by Gail Oust
Minutes later, I scooted into a booth at the Koffee Kup Kafé. “Kafé” was the newest addition to the sign above the door. The Kup’s owner, May Randolph, thought it added a touch of class to her establishment. A handful of folks had protested the KKK aspect, but had given up after she’d catered the Ebenezer AME church supper free of charge. Many of them later become regular patrons at the Kup. AME, for those unfamiliar with the term—such as me before relocating south—stands for African-Methodist-Episcopal. AME churches are frequent sights along the highways in this part of the country.
May ambled over, menu in hand. “How y’all doin’, Miz McCall? Keepin’ out of trouble?”
Why is it everyone thinks of me as a troublemaker? Of course, the woman had seen me in action the night I corralled a killer a couple months back. “Glad to see business picking up again, May, after that food poisoning scare.”
“Folks are startin’ to trickle in for a piece of one of my pies. What can I get you this mornin’?”
“Coffee and a slice of your lemon meringue. Make that two,” I added as an afterthought.
“Two…?”
“Would you please put the second one in a to-go box? It’s for a friend.”
“Can do.”
I knew Bill had a fondness for May’s pies, so this would be a nice little surprise for my hard-working tool guy. Besides, lemon meringue was a healthy choice since it contained three of the basic food groups—fruit, dairy, and carbohydrates. Much better than…say…pecan or butterscotch.
Opening the manila envelope, I started to read.
Many of the plants Diane had researched were ones I’d never heard of before—not surprising considering my lack of gardening expertise. Then I came across the info about oleander. I sipped coffee and barely tasted my pie. My pulse quickened as I read through the symptoms for oleander poisoning. I was on to something, something big. I could feel it. I pawed through my purse for the highlighter I’d thrown in.
Nausea and vomiting. Excess salivation and drooling. Abdominal pain. Collapse. Seizures. Cardiac reaction.
Symptoms of oleander poisoning matched Vaughn’s to a T. I couldn’t wait to present my findings to Sheriff Wiggins. I gathered my things, tossed money on the table, and hurried out of the Kup. I was Nancy Drew, Miss Marple, and Jessica Fletcher rolled into one. I’d solved the case, but I’d forgotten the pie. May chased after me with the to-go box in hand.
I was breathless with excitement as I burst into the sheriff’s office. “Tammy Lynn, I need to speak with the sheriff.” She opened her mouth to protest, but I cut her off. “It’s a matter of life and death.”
The girl blinked owlishly from behind oversized lenses. “Yes, ma’am.”
Energy zinged through me like a jolt of electricity. Not even the Most Wanted posters could distract me. Unable to sit still, I paced the worn linoleum floor waiting for the go-ahead.
“You all right, Kate?” Tammy Lynn asked anxiously.
“I’m fine. Just peachy.” I looked at her closely for the first time. The girl looked a trifle peaked after a wild ’n’ wooly night of bunco. That single glass of bubbly about did her in. But I didn’t have time to worry about Tammy Lynn; I had more important fish to fry. “Kindly tell Sheriff Wiggins I need to see him now.”
She gave me a worried frown, but obediently pressed the intercom and informed the sheriff of my visit. I overheard the words “of the utmost importance.” Then I heard more whispering that I couldn’t quite make out. Finally she turned to me and said, “Go right in, ma’am. Sheriff’s waitin’ on you.”
I sailed into the office under a full head of steam. “Oleander,” I said, plopping the incriminating pages in front of him. “Oleander’s what killed Vaughn Bascomb.”
“You been drinkin’?”
That certainly turned my steam valve down a notch or two. “What do you mean, ‘drinkin’? For heaven’s sake, it’s eleven o’clock in the morning. Who drinks at eleven o’clock in the morning?”
He shrugged shoulders broader than a broom handle. “Tammy Lynn claims you ladies drink like fish once you get to gamblin’.”
“She said no such thing.” Surely Tammy Lynn wouldn’t rat out her new best friends? “How many times do I have to explain we don’t gamble, we play bunco. It’s a dice game, no high stakes, no finesse. And we mostly talk.”
“And drink?”
“On occasion, we have a drink or two, but we certainly don’t drink like fish.” I should have ignored the jibe, but the darn man put me on the defensive. Irritated, I tapped the pages on his desk. “I solved the puzzle. I know the poison used. All that’s left for us to do is discover who administered it.”
If he was excited about my epiphany, he hid it well. “Suppose you tell me what got you so all fired up, and make it quick. I’ve got a…”
“…important meeting with the mayor?”
“I was about to say a dentist appointment.”
“Right,” I muttered. Leaning across his desk, I pointed at the items I’d highlighted in yellow. “See for yourself. The symptoms of oleander poisoning are identical to the ones Vaughn and Sheila exhibited the night of the banquet.”
This said, I plunked myself down in the visitor’s chair, which I’d come to regard as mine.
Picking up the article, he read it carefully, nodding from time to time.
“Minutes before the lecture, Vaughn complained his stomach felt queasy and asked for ginger ale. I distinctly recall that he held a handkerchief to his mouth, which could be the result of excess saliva. When Sheila first came onto the stage, she clutched her stomach as if it ached. Then she collapsed. Vaughn had a seizure. Cardiac reaction occurred later at the hospital. Ergo, Vaughn’s death first appeared to be a heart attack. It makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?” I asked, unable to wait for his comments.
“Except for this.” He reached into a file folder, extracted an official-looking report, and slid it over. “Tox screen trumps Internet.”
Now, I wasn’t a card player, but I knew enough to know my assumption was in deep doo-doo. I felt a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach as I skimmed through it.
“Sorry to blow your theory to smithereens.” Funny, he didn’t sound the least bit sorry. “The state crime lab,” he continued, “ran every standard tox screen outside the routine panel. All negative. This includes the old standbys of cyanide, foxglove—and oleander.”
I sank deeper into my chair. I’d been absolutely certain that I’d been on the right track. My euphoria vanished in a puff of smoke.
Silence as oppressive as August humidity settled over the room.
“I apologize for wasting your time. I was so sure…” My voice trailed into nothing.
He leaned back in his swivel chair, steepled his fingers, and pinned me like a butterfly to a mat with his unblinking stare. He looked inscrutable. Invincible. And I looked—and felt—like a fool. I started to squirm—the man had that kind of effect on me—but caught myself in the nick of time. Thank goodness, I wasn’t the perpetrator of a serious crime, or I’d be pudding on the floor.
I attempt to leave, but his next words stopped me cold.
“There’s more.” Dropping his relaxed pose, he drew out yet another sheet from the folder. “This heah addendum states that the secondary tox panel detected a series of red flags. Further testin’ is bein’ done. Results pendin’. Unlike those TV shows you’re so fond of, real-life answers take a whole lot longer.”
I felt vindicated. My spirits once again started to rise. Even if it wasn’t oleander, there were plenty more poisonous plants out there. I had only scratched the surface.
“Probably shouldn’t have told you all this, but felt it’s only fair since you persisted in bringing the matter to my attention.” He rose and came around the desk to tower over me. Six feet two inches of hard muscle and bad attitude. “You’ve done your job as a concerned citizen, Miz McCall. Now, I’m tellin’ you, step aside. Let law enforcement take over.”
I debated with
myself. Should I salute? Cower? I did neither, opting instead for a dignified retreat.
“I’m warnin’ you, Miz McCall,” he rumbled in that gruff baritone I was coming to admire less and less as time went on. “You could find yourself way over your head and in a heap o’ trouble.”
I stopped at the door, my hand on the knob, and gave him a cheeky grin. “Aw, Sheriff, you do care.”
What exactly did “step aside” consist of? I wondered as I drove home. Twiddle my thumbs and do nothing? Forget two people had been poisoned? That Vaughn had died, and Sheila feared the perp would strike again? Contrary to the sheriff’s opinion, I wasn’t a foolish woman. And I wasn’t stupid. I promised myself to be discreet, cautious, but I couldn’t refuse someone who’d asked for my help.
My cell phone rang, interrupting my train of thought. Should I answer, or let it go to voice mail? I don’t approve of people talking on their cell phones or texting while driving. A person has a greater chance of a cell phone–related injury than crossing paths with a dangerous psychopath. I decided to let the call go to voice mail only to have the darned thing ring again a minute later. Careful to keep one hand on the wheel and both eyes on the windy road, I excavated my phone from the depths of my purse. Jen’s name lit up on caller ID. Even as a toddler, my daughter disliked being ignored, a trait she’s passed on to her two daughters. Sighing, I pulled into the parking lot of one of those AME churches that dot the roadways. Might as well return the call and get it over with. Knowing Jen, she’d hit redial until I finally picked up.
“Hello, dear,” I said cheerily.
“Glad you finally answered, Mother. I was wondering if I should call the paramedics to check on you. I must’ve seen the infomercial a dozen times about the…mature…woman who’d fallen and can’t get up and always think of you.”
“You almost said ‘elderly’ didn’t you?” I stared out the windshield and counted to ten. Jen knew in no uncertain terms how I felt about the E word. Especially when applied to me.
“I don’t know why you’re so touchy. Face facts, Mother, you’re not getting any younger.”
“I shouldn’t have to remind you, Jennifer Louise, but neither are you.”
From the ensuing silence, I knew I’d struck a nerve. “It’s only that I’m concerned about you,” Jen said at last. “You need activities that increase the number of brain cells. I’m sending you an article on how mental stimulation decreases the risk of dementia.”
I drummed my fingertips against the steering wheel. And prayed for patience. “No need to worry, hon. I’m constantly busy.”
“How busy can you be?” she asked plaintively. “You’re retired with all the time in the world and nothing to do. I don’t see how you keep from being bored out of your mind.”
I hoped I hadn’t forgotten to take my blood pressure medication. “I manage,” I said, my voice tight.
“Well, I hope the authorities got to the bottom of the food poisoning epidemic so at least I don’t have that to worry over.”
Idly, I watched a woodpecker peck away at a sweet gum. Apparently, Jen hadn’t spoken with her brother and didn’t know the case had turned into a homicide. “Oh, it wasn’t food poisoning, dear. It was the real deal.”
“What…!”
Oops! I slapped myself upside the head. Dumb, Kate, dumb! There, I’d gone and done it again. I suffer from a serious case of blurt-itis whenever I talk to Jen. The girl knew how to press all the right buttons. The thought of buttons triggered an idea. A brilliant idea. I’d turned down the volume on the radio to answer Jen’s call. Now I jabbed the buttons and kept jabbing until I found what I was searching for—static. Nice, loud static. I cranked up the volume.
“Sorry, dear.” I held the cell phone close to a speaker. “Poor reception…breaking…up.”
Smiling to myself, I flipped the phone shut. I didn’t feel a single blip of remorse. Nary a twinge. I was shifting into gear when I happened to notice the marquee in the churchyard: Some minds are like concrete, thoroughly mixed up and permanently set.
Yep. I nodded in agreement. That describes Jen.
Chapter 26
I wasn’t quite ready to head home. All that pounding, sawing, and drilling was giving me a headache. Instead, I’d take a detour and stop by Sheila’s. She’d made it clear she wanted me as a girlfriend. And girlfriends visit. They have the unalienable right, guaranteed by the Coalition of Women Everywhere, to drop by unannounced. It’s part of our credo. Only problem, I hated to come empty-handed. Especially since Sheila was a brand-new girlfriend. Then my gaze fell on the Styrofoam to-go box on the seat beside me with Bill’s lemon meringue pie. Bill was a kind and generous man. Surely he’d say, Go ahead, Kate, give Sheila the slice of my most favorite dessert in the whole wide world. I was faced with a dilemma. It was either give Sheila the pie or go empty-handed.
In spite of Sheila’s friendly overtures, I never felt completely comfortable around her. She was just too…perfect. Even with the help of Belle Beaute products, my skin wasn’t wrinkle-free and glowing. When I stood tall, shoulders back, I was still vertically challenged. Dressed in my found-it-on-sale finery, stains always managed to find me. That’s the honest-to-goodness reason I make it a point to never order spaghetti unless I’m wearing polka-dots.
I needed to spend more time with Sheila, find out what makes her tick. Discover her likes and dislikes. Maybe even unearth a fault or two. I doubt if we’d ever become best buds like Pam, my BFF, and me. Pam and I have loads in common—tai chi, bunco, golf. We even have the same taste in books and TV shows. Best of all, Pam listens when I whine. Sheila and I, on the other hand, have practically nothing in common. The only whine I’d do with her would be either chardonnay or merlot.
Besides girl-bonding, I had an ulterior motive for wanting to visit Sheila. I needed to run through my “persons of interest” list with her. As I pulled into the drive of her rental, I spotted a sleek BMW with Georgia plates. Obviously Sheila had company. I sat for a minute, debating my next move. Then, after giving myself a pep talk, picked up the pie and headed up the front walk with a swagger worthy of a Welcome Wagon lady and rang the bell.
Second thoughts assailed me as I waited on the stoop. Not about the wisdom of my unexpected visit, but about giving away the slice of Bill’s lemon meringue pie. I vowed I’d make up for the transgression by persuading him to stay for supper. There was still time to whip up tuna casserole, another of Bill’s favorites. I didn’t have to worry about not having the ingredients since I now bought tuna in bulk at Sam’s Club. Even though I no longer had a cat to feed, I’d never run out if I lived to be a hundred.
I jabbed the bell again and waited some more. The folks inside had no idea how persistent I could be. Maybe persistent wasn’t the right word. Maybe stubborn would be more correct. I’d learned to outwait, outpersist, out-stubborn the best. Need a testimonial? Just ask Tammy Lynn Snow or Sheriff Sumter Wiggins.
The door finally opened.
“Oh, it’s you,” Betsy Dalton said, her tone cool and distant. “Sheila didn’t mention you had an appointment.”
“I didn’t know I needed an appointment to visit a friend.” I was determined not to let her irritate me.
“Since when are you and Sheila friends?” She swept me with a dismissive glance. “You don’t seem her type.”
“Didn’t you hear that opposites attract?” I replied, trying for witty, but settling for cliché. Granted, Betsy—classy and sophisticated in tailored Armani and pricey stilettos—seemed more the type Sheila might choose to pal around with. I’m the complete opposite, tending to favor capris and sandals. And unlike Betsy, except for a swipe of mascara and a dab of lipstick, I rarely bother with makeup. But as much as I hated to admit it, this time I had to agree with her. Sheila and I did make an odd couple.
“Who is it, Betsy?” Sheila called out.
“It’s me, Kate.” Smiling sweetly, I sidestepped the fashionista and moved into the foyer.
“She’s on the p
atio.” Betsy’s high heels click-clacked on the hardwood floors as she trailed after me. I gave Sheila’s library an envious glance as I passed. It was hard to imagine, considering the present chaos, that I’d soon have a room like this. I found Sheila seated at a glass-topped wicker table on an enclosed patio overlooking a cove that sparkled in the sun. Have I failed to mention that Serenity Cove Estates is built around a tributary of Lake Thurmond, named after the esteemed South Carolina statesman Strom Thurmond? Oddly enough, Georgians don’t share the same sentimentality for the former senator. On the Georgia side, the same waterway is known as Clarks Hill Lake. But I’m letting my mind wander again.
“We were working,” Betsy said. She must’ve thought I was blind not to see the piles of files and folders spread across the table.
I felt a niggling of guilt for having interrupted, but quickly squashed it. Life here tends to be informal with friends popping in from time to time just to “sit a spell,” as they say. And my visit today wasn’t strictly social. I had business of my own to conduct.
“I brought you a slice of May Randolph’s lemon meringue pie.” I sank into a flowered cushion of a wicker chair without waiting to be asked. “It’s so good, it’ll make your tongue slap your brains out.” Love that expression. First heard it from a waitress one New Year’s Eve and have been waiting to use it ever since.
I darted a glance from Sheila to Kate and realized I was the only one smiling at my weak excuse for humor. “Sorry, Sheila,” I said, trying to recover lost ground. “If I’d known you had company, I would’ve brought an extra piece. Perhaps you two can share.”
“I don’t eat sweets,” Betsy snapped. “It’s bad for the figure.”
I forged ahead. “Pecan is another of May’s specialties. But after our conversation the night of the banquet, I didn’t think you were a fan of Southern cuisine.”
