Page 109 of Cold, Cold Bones
“Any allergies?”
Flashback. Charlie on the cafeteria floor.
“He was allergic to peanuts. Carried an EpiPen at all times.”
Nguyen nodded once, quick and short.
“Mr. Hunt experienced an episode of anaphylaxis shortly before his death.”
“What?” I understood anaphylaxis but was struggling to make sense of what she was saying.
“His immune system mistakenly identified peanut protein as harmful and reacted violently, sending antihistamines—”
“But Charlie would never eat peanuts. Ever.”
“The tox report says otherwise.”
I just stared at her.
“And. Peanut residue was found in the Chivas in his office,” she added.
“Are you saying Charlie was murdered?”
“I’m saying the manner of his death is suspicious.”
“How so?”
“As I suspected, Mr. Hunt died of CO poisoning. But other factors may have been contributory.”
“Go on.”
“If untreated, his ingestion of peanuts would have triggered an accelerated heartbeat, breathing difficulties, light-headedness, confusion, anxiety, eventually loss of consciousness.”
“Meaning?”
“Mr. Hunt was alive long enough to inhale a lethal amount of carbon monoxide, though perhaps not in full control of his faculties when he entered the car.” Nguyen’s deep brown eyes never left mine. “I have no way of knowing if he got behind the wheel by himself or with help.”
Snap!
It came together with camera-shutter quickness.
Another car. Another suicide.
“Someone put him there,” I said. “Charlie would never eat peanuts. And he would never kill himself.”
A new collection of emotions seized me. None good.
Thanking Nguyen, I got to my feet, and strode to my office. After a trip to my wonky file cabinet, I picked up the phone.
A deeply breathed pause, then I dialed Slidell.
“Yo.”
“It’s Temp—”
“I know.”
“Your clusterfuck just expanded.”
