Why Did She Scream Don't Drink It When My Bride Handed Me the Glass...

The sheriff's station smelled like old coffee and floor cleaner, and the video review room was too small for what we were doing. The security tech from the Whitmore had brought a hard drive in a padded case, and the detective had me sit next to him at a folding table while he ran the feeds on a laptop hooked to a wall monitor. On the screen was the ballroom camera we had already watched, Vivian at the bar at 9:47, her hand over my glass.

"That's our hold for the warrant," the detective said. He had his notebook open to the lab call. "Crushed sedative, her prints, no other handler. You sign the complaint, we bring her in."

I didn't answer right away. My tux jacket was over the back of the chair. The bow tie was loose around my collar and my mouth was dry.

The tech cleared his throat. He was a guy in his forties with a Whitmore polo on, hands that shook a little when he typed. "Sir, there's one more angle you asked me to pull. Catering hallway. It looks down the back of the bar. I didn't flag it before because it doesn't show the glass, just the service side."

He clicked to a new file. Time stamp 9:42 p.m.

The image was grainier, a narrow hallway with a stainless steel prep table and a rubber mat. Waitstaff moved in and out of frame carrying trays. Then Nora came into view from the left. She was still in the dark navy wrap dress, her hair in that low bun. She stopped at the end of the bar where the bartender kept his well, out of sight from the guests. She had her small clutch in her hand.

She opened it, took out a white plastic pill caddy, the kind with seven little lids. She flipped one open with her thumb, tapped something into her palm, then closed it and slipped the caddy back into her clutch. She picked up a water glass from the tray, drank, and then she was gone out of frame. It lasted maybe eight seconds.

The detective leaned forward and paused it.

"Stop," he said. "Back it up."

The tech replayed it at half speed. Nora's fingers were steady. The caddy was white, rectangular, about two inches long.

The detective looked at me. "Do you recognize that?"

"No," I said. My voice sounded flat. "I've never seen her carry that before."

He stood and opened the door to the hallway. "Bring her in."

Nora was waiting on a bench outside the interview room with a paper cup of water. She had a blanket around her shoulders that someone from the venue had given her. When she came in, she saw the frozen image on the monitor and her face didn't change at first. Then she understood.

"That's mine," she said.

"What is it?" the detective asked.

"It's a pill caddy. I have migraines. I keep ibuprofen in it. I felt one coming on during the toasts, the chandeliers were giving me that aura. I took two at the bar because I didn't want to make a scene digging through my bag at the table."

The tech glanced at me, then back at the screen.

"What time was this?" Nora asked.

"9:42," the detective said.

She nodded quickly. "Yes. That was before the speeches. I went to the restroom after, if you check the hallway camera by the bathrooms you'll see me. I can give you my pharmacy record. It's just Advil. You can test the caddy, I still have it in my clutch. Check it."

She unzipped her clutch and held it out, but the detective didn't take it. He put on a glove first, then took the small white caddy from her. He didn't open it.

"You understand what you're seeing here, Mr. Mercer?" he said to me. "Both women handling small white tablets within five minutes of each other. One on the ballroom camera at 9:47, one on the catering camera at 9:42. Same time window, same method, crushed pill in liquid."

I stared at the two time stamps written in his notebook. 9:42 Nora. 9:47 Vivian. Five minutes apart.

The clean story from an hour ago was gone. Before, it had been science pointing one way. Now it was two women, two cameras, both with opportunity.

"My statement doesn't change what the lab found," I said slowly. "Vivian's prints are on the glass with that sediment. Nora's aren't."

"Correct," the detective said. "But this introduces reasonable doubt for an arrest right now. A defense attorney will say your former assistant had the same means, same access, five minutes earlier, and that she had a motive to break up the marriage. I need to verify what's actually in that caddy before we move for a warrant on your wife. If it's ibuprofen, it's nothing. If it's the same sedative, it's a different case."

Nora looked at me directly for the first time since we entered the room. Her eyes were red but her voice was calm. "Daniel, you know I've gotten those migraines since I worked for you. Check with my doctor. I'm not asking you to trust me, I'm asking you to check."

I felt the weight of what she was asking. And what Vivian had said on the ballroom floor. She's lying. She tried to kill you.

The detective closed his notebook. "I'm pausing the complaint. We'll log the caddy and send it to the lab with the same rush. I need your formal statement withheld until that comes back. You understand? If you sign now and this comes back as the same drug, we charge the wrong person."

I looked at the monitor again, at the frozen frame of Nora's hand with that small white caddy, and then at the other file still open on the laptop, Vivian's hand over my champagne flute.

"So we wait," I said.