Fly Paper Soup: David Winter Mysteries, #1

Fly Paper

Soup

––––––––

David Winter

Mysteries

Book One

By Cleve Sylcox

Fly Paper Soup

by Cleve Sylcox

Copyright © 2015

This is a work of fiction – names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locals is entirely coincidental.

All Rights Reserved

Digital Edition

Edited by

Lee Sylcox

Vickie Jacobs Struckmann

Copyedited by

Rebecca Jaycox

Cover art by

Cleve Sylcox

Copyright©2015 Cleve Sylcox

––––––––

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

To my sister, Blanche Cottingham, for her never ending support.

Special Acknowledgement

Blanche Cottingham

Suzy Stewart Debot

Louise Adkins Mezera

Jeannie Felfe

Mark McCollum

Steve Shelburg

Debbie Manber Kupfer

Contents

_

Prologue

Chapter One

A New Case

Chapter 2

Tell Me About It

Chapter 3

Lock Up

Chapter 4

Sharon Henry

Chapter 5

The Judge, The Prosecutor, and a Guy Named Collins

Chapter 6

Liar, Liar

Chapter 7

Impossibility

Chapter 8

Down the Rabbit Hole

Chapter 9

Arsenic and Fish

Chapter 10

Drugged

Chapter 11

No Surprises

Chapter 12

The Hospital

Chapter 13

The Hearing – Prosecutor

Chapter 14

The Hearing – My Turn

Chapter 15

The Great Houdini

Chapter 16

Gray Skies

Chapter 17

Twelve O’clock Midnight

Chapter 18

Certainty During Chaos Is For Fools

Chapter 19

The Long Cold Walk

Chapter 20

Truth or Consequences

Chapter 21

Friends Forever

Chapter 22

Marquee

Chapter 23

Dennis

Chapter 24

Pitting Cherries

Chapter 25

Oh, What a Web We Weave

Prologue

1940

A blue and yellow gas flame glowed beneath the pot of potato soup. The simmering white broth bubbled with carrots and finely cut potatoes. The delicious aroma filled the old farmhouse. Sometimes, Emma added ground beef for a change of pace. Potato soup was her specialty. Her husbands loved it.

Tony Evans and his teenage daughter, Karen, sat at the kitchen table eating the soup. Karen was ill. She had been sick going on four weeks, ever since her father married Emma. He was not feeling much better. Emma, though, was immune to whatever bug was plaguing them. To help with the illness, she fed them her soup.

Her motto was feed a cold; starve a fever.

Karen did not run a high fever. She had headaches and diarrhea, the simplest of things confused her, and she was drowsy most of the time.

After thirty days, her fingernails had distinctive white bands just above the base of the nail, and convulsions were common.

Tony was experiencing the same symptoms. He had suffered through colds and flu before and figured he would survive. A farmer’s work never ends and cannot wait for colds to pass.

Today was no different, except Karen’s symptoms were growing worse. She was vomiting, and unbeknownst to Tony, she had blood in her urine. He did, too, but along with the blood, he had cramping, hair loss, and acute stomach pain. Neither felt like eating but did so for strength.

As the two ate, Emma was out back taking the laundry off the clothesline. There was no hurry that afternoon. The clothes smelled clean and fresh. She folded them with great care and then placed them into a large laundry basket. She tossed the clothespins into a sack hung on the line. After the long harsh winter of ’39 and ‘40, she wanted to soak up as much warmth as possible. Besides, Tony and Karen were not going anywhere.

Carrying the clothesbasket, she entered the house through the back door. The old hinges squeaked, and the handle rattled as she opened and closed it behind her. When she was sure the old latch caught, she went through the dry room and into the kitchen, setting the basket on top of a stack of week old newspapers next to the stove. With a spoon, she removed the vegetables from the bubbling pot. Then after turning the burner off, she poured the soup into the sink. She ran water to flush the mix down the wide drain and through the plumbing.

Tony leaned forward in his chair with his chest resting on his empty bowl. His face lay on its side on the lace tablecloth, eyes closed and mouth open.

Karen lay on the floor, wide-eyed and staring at the ceiling. Her bowl was on the floor upside down near her knee, soup pooling around her.

Emma checked Tony’s pulse and then Karen’s.

With a trembling hand, she pressed her fingers across Karen’s lips. Dear, dear, it’s over, she whispered.

On the counter across the room was a tin box with flowers painted on its top. Each artistic blossom had a hole in the center with a wick protruding through, leading to the interior of the container. The wicks soaked up arsenic.

Anderson’s Fly Paper was a simple method of killing flies. The flies landed on the wick, the legs absorbed the poison, and they died moments later. There were other methods sold at the hardware store such as regular flypaper with glue, or the fly tape that hung from the ceiling. Emma found these cruel. The poor flies suffered as they struggled to free themselves. She preferred the poison as it did not cause suffering unless you used low dosages, then it induced sickness and a very slow death.

She hated to use small amounts on her victims, but the deaths had to be slow in order to look like an illness. This morning as she made the soup, she decided they had suffered too long, and she used more poison than normal. To her delight, it was just the right amount.

Emma washed the pot and dried it. She sat it on a shelf and then wiped her hands on her apron as she looked at Tony and Karen.

I think there’s room for you out back. Come on, you’ll enjoy it... fresh air and sunshine.

Chapter One

A New Case

2015

February, La Porta Beach, Florida.

The blue gulf water and soft breeze made it a perfect day for catching some rays. The young dames in two pieces weren’t bad either. The fat guy in a Speedo with the metal detector, I could live without. I sat in a lawn chair wearing black swim trunks and covered in suntan oil. I had some of that white gunk on my nose, so it wouldn’t burn. The gulls hovered nearby as my cell phone chirped. It was my secretary, Linda.

Hello, Darling, I answered.

Burnt yet? she said with a giggle. I loved her giggle, heck I loved her, but I did not mix work with pleasure.

Nah, not yet. Covered in SPF twenty something.

Good, 'cause I have a case for you, she said with a hint of excitement in her voice.

Linda was never urgent about anything, pretty much laid back. She was raised on one of those Midwest farms in Ohio—always straightforward and to the point when dealing with clients, but with me, she joked around. I owned the firm, and I made some hard decisions at times, but Linda, she ran the show. From the opening bell in the morning to the closing bell at night, which for her was sometimes long after everyone else was gone, she did it all.

My law firm handled hundreds of cases every month. Mostly, divorces, felony burglary, and traffic... always traffic cases. Like most businesses, bills still have to be paid while you’re waiting for the big jobs to come through, murder cases and the like. Traffic was small, but in quantity was profitable.

A few months ago, Linda talked me into doing several commercials to generate business. I guess the idea of living on the street in a cardboard box didn’t appeal to her. I made three, all about bringing your traffic troubles to, ...Winter because you don’t like going into the summer with winter still on your tail. I know, corny as hell, but it worked, and we had more than a dozen cases in no time. I hired a couple of interns to handle the paper work and took on two more attorneys. Instantly, I was a celebrity of sorts. People saw me and waved; some even asked me for an autograph. I signed whatever they had.

I still needed the big job. You could live off hamburger if you wanted, but I preferred steak, big, fat well-done steaks.

Whatcha got?

Well, before I begin, how do you feel about traveling?

Travel? How far are you talking?

Not far, Missouri, she laughed.

Missouri?

You know, the state in the middle of the country between Kansas and Illinois, Jesse James, beer—

Yeah, yeah... I remember my geography. Tell me about the case.

In 1940 a woman named Emma Evans was arrested for the murder of her seventh husband and attempted murder of her stepdaughter.

1940?

Yeah, seems this whacked-out woman was married seven times and killed at least five of her husbands. She poisoned them, David, with potato soup.

Soup?

Yep, it was Emma’s specialty.

How does this involve us?

Sharon Henry was arrested yesterday for the murder of her husband—

Let me guess, potato soup?

Yep, the police feel these are copycat murders.

Don’t tell me she’s accused of killing more than one husband?

Seven.

Seven?

Your buddy, Sean Wilson, from your days in the Army, she’s his aunt.

Sean... I’ll do anything for him.

He told me to remind you that you still owe him one.

Oh, I see, pro bono.

No, he wants to pay you cash to defend her. You can quit doing those stupid commercials, for a while anyway.

Really, cash?

All expenses.

Sounds like Sean is doing all right for himself.

So, are you in, or are you out?

I don’t know. I’m known all over town now, thanks to the ads. Women knock on my door and line up just to date me.

David.

Linda.

David.

I’m in.

A few hours later, I was on a passenger jet headed toward the Midwest. It had been a while since I was in St. Louis, which was home of the Clydesdales, beer, the Cards, the Blues, and the best toasted ravioli in the country. The last time I saw Sean was in 1995 at a reunion of Vietnam Vets held at Union Station in St. Louis. Not many of my old battalion were there, the Fighting 24th. We were all getting old. The last time I saw most of them was in late 1975 when we were unceremoniously discharged. The wild bunch they called us.

Since the invention of social networks, I got back in touch with a few via Facebook, and Twitter, but there’s nothing like seeing an old buddy face to face. Skype does not count. I looked forward to the reunion with Sean and wished it were under different circumstances. 

On my lap sat a manila envelope containing the history of the Evans’s murders. We figured we needed to know about the original murders to see how much they were like these new ones. Funny, there was not a lot of information on the net about the Evans case. I wanted to know as much as possible about Emma and her soup. The old-fashioned way was not appealing, sifting through stacks of old newspapers, or digging through the archives of the police department or courthouse. But, for Sean, I would do it.

Linda had found an article in the Oshkosh, Wisconsin newspaper from 1940:

* O S H K O S H  D A I L Y  N O R T H W E S T E R N    WEDNESDAY, JUNE 5,1940

WIDOW CHARGED WITH MURDERING SEVENTH HUSBAND

St. Charles, Mo.—A five- time widow, Mrs. Emma Sarana Evans, 48, has been charged with murder by poisoning in the death of her seventh husband, Tony Evans. Two other marriages ended in divorce. Justice of the Peace, Gus Hemme, issued the murder warrant after a coroner's jury had returned a verdict stating that Evans, a 53-year-old Wentzville farmer, had died May 28 of poison. Mrs. Evans told Prosecuting Attorney, David A. Hyer, she married Charles Davis of Steelville, Mo., her first husband, when she was 14. They had 12 children, eight of whom died in infancy, Davis died in 1923, she said, of dysentery. She said that marriage number two ended in divorce. Husbands three and four died. Marriage number five ended in divorce. Her sixth husband, farmer Aloysius A. Butler, 56, died last September after a two-day illness. Several days ago his body was exhumed, and the vital organs were examined and found to contain arsenic. The woman has steadfastly maintained her innocence.

Then there was another article giving a brief account of the murders and the trial. It detailed many of the same facts, but also included that the trial had moved from St. Charles County to Franklin County because her attorney felt she could not receive a fair trial in St. Charles.

The last article we found was from the St. Louis Post, and it did not vary much from the Oshkosh article. There was more detail, and it was better written, though.

There were several things that stood out, in my opinion. The first husband died of natural causes according to the coroner jury. The second husband, as reported in the Oshkosh article, said he divorced her, but the St. Louis article stated the man was never found, presumed divorced but no record of it. Both articles agreed husband three and four were dead, but how? The fifth was the only one who survived to live another day and only because he divorced her right away, claiming she was trying to poison him. The sixth was poisoned, and this was discovered after the death of her seventh husband, poor Mr. Evans.

I also learned more about the murder of Mr. Evans. Emma buried he and Karen in his back yard. He dug himself out and crawled some 300 yards to a neighbor who took him to St. Joseph Hospital in St. Charles where he regained consciousness long enough to tell them he thought he had been poisoned. A short time later, he died. The coroner at the time broke the case by revealing that the autopsy showed signs of arsenic. The stepdaughter survived after authorities found her shallow grave. She told authorities about the soup, and the investigation began soon after, starting with Emma’s arrest. She was convicted of murder and sentenced to life in prison. The sentence, though, was commuted, and she was released in 1968. Why it was commuted, I did not know yet, and it was not relevant to my case anyway. I was only concerned with the poison and the husbands. 

There were some more interesting tidbits about Emma, though. One account states that she died in prison and was buried in the prison cemetery with no record. Another said she was ill and released. She later died of self-administered poison, but there was no record of it and no cemetery records. Still another article stated that her whereabouts were never revealed as the state feared retribution against her by family members of the victims. Many claimed she lived in St. Charles city under an assumed name. 

Like Emma, Sharon was married seven times, except all of her husbands were dead. The last husband was found lying in the living room, apparently overcome by a massive heart attack. The coroner determined foul play after noticing signs of poisoning. A box of rat poison was found beneath the kitchen sink, circumstantial, maybe?

Another similarity was Sharon’s sixth husband. His exhumed body contained traces of arsenic.

Looked like a no brainier, but the question looming over this evidence was circumstantial. No one saw her poison anyone, she had not confessed, and denied any involvement. Affidavits from neighbors and friends claimed they were a loving couple and seen frequently laughing and joking. They were always together in good spirits. Was it all an act on her part? Her guilt, like Emma’s, seemed clear to me. Insurance money can buy many things and pay off debts until the cash runs out. Of course, then you have to refill the kitty. I never take a case unless there was a chance, even the slightest chance, to win. In this case, I did not see any. However, for the sake of an old friend, I was willing to take a closer look and stand by my client even if found guilty, which in this case looked promising.

I chewed on this for the rest of the flight. As usual I had more questions than answers. The plane landed at Lambert Airport on time, and Sean was waiting for me. After a brief exchange of hellos, how you doing, been like forever, we left Lambert and headed west. He had moved out of St. Louis and settled in St. Charles, Missouri, across the Missouri river from St. Louis County.

It was cold, twenty degrees, unlike my Florida habitat of eighty. I was freezing. Several inches of snow covered everything. I had grabbed a light flight jacket before rushing out to catch the plane back home and forgot my parka, snowshoes, ear mittens, dog sled team, and walrus skinned gloves.

We stopped by a men’s clothing shop, and I picked out a black overcoat and gloves fitting for a lawyer,