Tainted by Ross Pennie Page A

thing. Remember the E. coli at that Croatian wedding? It was Natasha who —”
    “I hope you know what you’re doing. It’s all gonna be on the line on Monday afternoon. My office. Four o’clock.”
    Trinnock hung up, and Zol leaned his head against the kitchen wall.
    Damn. How was he going to find a watertight lead in three days? And was it going to lead straight to The Bard’s Table?
    He plodded back to the dining room. He’d have given almost anything for a double Glenfarclas at that point, but he couldn’t take the chance that it might dull his grey cells.
    “Dr. Zol,” Natasha said, the whites of her eyes radiating her concern. “Bad news?”
    “That was Dr. Trinnock. He’s mad as hell.”
    “He’s got nothing to be mad about,” Hamish said. “We didn’t plant these cases. We’re only trying to solve them.”
    “But if we don’t do it fast, Toronto will be all over him. Ottawa, too.”
    Hamish looked puzzled.
    “The Canadian Food Inspection Agency.”
    “Of course. Prions in the food chain are a federal responsibility.”
    Restless, Zol stood behind the chair he’d been sitting in and gripped its back. “We’ve got three days to come up with the lead that will take us to the finish line.”
    Hamish scowled, puffed his chest, then let out a long, loud tsk. “That’s ridiculous. He can’t expect . . .”
    Natasha turned to a fresh page on her notepad. “I’m sure Dr. Trinnock doesn’t expect complete closure by Monday. Just a strong, plausible hypothesis for us to spend the next week nailing down.”
    Zol wished he could share Natasha’s optimism. “Whatever way we look at it,” he said, “it’s going to be a hectic weekend.” Still standing, he rocked his chair on its back legs. A rattling sound came from a large leather bag that sat on the seat. “What’s this?” he asked.
    “Sorry,” Natasha said, “I put it there. I meant to give it to you earlier. It was Joanna Vanderven’s. Her housekeeper gave it to me this morning.”
    “It’s a Louis Vuitton,” Hamish said. “
Very
expensive. Unless, of course, it’s a knock-off.”
    Zol looked at Hamish. “How do you —” At any other time he could have made hay out of this one at Hamish’s expense. But not now. Not tonight. “What’s in it?”
    “All her medications,” Natasha said. “Her housekeeper kept them hidden after Joanna died.”
    “But why did she give it to you?” Zol asked.
    “I don’t know. Perhaps she trusted me, saw me as a friend of Ermalinda’s.”
    “We should have a good look at them,” Hamish said. “Remember — the toxicology lab found all those drugs in her blood.”
    “But it’s not our business,” Zol said. “For God’s sake, we’ve got enough to worry about.”
    Again, a raised finger from Hamish. “At this point, isn’t everything about these people our business?”
    “Okay, you take the bag, Hamish. It’s now officially your baby.” Giving the man no chance to respond, Zol turned toward the kitchen. “I’m putting the coffee on.”
    He had only taken three steps when the doorbell rang. He could see Colleen Woolton standing on the veranda, cradling a parcel.
    Her bright gaze darted around the hallway as he led her in. “I suppose I’ve missed most of the meeting. It took longer than I expected to wrap up my other case. But it’s settled now.” She placed a hand on his arm and looked into his eyes. “You seemed to enjoy the Amarula this afternoon.” She pressed a brand-new bottle of the African liqueur into his hand and gave his arm a steadying squeeze. “Looks to me like you could use it right now.”
    Seeing Colleen standing there looking fresh and confident, and remembering her sure-footed approach in her office this afternoon, Zol was sure he’d been right to bring her into the inner circle of the investigation. How else was he going to dig up tangible answers for Trinnock by Monday afternoon? If Hamish got uppity about Colleen’s involvement, well, too bad.
    He