Chapter 33

 

It never fails. Just when you think things can’t get any worse, they do.

My garbage disposal growled like a heavy metal band. I think it ate a fork. Next I’d stubbed my toe hurrying to answer the phone, only to hear the canned spiel of a telemarketer. And then when I went out to water my plants, I’d discovered mud daubers had built their tunnel-like nests all around my front door. I don’t recall pesky mud daubers in Toledo. But down here they pose a nuisance. Now, for the uninitiated, mud daubers are wasps. Fortunately for someone like me who’s allergic to insect stings, the daubers tend to have a nonaggressive nature. Unless you’re a black widow spider, that is. Trouble is, the daubers’ nests aren’t aesthetically pleasing. Comprised of dirt—and dirt in these parts means red clay—their nests need to be knocked down, then the area scrubbed to remove the reddish brown stain they leave behind. After last week, I wasn’t about to take any chances. I’d have to have my EpiPen in one hand and a scrub brush in the other when I cleaned up the mess. One trip to the ER was quite enough, thank you very much.

Hearing Tammy Lynn’s voice on the phone was the cherry on top of the sundae. Apparently her boss wanted to see me pronto, ASAP, and get-your-butt-in-here-this-minute fast. Sorry as I was to delay my attack on the mud daubers—I’m being facetious—I hopped into the Buick and pointed it toward Brookdale. I barely had to steer. I’d made this trip so many times my car could find its way all by itself.

“Hey, Kate,” the new and improved Tammy Lynn greeted me warmly. “Sheriff Wiggins said to go right on in. He’s waitin’ on you.”

The Buick wasn’t the only one to operate on autopilot. I could find his office blindfolded, I thought as I walked down the hall and pushed open the door. To my surprise, I found Sheila Rappaport seated in what I’d come to think of as my chair. “Sheila!” I exclaimed. “What brings you here?”

Sheila crossed her legs and smiled serenely. “Kel Watson made another attempt on my life.”

“He what . . . ?” I could scarcely believe my ears.

“I just finished giving the sheriff my statement.”

“What happened? Are you all right?”

“Yes, thank goodness, but Kel’s been arrested. He tried to poison me, but luckily this time I was onto his tricks.”

I was at a temporary loss for words—in my case usually a short-lived affliction. Spying a molded plastic chair alongside a filing cabinet, I dragged it closer and plunked myself down. I gave Sheila the once-over but didn’t see any telltale signs of bodily harm. In spite of her ordeal, she looked as elegant and poised as ever. An amazing woman, Sheila Rappaport. Unlike me, I bet she’d never rush off to pull weeds in a deserted cemetery unless her hair and makeup were perfect. She looked chic in tailored navy blue linen slacks and a crisp white blouse with turned-back cuffs and pearl buttons. I marveled at the feat. I always look like an unmade bed whenever I wear linen.

“You haven’t mentioned why you’re here,” Sheila reminded me.

I shook my head. “Honestly, I have no idea. Tammy Lynn called and said the sheriff wanted to see me . . . so here I am. Where is he, by the way?”

“He said something about official business. Should be back any minute.”

“In the meantime, tell me what happened with Kel? Or is it classified information?”

Sheila flicked an imaginary speck of lint from her slacks. “Kel turned up on my doorstep this morning unannounced. Insisted he wanted to make amends, to set the record straight. He kept repeating that he never meant for us to be enemies. He refused to leave until I heard him out, so, against my better judgment, I invited him in.”

I glanced nervously toward the partially open door, half expecting the sheriff to appear and spoil my fun. Seeing as how he already considers me a busybody, I didn’t want to give his belief any more ammunition. “Then what happened . . . ?”

“Well, I asked him to join me on the screened porch. Before he arrived, I’d been enjoying a glass of iced tea while reviewing galleys Roger had FedExed. Kel went on and on about how sorry he was for frightening me on the set of How Does Your Garden Grow? He told me how much he admired the show, said he viewed it regularly. Then he chatted about some mutual sites we’d explored, independently, of course. He said he needed a favor. He wanted to know if I had a photo of a certain ornamental we’ve come across in our travels. He claimed he needed it for a slide presentation for the garden club.” Sheila brushed a wing of highlighted blond hair from her cheek. “Anything to get rid of the man, right?”

“Right,” I agreed, hanging on her every word.

“After I returned with the photo, Kel made a rather abrupt departure and I returned to work on the galleys. I was about to take a sip of tea, but for some inexplicable reason I hesitated.” A shudder raced through her. “I’m convinced at that precise moment, Vaughn’s spirit reached out and saved my life. Suddenly I remembered his agony, the way his body had convulsed. Then I thought of Kel Watson’s strange behavior.”

I was at the edge of my seat. “And then what . . . ?”

She reached out and clutched my hand. “Thank God, Kate, I didn’t drink the tea. It contained arsenic.”

“Arsenic . . .”

Sheila nodded vigorously. “Of course, I didn’t know it at the time, but I was suspicious all the same. I immediately placed a call to the sheriff and demanded he send a sample to the lab for testing. He refused at first, but I was adamant. I even threatened to bring a lawsuit against him for failure to act on my behalf. Eventually he conceded and agreed to have one of his off-duty men drive it to Columbia. The lab did a rush and faxed the results an hour ago.”

“Wow,” I said for lack of anything more eloquent. I leaned back trying to digest everything she’d just told me. Apparently the mystery was solved. Arsenic—plain, old, ordinary arsenic. I’d recently watched the film Arsenic and Old Lace on a classic-movie cable network. Cary Grant and his sweet aunt Martha. One line in particular stayed in my head: Well, dear, for a gallon of elderberry wine, I take one teaspoonful of arsenic and add a half a teaspoonful of strychnine, and then just a pinch of cyanide. Aunt Martha could have skipped the strychnine and cyanide and still won a blue ribbon at the county fair.

I felt deflated. Foolish. I’d been so positive I’d been on the right track. So certain that the poison came from a garden-variety botanical. I’d even enlisted the Babes’ help to gather samples. I’d inundated poor allergy-suffering Sheriff Wiggins with plants until his eyes watered and his nose ran. Time to hang up my detective’s shingle. Playing Nancy Drew had been fun while it lasted, but all good things must come to an end. It was time to resume my role as a senior citizen in a retirement community for “active” adults.

“Soon as I’m home, I’m going to start packing,” Sheila said, seemingly oblivious of my dejection. “My lease is up at the end of the month. The book is essentially finished and How Does Your Garden Grow? hasn’t been renewed for another season, so it’s a good time to . . . explore other avenues.”

I nodded politely, my mind still on Kel’s treachery. “Do you have any plans?”

“The past month has been stressful.” She reached into her Louis Vuitton bag, brought out a gold compact, and studied her image. “I think I might travel. I’ve always wanted to spend time in the south of France. I’ve heard it’s lovely this time of year.”

When it comes to glamour, a burg like Serenity Cove can’t compete with the likes of the south of France. The south of France has the Cannes Film Festival and celebs like George Clooney and Brad Pitt. Serenity Cove, on the other hand, has the Babes and Bill. Think I’ll stay put.

My ruminations were interrupted by the arrival of Sheriff Wiggins.

“Ladies,” he said with a brisk nod. “Sorry to keep y’all coolin’ your heels.” He lowered his bulk into his chair and slid several sheets of paper across to Sheila. “This heah is your typed statement, Miz Rappaport. Kindly read it carefully before signin’.”

“It’s Dr. Rappaport, Sheriff.” Ignoring the ballpoint he offered, she dropped her compact into her pricey handbag and extracted a slim gold Mark Cross pen.

While Sheila reviewed the document, the sheriff turned his focus on me. “Miz McCall, s’pose you’re wonderin’ why I called you down heah?”

“The thought did enter my mind,” I replied. “Tammy Lynn said it was urgent.”

“Based on the attempt on Dr. Rappaport’s life, I asked Judge Blanchard to issue a search warrant for Kel Watson’s home and property. We found arsenic in a storage shed behind his house. And”—he paused for effect, doing that eyebrow lift thing I’d come to anticipate—“we located a .22 rifle, recently fired. I trust ballistics will show a match with the shell casings at the site where you were shot. Plus, we unearthed a rather large stash of marijuana.”

Wow, I said, silently this time. While I’d been preoccupied looking for motive, means, and opportunity for Todd, Rog, and Bets, Kel Watson was merrily plotting murder and mayhem. “So,” I said, trying to absorb all this, “has Kel confessed?”

“Not yet.” Sheriff Wiggins leaned back and laced his sausage-like fingers over his trim abdomen. “It’s only a matter of time before he talks.”

In spite of everything, I felt sorry for the guy. Kel didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of coming through an interrogation unscathed.

“Matter of fact, I just came from the jail. The man’s insistin’ he’s innocent. Claims he’s bein’ railroaded.”

“Humph!” Sheila snorted derisively. She shoved the signed papers toward the sheriff. “A likely story. The man’s a nutcase. Probably spends all his free time watching Law & Order reruns on the boob tube.”

Along with Kel, I’d just been relegated to being a “nutcase” and was none too happy about it. I also wasn’t pleased with the smirk the sheriff shot in my direction as he collected Sheila’s signed statement and slipped it into a folder. “Guess this wraps things up,” he said.

“Not so fast,” I protested. “What if Kel doesn’t confess?”

“He will.” The sheriff shrugged off my question.

“But if he doesn’t?”

“Even if Watson doesn’t man up to poisonin’ Vaughn Bascomb, we have him cold for attemptin’ to kill Dr. Rappaport. The prosecutor’s certain he can get a conviction for attempted murder. If the shell casings on the .22 match like I ’spect they will, he’ll face an additional charge of aggravated battery with a dangerous weapon.”

Sheila gracefully rose and extended her hand. “Thank you, Sheriff. I’m gratified this matter is finally resolved. You’re to be commended for your efficient handling of my complaint.”

If this were an old-time Western, the sheriff would have blushed profusely and muttered something to the effect of “Aw, shucks, ma’am, weren’t nuthin’.” But Sumter Wiggins was made of sterner stuff. He simply acknowledged Sheila’s praise with a brisk nod and a tight smile.

Sheila turned to me next. “Thank you, Kate, for all your efforts—even though misguided—on my behalf.”

And that, ladies and gentleman, as they say, is that. Sheila sailed out of the office without a backward glance, leaving me in the dust. So much for girl bonding. What happened to our becoming BFFs? Where was my invitation to vacation in the south of France? I didn’t need to be hit with a brick to know when I wasn’t wanted. Not trusting myself to speak, I gave the sheriff a feeble wave as I left the rarefied atmosphere of his office for probably the last time. My term as junior-grade detective/private investigator had expired, and I wasn’t nominated for reelection. Tomorrow I’d return to life in the private sector—a world of golf, Tai Chi, and bunco.