Ladies Courting Trouble

by Dolores Stewart Riccio

  “Hey, I’m reassured—aren’t you?”

  “No, I guess not. When are you coming home?”

  “As soon as I can get a booking. I’m going to call the airport right after we hang up. I don’t trust you to stay out of trouble.”

  “Little I care, as long as you’re coming home. Fly carefully.”

  “I always do, sweetheart.”

  But as luck would have it, there was a terrorist incident targeting an Israeli airliner in the Athens airport. Flights were canceled through the weekend, and all the bookings got jammed up. It was Wednesday before Joe got to Logan and, as usual, picked up a Rent-a-Wreck to drive to Plymouth.

  “You’re still alone?” Heather asked when she called on Monday. “Come for lunch, then, and we’ll brainstorm these poisonings. Dick’s taken the day off and gone to Manomet to help with the bird banding at the Center for Conservation Sciences. His new associate, Maury, is taking over for the day.”

  “Bird banding? I’m surprised you’re in favor of that.”

  “I’m not especially, but at least it’s capture and release. Dick thinks it’s important to monitor populations as indicators of dis-ease and longevity, as well as to follow migratory routes. Did you know that the Arctic tern has a route of approximately twenty-five thousand miles? That’s the longest. But apparently excitement is running high in Manomet over the hairy woodpecker and indigo bunting they’ve captured and banded, and, most thrilling of all, the seven sharp-shinned hawks. And they get to wear those nifty T-shirts, ‘Manomet Banders Are for the Birds.’”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. One of the banders had them made up for a lark. So are you coming? We’ll drink, we’ll talk—it will be like the old days.”

  “Nothing’s like the old days. We’re both married ladies now with new responsibilities. I’m getting on in years and can’t drink at lunch the way we used to. Not to mention, you don’t have a cook anymore—you have a handyman.” It was understood that Heather herself did not cook if it could be avoided. When pressed, she ordered take-out, she opened packages, she reheated, she tossed the occasional salad-in-a-bag, and she allowed her husband Dick to grill. None of us expected more.

  “No one will ever replace Ashbery, it’s true.” Heather’s long-time housekeeper and friend had been blown up by a package bomb during an earlier Plymouth crime wave in which we’d been involved. After Heather’s brief stint with Sicilian housekeepers who ended up in the witness-protection program, the circle had sent out a “call” for a someone new to help with the Devlin menage, and the answer had been a battered old seaman—demonstrating once more that the Universe of Infinite Possibilities has a sense of humor. “But you know very well Captain Jack is as handy in a kitchen as he is outdoors. And one little bottle of champagne will merely energize you. It’s one of nature’s great restoratives for women, right up there with Midol and Raspberry Leaf Tea. Furthermore, you’re only as old as you feel, my dear. I’m not ready to be called a crone yet, and neither are you. Wisewomen, yes—crones, no. Especially since we’re both practically newlyweds. By the way, you can bring Scruffy. Honeycomb will be tickled to see him.”

  So who could refuse? It had been a while.

  “But what about Ishmael?”

  “Not to worry. I’ll ask Captain Jack to stow his parrot for the occasion. See you at noon?”

  Plymouth was a resilient place—has been ever since the first Pilgrim stepped foot on that rock. No one had been poisoned in a week, and the town had resumed its peaceful demeanor. One death did not cause the spiritual descendants of Pilgrims and Indians to run scared. But there was a little buzz in local meeting places, like the dump and the post office. When I stopped to mail some orders on my way to Heather’s, the postal clerk, a cheerful, very pregnant gal, asked me if “you ladies are on the case?” The circle’s reputation for solving crimes was fast becoming part of the local folklore.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Heather declared, when I related the incident to her. With glasses of ’96 Veuve Clicquot in hand, we were lounging in the conservatory of her Federalist mansion, which was strewn with a motley assortment of well-chewed dog toys. Hardly ever were there fewer than a half dozen dogs in residence at the Devlins’, an overflow from the no-kill shelter, Animal Lovers, that Heather supported with her lavish trust income. At the moment, however, most of the Devlin pack was relegated to the fenced yard, while Scruffy enjoyed a tête-à-tête with his favorite blonde, Honeycomb.

  “Play nice, kids,” I said as they scooted around the potted palms with a rope tug-of-war toy. “You did have Honeycomb fixed, didn’t you?” I asked Heather.

  “It’s okay. She’s not in season right now. You know what a champion of neutering and spaying, I am, but Dick insists that Honeycomb, who’s a superior therapy dog and has an impressive pedigree as well, should be bred at least once before she’s spayed. You ought to have Scruffy neutered, though. A mutt like that can’t be allowed to knock up some willing bitch—there are enough unwanted pups in the world already.”

  “Shhhh,” I said. “If he gets the notion that we’re planning a little fixing operation, I will never be able to get him into Dick’s office for routine shots again.”

  “Oh, come on, now, Cass. It isn’t as if he understands what I’m saying. Neutering will make Scruffy much more docile and also prevent a number of ailments that may occur as he gets older.”

  Abruptly, Scruffy raised his head from the stuffed squeaky toy he was subduing to impress Honeycomb and gave me a long, accusatory look. Hey, if that dog lady’s cooking up a plot to cut off my nuts, Toots, I’m hitching a ride on the next freight car out of town.

  “Don’t get nervous. It’ll never happen,” I reassured the dog, who was already heading toward the door.

  “Really, Cass. Let’s not pretend that Scruffy will never age,” Heather reasoned with me. “If he were capable of communicating, he’d thank you for having him neutered.”

  Hasta la vista, baby. Lemme out of here! Scruffy began scratching the door frame. I caught him by the collar and whispered, “No snip-snip, I promise you. Now behave yourself, or you’ll spend the rest of the afternoon in the cold car.”

  By the time I had Scruffy settled down again, Captain Jack had appeared with his superb Three-Cod Chowder informally served in the cooking pot, which he deposited in the middle of the table. Captain Jack, a small gray-haired fellow with merry blue eyes, brought with him a faint whiff of rum. He wore salt-faded jeans, a striped canvas apron over a black T-shirt, and a captain’s hat set at a rakish angle.

  “Hi, Ms. Shipton. Don’t worry about Ish. I got him stowed under his blankey so’s he won’t hurt that dog of yours. Be back in a jiff with the biscuits.”

  That flying freak comes near me again, there’ll be nothing left of him but a mess of green feathers. Scruffy hadn’t encountered the captain’s parrot very often, but the memory of his tormenter remained vivid.

  “Belay that,” I muttered. Captain Jack looked at me sharply but continued to serve lunch. Heather, who was as prodigal with wine as she was klutzy in the kitchen, skillfully opened a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé to go with the chowder.

  Over steaming bowls of seaside heaven, golden crumbly biscuits, and a surprising endive and pear salad, Heather and I talked of poisons and poisoners. “My thoughts keep returning to Lydia Craig,” I said. “The thing is, she’s the only one who died.”

  “So far,” Heather said darkly. “I hear she’s left a fortune to Reverend Peacedale.”

  “Surely she left her bequest to the church, not to the pastor. That’s what Wyn said. She told him about it at Christmas.”

  “No, dearie. I have it straight from the horse’s mouth that the bequest was for the reverend himself to do with as he sees fit. Endow a soup kitchen, yacht around the Mediterranean, or open a bar in Tahiti—it’s entirely up to Peacedale. Although Patty may have some input there.”

  “And I thought lawyers were a discreet lot.”

  “The late, lamented
Mrs. Craig employed the law firm of Borer, Buckley, and Bangs. As it happens, our family has been one of their oldest and best customers ever since my great-great-grandfather sailed out to the Orient and made the family fortune.”

  “Great Goddess, I hope this bequest doesn’t mean Wyn or Patty are suspects.”

  “Never trust a woman who knits, I say.” Heather topped up her glass and mine. “From Madame DeFarge on down the line, they’ve always been a secretive lot.”

  “Not Patty. I know Patty, and she doesn’t have a sneaky bone in her body. What you see is what you get.”

  “You’re just saying that because she rhapsodizes over your clairvoyant spells.”

  “No, I’m saying that because Patty is as clear as spring water to my six or seven senses—and besides, she knows nothing whatsoever about herbs. She wouldn’t know what to do with a sprig of parsley if it sat up in her refrigerator and cried ‘bite me.’”

  “Don’t get testy, dear. What about Wyn, then? Shouldn’t everybody be a suspect, especially those who stand to gain a bundle?”

  I didn’t answer because Captain Jack had appeared in the doorway with an apple pie, a flaky marvel with an aroma that suggested rum-soaked raisins had been liberally tucked in with the fruit slices. In his other hand, he carried a steaming blue enamel pot of boiled coffee. No namby-pamby latte for the captain!

  The strong coffee was amazingly good. I was glad he left the pot when he departed to the “galley,” as he called it. Actually, since the back of Heather’s house had been rebuilt after the bombing, the new kitchen looked like an ad from Architectural Digest, all Mexican tiles and mahogany and restaurant appliances. Even Phillipa, no slouch in the pricey appliance department, was a wee bit jealous of the so-called galley and complained that it was totally wasted on the Devlins and their decrepit houseman. But she had to admit that his cooking skills were surprising.

  “So, exactly how much of a bundle is Wyn inheriting?” I asked. “Did you wheedle that information out of Borer, Buckley, and Bangs as well?”

  “Bangs is my guy. Youngest of the partners, only sixty-six, and still susceptible to feminine persuasion. The entire estate is worth over five million dollars, if you count the very marketable beachfront property she owned in Chatham. Two nephews and a niece are getting twenty-five thousand each, and the rest…ta da!”

  “Lydia Craig!” I exclaimed. “She wore the same cloth coat and hand-knit hat for as long as I’ve known her. She lived in that overgrown mausoleum with the sagging porch and drove a ten-year-old Chevy. Once, when we bumped into each other at Angelo’s meat counter, she pointed out to me that the shoulder cuts were a much better buy than the baby lamb chops I was putting into my cart. And I noticed that her cart was filled with markdowns. You know, those dented cans, overripe tomatoes, and past-date baked goods they have on a rack near the back room.”

  “I bet there were some chocolate goodies, past-date or no. It was her greatest passion.”

  “Well-known passion?”

  “My guess is it was known by the person who laced the church brownies with hemlock,” Heather said. “As to her being a millionaire, I think you’ll find there’s many an old Yankee in Plymouth with a fat bank account and a thin old coat. It’s the way we were brought up. ‘Use it up, wear it out, make it do.’”

  “That Yankee economy didn’t rub off on you much.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I save money buying Veuve Clicquot by the case.”

  “What do you think about Wyn Peacedale inheriting several mil from the old lady who got poisoned at my Halloween talk?” I asked Joe. It was nine o’clock Thursday morning, and we were still lying in bed, savoring his return home. I’d crawled out from under the quilt just long enough to push Scruffy onto the porch, where he could avail himself of the pet door Joe had installed. Then I brought two steaming mugs of coffee back into the bedroom. We’d declared the day a personal holiday for fooling around and catching up on ourselves.

  “What’s to think? Have you considered that Reverend Peacedale may not even have known about the bequest until the will was read?”

  “He did. He’s known since last Christmas. But he may not have understood that the millions would be his personally, as Heather said. She has a useful contact at the Craig law firm—Borer, Buckley, and Bangs. But to my mind, money isn’t that important to Wyn and Patty.”

  “Oh? In my experience, money is important to everyone—although some people are loathe to admit it. But do I think the Peacedales would hasten the end of their benefactor? Probably not. So…can I get your mind off murder for a while?” Joe put down his coffee mug on the night table and took me into his arms, kissing my neck and shoulder. A melting sensation ran straight from his mouth to my second chakra. “Are you as hungry as I am?” he murmured, moving his mouth lower.

  “For breakfast?”

  “That, too—but later….”

  Chapter Six

  Deidre was in the upstairs sewing room of her brick-fronted garrison Colonial, making costumes for Jenny and Willie to wear at the school Thanksgiving pageant. Bobby was pedaling a red car up and down the hall. The toy poodles, Salty and Peppy, skidded along after him, yapping, while Baby Anne revved up her own little motor from the playpen nearby. The scene brought me back to when my own three, also close in age, had been a full-time concern. I sighed a grateful sigh. Getting older has its compensations.

  “So I wondered if you might go with me to the pageant,” Deidre said. “I’d like to take these two to see their brother and sister on stage, but Will’s on duty and M&Ms is off to Atlantic City with her gambling pals.”

  “Sure. There’s nothing I like better than a six-hour elementary school Thanksgiving pageant. It’s the thing I’ve missed most since my children grew up.”

  Deidre stitched a fake-leather fringe onto a little brown cotton shirt. “Remember when you needed me and the kids to be your cover while you scouted around that serial murderer’s homestead in Carver? And his two crazed Dobermans attacked my station wagon?”

  “Okay, okay. I owe, and I’ll go. I’d love to. Same old plot, is it? The Pilgrims invite the Indians to share a meal and sign over North America?”

  “Yep, same lousy deal. Jenny’s a Pilgrim lass, and Willie’s an Indian brave. I’m making an Indian costume for Bobby, too. Even though he’s not in the pageant, he doesn’t want to feel left out.”

  “And Anne?”

  “Papoose. You wouldn’t mind carrying her on your back, would you? I’d like to be able to move around freely with the video camcorder, in case anything unexpectedly delightful occurs.”

  “Sure. Good for the posture, I bet. How do you find time for all this?”

  “No problem. Time stretches to fit the things you have to do, I always say.”

  Deidre had the knack all right. Watching her busy hands, I marveled at the way the costumes seemed to appear out of nowhere and were remarkably well-made. When I used to whip up costumes, my stock-in-trade for fast effects had been safety pins and Scotch tape. “I think you must have those little brownies out of Grimm’s fairy tales coming in at night to help you. Made them tiny shoes and shirts, did you?”

  “Funny you should say that, Cass.” Deidre reached into a copious workbag hanging on the back of her chair and fished out a stuffed elf wearing a cobbler’s apron with a tiny awl sticking out of its pocket. “It’s a new product I’m introducing into Deidre’s Faeryland. This one is Bobbikins the Brownie Shoemaker. Wait a minute…yes, here’s his wife, Bettikins.”

  Bettikins wore a kerchief and an apron; she was holding a little sewing basket.. “Adorable. You’ll sell a million of ’em. And seeing it’s you, I believe those million orders will be filled on time. Who needs sleep?”

  “I have you to thank, Cass, for getting me started selling on the Internet. I do sometimes miss the stimulation of running that vitamin place at Massasoit Mall, but when Baby Anne arrived, it was just too much.” She propped the two dolls on the windowsill and went back to her sewing machine.
I couldn’t resist opening Bettikins’s miniature sewing basket. Tiny spools of thread, a strawberry pincushion, some postage stamp–sized scraps of cloth. While I was playing, Deidre continued dispensing folklore. “Those legends of the brownies may have been inspired by the history of the ancient Picts, you know—small, dark pixie people who had a way of disappearing into earthen tunnels when the Romans began to hunt and kill them for sport. Only came out at night to collect the food left for them by kindhearted Celts.”

  “I’ve heard something about that from Fiona.”

  “Yeah, I guess I did, too. She’s like a walking Golden Bough. The unabridged edition, of course.”

  “Speaking of Fiona and pixie food handouts, did you dowse the kids’ Halloween candy?”

  “Huh! I did better than that. I dumped it out in the trash and substituted good stuff. I don’t think they ever knew the difference. This poison thing has me freaked.”

  “You can’t be too careful,” I agreed. “You’ve heard about the Peacedale windfall? What’s your take on it?”

  “It could be that old Mrs. Craig was a target, but, then, the poisonings just keep right on happening. That woman at the senior center had a close call.”

  “Patty’s the one who saved the seniors. Took one look at those brownies and smelled a rat.”

  “Bizarre coincidence, isn’t it. Here I am making brownie dolls and someone else in town is making poisoned brownies.”

  “But not necessarily someone who lives in town. When did you begin this new project?”

  “Just before Halloween. I got to thinking about trick-or-treating, which reminded me of the Picts, or brownies, in their nightly foraging expeditions. Hey, do you think that was a clairvoyant thing?”

  “Very likely. Because your particular magic is so often expressed by handicrafts. So, my dear, if you get any new inspirations, we ought to give them serious attention.”

  Deidre looked at her hands and smiled. “Well, what do you know. Clairvoyant fingers—there ought to be a special name for that.”