Chapter 15

 

No time like the present.

Instead of driving straight home after leaving Sheila, I decided that as long as I was in town anyway I might as well pay a visit to my extension agent—and prospective murder suspect. Though I’d never been there before I knew the Brookdale County Extension Office was housed on the second floor of the old bank building. The first floor of the weathered brick structure had been converted into an antiques store. I entered by a side door and climbed stairs creaky and concave from years of foot traffic.

My tentative knock was answered by a gruff, “Door’s not locked. C’mon in.”

Kel Watson sat with his feet propped on a desk that to my unpracticed eye wavered in the nether region between just plain old and antique. He gave me a quick once-over as he swung his booted feet to the floor. He motioned me to have a seat on the one and only chair that wasn’t piled a mile high with journals while he continued his phone conversation. From what I overheard, I gathered that the person on the other end of the line was having sod problems. The terms “fescue” and “zoysia” provided a solid clue. Kel Watson, much to his credit, was patient to a fault, diplomatic even, as he reviewed the merits of each.

I gingerly lowered myself into the cracked leather chair he’d indicated and took advantage of the opportunity to leisurely study him and his surroundings. No one could ever accuse the man of being handsome. His nose was too large for his narrow face, his mouth too wide. His skin was tanned the color of tobacco, furrowed by a lifelong exposure to the harsh Carolina sun with benefit of SPF. Hair, more salt than pepper, was skinned back into a ponytail. He would have blended seamlessly into the Haight-Ashbury scene back in the mid-sixties. Unfortunately for Kel, times had changed and Brookdale County was a far cry from Haight-Ashbury.

The office was much like the man himself—outdated. The hardwood floor showed wear and tear; the institutional beige walls cried for a fresh coat of paint. A computer, the once-white monitor yellowed with age, occupied a corner of the desk. Bookshelves along one wall sagged beneath the burden of reference books and journals. A rack on the wall next to the door was crammed with brochures with titles such as “Pesticide Safety,” “Fire Ants in the Vegetable Garden,” and “Food-borne Illnesses.”

Hmm. Interesting. I was forever curious about others’ taste in reading material. Whether at an airport or poolside, I could never resist sneaking a peek to see what people were reading. Whodunits versus romance versus bestsellers. I recalled how much fun a bunch of us regulars at a Florida time-share had floating around the pool with our foam noodles and casting the characters in a popular mystery series.

The debate between fescue and zoysia raged on. Bored, I started to dig through my purse for a nail file when I noticed a glossy brochure that must’ve slid off his desk and landed on the floor. Naturally I bent and picked it up. Much to my surprise, it had nothing to do with landscape gardening and everything to do with cosmetics—Belle Beaute in particular. The products listed promised to renew and regenerate, to revitalize aging complexions and smooth out wrinkles. Who could resist such claims? I darted a glance at Kel. Was he seriously thinking of purchasing creams and lotions promising to make him appear years younger? Was he trying to impress someone? Sheila Rappaport, perhaps?

I viewed my visit today as a reconnaissance mission of sorts. I intended to get the lay of the land, so to speak. Find out what made the man tick. Just because Kel Watson gave Sheila a case of the willies didn’t give me a green light to come right out and ask him if he was a stalker.

Or worse yet, a crazed killer.

His call concluded, Kel hung up the phone and turned his attention to me. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said.

His voice, though deep and pleasant, was no match for Sheriff Wiggins’s smooth-as-molasses baritone. I held out the brochure still clutched in my hot little hand. “I’ve been told Belle Beaute has an excellent line of face creams and moisturizers. Expensive, but I’m thinking of trying them myself.”

A dark flush spread across Kel’s high cheekbones. Springing to his feet, he snatched the brochure from my hand, stuffed it into his desk drawer, and slammed it shut.

What was that all about? I wondered as I watched it disappear. Was he afraid folks would find out he was a closet face cream and moisturizer kind of guy?

Kel lowered his lanky body into his chair and asked, “How can I help you, ma’am?”

You can start by telling me if you poisoned Vaughn Bascomb and Sheila Rappaport. “Ah, I’m Kate McCall,” I replied, reverting to the more conventional greeting. It’s never wise to antagonize a potential killer if it can be avoided. It wouldn’t do to come right out and accuse the man of being Sheila’s nemesis and crazy stalker guy—at least not at our first “official” meeting.

Elbows planted on the armrests of his chair, he studied me over steepled fingers and quietly waited for me to speak. I noted he had the large, calloused hands of a laborer, the fingers square-tipped, the nails clipped short. He wasn’t wearing a wedding band and, from lack of a tan line, hadn’t for some time. Note to self: Ask Rita what she knows of Kel’s background.

I cleared my throat. “Please, call me Kate. It’s less formal.”

“All right, Kate,” he said. Leaning forward, he folded those strong, capable hands on the desk in front of him, pious as a priest waiting for a confession. “Suppose you tell me your problem.”

Instantly I felt guilty. Should I cross myself or genuflect . . . ? “Um, sorry. I bought too many plants at Lowe’s and now I don’t know what to do with them.” Was my transgression horticulture gluttony or simple botanical lust?

“Well, that’s not so terrible,” he said, absolving me with a kind smile. “Now, tell me what you purchased and I’ll make some suggestions.”

Your sins are forgiven. Five Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys.

“Lantanas . . . ?”

“Lantanas are a good choice.” He nodded approvingly. “They’re tough as nails. Thrive in our hot, dry summers. Butterflies are drawn to them like a magnet, but the deer leave them alone.”

“What about Lenten Roses?” I fumbled through my purse for pen and paper. This information was too good to trust to a memory susceptible to senior moments.

“Lenten roses, also known as hellebore, prefer full or partial shade. Deer also tend to avoid them.”

I made a note of this on a Piggly Wiggly cash register receipt I’d found crumpled at the bottom of my purse. “And last but not least, hydrangeas.”

“Pretty things, aren’t they? Hydrangeas are a little trickier to grow than, for instance, lantana. Their color is affected by the pH in the soil—blue flowers require acidic soil, pink or red like alkaline.”

I scribbled like mad to jot all this down. “Where do they grow best?”

“Plant them where they’ll get morning sun, but light shade in the afternoon.”

My head swirled with dos and don’ts as I rose to leave. Morning sun, light shade? I was going have to pack a picnic lunch and spend a day getting better acquainted with my yard. My respect for gardeners was growing by leaps and bounds. I had always ascribed to the “dig a hole in the ground and hope for the best” theory. No wonder I had so many failures. No wonder my late husband had hired a landscaper.

Kel rose too. “The whole time we’ve been talking, I’ve been thinking you look familiar. Have we met before?”

I tugged my lower lip while I debated my answer. Of course I could admit I was at the Cove Café after Vaughn’s memorial service and witnessed Sheila’s meltdown. I might even mention I was in Sheila’s hospital room and watched her faint dead away at the sight of him. Nah, too much information. Instead, I took a chance he hadn’t noticed me in the shadow of Rita’s big knockers. “I, um, attended a couple of your lectures with a friend of mine.”

My answer seemed to mollify him since he turned his attention away from me and toward his computer.

I was about to leave when I turned back with another question. “Why do deer leave certain plants and shrubs alone, but eat others like candy?”

Kel looked up from making an entry. “There are a number of theories. Some folks insist deer sense which ones are poisonous, which ones aren’t. Others believe poisonous plants aren’t all that tasty. Guess you’ll have to ask a deer to find out the real answer.”

I stood, one hand on the doorknob, while I processed all this. “You just finished telling me deer leave lantana and Lenten roses alone. Are you saying they’re poisonous?”

“Yep,” he drawled. “Even your pretty hydrangeas contain low levels of cyanide.” He resumed his hunt-and-peck typing. “Don’t eat them and you’ll be fine.”

Poison in very own yard—and in countless yards throughout the South, I marveled as I descended the stairs, careful not to touch the grimy banister. How convenient for someone with murder on their mind.

 

• • •

 

“I’m ready to officially join the garden club. Sign me up.”

I sensed Rita’s hesitation from three blocks away.

“Are you sure you’ve thought this through?” she asked.

“Positive. I’m turning over a new leaf,” I giggled. I’d quite literally be turning over new leaves as well as old ones. “My ultimate goal is to have one of those cute Garden of the Month plaques in my front yard.”

“Remember ceramics?”

Leave it to Rita to remind me of my failures. Ceramics, by the way, happens to be much more difficult than people realize. I tried it for a time with limited success. Then to add insult to injury, my masterpiece, a sweet little birdhouse that had taken months to complete, had exploded in the kiln.

“Remember salsa dancing? Kayaking? Duplicate bridge?”

“This is different,” I protested. “Gardening doesn’t require coordination.”

Rita heaved a sigh. “Kate, you ought to have a sign over your door that reads: Death to Houseplants. Somehow you even managed to kill the ZZ plant I gave you. A plant practically guaranteed indestructible.”

I felt bad, I really did, over the plant’s untimely demise. In my opinion, ideal houseplants should be able to tolerate long periods of drought followed by flash floods. “Gardening can’t be much different than cooking, right?” I asked, rallying my defense.

I heard Rita’s groan on the other end of the line.

“All one has to do is read the recipe typed on those plastic plant-stick things and follow the directions. If I can make a soufflé, how hard can it be to grow a plant?”

“I didn’t think you liked to get your hands dirty.”

I could tell from Rita’s tone I was wearing her down. “I’ll wear gloves. They come in all sorts of pretty colors and patterns. And I’ve got the perfect straw hat to wear so I’ll look cute in case Bill happens to drop by.”

“Oh, all right, seeing as how I can’t talk you out of joining. My term as president is up, but I agreed to serve as the new membership chairman.”

“Great! Send me the papers and I’ll sign on the dotted line.”

“Kate, this isn’t like applying for a second mortgage. Consider yourself a provisional member of the club. Active membership is subject to a vote. And, Kate, you’ll have to spend time working at our current beautification project.”

“No problemo.” I hung up feeling inordinately proud of myself. I’d not only beautify my yard but gain firsthand knowledge of which plants were safe and which weren’t. Happy I was on the right track, I made myself a cup of herbal tea, then settled on the sofa in the greatroom with a good book—The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Forensics. After scanning the table of contents, I flipped open to chapter eleven.

“Death by Poisoning” promised to be an entertaining read.