The Poisoned Pen

by E. Joan Sims

“I’m pooped, Mom,” she admitted. “I didn’t sleep very well last night. I think I’ll go finish my nap. You go ahead with Gran if you want.”

  I left Watson in the driveway and went in search of Mother. I finally found her sitting on the pretty wrought iron bench she had given me last year.

  “Your moon garden really is quite lovely, Paisley.”

  “Thank, you,” I said as I plopped down on the soft grass beside the bench.

  “I’ve been sitting here for over an hour. The peace and quiet, it’s so soothing. Like a balm to a troubled mind.”

  I turned quickly away from performing an aphid check on the bottom leaves of my newest rose bush. “Oh, God! What have I done now?”

  She smiled and looked directly at me for the first time. “You?” she laughed. “Nothing, dear. Although you know how I feel about your wearing jeans all the time.”

  I sighed dramatically and lay back in the grass, my arms crossed behind my head for a pillow. “If I had anything else on I couldn’t enjoy myself like this, and you’d be fussing about grass stains all the time like you used to when I was little.”

  It was her time to sigh—a quiet, sad little sound. “You’re right, dear. I wasn’t as understanding a mother with you and Velvet as you have been with our dear Cassandra.”

  “Wow!”

  “Surprised that I will admit it?” she smiled. “I’ve been meaning to tell you that for some time now.” She shook her head gently. “Why is it we always put off saying the really important things?”

  She nervously fingered the pearls at her throat before she continued. “My mother used to tell me that most women can be either good wives or good mothers—only a fortunate few can be both.” She patted my knee absently. “I like to think that if you had a chance—if your Rafe had not disappeared—you could have been one of those fortunate few.” She straightened her shoulders and leaned back in the bench. “I was the good wife—a devoted, loving wife to your father. He was my everything—the very reason for my being.”

  She paused for a moment to gain control of her emotions. “We’ve never talked about these things before, Paisley. If it makes you uncomfortable….?”

  I sat up quickly and took her hands in mine. Her slender fingers were cold. I warmed them for a moment in my clasp. “Mother, I’m fine. But you don’t have to….”

  “But I do, you see. You should know how I feel, and besides,” she added with a faintly ironic little smile, “I’m rehearsing.”

  I bit my lip to keep from saying anything, but I knew what was coming.

  “When your father and I were young I always thought that the moment one of us died the other’s heart would cease to beat as well. I couldn’t imagine either of us having a reason to breathe without the other. We were so very much in love, and our love only grew stronger as the years passed. It was a storybook romance, Paisley,” she said with a tone of wonder in her voice. “The perfect love—I was so blessed to have that in my life.”

  The light of the fading afternoon glistened on the single tear that rolled down her cheek. “Horatio is my best friend. He has been my best friend since we were three years old. But when I die, I want nothing more than to spend eternity in up in Cedar Hill cemetery next to John Sterling. So you see, it simply would not be fair to marry Horatio. How can I marry a man—how can I share his bed and not his grave?”

  I couldn’t help it. God forgive me, I started laughing. “You mean,” I sputtered, “you mean you’re turning down poor old Horatio who worships the very ground you walk upon just because you want to be planted next to Dad? Surely you two could work something out? Maybe he would agree to a little plot at your feet—sort of a ménage a trois with the grim reaper.”

  She stared at me in disbelief, anger slowly replacing the sadness in her eyes. “How could you?” she gasped. “How could you belittle my love for your father?”

  “Whoa!” I said angrily as I stood and brushed the grass from my jeans. “I’m not doing anything of the sort. I’ve always known how you felt about Dad. Believe me, I understand better than anyone - how you feel. Why in the world do think I never remarried. I may not have had that Romeo and Juliet thing going with Rafe, but it was pretty damn good while it lasted. I’ve just never found anyone else who compared. But, Horatio….”

  “That’s quite enough, Paisley! Why in the world did I try to unburden myself to you? You’re much too easily amused to take anything seriously!”

  She flounced out of my moon garden, angrily slapping aside the trailing jasmine and leaving a hint of it’s bruised fragrance in her wake.

  I stood there for a moment and watched her retreating back as I tried to decide whether or not to follow and continue our argument. I settled for a parting shot. “Why don’t you admit the truth?” I shouted. “You’re just plain chicken!”

  I sat angrily on the cold metal bench, bruising my tailbone and worsening my mood. I was mad at Mother, but mostly I was mad at myself. She was merely being a silly goose. I was an insufferable brat. I should have forgiven her propensity to be a bit maudlin and then gentled her into seeing the error of her ways. Instead, all I had succeeded in doing was to make absolutely certain that she and Horatio would never have a happy ending.

  “Damn!”

  “Way to go, Mom.”

  “You heard?”

  “Couldn’t help but hear. I was taking a nap in the guest room and the windows were open.”

  “You planned it! You little imp! You know what they say about eavesdropping—someday you’ll hear something you don’t want to.”

  She laughed and set a tray of sandwiches and drinks between us on the bench.

  “Peace offering?”

  “Sure. Why not,” I sighed. “I can’t afford to piss anybody else off.”

  “She’ll get over it.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think she’ll change her mind?”

  I shook my head and finished chewing. “I probably made sure of that myself.” I lifted up a corner of my bread and peeked cautiously inside. “What is this stuff?”

  “Smoked tofu. Isn’t it delicious?”

  “No!” I put down the sandwich and turned to face my daughter. “How could I have been so stupid, Cassie?”

  “You do have a knack for it, Mom.”

  “Gee, thanks a lot. I feel much better.”

  “You’re not supposed to feel better. You really hurt Gran’s feelings.”

  I felt myself getting irritated again. “She’s made a mausoleum of your grandfather’s memory. She can’t keep living in the past.”

  “That’s not for you to say.”

  “How come you’re so smart, Miss Know-It-All?”

  “I listen to other people conversations. More tofu?”

  “Ugh!”

  “Not to change the subject—but I’m dying to know. What did Horatio say to make you think Beth Davis had an accomplice?”

  I ran my fingers through my hair and tried to shake off the anger and sadness I had felt since my conversation with Mother. “I told you that same night,” I sighed.

  “Refresh my memory.”

  It had gotten dark while we talked. A big peach-colored moon drifted slowly up from the horizon to cast a golden reflection in my gazing ball and at that moment I realized my garden was perfect. It was everything I had hoped for and dreamed of—full of beauty, fragrance and peace. And I was miserable.

  “Mom? Horatio, remember?”

  “Yeah, well…a new voice…he said her blackmail letters had changed.”

  “Changed? How?”

  “Money for one thing. She started asking for money, and he didn’t say this exactly, but I got the idea that she was making nasty threats. And Bruce said something about video tapes….”

  “Bruce? What’s he got to do with this?”

  “Well, just damn! I can’t be trusted to do anything right. Bruce will never confide in me again. I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone that, but I guess you won’t let it go. Correct?
”

  She nodded vigorously.

  I was thoroughly disgusted with myself, but I knew Cassie would hound me until I told her everything. I sounded tired and dispirited even to myself as I told her.

  “Beth threatened to show an incriminating video tape to the wife of one of Bruce’s clients. The tape was made in her fancy purple boudoir.”

  “Wow! That really doesn’t sound like Beth. No wonder Horatio thinks someone else in on this. What do we do next, Mom?”

  “What do you mean ‘we’? This whole thing has taken a nasty turn, Cassie. I don’t think there should be any more ‘we’ involved in this. If I keep looking for Beth, it’s going to be on my lonesome.”

  She stood up and threw the rest of her sandwich on the tray. “You always do this, Mom! You get me all excited and worked up about something and then just when it starts to get interesting, you pull the plug! How much longer do you think you can control me with this ‘mother knows best’ routine? I’m an adult now, you know!”

  And once again I was alone with nothing but the stars and the crickets for company.

  “Stupid moon garden!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I had a ridiculous dream that night. Horatio and Mother danced madly around my moon garden on stilts. They were wearing elegant evening clothes topped off with elaborate headgear made of feathers and sequins. When the big clock on the courthouse struck midnight, Horatio threw their hats into the air. As they floated back to the ground I could see the hats were really scanties from Lady Valentines. I tried to pick one up but Aggie swooped in and grabbed it out of my hands. She went running back down the lane with me hot on her heels, screaming for Cassie to come and help me.

  “Mom! Mom! Wake up!”

  Cassie pounded on my pillow and shook me.

  “Wha’s….?”

  “You had another bad dream. You were screaming for me at the top of your lungs!”

  “Aggie,” I mumbled. “Aggie has the panties.”

  “Oh, for goodness sakes! You’re beginning to worry me, Mom. What’s wrong with you? These dreams are getting out of hand.”

  I struggled upright in bed and turned on my bedside lamp. The light blinded us both for a minute, but not before I saw that Cassie was still fully dressed.

  “Hey, what’s up with you? You going somewhere?”

  She turned away so that I wouldn’t see her face and mumbled, “Maybe. What’s it to ya?”

  Anger prickled the hairs on the back of my neck. “Now, see here, Missy! That borders on….”

  Cassie sighed and fell heavily back on the bed, “Rats!”

  Aggie heard her and yelped from somewhere behind closed doors.

  “What is going on, Cassie? Why do you have Aggie locked up? Not that it isn’t a good idea.”

  She raised up on one elbow to face me. “It’s all your fault, you know.”

  “Well, I’m sure of that—whatever it is. I’m a mother. It comes with the territory.”

  “You wouldn’t let me help. So I was going to find Beth on my own and show you I was good for something after all.”

  I suspected the little catch in her voice was a theatrical touch, but nevertheless, she made her point. I felt like a heel.

  “I’m just trying to….”

  “I know, I know! You’re trying to protect me! And you should! I know you love me, Mom; but if you trusted me you’d give me some space.”

  “Cassie, that line didn’t work when you were seventeen. Haven’t you had a creative thought since then?”

  She bounced up on the bed and crossed her legs Indian style. Her brown eyes sparkled and her voice was full of excitement. “You bet I have! Trade?”

  “Trade what?” I asked, with a chuckle.

  “Let me be your ‘really truly sidekick’ with no holds barred. Promise me you won’t say, ‘I’m afraid this is too dangerous for you, Cassie,’ even once, and I’ll tell you.”

  “Tell me what”

  “Promise?”

  We had been down this road many times. I loved my daughter more than she could even guess, but she was right. It was time for me to let her have some space. I tried to comfort myself with the knowledge that the space she wanted was by my side instead of somewhere in sub-Saharan Africa with the Peace Corps, or in a cheap third floor walk-up in New York City with a hairy wanna-be actor.

  “Promise.” The catch in my own throat was genuine. “Now, go let Aggie out and fix us some hot chocolate. I’ll meet you in the library after I splash some water on my face.”

  “Super! Thanks, Mom! You’re the best!”

  When she was gone I blew my nose on a tissue from the box Mother kept placing by the side of my bed no matter how many times I removed it. I knew why she put it there and it made me mad to think she would believe that I still blew my nose on the sheets like I did when I was a child. I carried the box with me to the bathroom and left it there after I washed my face and brushed my hair back in a tangled ponytail.

  I glanced in the mirror, hoping I wouldn’t see a woman old enough to have a twenty-three year old daughter, but son-of-a-gun, there she was—great cheekbones, maybe, and eyes still green and bright, but the tiniest of lines were gathering at the corners in readiness for the battle to come—the battle between time and me—the one I wouldn’t win.

  I slipped into a cozy robe and house slippers, and shuffled into the library. Cassie already had the hot chocolate and a plate of buttered toast waiting on the low table between the two red chintz sofas.

  “Ummm, this is yummy, Cassie. Thanks.”

  “Sorry about before, Mom. I probably wouldn’t have really sneaked out of the house. I was just considering it real hard.”

  “I know.”

  “But you won’t take back your promise, will you?”

  “Have I ever taken back a promise?”

  She wiped chocolate and marshmallow off her mouth with one of Mother’s linen napkins and grinned back. “Just the one about the pony.”

  I laughed. “Don’t go there, girlfriend.” I set my cup down on the tray and grabbed another toast corner. “Now how about your part of the bargain—what’s your great idea?”

  “Interviews!”

  The delight in her voice made me smile, but at three o’clock in the morning what she said made no sense at all. “Pardon?”

  “The morning that Beth Davis came out here to see you she was talking to Gran about a series of interviews she had written for the newspaper last year. It was called, ‘A Modest Collection of Recollections.’”

  “Sounds like our Beth, all right,” I sneered.

  “Don’t be mean, Mom.” She stuck her finger in the foamy residue of marshmallow on the inside of her cup and sucked the sweetness thoughtfully. “The interesting part is that she interviewed all kinds of people: a banker, a minister, a farmer, a basketball player, even an eighty-year old woman who used to be an exotic dancer.”

  I yawned. I was tired of Bethlehem Davis. She had been more trouble than she was worth.

  “And?”

  “And, well…I think we should read those articles. We might find a clue.”

  The next morning I reluctantly followed my daughter to the Whitherspoon Public Library. When we were told that an accident involving a water pipe and a carpenter’s errant drill had caused a flood in the basement where the newspapers were, I gladly turned on my heels and prepared to leave.

  “But,” called the perky assistant librarian, “I’m sure the Gazette office will have every back issue in the computer, or on microfilm. My cousin works there. I’ll call him and tell him you’re coming. Just ask for ‘Mike’.”

  ‘Mike’ turned out to be a grumpy ex-typesetter on the mean side of sixty. Except for the few thin wisps of faded brown that stuck up at odd angles over his large ears and forehead, he was almost bald. His eyes were sharp and quick behind narrow steel rimmed glasses, and the nicotine stains on his fingers and caffeine stains on his teeth confirmed his nervous habits.

  “Dang computers!�
�� he complained vehemently. “Can’t ever get ’em to work right!” He gave the hapless monitor on the front desk a resounding thump with his fist. “Gladys! Come out here and fix this dang thing! The picture went all dark again.”

  A tidy little woman with a worried look on her otherwise pleasant face came at a half trot from some inner office. “Michael, if you’ve broken another….! Excuse me, ladies,” she apologized. “I didn’t know anyone was here.” She gently pulled Mike to one side and fiddled with the computer for a moment. “You’re lucky!” she said with a relieved smile. “It’ll just have to re-boot.”

  “Well, these gals want some back issues of the paper. Should I take them down to the morgue?”

  “Yes, if you please, Michael. Take the ‘ladies’ down to the ‘archives.’ I’d do it myself but I’m….”

  “Then do it yourself. I’m goin’on a break.”

  The little woman sighed with exasperation as Mike stormed out pulling a bag of Red Dog chew from his back pocket. “You’ll have to excuse Michael,” she said. “Ever since we computerized he’s been feeling like a fifth wheel. Typesetting was the only job he ever knew. I wish he would go ahead and retire, but he loves the newspaper. Has more facts in his stubborn old head than anyone in Rowan Springs. He’s a walking encyclopedia and nobody cares.” She smiled. “Well, maybe me. I care; but then we’ve been married for forty years.”

  Gladys led us to a back staircase that was steeper than I liked, and descended with the agility of a mountain goat. After flipping on a bank of overhead florescent lights, she pointed out a row of file cabinets against one wall of the stuffy basement room.

  “You’ll probably find whatever you’re looking for in those files,” she said. “Help yourself to the table and chairs, ladies. Just, please remember to put things back in the right drawers.”

  By design we had been vague about our exact mission so when Gladys hurried back upstairs we looked at each other in consternation.

  “Where do we start, Mom?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea, kiddo. This is your show. I’m just along for the ride.”

  She got lucky with the third drawer. “Here it is! ‘Bethlehem Davis—Recollections, notes and background’!”