Rita’s voice trailed off.
“Or?” There was both trepidation and impatience in Angelica’s voice.
“Or the supplier gave Jay this on purpose.”
Angelica stared at Rita, her big brown eyes growing larger by the second. “You think someone did this on purpose? Tried to harm him? Tried to—?”
The words seemed to stick in Angelica’s throat. Rita patted her hand. “Tried to kill him? I don’t know, cara, but we can’t rule it out. Maybe that prank in the pool wasn’t a prank—maybe it was a warning.”
Angelica looked doubtful. “Over a football rivalry?”
“Maybe. Or maybe that’s just a convenient cover. Who hates your husband?”
“My ex, for one. But Craig—no, I can’t see Craig doing this.”
As gently as possible, Rita said, “Yes, but you probably didn’t imagine he’d cheat on you with a, er—“
Rita could not bring herself to say the word. But she didn’t have to.
“Oh.” Angelica looked down at the floor. “You heard about the photos.”
Rita sighed. “I’m afraid so, cara.” She refilled Angelica’s cup. “Do you have any idea who sent you the photos?”
“I don’t know. They were just left on the doorstep.”
“No fingerprints?”
“I didn’t check.” Angelica took a swig of wine. “But here’s the thing. Even if Craig wanted to hurt or”—she gulped—“kill Jay, how would he have gotten his hands on horse tranquilizer? He’s a football coach and PE teacher. I don’t think he knows a single veterinarian.”
“Hmmmm, so we’re back to, who had access to the bathroom in, say, the last week?”
“Well, me, your sister, anyone she showed the house to, maybe even anyone at the party. I mean, most people probably used the hall bathroom, but it was crowded. No one would have thought it odd for someone to use the master bath if the hall bathroom were occupied.”
Rita sighed. “Well, that’s about forty potential suspects right there, although I can’t see what motive any of them would have. Could I get a list of attendees?”
Angelica nodded.
“I can get Rose to give me a list of the potential home buyers that have toured the home,” Rita said. “Does Jay have a cleaning lady?”
“Sandra Martinez.”
“Would she have a motive? Or anyone she knows?”
“I doubt it.”
All the same, Rita added Sandra’s name to her notes.
“Does Chief D’Agostino know about this yet?”
Angelica grunted. “Apparently it’s hospital policy to notify the police of an overdose, and that’s what they’re considering this.”
“Has the chief been to your house yet?”
“No.” Angelica looked confused. “But why would he?”
“To search for the vial that the ketamine came from. See if they can find fingerprints or some other clue to locate the supplier.”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.” Angelica looked glum. “So I guess I should be expecting a visit, huh?”
“I’m betting you’ll get a call from the chief in the next hour.” Rita patted Angelica’s hand. “I hope they find this guy. Even if it wasn’t intentional, this drug dealer—or crooked vet—or whoever it is, is dangerous.”
Rita stood up. “I’ll send you the story before I submit it to my editor.” Even though she wasn’t sure if it was good journalistic ethics or not, she added, “If there’s anything that makes you uncomfortable, I’ll take it out.”
“Thanks, Rita.”
“I’ll pray for you, cara.” Rita glanced over at the bed. “And poor Jay.”
Chapter Six
By the time Rita returned from the hospital, she had a throbbing headache. How is it, she thought as she trudged up the steps and put her key in the lock, that she had lived her whole life in Acorn Hollow without being aware of the homicidal tendencies that lurked below the surface? Or if not exactly homicidal, peculiar to say the least. She had been shocked enough by Miss Simms’s poison garden—to say nothing of her creepy penchant for fertilizing it with dead pets and old paramours’ body parts. But her conversation with Angelica had shaken her to her core. What had happened could not be dismissed as some harmless, if rather disturbing, eccentricity—someone had, at best, played Russian roulette with Jay’s life and, at worst, specifically targeted him.
Somehow, she suspected the latter.
Yes, it could have been some anonymous drug dealer, some low-life from Albany or even New York City. Someone she did not know.
But there existed the possibility—no, Rita thought, shuddering, the probability—that someone she knew had tampered with his drug supply. After all, what motive would a drug dealer have to substitute one drug for another, more lethal one? A dead customer was not a repeat customer and, as Sal was fond of saying, “Repeat customers are the difference between bankruptcy and success.”
No, given the incident at the pool, it seemed as though someone had it in for the coach.
And that person was not only someone she likely knew, but someone who had been at the party. It would have been the simplest thing in the world to slip into the master bathroom, substitute ketamine for some other substance, and then rejoin the party—confident in the knowledge that the fatal dose would be self-administered and probably not take place until the following morning. And then, even if foul play were suspected, there would conveniently be dozens of other suspects.
She threw her keys on the kitchen table, gave Luciano and Cesare affectionate pats on the head, and glanced at the clock. In just three hours, the whole family would be there for Sunday dinner, and Sal would be bitterly disappointed if there were no gnocchi with short rib ragú.
It was time to call in reinforcements.
*****************************
Gnarled and pinkish-brown, the sweet potatoes sizzled as Rita pulled them out of the oven.
“From your garden?” Rose asked.
Rita nodded.
“They’re practically the size of pineapples,” her twin said, exaggerating slightly. “It’s a mystery to me how you know which ones to dig up.”
“You never know what you’re getting,” Rita said darkly. “Just like with people. You don’t see what’s below the surface.”
“Oh, so now you’re not just a cook, but a philosophizer too.”
“Well, if you’d had the morning that I did, you’d be philosophical too. And maybe a little depressed about human nature.”
Holding a steaming hot sweet potato gingerly in an oven mitt, Rose sliced it in half lengthwise and then pressed its flesh against the passatutto, sending skinny bright orange ribbons shooting out the other side like fireworks. “Tell me about it.”
Rita told Rose the whole story, starting with her bizarre interview with Miss Simms and concluding with the revelation that Coach Stiglitz had some sort of drug habit and had either intentionally or inadvertently injected himself with horse tranquilizer.
“He’s a big guy,” Rose said, “but not exactly as big as a horse.” She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t see him injecting himself with horse tranquilizer on purpose. I mean, I could be wrong, but I don’t think he was on the down low—”
“What?”
Rose shot her sister an exasperated look. “Don’t you ever watch TV, or talk to someone under the age of forty? I mean, I don’t think he was gay. So, I doubt he’d be taking a gay party drug and besides, as you say, it’s rarely injected anyway.”
“What’s your theory, then?”
“Well, he is a former football player and very, very buff…”
“So?”
“Steroids, that’s my guess.” Rose tilted her bowl of tangled bright orange strands so Rita could see them better. “Is that enough?”
Rita nodded absentmindedly as she reached for the flour, sifted it into the bowl, and then added a beaten egg.
“So, he bought steroids somewhere on the black market,” Rita mused, “and then someone—eit
her the supplier, or someone who tampered with it after the sale—substituted ketamine for steroids.” She stirred slowly. “That sounds plausible, actually. At least more plausible than anything else. But that means it was someone with a grudge against him. Probably someone local, and maybe even someone at the party last night. Or maybe someone to whom you showed the house.”
Rose frowned. “I don’t like the sound of that.” She sighed. “Well, who has a motive?”
“Angelica’s ex has a motive, but he didn’t come to the party. Did he tour the house?”
“Not that I know of. But maybe someone close to him came to the party or toured the house.”
“Or someone who owes him a favor.”
Rita rolled the dough with her palm until it resembled a long golden rod. She quickly chopped the rod into half-inch segments, which her sister scooped up and began rolling over the gnocchi shaper.
When Rose had a whole mound of the pillowy pasta in front of her, marked with its signature little grooves, she suddenly asked, “And what about Angelica?”
“What about Angelica?”
“She might have a motive.”
“Rose!”
“Now, Rita, I know you saw her and she seemed upset, but remember that she was a fabulous actress in high school. She was a marvelous Emily in Our Town. “
Rita remembered Angelica’s portrayal vividly. Rita had sat in the darkened auditorium and cried and cried. She had gone through two packets of tissues that night. “I’ll grant you that, but what would her motive be?”
Rose shrugged. “Money, probably.”
“But they’re not married yet.”
“So? They don’t need to be married. He just needs to have changed his will. Suppose she didn’t really love him. Suppose it was all an act. Once she finds out that she’ll inherit his fortune, there’s no reason to keep him around.”
“That doesn’t sound like the Angelica I know.”
“Rita, it doesn’t sound like anyone we know. But someone tried to kill Coach Stiglitz—and it’s probably someone we know. And since they didn’t succeed this time, they’ll probably try again.”
Rita glanced again at the clock. They had an hour and a half until dinner; the ragú was bubbling away in the slow cooker, and the gnocchi was quick to cook. One thing was clear to Rita: Chief D’Agostino was unlikely to crack this case in time. In high school, he had been the cautious, plodding student—and from what Rita had seen, he had changed very little since the days when they had sat next to each other in Geometry. She shot her twin a sly little smile. “Could I get a house tour, please?”
Chapter Seven
Rita wore her black leather Isotoner gloves—the ones Vinnie had given her for Christmas last year—during her private tour of Coach Stiglitz’s house. Rose refrained from extolling the virtues of the his-and-hers marble sinks, the Jacuzzi, and the double shower heads as they stood in the palatial master bath, Rita rummaging through the contents of the medicine cabinet.
The police had gotten there first. The medicine cabinet door was swinging open, the contents in a pile on the sink. There were the usual tubes of Neosporin, rolls of Ace bandages, first aid kits, and bottles of aspirin. Rita saw no sign of a syringe, needles, or a bottle of mysterious liquid, and she surmised that they had already been carted off to dust for fingerprints.
Rita scanned the room for clues of just who had been there. Trapped beneath the soap dish, which contained a dainty lavender-scented bar (courtesy, she was sure, of Angelica), Rita found a long curly dark brown hair.
“Probably Angelica’s,” she said as she snapped a photo and then crouched to inspect the black and white tiled floor. Beneath the claw foot tub, something glinted in the dim light. Rita shifted gingerly to her knees, grimacing as they dug into the hard floor, and reached a gloved hand as far under the tub as she could. On her third try, her leather-clad fingers scooped up the silvery object. Rose helped her to her feet, and Rita opened her fist slowly as she leaned against the marble sink, catching her breath.
Staring at the object, she rotated her palm gently to catch the light. No more than a quarter inch long, it was a vaguely S-shaped silver squiggle that gradually tapered in width. “What is that?”
Her twin shrugged. “A cufflink, jewelry, something like that. But whatever it is, it’s just a piece of something larger.” Rose tilted Rita’s hand slightly and pointed. “See that jagged edge? It broke off from something.”
Rita photographed it and then dutifully slipped it back under the tub for the police chief to find. If, that is, he ever came around to her theory that something nefarious was afoot.
She followed her sister back through the master bedroom and into the kitchen, where Rita photographed each page of Coach Stiglitz’s calendar—which seemed to consist of nothing but the football team’s practice and game schedule—and then changed into some grubby gardening gloves before plunging into the coach’s waste basket. While Rita sifted through its contents, Rose settled into a recliner to update her real estate listings for the week.
Rita interrupted her search only briefly to call Angelica for an update on the coach’s condition. To her surprise, Angelica reported that he was doing much better. “All of his tubes have been removed,” she said. “He can even eat normally.”
“When do you think he’ll be released?”
“Maybe as soon as tomorrow night.””
Rita thanked Angelica, hung up, and resumed her search. After half an hour, she pulled a crumpled receipt from the waste basket. “Here’s something interesting,” Rita said. “A receipt from Hudson Valley Chocolatiers in Mount Washington.”
“So?” Rose looked unimpressed. “Everybody loves that place.”
“Yes, but to the tune of one hundred fifty-two dollars?”
On Monday, Rita’s article on Miss Van Der Hooven appeared on page three of the Morris County Gazette. Her piece on Coach Stiglitz, however, made the front page.
“My first byline,” Rita murmured, ostensibly to herself, but really for Sal’s benefit, as they sat at the kitchen table reading the morning paper and drinking lattes. Outside, it was dark and stormy; rain pelted the windowpanes. She added, “And my second.”
Her husband glanced up, white foam stuck in his moustache. Reaching for another slice of Rita’s cranberry bread, he grunted, “You must be pleased, being famous and all.”
Yes, Rita wanted to say, I am, but you should be pleased too. Not every man in this town is married to a journalist. And for once she’d be bringing home a paycheck. His face was buried in the sports section again, so Rita was limited to scrutinizing his body language. Was he secretly pleased, but too proud to admit it?
“What?” Sal said suspiciously, looking up. “Are you going to nag me about getting a haircut?”
“No, your hair looks just fine.” She poked around in the sugar bowl, trying not to look as though she were fishing for a compliment.
“Well, good.” The gruffness went out of Sal’s voice for a moment. “The coffee’s great, cara. The bread too. Just remember that before you were a big-time journalist, you were a great cook and wife and mother.”
Smiling, she reached across the table and patted his hand. “I know, caro. But I may not have time to cook quite as much now.”
Now Sal looked truly alarmed. “No more gnocchi?”
“Maybe only on weekends.”
“Huh. Well, I always tell the guys at the nursery that my wife makes the best damn gnocchi. Even if it’s a little nontraditional. You know, with sweet potatoes.” He dumped a lump of sugar in his latte and added, “You need to do a story on those hawks.”
“Hawks?”
“I got a call from Jim this morning. He said that nearly every teacher awoke this morning to find a bunch of hawks flapping around in their cars. And a bunch of dead squirrels scattered all over their seats. So those hawks were not exactly eager to leave.”
Rita smiled. Now there was a scoop—and from quite an unlikely source. Jumping up, she planted a k
iss on Sal’s forehead. “Grazie mille. Ciao, bello!”
She poured her coffee into a plastic mug, grabbed her raincoat and keys, and headed out the door. Peering into her green Buick, she breathed a sigh of relief. No hawks. Rita drove past St. Vincent’s and felt a pang of guilt as she recognized several of the cars in the parking lot. She was missing the funeral choir’s weekly rehearsal. Rita was a stalwart member of the group. Or she had been, at least.
Swinging into the high school parking lot, she fished her new laminated press pass out of her purse. Just the sight of it—so shiny, so official—sent tingles of excitement down Rita’s spine. Then she bolted out of the car, slammed the door shut, and scurried across the water-logged parking lot and into the nearest entrance.
She strode into the principal’s office with a trail of water seeping behind her. “Rita Cala—” she began.
The purple-haired waif interrupted her. “I know. Rita Calabrese. Morris County Gazette. I read your article on Miss Van Der Hooven.”
“You did?”
The girl shrugged. “Of course. It’s about someone I know, after all. It was really good, actually. I liked it.”
Rita was pleasantly surprised. “Thank you.”
“I’m Hannah, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Hannah.”
“Are you here to see Dr. Walker?”
Rita nodded, and Hannah pushed a lock of purple hair out of her eye. “You can go on in. He’s got the county prosecutor and student body president in there, but he won’t mind. Fair warning, though—he’s a little scary this morning. I guess he didn’t like having hawk feathers all over his leather seats. Well, that, plus the squirrel guts. He loves his car more than his wife. And she’s hot.” She squinted. “Well, for someone who’s kind of old. I think she might even be forty.”
The Secret Poison Garden Page 4
