by Gail Oust
“Wow,” I said for lack of anything more eloquent. I leaned back trying to digest everything she’d just told me. Apparently the mystery was solved. Arsenic. Plain, old, ordinary arsenic. I’d recently watched the film Arsenic and Old Lace on a classic-movie cable network. Cary Grant and his sweet aunt Martha. One line in particular stayed in my head: Well, dear, for a gallon of elderberry wine, I take one teaspoonful of arsenic, and add a half a teaspoonful of strychnine, and then just a pinch of cyanide. Aunt Martha could have skipped the strychnine and cyanide and still won a blue ribbon at the county fair.
I felt deflated. Foolish. I’d been so positive I’d been on the right track. So certain that the poison came from a garden-variety botanical. I’d even enlisted the Babes’ help to gather samples. I’d inundated poor allergy-suffering Sheriff Wiggins with plants until his eyes watered and his nose ran. Time to hang up my detective’s shingle. Playing Nancy Drew had been fun while it lasted, but all good things must come to an end. It was time to resume my role as a senior citizen in a retirement community for “active” adults.
“Soon as I’m home, I’m going to start packing,” Sheila said, seemingly oblivious to my dejection. “My lease is up at the end of the month. The book is essentially finished and How Does Your Garden Grow? hasn’t been renewed for another season, so it’s a good time to…explore other avenues.”
I nodded politely, my mind still on Kel’s treachery. “Do you have any plans?”
“The past month has been stressful.” She reached into her Louis Vuitton bag, brought out a gold compact, and studied her image. “I think I might travel. I’ve always wanted to spend time in the south of France. I’ve heard it’s lovely this time of year.”
When it comes to glamour, a burg like Serenity Cove Estates can’t compete with the likes of the south of France. The south of France has the Cannes Film Festival and celebs like George Clooney and Brad Pitt. Serenity Cove, on the other hand, has the Babes and Bill. Think I’ll stay put.
My ruminations were interrupted by the arrival of Sheriff Wiggins.
“Ladies,” he said with a brisk nod. “Sorry to keep y’all coolin’ your heels.” He lowered his bulk into his chair and slid several sheets of paper across to Sheila. “This heah is your typed statement, Miz Rappaport. Kindly read it carefully before signin’.”
“It’s Dr. Rappaport, Sheriff.” Ignoring the ballpoint he offered, she dropped her compact into her pricey handbag and extracted a slim Mark Cross pen.
While Sheila reviewed the document, the sheriff turned his focus on me. “Miz McCall, s’pose your wonderin’ why I called you down heah?”
“The thought did enter my mind,” I replied. “Tammy Lynn said it was urgent.”
“Based on the attempt on Dr. Rappaport’s life, I asked Judge Blanchard to issue a search warrant for Kel Watson’s home and property. We found arsenic in a storage shed behind his house. And”—he paused for effect, doing that eyebrow lift thing I’d come to anticipate—“we located a .22 rifle, recently fired. I trust ballistics will show a match with the shell casings at the site where you were shot. Plus, we unearthed a rather large stash of marijuana. We suspect Watson mighta been dealin’.”
Wow, I said, silently this time. While I’d been preoccupied looking for motive, means, and opportunity for Todd, Rog, and Bets, Kel Watson was blithely plotting murder and mayhem. “So,” I said, trying to absorb all this, “has Kel confessed?”
“Not yet.” Sheriff Wiggins leaned back and laced his sausagelike fingers over his trim abdomen. “It’s only a matter of time before he talks.”
In spite of everything, I felt sorry for the guy. Kel didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell in coming through an interrogation unscathed.
“Matter of fact, I just came from the jail. The man’s insistin’ he’s innocent. Claims he’s bein’ railroaded.”
“Humph!” Sheila snorted derisively. She shoved the signed papers toward the sheriff. “A likely story. The man’s a nutcase. Probably spends all his free time watching Law & Order reruns on the boob tube.”
Along with Kel, I’d just been relegated to being a “nutcase” and was none too happy about it. I also wasn’t pleased with the smirk the sheriff shot in my direction as he collected Sheila’s signed statement and slipped it into a folder. “Guess this wraps things up,” he said.
“Not so fast,” I protested. “What if Kel doesn’t confess?”
“He will.” The sheriff shrugged off my question.
“But if he doesn’t?”
“Even if Watson doesn’t man up to poisonin’ Vaughn Bascomb, we have him cold for attemptin’ to kill Dr. Rappaport. The prosecutor’s certain he can get a conviction for attempted murder. If the shell casings on the .22 match like I ’spect they will, he’ll face an additional charge of aggravated battery with a dangerous weapon.”
Sheila gracefully rose and extended her hand. “Thank you, Sheriff. I’m gratified this matter is finally resolved. You’re to be commended for your efficient handling of my complaint.”
If this were an old-time Western, the sheriff would have blushed profusely and muttered something to the effect of “Aw shucks, ma’am, weren’t nuthin’.” But Sumter Wiggins was made of sterner stuff. He simply acknowledged Sheila’s praise with a brisk nod and a tight smile.
Sheila turned to me next. “Thank you, Kate, for all your efforts—even though misguided—on my behalf.”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, as they say, is that. Sheila sailed out of the office without a backward glance, leaving me in the dust. So much for girl bonding. What happened to our becoming BFFs? Where was my invitation to vacation in the south of France? I didn’t need to be hit with a brick to know when I wasn’t wanted. Not trusting myself to speak, I gave the sheriff a feeble wave as I left the rarefied atmosphere of his office for probably the last time. My term as junior-grade detective/private investigator had expired, and I wasn’t nominated for reelection. Tomorrow I’d return to life in the private sector—a world of golf, tai chi, and bunco.
Chapter 34
Case closed. I should feel ecstatic. Instead, I moped around as if my dog had died. Tai chi usually mellowed my mood, but today it failed to work. The Babes, bless their hearts, rushed to my rescue, valiantly trying to cheer me up over breakfast at the Cove Café.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, sugar,” Connie Sue counseled. “Remember, you did solve two murders. That alone makes you smarter ’n most.”
“I should’ve zeroed in on the perp sooner.”
“I was sure you were on the right track.” Pam reached over and patted my hand. “With the abundance of botany and horticulture experts, it made perfect sense that the poison came from a simple source.”
“Thanks,” I muttered. That’s why Pam’s my BFF, my sidekick. I’d pick her to ride in my patrol car any old day.
Monica speared a bite of egg white omelet with her fork. “Historically arsenic was quite popular as a method of murder in the Middle Ages. I’ve read that the Borgias and de Medicis had their own private supply.”
I spread strawberry jam over a toast triangle and reserved comment.
“Did the sheriff say whether arsenic was found during Vaughn Bascomb’s autopsy?” Monica continued, nonplussed by my silence.
Was Monica secretly trying to usurp my role as former detective, junior grade? I frowned at her over the rim of my coffee cup. “No,” I replied morosely. “He didn’t say.”
“I would’ve thought arsenic along with cyanide and strychnine would be the first poisons to be ruled out,” Monica added a trifle smugly.
Should I give Monica my copy of The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Forensics? My new bookshelves would seem empty without it. “It is, er, they were,” I amended. “The sheriff said something about the lab running further tests. In any event, they know for certain that arsenic was in Sheila’s iced tea. That’s enough to charge Kel with attempted murder.”
“Then there’s his attack on you,” Pam said. “That should ge
t him sent up the river for a good long time.”
Monica raised her cup of Earl Grey. “I’ll drink to that.”
“Kel’s was the only name left on my persons of interest list. It was only a matter of time before I was onto him,” I explained. Even to my own ears, I sounded defensive.
Silence thick as maple syrup spread across the breakfast table. Everyone suddenly concentrated on their food.
“Well,” Connie Sue said at last, “on the bright side, y’all have to admit we’re all lookin’ fabulous since discoverin’ Belle Beaute.”
“Connie Sue’s right, you know,” Pam was quick to agree. “Just yesterday Jack told me I didn’t look a day older than when he married me.”
“Your Jack’s a regular sweetie pie,” Connie Sue cooed. “Thacker, on the other hand, tends to be stingy in the compliment department, but I love ’im anyway. I swear, y’all, we’re lookin’ mighty fine considerin’ we’re no spring chickens.”
“Speak for yourself,” I groused. “You’re as old as you feel.” And right now I was feeling every one of my sixty-something years.
Pam leaned forward, her blue-gray eyes dancing with merriment. “Claudia bragged BJ was flattering her left and right. He’s been wining and dining her, sending flowers, bringing Godiva chocolates. She told me she’s rethinking her decision to avoid serious relationships.”
Connie Sue smiled knowingly. “In this part of the country, sugar, winin’, dinin’ and chocolate are what gentlemen do when they come courtin’. Sounds serious if y’all want my opinion.”
“Rita had her financial planner buy shares of Belle Beaute stock,” Monica said, obviously disinterested in Claudia’s love life. “Rita said she had it on good authority that they were about to hold a press conference and announce a revolutionary antiaging formula.”
“Y’all remember the mantra from the brochures?” Connie Sue asked, her enthusiasm contagious.
We bobbed our heads as obedient as altar boys at high mass.
Connie Sue reverted to cheerleader mode. “Give me an R!”
“Revitalize!” I sang.
“Restore!” Pam called out.
“Regenerate!” Monica supplied right on cue.
Pleased our memories hadn’t been entirely corroded by senior moments, we reached for our wallets to pay the checks Vera had unobtrusively slipped us. We were on our way out the door when Pam turned to me. “Want me to pick you up for bunco Thursday night?”
“Bunco…?” I’d completely forgotten about bunco. Goes to show my state of mind. “Sure, whose house is it at this time?”
“Janine’s,” Monica replied impatiently. “Honestly, Kate, you need to be more organized. You should write these things in that little book of yours so you’ll remember.”
I bit my tongue. I wanted to inform Monica that my soon-to-be-retired black book was strictly for professional use. For things like clues, and suspects, and motives. But I didn’t think she’d understand.
When I returned home a short time later, quiet blanketed the house like a heavy quilt. The kind of quiet where the tick of a grandfather clock would seem overly loud. Or it would, provided I owned such a clock, which I don’t. Jim swore he’d never sleep a wink with the infernal ticking and bonging. Now that he was gone maybe I’d buy myself one for times like this when the house grew too quiet for comfort. Or I could get a pet. I’d had a cat for a short period not long ago, an orange stray with a fondness for tuna. But it had betrayed my friendship and deserted me for a pregnant brunette. The experience had soured me on cats. If I ever got another pet, it would be a dog. Dogs are faithful and loyal—and wouldn’t interfere with my supply of tuna.
Listless, I wandered into the bedroom and peered at my reflection in the mirror above the dresser. A round face, which I pretended was a perfect oval and a pair of green eyes that I liked to think were my best feature, peered back. Even with bright sunlight spilling into the room, I had to admit my skin did look better, firmer and smoother. Maybe like Rita, I should invest in Belle Beaute. Their products certainly worked miracles on Sheila. The woman looked years younger than her actual age. I bet Sheila had tons of Belle Beaute stock. No wonder the south of France figured in her travel plans.
I meandered back to the kitchen, took a pitcher of iced tea from the fridge, and poured myself a glass. I was about to add sweetener when I recalled Betsy’s trick of using honey instead. Honey made me think of bees. And bees made me think of Kel Watson. Remembering Kel made my stitches itch. To take my mind off the itching, I took my tea out to the patio. It was peaceful there, a good place to think. I sank onto a lounger and watched a tiny green gecko scamper across the flag-stones. I noticed my azaleas were almost done blooming, their vibrant pink blooms nearly spent. Not even azaleas had been exempt in my quest for a possible poison. Jim and I had planted ours when we’d first moved to Serenity Cove Estates. Their showy flowers graced the gardens of grandiose Southern plantations and humble cottages alike. And they managed to thrive in spite of my ineptitude. An ideal plant.
I sipped my tea, but relaxation eluded me. I missed the whine of the saw and whirr of the drill. Most of all, however, I missed Bill in and out every day. Then, for no particular reason, my errant thoughts circled from Bill to Kel. Try as I might, I couldn’t understand why Kel would choose common arsenic for his second attempt on Sheila’s life. I’m no expert, but arsenic—a readily detected substance—seemed amateurish compared with his previous effort. The poison in his initial attempt, however, had been so sophisticated that it still remained a mystery. And why did Kel want to kill Sheila? Was he a thwarted admirer? An obsessed stalker? Or was there another, a more sinister, reason that caused him to strike out again and again?
A bluebird flitted through the trees and landed on a branch of a dogwood. Sheila was a lot like that bird, I mused, a colorful being everyone admired as she flitted place to place. Sighing, I stared up at the puffy white clouds scuttling across an azure sky. Rather than answers, I came up with more questions. Sheila’s attitude at the sheriff’s office also puzzled me. For a woman who had narrowly escaped death, not once but twice, she’d seemed remarkably unperturbed. Almost nonchalant. Her whole demeanor seemed out of proportion for someone who’d narrowly escaped the clutches of a deranged stalker. But maybe that was normal after what she’d been through. After all, she no longer had to keep looking over her shoulder, wondering where or when the next attack would come. With Kel behind bars, she was free to get on with her life.
But I still had questions and only one person had the answers. I decided to go straight to the source.
“That’s correct, Officer. I’m his third cousin twice removed.” Removed from what exactly, I hadn’t a clue. It didn’t seem to matter though because the guard on duty buzzed me through. I happen to be a veteran when it comes to visits to the county jail. I didn’t so much as bat an eye as I was patted down, wanded, and had my purse searched for contraband. I endured the indignities grateful I didn’t have to step on a scale. Even I have limits as to how far I’d go to solve a case.
I was ushered into the waiting room by a tall, skinny guard wearing a bored expression. I guessed him to be thirty-something, but then again he might be one of those people who perpetually look thirty-something. I gingerly lowered myself into a grimy plastic chair, carefully avoiding the even grimier counter. Smudged Plexiglas separated the visitors from the inmates. Where were sanitary wipes when you needed them? Next visit, I vowed to slip a can of Lysol spray into my bra and pray I didn’t set off the metal detectors.
Finally the prisoner shuffled in accompanied by a guard I recognized from my friend Claudia’s recent incarceration. I gave the guard, whom I fondly nicknamed Jabba the Hutt, a friendly wave, which, by the way, he didn’t return. At a glance, I could see prison life didn’t agree with Kel. The orange jumpsuit he wore didn’t flatter him any more than it had Claudia. The bright color lent a sallow cast to his complexion. The lines and wrinkles in his face appeared more pronounced. I could recommend a go
od skin care product, but under the circumstances doubt he’d appreciate the offer. His dark eyes looked more sunken than usual, his salt-and-pepper hair, though still pulled into a ponytail, looked stringy and unkempt.
Kel’s eyes widened in surprise at spotting me on the other side of the Plexiglas. “Mrs. McCall…?” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “You’re the last person I expected to see.”
“Hey, Kel,” I said, opting for the casual. I was becoming amazingly adept at jailhouse etiquette. Amy Vanderbilt, Emily Post, consider this fair warning: The book’s my idea. “Hope you don’t mind my coming, but I’ve some questions I’d like answered.”
“Go ahead. Shoot,” he said, then cringed at his poor choice of words. Dark red spread across the sharp ridges of his cheekbones. “Say, I’m sorry about that—the shooting that is. Was just trying to warn you away from my…plants…when you moved.”
Sheesh! The nerve! He was making it sound as though getting shot was my fault. What’s the world coming to? Doesn’t anyone accept responsibility for their actions? “My mistake. I shouldn’t have zigged when I was supposed to zag.”
“Never meant you any harm.”
“Don’t give it another thought. The bleeding stopped even before we got to the hospital. Five stitches and a tetanus shot are no big deal.” I didn’t bother to hide the sarcasm.
I was gratified to see him wince. Serves him right for taking aim at a senior citizen. “I’ll forgive you if you tell me why you were stalking Sheila Rappaport.”
“Me?” His expression went blank. “Is that what she’s telling people?”
“It is.”
“That’s a lie, a goddamn lie. And once more, I never tried to kill her or that fancy boyfriend of hers.”
“If that’s the case, why show up on the set of her TV show?” I waited a beat. “Then again at the hospital, and after the memorial service?”
Folding his hands, he leaned into the Plexiglas. “I dropped by the set ’cause I needed her advice.”
