woman there froze in shocked silence.
When he judged they’d absorbed that bit of news, he blurted, “And not just that, folks! Mr. Matthew Drexel, former executive vice president of North Shore Industries, is to be arrested shortly for the murder of Aisa Garrett.” Seemingly unconcerned, or maybe just ignoring the fact that the possibly slandered Drexel was at this moment standing up on Mayor Harper’s platform next to the mayor, he continued, “Detectives from the Sixth Precinct Homicide Department will be making their arrest based upon the evidence of poison found in Aisa Garrett’s body during an autopsy!
“This poison, identified as Tri-Zan, is the same stuff that poisoned Mr. Daniels’ construction crew at Phantom’s house. Mr. Drexel had access to the poison which was banned from Long Island after World War II, by having been put in charge of ridding NSIC of its old supply of Tri-Zan ten years ago during NSIC’s clean-up campaign, which many here will remember. A stash of it was found in his private office for which he will be asked to account.”
And with that, Scott jumped down from his perch, beaming at the stunned villagers. Only a few noticed the ‘okay’ sign he flashed with his thumb and fingers to someone at the back of the room.
Then, breaking this silence, came a loud, high pitched, anguished, NOOOOOO!! To the mayor’s astonishment, this undignified yelp had come from the mouth of Mr. Drexel. Mr. Drexel leaped from the mayor’s platform. He forged a path through the tightly packed people with his fists, propelled by furious energy.
Those standing near Ms. Marcastle at the back of the room, unaware of the goal of Mr. Drexel’s journey, turned to congratulate her. For the moment, however, Ms. Marcastle seemed unable to offer a coherent thank you since her mouth had dropped open at the announcement of Mr. Garrett’s new heir—herself!—and was still sagging in that position from the idea that her beloved Mr. Garrett had been murdered.
Suddenly Mr. Drexel reached her side and lunged, with flexing fingers, towards her throat. Ms. Marcastle’s dazed fumble for escape was prevented by the mass of villagers packed into the room. Observers began to scream.
At that moment Mrs. Risk appeared between Mr. Drexel and Ms. Marcastle and effectively blocked his progress with her body. Nobody remembered seeing the witch nearby a moment ago, which many took as confirmation of their opinion that she was truly supernatural.
Then Mrs. Risk spoke. Her low vibrant voice cut through the mayhem and silenced it.
“So you’ve discovered all your plans to be fruitless, have you, Matthew?”
Mr. Drexel was brought up short by the question. Slowly, his hands lowered, as if his earlier manic energy was being drained from him. His face reflected an agonized bewilderment. He blinked at the witch, then looked around him, although without any apparent awareness of his audience.
“I don’t understand,” he said to her in a peculiarly high pitched tone. “Wasn’t he already buried? I went to the funeral myself. When did they do an autopsy?”
Homicide Detective Michael Hahn reached him at just that moment and with a heavy hand, pushed him none too gently by the shoulder into a chair. Detective Hahn aimed a commanding frown at the surrounding onlookers and most of them shuffled back a foot or so.
Mrs. Risk, however, stayed close beside Mr. Drexel. Her eyes flashed with a black fire, but her voice sounded only detached…casual…as if she merely wondered about some things.
“Aisa’s doctor ordered him to drink two carafes of water every day and you knew it. You added Tri-Zan to the carafe on his desk that Peggy kept filled with water for him. You’re the one who slipped that same Tri-Zan into the bottled water to poison Phantom’s construction crew, too, aren’t you.” She didn’t make it sound like a question.
He gave a short, bitter laugh. “When Aisa took over, he found that North Shore still had
When he judged they’d absorbed that bit of news, he blurted, “And not just that, folks! Mr. Matthew Drexel, former executive vice president of North Shore Industries, is to be arrested shortly for the murder of Aisa Garrett.” Seemingly unconcerned, or maybe just ignoring the fact that the possibly slandered Drexel was at this moment standing up on Mayor Harper’s platform next to the mayor, he continued, “Detectives from the Sixth Precinct Homicide Department will be making their arrest based upon the evidence of poison found in Aisa Garrett’s body during an autopsy!
“This poison, identified as Tri-Zan, is the same stuff that poisoned Mr. Daniels’ construction crew at Phantom’s house. Mr. Drexel had access to the poison which was banned from Long Island after World War II, by having been put in charge of ridding NSIC of its old supply of Tri-Zan ten years ago during NSIC’s clean-up campaign, which many here will remember. A stash of it was found in his private office for which he will be asked to account.”
And with that, Scott jumped down from his perch, beaming at the stunned villagers. Only a few noticed the ‘okay’ sign he flashed with his thumb and fingers to someone at the back of the room.
Then, breaking this silence, came a loud, high pitched, anguished, NOOOOOO!! To the mayor’s astonishment, this undignified yelp had come from the mouth of Mr. Drexel. Mr. Drexel leaped from the mayor’s platform. He forged a path through the tightly packed people with his fists, propelled by furious energy.
Those standing near Ms. Marcastle at the back of the room, unaware of the goal of Mr. Drexel’s journey, turned to congratulate her. For the moment, however, Ms. Marcastle seemed unable to offer a coherent thank you since her mouth had dropped open at the announcement of Mr. Garrett’s new heir—herself!—and was still sagging in that position from the idea that her beloved Mr. Garrett had been murdered.
Suddenly Mr. Drexel reached her side and lunged, with flexing fingers, towards her throat. Ms. Marcastle’s dazed fumble for escape was prevented by the mass of villagers packed into the room. Observers began to scream.
At that moment Mrs. Risk appeared between Mr. Drexel and Ms. Marcastle and effectively blocked his progress with her body. Nobody remembered seeing the witch nearby a moment ago, which many took as confirmation of their opinion that she was truly supernatural.
Then Mrs. Risk spoke. Her low vibrant voice cut through the mayhem and silenced it.
“So you’ve discovered all your plans to be fruitless, have you, Matthew?”
Mr. Drexel was brought up short by the question. Slowly, his hands lowered, as if his earlier manic energy was being drained from him. His face reflected an agonized bewilderment. He blinked at the witch, then looked around him, although without any apparent awareness of his audience.
“I don’t understand,” he said to her in a peculiarly high pitched tone. “Wasn’t he already buried? I went to the funeral myself. When did they do an autopsy?”
Homicide Detective Michael Hahn reached him at just that moment and with a heavy hand, pushed him none too gently by the shoulder into a chair. Detective Hahn aimed a commanding frown at the surrounding onlookers and most of them shuffled back a foot or so.
Mrs. Risk, however, stayed close beside Mr. Drexel. Her eyes flashed with a black fire, but her voice sounded only detached…casual…as if she merely wondered about some things.
“Aisa’s doctor ordered him to drink two carafes of water every day and you knew it. You added Tri-Zan to the carafe on his desk that Peggy kept filled with water for him. You’re the one who slipped that same Tri-Zan into the bottled water to poison Phantom’s construction crew, too, aren’t you.” She didn’t make it sound like a question.
He gave a short, bitter laugh. “When Aisa took over, he found that North Shore still had
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