The Poisoned Pen

by E. Joan Sims

  “Paisley! What a suggestion!”

  “Well, Mother, why weren’t they in the ‘lost and found’ department like they should have been?”

  “Mom’s right, Gran. And just wait until you see what your proper Miss Davis wears to catch her ‘zzz’s’.”

  Mother reluctantly agreed with us when we displayed the assortment of filmy nylon, satin, feathers and lace on the library desk.

  “Oh, my!” she exclaimed with dismay. “They really are astonishing.”

  “And this lot is nothing compared to the rest of her stuff!” declared Cassie. “Honestly, Gran, she had drawers full of things way more revealing—crotchless panties, bosom tassels, G-strings, thongs….”

  “That’s quite enough, dear. I do believe you. But what could Beth have possibly have done with all those things?”

  “You have to be kidding, Mother!”

  “You mean?”

  “Well, yes!”

  I watched her patrician features turn a charming shade of crimson, then slowly fade to porcelain as she struggled for control.

  “You have absolutely no proof of any such thing!” she declared.

  I picked up a single purple plume and blew it in her direction. “Don’t I?”

  “I’m sorry, dear, but it will take more than a few feathers to prove to me that a modest young woman like Beth Davis is a…well…a woman of questionable repute. As far as her choice of wardrobe goes…why, everyone has their little peccadilloes, even I.”

  Cassie laughed delightedly as she held up a garish red satin bra with sequined nipples. “You call this a peccadillo, Gran?”

  “Never mind that,” I grinned. “This is too good to be true.” I plopped down on the sofa, wincing as the tender spot on my head came into contact with the cushion. “Just what are these little peccadilloes of yours, Mother? Don’t tell me you’ve taken to sleeping in the buff?”

  “Of course not!” she denied heatedly. “You know perfectly well my feelings on that subject. I told you often enough when you were growing up: any number of things could happen during the nocturnal hours which would require one to be adequately dressed—a fire, a medical emergency, a natural disaster….”

  “Then what are they?” insisted Cassie.

  “What are what?” asked Mother absently, as she tucked an errant wisp of silver-white hair back into place and straightened her pearls.

  “Your peccadilloes,” I reminded her with exaggerated patience. “Your granddaughter actually thinks you’re going to slip up and reveal something intimate about yourself.” Suddenly, I remembered Horatio’s matrimonial plans. “Oh, my God!” I shouted, clapping my hands. “Speaking of revealing something intimate—what was your answer to Horatio’s proposal?”

  Mother stood abruptly and crossed over to the French doors—an action which effectively hid her face from us. “I would like a nice cup of tea,” she said quietly. “How about you, Cassie, dear?”

  “Sure, Gran, but what did….?”

  “I’ll have it ready in a jiffy,” Mother said as she left the room without another word.

  “Hummpf,” I grunted. “Wha’cha think about dem apples?”

  “She was very quiet last night,” observed Cassie thoughtfully. “I blamed it on your little misadventure, but maybe it had more to do with Horatio than your accident. I wonder what happened.”

  “Unless she orders flowers and a wedding cake we may never know,” I sighed. “Your grandmother is the most tight-lipped woman I ever knew.”

  “Not like us,” laughed Cassie.

  I grinned back at her. “No, not like us,” I agreed. “It must be our Latin blood.”

  “You know what, Mom? All of these undies have the same labels.”

  “Yeah?”

  “See,” she said, pointing to a little heart-shaped tag on the fuchsia gown. “They’re all from Lady Valentine’s, whoever that is.”

  “Maybe we should make it our business to find out.”

  When Cassie bought the coffee shop, she also invested in a brand new computer with all the trimmings and went online with a virtual catalogue displaying her wares. Her web site had proved almost as successful as the coffee shop itself. While I took a shower and re-invented myself as a person, she went downtown to surf the net for “Lady Valentine.”

  She got back in time to join me for lunch on the back porch. I surprised her by making a salad with all of her favorites: Feta cheese, sprouts, sunflower seeds, romaine, and Kalamata olives.

  “You’re really beginning to get the hang of this food thing, Mom,” she complimented with a smile. “Isn’t Gran having lunch?”

  I shrugged, trying to convey a levity I didn’t really feel. Mother had not answered when I knocked on her sitting room door earlier. I was worried about her, but there was nothing I could do but wait until she was ready, or willing, to confide in me.

  “What did you find out about Madame Valentine?” I asked in an effort to change the subject.

  Cassie was quiet for a moment, then grabbed her big leather handbag and pulled out a notebook. “‘Madame’ is right,” she laughed, “in a least one case, that is—Valentine’s House of Desire, in Ketchikan, Alaska, which advertises ‘the maximum of satisfied relaxation and….’”

  “Yes,” I prompted with a leer.

  “Oh, nothing…just something nasty about the North Pole. I can’t believe they got away with that on the Internet!”

  “So who is our Valentine?” I prompted.

  “Our Valentine’s is a lingerie and gift shop for ‘those special occasions.’ And you’ll never guess where it’s located!”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “On Highway Sixty-two—just outside of Morgantown in a strip mall near the army base.”

  “Figures.”

  Cassie grinned. “You up for a road trip? I’ll drive if you’re still ‘disoriented’.”

  Lady Valentine’s establishment was more of, well, more of everything than we could have ever imagined. At first glance, it was only a simple, square-shaped cement block building—what made it unusual was the bright and shiny coat of cotton-candy pink paint and the red neon hearts which pulsed with electronic arrhythmia around the edges of the roof.

  “Wow!”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “It looks like….”

  “Mom! Be nice!”

  “I am nice.”

  “You know what I mean. Be nice when we go inside. If you start making cute remarks, I’ll leave—I swear!”

  I worked up the sweetest, most innocent smile I could muster and advanced to the door of the shop just two steps behind my judgmental offspring. A band of corpulent pink cupids hand-painted across the transom almost caused me to lose it, but I heeded Cassie’s warning just in time to quell an incipient giggle.

  The opening of the shop door must have triggered some recording device because we were greeted by the swelling, romantic strains of “Unchained Melody.” as we entered.

  “My God,” I whispered. “It’s like stepping inside a candy box.”

  “Mom!”

  “Okay, okay.”

  But I was right. Frothy items covered with lace and satin ribbons decorated every corner and counter in the shop. Three tiered carousels filled with colorful silk under-things filled a center aisle that led through the shop to a huge satin canopied bed at the end. A sense of deja vu filled me as I realized that the bed in Beth’s house had been modeled on this very one. Except for the color scheme—this one was in various shades and permutations of pink and reds—they were identical.

  This time it was Cassie’s turn to be amazed.

  “Wow!” she whispered, her breath warm against my ear.

  We both jumped when a pleasant voice called out.

  “Hello, my dears! Welcome to my little shop. I can tell from the delighted wonder on your faces that this is your first visit to Lady Valentine’s. How may I help you?”

  The plump and pleasant looking woman could have been anyone’s charming little grandmother. Bright blue eye
s sparkled above rosy cheeks, a pert little nose, and a cupid’s bow of a mouth. An expertly tinted blonde halo puffed out above her ears and made her seem taller than she actually was. She had further enhanced her presence by choosing a shiny silk caftan of gem-colored stripes shot with gold threads. She looked like a cross between Mrs. Pillsbury Dough-boy, Sr., and a Christopher Radko Christmas tree ornament.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” she repeated with a winsome smile.

  Her manner was so delightful, so appealing—I was completely mesmerized into making my first mistake.

  “We need some information about purchases made in the last year by Bethlehem Davis,” I announced naively, then watched in amazement as the woman shed her amiability like a snake sheds its skin—from the eyes down. Those bright blue orbs narrowed and grew cold as the soft contours of her body sharpened into angles and she assumed a hostile stance—ready to strike at a moments notice.

  “Who wants to know? Who are you? You don’t look like cops to me.”

  “Ah…we’re not, cops, I mean. We’re…ah, friends,” I explained, after searching my brain rapidly for a plausible answer. “Beth has disappeared and we’re trying to find her.”

  “How kind of you,” she sneered.

  “We’re very worried about her, Lady Valentine. My grandmother….”

  “And just who is your grandmother?” interrupted the woman angrily.

  “Anna Howard Sterling,” replied Cassie in a meek little voice.

  The three little words that had gotten us entrée into so many places in the past worked their magic once again.

  “John Sterling’s wife,” she said with the tiniest of smiles.

  “You knew my grandfather?” gasped Cassie.

  “Don’t be so shocked, you pompous little twit!” ordered Lady Valentine, as the twinkle returned to her eyes and her smile broadened. “Come! I’ll fix you a cup of tea and then decide if you’re worth my time or not.”

  We followed in her shiny, iridescent wake as she led us through a curtain into a small kitchenette at the back of the shop. In just a few minutes she had a kettle boiling merrily on the stove and the two of us seated across from her at a cozy little kitchen table. She poured the water over tea leaves in a lovely china teapot and placed it on the table where she had already arranged dainty cups and saucers, and a plate of pink frosted heart-shaped sugar cookies.

  “First of all,” she began as she poured the tea through a silver strainer, “my name is Edna Brown, and my association with your grandfather was purely professional.”

  Cassie turned as pink as the cookie she had at her lips. “Wha…wha do you mean?” she stammered.

  Edna Brown stared at her for a second, then burst into a deeply appreciated belly laugh. Cassie turned even redder while I kept my mouth shut for once and enjoyed the moment.

  Finally, Edna pulled herself together and wiped the tears from her eyes with a tiny white napkin as fine as any in my mother’s linen chest. “Rest easy, child,” she gasped. “Don’t let your imagination run away from you. John Sterling was a fine man. I would be the last person to try and tarnish his reputation.” She smiled again for the first time since I had put my foot in my mouth—only this time the smile was genuine. “Your grandfather helped my son get a football scholarship. Donnie was the first person in our family to have a chance at higher education. He would have made it, too,” she added proudly.

  I held my breath for the sad tidings I suspected would follow, but Edna surprised me once again.

  “Donnie,” she continued, “he took a job out West that summer before college and fell in love with the life out there. He took up roots, became a forest ranger, married a girl from Boulder. Now I have five, or is it six?…grand babies. My son didn’t take the road offered, but nevertheless, I can’t thank John Sterling enough for giving a fatherless boy direction.” She made a sudden move toward me. “So what do you want to know about Beth Davis?” she said, patting me on the cheek.

  “Well, for starters,” I responded. “What did she buy and when?”

  “I could look it up for you to be absolutely sure, but my memory’s as good as ever and if that will do…?”

  “Absolutely,” I encouraged, not wanting her to have any second thoughts.

  Edna was quiet for a moment, pondering. “At first Beth was shy and tentative—quite modest in her purchases. Six months later she came back for a couple of my more exciting outfits…” Edna sat up straight and thrust out her bosom. She looked like a preening parakeet. “…then a few weeks after that she came back and quite boldly asked about certain bizarre items used in kinky bedroom activities. I made it quite clear to her that Lady Valentine deals in romance, not perversion,” she sniffed. “But she didn’t seem to mind. Said she would look on the Internet for the other stuff. Then she bought lots of my more, er, slinky outfits with feathers and sequins, and the bed things: satin sheets, pillowcases—all of that.”

  “All of that must have set her back a pretty penny,” I suggested, hoping for Edna’s

  appraisal of Beth’s financial situation.

  “You get what you pay for,” she replied enigmatically. “When she first came in the shop I knew I had a customer for life. If ever a young woman lives in her head, that one does—I said to myself.”

  “When was that?” interrupted Cassie. “I mean, when did she first start coming here?”

  Edna paused as she poured fresh tea into our cups. “Again, I’d have to check my books to be certain—but I almost be willing to swear it was twenty-six months and three days ago.”

  I laughed. “If that’s a wild guess, it’s pretty specific.”

  “It’s not a guess, honey,” she said with a grin. “I was just showing off. Lady Valentine’s celebrated its second anniversary a little over two months ago. Beth Davis was one of my first customers.”

  “What do you mean by saying Beth ‘lived in her head’?”

  “I could tell by the way she dressed—the little things she did to try to and spice up her wardrobe. Paper flowers, butterflies—cheap and tacky, maybe; but she probably had visions of herself in a tropical garden wearing flowers behind her ears. And she was always kinda’ quiet. Never tried anything on—just stared at things with a spacey look until she made her decisions. Then she took what she wanted in all three sizes—Nymphet, Enchantress, and Goddess.”

  “Which is?”

  “Small, medium and large, of course.”

  “But, why all three?” asked Cass.

  “Go figure! One of the reasons Lady Valentine’s has been such a success is that Edna Brown never asks any questions. What I don’t know pays the bills and the rest goes into my brokerage account.”

  I could tell from the sound of her voice that even though Edna Brown might be willing to tell us more, Lady Valentine was being politely dismissive. Not wanting to offend her in case we might have more questions at a later date, I took up her cue and rose to leave.

  “Thanks for everything, Ms. er, Lady Valentine,” said Cass, with a smile. “I really enjoyed looking around your shop. Maybe someday when I have more time….”

  I placed an open palm in the small of my daughter’s back and gave a her firm shove toward the door, reminding myself to have a discussion with her on the way home about what was appropriate in ladies lingerie.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “You’re hardly the last word on what is or isn’t appropriate for a southern lady’s underwear wardrobe, Mom!” observed my daughter.

  “No, but your grandmother is, and I distinctly remember what she had to say on the subject when I was your age: absolutely nothing but white, ivory, or the palest pink.”

  “Humph!”

  “Go ahead. Ask her!”

  When she didn’t keep up her end of our bantering I decided Cassie must have settled back for a catnap. She surprised me when she asked, “I guess our trip was wasted, huh?”

  I pondered that point for a moment before I answered.

  “Maybe n
ot. It’s always encouraging to see the entrepreneurial spirit succeed.”

  “Don’t kid around, Mom. We don’t know any more now than we did before we drove all the way over here.”

  “That’s not exactly true. We found just one more in a long list of kind things your grandfather did for others, and one more person who remembers him with fondness. And we know that Beth had a tutor—or mentor who was guiding her every move.”

  “Edna Brown?”

  “Goodness, no. Someone else. A Swengali who took a timid little paper butterfly and step by step turned her into a blackmailing Mata Hari.”

  “You’re making that up so this won’t seem like a wild goose chase!”

  “Deduction, my dear Cassandra, deduction, pure and simple—and,” I added enigmatically, “my recollection of something Horatio said the other night.”

  “What?”

  “You were eavesdropping. Figure it out.”

  No matter how much she badgered me, I refused to tell Cassie what I was talking about. After a few fruitless guesses, she slumped down in her seat and took the nap I was counting on. I needed some quiet time to think.

  I barely heard her soft snores as I went over my mental checklist. Fact number one: Bethlehem Davis was blackmailing, or extorting money from, or whatever the technical term was, at least three of Rowan Springs “finest” citizens. Fact number two: before she asked for money, Beth merely wanted entrée into the inner circle of the movers and shakers in our fair city. Since nobody moves or shakes very much without Horatio knowing about it, I would have to get him to break down and name names. And I would have to find out what Beth held over their heads to make sense of facts number three through twenty—which encompassed everything from the disappearing manuscript to the fuchsia feathers still floating around inside Watson.

  Cassie woke up just as we drove up to the house. The afternoon sun was low on the horizon and a few of the more daring bunnies were creeping out of the hedges for their dinner of the sweet clover that grew in profusion underneath the pear trees.

  “Hungry?” I asked as I watched them play. “We can see if Gran wants to drive down to Sallie’s.”