Chapter 21

 

After yesterday’s fiasco at the sheriff’s office, my morale needed a boost. Hopefully today’s special program with Flowers and Bowers would be just what the doctor ordered to snap me out of my funk. Rita had reminded me yet again that I’d be considered a provisional member until I’d served volunteer hours at the club’s ongoing beautification project and attended a minimum of three regularly scheduled meetings. Piece of cake, she’d said, speaking in her official capacity as chairman of the membership committee.

I ran around in a dither, trying to get ready. I had dressed for the day in garden club chic—or how I imagined garden club chic should look. Jeans, denim shirt, starched and ironed to the max, over a snowy white T-shirt with a flower motif. One of those crushable straw hats completed my botanical ensemble. I loaded supplies into a canvas tote bag: sunglasses, sunscreen, water bottle, insect repellant, wallet, checkbook. I bumped into the coffee table as I rounded a corner and swore softly. Why hadn’t I gotten everything together the night before like a sane person? As I rubbed my aching shin, it all came back to me. I hadn’t done any of this because I’d fallen asleep watching Law & Order reruns and woken up to The Tonight Show. To add insult to injury, I’d forgotten to set the alarm clock.

I heard a car engine and, glancing out a window, saw Bill pull into my drive. Was he early, or was I running late? Bill, bless his heart, had offered me his truck for the day since the trunk of a Buick can’t compete with the bed of a pickup when it comes to hauling plants and shrubs. If need be, Bill could always use my car. Rita and I were to meet the rest of the group in the parking lot of Brookdale United Methodist Church.

I raced to the door. “Hi,” I said, sounding slightly out of breath.

“Hi, yourself.” He gave me that gentle smile I found so endearing. “You’re looking cute as a button in that getup.”

I felt my cheeks get warm. Aw, shucks, I wanted to stammer, t’weren’t nothin’. “C’mon in,” I managed to choke out.

“Ready for your big adventure?”

“Getting there. I have a nagging feeling I’m forgetting something.” Darn those senior moments that plague the golden years. “Help yourself to the coffee. It’s still fresh.”

“Hope you’re not worrying about driving my truck,” he said as he headed for the kitchen and the coffeepot. “It’s an automatic so shouldn’t be any different than driving your car. Plus, you’ll have room in the back for plenty of plants.”

I snapped my fingers. “Notebook!” The elusive object popped back into my mind. I was about to embark on a crash course in horticulture. I intended to ask tons of questions and take copious notes. But to do this, I needed pencil and paper. “Be right back,” I called out as I hustled off to locate said items.

No sooner had I returned to the kitchen than the phone rang. I accepted a mug of coffee from Bill and picked up the receiver, expecting to hear Rita on the other end of the line. “I’m ready if you are.”

“Ready? Ready for what?”

It took a split second to switch gears and realize the voice belonged not to Rita but to my son, Steven. “Hi, sweetie. Everything okay?”

“Hi, Mom. Things couldn’t be better on my end.”

“Steven,” I mouthed to Bill, lest he think I had another “sweetie” waiting in the wings.

“I got into the office early,” Steven went on, “so thought I’d give you a call while the place was still quiet.”

“It’s always wonderful to hear your voice, but I’ve only got a few minutes.” Usually, these roles were reversed and Steven had only minutes to talk. Though based in New York City—Manhattan, where else?—Steven was constantly on the go to places with exotic names like Zimbabwe or Kuala Lumpur. Forever in the search for gadgets and do-gee-bobs for a fancy housewares chain. You’d recognize the name instantly, but it’s not my nature to brag.

“Where are you off to this early?” Steven asked. “Your martial arts class?”

“Right, dear. I’m working on my black belt.”

Bill looked at me and shook his head.

“Black belt?” Steven repeated.

Hmph . . . as if there even was such a thing in Tai Chi. Serves Steven right for never paying attention when I’m talking to him. It would do the boy good to think his mother was learning to kick butt. Give him a reason to scratch his head and wonder.

“You’re getting up there in age, Mom. Careful you don’t hurt yourself, or you could wind up in one of those assisted living places yet.”

I huffed out a breath. Recently, Steven had put my name on the mailing list for every assisted living facility on the East Coast. When my recycle bin got too heavy to lift, I finally had to put my foot down. My children can’t seem to get it through their heads that I’m not ready for a rocking chair and the Weather Channel.

“Friends refer to me as Kung Fu Kate.” I was on a roll and couldn’t seem to stop. “Bill prefers to call me Karate Kate.”

Bill’s brows shot up at hearing this, and he laughed out loud.

“Mom,” Steven’s tone sharpened. “Is someone with you? A man?”

“Just Bill, dear.”

A lengthy silence ensued. A silence some novelists describe as a pregnant pause.

“You’ve heard me mention Bill before,” I finally said, taking a sip of coffee in the hope the caffeine would jump-start my brain.

“Do you realize what time it is?”

I glanced at the kitchen clock. I was about to answer his question when I caught myself. Steven had just adopted the same aggrieved tone I used when he was a teenager who’d broken his curfew. I’d come full circle—and didn’t like it. “No need for that tone of voice, young man,” I scolded. “Remember who you’re talking to.”

“Mother, please tell me you’re not sleeping with the man.”

The switch from “Mom” to “Mother” was duly noted. Clearly not a promotion judging from the coolness in his voice. For a moment I was tempted to lead him on. Let him think I’m a Social Security Salome. But I caught myself in the nick of time. If I wasn’t careful, he’d be down here in a flash. Serenity Cove Estates would top his list of exotic locales.

“What’s that . . . Bill . . . person doing at your house this early in the morning?” he asked, his voice redolent with accusation.

As much as I wanted to let his imagination run rampant, I felt a motherly obligation to set the record straight. “I’m going on an excursion with the garden club this morning. Bill was kind enough to loan me his Ford pickup for the day.”

“Oh . . .” I heard Steven exhale from an office high above Madison Avenue. “Since that’s the case, let me get to the real reason for my call. I spoke with Jen last night. She’s worried about you.”

“Whatever for, dear? I’m perfectly fine.” I cast a quick peek at the clock. I wouldn’t be fine if I didn’t hurry. It won’t do to keep the garden club members waiting on my very first event.

“Jen said there was a food poisoning epidemic where you live.”

“No need to worry, sweetie. Sheriff Wiggins ruled out food poisoning.” I absently skimmed the checklist I’d left on the kitchen counter. “We’re treating this as a murder and attempted homicide. We’re still waiting, however, for toxicology results from SLED to confirm COD.”

“SLED? COD? What the hell does that mean?” Steven shouted. “Have you joined a cult? Are you speaking in tongues?”

I wanted to give myself a good swift kick. A sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach told me I’d blabbed too much. If I were any judge of character, Steven would be on the phone with Jen before the sun rose over the Santa Monica Mountains.

Time to beat a dignified retreat. “Wish I had more time to talk, dear, but gotta run.”

I turned to Bill after disconnecting. “That went well, don’t you think?”

Bill simply shrugged his shoulders and smiled. A Renaissance man if there ever was one.

 

• • •

 

“Ladies, I’m the bearer of both good news and bad news.”

The announcement made by a man who introduced himself as Just-Call-Me-Thomas was met by eighteen groans. My groan would have made nineteen, but, since I was new to the group, I kept my comments—and my groans—to myself. We were clumped around the entrance to Dixie Gardens Nursery in North Augusta, South Carolina. Now this might sound weird when most know Augusta is in the state of Georgia. The city of North Augusta, however, resides along the opposite bank of the Savannah River in South Carolina. Got that? North Augusta is in South Carolina.

Dixie Gardens Nursery was housed in a story-and-a-half building constructed of weathered gray siding that boasted a cute little cupola atop its red metal roof. Trim around doors and windows was painted a spanking bright white. Plants were everywhere, giving it a look of—what else?—a garden. Baskets of ferns hung from porch rafters. Planters spaced at frequent intervals overflowed with flowers—red, purple, pink, and white—and trailing vines. Someday, I vowed, I’d know all the names of these pretty blooms. But that was a little too much to expect on my first day as a provisional garden club member.

“Johnny Wade Barrow couldn’t be with us today,” Just-Call-Me-Thomas continued. “His wife’s cousin twice removed passed unexpectedly. That’s the bad news, ladies. Now for the good.” Just-Call-Me-Thomas rubbed callused hands together in anticipation, clearly enjoying his time in the limelight. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased to learn that Brookdale’s very own county extension agent, Mr. Kelvin Watson, had agreed to give you a guided tour of our wonderful facility.”

I noticed a lot of smiles, a lot of head bobbing, and murmurs of approval from the Flowers and Bowers bunch. With Kel as tour guide du jour, the day promised to become even more interesting.

“Kel and Johnny Wade’s friendship dates back to when the Dixie Gardens was first established. I’m sure Kel will be able to answer any questions y’all might have,” Just-Call-Me-Thomas said, completing the introduction.

As if on cue, Kel stepped out and was met with a round of enthusiastic applause. He, too, had dressed for the occasion in gardening casual, which for him consisted of pressed denims and plaid work shirt. His sharp angular features were partially hidden by the brim of a woven hat. Each time he turned his head, I glimpsed the neat gray ponytail trailing between his shoulder blades.

Kel stuffed his hands into his jean pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Actually, ladies, Johnny Wade Barrow and I go back even further than Dixie Gardens. We knew each other as kids growing up in Ninety Six. The gang used to call him ‘Wheel Barrow.’”

Ninety Six isn’t a number, mind you, but a name of a town located east of Due West. Jim, my late husband, and I used to chuckle at some of the quirky names of small towns. Towns with names such as Ninety Six, Due West, Caesar’s Head and Travelers Rest. My friend Joyce recently mentioned there’s actually a North, South Carolina. Sure enough. I looked it up on a map and found out it’s not even in the northern part of South Carolina, but south toward Charleston. For trivia fans, I’ll have you know North happens to be the birthplace of entertainer Eartha Kitt. But I digress.

“. . . about to have a behind-the-scenes tour of one of the finest wholesale nurseries in the entire state of South Carolina,” Kel rambled. “And let me tell you, ladies, that’s no mean feat. Afterward you’ll have the opportunity to purchase plants not yet available in retail stores. Now, if you’ll kindly follow me.”

I kept close to Rita as we trailed Kel down a brick walkway. While the garden club members were friendly, they weren’t overtly so. Could they sense my deplorable lack of a green thumb? “I’m thinking of re-landscaping my yard,” I announced to anyone within distance.

Rita rolled her eyes. “Kate, I swear, you could kill an artificial plant.”

“Landscaping can be quite a project,” said a prune-faced woman on my right.

“Maybe you should hire someone with experience,” advised a Clairol blond by the name of JoAnn.

“How hard can it be? Dig a hole, pop in a plant, then sit back and watch it grow.”

My statement set off a flurry of body parts. Eyes rolled; tongues clucked; heads wagged. I felt the sharp sting of censure. Apparently I’d committed a faux pas. Was there more to gardening than I thought? To cover my embarrassment, I bent down and examined a plant that looked vaguely familiar.

“Ah, I see someone admiring our gardenias.” Kel paused and shifted into lecture mode. “To my mind, no plant expresses the grace of the South better than the gardenia. Nothing can compare with their exotic fragrance. Gardenias were originally imported from China and are sometimes called Cape Jasmine. As you can see, the plant’s snowy white blooms create a nice contrast against its glossy dark green leaves. Remember, ladies, gardenias need good drainage and acidic soil containing organic matter.”

Acidic soil and drainage, right. I pulled out my notebook and jotted this down.

“Since gardenias thrive in heat and high humidity, they’re an excellent choice for this climate,” Kel told the group.

“I have a question,” I said, raising my hand. “Are they poisonous?”

“No, ma’am,” Kel answered politely. I could see from his expression that he recognized me. “Let’s move on, shall we?”

The group shuffled along, stopping here and there to check out a certain bush or shrub. Rita seemed to have forgotten my presence—or maybe her forgetting was accidentally on purpose.

Kel stopped in front of a display of lush purple-blue flowers. I was pleased as punch I recognized them by name—hydrangeas. The same plants I’d purchased from Lowe’s. “Hydrangeas work well as single plants, massed, or in tubs on the patio,” he explained. “Their color is affected by the pH of the soil. The bluest shades are produced in strongly acidic soil. Pink or red in neutral to alkaline soil.”

I actually knew this from my previous conversation with Kel. All right, on a written quiz I might’ve gotten my acid and alkaline reversed, but I knew color varied with soil. Most of the women nodded as if they’d been born with this knowledge embedded in their infantile brains. None of them looked like they’d be caught dead not knowing such a basic. Well, I wasn’t too proud to ask questions so I raised my hand and felt Rita’s elbow in my ribs. “Honestly, Kate,” she hissed, “this isn’t grade school.”

“Fine,” I muttered under my breath. Then instead of my hand, I raised my voice and called out, “Excuse me, Mr. Watson, er, Kel . . .”

He had been about to proceed farther into the nursery, but stopped and turned. “Yes . . .”

“Isn’t it true that hydrangeas are poisonous?” I already knew the answer, but asked anyway. People should be aware of this. If the Freedom of Information Act didn’t apply to plant life, maybe it should.

“They contain low levels of cyanide,” he answered hesitantly.

“Mmm . . .” Arsenic and Old Lace? Or to paraphrase, Cyanide and Old Lace?

Rita glanced around as the group moved forward, then lowered her voice. “What is this obsession of yours with poison? You’re starting to make everyone nervous.”

“I have an inquiring mind.” I shrugged off her concern; I was on a mission.

Kel paused, pointing at a collection of greenery. “Here, ladies, we have a fine selection of oleander.”

Oleander . . . ?

“I love oleander,” gushed Judy, a long tall blond I’d seen at Tai Chi. “They make a great windbreak.”

“I have one of every color in my yard—white, pink, red, and yellow,” another added.

“I always caution folks not to burn oleander prunings,” Kel lectured. “The smoke can cause severe irritation in the lungs. That aside, oleander makes a superb landscape plant. Few plants are as adaptable. They can tolerate salt spray, sandy soil, and drought.

“Is it—” I started to say.

“Yes, ma’am,” Kel interrupted. “Oleander, as most folks know, is highly toxic, so I’d advise you not to take a bite.”

The Flowers and Bowers ladies enjoyed a hearty laugh at my expense.

I scraped together some of my tattered dignity. “I was about to ask if they were deer-resistant.”

“Yes, ma’am, they are. Deer are sometimes smarter than we give ’em credit for. Now, if y’all continue the tour . . .”

We wandered down row after row of colorful plants so pretty I wanted to buy them all. Maybe I didn’t yearn for a garden as much as I yearned for a full-blown nursery alive with vibrant color—complete with a gardener to maintain it.

“Oh, isn’t this lovely!” a woman exclaimed.

All of us stopped to pay homage to a plant with pendulous, trumpet-shaped flowers the color of a ripe peach.

“Angel’s trumpet,” Rita said for the benefit of the unanointed—namely, me.

“Also known as brugmansia,” the prune-faced woman chimed, a little too obvious for my taste, in her attempt to be teacher’s pet.

“That’s correct.” Kel beamed his approval. “Only yesterday Johnny Wade brought this beauty out of his hothouse to impress y’all. A relative of the jimsonweed, angel’s trumpet is native to subtropical regions of South America. Here in the Lower South, you gals have to remember it needs to be heavily mulched in late fall.”

Nonplussed, I gave Kel a sunny smile. “Is angel’s trumpet . . . ?”

“. . . deadly,” he supplied. The woven brim of his hat kept Kel’s expression shrouded. But his eyes glittered with something dark—and vaguely menacing. “‘Everything is poison; there is poison in everything. Only the dose makes a thing not a poison.’ That’s not from me, mind you, but Paracelsus, a medieval Swiss alchemist and physician. Let’s proceed to the shady side, ladies. Dixie Gardens offers a huge variety of hostas and hardy ferns awaiting your inspection.”

I trailed behind, pondering his words. I may not have answers to a lot of my questions, but I did know that if someone wanted to poison another, they’d have to look no farther than their own backyard. How convenient. How frightening. And who better to know which plant to choose than one schooled in the science of horticulture or botany?

My goal today had been to learn more about plants of the poisonous variety. Mission accomplished.