Page 101 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

“Oh my god,” she says slowly. “You’re talking about murder again, aren’t you? You catfished me here with a relationship talk. This isn’t ajealousything, it’s that after wrongly accusing my boss, now you’re accusingme, the person who works for peanuts on purpose because she believes in the importance of helping people, of, what is it again? Stealing an envelope of bribe money from an old lady’s basement, and—bonus round—possibly murdering her?”

Instead of answering right away, I take this opportunity to drink most of my wine. Because when she says it like that, a tiny little itsy-bitsy bit of doubt creeps in.

“That’s the gist,” I finally say.

“Mo—” She closes her eyes.

“The money is gone, and you’rethe only person I told. What am I supposed to think?”

“I don’t know, maybe you could consider not getting tangled up in a fucking murder investigation! Mo, you are a crossing guard, not a secret agent. And playing at it, accusing innocent people of doing terrible things, is really, really shitty.”

I wince because she’s kind of yelling, and not in the hot date way I made it sound like to Chris. “You’re the one who’s always talking about civic responsibility!” I argue. “How is this different from what you do?”

“God, I take it back.” She stands up. “Iwishyou were just a jealous girlfriend type. This issomuch worse.”

Her face is red and blotchy and she’s about to cry. I really wish I’d gotten those napkins. And I guess I wish some other stuff too.

She levels a look at me and takes a ragged breath. “I didn’t take the money. After you left, I was on a video call with the Chamber of Commerce for two hours. Go ahead and check my ‘alibi’ if you want.” She grabs my phone and types a name and phone number in it, then thrusts it back to me. “I’m not a thiefora murderer, Mo, I’m a regular person trying to make this city better, and I thought you were too.” She wipes her face roughly. “You know, I’m usually a pretty good judge of character. Guess I blew it this time.” Tasha slides out of the booth, and then she’s gone.

All the air goes with her.

I dig for my inhaler, cursing Chris for saying I don’t need it. And even after I use it, my chest aches. This must be a record for me: only five minutes to lose the one good thing I had going. I want to chase after her, but what could I possibly say?

And—also pretty pressing—if she didn’t take the money, who did? Maybe the gas company dropped in for another poke around? Maybe the murderer just casually came back to the scene of the crime and found it?Or—and I really hate this thought, almost as much as I hate myself for not thinking of itbeforeaccusing Tasha of stealing—was the murderer watching me the whole time?

Suddenly I’m not hungry for the rest of this croissant. My stomach revolts, and I very much regret housing both the wine and thecoffee. I swing by the bathroom, and as I sit on the toilet, I run through the litany of possible fatal diseases that also cause a stomachache: Ebola (again, not in Chicago, not even when it was a thing in the US), sudden onset colon cancer (note to self: google this), food poisoning (unlikely because not usually fatal), oh and that new hotness: botulism.

I pause for a second.

Why would botulism only show up on my anxiety radarnow? I mean, yes, the recent death notwithstanding, it seems like exactly the sort of condition I love to worry about. I sometimes stress aboutleprosyfor crying out loud. But how did I never get around to worrying about botulism until somebody I knew died of it? I’m never usually this late to the game. I’m kind of a hypochondria vanguard, not to brag.

And then it hits me.

I run out of the stall and slam into Kendra who’s on her way in. “Watch it,” she says, before realizing it’s me and blanching.

“I bet you’d like that,” I say.

But it’s good timing, because then I slide under the vines at Chris’s booth and sit across from him. He flinches and then covers it with a smile. “Kendra just went to the—” he says feebly.

“Chris. I have a medical question for you,” I say, all business. “How common is botulism?”

That takes him by surprise. “Botulism?”

“Yeah, you know. Terminal botulism.”

“Fatal.Fatal botulism.”

“Right. That’s what I said. What are the chances of dying of botulism poisoning?”

“You’re not going to get botulism, Mo.” He sighs. “I thought we were done—”

“Spare me the lecture and answer the question. Please.”

He cocks his head at me. “It’s super rare. Like five cases a year,maybe.”

“In Chicago?” I say.

“No, the whole country.”