Ladies Courting Trouble

by Dolores Stewart Riccio

  LADIES COURTING TROUBLE

  Also by

  Dolores Stewart Riccio

  THE DIVINE CIRCLE OF

  LADIES MAKING MISCHIEF

  CHARMED CIRCLE

  CIRCLE OF FIVE

  LADIES COURTING TROUBLE

  DOLORES STEWART RICCIO

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  To Nancy Erikson and her girls—

  “We’ll take a cup of kindness yet

  For auld lang syne…”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  With warmest thanks to some very special people…

  To my wonderful husband, Rick, who has encouraged and counseled me in all my writing through the years.

  To my daughter, Lucy, for sharing her computer wisdom, and other special knowledge, and to my son, Charlie, for his own unique contribution to my world.

  To all the dear friends and family who have formed my ideal of friendship over the years.

  To my editor at Kensington, Audrey LaFehr, whose continued guidance and enthusiasm have meant so much, and to copy editor, Margaret Jarpey, for her care, thoroughness, and kind words.

  Bright Blessings to all!

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  “Double, double, toil and trouble…” Phillipa grinned wickedly as she lay down the tenth card from the Rider-Waite deck, last of the layout; it was called The Moon. “I wouldn’t take on any new crusades if I were you, Cass. From start to finish, this reading counsels you to watch your step.” She leaned over the layout, dark wings of her hair falling forward, her expression disapproving, like a garage mechanic sizing up a faulty carburetor.

  A bunch of swords and wands in my cards, so what? I was beginning to be sorry that I’d asked her to read the tarot for me. Three phases of the moon looking down upon a howling wolf and a smiling dog—what was so bad about that?

  “It’s a card of hidden foes and unforeseen perils. The wolf, now—that’s a symbol of untamed creation. The dog, on the other hand, adapts to mankind insofar as it suits his own interests, sort of like your dog, Scruffy. And see this rugged path through hostile country? Not to mention this crayfish popping out from the pool of the Cosmic Mind.” Phillipa’s blunt fingernail pointed to various pictorial elements. “What did you tell me you were doing this Samhain? I mean, apart from our own circle ceremony.”

  “Church. I’ve been invited to give a talk at the Garden of Gethsemane Ladies’ League on the origins of Halloween in our Samhain. I really loathe giving speeches, but I feel I ought to represent Wicca in a favorable light whenever I have the chance.”

  “‘Fire burn, and cauldron bubble,’” my hostess intoned, giving a quick stir to the pot of pear and mango chutney simmering on her Viking range, wafting the spicy aroma throughout the room. I thought there must be extra calories in the very air of Phillipa’s state-of-the-art kitchen. Not to mention the “Fall Fruit Breads” we were sampling with our tea, the theme of her next bimonthly cable cooking show, Kitchen Magic. As Colette wrote, and Phillipa was fond of quoting on and off the air, “‘If you aren’t up to a little magic, you shouldn’t waste your time trying to cook.’”

  Phillipa returned to the long marble table and gave my cards another gloomy look before gathering them up. “Five of wands, seven of swords. Maybe the Gethsemane Ladies are planning an exorcism or something. Rid you of the cursed demons that possess you, my dear.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “The Reverend Peacedale couldn’t be more ecumenical-minded. I suspect he’s quite interested in the mystic experience per se. My clairvoyant episodes, I mean. And he understands that the ancient nature religions predate the advent of Satan and therefore have nothing devilish about them.”

  “Well, don’t say you weren’t warned.”

  Which is what I thought about later, while having my stomach pumped out at Jordan Hospital. The Ladies’ League Hospitality Hour had been as disastrous as my lugubrious friend possibly could have predicted. Only the strong hands of my bridegroom, Joe Ulysses, holding me back by one shoulder, and those of a robust nurse on the other side had kept me from pulling the gagging, scratching tube out of my throat and to hell with it. Probably one of the worst hours of my life. I really was tempted to call up a few impish entities I’d read about to avenge my misery, but I am pledged to work on the white side of Wicca.

  I wasn’t the only one enduring the unendurable. Several members of the League and the minister’s wife were also at the hospital, and as I learned later, one of the older spinsters, whose passion was chocolate—Lydia Craig—wouldn’t be making it to the All Saints’ Day service on November first. Poison hemlock causes weakness, nausea, vomiting, difficulty in breathing, and, if enough of it is ingested, paralysis and death. And those mystery brownies had been cleverly laced with the stuff. It was almost enough to turn a gal off chocolate forever.

  I recalled how Mrs. Peacedale—Patty—had made a face when she nibbled at her brownie, muttering that the baking soda had not been properly sifted into the flour. I too had thought they were rather musty or mousy-tasting despite a liberal dose of vanilla. But any brownies would suffer in comparison to Phillipa’s.

  Then, when everyone began to feel ill, the herbal lore in my brain clicked in. I guessed immediately what we’d eaten and told the paramedics. “I’m certain it was poison hemlock—that mousy aftertaste,” I’d said weakly. Due to my conviction, we all got our stomachs pumped out immediately, while I was mentally kicking myself for my stupidity. I’d eaten one too many bites of that fetid brownie, purely out of politeness.

  As the endless day at Jordan Hospital wore on, and it was obvious that I would never eat again, I urged Joe to go home to feed himself and Scruffy. “Don’t worry about me,” I said faintly, laying on the guilt. “You two have a good meal.”

  His Aegean blue eyes looked worried and somewhat reproachful. “How could this happen? And at a church social, for God’s sake? Can’t you go anywhere without being drawn into danger?”

  “Is this the pot calling the kettle black ass?” I suggested. As a ship’s engineer for Greenpeace, Joe continually sails into his own share of perilous misadventures.

  “And I thought that once we were married you’d be happy to stay at home and tend to the weaving,” he complained, grinning sheepishly. After a few restorative kisses, he left, with touching reluctance, and the evening nurse appeared.

  “Hi. My name is Brenda. Are we feeling better now, Mrs. Ulysses?” she inquired briskly while she took my blood pressure. Although assuming an air of motherly authority, she was at least ten years younger than I, a pale girl with slightly protruding eyes and fine bro
wn hair falling out of its coil. “You were lucky, you know, honey. You didn’t eat too much, and it didn’t get too far. Was that your husband who just left? Nice tan for this time of year. Tanning salon?”

  “No, Greenpeace. He travels the world in search of environmental hazards, often in tropical climes. And it’s Ms. Shipton,” I mumbled. My throat was still sore. “My good luck was being the guest speaker at the League. People kept asking me questions, so I was delayed in getting to the hospitality table until after almost everyone else. And I didn’t finish my brownie, which didn’t taste very good.”

  She checked my bracelet I.D. “Oh, yes. Shipton. I see. I wouldn’t mind being a Mrs. myself, but that’s just me. What was the talk about, honey?”

  “Nature spirituality religions in pagan times. The origins of Halloween. And modern-day Wicca.”

  “Is that, like, witches, curses, and all?” Nurse Brenda glanced at my face again as if she might have missed some telltale sign, such as green skin or a wart on my nose. Soon she’d connect “Shipton” with our circle’s notoriety in becoming involved in local crimes.

  Speaking of which, any minute now the circle would be alerted. Phillipa would probably hear the news first and call Fiona, Heather, and Deidre. The circle would be swarming in here, bringing their various healing arts, none of which would include anything as cursed as gastric lavage, ugh. A few stomach-calming herbs, a little white light, a homey lecture from Fiona.

  “Not witches. Wiccans, actually,” I corrected Brenda. “So, have they discovered who brought the lethal brownies to the Ladies’ League yet?”

  “I can’t imagine who would try to poison a nice group of church ladies. Two detectives are working their way down the hall right now, questioning the victims who are well enough to provide information. They’ll get to you pretty soon, and you can ask them if an arrest is imminent.” Brenda cast a calculating look my way. Perhaps I had made her personal list of suspects—either because of the Wiccan connection or my herbal business, Cassandra Shipton, Earthlore Herbal Preparations and Cruelty-Free Cosmetics.

  Besides “whodunit?” the other big question on my mind, which I did not voice aloud, was how a person with clairvoyant skills like myself could munch up a poisoned brownie without a clue. Admittedly, I could hardly ever summon up my visions at will. They came and went by their own mysterious plan, hardly ever with glad tidings or a winning lottery number.

  I was relieved to see it was Stone Stern and his partner, Billy Mann, who arrived at my room soon after Brenda bustled away. Phillipa’s husband is a tall, scholarly looking man, surprisingly gentle for one in his profession. “Cass, what in the world?” Stone took my hand and squeezed it gently. There was real warmth in those gray eyes behind oval, metal-framed glasses. “I don’t mean to scold you when you’re in a weakened state, but why do I always find you in the midst of mayhem and murder?”

  “Same question Joe often asks me. Obviously, it’s my karma. Does Mrs. Peacedale know who donated the hemlock treats? Did Bevvy Besant eat the damned things? She’s the hospitality chairperson, so she might have an idea who brought them. And how many victims were there, anyway?”

  “Relax, Cass. Mundane as my talents may be, I’ll do the investigating. But no, the minister’s wife doesn’t know who donated the brownies to the hospitality table. And yes, Mrs. Besant is here in the hospital but indisposed at the moment. Thirteen persons in all were admitted to the hospital, including a teenage boy delivering office supplies who copped a brownie out of the church kitchen. Tough on him, but a good thing, actually. Narrowed the poison field down to the brownies, although you helped with that, too, so I heard. Nevertheless, every item served will be tested.”

  “Uh oh—Bevvy’s getting pumped, the poor baby,” I murmured. “And what about poor Lydia Craig? She seemed like a sprightly old lady. The poison took her rather fast, didn’t it? Has her family arrived?”

  “Yes, it was all over quickly. Speedier than Socrates, in fact. But relatively painless as poisons go. The ancient Greeks considered it a humane method of execution. Weakness of the limbs, followed by paralysis of the breathing apparatus. She must have eaten quite a few of those brownies, although all the survivors mentioned a kind of ‘musty’ or ‘bitter’ flavor. Apparently, the Craig woman was known to have a big yen for chocolate.” Turning to his partner, Stern said, “Have the Craig family members been notified yet, Billy?”

  Billy, a beefy, red-cheeked guy who looked as if he’d been sent down from Central Casting to play an Irish cop, had been leaning on the door frame, studying his notes with a puzzled frown. At the mention of his name, however, he looked up and grinned. “Hey, Cass. How ya doing? Reverend Peacedale and a uniform are breaking the news to the Craigs. I understand the old lady was a spinster, no immediate family, but some nephews and a niece who are local.”

  “So, Cass,” Stone continued, “can you shed any light at all on the poisonings?”

  “Did the incident have anything to do with your being the guest of honor?” Billy asked. He removed a pencil stump wedged behind his ear and poised it above his notebook.

  I hadn’t thought of that. Could anyone be crazy enough to register their protest to Wicca by poisoning the brownies? “Maybe. But I don’t really feel that was the motive. And beyond that, I haven’t a clue. Sorry.” And I was sorry. I really wanted to help Stone. What I needed here was a helpful little vision showing me why, when, and, above all, who. “Maybe something will come to me later.”

  “No one seems to know anything,” Billy complained. “We can pair up every single one of those sweets with a church member except the brownies. They simply appeared out of nowhere in the kitchen, and the coffee-hour hostesses set them out on the buffet.”

  “Like magic.” Stone winked at me, squeezed my hand again, then stepped back to allow my so-called dinner tray to be placed in front of me. After the orderly left, Stone said, “Before you eat any of that stuff, I should warn you that Phil’s on her way.” Then he and Billy departed to see if Bevvy was talking yet.

  “Drink it, you mean,” I muttered to myself, eyeing my tray. Insipid broth, industrial tea, pale apple juice, and some kind of weird gelatin, Laboratory Lime perhaps.

  My next visitor was Selwyn (“call me Wyn”) Peacedale, pastor of the Garden of Gethsemane Presbyterian Church of Plymouth, which was located just around the corner from my house, an antique saltbox overlooking the Atlantic. I’ve always thought Wyn resembles a heavenly cherub who has aged a bit, but today his round cheeks and dimples were lost in grief. He took my hand in a pastoral way; his was feverishly damp, mine icy cold. “How’re you doing, Cass? What a terrible thing this is! I’m so sorry that you were a victim in this vicious attack on the church. As it happened, I had to leave to attend to some pressing parish matters right after your most informative talk, or I probably would have been poisoned myself. I love chocolate stuff, you know. But you…your first time as a visitor to Gethsemane….”

  “Not exactly the first time. I attended the Donahue funeral—standing room only at that one. Anyway, I’m alive—that’s the main thing. Poor Lydia Craig. It must have been terrible telling her family. And how’s Patty?”

  “Patty’s doing well physically, I believe. Like you, she’s been treated, had her whiffs of oxygen, and now she’s having a little liquid supper. But she’s very upset about what happened, just to think that one of our own may have done something like this. There are always some disagreements and strained relations, of course, but…” He sighed heavily. “As for counseling the Craigs, I’ve visited the niece and nephew who are living here in Plymouth. There’s another nephew in Marshfield. The niece offered to notify him and various cousins.” He sighed again and flushed slightly. “I believe Lydia’s left the church quite a bit of money. At least that’s what she told me last Christmas when I was seeking contributions towards some renovations. I could hardly believe it, given her usual modest donations, but she said it was a fait accompli, and I would be mighty surprised, but not to call the
contractors just yet, as she intended to live a good long while. Well, well…poor Lydia. ‘Tomorrow is promised to no one,’ as they say. Such a cruel end to her expectations.” He was quiet then, looking out the window at the October darkness, lips moving silently. For a moment, he seemed to have forgotten where he was. Then a look of apprehension crossed his face, and he remembered he’d been talking to me. “I trust this bequest won’t cause a problem. With the relatives, that is.”

  “From what I’ve seen of inheritance procedures, I would say, steel yourself, Wyn.” It still hurt me to speak, so I said no more.

  “Patty and I will pray about it. And for you, too, Cass, may the Lord bless and keep you.” He trudged out with steps quite disconsolate for a pastor who’d just got a fortune to spend on his church. Right in the vestibule, exhibited on an easel, I’d seen an architect’s drawing of a grand new entrance and an addition. Wyn called it his “heart’s wish made visible,” and I’d said that’s a magic visualization, same as we do.

  As predicted, the circle descended en masse a few minutes later, bringing a discernible wave of warmth and energy into my room.

  “Don’t touch that slop,” Phillipa commanded immediately, unpacking the small hamper she carried on her arm. “I’ve brought you a thermos of my own double chicken-beef herbed broth, jellied pomegranate juice with a touch of port wine, and some Assam tea.”

  “What, no calf’s-foot jelly?” I whined. The broth smelled heavenly rich.