by Gail Oust
“Are you sure this is such a good idea?” Rita whispered in my ear. “Maybe we should’ve just called the Cut ’n’ Curl.”
“Have you seen some of Ethel Rae’s customers?” I whispered back.
“Good point,” Rita agreed after a moment’s consideration. “My ninety-one-year-old mother-in-law gets better results at the nursing home.”
Polly, who had been uncharacteristically quiet until now, piped up. “Say, Terri, you have any hot dudes that give massages?”
“All our clients love Randy. They rave about his magic fingers.”
“Randy, eh? I was wishing for a guy named Raoul.”
“I promise you won’t be disappointed.” Terri snapped her fingers and a young woman in a white smock appeared and led Polly down a hallway.
The rest of the staff materialized at an invisible command from Terri. Instructions were given, assignments made. The place might look like a whorehouse, but was run with military precision and efficiency. Claudia and I opted for facials. An antiaging one for her. I heard the esthetician—wait till Bill hears me bandy that around—use the term antiradicals. For myself, I selected a facial that promised a deep-pore cleansing with a citrus-based cocktail of alpha hydroxyl acid. My vocabulary was increasing by leaps and bounds.
“Think I’ll have a hot stone massage,” Rita said after scanning the list of services.
“Does the herbal linen wrap really relieve stiff muscles and joints?” Gloria asked the attendant.
“Yes, ma’am,” Terri assured her. “Our clients love it.”
“Guess I’ll start with a manicure and pedicure,” Pam, the ultraconservative, decided. “Maybe after lunch I’ll try a massage.”
Halfway through the facial, I reached a conclusion. I was going to treat myself to a spa day on a regular basis. After all, ladies, we owe it to ourselves to be the best we can be. I’d even forego Peanut M&M’s to pay for the luxury. Perhaps next time, a spa day could include those who couldn’t come this time. Diane, Janine, Monica, and Megan deserved to be pampered, too.
Lunch was served after the first round of beauty treatments. Fancy little finger sandwiches, herbal tea, and fresh fruit. Chateau Spa left no stone unturned when it came to making its clients feel special.
Then it was time for round two.
We exchanged grins and flashed newly lacquered nails as we circulated from room to room. Lots of smiles, laughter, and happy faces. Connie Sue was the only one who didn’t indulge in the spa services. Instead she stuck with Tammy Lynn like lichen on a rock at Hickory Knob State Park. I caught a glimpse or two of Tammy Lynn, her head covered in strips of aluminum foil.
“Highlights and lowlights,” Connie Sue said in response to my unspoken question.
Rejuvenated, destressed, detoxified, and antiaged, we reconvened in the anteroom.
“Any of you happen to have Raoul use his magic fingers?” Polly asked. She drew something from the pocket of her purse. “See, I got his card. Told him I was coming back. I haven’t felt this good in years.”
“Raoul?” Gloria snapped her compact shut. “I thought the guy’s name was Randy.”
Polly made a face. “He’s way too cute for a Randy. I told him Raoul suited him better. He’s thinking of changing it—for professional reasons.”
Claudia ran her hand over her cheek. “My skin’s as soft as a baby’s behind.”
Rita nodded knowingly. “Bonnie, the esthetician who did my facial, was talking about a new line of skin-care products that Belle Beaute is developing. It’s supposed to be hush-hush.”
“She mentioned it to me, too,” I said. “Bonnie thinks it’ll revolutionize the industry.”
Careful not to chip her manicure, Rita fished her checkbook out of her handbag. “I’m considering buying Belle Beaute stock. I’ve been following it on NASDAQ. Could make a killing if rumors prove true.”
“What’s a NASDAQ?” Polly asked.
“It’s a stock exchange, Mother.”
“Don’t trust it. I’ll stick with the tried and true—my mattress.”
Claudia turned to me. “Have either Sheila or Betsy mentioned a word of this? They should have the inside track.”
“No,” I replied slowly. “The subject never came up.” Which was odd, now that I thought about it. Something of that magnitude surely should have cropped up at some point. Then again, maybe not. Sheila and I had only been friends a short time. There was still a lot to learn about each other.
“All right, y’all, I want your attention,” Connie Sue announced from the doorway of a treatment room. “May I present the guest of honor, Miss Tammy Lynn Snow.”
We gasped in unison as Tammy Lynn stepped forward. The transformation was complete. Our little caterpillar had turned into a butterfly—and a lovely one at that. Gone was the mousy brown and in its place a warm blond with sun-kissed streaks. Her makeup was subtle, both youthful and natural. Delicate pink blush, artfully applied eye shadow and mascara, and rose-tinted lip gloss had turned the girl into a knockout. I wished I could be a fly on the wall when Eric Olsen saw her.
“You look…” I groped for the right word.
“Hot,” Polly supplied. “And you’ll look even hotter after we swing by the mall. I know just the place to get you some cool new duds. Megan and I shop there all the time.”
I groaned inwardly at the thought of Polly picking out clothes for Tammy Lynn.
We said fond farewells to the staff at Chateau Spa and piled into Gloria’s Expedition. Amid chatter about facials, wraps, and massages, I found my attention drifting. Were rumors true about Belle Beaute’s marvelous new skin care line? How would this impact Sheila? Did it contain some kind of new mystery ingredient?
It was late when Gloria dropped me off, but I felt an overwhelming sense of accomplishment. Under all the drab, the spa had unearthed Tammy Lynn’s natural beauty. In true Connie Sue fashion, she’d insisted on footing the bill for the girl’s transformation. No amount of persuading could convince her otherwise. There can only be one fairy godmother, she’d insisted, and she was it. End of discussion. Tammy Lynn kept saying over and over that she felt like a princess. Connie Sue beamed.
I wandered from room to room and switched on lights. The house was quiet, much too quiet. Times like this it would be nice to have someone to come home to. Share the day with. I strolled into the library/study/den to see how the bookshelves were progressing. Bill had left the room neat and tidy, or at least as tidy as possible, all things considered. Soon it would be time to seal and stain the wood and the project would wind to an end. I’d miss seeing Bill on a daily basis. Coffee in the mornings. Often for lunch. An occasional dinner.
Shutting off lights as I went, I drifted back to the kitchen, where I brewed myself a cup of chamomile tea. While waiting for the water to boil, I leafed through the stack of mail on the island. I slit open an envelope with an unfamiliar return address. I frowned as I read the enclosed letter. In reply to a request from your son, Steven J. McCall, we’re sending the enclosed information. What the…?
Living will…? Power of attorney…?
I shoved the papers into a drawer. Dear, misguided Steven. I probably should be angry, but I was amused. Knowing Steven as I did, I’m certain he assumed a madman was running rampant, poisoning residents of Serenity Cove, and thought I should be prepared for any eventuality. At least he’d given up sending me information on assisted living centers and nursing homes.
Tea in hand, I went into the great room and settled into my favorite spot on the sofa. Picking up the Belle Beaute brochures that had been gathering dust, I began to read through them. Maybe like Rita, I should consider buying shares in the company. A windfall in the stock market might be just the ticket to keep my children from thinking of me as old and feeble-minded.
Chapter 28
A tisket, a tasket. A green and yellow basket.
I hummed to myself as I loaded an assortment of plants into a wicker basket. I’d come up with a quasi-clever plan that morning and wa
s feeling quite smug. A few houseplants, straggly but alive, along with several small plants I’d purchased at Dixie Gardens, but hadn’t yet planted, were added to the motley collection. I’d painstakingly removed any clues to their identity. Who better than the county extension agent to tell me their names and what I should do with them? Granted the excuse was borderline sneaky and downright flimsy, but I needed a reason to pay Kel Watson another visit. Sheila was certain he was responsible for the poisoning. Others, I knew, had motive, too, but Kel was becoming the front-runner in my little investigation.
Later in the day I’d arranged to meet Rita on the driving range. As for golf, it was time to get back in the saddle, so to speak. I’d lost interest in the game after finding a dismembered arm in a Walmart bag some months back. Funny how something that simple soured my desire to play. But I had a more pressing reason for wanting to speak with Rita. I planned to pump her for information. Rita and Kel seemed to have formed a relationship of sorts from her years in the garden club. And I intended to exploit that relationship by finding out everything I could about his personal life.
It was midmorning when I arrived in town. I parked the Buick in the side lot and, retrieving my basket, climbed the creaky stairs to Kel’s second-floor office. I didn’t think it possible to sneak up on him, but apparently I succeeded. I found Kel, his feet propped on his desk as usual, eyes closed, a trade journal open on his lap. Music blared loudly from a stereo set into a dusty bookcase. Seventies music. Rolling Stones? Bee Gees? ABBA? I hadn’t a clue. Truth to tell, much of the seventies was lost in a haze of diaper changing. I was more likely tuned to an episode of All My Children than some station playing pop hits. In my world of Enfamil and Pampers, the happenings in Pine Valley overshadowed those of the music industry.
“Ahem…” I cleared my throat to get his attention.
At the sound, Kel’s eyes popped open. He swung his legs to the floor and switched off the stereo. His journal slithered to the floor unnoticed.
“Sorry,” Kel muttered. “How can I help you?”
I plunked the basket down on his desk and smiled—the epitome of innocence and light. “I find myself in need of your expert opinion.”
His shaggy brows drew together in a frown. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”
They say the mind is the first to go. Either that or I was pathetically forgettable. I chose to think it was Kel’s mind, and not my scintillating personality. With considerable effort, I kept my smile in place. “I’m Kate McCall, but call me Kate.”
“Right, Kate.”
Sheila had heard rumors the man used drugs. Did drugs affect one’s memory? “Silly me, I bought all these cute plants then realized I had no idea what they were or where I should plant them. I thought, who better to ask than a county extension agent?”
He pulled the basket closer, gave it a cursory glance. “Most nurseries include information as to the type of plant and how to care for them. Next time make sure you know what you’re buying before leaving the store. It saves time.”
I knew what he meant. Saved his time not mine. “Already great advice. No wonder everyone sings your praises.” I hoped he couldn’t see where I’d scrubbed the labels off.
He picked a plant out of the basket at random, held it up, examined the leaves. “This one here is a common houseplant. Zamioculcas zamiifolia is the generic name, common name ZZ plant. It’s a true survivor. Tolerates low light. Best to err on the side of dryness rather than overwatering.”
My kind of plant the ZZ—a survivor—which explains why Rita gave me a cutting. “It’s wonderful to have someone as knowledgeable as you around to help us amateurs,” I said, lathering on flattery.
He grunted, but didn’t look up. “This one here is Monarda didyma—bee balm.”
“Odd name for a plant,” I commented. “Does that mean bees like to bomb it?”
He looked at me with ill-concealed disgust. “Not ‘bomb,’ lady. Balm, b-a-l-m, balm.”
Well, excuuuse me.
“Bee balm serves as a host for butterflies. Native Americans used it for its antiseptic and medicinal properties.”
“Medicinal…as in poisonous?”
I watched recognition dawn across his craggy face. “Now I remember you,” he said, aiming a callused finger at me. “You’ve pestered me before. You’re the lady who keeps asking about poison.”
Bingo! That’s me, all right. “Getting back to the bee balm, poisonous or not?”
“Not,” he growled.
Touchy, touchy. “I’m friends with Dr. Sheila Rappaport, but I hate to bother her with all these silly questions, knowing how busy she is.”
He glared at me. “She’s busy, and I’m not?”
Not so busy you can’t take a nap in the middle of the morning. “Do you know Dr. Sheila?” I asked, deciding to play dumb. Or at least dumber than usual.
“Sorry, I’d like to talk, but I’ve got a meeting with the Brookdale Beekeepers Association.” Kel rose, snatched a scuffed briefcase, and headed for the stairs. “Don’t want to be late.” Which, translated, meant, don’t let the door hit you on the way out.
Grabbing my basket, I scurried after him. “What about Dr. Bascomb? Did you know him?”
Kel rattled off the name of a reference book. “I suggest you buy a copy.”
Kel Watson was in full flight. Had I forgotten to use mouthwash? Had my deodorant failed? Or had my questions struck a nerve? I voted for the latter.
I reached the bottom of the stairs in time to see Kel climb into the cab of a faded gray pickup that had seen better days. I hurried to my Buick. I sat for a moment, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel and debating my next move. I wasn’t exactly a novice when it came to the art of snooping. I’d read The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Private Investigating cover to cover. At this point, any detective worth his or her salt would follow the suspect. So I started a tail. At least I assume that’s the correct term. I had most of the jargon down, but there’s always more to learn. As I pulled out of the lot, I wondered what it would take to get licensed as a PI. A course on the Internet? Class work? Mentoring? Would Sheriff Wiggins be willing to mentor his ace pupil? I laughed out loud. I might be dumb, but I’m not stupid.
Kel drove north away from town with me trailing. Even though we were the only two cars on the road, I maintained a discreet distance so he couldn’t spot me in his rearview mirror. Where was this so-called beekeepers meeting supposed to take place? I’d expected it to be held in one of municipal buildings, but there was no law against a member hosting it in their home. Problem was, we weren’t passing any homes—a few ram-shackle trailers, a dilapidated gas station with a rusted Sinclair Oil sign—but nothing that resembled a suitable meeting place for a gaggle of beekeepers.
Ahead of me, the truck’s brake lights flashed. I slowed accordingly. Surprised, I saw Kel turn left onto an unpaved county road. Naturally I turned, too. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a historic marker half-hidden behind a clump of pines. Huguenot Cemetery. The words rang a bell. I vaguely recalled hearing Rita mention Flowers and Bowers were adopting the cemetery as a project. Volunteers were scheduled to meet there and begin a massive cleanup and beautification project. As chairman of the committee and me as the garden club’s newest recruit, Rita asked if I’d be interested. I told her yes as long as someone with more experience showed me the difference between a weed and a wildflower.
Together, the Buick and I bumped down the rutted dirt road. A quarter mile farther, and no sign of Kel or his truck. I braked to a stop when I came to a fork in the road and weighed my options. Right or left? Turn around and leave? Or continue on? Here I was, out in the middle of nowhere, alone with a man who might be a crazed stalker. And that was the best-case scenario. He could also be a stone-cold killer. Part of me—the sensible part—wanted to beat a hasty retreat. Yet another part—the adventurous, impulsive, curious part—tempted me to stay. So I compromised. I’d venture forth on foot. If I didn’t come upon Kel Watson within t
en minutes, I’d leave.
Parking my car in an overgrown turnaround, I proceeded on foot down the left fork of the road, which soon became little more than a grassy trail. A trail with fresh tire tracks. Another hundred yards farther, I came upon a clearing and spotted Kel’s truck. I quickly eased into a stand of scrub pines, which afforded me a decent view.
I spotted Kel Watson, garbed in a white jumpsuit, inspecting stacks of white rectangular boxes—beehives?—piled on top of each other ten or twelve high. He wore a safari-style pith helmet veiled in heavy netting and sturdy gloves to protect his hands. He walked slowly as he waved the wand of a smoke-producing apparatus. I had no intention of going any closer. Bees loved me, but the affection wasn’t reciprocated.
If this was a meeting of the Beekeepers Association, Kel was the sole attendee. Unless, of course, one counted the dozens of bees circling drunkenly around their hives. Other than the fact they produce honey, I have to admit I don’t know a lot about them.
Are the white boxes called hives? Houses? One thing I did know for certain, however, is that I didn’t want to antagonize them. When bees were angry, they retaliated. And when they retaliated, I reacted.
It wasn’t pretty.
I remained hidden until my legs started to cramp. Kel continued working diligently among the hives. Finally, when it appeared nothing sinister was about to happen, I took my leave. Far be it for me to come between a man and his bees.
Chapter 29
I plucked a range ball from a yellow mesh bucket. “I’m telling you, Rita, it was strange. Very strange.”
As agreed upon earlier that day, the two of us met at the driving range. It was time for me to get back on the horse that threw me and, once and for all, get over my reluctance to play golf. I’d never excelled at the game. Doubted I ever would. But golf provided a great excuse to get outdoors for a little exercise with my best friends. Chasing a dimpled ball over acres and acres of land all the while trying to avoid strategically placed pitfalls of sand and water, was simply a means to an end.
