Chapter 25

 

The following day, Diane handed me a thick manila envelope. “I found quite a bit of material.”

“I owe you,” I said.

“Not me, the library. That’ll cost you fifteen cents a copy—library policy.” Diane held out her hand. “Consider it a donation to the new children’s playground.”

I dug money from my wallet and gladly paid the fee—er, donation. “By the way, thanks for giving Tammy Lynn a lift home last night. Her brother brought her by this morning so she could get her car.”

“Glad to do it. It wasn’t much out of my way.”

“The poor girl has absolutely zero tolerance for alcohol. Except for her first glass of champagne, Rita switched her over to sparkling cider, which is . . .”

“. . . alcohol free.” Diane grinned. “Polly, on the other extreme, can drink a stevedore under the table. The sparkling cider was Gloria’s idea.”

“I guess the margarita incident is still fresh in her memory.” Recently, Polly had assisted me in crime solving. The episode we’re referring to involved beer, cigarettes, and tequila.

Behind me, someone harrumphed loudly. Unbeknownst to me a line had formed. Glancing over my shoulder, I found patrons loaded with books, DVDs, and books on tape. It was time to get a move on.

I was eager to study the material Diane had unearthed. I could’ve gone home, but it was hard to concentrate over the buzz of a saw and the whine of a drill. Could’ve stayed at the library, too, but the library didn’t serve coffee or lemon meringue pie. Besides, I deserved a treat. I’d rationalize this later, but right now my taste buds were set on autopilot.

Minutes later, I scooted into a booth at the Koffee Kup Kafé. ‘Kafé’ was the newest addition to the sign above the door. The Kup’s owner, May Randolph, thought it added a touch of class to her establishment. A handful of folks had protested the KKK aspect, but had given up after she’d catered the Ebeneezer AME church supper free of charge. Many of them later became regular patrons at the Kup. AME, for those unfamiliar with the term—such as me before relocating south—stands for African-Methodist-Episcopal. AME churches are frequent sights along the highways in this part of the country.

May ambled over, menu in hand. “How y’all doin’, Miz McCall? Keepin’ out of trouble?”

Why is it everyone thinks of me as a troublemaker? Of course, the woman had seen me in action the night I corralled a killer a couple months back. “Glad to see business picking up again, May, after that food poisoning scare.”

“Folks are startin’ to trickle in for a piece of one of my pies. What can I get you this mornin’?”

“Coffee and a slice of your lemon meringue. Make that two,” I added as an afterthought.

“Two . . . ?”

“Would you please put the second one in a to-go box? It’s for a friend.”

“Can do.”

I knew Bill had a fondness for May’s pies, so this would be a nice little surprise for my hardworking tool guy. Besides, lemon meringue was a healthy choice since it contained three of the basic food groups—fruit, dairy, and carbohydrates. Much better than . . . say . . . pecan or butterscotch.

Opening the manila envelope, I started to read.

Many of the plants Diane had researched were ones I’d never heard of before—not surprising considering my lack of gardening expertise. Then I came across the info about oleander. I sipped coffee and barely tasted my pie. My pulse quickened as I read through the symptoms for oleander poisoning. I was on to something, something big. I could feel it. I pawed through my purse for the highlighter I’d thrown in.

Nausea and vomiting. Excess salivation and drooling. Abdominal pain. Collapse. Seizures. Cardiac reaction.

Symptoms of oleander poisoning matched Vaughn’s to a T. I couldn’t wait to present my findings to Sheriff Wiggins. I gathered my things, tossed money on the table, and hurried out of the Kup. I was Nancy Drew, Miss Marple, and Jessica Fletcher rolled into one. I’d solved the case, but I’d forgotten the pie. May chased after me with the to-go box in hand.

I was breathless with excitement as I burst into the sheriff’s office. “Tammy Lynn, I need to speak with the sheriff.” She opened her mouth to protest, but I cut her off. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

The girl blinked owlishly from behind oversized lenses. “Yes, ma’am.”

Energy zinged through me like a jolt of electricity. Not even the Most Wanted posters could distract me. Unable to sit still, I paced the worn linoleum floor waiting for the go-ahead.

“You all right, Kate?” Tammy Lynn asked anxiously.

“I’m fine. Just peachy.” I looked at her closely for the first time. The girl looked a trifle peaked after a wild ’n wooly night of bunco. That single glass of bubbly about did her in. But I didn’t have time to worry about Tammy Lynn; I had more important fish to fry. “Kindly tell Sheriff Wiggins I need to see him now.”

She gave me a worried frown, but obediently depressed the intercom and informed the sheriff of my visit. I overheard the words “of the utmost importance.” Then I heard more whispering that I couldn’t quite make out. Finally she turned to me and said, “Go right in, ma’am. Sheriff’s waitin’ on you.”

I sailed into the office under a full head of steam. “Oleander,” I said, plopping the incriminating pages in front of him. “Oleander’s what killed Vaughn Bascomb.”

“You been drinkin’?”

That certainly turned my steam valve down a notch or two. “What do you mean, drinkin’? For heaven’s sake, it’s eleven o’clock in the morning. Who drinks at eleven o’clock in the morning?”

He shrugged shoulders broader than a broom handle. “Tammy Lynn claims you ladies drink like fish once you get to gamblin’.”

“She said no such thing.” Surely Tammy Lynn wouldn’t rat out her new best friends? “How many times do I have to explain we don’t gamble, we play bunco. It’s a dice game, no high stakes, no finesse. And we mostly talk.”

“And drink?”

“On occasion, we have a drink or two, but we certainly don’t drink like fish.” I should have ignored the jibe, but the darn man put me on the defensive. Irritated, I tapped the pages on his desk. “I solved the puzzle. I know the poison used. All that’s left for us to do is discover who administered it.”

If he was excited about my epiphany, he hid it well. “Suppose you tell me what got you so all fired up, and make it quick. I’ve got a—”

“—important meeting with the mayor?”

“I was about to say a dentist appointment.”

“Right,” I muttered. Leaning across his desk, I pointed at the items I’d highlighted in yellow. “See for yourself. The symptoms of oleander poisoning are identical to the ones Vaughn and Sheila exhibited the night of the banquet.”

This said, I plunked myself down in the visitor’s chair, which I’d come to regard as mine.

Picking up the article, he read it carefully, nodding from time to time.

“Minutes before the lecture, Vaughn complained his stomach felt queasy and asked for ginger ale. I distinctly recall that he held a handkerchief to his mouth, which could be the result of excess saliva. When Sheila first came onto the stage, she clutched her stomach as if it ached. Then she collapsed. Vaughn had a seizure. Cardiac reaction occurred later at the hospital. Ergo, Vaughn’s death first appeared to be a heart attack. It makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?” I asked, unable to wait for his comments.

“Except for this.” He reached into a file folder, extracted an official-looking report, and slid it over. “Tox screen trumps Internet.”

Now, I wasn’t a card player, but I knew enough to know my assumption was in deep doo-doo. I felt a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach as I skimmed through it.

“Sorry to blow your theory to smithereens.” Funny, he didn’t sound the least bit sorry. “The state crime lab,” he continued, “ran every standard tox screen outside the routine panel. All negative. This includes the old standbys of cyanide, foxglove—and oleander.”

I sank deeper into my chair. I’d been absolutely certain that I’d been on the right track. My euphoria vanished in a puff of smoke.

Silence as oppressive as August humidity settled over the room.

“I apologize for wasting your time. I was so sure . . .” My voice trailed into nothing.

He leaned back in his swivel chair, steepled his fingers, and pinned me like a butterfly to a mat with his unblinking stare. He looked inscrutable. Invincible. And I looked—and felt—like a fool. I started to squirm—the man had that kind of effect on me—but caught myself in the nick of time. Thank goodness I wasn’t the perpetrator of a serious crime, or I’d be pudding on the floor.

I attempted to leave, but his next words stopped me cold.

“There’s more.” Dropping his relaxed pose, he drew out yet another sheet from the folder. “This heah addendum states that the secondary tox panel detected a series of red flags. Further testin’ is bein’ done. Results pendin’. Unlike those TV shows you’re so fond of, real-life answers take a whole lot longer.”

I felt vindicated. My spirits once again started to rise. Even if it wasn’t oleander, there were plenty more poisonous plants out there. I had only scratched the surface.

“Probably shouldn’t have told you all this, but felt it’s only fair since you persisted in bringing the matter to my attention.” He rose and came around the desk to tower over me. Six foot two inches of hard muscle and bad attitude. “You’ve done your job as a concerned citizen, Miz McCall. Now I’m tellin’ you, step aside. Let law enforcement take over.”

I debated with myself. Should I salute? Cower? I did neither, opting instead for a dignified retreat.

“I’m warnin’ you, Miz McCall,” he rumbled in that gruff baritone I was coming to admire less and less as time went on. “You could find yourself in way over your head and in a heap of trouble.”

I stopped at the door, my hand on the knob, and gave him a cheeky grin. “Aw, Sheriff, you do care.”

 

• • •

 

What exactly did “step aside” consist of? I wondered as I drove home. Twiddle my thumbs and do nothing? Forget two people had been poisoned? That Vaughn had died, and Sheila feared the perp would strike again? Contrary to the sheriff’s opinion, I wasn’t a foolish woman. And I wasn’t stupid. I promised myself to be discreet, cautious, but I couldn’t refuse someone who’d asked for my help.

My cell phone rang, interrupting my train of thought. Should I answer or let it go to voice mail? I don’t approve of people talking on their cell phones or texting while driving. A person has a greater chance of a cell phone–related injury than crossing paths with a dangerous psychopath. I decided to let the call go to voice mail, only to have the darned thing ring again a minute later. Careful to keep one hand on the wheel and both eyes on the windy road, I excavated my phone from the depths of my purse. Jen’s name lit up on caller ID. Even as a toddler, my daughter disliked being ignored, a trait she’s passed on to her two daughters. Sighing, I pulled into the parking lot of one of those AME churches that dot the roadways. Might as well return the call and get it over with. Knowing Jen, she’d hit redial until I finally picked up.

“Hello, dear,” I said cheerily.

“Glad you finally answered, Mother. I was wondering if I should call the paramedics to check on you. I must’ve seen the infomercial a dozen times about the . . . mature . . . woman who’d fallen and can’t get up and always think of you.”

“You almost said elderly, didn’t you?” I stared out the windshield and counted to ten. Jen knew in no uncertain terms how I felt about the E word. Especially when applied to me.

“I don’t know why you’re so touchy. Face facts, Mother, you’re not getting any younger.”

“I shouldn’t have to remind you, Jennifer Louise, but neither are you.”

From the ensuing silence, I knew I’d struck a nerve. “It’s only that I’m concerned about you,” Jen said at last. “You need activities that increase the number of brain cells. I’m sending you an article on how mental stimulation decreases the risk of dementia.”

I drummed my fingertips against the steering wheel. And prayed for patience. “No need to worry, hon. I’m constantly busy.”

“How busy can you be?” she asked plaintively. “You’re retired with all the time in the world and nothing to do. I don’t see how you keep from being bored out of your mind.”

I hoped I hadn’t forgotten to take my blood pressure medication. “I manage,” I said, my voice tight.

“Well, I hope the authorities got to the bottom of the food poisoning epidemic so at least I don’t have that to worry over.”

Idly, I watched a woodpecker peck away at a sweet gum. Apparently Jen hadn’t spoken with her brother and didn’t know the case had turned into a homicide. “Oh, it wasn’t food poisoning, dear. It was the real deal.”

“What . . . !”

Oops! I slapped myself upside the head. Dumb, Kate, dumb! There, I’d gone and done it again. I suffer from a serious case of blurt-itis whenever I talk to Jen. The girl knew how to press all the right buttons. The thought of buttons triggered an idea. A brilliant idea. I’d turned down the volume on the radio to answer Jen’s call. Now, I jabbed the buttons and kept jabbing until I found what I was searching for—static. Nice, loud static. I cranked up the volume.

“Sorry, dear.” I held the cell phone close to a speaker. “Poor reception . . . breaking . . . up.”

Smiling to myself, I flipped the phone shut. I didn’t feel a single blip of remorse. Nary a twinge. I was shifting into gear when I happened to notice the marquee in the church yard: Some minds are like concrete, thoroughly mixed up and permanently set.

Yep, I nodded in agreement, that describes Jen.