by Gail Oust
Leaving Claudia and BJ to their own devices, I steered our mingling toward Todd Timmons and his companion.
“Do you ever get the urge to break out of cable, hit the majors, CBS or NBC?” I heard Todd ask. Yep, the man was a sports announcer all right, and Todd was schmoozing.
“I don’t have any complaints.” The man shrugged, sipped his drink. “Cable’s been good to me. Meet a lot of interesting people. Get to spend most of my time outdoors instead of cooped up in some stuffy studio.”
Todd aped his mannerisms, sipping with studied casualness. “Not me. I’d walk away in a heartbeat if I got the right offer.”
“To get the right offer, you gotta have the right ratings. It’s all about the numbers, my friend. All about the numbers,” he repeated. He looked at his empty glass and grinned. “Guess I need a refill. See you around.”
Todd’s eyes followed the man as he vanished into the crush of people. With Bill in tow, I quickly blocked Todd’s path before he had a chance to move off. “Todd, isn’t it?” I said, giving him a wide smile. “Nice to see a familiar face in this mob. I was just telling my friend Bill that you were an important TV producer. Bill’s never met anyone in television before, much less an actual producer.” The ol’ reel-’em-in-with-flattery technique works like a charm most every time.
Todd summoned a weak smile and offered his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Bill’s an engineer,” I volunteered. “That is, he was before he retired.”
“That right?” Todd asked, his tone bored.
“A chemical engineer actually. Bill worked for one of those big cereal companies in Battle Creek. That’s in Michigan, you know.” Honestly, from the way I was carrying on, you’d think I was Mattel’s model for their Chatty Cathy doll.
“Hmm.” Todd’s eyes swept the room for someone, anyone, who might further his career. Someone more powerful than a retired chemical engineer from Cereal City. I’d seen that same cunning expression during Belle Beaute’s reception at the Marriott. A very ambitious young man, Todd Timmons.
I proceeded to squeeze more grease on the flattery wheel. “Bill, did you know Todd’s program, How Does Your Garden Grow? is the gardening equivalent of Paula’s Home Cooking?”
Bill, the dear, sweet man, rose to the occasion, trying valiantly to keep the leaky conversation balloon afloat. “That’s quite an accomplishment. Your show must be seen by millions of viewers.”
“Don’t I wish,” he said glumly, then shrugged. “Now that Bascomb’s out of the picture maybe ratings will pick up. The man had no presence on TV, none at all. Might as well have been taping a statue.” He held out his empty glass and shook it, making the ice cubes rattle. “Excuse me, folks, but I’m in need of further refreshment.”
“What’s your impression of the guy?” I asked Bill as Todd vanished into the crowd. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Claudia and BJ off in a corner…canoodling, for want of a better word. My inner radar—sometimes referred to as women’s intuition—went on red alert. There was definitely something going on between the pair.
Bill stared in the direction Todd had taken. “Timmons strikes me as a young man who’ll go to any length to get ahead.”
“Even murder…?”
The question still hung between us, unanswered, when Connie Sue hurried over with Claudia and BJ not far behind. “Wait till y’all hear what I just discovered.” Connie Sue’s words tumbled over themselves in haste.
We closed ranks around her, eager to learn what had put the sparkle in her eyes. I ruled out wine because we hadn’t been here long enough. Even Bill stepped in closer, not wanting to miss a juicy morsel.
“All right, girlfriend, dish!” I ordered, not the most patient person on the planet.
“Well, y’all,” Connie Sue drawled in that lazy Scarlett O’Hara way of hers, “Mary Jo and I got to rehashin’ old times. When you haven’t seen someone in an age, there’s a heap of catchin’ up to do. You know how it is.”
“Connie Sue!” Claudia sounded exasperated. “Get to the point before my toes start cramping in these high heels.”
Connie Sue smiled, a cat-with-a-canary type smile. “Mary Jo told me that Betsy Dalton was once engaged. Had her weddin’ dress and everythin’—then got dumped.”
Hmm…Interesting, but hardly world-shattering. “I feel sorry for Betsy, of course, but she’s not the first woman to get dumped. Why the big deal?”
“Because, sugar”—Connie Sue paused for effect, clearly reveling in her role as drama diva—“the ‘dumper’ in this case happens to be none other than Vaughn Bascomb.”
“Betsy…engaged to Vaughn?”
Connie Sue nodded vigorously. “And that’s not all.”
Our little knot of people tightened.
Connie Sue dropped her voice. “The woman he dropped her for was none other than our hostess with the mostess—the esteemed Dr. Sheila Rappaport.”
“That makes for an awkward situation,” BJ said at last.
And that, my friends, as they’d say in the movie industry, is a wrap.
Or so I thought. But Connie Sue wasn’t finished yet. “Here’s somethin’ else for y’all to chew on. Mary Jo said Betsy isn’t the sort to forgive and forget. She’s part Sicilian—and that part’s out for revenge.”
Revenge?
Bill and I exchanged glances. From the wink he gave me, I could tell we were reading the same page. Bill, I’ll have you know, is the star pupil at the Kate McCall Motive-Means-Opportunity School of Detectivology.
I knew what I had to do. Digging my cell phone out of my purse, I started snapping pictures of “persons of interest.”
And this time I pressed SAVE.
Chapter 23
If I wanted to murder a person, how would I go about it?
I’d tried to sleep, but finally gave up and crawled out of bed. Every muscle in my body screamed in protest. Yesterday, I’d dug holes, planted the plants I purchased both at Lowe’s and Dixie Gardens, and fertilized until I was ready to drop. Now I was paying the price. Bill had offered his help, but Sunday was his day to work as a ranger on the golf course. He told me to wait. But did I listen? No, I was too eager for those babies to sink their little tentacles—“roots” in garden jargon—deep into the red South Carolina clay. I hobbled into the great room and sank into a corner of the sofa. Moonlight spilled into the room, making it glow milky-white. Outdoors, tree frogs serenaded. I was content to sit in the semi-dark and think even darker thoughts.
How would I kill someone?
I tried to put myself in a murderer’s shoes. Would I choose a gun? No, a gun was too noisy. A knife? Too messy. Strangulation? No, watching someone’s eyes bulge out wasn’t my cup of tea.
That left…poison.
Poison was an entirely different animal. A pill or two sprinkled in the oatmeal. A drop of this or that in the tomato soup. Voilà, the victim keeled over. Nice and tidy. No noise, no mess, no bulging eyeballs. The perp could be miles away when his victim keeled over. Yes, poison would top my list.
If Sheila’s hypothesis was correct, whoever tried to kill her and Vaughn would try again. In the meantime, the sheriff dilly-dallied, waiting for an incriminating report generated by a faceless, nameless technician in Columbia. The man needed my help; he just didn’t know it yet. It was time to become proactive.
From my brief journey into horticulture, I’d learned weapons of destruction could be found in almost every home, yard, and garden. Veritable arsenals stockpiled in the form of toxic plants and shrubs. Oleander, hydrangeas, angel’s trumpet, and even the ubiquitous azaleas were suspect. And who knew toxic plants better than persons schooled in botany or horticulture? I was inundated with a veritable garden of suspects. Roger, Todd, and Betsy were odds-on favorites. Kel Watson also ranked high on my list. Even Rita wasn’t exempt from suspicion—even though in my humble estimation she wouldn’t harm a fly. Though Rita might not have Sheila’s credentials, she was my go-to person for all things green and growing. She st
ored a wealth of knowledge inside that head of hers and wasn’t overly fond of her former roommate. Jealousy was a proven motive for murder and mayhem throughout the ages. Not that I suspected Rita. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again, my friends don’t kill people.
Eventually I dozed, but woke at daybreak feeling energized. I knew exactly what I had to do to get this show on the road. By the time Bill arrived to continue work on my bookshelves I was showered and dressed for the day. I’d even baked blueberry muffins to go along with our morning coffee.
“I’ve got a couple errands to run in town,” I said as I headed out the door fueled by caffeine and sugar. I’m not sure if Bill heard me leave over the buzz of the drill.
Twenty minutes later I slid the Buick into a parking space in front of the sheriff’s office. Popping the trunk, I picked up Exhibit A and Exhibit B. Staggering under the weight of a three-gallon container in each arm, I nudged open the door with my hip.
Tammy Lynn jumped up and came around her desk. “Here, ma’am. Let me help.”
“Thanks, Tammy Lynn,” I said, handing her one that had started to slip.
“Miz McCall…Kate? Is that you behind all these leaves and stuff?”
“This place is much too drab. I thought it could use some brightening up.” I knew this would get a rise out of her, and it did.
“Oh, ma’am, Sheriff Wiggins likes it nice and drab,” she protested. “I heard him say many a time, ‘No sense wastin’ tax payers’ dollars prettyin’ up a place for a pack of no-accounts who can’t manage to stay out of trouble.”
I chuckled at hearing this. “Don’t worry, dear, these beauties aren’t decoration. I have a more utilitarian purpose in mind for them.”
“Glad to hear that, ma’am. I remember the sheriff bein’ none too pleased when you brought him that ivy some months back.”
The ivy, I recalled, had been a disaster of the worst kind. It was meant as a simple friendly gesture. A small token of appreciation to a host or hostess, a custom ingrained in me since childhood. The ivy looked innocent enough. Until it sprang a leak that swiftly turned into a river, running all over a stack of summonses, subpoenas, and what-have-yous.
I deposited the pot I carried next to the one Tammy Lynn had placed on the floor near her desk and brushed dirt from my hands. “Would you kindly inform Sheriff Wiggins I’d like to speak with him?”
Tammy Lynn, her expression doubtful, looked from me to the tubs of plants. “Ah, ma’am, I, er…”
I exhaled a sigh. “Please, Tammy Lynn, just tell him I’m here. And,” I added, “don’t think for a minute I’m going to fall for one his lame excuses.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I settled into my usual spot, prepared to wait it out, while Tammy Lynn relayed my message. Luckily, I’d had the foresight to drop by Books on Main, Friends of the Library’s used book store, and picked up a couple paperbacks to help while away the time. One of the books was devoted to gardening tips in the South. I leafed through the yellowed pages hoping to identify even more plants with homicidal tendencies. I peeked up from my reading to find Tammy Lynn calmly sorting reports. I wondered how the girl could keep her calm working day in, day out, for a grouchy ol’ sheriff. Maybe she was on antidepressants. Or a saint?
Tammy Lynn checked a wall clock, then turned to me. “Sheriff Wiggins said to have you wait ten minutes until he finished a call, then send you on back.”
I tucked my book away, then hefted a plant in each arm. Crooking my head to the right, I managed to peek between the branches—barely.
“Sheriff Wiggins asked that…”
“I know, I know,” I said as I marched down the hallway. “He’s a busy man.”
Tammy Lynn scuttled ahead of me and pushed open the office door. Taking one of the plants from me, she set it on the corner of his desk, then beat a hasty retreat.
“What the blazes…!”
“Morning, Sheriff.” I placed the remaining plant on the opposite desk corner so I’d have only a partially obstructed view of my favorite lawman.
“Miz McCall, I don’t know what you’re up to, but I don’t have time—or the patience—for a social call.”
I took a seat, crossed my legs, and smiled grimly. “This isn’t a social call. It’s business—strictly business.”
The way he glowered at the plants, I expected them to wither right before my very eyes. Amazingly, they continued to bloom. “It isn’t Christmas, and it isn’t my birthday. Can we call a moratorium on the gift-givin’?”
“Time’s a-wasting, Sheriff,” I said, borrowing a phrase from his dictionary. “I thought you might like a head start on solving a murder case.” I sensed a scowl hiding behind a hydrangea.
“Kindly state your business, Miz McCall, so I can be about mine.”
So this is the way he wanted to play it. No idle chatter about the weather, or the outcome of the Masters. No “how about those Braves?” Fine and dandy. Two could play this game. When it came to crime solving I could be a professional, too. “Have you heard anything further about Vaughn Bascomb’s death?”
He gave me a look, part aggravation, part resignation. “The coroner and deputy coroner both agree that he died from an undisclosed cardiac event.”
“What about Sheila? She nearly died, too.”
“Ever think you’re readin’ way too much into all this? Could be coincidence, plain and simple.”
But to my mind there was nothing plain or simple about it. Right or wrong, Sheila was convinced someone deliberately tried to kill her—and might try again. And Vaughn’s ashes were resting in a fancy urn.
“Are further tests being conducted to rule out contributing causes? Causes that might have precipitated a cardiac condition?”
His swivel chair groaned in protest as he pressed his linebacker sized body against it. “No cause for worry on that home front. The lab’s very thorough. All routine tests are bein’ done.”
I sat up straighter. “That’s exactly what bothers me. ‘Routine’ might not be the right way to proceed.”
He heaved a sigh that started in the soles of his feet and worked its way upward. “What are you gettin’ at?”
“Has SLED been called in?” I asked. Once upon a time—when I’d been innocent in the way of homicide investigations—I’d naively assumed SLED was a conveyance on runners. I’ve come a long way, baby. I now knew that SLED is an acronym for South Carolina Law Enforcement Division. Some folks speak Spanish, some French, but not me. I’m fluent in acronyms.
“No need to call SLED at this time. The investigation is still in the preliminary stage.” He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger and changed the subject. “S’pose you tell me why you dragged these plants in heah.”
I made a sweeping gesture to encompass his desk. “I’d like you to send samples of these to toxicology. The one on the right is oleander, one of the most poisonous plants in the world. Did you know only a small amount can prove lethal?”
“Miz McCall, you might not be aware of this, you bein’ new to these parts and all, but most every home in the South has an oleander or two growin’ in their backyard. Don’t see folks fallin’ over dead because of it, either. Far as I can tell, everyone’s hale and hearty.”
“Precisely!” I beamed at him like a proud teacher at her prized pupil. “Oleander is everywhere. If a person wanted someone dead, they wouldn’t have to look farther than their yard.”
“So you want the lab to check for evidence of oleander?” he asked, deadpan.
My smile broadened. “While they’re at it, they might want to look for traces of cyanide.”
“Cyanide?”
“Yes, cyanide.” I gave the hydrangea a gentle nudge in his direction. “Hydrangeas are also a staple in Southern gardens. I have it from a reliable source that hydrangeas contain low levels of cyanide.”
He nudged the plant back my way. “Some reason you can’t stick with the old standbys of arsenic or strychnine?”
“Think
about it, Sheriff. Both victims, Sheila Rappaport and Vaughn Bascomb, were botanists. They became ill after attending a banquet hosted by the garden club where many of the guests were either master gardeners or, at the very least, experienced gardeners. So I ask you, who knows more about poisonous plants than experienced gardeners? And those schooled in botany or horticulture.”
“You implyin’ a garden club member tried to kill ’em?”
“No, of course not.” The man could be thick as a brick. “Except for my friend Rita, who happened to room with Sheila in college, none of the garden club members had even met Vaughn or Sheila prior to the banquet. Why would they want them dead?”
He gave a mighty sneeze just then, the gust strong enough to flutter the papers on his desk. “So,” he said, reaching for a box of tissues, “you insinuatin’ this friend of yours…Rita…might be the guilty party?”
“No,” I replied, aghast at his conclusion. “That’s not what I meant. I base my investigations on the motive-means-opportunity principle. That’s how I arrive at my list of suspects.” Rita, unfortunately, happened to possess all three, but I left her name off the list based on personal recognizance.
I heard another groan; this time it didn’t come from a chair. “Haven’t you had your fill playin’ lady detective? Hang up your shingle, Miz McCall. Pay the grand-kids a nice long visit. Take up knittin’. Join a book club. Surely there must be other things that interest you.”
“What if I’m right?” I fired back, irritated by his condescending tone. “Doing nothing could cost Sheila her life.”
I started to rise, but he stopped me.
“Hold your horses. Bein’ you’re here, you might as well get everythin’ off your chest once and for all.”
“When toxicology verifies a weird substance was responsible for Vaughn’s death, I’m willing to bet it’ll be a botanical. Instead of lagging behind, you could get a leg up by listening to me.”
