Megan Stine - Murder To Go
“I’ll try a piece of candy,” Jupe said calmly. “But only on one condition. You’ve got to answer a question.”
Dellasandro nodded and handed Jupe the candy. Jupe popped it into his mouth.
“Three tastes,” Jupe said. “Lemon—real lemon essence, not imitation— meringue, and graham cracker crust. It’s lemon meringue pie.”
“Phenomenal,” Dellasandro said.
“Now my turn,” Jupe said. “This is Multisorbitane in these drums, the ones marked ‘brominated pseudo phosphates,’ isn’t it?”
“It is,” Dellasandro said. “So what?”
“So what are you planning to use it for? I’m quite sure you know that it’s an unacceptable food additive as far as the FDA is concerned.”
“You want to ask another question? First you eat another candy. Pick one,” Dellasandro said with a devilish grin. He held out his hand for Jupe to choose.
“Don’t do it, Jupe. It’s a trick,” Pete said.
Jupe didn’t really think the candy was poison, but he did think it might have Multisorbitane in it. Nonetheless, he had no choice. He wanted a confession from Dellasandro, and he wanted more time. He took a foil-wrapped candy from Dellasandro and tasted it.
“Cherry Jell-O with banana floaters and whipped cream,” Jupe said, chomping down on the sample bonbon. “I’ve answered your question. Now answer mine. What are you going to do with these drums of Multisorbitane?”
Dellasandro took his time about answering. Finally he said, “Okay. I’ll tell you — since we all know you won’t be alive long enough to repeat it. Let me background a little. About a year ago, Big Barney Coop came to me. He wanted to collaborate on a new product, something no one had seen, tasted, or dreamed before — especially not Michael Argenti. He said he’d divide the profits with me and we were talking a dollar sign and then zeros off the page. But there were two conditions. One: the gravy had to be in the chicken. Two: it had to be sensationally delicious.”
“Did Big Barney say to make it deadly?” Bob asked.
“You shut up!” Dellasandro shouted at Bob. More deep-breathing exercises. Then he was calm again. “Getting the gravy into the chicken turned out to be easy,” Dellasandro continued. “Freeze-dried gravy injected as powder into the chicken fillets. When the chicken is fried at the restaurant, the gravy reconstitutes itself. The second puzzle was harder. How to irresistibilize the product. I tried every flavor, flavor savor, flavor enhancer, flavor duplicator I could think of for the gravy. They were good, but they weren’t perfect.”
“So you used Multisorbitane?” Jupe asked.
Dellasandro handed Jupe a third piece of candy. “Time was running out,” he said, checking his watch. “I couldn’t think of anything else to put in the gravy. My reputation and all those zeros after the dollar sign were at risk.” Then Dellasandro noticed that Jupe wasn’t eating the third candy. “What’s the matter — are you full?”
“I’m saving it for dessert,” Jupe said.
“Jupe, just remember he put a carcinogen into Drippin’ Chicken,” Bob warned.
“The cancer won’t impact on people for ten or twenty years,” Dellasandro said. “That’s a long time. No one will know. Big Barney won’t know because I’m on the supply side of the gravy powder for his food processors. They’ll send the prepared chicken to the restaurants, who interface with the customers directly. Everybody’s happy, which is, after all, the highest goal of our civilisation today.”
Jupe looked at the clock on the wall again. It was almost eight, and he was almost out of ideas. His first analysis had been right: there was no point in stalling. Still, the impulse to buy more time was a hard one to ignore.
“I have one more question, if you’ll allow me,” Jupe said. “What made you come back here tonight?”
“I pay my security team well,” Dellasandro replied. “The guard networked with me on my car phone as soon as you guys showed up.” He looked at the last candy, which was still in Jupe’s hand. “Eat your dessert, pal, because the bottom line is, your quality time is up.”
Jupe unwrapped the candy. This one was different. It was hard and heavy in his hand. “Mr. Sweetness works for you, doesn’t he?” said Jupe. “The guy in the army jacket.”
“Mr. Sweetness?” Dellasandro laughed. “Highly original. Yeah, Vinnie’s my next-door neighbor. Got a pink slip from the marines, I understand. They seemed to think he was too vicious to be a real team player. The moment Juliet mentioned at Big Barney’s party that you were detectives, I strategized that Vinnie could help me scare you guys off. I told him to do whatever he had to do. First he tapped your phone.”
“So that’s how he knew we ordered Chinese food,” Jupe realized.
“Yeah, he took the ball and ran with it. I was very impressed with his creativity. But somehow you kept getting away from him.” Dellasandro waved his gun toward Jupe’s mouth. “Eat the candy,” he said.
“Don’t do it, Jupe,” Pete warned.
Jupe slowly put the candy into his mouth. After a moment, he said, “Caramel.”
“Just wait,” said Don Dellasandro, smiling.
Jupe chewed some more and then said, “Oh, very clever. It’s caramel apple. Now I can taste the apple.”
“Mr. Sweetness — that’s what I’ll call that flavor,” Dellasandro said. “I’ll flash on you every time someone says it.”
“You’re a brilliant scientist, a clever marketing man, but a terrible killer,” said Jupe.
“In this new age we can’t always do what we like, but we have to do what’s important,” Dellasandro replied. “In my mind I can image myself wasting you three.”
“Not with the safety catch locked on your gun,” said Jupe.
“It is?” Dellasandro said, looking down.
Pete didn’t wait. He moved instinctively into a flying yoko-tobi-geri side kick, connecting with Dellasandro’s hand. The gun flew into the air and clattered on the ground.
Then Pete and Bob both charged Dellasandro, but the older man was strong and quick. He seemed to know some karate moves too. He gave Bob a quick kick in the knee, which sent Bob down. Then Dellasandro spun and arced a ridge hand at Pete. Pete blocked the blow and gave Dellasandro a gyaku-tsuki reverse punch to the ribs. The scientist winced and staggered backward. Pete leaped into the air, twisting and lifting his feet high.
“Miiya” Pete screamed, knocking Dellasandro down.
But Dellasandro rolled and stood up. He looked around. Then he saw the gun on the floor a second before Jupe did. He rushed to grab it. “I’m terminating this meeting!” he shouted.
16
Big Barney Wings It
Dellasandro dove for the revolver. Jupe grabbed frantically for it at the same time, but he was just a moment too late. Dellasandro actually laughed when he picked up the gun. Then he stood up to face the Three Investigators.
It wasn’t until then that Dellasandro realized he had paid too much attention to the gun — and too little attention to the three guys he was fighting. Because just then a heavy drum marked brominated pseudo phosphates, but actually filled with Multisorbitane, came flying through the air.
Pete and Bob had lifted it together and heaved it at Dellasandro. The drum hit him like a wrecking ball, knocking him down and out. It burst open when it struck the floor, dumping hundreds of pounds of Multisorbitane over everything, even on the chemist who had invented it.
“Talk about getting a taste of your own medicine,” Bob said with a whistle.
Pete and Jupe quickly tied up Dellasandro with extension cords. Shortly Dellasandro began to regain consciousness.
“What happened?” Dellasandro asked groggily.
“You didn’t miss much,” Jupe replied. “You gave us a full confession and then there was a fight and you lost. Now you’re tied up.”
“There’s no time to call the police,” Bob said. “We’ll have to catch them later tonight.”
“Police?” Dellasandro echoed.
“Yes,” Jupe said. “We’re pressing charges for your small indiscretion in hiring someone to follow us, trying to market an illegal food additive, and threatening to kill us. I think at least one of those charges will stick. But first we’ve got to get to the Beverly Hilton Hotel. Come on, you guys.”
It was a half-hour drive, cut shorter by the fact that Pete drove. They pulled up in front of the hotel and ran through the lobby. The press party, a sign said, was about to begin in the Empire Ballroom.
The Investigators ran past the ballroom entrances and headed right for the kitchen. There they found Big Barney in a yellow jogging suit covered with orange and red feathers. Juliet and Pandro Mishkin were standing by him. And almost every inch of kitchen counter space was covered with steaming trays of Drippin’ Chicken.
“Hey, guy,” Big Barney said as soon as he saw Jupe. He wrapped his arm around Jupe’s shoulder. “Tell me the truth, even though I may never speak to you again and will probably try to ruin your life if I don’t like the answer — is this outfit too conservative?”
“Big Barney, forget about your outfit. You can’t go out there,” Jupe said. “Drippin’ Chicken is deadly. It’s filled with a dangerous carcinogen. You’ve got to cancel this party and withdraw the product — or millions of people will die.”
Big Barney stared at Jupe and the noisy, clattering kitchen fell silent. Then suddenly Big Barney burst into laughter. “Hahahaha! You almost had me. I’m telling you I’ve got to have this guy for my son.”
“Look! Mishkin’s getting away!” Bob shouted.
Everyone did look. And what they saw was Pandro Mishkin trying to sprint out of the kitchen.
Pete and Bob and Jupe immediately grabbed the first thing they could get their hands on. It was a long baker’s tray piled high with Drippin’ Chicken. They heaved it at the fleeing man, hitting him in the back. Drippin’ Chicken splattered everywhere. Then Pete made a diving leap, grabbed Pandro Mishkin at the shoulders, and brought him down in a smear of gravy, like a wide receiver in the mud.
“Complete and utter insubordination!” Mishkin yelled, struggling with Pete. “You could be court-martialed for this.”
“It’s you who will be going to court, Mr. Mishkin,” Jupe said, “for poisoning the Drippin’ Chicken.”
“Torture me if you want but all you’ll get is my name, rank, and serial number. I won’t talk,” Mishkin said proudly.
“You don’t really have to,” Jupe said. “Don Dellasandro told us just about everything we need to know — including how you paid him to poison Big Barney’s chicken.”
“The lying traitor!” cried Mishkin. “He paid me!”
Jupe couldn’t help smiling. “You’re right,” he said. “My mistake.”
“What are you talking about, Mishkin?” Big Barney asked, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Give me your report!”
“General,” Pandro answered, “your Drippin’ Chicken is filled with an additive the FDA outlawed a few years ago. How do you like them apples?”
“You betrayed me?” Big Barney boomed.
“You didn’t pay me a million dollars. And Don Dellasandro did,” Mishkin replied.
“And all you had to do was falsify the ingredients of Drippin’ Chicken,” said Jupe.
“A million bucks buys a lot of loyalty from this soldier,” Mishkin said. “I should have gone mercenary a long time ago.”
Big Barney rushed over to Mishkin and tore the chicken medals off his jacket. “I’d like to wring your neck!” Big Barney shouted.
Jupe stepped between them and asked one more question. “You were the one chasing Juliet Coop the night of her accident, weren’t you?”
“Correct,” Mishkin said.
“Why, Mr. Mishkin?” asked Juliet. She held her father’s arm tightly, as if needing the support.
“The report was on my desk, along with a list of ingredients for Drippin’ Chicken. You were working late — without prior authorization! You saw the papers and started yelling the minute I walked in the door. The darn thing was stamped ‘Top Secret’! You ought to be thrown in the stockade for reading classified materials!”
“So Juliet grabbed the report and you chased her,” Jupe said.
“Yes,” Mishkin said. “But I wasn’t trying to hurt her.” He looked directly at Juliet. “When your car went off the road in the rain, it was an accident. On my honor.”
“Why didn’t you do something to help her?” said Big Barney.
“I did. I stopped. I wanted to help her. But I had to protect my identity. So I called the police and made a complete report about the accident — anonymously, of course.”
“Dad,” Juliet said a little breathlessly, “I’m remembering it now. The crash — it was horrible!” She was almost crying. Big Barney put his arm around his daughter.
“For a while we thought Michael Argenti was behind this whole scheme,” Jupe said to Big Barney. “We followed him to one of your chicken farms and heard him talking about buying you out and changing the feed.”
“That little cockerel doesn’t know the difference between chicken feed and chicken salad. He changes his feed all the time. It must make his birds want to commit suicide,” said Big Barney. “But he doesn’t have enough money to buy me out, even in his dreams.”
“You even thought Dad was a suspect, admit it, Jupe,” said Juliet.
“Well,” Jupe said uncomfortably, “I couldn’t figure out why you were spitting out the Drippin’ Chicken after every take at the recording studio.”
“Everybody does that in food commercials,” Big Barney explained. “If you swallow the food every time, after thirty takes you’re full to the beak. Then you can’t look so happy about having to take another bite during take number thirty-one.”
Juliet turned to her father. “Dad, you’ve got a hundred hungry press people out there,” she said. “What are you going to do now?”
Big Barney fluffed his feathers for a moment, preening in thought. Then with a smile he said, “You just watch me.”
He rushed out into the ballroom and took his usual place — in the spotlight and behind a microphone.
“Good evening, ladies and germs. Hahahaha!” he began. “Now, I suppose you’re wondering why I called you all here tonight. I know that most of you think that Big Barney’s only out for a quick buck and a fast headline. So I guess you know me pretty well.”
The audience joined in with Barney’s laughing this time.
“Folks, I’m not here tonight to plug my delicious and famous fried chicken. And to prove it, in a few minutes we’re all going to be sending out for” — Big Barney choked a little on the next word — “pizza! That’s right. Pizza! And I’m sure you’re almost as surprised as I am about that.” Big Barney wiped his brow with a feathered arm. “But folks, I’m proud to announce something brand new,” he continued. “Tonight I am announcing the first ever Big Barney City Slicker Award, an award I plan to present every year to people who help to make this city a better place to live in. Now, because I’m too modest to give this award to myself, I’d like to announce tonight’s winners. And here they are and I love them like my own kids: Junior Jones, Pete Cranberry, and Bob Andersonville — better known to all of us as The Three Instigators. I’m honoring them in particular tonight for all the things they do behind the scenes — things you may not know about but that we’re all grateful for. So let’s give them a round of applause, folks, and tell them how we feel.”
