Fruit of the Poisoned Tree

by Joyce; Jim Lavene

  Beth strode to the stove and threw her cup of tea into the sink. The fragrant tea splashed everywhere, showering the room with the orange herbal scent. The cup shattered in the sink, pieces crashing to the floor. “Then I guess that’s it. Park is a suicide. He killed himself because he lost a few thousand dollars. That’s what everyone will think. That’s the legacy he’ll leave his sons. He deserves better.”

  Peggy’s hands were shaking as she got up from the chair. “I’m sorry. I wish there was something else I could do. Something I’m qualified to do.”

  “So do I.”

  It seemed so final, so devastating. Peggy felt she should leave. There was nothing more to say. In time, Beth would understand. The pain and rage would fade. Their friendship was strong enough to handle this. “Let me know if I can help with anything else.”

  “I will,” Beth promised in a whisper, but she didn’t look at her. “I’m sorry, Peggy. I don’t know what I’m thinking right now.”

  “I know. I’ll give you a call later.”

  Peggy was numb as she got in the taxi to go to the shop. She supposed she could understand Beth’s desperation. How would she have felt if John had been accused of committing suicide? She wanted to help. But what she did after Mark Warner was killed in her shop was purely dumb luck. She didn’t think she could do it again if she tried. Besides, that was different. Maybe Park didn’t kill himself. She didn’t believe he did. But this wasn’t a murder. There were no real answers to find.

  Fortunately, shop traffic was light that morning. It gave her time to think about everything that had happened. She couldn’t close her eyes without seeing Park’s car going over the edge of the ramp. Sometimes the sheer horror of it made her physically ill. She knew it would pass in time. At least Beth didn’t have to deal with that part.

  The weather cleared as it neared lunchtime. Workers in the downtown buildings spilled out into the sunlight like little seedlings turning toward the warmth. A break in the weather was always good for business.

  Latta Arcade swelled with people who spilled out into Brevard Court behind it. The sun was magnified inside the restored 1915 shopping area by the high skylight roof used originally for the grading of cotton. Now filled with shops and restaurants, it was natural to extend the area to include the outdoor courtyard.

  The Potting Shed, an urban gardener’s paradise, was set on the corner of the courtyard across from the Kozy Kettle Tea and Coffee Emporium and beside Anthony’s Caribbean Café. Office managers in stiletto heels and Ann Taylor suits browsed through catalogs and ordered faux antique garden implements, seeds, and even professional help in setting up their gardens. It was the only store of its kind in uptown Charlotte.

  Peggy was grateful for the patronage of the workers as well as the contracts she received to care for plants in the office buildings they worked in. The Potting Shed also did special orders for parties as well as outdoor landscaping. It kept everyone who worked for her busy. She wished John could’ve seen it.

  But at least he’d seen his son grow to manhood. A luxury Park was denied.

  Guilt gnawed at her. She knew there wasn’t anything she could do to help Park’s family. It didn’t keep her from wanting to help. She thought about it while she waited on customers and straightened shelves. Beth was right, of course. The so-called investigation was stingy. How could they possibly know what happened on the ramp that morning so quickly?

  Keeley Prinz, the daughter of Peggy’s best friend, Lenore, came in to work early. A tall, dark, and handsome combination of Lenore and her husband, Keeley was as nice as she was gorgeous. When Peggy explained what happened, the younger woman was outraged. “I can’t believe she asked you that! What was she thinking? What were you supposed to do?”

  Peggy rang up the sale for the Helleborus mix Keeley was boxing up. Also known as the Lenten rose, it was good for adding color to the late winter and early spring landscape. “It was hard knowing what to say. Of course, I wanted to help her. But I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  The customer, a new member of the growing uptown condo dwellers, took in their words and waited for an opening. “Peggy? You said these will flower in the shade, too, right? Because I have a shaded area underneath the eaves on my balcony where I need some color.”

  “No problem.” Peggy smiled at her. “These little plants are hearty, and they like the shade as well as the sun. They should bloom for you. If they don’t, let me know, and I’ll come by and take a look at them.”

  “Thanks.” She knitted her brow as she put her hand on her hip. “And Keeley’s right. Your friend may be grieving, but she had no right to ask you to go through that again. You aren’t a police officer or a private detective. I’m sure she’ll come to see that later.”

  Peggy glanced at Keeley. That’s what she got for discussing her private matters in public. At least she hadn’t mentioned Beth’s name. “Thanks. You’re right.”

  “Damn straight. You take care of all of us here. We don’t need you traipsing around solving murders all over the place. You’re our plant lady. Everyone calls you that.”

  Plant lady. There were worse names. Peggy thanked her again but didn’t tell her it wasn’t another murder. The woman, she didn’t even know her name because she’d only been in a few times and paid cash for her purchases, didn’t need any more information. She could just see the headlines in the Charlotte Observer: “Plant Lady Solves Suicide.” The police would love that!

  Keeley giggled as the customer left the shop with her Lenten roses. “That was strange! Guess you have to be careful what you say. You never know who might be listening.”

  Peggy agreed as she went to help another customer choose a lighted fountain for his backyard. He wanted something with a light sensor so it wouldn’t come on until he got home from work and would go off in the morning. There wasn’t anything like that in the shop, but she found one in a new catalogue, and he ordered it. She took his payment for the fountain as he bought a new Christmas cactus for his office.

  “A friend of mine has one of these,” he said as he admired the red-rimmed leaves and inch-long pink flowers on the plant. “She says she barely does anything to it, and it still flowers. That’s for me!”

  “That’s right,” Peggy assured him. “They’re good little show plants. Water them when they get dry, but be sure they have good drainage. They don’t like their feet to stay wet. Then fertilize once a year, and you should be set.”

  “Thanks.” He picked up the plant and tucked away his wallet. “I tried a poinsettia, but it was too much work. I ended up killing it. But the ladies like a man who has plants, you know? When should my fountain be in?”

  “About two weeks, probably. But I’ll give you a call as soon as it gets here. We can deliver it if you don’t have time to come and get it.” She glanced at his catalogue order. “Whatever works for you, Mr. Burnette.”

  “I’ll let you know when you let me know.” He grinned at her. “Thanks.”

  Peggy watched him walk out of the shop. Keeley watched her watching him and nudged her. “Come on! He’s not all that much. Steve’s much cuter. You’ve got a good thing going with him. Don’t be checking out the competition!”

  “It’s not that.” Peggy shook her head, feeling as if she’d seen a ghost. “That was the man who took Mark Warner’s place at Bank of America.”

  Keeley whistled through her teeth. “Really? Small world, huh?”

  They split up again to help other customers. Peggy couldn’t help ruminating over the appearance of a dead man’s replacement in the Potting Shed. She was a scientist by profession but a gardener in her heart. Working in the fields with her father as she was growing up, she heard many strange tales of omens and apparitions. They were part of the Low Country lifestyle in the Charleston area.

  Everyone in her family, even her very proper mother, believed things could happen that foretold the future. A pregnant cousin once saw a man lose his leg in a combine accident. Her child was born three months
later with one short leg. The rest of the family agreed the combine accident was an omen.

  Was the appearance of Mark Warner’s successor an omen? Was it telling her she needed to do as Beth asked? It sounded ridiculous. She didn’t mention it to Keeley. No one else who wasn’t raised as she was would understand.

  It didn’t help that Beth’s words continued to eat at Peggy’s conscience as she worked. She knew she wasn’t responsible for the accident that killed Park. She certainly wasn’t responsible for the insurance company deciding to call his death a suicide. But was there something she could do to help? Before Mark Warner’s death in her shop, she probably hadn’t thought she could solve a murder either. Yet that’s exactly what she did. With a little help from her friends, of course.

  What would John do if he were alive? How would he respond to Beth’s call for help? It wasn’t an easy question. He was a police detective. He had thirty years’ experience investigating circumstances that didn’t seem right. She had thirty years’ listening to him talk when he could talk about his cases. That hardly qualified her to investigate Park’s death. She was probably foolish to let Beth’s words bother her.

  The lunch hour went quickly. Many workers couldn’t take their orders with them, so they either arranged for delivery or planned to come back. The sunlight seemed to have inspired spring in many winter-weary breasts. If sales continued at that pace, she wouldn’t have to worry. Her profit margin would sail into spring.

  But a few years’ business experience had taught her better safe than sorry. She sent out the sales circulars to all of her customers. She fully intended to retire from her work at Queens once the shop was secure. She always kept that goal in mind.

  Keeley stepped out for a well-deserved break as the rush slowed to a trickle. Peggy planned to leave when she came back. She had to stop by her house to feed and walk Shakespeare, then teach the afternoon class she’d exchanged with her friend at the university.

  She was organizing a new shipment of vegetable seeds in a display when a hoarse voice took her by surprise. “You’re somewhat of an expert on flower lore, aren’t you, Margaret?”

  Peggy turned to face Isabelle Lamonte. The old matriarch was dressed in her usual black. The sunlight streaming through the tall windows facing the courtyard drew harsh lines in her face. “I’ve dabbled in it. Is there something I can help you with?”

  Park’s mother looked around on the smooth tongue-and-groove wood floor. “Where was that man killed? I remember! He was facedown in a basket of anemones. Was he right here? I read all about it in the newspaper. What made you decide to investigate his death?”

  “I’m not sure,” Peggy answered cautiously. She wanted to ask: Why are you here? You’ve never come in before. “I suppose it was because he was in my shop, and an innocent man was accused of killing him.”

  “Suppose you found him lying in a field of orange lilies.” The older woman tested her knowledge of flower lore with a superior smugness to her thin lips. “What would you think then?”

  Peggy considered the question, wishing Isabelle would get to the point. She gave her the creeps. It was childish. But true. “I suppose I’d think someone hated him. Isn’t that what an orange lily symbolizes in the language of flowers? Disdain. Hatred. False pride.”

  “Exactly.” The old woman’s head nodded stiffly. “Park might as well have died in a field of orange lilies, Margaret. He was killed just as cruelly.”

  “I saw him die, Mrs. Lamonte. He told me he fell asleep at the wheel. No one killed him.” She picked up a small forget-me-not plant in a delft blue china pot. “Please let me give this to you. For the memories you have of him.”

  Isabelle pushed the plant away. “She did it. As surely as if she stabbed him in the heart. And that’s what I intend to tell the police.”

  “What?” Peggy stared at her. “Are you talking about Beth? The police know how he died. They aren’t going to believe she had anything to do with an accident witnessed by a hundred people. She was nowhere near that ramp.”

  “Nevertheless.” Isabelle turned toward the door with all the magnificence of the Dragon Queen she was in Peggy’s mind.

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Why?” The Dragon Queen turned to stare back at her. “Because Park was your friend before he was her husband. If you have any compassion in your soul, you will go to the police and tell them he wanted you to investigate his death. You should tell them it was his dying wish.”

  6

  Aster

  Botanical: Aster

  Family: Asteraceae

  Common name: Wild aster

  Also called starwort. Aster means “star” in Latin, referring to the shape of the tiny flowers in the wild. The flower was once placed on the grave of French soldiers, as a tribute to their bravery in battle. Burning aster flowers was believed to keep snakes away.

  PEGGY KNEW NOTHING ON earth was going to make her go to the police and say anything else about the accident. She stared blankly into Isabelle’s harsh face. Losing her son must have snapped her mind. She felt sorry for her but wouldn’t indulge in her madness.

  On the other hand, if Isabelle went to the police and told them she suspected foul play in Park’s death, Peggy knew they would have no choice but to investigate. It would be fruitless for the police to continue to look into his death, and it would be horrible for Beth and the boys.

  She considered that Isabelle didn’t know about the suicide verdict. Without a stitch of remorse for the old lady’s sensibilities, believing that hurting Isabelle would spare others a mountain of agony, Peggy told her about the insurance company’s decision.

  “At least she won’t get the money.”

  Peggy stared at her. “You know about that?”

  “I do.” Isabelle’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t believe Park killed himself, do you?”

  “No, of course not.” Peggy put her hands into her pockets and tried to imagine how Isabelle was privy to the insurance information. “I can’t imagine him giving up on life. But that’s what they decided. Let it alone, Mrs. Lamonte. You can’t bring him back by hurting anyone else.”

  “Let’s not worry about such nonsense. We have to cut to the bone, Margaret. We have to help the police find Park’s killer before she gets away with it.”

  Sighing over the same entreaty from Beth that morning, she agreed. In order to protect her friend from any more grief, Peggy promised to talk with the police about the possibility of Beth killing Park. It was stupid, the rambling imagination of a woman consumed by anger and sorrow. But if it would keep Isabelle from going to the police, it would be worth it. She just wouldn’t say when she’d do it. “Let me handle it. I know what to say. Does that satisfy you?”

  Isabelle considered her silently, leaning on the dragon-head cane with clawlike hands swaddled in black gloves. “It does. You’ve always been an honorable woman, Margaret. Thank you for helping my son. I’ll expect to hear from you in the next few days. If not, I’ll go to the police myself.”

  Peggy nodded, wondering what she’d got herself into this time. If nothing else, she supposed, she bought Beth a few days to have Park’s body released and get the funeral arrangements settled. “All right.”

  Without saying good-bye, Isabelle limped from the Potting Shed, letting Peggy close the door behind her. A gust of freezing air blew the robin off the snowman’s hat as it chilled Peggy’s soul. Not that it seemed to have any effect on what happened, but how had the Dragon Queen known about the ten million dollar insurance policy? Gossip was rife in the small community, but that information didn’t seem as interesting as who was sleeping with who. Beth certainly wouldn’t have told her.

  She needed to talk to Al. Maybe he’d agree to put on a show for Isabelle. If she were placated, she might leave Beth alone. If not, a homicide investigation would add more darkness to an already black time.

  Peggy took a moment to call him before she left the shop. He wasn’t in, of course, and she had to leave hi
m a voice mail. It was probably farfetched to think Al would help her fool Isabelle about Park’s death, but it was worth a try. He could also think the charge was worth looking into. That was a chance she had to take.

  When Keeley came back after her break, Peggy called a few companies for more stock. There was a run on dinner plate asters after an article in the gardening section of the newspaper about the beautiful flowers. People couldn’t get enough of them to plant for the summer. She went ahead and asked for another bag of dahlias and Jerusalem artichokes at the same time. Business was picking up!

  Peggy wanted to call a taxi to take her home since the weather was freezing and the sky was threatening some kind of precipitation at any moment, but she decided to brave the elements at the bus stop. She waited alone at the corner in the gloomy half twilight that encompassed the afternoon streets. Ice gathered on the bench where she sat and hung like frozen tears from the streetlight above her.

  She gritted her teeth when the bus finally got there half an hour late in a puff of black diesel smoke. How could anyone feel that was better for the environment? She climbed on board and rode silently through the almost deserted Charlotte streets.

  At home, she shivered as she let herself in the door, dragging her mail with her. Ice coated her jacket and hat just as it glazed anything that kept still outside for too long. As she was shaking them off, Shakespeare’s loud harrumphs started in the kitchen and finally ended in the foyer with him running into her. She gripped the edge of the table near the door to keep from being knocked over. It reminded her that she needed to call Rue and make another appointment! This was too much dog to run wild!