Chapter 33
Dear Sophie,
My doctor suggested using avocados in place of mayonnaise, but they are always hard as a rock. How can I tell when an avocado is ripe?
It’s Not the Same in Mayo, South Carolina
Dear It’s Not the Same,
Gently press the avocado. It should yield slightly. Some people say an avocado is ripe when the tiny stem at the top comes off easily.
Sophie
After Wolf left, Nina lingered to help me clean up. “Poor Stella,” I said. “I can’t imagine learning something like this. Her mother isn’t her birth mother and the father, whom she loved, may have murdered her birth mother. It has to be a terrible blow for her.”
“And her husband is in the hospital. I bet you’re right about him trying to pass off that thing as valuable.”
“I saw Doreen this morning. I think we can strike her off the list as Stella’s sister. Her dad was shot and killed while trying to rob a jewelry store.”
“That’s terrible!”
“What some people go through.”
“I thought I might visit with each of the women on Orson’s corkboard. The easiest way to find out which one, if any of them, is Stella’s sister would be to do DNA tests, but it’s not like I can ask them all for DNA swabs.”
“That would be awkward.”
I pulled out my phone. “I’m texting Mars. I’d like to talk with Cheryl Mancini.” He replied almost instantly. “Looks like she works at a plant nursery. The one out near Sweet Jimmy’s.”
“I’ll tag along.”
Mochie and Daisy were snoozing, and it was too hot for them to be out and about anyway. We quietly walked out to the garage.
“How are you coming with a home for Rosebud?”
Nina groaned. “Not as well as I’d like. But she seems happy with us, so there’s no big rush.”
Russos’ Nursery was larger than I expected. The name led me to believe that it was a family affair. Business was slow when we arrived, which wasn’t terribly surprising. It was too late to plant vegetables and flowers for the summer. I guessed there must be a lull in between summer and fall items.
I had shopped there before, but had dealt with an elderly man. “Look for Cheryl,” I whispered to Nina.
It didn’t take us long to recognize her chestnut hair, which she had pulled up in a bun on the top of her head. She wore an apron with the Russos’ logo of a hand trowel and a flower on it.
She pulled on gloves and took a plant from a woman. “If you have any more of these, you need to dispose of them. They’re very poisonous.”
“But they look just like carrots,” insisted the woman. “It’s just when I pull them up there’s no carrot. I’m sure I bought the seeds from you.”
“I certainly hope not! This is poison hemlock. You shouldn’t even touch it.” Cheryl dumped the plant into a large trash bag and pulled the ties tight. “Honestly, I can’t emphasize this enough. It’s a deadly weed.”
“Nonsense. I just don’t understand why the carrots aren’t growing,” insisted the woman.
“These are in your garden?”
“Yes! That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I planted the carrot seeds on the west side of the garden, but these came up on the east side and without carrots. I waited and waited for the little orange top they develop that lets you know when they’re ready to eat, but all I got were these scraggly white roots.”
Cheryl sucked in a deep breath. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I give you a gift certificate for the price of the seeds. You can spend it on whatever you want here.”
“That’s nice of you. I still won’t have any carrots unless these things finally start to produce them.”
Cheryl gestured to the elderly man I had dealt with. “This nice lady brought in poison hemlock, which she thinks she grew from seeds she bought here. I have offered her a gift certificate for the price of the seeds, but I don’t seem to be able to convince her that she needs to get rid of these plants.”
The man was tall and gaunt with a full head of white hair. His smile lit up his face. “How do you do? I am Marcello Russo.”
The woman seemed enchanted. “Betty Hornsbill.”
Cheryl turned away, rolled her eyes, and took a deep breath.
“It can be hard dealing with the public,” I whispered to her.
Cheryl shook her head. “My grandfather is like a genius with them. I learned a long time ago to bring them to him. I’m worried sick that she’ll eat one of those plants! How can I help you?”
I introduced myself and Nina. “We’re friends of Mars Winston. He spoke to you the other day about Orson Chatsworth.”
She placed her hand over her heart. “That was so sad. How awful for his bride-to-be. I will miss him forever. He and my grandfather were like fathers to me. I don’t know how Stella will manage without him.”
“Mars mentioned that you lost your father at an early age. We’re looking for a woman about your age who lost her father. . . .”
Nina quickly jumped in. “Under unusual circumstances.”
“Oh. Well, I don’t know how unusual my father’s death was. He was in the military and died in a helicopter crash. My mom has the American flag they gave her at the funeral and everything.”
“I’m so sorry. It must have been hard on you.”
“I never knew him. I was six months old when it happened. My mom and I went to live with my grandparents, and like I said, my grandfather filled in very much like a father. I always liked to imagine that my dad would have been like Orson. He was so much fun! He was always watching us, but from a distance.”
“So then, Orson would have known how your father died,” said Nina.
“I don’t know if he knew or not. My mom was the only one who talked with me about my dad.” Cheryl smiled. “She always told me he was sitting on my shoulder, looking out for me.”
We thanked her and I found a pretty blue pot to buy as thanks.
On the drive home, Nina said, “I hate to tell you this, but I think Cheryl just proved your theory wrong about Orson looking for his other daughter. If he lived across the street from the Mancini/Russos, then wouldn’t he know about Cheryl’s father dying in the military?”
“Probably,” I admitted reluctantly. “But I don’t know anything about your husband’s family, except that they expect you to cook. I don’t know if the father-in-law who visits you is his birth father, adoptive father, or a second or third husband of his mother. I know that Bernie’s mother married seven times or more, but I don’t know anything about the parents of the people across the street from Bernie and Mars.”
Nina nodded. “That’s true enough. So if we accept what Cheryl said, then we can cross her off the list. Two down, three to go.”
“Do you think Joan and Tripp would have talked about their families?”
“Maybe. It’s worth a shot.”
I parked the car in my garage, and we walked down to the art gallery. It was blissfully cool inside. Music played softly in the background. Tripp was discussing a painting of a mother seated on a bench with her two children, each one leaning against her. Superimposed over them was the cloudy, transparent face of a man. Given our reason for being here, the painting sent shivers up my arms.
The woman decided to think about it and left the store.
“She’ll be back,” Tripp said to us confidently. “I can always tell.”
“How?” asked Nina.
“It’s a sixth sense or something. I can tell whether the painting stirs emotion in a person. Like Sophie, just now with that painting.”
I supposed it would be rude to tell him that I was definitely not going to buy it because it gave me the creeps. I smiled. “I hope she comes back for it. Did her husband pass away?”
Tripp nodded sagely. “I think so. What can I do for you two?”
“We were wondering if you knew anything about Joan’s background. Did she ever mention her parents?”
“Why would you want to know that?”
It was a good question. “We’re looking for a long-lost daughter.” It was true.
“Oh. Well, I hate to be the one to burst your bubble, but I don’t think she’s the one. Her birth father died of hemophilia when she was very young. She was afraid she might be a carrier because it’s hereditary. Her mother remarried when Joan was about five years old. I met that man and he seemed very nice. Of course, you never know what people are really like when you only meet them socially. Right? He might be an awful man!”
“How are you making out without Joan around here?” asked Nina.
“We have a new employee, Will, who is not only stinking good looking, but the man could sell dirty old shoes to people.”
We thanked him for his assistance.
As we walked out the door, Nina said, “That leaves Riley Hooper and Bonnie Shergold. If one of them isn’t Stella’s sister, then we’ll have to rethink Orson’s intentions with that corkboard.”
I hated to agree, but she was right. My theory was falling flat on its face.
We went home. Nina had to pick up her husband at the airport. Her husband, a forensic pathologist, was in great demand and traveled constantly.
Back in the quiet of my kitchen, I was feeling like our search for Stella’s sister was futile.
I was reaching for a box of crackers when I spied a box of vanilla wafers. It dawned on me then that there was one other person who had known Orson in his younger years. A person who despised Orson and possibly me, too.
But he had loved my banana pudding with salted caramel, and it wasn’t difficult to make. I set to work locating a disposable container that I could leave with him. In less than an hour, I was layering the vanilla wafers, pudding, and salted caramel into the bowl. I popped it in the fridge to set a little.
But while I had cooked the pudding, it occurred to me that I should probably take someone with me. After all, he was still a suspect, at least in my mind if not anyone else’s. Nina was busy with her husband. Bernie was in the middle of dinner service at the Laughing Hound, but Mars might be available.
I called him and was pleased that he was up for a walk. I got out a tote bag and slid the banana pudding inside to make it easier to carry.
I planned to take a secret weapon with me, too. I would bet anything that the little boy jumping off a pier in the picture I had seen at Karl Roth’s house had a dog.
The sun was setting by the time Mars, Daisy, and I struck out for Karl’s home. We walked leisurely as the air cooled just enough to feel wonderful, like a warm hug. On the way, I brought Mars up to date on everything that had happened.
This time the lights were on in the back windows. I wasn’t sure whether to knock on the store door or the back one. After a brief discussion, Mars and I decided on the store door because the back might be too personal.
I rapped on the door. And again. Finally, the door to his kitchen opened.
“We’re closed! Come back tomorrow!”
“It’s Sophie, Karl. I brought you something!”
He lumbered toward the door. It was the first time I had seen him when he was not wearing a suit. The short-sleeved golf shirt and seersucker shorts looked more comfortable and most certainly cooler.
He opened the door. “I said we’re closed.”