The Poisoned Pen

by E. Joan Sims

  “Give it up, Mom! I’m tired of your constant references to those silly old black and white movies. And beside, it doesn’t matter. I’m right!” She parked the Lincoln in the carriage house and unhooked her seat belt before she turned to confront me. “Why are you so intent on making Beth Davis a bad guy? Is it because Gran liked her manuscript and yet she’s so disapproving of Leonard’s books?”

  “Oh, for goodness sakes, Cassie! You really think I’m that spiteful and petty?”

  “Well…?”

  I got out and slammed the car door a trifle harder than was necessary. The end of the seat belt caught in the crack, and I could hear the warning signal bleeping insistently behind me as I stalked angrily up the driveway to the house.

  Mother was seated at my father’s desk in the library engaged in an animated phone conversation. I knew Cassie would probably join her there or sit on the back porch, so I headed for the solitude of my moon garden on the other side of the house.

  That spring had been filled with long gentle rains and mild temperatures—perfect conditions for the lilies, gardenias and roses now blooming in such profusion. I sat on the long white, wrought iron bench Mother had gifted me with the night I had planted the last rose bush, and breathed deeply of the fragrance surrounding me. I had been lucky. Every single expensive antique rose had thrived in this sunny and very fertile spot where a chicken house had stood many years ago.

  Earlier in the year I had erected a graceful latticed arbor in the corner where my silver gazing ball sat on a slender pedestal. The four jasmine vines I planted in expectation that they would climb the trellis and eventually cover it with tiny, fragrant, little white stars were coming along nicely. All in all, I decided, my white moon garden was a huge success.

  I relaxed against the back of the bench, gratified to feel the anger and tension of the day begin to ebb. This was my favorite time of the evening—just before sunset, when streaks of gold and scarlet paint the horizon and the first stars twinkle in the deep indigo sky above.

  “Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight,” I whispered, stopping because I never could remember the rest of the little poem that ended in a wish. Besides, I didn’t know what to wish for. I was blessed with good health, moderate success, and the company of loved ones—even if I happened to be somewhat miffed with them at the moment. What more could a girl wish for, I wondered. A wee small voice deep inside my lonely heart begged to be heard, but I refused to listen. I was as happy as a piggy in mud—no need for foolish wishes.

  “My dear, you look so innocent and peaceful sitting there surrounded by your lovely flowers—one would never know you were really a visitor from outer space.”

  Horatio was wearing a smart black evening suit that was just this side of a tuxedo. He looked particularly suave and handsome. I told him so when he took a seat beside me.

  “Thank you, Paisley. I do feel somewhat festive tonight. I’m asking for your mother’s hand once again. Wish me luck.”

  I chuckled. “How many times does this make?”

  “Who knows,” he answered with an extravagant shrug. “Who cares? I will pursue her affections with the last breath in my body.”

  I took the chilled Chardonnay he proffered, and touched the rim of his glass with mine. “Good luck, then,” I saluted. “Although, as far as affection goes, I’m sure you already have hers.”

  His smile in the deepening twilight was as wistful as my mood.

  “Perhaps, my dear. Perhaps.” He took a sip of wine, savoring the bouquet before he spoke again. “Your dear late father is quite an act to follow. Although I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “John Sterling was something special, all right,” I agreed with a fond smile.

  “Men of his ilk are very rare. I recognized his qualities right away, of course. That’s why I left for Europe and took myself out of the equation. If ever two people were suited for one another….”

  He finished his wine and set the glass gently on the bench next to him.

  “Nonetheless, I shall continue with my quest for your mother’s hand until she agrees, for agree she must!”

  “How did you find out about the alien thing,” I asked, changing the subject.

  “Cassandra filled me in on the gruesome details. She seems to think you are vilifying Bethlehem Davis for no justifiable reason.”

  “I couldn’t tell her everything, Horatio. And I can’t tell you, either. I promised Bruce Hawkins I would keep his confidence.” I finished my wine and let the glass dangle between my fingertips. “Even us space aliens have some integrity.”

  “Young Hawkins told you about the blackmail scheme, didn’t he?”

  “You know?” I asked in surprise.

  “I have for quite some time. It would seem that men who allow themselves to be caught in compromising situations are almost always compelled to relate their follies to someone else.” His smile in the rapidly approaching dusk was ironic and slightly bitter. “Apparently, I have acquired a certain reputation over the years for listening without casting stones. That dubious quality seems to invite confession from all sorts of riff-raff.”

  “Somehow I didn’t think you entertained riff-raff,” I observed with a smile.

  Horatio sighed and flicked a daring lightning bug off his elegant sleeve.

  “Rowan Springs is a small town, Paisley. The longer you live here, the more alliances you will make. And you will discover that many of them are historical—handed down from the previous generation. Those loyalties are the hardest to ignore, even if the offspring are nothing more than weak and puny imitations of their fathers.”

  “So you listen.”

  “So I listen.”

  “Yuck!”

  “Quite!” he agreed.

  “How many times have you listened?”

  “Three.”

  “Busy little lady, our Beth.”

  “So it would seem. Although things have taken on a different tenor over the past few months.”

  “How so?” I asked, as I stood to massage the leg that had gone to pins and needles from sitting too long on the hard bench.

  “The request for filthy lucre is a new ingredient,” said Horatio thoughtfully.

  “What did she want before?”

  “Invitations, introductions, access—commodities which can be more valuable than money to a someone who knows how to make the most of them.”

  “What do you suppose brought about the change?” I asked.

  “A new partner in crime, I think—someone a good deal more unsavory than our Miss Davis.” Horatio stood and brushed at the perfect pleat in his trousers. “Of course, I can’t be sure of that, but I’ve read the blackmail notes. There’s another voice there—a dangerous one, if I’m not mistaken.”

  We walked slowly around the house to the screen door of the back porch. Cassie was inside sitting spread-eagle on the flagstone floor playing with Aggie. We stood outside for a moment watching their rambunctious game. It was a charming picture: the beautiful young girl and her cute fuzzy dog.

  “Be careful, my dear,” said Horatio in a hushed voice. “You have a great deal to lose.”

  My feelings were still smarting from our earlier argument, so after I said goodnight to Horatio I went straight to my room without speaking to Cassie, or even Mother when I passed her in the kitchen. I felt sorry almost immediately because mother looked particularly lovely in an elegant sheath of pale ivory satin.

  I decided to return and tell her so. After, all, I thought, this might be a very special night and I didn’t want to do anything that might spoil it.

  “They’ve already gone,” said Cassie. “Horatio had early dinner reservations somewhere special. He wouldn’t even tell me where.”

  “Hernando’s hideaway, probably,” I muttered.

  “There you go again,” she sighed petulantly.

  “For your information that’s not an old movie! And neither was Baby Face Nelson, or Billy the Kid. They were real live, hon
est to goodness people—well, not so honest, maybe—but real, nevertheless. Perhaps you should spend more time studying twentieth century American history and less time making fun of your mother.”

  Aggie had been sitting protectively in front of Cassie watching my every move. When I pointed an innocent finger at my daughter while making my case, the dog launched herself at my ankle. She took two quick and painful nips before running into the house to hide.

  “Damn, damn, and double damn!” I shouted as I hopped around the porch on one foot. “That rotten, cowardly little beast!” I flopped down on the chaise and pulled down my sock to inspect the latest dog bite.

  Cassie leaned over to take a peek. “You’re lucky,” she observed coolly. “The skin’s not even broken.”

  “You mean, she’s lucky, don’t you? Remember - I said one more bite, and she’s history.”

  Cassie sat back on her heels and looked up at me. “You don’t really mean that, Mom. You love Aggie as much as I do.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, that’s news to me!”

  “You’re just mad at me, and you’re taking it out on poor little Aggie,” she accused unjustly.

  “So! First I’m petty and spiteful, and now I’m being unfair. Have I got that right?”

  “Yes,” answered my daughter with the tiniest of smiles. “But I’ll forgive you—if you tell me everything Bruce said about Beth Davis.”

  “You little brat! How did you find out about that?” I laughed.

  She unfolded her long legs and rose in one graceful motion. “Want some more wine?” she asked. “Horatio left the bottle.”

  “Sure,” I grinned—happy that our fight was in the past. “And,” I called after her, “bring something to munch on if you want me to talk”

  She handed me a glass of wine and placed a large platter of celery hearts, carrot sticks and dip within reach at the end of the chaise.

  “That’s nothing but rabbit fodder,” I complained. “I need real calories.”

  “The dip has two calories. Eat all you want,” she said, crunching away.

  I was hungry. And I had to admit that I been feeling better since Cassie instituted my new dietary regimen. I stopped complaining and ate.

  “Umm,” I said over a mouthful of carrot. “That dip is good.”

  “Confession is good for your soul, Mom, so redeem yourself. Tell me what Beth Davis is up to, and maybe I won’t keep on thinking you’re a rotten, stinking, person.”

  I looked up and saw her mischievous grin and the twinkle in her eye. “How did you find out?” I asked, realizing that somehow she knew almost as much as I did.

  “I eavesdropped,” she admitted unashamedly. “When Horatio said he was taking you a glass of wine, I sneaked around to the guest wing and opened the sitting room window just a crack. I couldn’t hear everything, but I heard enough to know I might owe you an apology.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Playing “good cop” some times, and “bad cop” at others, my daughter soon extracted every scrap of information I had withheld from her. When she finished, I was exhausted—and relieved that I no longer had to worry about giving something away. I was also starving. The bunny food platter had been licked clean, and I now wanted something more substantial.

  “In the past,” I began, “I would have invited you to join me in a fat-laden, cholesterol-filled, grease covered cheeseburger, but even I don’t want that any more.”

  “Hooray,” she shouted, doing an impromptu little victory dance.

  “However,” I interrupted, “I do require something more substantial than carrots, and I want it as soon as possible. Any suggestions?”

  In just fifteen minutes by the kitchen clock, Cassie had whipped up a delicious black bean veggie burger on a wheat bun with oven-baked potatoes, pickles, and thick slices of Vidalia onion and beefsteak tomato.

  “Oh, my, Cassie! This is heavenly! Wherever did you find this stuff?”

  “There’s a new place in town, Mom. It’s called a supermarket. You should give it a try sometime.”

  “Very funny!”

  I rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher while Cassie filled Aggie’s water bowl and took her for a short walk. We met in the library—each taking up residence on one of the two comfortable sofas in front of the fireplace. Both French doors were open and the occasional evening breeze stirred the hems of the heavy draperies restlessly like the long skirts of indecisive ladies.

  After asking Cassie if she minded, I turned off the Chinese porcelain lamp on the sofa table. I wanted to watch the moon rise over the treetops.

  “How about a candle instead?” she suggested lazily. “There’s a one of those big fat ones on the hearth.”

  She sounded totally relaxed so I got up and found the candle and the box of long fireside matches.

  “Candlelight is so romantic,” she sighed.

  I curled back up on the sofa cushions, thinking that moonlight had candles beat all to hell, but then what did I know.

  “Do you suppose,” mused Cassie, “that Gran and Horatio have slept together, yet?”

  “Good grief, Cassie!” I sputtered, thankful for the darkness that hid the girlish blush on my cheeks.

  “Why shouldn’t they have sex?” she asked innocently.

  I thought about the decades that separated my daughter’s generation and that of my mother—years filled with changes that made it difficult for either of them to understand the attitudes of the other. I decided to take a stab at an explanation despite the warning bells going off in the periphery of my mind.

  “Fred Astaire, that’s why.”

  “Here we go with the old movie shtick again!” she complained.

  “Just give me a minute,” I begged. “Maybe you’ll understand Gran—and even me—a little better.”

  Her silence gave me all the permission I needed to launch my lecture. “Fred Astaire….”

  “Was a skinny, funny-looking, practically bald old guy who danced around with his hands in his pockets. Now, how romantic is that?” she interrupted.

  I didn’t have to see the sneer to know it was there. “Cassie, do you mind?”’

  “Oh, all right,” she grumbled.

  “It was the dream…” I began.

  “Pardon?”

  “If you will just give me a chance?” I snapped, throwing a needlepoint pillow in her direction. “He was a funny-looking, skinny old guy, I agree. But he stirred the imagination of every woman who watched him swirl around the dance floor. Those years of war and financial hardship were difficult in the real world, but on the big screen, life was beautiful, and for one hour and thirty-four minutes every woman in the audience could pretend to be in Fred’s arms—to be dressed in gorgeous clothes—to come and go from the theater in a limousine, and to step out of the chorus line and become a star.”

  “And the romance?” she yawned.

  “I’m coming to that,” I told her patiently. “It was never spoken—never ‘in your face’ like it is today. There were hints: eyes cast in a certain direction, a rose left on a pillow, an anonymous love letter—that made the heroine dream of a kiss stolen by a masked man in the moonlight. And that was the epitome, the high point of the affair. There was no bedroom scene—no sweaty groping under the sheets. It was delicate and sensitive, and….”

  “Boring!” interjected Cassie.

  “Not at all!” I insisted. “Quite the contrary. That kiss—that beautiful kiss in the moonlight, with the orchestra swelling in the background as the hero rode away on his magnificent horse—or sailed away on his pirate ship—or swung across the jungle on a vine—made your heart pound with excitement. And translated into everyday life—you sat in that theater with a pimply-faced boy sitting next to you, hoping for nothing more than that first tentative touch of his hand on yours. And when your hero finally did get up the nerve to grasp your sweaty palm—it was as if your souls joined those of the lovers on the screen. And believe me, Cassie, there’s nothing boring about sharing a life wi
th Katherine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy for an hour and a half.”

  When she made no response, I sat up on my knees and squinted across the room in the candlelight. “Cassie?”

  My daughter was sound asleep and snoring softly, but I was right and I knew it. And if Cassie had heard anything I said it was worth the effort. I slipped down in the corner of the sofa and closed my eyes to dream of D’Artagnan and the rest of the Musketeers.

  I’m not sure which sound woke me up—the sputtering of the candle in the wind, or the metallic scrape of the screen door opening. I lay still, trying to decide what was the best course of action. Should I jump up and scream, or pretend to be asleep. My inactivity solved the problem. The dark shadow moved inside the room so fast that I had no choice but to lie there - paralyzed by fear. It was the same dark-robed figure I had seen in Beth’s kitchen. I struggled against the mental chains that held me, and finally breaking loose, I screamed.

  “Mom! Mom! What’s wrong?” shouted Cassie as she shook me awake.

  “Wha…?”

  “You were screaming. Did you have a bad dream?” she asked, her voice filled with gentle concern.

  I wiped the sweat off my upper lip with a shaking hand and pulled myself to a sitting position. “I…I guess so,” I stammered.

  “Well, you certainly scared me to death! And poor little Aggie went running. If you’re sure you’re okay, I’ll go see about her.”

  With enormous effort, I withheld my absolutely negative opinion of Aggie as a watchdog and gave my daughter a reassuring smile. “Sure, Honey. I’m fine, really.”

  When Cassie left, I stood on trembling legs and took a deep breath. Moonlight now flooded the room—outlining every object so clearly that it was a moment or so before I realized the candle had indeed gone out. I glanced quickly at the screen door and sighed with relief when it appeared to be closed. Not until I got closer did I see that it really was standing open about three inches—wedged open with a small rock placed between the jamb and the bottom of the door.

  “What the hell?”

  I knelt down to examine the rock more closely and never saw the creep who clobbered me from behind.