Final Act by Dianne Yetman (best free ebook reader .TXT) 📕

Death can occur within seconds or minutes of ingestion of high concentration - in this case 10%.  Exposure can result in weakness, headache, confusion, vertigo, fatigue, anxiety, nausea and vomiting.”

“No one interviewed mentioned any signs the victim was suffering from headache or fatigue”, Shirley said.

“No, and that doesn’t surprise me.  He showed all the symptoms of ingestion of a large amount of cyanide; his collapse was instantaneous, followed by unconsciousness, convulsions and immediate death.”

“It doesn’t make sense Gordon.  Why would Jeffrey down a drink containing a light coloured liquid smelling like almonds?” Roger asked.

“Good question.  Two reasons.  According to the report food dye matching the amber colour of whiskey and the victim’s major sinus infection.”

“What do they use hydrogen cyanide for”, Withers asked.

“HCN is produced on an industrial scale, and is a highly valuable precursor to many chemical compounds, ranging from polymers to pharmaceuticals.  Laymen terms:  used in nylons, medicines.  So we need to look for a killer who has a good chemistry background and has access to the compound.  Simple, right?”

An answer wasn’t expected and he didn’t get one.

“George will soon be releasing the victim’s body for burial today.  Okay, time to give me your latest, folks.”

Kate and Roger both shared the results of their interviews.  Shirley advised all background checks on cast and crew came out clean.  Withers recommended someone follow up with June Grayson, the hairdresser, as she was a close friend of Camira’s and may know something.

“Thanks, Withers”, Gordon said, “It’s all yours.  Kate and Roger, get on to the HCN.  Find out where the killer could have got a hold of it.  One more thing before we wrap.  The Chief checked in last night from the police conference in New York.  I filled him in the Stone’s murder and he’s hot for anything to give to the press.  A solved murder case would make for a nice welcome home gift for him and the press.  See what you can come up with.  And, in case any of you have forgotten, next weekend is a long one – Remembrance Day.  So if you want to spend it with your families, get moving.”

***

Cst. Shirley Proctor found a parking spot on one of the side streets just off Bedford Highway.   She filled the meter and walked towards the high rise complex, heart in her throat.  Her first interview and she didn’t want to blow it.  Her husband’s word echoed in her head – chill out, stay calm, Shirl, don’t blow it girl by trying too hard.

She walked into the larger foyer of the apartment building, and her heart beat a little faster.  She loved policing.  Had put in seven years at the precinct working a 9 to 5 job as Assistant to Deputy Chief waiting until she didn’t have to work around the kid’s babysitters, and her husband’s shift work, before applying and being accepted as a rookie police offer.  Now, she wanted nothing more than to be one of those independent, irreverent, hard working detectives.

She nodded at the doorman and stepped into the foyer.  The high ceiling, cream and brown marble floor, the bank of elevators tucked away in the left hand corner blended together to create a quiet, rich ambience.  To the right, a large circular mahogany counter enclosed the working space of the front security officer.  It was empty.  From the back corridor came the sound of hurrying feet and a short, overweight, balding man, nearer 70 than 60, came bustling up to her.

“Constable Proctor?  Hello.  I’m Harold Tell, the security officer on duty the night of Ms. Paul’s unfortunate demise.  I apologize for not being out front but I had nipped out back to hurry Arthur, my replacement, on his way.”

And on cue, a tall, lanky man with the posture and long face of Eyore shuffled behind the counter.  Harold led her down the back corridor to a small office. He sat behind the desk and motioned her to the red chair.  She opened her bag, took out her notebook and began the interview hoping her voice wouldn’t betray her nervousness.

“Mr. Tell, how long have you been working in your current position?”

“Call me Harold, please.  It’s been seven years now.  Retirement didn’t suit me and the building manger happens to be related to my wife and gave me the job.  A job I like and, if I say so myself, good at.”

“You must know most of the residents pretty well.”

“Yes I do and I have to say, they’re a fine bunch.  Most of them are retired.  They like the personal touches we offer and of course, the security.”

A red flush began at the base of his neck and travelled upwards.

“How well did you know Ms. Paul?”

“Quite well, she was a friendly, always smiling.  Generous too, she never forgot staff at Christmas.”

“Did she have a lot of visitors?”

“There were two regulars.  Her cousin, Rev. Hanya, and her grandmother.  A few others but they weren’t regular.”

“Who were these few others?”

“Theatre people.  A sharp bunch, laughing, talking all at once, believe me, once they were in the elevator, the silence was deafening.”

“A high-spirited bunch.  Is that how you would describe Ms. Paul?”

“Goodness, no.  Ms. Paul, was quiet, kept mostly to herself.  Came back tired on nights she was acting; I could see it in her face.” He shook his head.  “What happened to her is horrible, beyond belief.  She was too young to die.  And I don’t believe for one moment she committed suicide.  It had to be an accident.”

“Did you speak with Ms. Paul on the night she died?”

“No, I never laid eyes on her.  Like I told those two detectives, she had no visitors either, other than her cousin.”

“How do you know there were no other visitors?”

“I was on the front desk all evening.”

“You didn’t leave your post at all?”

He shifted in his chair.

“Once, but it was only for a few minutes. Mrs. Cunningham, her apartment’s on the first floor, around the corner from the