by Ellery Adams
Morris Knapp had business with the sheriff’s department, that was clear enough. What wasn’t clear was Connie’s impassioned attempts to keep her husband from going inside. She’d frantically pointed from the station to the side door of the minivan. To Nora, that sliding door represented children. The back of the van was their domain. Connie’s fury had given way to heartbreak because her husband’s visit was bound to affect their children.
Maybe Morris came to talk about his son’s crime.
Nora had been so focused on Wolf Beck and the location of Celeste’s book that she’d forgotten about Greg Knapp’s vandalism. It didn’t seem to matter much now. Greg was a confused kid who’d done a stupid thing. All kids made mistakes. Nora just hoped Greg would learn from his.
In truth, Nora felt sorry for him. He’d followed his mother’s lead, and she’d steered him wrong. His family was obviously fractured. Morris had his flock, Connie had her ambition, Greg wanted attention and praise, and Vicky longed for escape. Until she could leave for good, the young teen found that escape in books.
Thinking of Vicky reminded Nora that she owed Vicky, Steph, and Sid a special gift of gratitude. She wasn’t sure how to reward them for their incredible work on the literary portals, but she wanted to show them how much she appreciated their loyalty.
She’d ask Sheldon’s advice later. Right now, Sheriff McCabe was pacing the lobby. He had a phone pressed to his ear, but when he saw Nora, he wrapped up the call and shoved the phone into his pocket.
“What can I carry?” he asked.
Nora passed him a coffee cup. “Your latte with an extra shot of espresso. I figure we need all the caffeinated help we can get today.”
McCabe rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Today, and every day. Let’s go to my office.”
Nora followed the sheriff down a carpeted hallway into his cluttered office. His desk, which was always fastidiously organized, was a mess. Papers, file folders, empty mugs, and food wrappers completely covered the wood finish.
“Have you been sleeping here?” Nora asked.
“Pretty much. I’ve only gone home to shower and feed Magnum and Higgins,” he said, shoving a pile of paper aside. “I’ve never had cats before, so I didn’t realize that they might act out if they felt neglected. Well, my twin terrors are acting out. My favorite chair is now a scratching post.”
A giggle bubbled out of Nora’s mouth. “Your curtains could be next.”
McCabe cleared off one of the guest chairs and sighed. “I thought my blinds were safe, but they’ve already chewed through two of the cords. Aren’t kittens supposed to be cute, snuggly, purring pets? Mine are demons with fur. I might have to baby proof the whole house.”
McCabe pulled out Nora’s chair before dropping into his. Nora passed him a breakfast sandwich and fruit cup. While the sheriff unwrapped his sandwich, she took in the contents of the whiteboard attached to the opposite wall.
The board had been divided into three columns. One for Bren, one for Celeste, and a third called Persons of Interest.
“Wolf Beck.” She gestured at the board with her coffee cup. “What do you know about him?”
“For starters, he’s a major supporter of the Pine Hollow Sheriff’s Department. Contributes to every fundraiser and the sheriff’s reelection campaigns. Which is why their department won’t give us anything useful on the man. As far as they’re concerned, Mr. Beck is an ideal citizen, and it’s their job to protect his privacy.”
Nora ate some of her sandwich while formulating her next question. “What about a photo? I couldn’t find a thing online.”
Since McCabe’s mouth was full, he held up a finger and reached for one of the many files on his desk. Opening it, he showed Nora the driver’s license photo clipped to a printout from the DMV. The printout included VIN numbers and the make and model of several vehicles, but Nora couldn’t focus on cars. Not when she was about to see an image of Wolf Beck.
Beck had a close-trimmed beard and nut-brown hair that fell to his shoulders in thick waves. His eyes were dark and bearlike, and his gaze was intense. This was softened somewhat by the upward curve of his lips. He looked like a man enjoying a joke at someone else’s expense. Nora found his stare unsettling. She’d come across his age in an article but had since forgotten what it said. His weathered skin and omniscient expression made it difficult to judge.
“How old is he?”
McCabe glanced at the photo. “Thirty-eight.”
“Married?”
“Never.” McCabe reclaimed the folder. “Deputies Fuentes and Wiggins will be in Pine Hollow by lunchtime. We obviously can’t rely on the locals, and we have to get a read on Still Waters and Mr. Beck. The artists might live in primitive cabins deep in the woods, but they must come into town to use the library computers, buy supplies at the grocery store, et cetera. Someone will talk. Someone will tell us what things are really like.”
Nora sipped her coffee and continued to examine the photo of Wolf Beck. She could imagine Bren falling for such a man. He was authoritative and compelling. And though he was far from twenty, he wasn’t old. He could have played multiple roles for Bren. From confidante to lover to father figure. Bren wouldn’t have been the first young woman to lose herself to an older man promising the world.
Nora shared these thoughts with McCabe.
“Father figure? It’s possible,” he said. “We got a copy of Ms. Leopold’s birth certificate, and the mother is listed as Cecily Leopold. The father’s name was left blank. Did Celeste ever mention him?”
“No. All she said was that Bren grew up in Still Waters, and that it was a good childhood.”
McCabe contemplated this for a moment. “Maybe it was. If the community functions like a big family, then Bren had plenty of adoptive grandparents, parents, and siblings.”
“And what did this family do? Make and sell art, grow food, commune with nature, and cultivate their knowledge of poisonous plants?”
“Ah, yes, the wolfsbane.” The sheriff nodded, as if he’d been waiting for her to raise the subject. “At best, postmortem toxicology reports can take days. We need those results to confirm the theory that Celeste Leopold ingested a fatal dose of wolfsbane. However, the ME found several pieces of evidence to support the hypothesis. Out of respect for the victim and because we’re still eating, I won’t go into detail. Let’s just say that he was able to test a certain residue left on her clothing.”
Nora remembered the foul odor of Celeste’s breath and the vomit on her hair and shirt. “What else?”
“In addition to the physical signs of poisoning, we also found traces of mustard powder in Ms. Leopold’s bedroom.” When Nora responded with a blank stare, he was quick to add, “That didn’t mean anything to me, either. After some research, I learned that mustard is one of the most effective household treatments for poisoning.”
Nora was fascinated. “How does it work?”
McCabe’s gaze swept over Nora’s sandwich wrapper. Seeing that she’d finished her breakfast, he said, “It initiates a purging of the stomach, which is usually helpful if someone has ingested poison.”
“Did Celeste eat or drink something laced with wolfsbane? I know she makes her own herbal tea.”
“There were no cups or plates in the sink, so we can’t tell how the poison was administered. There’s a tin of tea leaves in the kitchen, which we’re having analyzed. As for herbs, Ms. Leopold grew rows and rows of them. Veggies too. I couldn’t believe it.” Reaching for a much thicker file folder, he opened it at an angle, using the cover to block Nora’s view of the contents. The fingers of his right hand moved up and down like a cellist plucking the strings of his instrument as he sifted through the stack of paper. Finally, a glossy color photo slid free from the stack and McCabe handed it to Nora.
“This looks like the Very Hungry Caterpillar’s idea of heaven,” she said, studying the neat rows of plants. The pots were arranged by size and every plant was labeled. There were dozens of seedlings and at least th
irty full-sized plants. Nora pointed at one of the low-hanging light fixtures. “Is that a special bulb?”
“If you’re a plant, yes. The room is lit by full-spectrum fluorescent bulbs, which cost around fifteen bucks a pop. They must work because Ms. Leopold’s garden was thriving. I might have a black thumb, but I know a healthy plant when I see one.”
As Nora drank her coffee, she thought about Celeste’s ability to create. Not only was she a talented sculptor, but she also made household products, food, and, wine. She could grow plants—another form of creation—and had curated a selection of soothing products to sell in her shop. Nora had never met anyone like her, and she wished she’d been given the chance to know her better.
McCabe dipped back into the file folder to retrieve a typed list. Tapping the corner of the grow room photograph, he said, “In case you were about to ask, we didn’t find any wolfsbane. Lots of vegetables. Carrots, spinach, kale, salad greens, mushrooms, scallions, tomatoes, and the garbage pail in the corner is full of potatoes. The smaller pots are the herbs. Basil, chives, cilantro, ginger, parsley, garlic, rosemary, lavender, oregano, and mint. On top of all this, there are two lemon trees and a few medicinal plants, like aloe and echinacea.”
“No mustard plants?”
Though his voice betrayed no emotion, a divot appeared between McCabe’s brows. “No. Whoever poisoned Ms. Leopold must have brought in the wolfsbane and the mustard. The killer could have promised the mustard antidote in exchange for the location of the mysterious book. Ms. Leopold would have felt the wolfsbane’s effects right away, and if her killer told her which poison he’d given her, she’d have known that she had seconds to make a decision.”
Nora felt a tightening in her throat. “I’m sure she wanted to keep the book out of her killer’s hands, but that’s probably not what kept her from taking the mustard. She told me that Beck was a liar, so she probably didn’t expect him to honor his word. More than that, I don’t think she wanted to live. Grief and guilt had hollowed her out. She could continue living without her daughter or exit through the door Wolf Beck had opened for her. I think she chose the door.”
McCabe squeezed Nora’s arm. “I’m sorry that she suffered. I’m sorry that you were there to see it. But I’m also glad that she wasn’t alone.”
All Nora could do was nod. If she spoke, the torrent of emotions trapped inside her would come hurtling out.
Looking for a distraction, she gathered up the remains of their breakfast, stuffed it into the takeout bag, and dropped the bag into the wastebasket in the far corner of the office. She didn’t return to her seat.
McCabe stood up, crossed the room, and grabbed his hat from the hook on the back of the door. “Let’s get that book.”
* * *
Nora’s heart thundered in her chest as she climbed the stairs to Celeste’s apartment. She knew she would soon be assaulted by memories of Celeste’s death. The sights and smells were going to bring back every terrible detail, and Nora was dreading it.
McCabe used a penknife to cut through the sheriff’s department seal that stretched from the surface of the door above the lock to the frame.
He pushed the door inward, and the landfill stench of rotting food rushed forward to greet them. Nora followed McCabe into the kitchen, waiting in the threshold as he picked his way over the debris-strewn floor to the opposite wall. Light flooded the room, and Nora could see that someone had used clear plastic sheeting to make a pathway. This kept investigators from tracking milk, wine, raw eggs, jam, and other bits of food into the rest of the apartment.
As she moved through the kitchen, Nora noticed evidence markers and the crushed bodies of plants.
Joining McCabe in the living room, she bent down next to the large fern Celeste had handled with such tenderness during their potluck dinner. The plant was now stretched out on the floor. Some of its fronds were torn. Others were folded at odd angles. Half of its roots were still covered in soil, but the exposed roots hung like limp hair in desperate need of a wash.
“I hate leaving them like this,” Nora whispered. She touched one of the fern’s feathery fronds and knew what Celeste would want her to do. “Can we save some of these plants?”
“We can’t remove anything from the apartment. Not yet. As far as repotting plants? We can make that happen, but it’s not a top priority.” McCabe gave her a worried look. “Are you okay?”
“It’s just hard to see this,” she said.
McCabe touched Nora’s shoulder in sympathy before leading her to the grow room.
Unlike the rest of the apartment, the indoor garden smelled like a farmer’s market stall on a summer’s day. As Nora moved between two rows of plants, she detected unique pockets of scent. The oregano, mint, and rosemary were the strongest, but all the scents were undercut by the loamy perfume of fertilized soil.
The mushroom table and coordinating stools Celeste had made for Bren were wedged into a corner near the window. In the photograph, the set had looked like a gray blob. Now it looked like a children’s theater prop or inspiration for a storybook scene. Nora could picture forest animals having tea at the mushroom cap table. A fox could serve the cakes while a raccoon filled the cups. They’d both wear daisy crowns, just as Bren and Celeste had done.
McCabe squatted down next to the table to examine the ribbing under the cap. “Reminds me of the mushrooms that pop up in my yard after a hard rain. I’ve always thought there was something magical about that—the way they seem to grow out of raindrops and dew.”
“Your grass was full of fairy umbrellas,” said Nora.
After admiring Celeste’s workmanship for another minute, McCabe stood up and moved the two stools to the opposite corner. He then eased the table away from the wall. “I really hope we don’t have to break this thing apart.”
“Me too.” Nora grabbed hold of the tabletop and helped McCabe lower it to the floor.
Though there was plenty of light in the room, McCabe switched on his flashlight and ran the beam over the circular base. The dolphin-gray concrete looked like the rest of the table.
Nora heard the sheriff’s grunt of disappointment and felt a stab of doubt. Celeste’s final words had been fragmented. They’d been a train with missing cars, and Nora didn’t know if she’d chosen the right cars to couple in their place.
“There’s a toolbox in the coat closet. I’ll grab it.”
After McCabe left the room, Nora ran her palm over the concrete. It had the rough texture of sandpaper. Except at the very center. That surface was smoother than the rest.
When McCabe returned, Nora asked him to hammer the tip of a screwdriver into the center of the circular base.
“If Celeste put the book inside from the bottom and resealed it with cement, we should be able to get it out without ruining the whole table.”
McCabe pressed the screwdriver to the concrete and glanced at Nora. “Fingers crossed?”
She showed him her crossed fingers, and he struck the screwdriver’s handle with the hammer. An indentation appeared, along with a smattering of dust. His second strike was more forceful. A zigzag of cracks radiated from the indentation. These caved inward with the third blow.
A chunk of concrete hit the floor. Setting the tools aside, McCabe stuck his fingers into the opening and broke off another piece. Nora joined in, and in a matter of minutes, the hole was big enough to accommodate a person’s hand.
McCabe passed Nora a pair of gloves. After donning his with practiced ease, McCabe held his flashlight up to the hole and bent over to peer inside.
When he sat back on his heels, he was smiling. His eyes sparkled and his face was bright with hope. “I’ll make the hole bigger. You need to keep your gloves clean.”
Nora’s heart thumped so loudly that she was sure McCabe would hear it. But he was tearing at the edges of the hole, widening it with an urgency he hadn’t displayed until now.
Finally, he lowered his hands and said, “Okay.”
Nora reached inside the
table base. Her outstretched fingers met with a hard edge covered in plastic. She groped around until she could close her hand around the book. Then she pulled it from its hiding place and into the light.
Because it was zipped inside a dust-coated plastic freezer bag, Nora couldn’t see what the book looked like. But that was all right. For the moment, it was enough to feel its weight in her hands. To know that it was safe.
Nora would keep her promise to Celeste. Juliana’s book would not be stolen or torn apart. Its contents would not be misrepresented. It was not a work of the devil. Nor was it the spell book of a wicked witch. It was a family heirloom—a piece of history cherished by generations of women.
“Where do you want to examine it?” McCabe asked.
Holding the book close, Nora said, “Downstairs. On one of the shop’s glass counters. The lighting is much better there.”
A few minutes later, McCabe unlocked Soothe’s back door and held it open for Nora. “I have to make a quick call. Go in and start without me. I have a feeling you’ll forget about the rest of the world after you unwrap that book, anyway.”
Nora could have thrown her arm around him for being so thoughtful, but she was holding the book, so she settled for a quick smile.
McCabe was right. The moment Nora unzipped that dusty bag, the rest of the world fell away. That bundle of leather, paper, and ink became her entire universe. Breathlessly, she prepared to make first contact.
Chapter 17
A sensitive plant in a garden grew,
And the young winds fed it with silver dew,
And it opened its fan
Like leaves to the light
And closed them beneath kisses of night.
—Percy Bysshe Shelley
Nora leaned over the book and inhaled the familiar scent of old leather and musty paper. There was a subtle odor of decay too. And a breath of dampness. The smell reminded Nora of fallen trees. Of bark and wood returning to the soil, bit by bit.
