Chapter 26

 

I wasn’t quite ready to head home. All that pounding, sawing, and drilling was giving me a headache. Instead, I’d take a detour and stop by Sheila’s. She’d made it clear she wanted me as a girlfriend. And girlfriends visit. They have the unalienable right, guaranteed by the Coalition of Women Everywhere, to drop by unannounced. It’s part of our credo. Only problem, I hated to come empty-handed. Especially since Sheila was a brand-new girlfriend. Then my gaze fell on the to-go box on the seat beside me with Bill’s lemon meringue pie. Bill was a kind and generous man. Surely he’d say, Go ahead, Kate, give Sheila the slice of my most favorite dessert in the whole wide world. I was faced with a dilemma. It was either give Sheila the pie or go empty-handed.

In spite of Sheila’s friendly overtures, I never felt completely comfortable around her. She was just too . . . perfect. Even with the help of Belle Beaute products, my skin wasn’t wrinkle-free and glowing. When I stood tall, shoulders back, I was still vertically challenged. Dressed in my found-it-on-sale finery, stains always managed to find me. That’s the honest-to-goodness reason I make it a point to never order spaghetti unless I’m wearing polka-dots.

I needed to spend more time with Sheila, find out what makes her tick. Discover her likes and dislikes. Maybe even unearth a fault or two. I doubt if we’d ever become best buds like Pam, my BFF, and me. Pam and I have loads in common—Tai Chi, bunco, golf. We even have the same taste in books and TV shows. Best of all, Pam listens when I whine. Sheila and I, on the other hand, have practically nothing in common. The only whine I’d do with her would be either chardonnay or merlot.

Besides girl bonding, I had an ulterior motive for wanting to visit Sheila. I needed to run through my “persons of interest” list with her. As I pulled into the drive of her rental, I spotted a sleek BMW with Georgia plates. Obviously Sheila had company. I sat for a minute, debating my next move. Then, after giving myself a pep talk, I picked up the pie and headed up the front walk with a swagger worthy of a Welcome Wagon lady and rang the bell.

Second thoughts assailed me as I waited on the stoop. Not about the wisdom of my unexpected visit, but about giving away the slice of Bill’s lemon meringue pie. I vowed I’d make up for the transgression by persuading him to stay for supper. There was still time to whip up tuna casserole, another of Bill’s favorites. I didn’t have to worry about not having the ingredients since I now bought tuna in bulk at Sam’s Club. Even though I no longer had a cat to feed, I’d never run out if I lived to be a hundred.

I jabbed the bell again and waited some more. The folks inside had no idea how persistent I could be. Maybe persistent wasn’t the right word. Maybe stubborn would be more correct. I’d learned to outwait, outpersist, out-stubborn the best. Need a testimonial? Just ask Tammy Lynn Snow or Sheriff Sumter Wiggins.

The door finally opened.

“Oh, it’s you,” Betsy Dalton said, her tone cool and distant. “Sheila didn’t mention you had an appointment.”

“I didn’t know I needed an appointment to visit a friend.” I was determined not to let her irritate me.

“Since when are you and Sheila friends?” She swept me with a dismissive glance. “You don’t seem her type.”

“Didn’t you hear that opposites attract?” I replied, trying for witty but settling for cliché. Granted, Betsy—classy and sophisticated in tailored Armani and pricey stilettos—seemed more the type Sheila might choose to pal around with. I’m the complete opposite, tending to favor capris and sandals. Unlike Betsy, except for a swipe of mascara and dab of lipstick, I rarely bother with makeup. But as much as I hated to admit it, I had to agree with her. Sheila and I did make an odd couple.

“Who is it, Betsy?” Sheila called out.

“It’s me, Kate.” Smiling sweetly, I sidestepped the fashionista and moved into the foyer.

“She’s on the patio.” Betsy’s high heels click-clacked on the hardwood floors as she trailed after me. I gave Sheila’s library an envious glance as I passed. It was hard to imagine, considering the present chaos, that I’d soon have a room like this. I found Sheila seated at a glass-topped wicker table on an enclosed patio overlooking a cove that sparkled in the sun. Have I failed to mention that Serenity Cove Estates is built around a tributary of Lake Thurmond, named after the esteemed South Carolina statesman Strom Thurmond? Oddly enough, Georgians don’t share the same sentimentality for the former senator. On the Georgia side, the waterway is known as Clarks Hill Lake. But I’m letting my mind wander again.

“We were working,” Betsy said. She must’ve thought I was blind not to see the piles of files and folders spread across the table.

I felt a niggling guilt for having interrupted, but quickly squashed it. Life here tends to be informal, with friends popping in from time to time just to “sit a spell,” as they say. And my visit today wasn’t strictly social. I had business of my own to conduct.

“I brought you a slice of May Randolph’s lemon meringue pie.” I sank into a flowered cushion of a wicker chair without waiting to be asked. “It’s so good, it’ll make your tongue slap your brains out.” Love that expression. I first heard it from a waitress one New Year’s Eve and have been waiting to use it ever since.

I darted a glance from Sheila to Betsy and realized I was the only one smiling at my weak excuse for humor. “Sorry, Sheila,” I said, trying to recover lost ground. “If I’d known you had company, I would’ve brought an extra piece. Perhaps you two can share.”

“I don’t eat sweets,” Betsy snapped. “It’s bad for the figure.”

I forged ahead. “Pecan is another of May’s specialties. But after our conversation the night of the banquet, I didn’t think you were a fan of Southern cuisine.”

“I’m not,” Sheila admitted, “but I’m sure the lemon will be lovely, light and refreshing. How thoughtful of you, Kate, to think of me.”

Betsy refused to sit, preferring instead to stand and glower at me from the French doors at the patio’s threshold. An awkward silence prevailed. The topic of pies depleted, I racked my brain for an equally compelling subject. I toyed with “Read any good books lately?” Then I thought about Netflix. Isn’t it grand? Movies without having to leave home. Keep ’em as long as you want. No late fees. No dropping ’em off before the stroke of midnight dressed as the Unabomber. Sensing a lack of interest in Netflix, I happened to notice the photos of plants spilling from an unmarked manila envelope. I pointed to one with silvery green leaves and bright orange fruit. “That would look great in my backyard. What’s the name of it?”

Sheila snatched the photo and stuffed it back into the envelope. “Hippophae rhamnoides.”

“Hippopotamus . . . ?” My tongue tangled trying to pronounce it.

“Common name, sea buckthorn,” Betsy supplied readily. “It doesn’t grow around here, so you’ll have to find something else for your yard.”

All righty then. I looked at the woman with burgeoning respect. “I forgot you spoke botany.”

“Betsy’s more than a pretty face,” Sheila said, smiling. “Her background in science was what first brought her to the attention of Belle Beaute.”

Betsy shrugged off the praise, but I could see she was pleased. A tiny smile tugged at her mouth. “I’m sure Kate isn’t interested in the story of my life.” Her cell phone sounded just then. I recognized the ring tone, “I Feel Pretty” from West Side Story. How fitting for someone in the beauty trade. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve some calls to make. Can I get you anything in the meantime?”

“I shouldn’t stay,” I demurred. In reality, you couldn’t pry me out of my seat with a can opener.

“Betsy, be a dear and bring Kate and me a glass of iced tea when you come back. You know”—Sheila gestured vaguely toward the kitchen—“the special kind—Vaughn’s favorite.”

Emotion flashed briefly in Betsy’s chocolate-brown eyes before it was masked. Anger? I wondered. Resentment? Grief? It had come and gone so quickly, I didn’t have time to catalog it.

“Sure. Be right back.”

Sheila turned her full attention on me. “Betsy does her own version of sweet tea by adding honey instead of simple syrup like most. Even if you aren’t a fan of sweet tea, you’ll love hers.”

I shot a glance in the direction Betsy had disappeared, but there was no sign of her. I lowered my voice and said, “The pie was only a ruse. I’m on my way home from the sheriff’s office and wanted to tell you that he’s finally taking our poisoning scenario seriously.”

“Yes, I know,” Sheila replied calmly.

“How do you know? Did he call?” Sheila was one cool cucumber, all right. Most women would be a ball of nerves knowing there was proof positive someone tried to off them. I envied that kind of composure.

“He dropped by earlier to inform me of the toxicology results.”

I brought out my trusty little black book and flipped it open. “I wanted to go over my list of suspects with you to see if any name in particular stands out.”

She arched a brow in a fair imitation of the sheriff’s. “You actually made a list of people who might want Vaughn or me dead?”

“It’s the way I operate.” Did I sound official or what? Hearing those words, one might think I actually knew what I was doing. I cleared my throat and got down to business. “Let’s start with Todd Timmons.”

“Todd . . . ?” she scoffed. “You can’t be serious?”

“Serious as a heart attack.” I said, not cracking a smile. Where in the world had that come from? Funny how the brain works. “Todd’s extremely ambitious. I’ve watched him schmooze everyone he thinks might advance his career.”

She dismissed my theory with a flick of the wrist. “If ambition was a crime, I’d be guilty myself. Why, most of the people I know would be behind bars.”

“Todd blamed Vaughn for a fall in the ratings of How Does Your Garden Grow?” I persisted. “Without ratings, the networks aren’t interested in hiring him.”

“True,” Sheila said, “the kid’s ambitious, but he’s dumb as a box of rocks. He narrowly missed flunking out of college. Todd can barely remember the way I prefer my coffee.”

My mind balked at the thought of crossing Todd’s name off the list. “If he’s as dumb as you say, how did he wind up being a TV producer?”

“As fate would have it, Todd landed a summer internship at a cable TV station and worked his way up.” A wry smile curved her mouth. “It didn’t hurt that his daddy had a friend in the business.”

I scribbled this down, striving to appear semi-intelligent and not as “dumb as a box of rocks,” then consulted my notes. “Next on my list is Roger McFarland.”

“Roger . . . ? Mild-mannered, borderline OCD Roger?”

From her mocking tone, I gathered Todd’s name wouldn’t be the only one erased. “I heard Roger complain that Vaughn interfered with the ‘vision’ he had for his project, Springtime Perennials of the Southeast.”

“Nonsense! Honestly, Kate, I don’t know how you arrive at these conclusions. Roger’s been given complete creative control over the project.”

“There’s more. I also found out Roger’s true passion is horticulture, not publishing or photography. He deeply resents the person who once beat him out of a coveted position. I suspect that was either you or Vaughn.”

“Ridiculous!” Sheila shook her head emphatically.

“The person in question happens to be none other than me,” Betsy said from the doorway, and I found myself wondering how much of our conversation she’d overheard. “The rest, as they say, is history.”

I stared at the woman openmouthed.

Betsy smirked, enjoying my reaction. “I was imminently better suited for the job. Since then I’ve been promoted to vice president in charge of new products.”

Sheila helped Betsy make room on the table for a tray with tall glasses of sweet tea. “Trust me, Kate. Betsy was a much wiser choice.”

“Mmm,” I murmured, taking a sip of tea to buy myself time to mull this over. And found it delicious.

“The secret’s in the honey,” Betsy said. “I order it special from a farm in the upcountry.”

The upcountry seemed like a long way to go for a jar of honey when you can buy it just as easily at the Piggly Wiggly. But to each his own, I guess. The upcountry Betsy referred to consisted of the scenic northwest pocket of the state. Maybe someday I’d check it out. Might even buy some honey of my own when I’m there.

Sheila raised her glass but didn’t drink from it. “I think you should tear up that list of yours and concentrate on the real suspect—Kel Watson.”

“Why Kel?”

“That’s precisely what I wish you’d find out before he tries again.” She shuddered delicately. “I’m telling you, Kate, the way he skulks about gives me the creeps.”

“Making you feel uneasy isn’t a motive for murder,” I reminded her.

Sheila scooted closer and dropped her voice. “I don’t like to gossip, but it’s rumored the man’s on drugs. Possibly hallucinogenics. For all anyone knows, he might even grow his own. The man’s not all there. For pity’s sake, just take a good look at him. Kel Watson’s caught in some kind of time warp. He’s an aging hippie, a loner. I’ve seen a strange vehicle parked outside the house late at night. I believe he’s stalking me. Aren’t we always being told to trust our instincts? Well, mine are screaming the man’s dangerous.”

I couldn’t fault her logic. I’d once heard an expert expound that “trust your instincts” should be the rule of thumb when it came to personal safety. “I’ll do what I can,” I promised. “I’ll leave the two of you to get back to work.”

“Let me show you out,” Betsy hastily offered.

I bid good-bye to Sheila and left my iced tea half finished. Betsy escorted me to the front door, transparent in her haste to be rid of me. Did she worry I’d steal the silver or rifle through her underwear drawer?

At the door, she turned to me. “Woman to woman, may I offer a word of advice?” Not waiting for a reply, she continued, “Try Belle Beaute’s skin replenishing cream. It’ll work wonders on those fine lines of yours.”

As I walked back to my car, I wondered if it would also work on the steam coming out of my ears.