Jean Bowser, also known as Genie Bow-Bow on TV, had a short-lived career as a food model and actress posing with baked goods for Forks N’ Spoons, slapping a VeggieChop for an infomercial, and playing her claim-to-fame role as an Uncle Charlie’s Angel who squirts barbecue sauce on my uncle’s face. Though her sudden eagerness to talk to me had set my skepticism meter to high, I was always interested in hearing from another suspect.
“They’ve already put this fortress up for sale?” Aunt Kat said, fanning herself with her straw hat.
The red sale sign in the front yard reflected the sun into my tired eyes. “Yeah, and they haven’t even put Uncle Charlie in the ground yet. Someone must want their money fast.”
Before I could ring the buzzer to be let in, the gate opened. Jean was watching for me. I pulled into the driveway toward the front of the mansion where she stood at the front door, her red hair draped over her sleeveless black dress while her bloated, tear-stained face twisted into itself.
“That’s Charlie’s girl?” Aunt Kat whispered in surprise. “She looks a little goth for his taste.”
“To be fair, she is in mourning and now lives alone in a mansion,” I said.
Jean floated over to greet us. “Thanks for coming so fast,” she sang in a morose twang. She pointed at Aunt Kat. “Who are you?”
My aunt smiled. “I’m Katherine, Charlie’s sister.”
“I’ve heard of you,” Jean said. “I’m sorry you guys had a falling out way back when.”
“I’m not,” Aunt Kat said. “It was his fault.”
“She’s tagging along with me,” I said. “But the AC’s broken in the car. Mind if she waits inside while we talk?”
“Not at all.” Sniffling into a tissue, Jean led us inside through a gold and marble gallery of animal paintings.
“Holy cow,” Aunt Kat exclaimed, stumbling back.
I grabbed her arm, thinking she might be too emotionally fragile to handle Uncle Charlie’s house. “You gonna be all right in here?” I asked.
“Tori, these are my paintings.”
“Really?”
I turned to look at the smiling donkey beside me, its right-hand corner signed K. Swenson. A painting of a dancing barn owl had also been signed by Aunt Kat. As we walked down the hall, I scanned the other thirty or so animal paintings. Every single one was Aunt Kat’s.
“That’s strange,” I said. “Why does he have so many of your paintings?”
“This is so Charlie,” Aunt Kat grunted, shaking her head at a painting of a calf drinking milk from a milk bottle. “He probably got off commissioning me to do these strange paintings under his pseudonym. That’s why I haven’t heard from Mr. Chester Butterfield about his bagpipe-playing cow painting. It was going to Charlie, and Charlie’s too dead to pay for it now.”
“Please,” Jean said solemnly, pressing a hand to her breasts. “I know Charlie was no angel, but let’s not speak ill of the departed.”
Leaving Aunt Kat to admire her own work, Jean and I continued through the mansion into a cow-themed atrium. Everything here was black and white, from the dining table with its crystal udders, to the spotted lampposts, to the cow paintings and figurines, cow busts and skulls, and the hanging sculptures of cows jumping over full yellow moons.
A camera peered out from a corner. Like Annie had claimed, Uncle Charlie had been paranoid, but the question was whether he had a reason to be afraid. It wasn’t paranoia if someone was actually after you.
“This way,” Jean said. She directed me through a pair of sliding barn doors into a pink pig-themed room with more cameras, dancing pig wallpaper, porcelain pig lamps with pigskin lampshades, pig-faced chairs, pig curtains with curly pig tails for tassels, a pig fountain that released bubbles out of its snout, and a massive pig bust over the fireplace with a golden plaque that read Chester.
“Is this where Uncle Charlie came when he was feeling disgruntled?” I said.
“He loved farm animals,” Jean replied in a quivering voice, ignoring my joke. She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “This is the pig room, his sanctuary. Pigs were his favorite farm animal.” From under her collar, she pulled out a golden pig necklace. “I’m wearing this in honor of him. Please have a seat.” She gestured to an upholstered mustard chair with hoof-shaped armrests. When I sat down, the chair oinked. Jean smiled, tearing up again. “Charlie just loved that chair. It was his special throne and gave him joy whenever a guest used it.”
“Good. Here’s hoping he’s squealing with joy now.”
“I think he would be. You’re here to figure out what happened to him, aren’t you? You want to get him justice, right?”
Two questions. Two answers. “Yes,” I said, though I didn’t care too much about getting him justice. “I’m anxious to hear your theory of how Uncle Charlie died. Is it okay if I record you?”
“Of course, but it’s not a theory, it’s a fact. I know how he died.” Her face was as stern as Chester’s snout.
I got out my notebook and phone. “You mean,” I began, hitting the record button, “you know what he was allergic to?”
“Absolutely. After we found out that he died of an allergy, I thought about the onset of his symptoms. And wouldn’t you know? They began on Memorial Day, the same day that young man died at the drive-in. That didn’t seem like a coincidence, which is why I had to call you over.”
As I sat up straight at this news, the chair oinked. “What happened to Uncle Charlie on Memorial Day?” I asked her next.
“We had a barbecue party at Uncle Charlie’s in the West Bottoms,” she said. “He was feeling horrible when we got home, so we went to bed early. Didn’t even have sex, and Charlie always wanted sex.”
“Good to know. Do you have any proof you were home?”
Jean blinked, offended by my question. “You think I’m lying?”
“Hey, I’m an investigator,” I reminded her. “I asked my cousins the same thing. It’s standard PI procedure.”
“Well, I bet none of them have an alibi, but go ahead and check the surveillance. Charlie was so afraid of thieves and killers that he installed fifty-six cameras in here.” She pointed to one hovering over us. “Now that his kids can access the stream, they’re probably watching me night and day to make sure I don’t steal anything. That’s why they’re so anxious to sell this house. They want to chase me out and throw me on the street.” She got out her phone and opened the home surveillance app. After pressing a few buttons, she presented me with a video feed on an iron door.
“Is that the safe?”
“No, this was our bedroom. See the time and date?” She tapped a black fingernail on the screen where it read 11:08 p.m. on Memorial Day. “That’s when we went to bed.” She hit play on the video. There wasn’t any sound, but I watched as Jean supported my uncle under her arm and led him inside the room.
“Do you have a camera in the bedroom?”
“No, that was the one place in the house where he wanted privacy. He didn’t want our lovemaking on tape for some creep to find.”
“Can you please fast forward?”
“Sure, hon.” Jean increased the speed, and I watched the iron door stay shut until the next morning when my uncle tottered out in flying pig pajamas. There it was. An ironclad alibi. Neither Uncle Charlie nor Jean could have killed Luis.
“So what was Uncle Charlie sick with?” I asked.
“This will sound wild,” Jean said, stroking her frizzy red hair.
“I’m not really shocked by much these days.”
“The day after the party, I found a tick on his foot.”
“A tick?” My eyebrows lifted in confusion. “Like the insect?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Is there something special about a tick in Missouri?”
“It wasn’t any tick I’d seen before. This one had a white dot on its back.” On her phone, Jean showed me a photo of a white-starred pumpkin seed. “It’s called the lone star tick,” she continued. “Ever heard of it?”
I shook my head. “Can’t say entomology’s my forte.”
“After you brought up that worker’s death at the drive-in, and I realized that it had happened on the same day I saw that tick on Charlie, I thought maybe there was something more to it. So I did some research, and now I don’t think for a second that Charlie’s death was natural.”
“Why?”
“Turns out if the lone star tick bites you, its saliva triggers an immune system response that gives people a red meat allergy called ‘alpha-gal syndrome.’ It’s rare this allergy turns fatal, but a few people have died from an allergic reaction. It also takes at least a month for the effects of the bite to be at their strongest, which would have been around the Fourth of July for Charlie. So the meat he was eating at the party was literally killing him.”
I tried to keep a straight face, but this theory was insane. “So you’re saying Uncle Charlie died from a tick bite and eating too much meat?”
“Yes, that’s what I’m saying.”
“All right, you’ll need a toxicologist to run the test—”
“The test is done. After my research yesterday, I called up Charlie’s lawyer and urged him to get a toxicologist to test for alpha-gal syndrome. I got a call this morning with the results. That’s when I called you.”
Jean pulled up the toxicology results on her phone. There, in ink, and verified by Doctor G. Quigby, Uncle Charlie’s allergy test read positive for alpha-gal syndrome. I reread the document, looking for some sign to indicate that it was fake, but it wasn’t.
Now I was in genuine shock. “So Uncle Charlie was taken out by a bug.”
Jean leaned forward, her perfumed cleavage in my nose. “Yes, and I want you to find out who’s responsible.”
I leaned back. “You mean, you want me to get a warrant for the tick?”
“No, I want you to find out who planted the tick on his foot,” she exclaimed. “The intentionality of the act would be considered an ‘unnatural death’ in the eyes of the law.”
The pig fountain bubbled while I imagined someone dropping a tick on my uncle’s foot. The idea was so silly I couldn’t suppress a laugh from squeaking out. “Sorry,” I said, glancing back at Jean who wasn’t amused. “This is so bizarre.”
“I know, but that’s really what killed Charlie.”
“Okay, okay.” I sucked in a long breath as I prepared myself to run with this idea. “Supposing someone did plant a tick on his foot, you still can’t prove they did it with an intention to kill. If fatality with this meat allergy is as rare as you say, it’s more likely an accident he died.”
Jean shook her head. “The lawyer said that if planting the tick was intentional, getting its venom into Charlie would be considered intentional too. Thereby ruling his death a manslaughter by poisoning.”
I thought back to the Fourth of July party when Uncle Charlie’s eyeballs were blown out with rage while screaming at his kids. “Do my cousins know about this toxicology report?”
Jean shook her head again. “I asked the lawyer not to share the results with them, at least not until after the funeral. Thought it might help you find whoever did it, if they don’t know you’re on to them. You know, there really is that Slayer Rule in the will stating his children won’t inherit a cent if any one of them is responsible for his death. The lawyer understood my concern.”
“Yeah, and who’s the beneficiary of my uncle’s estate after my cousins?” I asked, knowing the answer.
Jean cleared her throat. “Me.”
“Wouldn’t you then be lucky to be right?” I gave her a smile. “But let me entertain your idea. Supposing this killer tick episode happened in the way you describe, the only way to prove it is with a confession.”
“You’re a PI, I’m sure you can get that.”
“I don’t know what you think us PIs do, but we aren’t magicians. Smart people, or at least the sort of people that would calculate something like a tick bite, would probably keep that kind of info to themselves. Also, did you ever consider that a tick crawled up Uncle Charlie’s leg on its own because he liked walking around barefoot?”
“No, someone did it on purpose,” Jean insisted, brow furrowing. “These lone star ticks are only found in wooded areas. Someone had to have brought it from the woods to the city. The motive isn’t hard either when any one of his kids could have wanted him dead. Teddy hated Charlie because he knew he’d never measure up to his father. Emma hated Charlie because he was going to sell the drive-in to Yummy Foods. Annie hated Charlie for making her do things she didn’t want to do to secure the Yummy Foods deal. And Chuck hated Charlie because Charlie bullied him.”
“What did Uncle Charlie make Annie do?”
“I don’t know, I just heard her screaming at him once about how she should get more money for her extra work on securing the deal.”
“Well, like you said, my uncle was no angel. I mean, did you actually like him?”
“Like?” Jean scoffed at me. “Honey, let me tell you that his kids have been horrible to me since Charlie died, calling me a ‘gold-digger,’ but unlike them, I loved their father. Why do you think I’ve been crying like a widow? I was in love with Charlie.”
Jean goose-honked into her tissue.
I ignored the drama and tears, too overwrought to be believed. “Okay,” I said, “did you see anyone get under the table during this Memorial Day picnic to put a tick on his foot?”
“No, but my guess is that it relates to the Yummy Foods contract. When Charlie was considering the offer, he got so fuming mad with his kids that he said they weren’t cut out to inherit his legacy.”
I remembered what Chuck said about an executive attending the Memorial Day party. “Uncle Charlie invited a Yummy Foods rep for a tour that weekend, right?”
“Yes, Annie took care of organizing his stay, but it was very tense with that man at the party. Everyone was arguing.”
“Who was this guy anyway?”
“I’m glad you brought that up because I was meaning to give you something.” From her purse, Jean pulled out a scarlet red folder for Yummy Foods. On the front was a post-it that read, Nikolai Volkov, Marriott Hotel, Room 1816.
“Nikolai is the Yummy Foods guy?”
“Yes, and he’s back in KC. He returned last week to press Charlie to sign the contract. Said if Charlie didn’t do it over the Fourth that Yummy Foods would renege on its offer and buy elsewhere. I thought you might want to talk to him.”
“Thanks, I’m sure I would.” I slipped the folder into my backpack. “Maybe it was even Mr. Volkov who put the tick on Uncle Charlie’s foot, right?”
Jean flushed. “I suppose anyone there could have done it,” she conceded, avoiding my eyes. “But I know in my heart it was one of his awful kids.”
After Aunt Kat and I were out of the house and back in the heat, my aunt turned to me. “How’d it go?”
I turned around to wave at Jean, watching us from a window. “I’ll tell you once we’re on the road,” I said. Then I dropped to my hands and knees and looked under the car.
“What are you doing?” Aunt Kat said with alarm.
“Just making sure no one’s tracking us.” I got up and gave her a thumbs up. “Next stop, the Marriott.”