“How are they?”
Miss Winterjoy leaned forward, nodding. Warm! “Margie is doing as well as can be expected. She was transplanting the bulbs from Susan’s funeral. We all are. They will be a beautiful memorial every spring.” She raised an eyebrow and leaned forward.
“And Miss Roundtree?”
Hot.
Miss Winterjoy took a deep breath, and beamed at Kalico as though he were a slow student who had finally gotten a problem right. “I’m glad that you asked. Jane is naturally stricken by Susan’s death. Understandable. They were very close. But her grief seems to me to be out of bounds. There’s another emotion behind it. Anger, I think. Or guilt….”
In precise detail she related her visit to Jane’s house, describing its clutter and disorder: a sign, she suggested, of a disordered mind. “Benjamin, honestly, at times I felt threatened.” She rubbed her wrist where Jane had grabbed her, still feeling her icy grasp.
Kalico listened closely, nodded, and waited silently as the elderly woman gathered her thoughts.
“She looked at me for an instant with real hatred. When she appeared behind me holding a knife, I thought I’d faint! And when she asked after Nancy—the tone of her voice….” She shuddered. “And that plant of hers: deadly nightshade, Belladonna, as she called it. Menacing.”
“A poisonous plant?”
“Yes. Now, I’m not a person who tilts at windmills.” She squared her shoulders. “I believe that Jane is dangerous. She’s not who she appears to be. There is anger, hatred, and, yes, I believe, something malevolent in her.”
“Do you think that she harmed Susan?”
Miss Winterjoy frowned, shaking her head. “Suse? No. Jane sincerely loved Susan.” She paused, selecting her next words carefully. “I think that it is entirely possible that she engineered Nancy’s accidents. In fact, I think that she intended to kill Nancy on the night of our book circle dinner.”
“The cobbler?” Kalico held his breath.
“Yes!” Miss Winterjoy smiled broadly at him. “Clever boy. The cobbler. Jane made the dessert and was dishing it out with the leftovers for our guests. She handed a container to Margie who gave it to Nancy.”
“But Nancy gave her dessert away to Susan.”
“Very good. Susan refused dessert initially, but on the way out to her car, Nancy offered her the cobbler, and poor, dear, sweet-addicted Susan could not refuse it a second time.”
“And you surmise that the cobbler was poisoned?”
“Yes.” She leaned back in the booth, suddenly exhausted. “I wanted to ask you to accompany me to the police department as a corroborating witness.”
It took two hours, two turkey sandwiches, and four cups of coffee to convince Miss Winterjoy that they did not have any evidence that the police department would accept or act upon. They covered and recovered the details of Nancy’s accidents, the events of the book circle dinner, and their suppositions about Susan’s death until a convincing narrative formed.
“There’s no motive,” Kalico sighed.
“Jane is mentally ill, Benjamin. I sensed her rage. Isn’t that motive enough?”
“No. Think about how she has proceeded so far, Emelia. She’s been incredibly careful and patient. She has not acted impulsively or out of uncontrolled anger. Remember, she left the consequences of her actions up to chance.”
“Or fate.”
“If Nancy had died, her death would have been labeled an accident. Or, like Susan’s, attributed to a heart attack.” Kalico ran a hand through his hair. “Fate, we could say, has now turned on Jane.”
“Yes. Susan’s death was an accident—a horrible twist of fate.” Miss Winterjoy studied her clasped hands. “Benjamin, we cannot know how she will react. After the shock of murdering her closest friend, she could just stop her plan to hurt Nancy.”
“Or,” he waited until his companion met his eyes, “be driven by guilt and anger to act again—more directly and more violently.”
Ramrod straight, shoulders squared, and eyes bright, Emelia Winterjoy stated, “Mr. Kalico, I would like to hire you to solve a murder.” She opened her purse and handed him a check. “And to prevent one!”
***
At one o’clock, Kalico returned to his office, his mind whirling. M’s was not at her desk, so he checked his messages to find a reminder that she was in class. As he had expected, there were no new leads on Ghost. He settled down behind his desk. He could hear Lynn’s voice, mocking him. What had she asked him at one of their first meetings? Oh yes: “Have you followed my aunt down the rabbit hole?” Had he? While sitting across from Miss Winterjoy, their story of what had happened to Susan and the danger facing Nancy seemed logically sound. Now, in the quiet of his office, it all seemed far-fetched. Still, they had developed an action plan: Miss Winterjoy would dine with Nancy this evening, guarding her against any surprise attacks. Moreover, she would tell Nancy of their suspicions and of her decision to rehire Kalico. There would be no more secrets between the two old friends. Lynn, too, would be brought up to speed on the investigation. Even Connor, over Emelia’s mild protestations, would be told of their concerns and enlisted to guard his grandmother.
Kalico would dig more deeply into Jane Roundtree’s background, research the effects of Belladonna, speak with Dr. Munjabi, and initiate 24 hour surveillance of the suspect. Two people were to be hired to each take eight hour shifts. Kalico would take the third. Miss Winterjoy had directed him to spare no expense.
Kalico turned on his computer and googled belladonna. The plant had a fascinating history. Women in the 18th century had used it to dilate their eyes, and it was still used medicinally today by ophthalmologists and by doctors to treat such conditions as irritable bowel syndrome and Parkinson’s disease. Technical phrases like “anti-cholinergic taxidrome” and “Atropa” punctuated the screen. Then Kalico found what he was searching for:
The ingestion of ten berries is toxic to an adult, leading to cardiovascular collapse. A symptom of belladonna intoxication is dry, scarlet skin.
He saw again Susan’s flushed skin, picked up his phone, and called Dr. Munjabi. The doctor was gracious but resisted any idea that Susan had died from an obscure poison. He reasserted that in his professional opinion she had suffered heart failure and rejected forcefully any suggestion of exhumation.
Kalico next returned to the brief background check he had initially completed on Jane Roundtree. Born in 1951 in Galveston, Texas, she was the only child of a store manager and a stay-at-home mom. A good student, she had received a scholarship to the University of Texas where she majored in biology with the intention of becoming a doctor. She left college unexpectedly in her junior year and moved to Phoenix, Arizona, where she acquired her real estate license. Her last employment was with Desert Realty. No husband. No children. No criminal record—not even a parking ticket. Nothing remarkable. She retired at age 67, sold her home in Phoenix, and returned to Austin.
“Why did you drop out of UT, Jane?” Kalico asked his computer screen. “What happened?” It was time to interview her. Were Miss Winterjoy’s impressions sound? He needed to find out for himself.
He picked up his phone and called Mrs. Buonanotte. “May I have a plate of lasagna to go?” he asked. Then he mapped out a line of questioning.
Chapter Twenty-Two
As Kalico was about to turn onto Riverside Drive on his way to Jane Roundtree’s house, his phone buzzed. M’s voice crackled over the speakers: “Ben, I’ve found Ghost! Come quickly. Please.” She gave him an address.
Kalico executed a U-turn, and pointed his Civic south toward Gallant Fox Road in Oak Hill, the address of Ghost’s first owner. Thirty minutes later, he parked behind the Beetle in front of a white stone house. It appeared to be deserted. The front yard was overgrown with weeds, and a red and gold “For Sale” sign lay partially obscured on the curb. M’s and Ghost were nowhere to be seen.
Kalico donned his leather jacket and gloves, grabbed the pet retrieval pole and strode up the
walkway, knocking firmly on the front door. He listened. Barks erupted from around the neighborhood, but nothing in the house stirred. Cupping his face with his hands, he squinted through the beveled glass door. The house was empty. He silently said a thank you that M’s had not broken in.
As he moved around the side of the house, his senses began to tingle. Turning the corner into the unfenced backyard, Kalico spotted movement on the cedar deck and heard a low and warning growl. Ghost stood poised by the back door, his hackles up and ears pressed flat against his head. M’s sat frozen on the wet grass about ten paces from the husky.
Kalico set the pole down, lowered and angled his body, sidestepping slowly to his assistant. “M’s?” he said softly. No answer. Taking care not to make eye contact, he surveyed the husky with his peripheral vision. The dog was hardly recognizable. His beautiful white coat was matted and caked with mud. Something—blood, perhaps—was crusted over his right eye. His ear was torn. Ben gently placed his hand on M’s shoulder.
“No,” she hissed. “No means ‘No!’”
“Are you hurt? Did Ghost…?”
“No.” Her hands gripped the wet grass, her thin body was tense, and her eyes fixed on a scene beyond the dog beside the door.
“Let’s get you back to the car where it’s warm and dry.”
M’s pushed her weight more forcefully into the ground. “No.”
“I’ll be right back.” Keeping an eye on the still growling husky, Kalico slowly angled away from the backyard. Once out of Ghost’s sight, he ran to his car, grabbed a blanket. He called 311 to alert animal control, spoke briefly to his mother, and left a message for Dick Crenshaw at Star Ranch.
Neither Ghost nor M’s had moved. He draped the blanket around the girl’s shoulders to allay the cold and possible shock. He sat cross-legged beside her and began talking in a low and soothing tone.
“You found him, M’s. Probably saved his life.” Kalico continued a stream of small talk. Eventually, the girl seemed to relax. A glance at Ghost revealed that the dog, too, was no longer standing aggressively at the back door. He now sat. His ears were up, listening, but so were his hackles.
M’s took a deep, shuddering breath. “He hurt,” she began.
“Yes, the dog’s hurt, but we’re going to get him home and cared for.”
“No. He hurt me. Mr. Jeffers, he….” Her small frame shook, but her eyes were dry and her face impassive. Suddenly, words began to tumble out. She relayed a fragmented and disjointed story: her delight when her AP Physics teacher had taken a special interest in her, signaling that he had chosen her to become his assistant after his college intern suddenly left; her shock when the teacher had returned her lab report with an angry red zero scrawled across it.
“He accused me of plagiarism, said it would be on my permanent record, said that I would be suspended or even expelled, and that my dreams of college were over.”
Mr. Jeffers had picked up his phone to call her parents, before pulling a chair close to her desk. “There’s a way we can get you out of this situation,” he’d said, beginning to massage her shoulders. M’s recounted an overwhelming sense of powerlessness, as the older man had removed the band from her ponytail, had run his hands through her long blonde hair.
“I said, ‘No.’ His breath smelled of peppermint.” She stared dry-eyed at the wet grass. “He pinned me in my seat. I fought him. I fought him.” Her hands struck the ground.
Kalico placed his arm around her shoulders. Fury, sadness, anxiety warred in his chest. He breathed deeply.
A small whine reminded him of the big dog’s presence. Ghost stood now at the edge of the deck. His tail wagged slowly.
Kalico extended his free hand, palm up toward the husky. “It’s okay, boy. No one here is going to hurt you. We’re here to take you home.”
“He is home,” whispered M’s. “Don’t you see, Ben? All this time, Ghost hasn’t been running away; he’s been running home.” She sniffed, “But his owner’s moved away. He can never go home again.”
“But you can, M’s.”
Kalico held his breath as the dog hesitantly limped toward them. Ghost sniffed his extended hand, then placed his nose under M’s arm, burrowing his head into her lap. M’s gasped and buried her face into his thick, muddy coat and sobbed.
After what felt like a lifetime later, Kalico placed a collar around Ghost’s neck, helped M’s to her feet, and led them back to the car. Initially, Ghost had resisted, but M’s had said, “Your owner––Veronica, wasn’t it?—isn’t here, boy, and she’s not coming back.” Surprisingly, the husky had shifted his gaze to M’s and allowed himself to be led to the front yard.
Katherine and Katie Kalico, accompanied by Bethany Montgomery, stood in the drive. Upon seeing them, M’s ran forward. “Mom!” The women encircled the teen in a group hug. Kalico thought her heard his sister say, “M’s, I’m so sorry I got angry,” and that he heard M’s reply, “Call me Melissa.”
As the women drove away, Kalico cancelled his call to animal control and waited with Ghost at his side. The big dog allowed his chest to be petted and remained still as a soft wet cloth wiped away the crusted blood from his left eye. When Dick Crenshaw arrived, Ghost greeted the trainer enthusiastically and jumped readily into the SUV’s back seat. The husky’s blue eyes met Kalico’s for a moment before he was driven off to the ranch.
Suddenly exhausted, Kalico climbed into his Civic. He registered surprise that it was light out. He glanced at the casserole of lasagna, now cold, perched on the passenger’s seat. He longed to go home, shower, check on M’s, but his gut nagged at him to get to Jane Roundtree’s house and quickly.
***
Twenty minutes later, balancing a fragrant lasagna casserole in his left hand, Kalico rapped gently on Jane Roundtree’s front door. Sensing eyes watching him from behind the blinds, he composed his face into pleasant and, he hoped, vacuous lines.
“Benjamin Kalico. This is a surprise.” Her tone did not convey whether she thought the surprise to be agreeable or not.
“Hello, Miss Roundtree. My mother asked me to bring by this casserole for you.” He hoped Mrs. Buonanotte would forgive his white lie.
“How kind.” She opened the door and beckoned Kalico to enter.
Neither Jane nor her home was what he expected. Instead of the clutter, dust, and general disarray described by Miss Winterjoy, the living room was spotless with a lemony scent of furniture polish. No wads of used Kleenex decorated the couch or the floor, and the wastebasket was empty. Instead of a disheveled and grief-stricken madwoman, Miss Roundtree appeared calm, her dark brown eyes, framed by her round glasses, met his forthrightly. She was dressed neatly in black pants and a black turtleneck sweater adorned with a pearl cluster pin. Her make-up had been recently and carefully applied.
Kalico followed her through a small living room, lit only by the flickering of a muted television screen, into a bright kitchen where he placed the casserole on the counter. “Mom always says that friends bring food and comfort immediately after we lose a loved one, but forget that grief lasts a long, long time. She wanted you to know that she, that all of us, are thinking of you and your loss.”
“Thank you.” Jane’s eyes grew misty. “I miss Susan terribly.” She paused to compose herself. “She was stolen from me, from us, so suddenly. It wasn’t right.”
Kalico nodded and murmured in sympathy. Why stolen? “You were friends for a long time.”
“For over forty years.” She turned, seemingly ready to escort him out.
“You were college roommates, weren’t you?”
“Yes. Susan took me under her wing.” Her eyes took on a faraway look. “The other girls referred to us as the butterfly and the bullfrog. But I didn’t mind. It was true. Susan was ethereal—all light and laughter. I was an awkward, unsophisticated country girl, bookish and shy, but, for some unknown reason, she claimed me as a sister.”
“And that’s when you met the other book circle women?”
�
�Yes. Suse brought me into her group.”
“It must be some comfort that you have Emelia, Margie, and Nancy as support.”
“Of course. Old friends.” She turned to leave the kitchen.
Had he imagined a hardening of her tone? He wanted to interview Jane and to verify that she had the Belladonna, but she was not offering him the expected invitation for coffee. Kalico cleared his throat. “May I have a glass of water, please? I just finished a run,” he prevaricated, “and am parched.”
Jane returned and filled a glass from the tap. As he drank, she eyed him curiously. Then turned again to lead the way out. Instead of following her to the front door, Kalico swerved into the living room as though drawn to the photographs on her bookshelf.
“Great pictures!” He smiled and pointed to one showing a group in front of plastic bags. “Were you and Susan part of an environmental club?”
Jane appeared beside him and gently lifted the photograph. “Yes. We were pioneers at UT.” She smiled proudly. “Susan was determined to save the planet; she inspired us all.” She set the photograph firmly down on the shelf.
“I bet you have great stories about the beginnings of the environmental movement.” He sank into the soft cushions of her couch.
Jane paused; he watched as she seemed to listen to something outside before she nodded her head once. Then she sat down beside him, her expression unreadable. She switched off the television. “Oh yes! Lots of stories. We were a small but devoted team.” She launched into stories of initiating a recycling program, a disastrous composting effort that attracted rats, and hilarious strategizing sessions over plates of double chocolate, fudge brownies.
Kalico nodded and grunted occasionally, encouraging her narrations, happy to be able to observe her. Jane was a good storyteller, animated with a wry and, at times, self-deprecating sense of humor. But he judged that he was watching a performance—something else was beneath the surface.
As Jane paused in the middle of a story about a sit-in at the Dean’s office over Styrofoam, he asked, “Did you and Susan stay in the club for all four college years?” He knew the answer, but waited to see if Jane would tell the truth.
Maybe Murder Page 19
