by Gail Oust
“I’ve heard all about your unfortunate reaction to bee venom.” Sheila performed her Cruella impersonation again. “Pity you’ll be stung again so soon. Death from anaphylactic shock can be quite dramatic. You won’t suffer long. The onset should be within minutes.”
The idea of being stung by bees nearly paralyzed me. My throat was too dry to swallow. Cardiac arrest seemed imminent.
Judging by her expression, Cruella, er, Sheila seemed to relish my fear. “Left untreated, shock and death can occur anywhere from a few minutes to an hour or more. First you’ll experience swelling of the tongue and face, especially the lips and around the eyes. Next your body breaks out in nasty red, itchy welts.”
I shivered convulsively at the picture her words painted.
“Then you’ll wheeze and gasp for air. Finally your blood pressure will drop. You’ll lose consciousness, lapse into a coma, and die.” Her voice was clinical and detached as she described the gruesome symptoms.
I moistened my lips with the tip of my tongue. “Friends will never believe I was stupid enough to come out here knowing what happened last time.”
Sheila shrugged nonplussed. “Who knows why people do things? For a while, I imagine your poor judgment will be gossiped about over coffee or in line at the drugstore. Eventually life moves on. People cease wondering and get on with it. Enough chitchat,” she said, her voice taking on a sharper edge. “Stop near the hives.”
Even from a distance, I could see bees swarming around the boxes, or supers or whatever the darn things were called. Given my druthers, I’d rather take my chances with a bullet than try to outrun a swarm of angry bees. My brain scrambled for a means of escape. Did I have my EpiPen handy? Good news: Yes, I did have it with me. It was in my purse, probably in the nether region fraternizing with tubes of lipstick and ballpoint pens. Bad news: My purse was on the floor of the backseat where Sheila had tossed it. I doubted whether she’d delay my execution while I retrieved it and rummaged through the contents for a lifesaving medication.
“You’ll never get away with this, Sheila.” I resorted to another slick cliché, but any cliché in a storm, right? If I got out of this alive, I vowed to give up clichés forever. I’d stop watching the classic movie channel and switch to the Food Network.
“We’ll see about that. Now start walking!”
I opened the car and cautiously stepped out. My hand was on the door handle when I heard a familiar voice.
“Kate…? That you?”
Turning, I spied Rita’s Honda Accord ten feet behind me. My knees sagged with relief. And then the adrenaline kicked in. The drama inside the Buick had been so intense I hadn’t realized we were being followed. From the surprised look on Sheila’s face, she hadn’t been aware of it either. This wasn’t the time, however, to question Providence. It was the time for action. I sprinted for the safety of the Honda as if the hounds from hell nipped at my heels.
“Hurry, Kate,” I thought I heard Polly holler. “Get in the frickin’ car before you get stung.”
The back door of the Honda swung open, and I tumbled inside. When I clumsily righted myself, I found myself surrounded by Babes. Rita was at the wheel, Connie Sue riding shotgun. Polly and Gloria, and now myself, occupied the rear. Was I hallucinating? Had I died and gone to heaven? Were the Babes angels in disguise? “What the…?” I mumbled.
Rita squinted through the windshield. “Was that Sheila in the car with you?”
“We have to stop her,” I panted. “She killed Vaughn—and almost killed me.”
As all of us watched, Sheila climbed over the console of the Buick and into the driver’s seat. Any second now, she’d hook a U-turn and make a run for the border.
“Cut her off,” I screamed in Rita’s ear. “Don’t let her get away.”
“Hang on!” Rita set her jaw. “High time she gets what’s coming to her.”
Connie Sue rolled her window down a crack and let out a rebel yell that could be heard clear to Augusta. Not to be outdone, Gloria cranked down her window partway and began pelting the Buick with any object she could lay her hands on. Water bottles, sneakers, garden trowels sailed through the air, hitting their target with uncanny accuracy.
The loud cry and all the pelting must have had an unsettling effect on Sheila because she jerked the wheel hard to the right. Rita gunned the motor and took after her in hot pursuit. Leaning over the seat, I grabbed hold of the steering wheel and charted a collision course. To avoid a direct hit, Sheila made another sharp turn and this time clipped the corner of a stack of supers. Hives flew upward, then landed with a crash on the hood of the Buick that had come to a precipitous halt. Rita, always quick-witted, shoved the Honda into reverse and backed down the road.
We sat for a moment in stunned silence and let the dust settle. Sheila sat slumped behind the wheel, a nasty gash on her forehead from hitting the windshield. No sympathy from me. That’s what she deserved for not fastening her seat belt. Honey dripped over the Buick in thick, syrupy rivulets. Bees were everywhere. The queen and her cohorts were none too happy about losing the fruits of their labor. They swarmed over the car in a dark angry cloud. Sheila would have to have a death wish to leave the safety of the Buick.
“Well, that got the blood pumping,” Polly chortled.
I let out a giggle comprised of tension mixed with relief. “Doesn’t look like Sheila’s going anywhere anytime soon,”
“Guess you could say we foiled a honey of a killer,” Rita said, and we groaned at the pun.
“Thank you, guys. I owe you my life,” I said, tearing up now that the adrenaline rush was fading.
“As it turns out, Kate,” Rita said, “it’s a good thing you never found time to do the weeding for the garden club.”
Gloria searched for her sneaker; then her expression cleared, apparently remembering she’d used it for ammunition. “Rita called and asked if we’d do it for you.”
Polly nodded eagerly. “We agreed that if we all pitched in, it wouldn’t take us long. So here we are.”
“Connie Sue’s the one who spotted your car heading in the opposite direction. We decided to see what you were up to.”
“Lucky for me you did. Sheila almost got away with Kate-icide.” I sniffed back tears. “Does anyone have a cell phone I can use?”
Polly handed me one studded with rhinestones. “Here, use mine.”
I tried to make the afternoon dispatcher at the sheriff’s office understand that we had a killer—and we had bees. In spite of repeated explanations, she seemed fixated on the idea that we’d been attacked by killer bees. At any rate, she promised to send assistance.
I leaned back in the Honda, wedged securely between Polly and Gloria, and felt my body relax and my mind drift. Wouldn’t my children be proud to learn their mother had brought yet another criminal to justice? Nah, I decided. They’d probably freak out. Just to be on the safe side, though, when Steven comes to visit I’ll ask his help to fill out the living will and power of attorney he’d sent.
Chapter 37
“Y’all should’ve been there,” Connie Sue said as she poured herself a glass of pinot grigio. “It was a sight for sore eyes.”
“You can say that again.” Gloria’s bangle bracelets jingled as she spread hummus on a wheat cracker. “EMTs, sheriff’s department, firefighters. It caused quite a commotion.”
“Bees must’ve covered every square inch of Kate’s Buick.” Polly’s faded blue eyes twinkled behind her trifocals. “Then these cute guys, all gussied up in baggy white suits and hats with veils, came and waved smokers to quiet the bees.”
Rita wore a look of smug satisfaction. “Firemen had to hose down the car before Sheriff Wiggins could haul Sheila out and read her her rights.”
For the time being, I was content to sit back and listen to my friends’ chatter. The Babes were gathered in Janine’s kitchen waiting for a couple stragglers to arrive so bunco could begin. Somehow I had the feeling we’d spend more of the evening talking than rolling the bone
s. But that was okay. Recent events would be the chief topic of gossip and speculation around Serenity Cove for weeks to come.
“Did Dr. Sheila ever confess to poisoning Dr. Bascomb?” Megan asked, wide-eyed.
Feeling myself the center of attention, I paused in the act of dredging a taco chip through salsa. “Not yet, but Sheriff Wiggins said it’s only a matter of time. He thinks Sheila’s hoping for a plea bargain.”
“Well, at least they have her cold for what she tried to do to you,” Pam said. “Attempted murder isn’t a charge to be taken lightly.”
“Mmm.” I munched on my chip. The salsa was spicy just the way I like it, but not enough I’d need an ant-acid. “With the new information the toxicology lab faxed over this morning, I think the sheriff’s planning to amend the charge to first-degree murder. Sheila’s plea bargain might amount to no more than taking the death penalty off the table.”
“New information?” Monica looked at me sharply. “What new information?”
Smiling serenely, I helped myself to more chips and salsa. “The lab confirmed Vaughn’s death was due to grayanotoxin just as Sheila claimed.”
“Grayanotoxin?” Monica frowned, obviously unhappy there was a subject on which she wasn’t well versed. “Never heard of it.”
“Azaleas,” I replied succinctly.
It took a few moments for this to sink in.
“Azaleas.” Janine shook her head in wonderment. “Who would have guessed?”
“I did some research online after Kate called this morning,” Diane said. “Azaleas produce bacteria that can mimic food poisoning.”
“Stomach irritation, abnormal heart rhythm, seizures, coma, and even death,” Janine enumerated the symptoms, her RN background rising to the fore.
“Exactly,” I agreed.
“The honey Sheila added to Vaughn’s tea was made from the nectar of azaleas, or rhododendrons, and is known as ‘mad honey,’” Diane explained.
Gloria hoisted herself onto one of the stools bordering the breakfast bar. “What I don’t understand is why it took so long for the toxicology results.”
“Real life isn’t like TV,” Pam, my crime-show buddy, lectured. “As much as I love CSI and Law & Order, in reality most crimes aren’t solved in a day, much less an hour like on TV.”
“More like forty-five minutes.” Polly nodded sagely. “Gotta have commercials.”
“I asked Sheriff Wiggins the same question, Pam,” I said. “Once poisoning is suspected as COD—cause of death, for the less well informed among you—he told me the lab rules out common sources first. Arsenic, cyanide, strychnine, benzene, bromide—you know, the usual suspects.” I rattled off the list, trying to impress the Babes with my wisdom and expertise. “You have to give the lab credit for finding the true culprit. There are many lesser-known toxins out there, and finding the right one must’ve been like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack.”
“Hey, y’all.” Tammy Lynn burst into Janine’s kitchen, looking flushed and happy. “Sorry I’m late, but Eric wanted to drop me off.”
Well, well, well. Seems like our little Cinderella has found her Prince Charming. Tammy Lynn was decked out in a short, flirty skirt, scoop-necked red sweater, and heels. Heels, mind you, not sneakers or scuffed loafers. Who could have guessed the girl possessed a pair of Betty Grable legs beneath all the frumpy polyester?
“I heard y’all talkin’ about the lab report,” she went on. “Sheriff Wiggins said the technique for this specific test is labor intensive and requires an experienced forensics toxicologist. To complicate matters, the person most qualified to run this test had been away on family leave.”
“But at the banquet Sheila became ill and had to be rushed to the hospital, too. Are you implying she poisoned herself?” Pam asked.
I started to take another corn chip, but changed my mind. All this talk of poison was affecting my appetite. “Sheila administered a small amount of the ‘mad honey’ to herself. Just enough to divert suspicion away from herself.”
“And it worked like a charm. Should’ve known she’d do something like that.” Rita clucked her tongue with disgust. “All the while everyone was thinking poor, poor pitiful Sheila.”
“What would make a person do something like this?” asked sweet, naive Megan.
“Money, sugar,” Connie Sue drawled. “Oodles and oodles of money.”
Tammy Lynn bypassed the wine in favor of a diet soda. “Sheriff Wiggins confirmed Belle Beaute agreed to pay Sheila Rappaport a small fortune for somethin’ to do with a plant.”
“Sea buckthorn,” I supplied. “Seems as though it shows great promise for skin care products. Unfortunately Kel Watson made the same discovery, but made the mistake of confiding in Sheila Rappaport. He unwittingly sought the advice of a fellow botanist—and we all know how that turned out.”
“Sheila’s not the sharing type,” Rita said. “Not even in college. No way she’d share a humungous sum if she could keep it all to herself. Evidently Vaughn was expendable.”
“Don’t tell the sheriff I’m blabbin’”—Tammy Lynn lowered her voice—“but the pharmacist at the drugstore is willin’ to testify Sheila picked up Dr. Bascomb’s heart medicine. He said her knowin’ how he had a preexistin’ condition and all will add weight to the case against her.”
Pam looked at me fondly. “If it weren’t for Kate, Sheila might’ve gotten away with murder.”
And I’d nearly lost my life in the process. We were all silent for a moment, our thoughts probably traveling the same track.
“We’re much too serious,” I said, striving to lighten the mood. “Now, for some good news. Betsy Dalton called to thank me personally. Belle Beaute is so pleased we uncovered Sheila’s duplicity, they want to send each of us a year’s supply of their products.”
Firmer, smoother skin. Fewer lines. Diminished wrinkles. Revitalize, rejuvenate, regenerate, recharge, restore, reenergize. Buzz words flew through the air thicker than lovebugs in mating season. And, ladies, anyone who’s ever driven through Florida in October knows what I’m talking about.
“Where in the world is Claudia?” Connie Sue asked when the chatter died down. “She said she’d be late, but it’s headin’ toward ridiculous.”
Janine craned her head and peered toward the foyer. “Speak of the devil…”
“Yoo-hoo, everyone.” Claudia waved as she entered.
Polly gave her the once-over. “Don’t you look spiffy.”
“Spiffy” was indeed the adjective of choice to describe her stylish black cocktail suit with its slim skirt and fitted jacket. Claudia did a mean pirouette and, grinning ear to ear, waggled her left hand for all to see.
The sight of a huge, sparkly diamond solitaire—had to be at least two carats—was greeted with squeals of delight. Fine detective I was. Claudia’s engagement shouldn’t have come as a surprise. She had a certain twinkle in her eyes, a certain bounce to her step these days. And Claudia tended to be impulsive—no, “spontaneous” was perhaps a better word—when it came to her relationships with the opposite sex.
“I know that in view of my recent fiasco, I vowed to swear off men for life,” she confessed as the Babes clustered around for a closer look, “but BJ is such a charmer I couldn’t resist. Neither of us is getting any younger, and we don’t want to spend our golden years alone. And”—she paused for effect—“I’m asking all of you to be my bridesmaids.”
Bunco was definitely on the back burner. We laughed. We cried. We toasted. A killer’d been caught, freebies granted, and a fellow Babe engaged. I sighed with contentment. It all added up to a wonderful evening.
“Ladies!” Janine clapped her hands to get our attention. “Let’s play at least one round of bunco to commemorate the occasion.”
As we made our way toward the tables, Claudia whispered in my ear, “BJ wasn’t the only one shopping at the jewelry store. He recognized a certain blue-eyed tool guy hovering over the ring counter.”
My heart skipped a beat. “
Bill…?”
Claudia winked.
I glanced down at my left hand, which was bereft of jewelry. I didn’t need a sparkly diamond on the ring finger to know I loved Bill—a sweet, gentle man with the soul of a warrior. And with all my faults, I know in my heart he loved me right back. No need to rush things. What was it some philosopher once said? It came back to me as I took my seat at the table next to Connie Sue and rolled the dice.
Life is about the journey, not the destination.
