Chapter 31

 

“Sorry, Kate, I thought I’d made this clear.” Rita’s impatience transmitted itself across the phone lines. “Even provisional members of the garden club are expected to participate in our community service project.”

“But a cemetery . . . ?” I’d been awake only long enough to down half a cup of coffee. I squinted out the window. Was the sun up yet? I wasn’t a morning person by nature. Never was, never will be. My body clock doesn’t tick that way. Even when I was up and functioning, I didn’t function. If that makes me a bad person, then so be it.

“Most of the members have already put in their time. All that’s left for you to do is weed around the gateposts at the entrance.”

“You want me to go out there—to a deserted cemetery—all by myself?” I heard a whiny note creep into my voice, but didn’t care. A deserted cemetery plus weeding equals resistance. It doesn’t take a math major to come up with the correct answer.

“Don’t be such a baby, Kate. Deserted means there’s no one else around; you’ll have the place to yourself. Think how quiet and peaceful it’ll be. You can commune with nature.”

If I wanted to commune with nature, I’d sit on a beach in the Bahamas and watch the ocean while sipping a margarita. “Left to my own devices at the cemetery, I might be dangerous. I could pull out something that turns out to be a flower and not a weed.”

“If it looks like a weed, chances are it is a weed. If it looks like a flower, leave it alone. I’d go with you if I could, but I have a dental appointment.”

Given Rita’s choice of the dentist’s office or a deserted cemetery, I knew which one I’d pick hands down. The cemetery. But not Rita. She was a glutton for punishment. “Fine,” I acquiesced with obvious reluctance.

“And, Kate, one more thing. The club needs it done today if possible.”

“Today?” The whine was back, the volume turned up. I had things to do, places to go. In other words, I had muffins to bake and library books to return.

“Let me know when you’re finished. The club wants to send out a photographer from the Serenity Sentinel to take some pictures. Sorry, Kate, gotta run, but don’t worry. The job shouldn’t take more than an hour at most,” she added before hanging up.

The call had left me feeling cranky and out of sorts. I needed to work on crime solving, not weed picking. The toxicology lab in Columbia was slow as molasses in coming up with the possible cause of Vaughn Bascomb’s death. They needed a boost. I couldn’t help but wonder if Sheriff Wiggins bothered to send along the samples the Babes and I had collected.

I popped a bagel into the toaster and poured myself more coffee. Eventually the bagel was demolished and the coffeepot drained. Time had come to put on my big girl panties and quit procrastinating. I donned an old pair of jeans and an even older T-shirt. No sense fussing with hair or makeup for old dead people and a bunch of weeds. It wasn’t as if I was going out on a date. I’d take a shower and freshen up when I got home in case Bill happened to drop by. I collected a pair of gardening gloves and a few basic tools. I tossed these into a canvas tote bag along with my wallet, then grabbed my car keys. I was good to go.

I turned down the same road I’d taken the day I followed Kel Watson. The day promised to be a beauty, the air already warm, the sky a bright Carolina blue. Birds chirped; insects hummed. It was hard to remain grumpy on such a lovely spring morning. I bumped along listening to Kenny Chesney, Polly and Megan’s number-one stud muffin, warble something about no shirt, no shoes, no problems. I, on the other hand, had shirt, shoes, and a boatload of problems. The first and foremost being who killed Vaughn Bascomb and nearly succeeded killing Sheila.

I stopped when I came to the fork in the road. On my last visit I’d discovered Kel, costumed as if ready to explore outer space, inspecting stacks of rectangular white boxes, which I’d since learned on the Internet were called “supers.” Was the man really the crazed stalker that Sheila had intimated? Was he mentally deranged? A psychopath? I’d seen plenty of movies where a man becomes fixated on an attractive woman. They usually involved a cat-and-mouse chase through a darkened house that culminated in the woman narrowly escaping with her life. The sort of movie that had me double-checking the locks, looking under the bed, and sleeping with a light on.

Since Kel’s beehives were on the left, the cemetery had to be down the right fork. Brilliant deduction on my part, if I do say so myself. No reason to hurry. The weeding could wait.

I slowly idled down the rutted track I’d traveled two days ago. To my surprise, the road didn’t end with the queen bee and her minions, but continued on. Feeling adventurous, I decided to do a little exploring. Even though this wasn’t far from my home, I’d never been out this way. I knew from local lore that the very ground I now traveled over was once home to the Huguenots, French Protestants who’d fled to the Carolinas to escape religious persecution in the eighteenth century. Many of their descendents still lived in the area. I once heard a local historian say this place had been a “hotbed of dissent” during the American Revolution. It was still a hotbed in my estimation. Due to several recent murders, Serenity Cove was no longer so serene.

I drove a goodly distance past the hives and was about to turn around when the trees thinned to form a meadow. In the middle stood a small garden plot. A strange place for a garden, but one nevertheless. I stopped the Buick and climbed out for a closer look. Why in the world would someone plant a garden in the middle of nowhere? But plant it they had. Whoever owned it had even gone to the trouble of constructing a sturdy chicken-wire fence to protect it from marauding Bambis and bunny rabbits. And to add to the mystery, the fence was locked with a shiny chrome padlock.

Curious and curiouser, cried Alice.

I picked my way through ankle-high grass to get a better look. The plants filling the enclosure were approximately a foot high with slender serrated leaves. This would be a surefire test of my new plant life identification skills. I squatted down for a better look. Leaves in groups of five or more fanned out from a central stem. They didn’t resemble any common houseplant, or any of the plants I’d seen at Dixie Gardens. I made a mental note to seek Rita’s expertise in giving them a name. Taking my cell phone out of my pocket, I snapped a photo, remembering to press Save. Some leaves were poking through the fence, practically calling my name, so I snipped off a few with the clippers I’d brought along and tossed them in my tote bag. Later, I’d bring them to the sheriff for testing.

Intent on the mystery leaves, I started to rise. I sucked in my breath at a sharp, burning pain in my forearm, which was simultaneously accompanied by a loud pop! I looked down just as a bee, its dastardly deed done, flew off. It had left its stinger behind as a calling card. Uh-oh, I thought. This spelled trouble with a capital E—E as in epinephrine. E also as in ER. Last time I’d been stung, the doctor had warned me not to take chances. Advice I planned to heed. Digging out my phone again, I dialed 1-800-BILL.

My arm felt like it was on fire. Odd how such a tiny pinprick can be the cause of so much pain. Forcing myself to remain calm, I slumped down beside the fence to await Bill’s arrival.

 

• • •

 

“Sorry for all the bother,” I said, my tongue starting to feel thick and clumsy.

Bill guided me toward his Ford pickup. “You’re never a bother. Got here as fast as I could.”

“I didn’t trust myself to drive.” I allowed myself to be helped into the truck and have the seat belt fastened.

“Want me to call nine-one-one?”

“Just put the pedal to the metal,” I lisped.

“Consider it done.” Bill executed a three-point turn, and we were off like a rocket.

Meanwhile, I could feel hives starting to pop like Orville Redenbacher’s Kettle Korn along my arms and legs. I was about to scratch the most annoying one when I noticed a steady trickle of blood coming from a tear in the sleeve of my T-shirt. “I’m bleeding,” I mumbled.

Bill took his eyes off the road long enough to glance at me worriedly. “What the . . . ?”

I shrugged off his concern. “I must have caught my shirt on the fence.” By this time, I was beginning to feel a bit lightheaded and tried not to panic. Closing my eyes, I leaned my head against the headrest. “I’m sure there’s no cause for alarm, but could you drive a little faster?”

Bill complied, and the rest of the drive was a blur. I didn’t open my eyes again until we reached the ER. Ignoring my feeble protest, Bill rushed to get a wheelchair. Good thing, too, since I didn’t think my legs would support me. He wheeled me inside and spoke with the admissions clerk. I was immediately whisked into an exam room and lifted onto a stretcher.

“Hope I’m not making too big a deal out of a teensy bee sting,” I wheezed. My chest felt as though it had a sack of cement on top of it.

“Don’t give it another thought, hon,” the nurse assured me as she hooked me up to oxygen. “You did the right thing getting here as fast as you could.”

The ER doc—the same one who’d treated Vaughn and Sheila—flew into the cubicle and rattled off orders in quick succession. I heard words like Benadryl and epinephrine and steroids. Music to the ears of anyone having a serious reaction. I gave Bill, who hovered nearby, a feeble thumbs-up.

“Make a fist, sweetie,” the nurse instructed as she prepared to start an IV. Then her tone sharpened. “Dr. Michaels, I think you’d better take a look at this.”

My eyes, which had been half closed, snapped open.

The doctor pushed up the sleeve of my T-shirt. A frown furrowed his brow. “Mrs. McCall, did you realize your arm’s been grazed by a bullet?”

“What . . . ?” If I had trouble breathing before, this bit of information knocked the rest of the wind out of my sails.

Unbelievable! Then I recalled the pop I’d heard the same instant as the bee sting. Could that have been a gunshot? And what’s more, who would want to shoot at me?