Free End Me a Tenor by Joelle Charbonneau Page A

room was a massive mahogany desk equipped with a high-powered laptop, an array of computer accessories, and a phone system that NASA employees would have a hard time using.
    Millie went to the back of the office and plucked a small pink tube off one of the meticulously organized shelves. “Here. Try this.”
    My aunt’s tone said it would be best not to argue. I unscrewed the top, slathered a bunch of cream on my fingers, and felt immediate relief. When it came to skin creams and cosmetics, my aunt was always right. Which made me wonder. “Do you know of an allergy that makes a person sensitive to hand lotions and red meat?” Since the question sounded strange even to me, I added, “One of the suspects in David Richard’s murder is allergic to both those things.”
    The minute I mentioned the murder, Aunt Millie’s eyes narrowed. “Hand-cream ingredients can trigger all sorts of allergies. Do you know if the lotion had a fragrance or doubled as a sunscreen?”
    “I haven’t a clue.”
    My aunt fired up the computer, rolled up her sleeves, and started to search through her database of cosmetics. As the minutes ticked by, I began to fidget. Finally, I said, “You don’t have to spend time on this now. I don’t want to interrupt your plans.”
    “Plans?” My aunt gave me a quizzical look. “What plans?” The tiny red flush blooming under the perfectly applied base makeup belied her innocent tone.
    Now I had a decision to make. I had to feign ignorance of my aunt’s sex life or meet it head on. When I was growing up, my parents taught me to steer clear of uncomfortable conversations. They believed in avoiding unpleasantness at all costs, which is probably why they didn’t call or visit. My parents loved me, they just didn’t understand my life choices. While they wanted me to be happy, they would rather that happiness occur on the farm down the road doing something they understood. Growing corn and milking cows made sense. Singing and dancing on stage? Not so much. Even if the Messiah went on as planned, the tickets I’d set aside for my folks would most likely never be used. Millie, on the other hand, would be front and center. She believed in facing life head-on.
    Which is why I asked, “Isn’t Aldo waiting for you upstairs?”
    Millie looked back at the computer screen and began typing away. “He’s finishing up a facial treatment. The face mask he tested last night gave his skin a slightly cerulean undertone. I’m hoping the new treatment will help bolster his mood.”
    “If not, the lacy number you have on under the robe should do it.”
    My aunt blushed, but flashed a wide grin. “That was kind of the idea. Wait. I think I have a couple possible answers for you. According to the cosmetics forum, the most common hand-cream allergies related to food are triggered by milk and soy products. But your suspect could also be allergic to zinc oxide and certain oils.” My aunt kept talking, but the mention of zinc oxide had my Spidey senses tingling.
    I was so distracted, I barely noticed Aldo when he bopped through the door wearing a black silk robe and what might have been a come hither smile. His blue-tinged face made it hard to tell.
    Excusing myself, I raced upstairs, fired up my laptop, and looked up zinc oxide. Zinc oxide was an ingredient in a number of sunblock skin creams. All of which said they shouldn’t be used by people with allergies to zinc. A person highly allergic to zinc could break out in a rash or hives if her skin came in direct contact. A few more keystrokes told me people with zinc allergies often avoid red meats.
    Bull’s-eye.
    If Magdalena was allergic to zinc, and my nonexistent investigator instincts were telling me she was, why would she risk handling a water bottle that was full of the stuff? Risking a rash didn’t seem like the best plan for getting away with a crime. Magdalena had been wearing short sleeves the night David died. Gloves would have protected her hands, but