“I thought you told me that your ex was a veterinarian,” I ventured.
“Once upon a time,” Amy intercepted, “before he lost his license because of too many DUIs. Now he is the coroner of Stephens County.
“How did that happen?”
“After Suzy’s ex was disbarred he found out that the coroner job was open. You don’t even have to have medical training. But the frosting on the proverbial cake is that the coroner gets paid $100 per dead body. Plus his only opponent was the manager of the Dairy Queen who was the mother of six. He ran against her and won. So he is the coroner and does this as well,” she motioned to a black and white sign directly in front of us.
Anthony Sullivan
Taxidermy
Underneath was proudly scrolled ‘no animal too big—no animal too small.’ I was glad that Suzy couldn’t see my face. I don’t think I could conceal the mixture of disbelief, laughter, and a wistful thought of what a sitcom this would make. But $100 per dead body was not too shabby. I made a note of looking into it. Perhaps Tom and I could offer a package deal.
Fridays were meant for sleeping in, wearing PJs all day, and coffee. Lots of coffee. Fortunately, we hit the jackpot on the last item.
Anthony aka Tony met us at the door. Suzy made introductions while the lab assistant took possession of the cardboard box containing the cat corpse. His receptionist, no doubt the reason he is Suzy’s ex, served coffee and blueberry muffins. That is, Miss Buxom tried to serve us but we followed Suzy’s example and politely declined. The waiting period, however, was longer than we anticipated. When the breakfast was thoroughly digested, we caved – all but Suzy and me. I was still queasy from this whole scenario.
After a couple of hours, Tony rejoined us. He explained that he was running tests on Mitchell’s stomach contents – way too much information. He was hopeful that the tests done with his never-before-used-because-he-was-disbarred equipment would help us find cause of death, time of death, and how Mitchell came in contact with whatever killed him. We knew all of this was a stretch but Tony was our best shot even if he was a banished veterinarian.
Tony and Suzy whispered back and forth. We tried—at least I tried—not to listen. I can’t attest for the others in the group. Tony inhaled a cup of coffee and returned to his lab. Miss Buxom left for lunch. I was thumbing through the Good Housekeeping Magazine of March 1994 for the fifth time when Tony reappeared. He motioned for Suzy to come into his office alone. She threw me the van keys and indicated that we should load up.
The return trip was even quieter than the initial trip to Stephens County. For the first time ever, Scarlett was quiet as a tomb. I was wishing I had brought my Kindle when Suzy broke the silence.
“Poison. Tony’s results show that Mitchell’s cause of death was poison. But the questions remain. What kind of poison did he ingest? How did Mitchell get hold of this poison? And, the bigger question of who did this to an innocent?
Whatever type of poison it is, it is rare because Tony has to send findings and blood samples to a private forensic lab in Atlanta to determine definite results. Tony asked if Mitchell could accidentally ingest meds that were thrown away. I assured him that Mitchell was persnickety about his food, so I didn’t think that was possible. Not unless someone wrapped it in bacon. Perhaps he got poisoned through his skin? Or he stepped into something and licked it off his paws? His stomach contents consisted of tuna, catnip, and Temptations© cat treats.”
Yuck! Why did I eat that protein bar? All this talk about stomach contents was making me want to barf.
Suzy’s voice cracked, “But I can’t help thinking what if it wasn’t an accident. Who and why would someone poison our sweet Mitchell? And more importantly, if Mitchell got hold of this poison at Golden Palms, are the residents in danger?”
“Seems like we have more questions than answers from our little field trip,” I responded hoping to sound upbeat. “Any chance Anthony, er Tony, is incorrect.”
No response to that so I cleared my throat and offered, “Don’t you think we should get the police in on this? We can’t keep this to ourselves. After all, isn’t poisoning a cat the same as murder?”
“Well, technically no,” the voice of reason pointed out. “Someone could make the case that Mitchell was a nuisance, or trespassing, or being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Georgia penal code defines animal cruelty as:
. . . causes death or unjustifiable physical pain or suffering to any animal by an act, an omission, or willful neglect. Willful neglect means the intentional withholding of food and water required by an animal to prevent starvation or dehydration. This is a misdemeanor with a fine up to $1000 and/or imprisonment for up to 1 year. A second or subsequent conviction carries of fine of up to $5000 and imprisonment for up to 1 year.
Everyone turned to stare at Clara. “What? I have a smart phone. I know how to Google the Internet. One of our reporters showed me how.”
Hattie chuckled, “What the hell is she babbling about. All I know is that poison is pretty serious stuff. But how are we gonna prove it? Elvira hated Mitchell, not just him, but all cats. But even she wouldn’t go that far. Who else is there? The Ledbetter sisters? A maintenance man? Some random family member who doesn’t like cats? We’ve got to reel this in girls or we’ll sound like a bunch of crazy old biddies who’ve gone senile.”
“She’s right,” Clara agreed, “and tomorrow we can begin a real investigation right after the Praise, Prayer, Pancake and Pilate’s breakfast in the church fellowship hall.”
“Oh my! Is that tomorrow? I had forgotten all about it. Guess there’s no sleeping in on a Saturday either.”
“Well, don’t count on me,” Suzy chimed in. “I have to pay for this little fiasco today by having dinner with my ex-husband. He can be charming like he was today, but when the bar starts serving two-for-one drinks, forget about it. He changes from Dr. Jekyll into Mr. Hyde. With that in mind, we will be having an early dinner before one of us turns into a pumpkin or worse. And I bet my pension when the forensic results come back, there will be an instant replay of the dinner-for-information scenario. So all of you had better be nice to me or you will be cordially invited to join us.”
~4~
My alarm clock was a neighbor’s dog who barked reveille. What day was it? Saturday? Yikes. The pancake breakfast at church. In the life of the ministry family, weekends are never sleep-in times. One blessing. At least I didn’t have to cook. I donated tons of juice to the affair so all I had to do was show up. After yesterday’s intense day, I needed coffee and pancakes with syrup. Which raises the question why do breakfasts have to begin so early?
The aroma of bacon wafted through the fellowship hall kitchen where Clara was happily humming. I stumbled in. She was the typical rise-and-shine early person who is so annoying to my ilk that neither rises nor shines at this time of day. She flipped a fresh batch of pancakes onto a plate and pushed the plate towards me.
“Good morning. Ready for pancakes?”
“Caffeine first. I need coffee. Coffee first. Then food. Heard from anyone this morning?”
“No. Not a word.” Clara flipped more pancakes, drained the bacon, and turned the spatula over to another church worker. I smiled at the other cook, but my fuzzy brain could not recall her name.
I took my mug of coffee to a vacant table and greeted the other members of the congregation with faked alertness. My night had been a troubled one. I kept dreaming about shelves of poisons when I woke to Tom’s snoring. Finally, I put in ear buds and listened to rain sounds before I finally dozed off only to be awakened by the neighbor’s dog.
I left Tom a reminder note and marched out of the parsonage. Thankfully, I managed to pull on my go-to stretch pants and church softball tee.
Clara filled a mug and joined me. She waited until I had taken a few delicious sips of glorious caffeine before whispering, “So do you really think we should contact the police? I have a nephew on the force, but I was thinking maybe we s
hould talk to someone official like the administrator of Golden Palms Administrator first. Before we call in the cops I mean. After all, it isn’t like a person was harmed. But I suppose they could be unless of course it was truly an accident.”
Clara had a point. Mr. Whitfield should be made aware of our findings, but should we tell him now or when we got something official. Worst case scenario would be if the families of GP’s residents got wind of a poisoning. It would be like the children of Israel leaving Egypt – an exodus of epic proportion. Not only that, but it would make a very large dent in the administrator’s income. On the other hand, Hattie had her bizarre theories that she was happy to share with those who would listen.
Clara went back to check on her volunteers as Tom joined me for breakfast. I pondered if it was time for the Thursday Club to wield a little influence. If so, I knew just where to start.
A familiar voice answered her cell.
“Hattie, dear. It’s Roxy. Clara and I thought we would pay you a little visit. Is it convenient to come by?”
Clara left the cleanup crew reluctantly. She was always the first at any event and the last to leave. To assuage her conscience, we wiped down a few tables and took a load of trash to the dumpster. After which I persuaded her that the trip to Golden Palms was a lot more important than remaining at church. A look at my midsection showed that I could use the Pilates class, but hey this is an emergency.
“What’s up Buttercup?” I asked as we made our way into the rec room used for cards, games, and the occasional movie. Hattie wore yet another of her jogging outfits, but this time with a pith helmet.
“Not much right now. It’s pretty quiet today. Not much buzz after the funeral. Some asked if Mitchell was cremated or if he was buried close by. I have managed to either convince them that I know nothing or change the topic of conversation. Blanche and her sister are the worst. They would rather chin wag than eat, which is saying a lot since they are always first in the buffet line. At breakfast this morning, Leona joined us and mentioned you and she have a meeting about the Christmas Drop In.”
I groaned and rolled my eyes. A visit from Leona Ledbetter is not what I need.
Clara finally spoke. “So sorry, dear, about this morning. I thought about offering to come and get you for the Pancake breakfast. But I had to there so early I didn’t think you’d want to get up that early on a Saturday.”
“You’re right about that. Besides I had to get my beauty sleep,” and with that Hattie pushed a few tendrils that straggled out from her pith helmet.
Where did she get that headgear? I would ask her, but it would probably take an hour or so to get the story from world famous storyteller, Hattie Sewell. So I missed the opportunity to learn more of her family lore. I already knew that she was distantly (how distantly is a mystery) related to the famous author of Black Beauty, Anna Sewell. When she explained the exact bloodline, it was a little vague but she seemed confident. The names were spelled the same. And Hattie had proof that her relatives came from England so I suppose that’s good enough.
“Hattie, we are always happy to visit you of course,” I lowered my voice to a whisper, “But today we were wondering who we should confide in here at Golden Palms about Mitchell’s demise. Mr. Whitfield seems like the most likely person, but what do you think?” I waited for her to process this before going on. “Clara and I thought that perhaps we should somehow forewarn the authorities before harm came to one of the residents. Of course, we only have the results from Tony, not an official forensic report.”
Hattie seemed to be taking it all in. She was ninety years old after all. But something in me sensed her hesitance.
“Remember I warned you that we were being poisoned, didn’t I?” Hattie’s voice was clear and sharp. “Darn tootin’. Someone bumped off Mitchell when he got in their way. One of us is next. Got to keep sharp. Only this morning I had a note telling me to stop investigating. Bosh. They don’t know who they are fooling with.”
And with that she wheeled her new chair around and revved the motor. We stared at each other and watched her motor away.
“A note! And another thing, when did she get that new chair?” I asked Clara.
“No idea,” she replied.
“Okay, that went well,” Clara understated. “What now? Should we talk to someone in charge? Or, should we just follow her?” Clara wrung her hands and stared. Usually calm and composed, this was the first time I’d seem Clara stressed. Just goes to show, everyone has their breaking point. From their long friendship, I suspect that Clara saw something in Hattie’s response that I didn’t.
We followed Hattie to her room which looked like Mother Nature threw up.
“The Garden Club is stowing their supplies in my room for now,” Hattie informed us and waved a hand toward the mess.
“Yes, I can see that. Now about that note, where is it?”
Hattie ignored my question and continued, “We had bags of potting soil, fertilizer, gravel, and wood chips donated from the hardware store, the gardening center, and private individuals. It had to go somewhere, but I’ve hardly room to get in and out. Elvira and her minions are cleaning out the garden shack for this batch of supplies. I figured volunteering temporary storage space was the least I could do. Obviously I can’t do much else.”
So that’s what the pith helmet was about.
“Uh yes. The gardening project sound great. But, the note. Where is the note? Is Mr. Whitfield at Golden Palms today? You should tell him about the threatening note.”
“Whitfield isn’t here. He left yesterday. Not sure who’s in charge of the prison – er facility.”
In a hushed tone she continued “In case you think I’ve gone round the bend, I’m declaring a truce with Elvira. Perhaps she’ll spill what she knows if I’m nicer to her. It’s worth a shot. We are both excellent gardeners. Gardening together will be a good excuse to swap stories.
You might talk to Doc Ramsey if he’s around. I just found out that he is a retired botany professor from the university. He volunteered his expertise in identifying all these plants in the old herb garden. Without his expertise, we don’t know what to get rid of and what to keep.”
So Gerald was a botanist. That was interesting. He might be able to help identify possible causes of Mitchell’s poisoning. If we can match his finding with Tony’s forensic report, we will have out murderer.
Hattie raised her voice to a normal tone and circled back to her room, “Now I am in need of a nap. Close the door when you leave.”
With that, we were dismissed. Hattie motored through the maze, transferred herself from the wheelchair to the recliner, grabbed her afghan, and placed her glasses on the side table letting us know in no uncertain terms that she was done.
We quietly closed the door. Clara turned to me.
“Now what?”
Doc Ramsey was in the rec room reading a tome the size of Webster’s unabridged dictionary with botany in the title.
“Hello ladies,” he responded.
I questioned him about the gardening project and about the possibilities of poisoning from cross pollination from herbs or water contamination. He was reluctant to give any information. Yes. He, of course, knew of Mitchell’s demise. He blushed to admit that he and Amy dated for a while before life intervened. Clara blanched when Gerald mentioned Amy. This apparently was news to her. Doc had the knowledge to poison anyone feline or not, but what was his motive?
“Thank you Doc,” I said.
“By the way, how did you and Amy meet?”
“She and I were taking a herbal remedies that the university’s continuing education center offered. We were lab partners and whipped up quite a few elixirs, syrups, and a number of insect deterrents as I recall.”
With that bit of history related, Gerald turned back to his book. Now we had a threatening note written to Hattie and an old flame of Amy’s who happened to be an expert on poisons. This morning’s findings were making my head hurt.
I only had o
ne more lead I wanted to check out. That was someone with ears that didn’t miss anything and a mouth that made sure no one else did.
“Hello, Elvira. We were just visiting Hattie. She is very excited over the new gardening project and we wanted to see how we could help. I am sure that I could recruit some teens from First Church to help with the digging, heavy lifting, and running errands. Just wanted you to know we would be happy to help.”
I don’t know who was more surprised – Clara or Elvira.
Elvira slowly walked to a chair. The other residents stopped pulling weeds, stacking branches to burn, and carrying discards to the dumpster. Elvira signaled them to take a break.
“Well, that’s very Christian of you all. I am compiling a list of needs now. Perhaps I could call on your help when the time comes.”
“Of course. The Thursday Club really took Tom’s Sunday Sermon to heart – love thy neighbor, build bridges, forgive and forget. You know. Just call and we will be at your service.”
Elvira gave me a look I’d seen before, but not on her. A slight twitch and sideways glance indicated she hadn’t completely thought this out, but was making it up as she went. Elvira hadn’t had much experience lying and it showed.
“To tell you the truth, dear. Apart from the supplies that have been donated, we haven’t done much toward planning the garden yet. Leona, Blanche, and I will be coordinating the planting with Ramsey, he’s a professor you know, taking the lead. We have lots of unidentified plants and with his knowledge of botany, we will be able to clear the sight after the Christmas Drop In.
“You’re on that committee for the Drop In with Leona, aren’t you dear?”
“Why yes I am.” And there it was the verbal dagger that Elvira always carried. She knew Leona and I agreed on very little. This partnership would stretch brotherly love to the max.
Murder at Royal Palms (A cozy mystery novella) (Thursday Club Mysteries Book 1) Page 3
