"Find My Killer"

The bottle was securely held between the woman’s thighs as she lit a cigarette. She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the freshly lit tobacco, then returned her attention to me, “Thank you for your quick response Mr. Mayhew; I appreciate you coming out in these horrendous conditions.”

As if to punctuate this statement, a sharp crash of lightning creased the night sky beyond the rain-pelted windows. The amber fluid swirled thickly inside the bottle when the woman flinched. She ruefully looked down at the bottle, “You must think me utterly ghastly, Mr. Mayhew; drinking like some lush.”

I raised my hand, “No need to apologize, Mrs. Blanchard.”

“The reason I called you this evening is because you come highly recommended from people I trust. As a private investigator, you are privy to sensitive details, and I hear you have always handled yourself with great dignity.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“And, as a private investigator, you must occasionally handle some rather unsavory issues.”

I said nothing.

“Like murder, perhaps?”

“On occasion.”

“Good, because I want you to find a killer… mine.”

Isabelle Blanchard was of indeterminable age. She had been a fixture of the glamorous social circuit since I was quite young, yet she appeared lithe and young. If any other person had said what she had just said, I’d have thought they were bonkers, but to a woman of Isabelle Blanchard’s class it would be far too uncouth to go crazy. The bottle still rested between Mrs. Blanchard’s legs.

Drinker?

No. The woman in front of me moved with the grace and assuredness of one of true refinement, not a babbling drunk.

She eyed me, “Your lack of response can mean one of two things, Mr. Mayhew: One, you don’t care that I am about to be murdered. Or two, you think that I am really just as safe as can be and I’m simply going mad. You strike me as sensitive enough not to disregard my impending death so lightly, so I am leaning towards the latter.”

She gave me a “Private joke between you and me” sort of wink.

Before I could protest, she rose from the sofa and walked to the fireplace, the bottle of Scotch trailing behind her on the mantle, “I have reason to believe I am being poisoned, slowly dying from the inside. I’ve become increasingly sick, especially in the last couple of weeks, and I realize there is little I can do to reverse the effects of the poison. I’m rather surprised, Mr. Mayhew, of how easy it is to come to grips with ones’ mortality.”

She raised an eyebrow, as if daring me to challenge her. When I didn’t, she continued, “Dying isn’t the thing that keeps me awake at night. What I can’t seem to get my mind around is how he’s doing it.”

“He?”

Isabelle’s eyes widened and her eyebrows rose. A bemused smile then slowly etched its way across her perfect, red lips, “My husband, of course.”

I said nothing. I was pretty sure her husband was dead, but wasn’t sure and didn’t want to mention it; decorum meant a great deal to this woman and I thought that reminding her that her husband was deceased might be a bit tacky. I could pretend to be civil.

Besides, what if I was wrong?

I pressed her for another suspect, but Isabelle Blanchard was a stubborn woman; she was positive her husband was trying to kill her. I told her I would like to talk with her doctor in the morning, as well as the police, and get back to her tomorrow afternoon.

She thanked me, showed me to the door, and stood silhouetted in the doorway as she watched me drive away into the night.

It wasn’t late, but the blackness of the storm made it seem like midnight as I drove to the library. The librarian quickly found the necessary news clippings I sought.

The first was from The Los Angeles Times, dated eight years ago, and was the most informative. A full-page story of local business tycoon Thaddeus Blanchard, who, while sailing his yacht on a crystal-clear spring day just outside the marina, was thrown overboard. Two deckhands managed to pull the 58 year-old man back onboard, but were unable to revive the old man, whose lungs had taken in too much water. It was ruled an accidental drowning, although Isabelle’s name did come up frequently during the investigation as a possible suspect.

There were more papers, and more articles and follow-ups, but the Times article was by far the best.

On my way to the police station, I was trying to come up with a business partner of Mr. Blanchard’s who might be seeking revenge against the woman they believe might have made a widow of herself.

The cops were less than forthcoming with me about their progress, but one detective told me there was absolutely no evidence of foul play, outside of her apparent slow poisoning, but I should probably take that up with her doctor.

The doctor, yes. He was the only person who could possibly have poisoned Mrs. Blanchard; no one else had access. I took that thought to bed with me.

The next day was just as dark as the previous one, but at least it was dry. I spoke with Isabelle’s doctor, who was kind enough to squeeze me in between appointments. He told me Isabelle had called him earlier in the morning and had asked that he share her case with me.

“Doctor Spurloch, Mrs. Blanchard believes she is being poisoned by her dead husband. Is she losing her mind?”

He gave a quick smile, “Well, I wouldn’t say her poor husband is trying to kill her from the grave, though from what I’ve heard, I wouldn’t blame him.”

“You think she killed her husband, too?”

He shrugged, “It doesn’t matter what I think; I’m not a judge. Whatever happened on that yacht that day is between her and her husband.

“But somebody is certainly trying to kill her. Isabelle Blanchard has been ingesting small amounts of Arsenic for some weeks. We first found traces of it in her blood, but thought it was accidental. However, the doses have been increasing. If this continues, Isabelle Blanchard will be dead in 2 weeks.”

“The cook or the maid?”

“The obvious suspects, but the entire staff has been meticulously investigated, with no signs of wrongdoing. Mrs. Blanchard fired them all ten days ago. None of them has had any contact with her, and yet she gets worse bay by day.”

“You have access to her.”

His eyes were serious, but her didn’t seem upset at my innuendo, “Nobody has been allowed to be alone in Isabelle’s presence for some time. There’s no way I can be poisoning the woman, if that’s what you are implying.”

“Just a thought.”

I chatted with Doctor Spurloch for a while, but my gut instinct was that he was not Isabelle Blanchard’s killer. I thought of potential suspects while I drove back to her mansion in the hills. There weren’t many; her husband seemed like the best bet. Too bad he was dead.

The southern California sun looked to break through the clouds, but the sky was still dark as I came up the drive and parked between a police black & white and a large wagon with CORONER stenciled across the door.

Uh-oh.

I met a Detective Davis at the door, alongside long-time Blanchard lawyer Alexander Hewitt. The detective informed me that Isabelle Blanchard was dead, “We found her a little while ago, in the bathtub.”

“Huh. Poisoned?”

Detective Davis cocked an eye toward me, “No. Her throat was cut.”

“Foul play?”

He shook his head, “Nope. Bathroom door was locked from the inside. We think she did it to herself with this letter opener.” He held aloft an ornate, gothic-looking letter opener. Hewitt buried his face in his hands. The opener had blood on it and certainly had the look of something that could end someone’s life.

“Odd thing, though,” the detective said, “we checked it for prints; there aren’t any. Not even hers.”

Davis had my full attention. A suicide wouldn’t wear gloves while slitting their own throat, and wouldn't wipe the weapon afterwards.

At this, Alexander fully registered the letter opener for the first time, “Wait a minute. You say that letter opener is the murder weapon?”

“Yes, assuming that’s her blood on the blade.”

“That’s impossible,” Hewitt stammered, “That is Thaddeus Blanchard’s lucky letter opener. I should know; I presided over his last will and testament, where he asked to be buried with it. That letter opener should be in his grave.”

***

As I drove home, I thought about the Blanchard case. On my way up there, I had jokingly thought that the dead husband was the primary suspect.

Now I was sure.