Free These Shallow Graves by Jennifer Donnelly Page B

isn’t it? Maybe one of them slipped it into Little’s whiskey without his knowing.”
    Oscar shook his head. “Arsenic’s only tasteless in small doses. Six packets of rat poison in a fifth of whiskey counts as an acute dose, and in acute doses, you get a bitter, metallic taste. One slug and Little would’ve known something wasn’t kosher. At that point, the poisoner would have had to force the whiskey down him and the struggle would have left signs—cuts or abrasions around his mouth at the very least. In addition, the symptoms he does display—the dehydration, the blue hands and feet, the hypersalivation and the garlic odor—are all consistent with acute arsenic poisoning. And I’m sure when I cut him open, I’ll find lesions in the stomach and intestines, and clots in the heart. Arsenic leaves tracks.”
    â€œThe wife and boyfriend—” Eddie cut in.
    â€œâ€”have alibis,” Oscar finished. “Cop I know told me they were seen together in a restaurant from half past five until seven o’clock, and then at a theater. A shopkeeper remembers selling Mr. Little the poison around six o’clock, and a bartender sold him the whiskey a few minutes later. His body was found just after eight, and the show the wife and boyfriend attended let out at nine.”
    â€œHow remarkable,” Jo marveled. “You’ve solved the case!”
    â€œWell done, Holmes,” Eddie said.
    â€œIt was elementary, Watson,” Oscar said. “The boyfriend goes free, he gets Oliver Little’s wife, and Oliver gets a pine box. The real killer here? A broken heart.”
    Oscar moved off to tend to another body. Eddie followed him, asking more questions about Oliver Little and jotting down the answers on a notepad.
    As they walked away, Jo pulled Mr. Little’s sheet up around his neck. How dreadful, she thought, to be naked and dead and have strangers stare at you. Had her father been laid out here? She imagined him in this place, set out on a slab like a cut of meat, and her composure suddenly broke.
    â€œMr. Ru— Oscar, ” she said loudly, interrupting Eddie midquestion. “Would you happen to know if Charles Montfort’s body was brought here?”
    â€œIt wasn’t,” Oscar said. “We were called to the house.”
    â€œYou went to the house?” Eddie said. “You didn’t tell me that.”
    â€œYou didn’t ask,” Oscar replied.
    Jo was relieved to know her father hadn’t been brought here. “He was a suicide, too,” she said under her breath, her eyes still on sad Oliver Little.
    But Oscar heard her. “No, he wasn’t,” he said.
    Jo turned to him. “What did you say?”
    â€œI said Charles Montfort wasn’t a suicide.”
    Jo couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She shot Eddie a look. “So his death was an accident?”
    â€œNo, Miss Jones.”
    â€œBut if it wasn’t one and it wasn’t the other—”
    Oscar gave Eddie a look. “This one’s going to have to sharpen up or Park Row will eat her alive,” he said.
    â€œOscar, please, ” Jo pressed.
    â€œCharles Montfort didn’t kill himself,” Oscar said, looking at Jo over the top of his glasses. “Charles Montfort was murdered.”

“Miss Montfort? Miss Montfort, where are you going? Stop. Stop, ” Eddie said, worry in his voice.
    â€œHome, Mr. Gallagher,” Jo said, staggering like a drunk. “I’m going home.”
    â€œThat’s not the way to your home. It’s the way to the East River.”
    Jo stopped. She turned around and started walking in the opposite direction. She’d stumbled out of the morgue only moments ago, and Eddie had hurried after her.
    â€œYou can’t go home. Not like this. You’re in shock,” he said now.
    â€œI’m fine,” Jo said.
    But she wasn’t. Her face was as