by E. Joan Sims
Barry came back down the narrow aisle of the greenhouse carrying a long stalk of grass with small yellow flowers on the end. He was obviously in the throes of scientific excitement because he forgot to pinch me again. He shook the flowers vigorously over the lab table. Cassie immediately started to sneeze.
“See?” he gestured towards Cassandra with the flowers. “Yon damsel is allergic to Goldenrod. As a good mother, you would naturally take her to an allergist.”
He leaned across the table and glared at me. “Why haven’t you, by the way?”
“She never…”
“The doctor would start her on a series of allergy shots made with a natural extract of the very plant that was giving her nasal passages fits.”
When he slammed the yellow bottle down on the table again, Cassie and I both jumped.
“Naturally, he would start with the yellow-topped bottle since it is the weakest strength and progress over a period of months to the strongest. After a year or two of this magical treatment she would find that her allergy to Goldenrod was no longer. She could go out and roll in the stuff and be sneeze free.” He sighed, “Ah, modern medicine.”
“What’s the artifact?” asked Cassie.
“Ah, there’s the rub,” he boomed. “For the last year, all of the Goldenrod in our fair state has been infected with a rust.” He saw our questioning looks and explained. “A rust is a plant fungus. It invades like a virus and before you know it—poof!”
He slammed his fists down and we jumped again. I decided I might have to smack him if he did it one more time.
“You can ask anybody in the allergy business. Goldenrod treatments have been put on hold.”
“Why?”
“Because, dear lady, no one knows how the plant rust will affect the patient. And it cannot be eliminated from the plant extract. Not with absolute certainty, anyway.”
I tried to remember some of my college botany.
“You said this rust was a fungus?”
“Right!”
“Then it has spores.”
“Exactomundo!”
“Then it can spread.”
“Give the lady a gold star! And that’s just why nobody wants to take a chance on using it for allergy therapy. It could theoretically carry another disease from patient to patient.”
He looked at me with those emerald eyes, “That’s just theory, you understand. But enough of a possibility to halt treatments for a while until we can come up with a nontoxic fungicide that’s specific to this particular rust. I don’t know where this little yellow bottle came from, but whoever made it could be in big trouble, because it’s full of fungal spores.”
“Have you ever heard of Goldenrod causing abortions?”
“Where in damnation are you all getting this information? That happened so long ago, and yet, you are the third person to ask me in the last three years.”
“Edgar Baxter was the first?”
He looked at me with unveiled admiration.
“Beauty and brains, too,” he sighed. “What a winning combination.”
Chapter Thirty-four
Before he let us go on our merry way, Barry Sedmonds fixed us the best tomato sandwich I ever had. He even washed his hands first.
Cassie backed Watson out of the one-way drive behind the greenhouse like an expert. We were well on our way again when I realized that we had not been given another police escort. I mentioned it to Cassie.
“Maybe Joiner forgot.”
“In the words of your Confederate great-granpappy, ‘Forget hell!’ I think he’s pretty sure we’re not going to meet Ethan during the daytime. He’ll be back at the farm tonight with reinforcements.”
The mood of the town seemed a bit somber as we drove through on our way home. There was a huge white silk bow of mourning tied to the one remaining post in the rubble that had been Dr. Edgar Baxter’s office. The few people out on the street were gathered in small conversational groups. I don’t think I was wrong to imagine they were discussing the old man’s life and death. Mother would be sad, too. I hoped I was wrong about Edgar Baxter. It would be nice if he could rest in peace.
I had left the little yellow-capped bottle with Barry. He was going to make an official analysis of the contents, including the spores. He had been dying of curiosity, but had the good manners not to ask me where my little find had come from. I promised him that after this was over I would take him up on his dinner invitation. I would fill him in on all the details over tiramisu. The mascarpone cheese, he promised, would be made with milk from his very own goats. I guessed I was up for it. At the very least, it would be interesting to observe Mother and Barry in action. She and Cass would come with me. He said I would need chaperones to curb his unbridled lust.
My being right all the time never ceased to amaze me. The circular drive at Meadowdale Farm was full of police cars. The sleek Bentley convertible belonging to Horatio Raleigh was parked closer to the house. Horatio was most likely trying to spirit Mother away from the plebeian clutches of the law by taking her to some exclusive place down by the lake for dinner.
Right again!
“I simply cannot leave the children, Horatio,” she insisted as she took another sip of the excellent chenin blanc he’d brought as an enticement.
“We’re not exactly children, Gran. I’m over twenty, for God’s sake, and Mother’s almost…”
“Never mind what I am almost. Cassie is right, Mother. Go and have dinner with Horatio. We’ll be perfectly fine here.”
The late afternoon sun was still warm as it filtered through the wooden slats Mother had lowered over the screen on the back porch to give us some privacy from the watching eyes of the local cops. I stretched back in the comfortable chaise lounge and took two more long sips of the wonderful wine.
“Some day you’re going to have to educate me on the whys and wherefores of buying wine, Horatio,” I said.
“Glad to my, dear. I always said to your dear late father that the bottom of that unused cistern out in the side yard would make the most perfect wine cellar. It’s even shaped like an amphora. That’s what the ancients kept their…”
I dozed off as Horatio continued his lecture on wine and Greek civilization. Cassie awakened me when she rescued the empty wine glass I was about to drop on the sandstone floor.
“Sorry, Mom,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“Why should you stop now?” I grumped as I cleared the sleep from my voice.
“How long…?”
“About an hour and a half is all. And you weren’t even snoring.”
She smiled and patted my head. “You must feel very rested.”
“Yeah, terrific. Rarin’ to go.”
I turned over and shut my eyes again. “Let me have just a few more minutes…”
“Mom, it’s almost eight o’clock. We have to meet Ethan in just a few hours and we haven’t even made a plan yet.”
“Horatio got rid of Mother for us. That was our biggest problem. The rest is a piece of cake. Now let me sleep.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but our biggest problem is in the kitchen preparing dinner. She refused to leave us, and Horatio won’t leave her. Now we have the two of them to contend with.”
“Piss!”
“No. Lobster bisque with artichoke crostini. But you were close.”
Cassie hated lobster almost as much as artichokes.
My daughter warmed up chicken noodle soup from a can while the rest of us marveled over the smooth texture and delicious taste of the bisque. I chomped delicately on crostini as I invited some more information from Horatio’s seemingly endless storehouse of knowledge. This time I wasn’t interested in the ancients. I wanted gossip.
“What are people saying about Edgar’s death?”
He paused in his pursuit of a choice bit of lobster and patted his lips delicately with one of Mother’s monogrammed linen napkins. She had decided that our being the object of a police stakeout called for a forma
l occasion.
“Edgar Baxter was an old and dear friend of mine and your Mother’s. In fact,” he continued, “of almost everyone in town. For years, he and Julie were the leaders of the young social set until her rather unfortunate, er, habit, began to make her shun the public eye.”
“I always thought if Julie had only consented to adopt a baby she and Edgar would have been so much happier,” Mother sighed. “What a waste! A lovely young woman and a truly fine man. It’s a tragic ending to such glorious possibilities.”
I pondered over that statement for a moment as I finished my soup. Mother was right. Since my return to Rowan Springs, I had come to realize that it was only in little towns like this that one could see the complete play of a person’s life acted out. In Manhattan, life was played out in short segments. You knew people for sporadic periods of time only, and certainly never from birth to death. A little town was a stage for the entire scenario of one’s life. In Rowan Springs all the players were known—only the ending was in doubt. You just had to sit back and wait for the curtain to come down and the critics to descend. Then you could decide if the play was worth the effort of the sixty or seventy years of its production.
“What did Miss Lolly want, Gran?” asked Cassie, as she scraped artichokes off her crostini.
“I almost forgot! She gave me one of Ethan’s ‘tiny little records’ as she called it. Apparently you and your mother didn’t fool her for one second when you removed his computer last week. Her gardener found the disc under the stairs in the rhododendrons. One of you must have dropped it as you were leaving.”
“Cassie did.”
“I’m sure it was you, Mom.”
“Anyway,” continued Mother, “she was delightfully conspiratorial about it. She had all the blinds pulled down. She even asked me if I had been followed.”
“Had you?” asked Cassie and me together.
She looked at us questioningly. “Why, of course not! Andy Joiner would never dare to impugn my integrity by suggesting that I would have anything to do with rescuing your young man.”
“I imagine the dear old thing sees herself as quite the Jessica Fletcher,” suggested Horatio. “I do recall her looking somewhat like a young Angela Lansbury when I was a boy and…”
I interrupted when an errant thought struck me. “Horatio, I almost forgot! Who’s in charge of the pharmacy at the hospital?”
He took a sip of wine and pondered for a moment. I am quite sure he didn’t need to ponder at all; he simply wanted to create a dramatic pause.
“Miss Teresa Downs. She has been there for at least twenty years.”
I was disappointed. The identity of Porky Pig remained a deep dark mystery.
Chapter Thirty-five
Mother was just about to put the torch to the bananas and rum in her silver chafing dish when the phone rang. It was Barry.
“I can’t believe it, honeychile, but I got robbed! Somebody broke in the greenhouse and made off with your little bottle!”
“Gosh, Barry, are you all right?” I asked, although I couldn’t imagine anyone trying to overpower that mountain in blue denim.
“Oh, my heart! I knew you cared!” he laughed. “No, I’m fine, darlin.’ I was back in the office.” He paused for a minute, “I have to ’fess up ’cause I’m so smitten by you. It was my fault. I’m afraid I left the door unlocked.”
I could almost hear him blushing.
“That’s all right, Barry. I shouldn’t have burdened you with something that could have possibly been evidence in a police investigation.”
“Really? That important, huh?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Then I guess the analysis I did on the contents would be pretty important, too?”
“Oh, Barry, I do love you! What is it?”
“I was right the first time. It is Goldenrod, and it does contain fungal spores of the rust we’ve seen for the last year. Funny thing, though—it’s twice the strength of the usual first treatment allergen. Somebody could be in big time trouble for making that little cocktail.”
“Barry, you don’t know how much I appreciate this. But I have to warn you—you could be in danger for just knowing that. I’d feel so much better if you’d stay with a friend tonight.”
“You, maybe?” he breathed deeply and dramatically into the phone. “All night long?”
“Not me,” I laughed. “Somebody with a gun. And don’t ride anywhere on that bicycle of yours. Get your friend to come and pick you up in a car. Or better still, a truck.” I remembered his size and added, “A big truck.”
Cassie was waiting like a vulture for the fancy banana dessert. I bequeathed her my share and begged to be excused. I had some more telephone time to put in. When I explained that I needed to call my agent, Mother willingly agreed. She loved Pamela Winslow. She was everything I was not, including a lesbian. But that was one little fact Mother willingly overlooked in her admiration of Pam’s style, panache, and wardrobe.
We had been college roommates for four years. It was Pam who had suggested I become a writer after Rafe disappeared and I needed to get a job to care for my little daughter. With her helpful introductions, I was able to launch a career as a successful writer of children’s books which lasted for nearly a decade. And when the kiddies tired of me, she had been the one to suggest that I write mysteries under the nom de plume of Leonard Paisley. I still wasn’t exactly one hundred percent happy about that. There had been several times during the last year when I had wanted to murder Leonard so I could take all the credit for his popular novels—the ones I worked so hard to write.
Pamela answered on the first ring, but she obviously wasn’t expecting a call from me.
“Oh, drat!”
“Well, hello to you too, Pam.”
“I’m sorry darling, but it’s this damn water heater. This was such an adorable penthouse. I just couldn’t pass it up, but it does have its own personality. And tonight of all nights it’s being extremely anal retentive about the hot water. I was hoping you were the plumber.”
She sounded so pitiful. I tried not to laugh, but I couldn’t help it.
“Go ahead, sweetie! Have your fun at my expense. I’m sure you’ve had your hot shower today.”
“As a matter of fact, I can’t remember, Pam. This has been one hell of a day and the night is still young.”
Her voice got very quiet. “Oh, do tell, darling, a new man, have we? Does my sweet Cassandra like him? Tall, dark, and handsome, humm?”
“I hate to disappoint you, but no, there’s no new…well, yes there is!”
Just for fun, I decided to give her a bit of misinformation.
“He is tall. About six four I would guess, and he weighs about two fifty. He has a grey beard and vibrant green eyes. He asked me out to dinner.”
I knew this bit of news would travel from one side of Manhattan to the other in the space of twenty-four hours.
“How delicious, pet,” she breathed. “I’ve been hoping you could have some really good sex!”
I chuckled, “Not sure about the sex yet, but the menu sounds interesting.”
I could hear her rustling about on her desk.
“Not to change the subject, love, but Leonard owes me some chapters. You promised them almost a month ago. What’s going on? How many do you have ready?”
She was all business now. I struggled to keep up with her. I should have thought to turn on Ethan’s computer so I could read the floppy disc Andy had returned to me. I could not remember for the life of me how many chapters of our latest tome I had completed before my laptop was stolen.
“Just give me a sec while the computer warms up.”
I twisted around and grabbed the disc from the coffee table where Cassie had left it.
“Ah, let’s see. Okay. I have a synopsis and thirteen, no fourteen chapters done.”
“And that’s translates into how many words?”
Pamela was very interested in the word count. I always teased her about tha
t. I cared what the words were, she cared how many. I went to the document info tab and let it do the counting for me.
“Twenty-five thousand, one hundred and fourteen words to be exact. That’s odd.”
“What dear? Sounds perfectly fine to me. Get those off to me tomorrow at the latest, please. I have a luncheon Monday with a new editor. He’s hungry, and you know I’m always looking out for Leonard’s interests.”
“Not to mention your fifteen percent!”
“Don’t be crass, darling. Kisses to the munchkin and that divine mother of yours.”
“By the way, Pam, just out of curiosity, what’s so special about tonight?”
“You’re too young to know, babe, too young to know!”
I hung up the phone and stared at the computer screen. I was puzzled over the numbers the computer had brought up on Leonard’s latest. I was very consistent about my writing. I never used an outline. The number of pages and chapters formed the backbone of my books. Each page held about two hundred and twenty words, and each chapter had approximately eight pages. Fourteen chapters should have added up to a little over twenty-four thousand, six hundred words, not over twenty-five thousand. I must have been seriously verbose in the last one or two chapters.
I scrolled down the pages. Everything was fine until I got to chapter twelve. Sure enough I had written eleven pages instead of the usual eight in that chapter. I paged back to the beginning and quickly scanned thorough it. It had been a while and I couldn’t quite remember exactly what I had written.
Cassie came loping in with Aggie dancing around her heels.
“Brought you the last banana, Mom. They’re scrumptious.”
“No thanks. ‘A full mongoose is a slow mongoose.’”
“What?”
She plopped down on the red chintz sofa. Aggie pounced up on her stomach and started licking her chin.
“Don’t let the puppy lick your…!”
“No, the thing about the mongoose. What’s that all about?”
“Rikki Tikki Tavi. Don’t you remember your Kipling?”
