidewalk, passersby parting around her.
"Am I right?" he asks, his hands lifted, palms out like a supplicant.
"How could you possibly know that? Tell me. How did you figure all that out?"
"Your mother told me," Holmes says with a little shrug. "The evening we met your brother for dinner."
He resumes walking and as he knows she will, Watson hurries up beside him.
"That's cheating," she huffs, but he says, "What does it matter where I get my information, as long as it is accurate?"
Crossing her arms, Watson starts to push past him. She's angry?
"Marcus Lattimore," he calls. "Can you get in touch with him?"
From the tilt of her head he can tell that she's listening—and more than that, thinking about his request. She swivels around suddenly and says, "You think he's connected somehow?"
"I think he's a start. He can tell us who this Steve Colby is and why he wanted to change the lemonade recipe."
"Because that's where the poison was? The murderer covered the taste with extra sugar?"
"More people would have been sickened if it were. You suffered no ill effects, and as I recall, you drank some that night."
"It doesn't make any sense," Watson says. "Whoever made the lemonade sweeter than usual didn't know Mrs. Jefferson very well. She was a diabetic. Sweet lemonade is the last thing she would drink—"
"Diabetic? Watson, are you certain?"
"It wasn't a secret. She got an insulin pump the year I was in her class. I remember her explaining to us how it worked."
The familiar rush as the tumblers in his brain fall into place.
"You've solved it, Watson. At least the reason for the sugar in the lemonade. Why would someone want Mrs. Jefferson not to drink the lemonade?"
As he expects, he sees Watson putting the pieces together. Her face goes cloudy and then clears.
"So they could give her something special to drink. Something without sugar. Something with the poison."
"How well do you know Marcus Lattimore? Other than playing simplified arrangements of classics in the high school band together?"
"Not well. But I can't believe he would want to kill Mrs. Jefferson."
He puts his hand out to stop her from stepping off the curb into the street just as the light changes and the traffic surges forward. For a few moments he falls into his usual habit of cataloguing the vehicles that pass by before the light changes again. Twelve taxis belonging to two different franchises. Two gypsy cabs, one with a faulty muffler. A city bus—strong diesel smell as it rolls past. Twenty private cars, one chauffeured limousine, one pedicab, three courier bicycles. Glancing at his watch, Holmes notes the time—4:32. Ordinarily, Monday afternoons are busy traffic times. He should have seen at least five buses. An accident somewhere earlier on the route holding up the pattern, undoubtedly.
The light changes.
"You can't believe anyone would want to kill Mrs. Jefferson," he says, starting across the street. "Yet someone did. I seriously doubt that your former band mate had anything to do with her murder, but we need to talk to him to find out. I could be wrong."
"That's twice today you've said that," Watson says. "And I have to tell you, as glad as I am that you admit the possibility, it's not very comforting to hear you say it."
A/N: Thanks for reading! And double thanks if you leave a note!