The Mysterious Teatime

Once again hearing the ice cubes clinking in a half empty glass of Coke was enough to send me reeling in my thoughts. I saw the racing form in the coat pocket, the expensive décor of the Social Security office and the uneasiness of the postman. Of course I also remembered the boxes of tea, the assault arrests, and more elderly at risk if the police don’t hurry up and get that list of addresses that opened new accounts.

The detective was at work, but I kept wondering what pieces of this puzzle that didn’t fit. My mind kept thinking about an Agatha Christie book I read a few month’s ago. The story was set on a train and it seemed that each suspect had a role to play in the murder, where a man was stabbed 12 times. I know this is a long shot, but how many people can poison two boxes of tea?

If this was a conspiracy how could one prove it? If this is a single murder, have all the face cards been dealt?

“Sam, do you want another Coke?” asked the waitress.

With the help of my good friend, we went back to the houses. I didn’t actually know what I was looking for but I was concentrating on anything that could be easily overlooked. I was also looking for another, more personal link, as to why these two women were given poisoned tea.

After being in Mildred Petersen’s house for over two hours, not really finding anything. I sat down in a tan reclining chair. My eyes scanned the room.

There was a bookshelf filled with books, mostly the classics; Melville, Dickens, Hemingway. They were all leather bound editions. Sharing a shelf with two ceramic cats was a large family photo album. I grabbed off the shelf and returned to the chair.

There was the usual assortment of travel pictures, baby pictures and the family pictures. One picture stood out amongst them all. It was a wedding photo where the bride and groom were both familiar looking. This picture and the next couple of pages told a whole new story.

At Thelma Tomas’ house I went in search of another family album. I had to search long and hard to find it. As neat as everything in her life seemed to be, it seemed that she had her ghosts kept well hidden in her attic.

I found the album in the chest in the closet of one of the upstairs bedrooms. As hard as I scanned the yellowed pages of old pictures I couldn’t find any that would confirm my suspicions.

As any detective would do I kept looking. I left no rock, bed, chair or secret compartment unturned. I was rewarded for my diligence, but not with a photo. I found a birth certificate.