Free The Love Potion Murders in the Museum of Man by Alfred Alcorn

Examiner and his colleague. In the course of these, he noted that Dr. Woodley, who was taking a nitrate-based prescription for hypertension, died from the consequences of a catastrophic drop in blood pressure. Professor Ossmann died of a heart attack apparently because he had a weak heart to begin with.
    When Drs. Cutler and ffronché departed after vigorous handshakes and expressions of appreciation on our part, the lieutenant and I went over the less arcane facts of the case.
    I raised an obvious point. “Wouldn’t it be wise to check with all the Chinese restaurants in town to see where they might have gotten the snacks they had that night?”
    The lieutenant’s nod was an indulgent one, the kind a professional gives an amateur. “We’ve already done that.”
    “And …?”
    “And. None of the thirteen ethnic Chinese restaurants in Seaboard or the surrounding communities reports sending takeout to the lab at that time. They keep very good records, and they all cooperated to the fullest.”
    “Was it strictly ethnic Chinese food?” I asked, thinking for some reason of the Green Sherpa.
    “It was, but we checked all the restaurants that have Chinese-like food, you know, the Thai place downtown.”
    “And the Green Sherpa?”
    The lieutenant reached into his case and withdrew a sheaf of papers. He ruffled through them. “And the Green Sherpa.”
    “Perhaps one of them brought the food from home. Leftovers.”
    “Right. Or the stuff you put in a microwave. No go. Mrs. Ossmann, who did not seem particularly bothered by what had happened to her husband, said neither of them knew how to do as much as make boiled rice. And they didn’t keep anything like that in the freezer. But yes, they did occasionally go to Chinese restaurants, usually with friends. Ditto for Ms. Woodley’s widower, a Walter Gorman. He was very shook up by the whole thing.”
    “I don’t blame him,” I said. “But what about the staff refrigerator? Leftovers get left in them all the time.”
    He nodded, took out his notebook. “I talked to a guy named Baxter. He was down on a list for keeping the refrigerator clean. It was his turn that week, and he’s positive that there was no fresh or leftover Chinese food in the refrigerator when he left for home that night. He says he left late, about six forty-five. Woodley signed in at seven eighteen and Ossmann at seven thirty-two.”
    “So it would be unlikely but not impossible that someone came in and left the food in the refrigerator during that time.”
    “Possibly. But there’s something else.”
    I waited.
    The lieutenant shifted in his seat, the gunmetal eyes in his ruddy face taking on a sudden sharpness as he leaned forward. “At first it didn’t seem significant.” He paused. “We found no evidence of food wrappers, cartons, plastic forks, or anything like that at the scene. I went over the inventory list myself. I talked to crime scene people. They’re good. They would have listed and bagged anything like that in a case like this.”
    “Perhaps they ate somewhere else.”
    “The ME’s report estimates they ate the Chinese food no more than fifteen or twenty minutes before they … did to each other what they did.”
    “And the sign-in book in the annex shows they were each there at least an hour before they died.”
    “Right.”
    The officer rose to go. He put on his trench coat and the sharp trilby that makes him look every inch a detective. “We’re going to announce it just before the evening news. That will give you a chance to alert people, control the damage.”
    “Many thanks, Lieutenant,” I said. “It isn’t just the bad news that bothers people, it’s how they hear it. I’ll make a few phone calls.”
    “Keep your ear to the ground, Norman. This is definitely murder.”
    Murder, I thought afterward, trying to grasp in my mind what it means to take the life of another. Why was it so prevalent among our species? Murder for hate, for love, for gain, for