by Hillary Avis
Chapter 21
The pharmacy had a long line—well, long for Honeytree. Five people stood in front of the counter, and nobody stood behind it waiting on the customers. In the pharmacy booth, Doc glanced up and then wiped sweat from his brow with his shoulder as he resumed counting pills into a bottle. He was clearly hustling to fill prescriptions, and I guessed he hadn’t hired new counter help to replace Margie. I got in line, tapping my foot impatiently as I waited for the slow crawl toward the register.
To my great relief, Doc brought out five white prescription bags all at once. “Thanks for waiting,” he said to all of us in line as he nervously fumbled them onto the counter before he picked up the first customer’s bag. “Bear with me,” he added as he entered the information into the cash register. “Margie usually does this part so I might screw it up a time or two.”
The man in front of me chuckled politely. “Don’t worry about it, Doc. We’re just glad Margie’s OK.”
Doc shot him a grateful smile. “So am I, believe me. I can’t even find my keys without her telling me where they are.”
I believed it. She pretty much controlled everything about his life—even who he golfed with, from the sound of it. How could he stand that kind of treatment on a daily basis? They’d been married so long, maybe he was used to it. I moved one place up in line as Doc finished with the first customer and moved on to the next.
The customer whose prescription had been filled made a detour on the way out the door and stopped by the little table to swipe a Pastry Palace cookie from a tray Doc had out. It was the same place where he’d left the doughnuts on Tuesday—the ones filled with the one thing that his wife was deathly allergic to, peanuts. It wasn’t like that doughnut was random. Even if Sara hadn’t delivered it into her hands at City Hall, Margie likely would have eaten it anyway.
I looked back at the counter where Doc was still sweating and fumbling through the remaining prescriptions. Maybe bumbling old Doc wasn’t so happy being a side character on Margie’s missions. Maybe he preferred the mayor’s seat, for once.
By the time I made it to the front of the line, I was fully convinced that Doc had tried to off his wife, and maybe Amelia, too, although I didn’t know why. Maybe some huge power grab?
Doc looked surprised when I reached the front of the line and he didn’t have any bags left on the counter. He spread out his hands helplessly, as if to demonstrate that he didn’t have any pill bottles with my name on them hidden up his sleeve. “Are you sure your doctor called in the prescription?” he asked.
“I’m not sick. I’m here about Margie, actually.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “And Amelia.”
“Amelia Goodbody?” He blinked owlishly.
I nodded, leaning toward him over the counter. “You and Margie met with the Goodbodys on the morning of the Scramble, and then Amelia dropped dead. Then Margie very nearly dies. And why? Because you made sure she had one of those tainted Boston cream doughnuts. I mean, who would blame you for her peanut allergy kicking in? You put them out on the table over there, hoping she’d grab one for breakfast. But she didn’t, so when Sara came by later in the morning, you saw an opportunity. Send her to Margie with a poison doughnut and throw suspicion even further from yourself!”
Doc took a step backward and smoothed his combover nervously, his lips trembling. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I took Margie’s Epi-Pen to her as fast as I could. She would have died without it. You saw me run out of here like a bat out of a belfry.”
I thought back to that morning and remembered my surprise that Doc could move so quickly. He’d seemed very motivated to save Margie’s life. Wouldn’t he have dawdled if he wanted her dead? My certainty in my theory wavered. “Maybe you just wanted her sick—out of the way, not dead.”
“That’s not true. Margie’s my everything—I’m a mess without her! She usually takes care of everything, and I can’t even take care of myself.” He leaned against the shelves behind him, jostling the boxes of decongestants and condoms and knocking several of them to the floor. He sighed heavily as he retrieved them and set them back on the now-untidy shelf, then struggled to straighten them, knocking against a display of lip glosses behind the counter. It fell backward, knocking down the rest of the identical boxes like dominos, and he rolled his eyes. “See what I mean? I can’t wait for her to recover. I’m just”—his eyes moistened, and he rubbed away the tears roughly with his thumbs—“grateful. Grateful she’s OK. It was touch-and-go for a while there.”
I swallowed. If Doc was faking those tears, he should be in the movies. Now I felt bad for accusing him of attempting to murder the wife he obviously loved very much. “I’m grateful, too,” I said sheepishly. I never thought I’d be saying that about Margie Morrow, but here I was, thankful that the woman who’d sicced the ODA on my farm was healthy.
“It’s funny you mentioned Amelia, though.” Doc’s forehead furrowed into a half-dozen wrinkles. “Because those doughnuts were from the church. Pastor Cal dropped them off, said they were left over from some campaign event they had up there. He was giving them out to businesses around town—I figured he was buttering up the Chamber of Commerce to vote for him. It was a bit surprising he stopped off here, though. Marge and I weren’t on good terms with him.”
“Imagine that,” I said wryly. Blackmail would do that to you. Still, I wondered whether Cal was angry enough with Margie to tamper with the doughnuts before he dropped them off. Attempting murder is a pretty drastic reaction, even to blackmail. Unless that’s not why he was angry... “Do you think there’s a chance Cal blamed your wife for Amelia’s death?”
Doc jerked his head up to stare at me. “Why in the world would he blame Margie?”
“Well”—I shifted uncomfortably as I tried to phrase things tactfully, which has never been my strong suit—“you did have a meeting with him that morning. Right before Amelia got sick.”
“So? She was alive and well at the meeting.” He pursed his lips at me, shook his head, and then ambled toward the table in the corner.
I followed him like a chicken hunting a mealworm. “So it’s likely that she ingested the poison around that time.”
“You want a cookie?” he asked me, his hand poised to pluck one from the tray.
Now it was my turn to eye him warily. He didn’t really think I’d eat anything he gave me after two women close to him were poisoned in the last week, did he? I shook my head. “Did you see Amelia eat or drink anything?”
Doc frowned, a large snickerdoodle halfway to his mouth, as he considered my question. “No, I don’t think so. Well, there was coffee. I almost forgot.”
My ears perked up and my heart began to beat faster. I tried to remember if I’d seen a coffee pot at City Hall. It didn’t seem likely they had a pot in the office, since Sara had brought Margie coffee along with the doughnut. Someone had to have made it elsewhere and brought it to the meeting.
I tried to make my question sound casual. “Who lugged all the coffee to City Hall?”
“Nobody. The Scramble meeting was at the church,” Doc said around a mouthful of cookie. “There was one of those big urns they use for receptions after service. Styrofoam cups in a stack. I don’t know who brewed it—it was hot and ready before Marge and I got there, and we left before we got to drink ours.”
“Did you see Amelia have some?”
Doc’s face scrunched up as he tried to remember the morning. “Let’s see. We were sitting around a table, with Cal and Preston across from us. I know they didn’t have coffee. I remember they passed on it because Cal had some dental thing and Preston doesn’t drink caffeine. Amelia was to my right. Did she have a cup in front of her? Yes!” he said triumphantly, pointing a finger into the air. “She did! She stood up from the table when all the shouting was going on and asked if anyone wanted a refill. I think she was hoping to defuse the tension. But Margie and I were so busy arguing that we didn’t need refills. We hadn’t even taken a sip before we left.” He took an
other bite of his cookie and chewed it thoughtfully, a few small crumbs escaping and sprinkling down the front of his shirt.
“Why was everyone so angry?”
Doc stopped chewing for a moment. Then he resumed at a more leisurely pace. When he finished the bite, he said lightly, “You know. This and that. People get worked up about all kinds of things.”
I rolled my eyes. I really didn’t have time to pretend I didn’t know about things I knew about. “So it was about the whole blackmail situation?”
Doc dropped his cookie on the floor, his mouth agape. “You know about that?”
“I know Margie found out Cal and Amelia weren’t married, and then used that to try and get Cal to drop out of the race.”
Doc flushed and picked up his cookie, examining it closely to avoid looking me in the eye. I wondered if he was going to eat it despite the visible carpet fibers stuck to it. But to my great relief, he tossed it in the trash can and picked up a new cookie. “What else do you know?”
“I know she threatened to go public with the information, so Cal agreed to withdraw as a candidate.”
“No, he didn’t!” Crumbs sprayed from Doc’s mouth as his face reddened. “I mean, we thought he did, but then he changed his mind, I guess. When Margie asked when Cal planned to announce that he was dropping out of the race, Preston blew up. He said if Margie whispered a word about Cal and Amelia, he’d turn us both in for violating state privacy laws. The fine for a HIPAA violation is a million bucks!”
“I take it you don’t have a million bucks,” I said sympathetically.
He snorted. “Hardly! If I did, I would hire someone to work the register. This place barely breaks even since Huge-Mart opened in Pear Grove. We need every cent of Margie’s mayoral stipend to pay the bills. Why else do you think I agreed to be the acting mayor?”
“Limitless power?” I joked.
He snorted. “I find it repugnant, actually. But I’ll hold my nose if it means my business stays afloat.”
I felt a pang of sympathy for the Morrows. This whole debacle was stretching everyone’s wallet thin. “I know the feeling. My eggs are piling up, and I can’t sell them to Sara now that she’s forced to close up shop.”
The guilty expression that washed across Doc’s face reminded me that he was the one evicting her. I’d forgotten for a moment that he was her landlord. He sighed heavily. “I want to throw her a lifeline, but I worry that she won’t be able to pay next month, either. Might be better to look for a new tenant.”
“Or...you could use your new mayoral powers for good and hire her to cater the election night bash.” I raised my eyebrows suggestively. “Surely that would cover the rent for May.”
Doc paused in the middle of reaching for another cookie, a rocky road one with marshmallows in the middle, this time. “Isn’t that lining my own pockets with city funds? That hardly seems ethical.”
I chuckled internally. Apparently, the old adage that opposites attract was true. I couldn’t imagine those words—that hardly seems ethical—coming out of Margie’s mouth. She’d do pretty much anything short of breaking the law. But it was comforting to hear that Doc had a little more of a conscience. “Call it a coincidence that the only local caterer also happens to be your tenant. Why hire someone who doesn’t even live here? Keep Honeytree’s money right here in town.”
Doc squinted one eye as he considered what I’d said. Finally, he said slowly, “It’s not a terrible thought. I’ll consider it.”
A smile spread across my face as I let out the breath I’d been holding. “Great! And while you’re wearing your mayor hat, can you approve a permit for a farmers market booth? I have my egg handler’s license right here.” I pulled the folded piece of paper from my purse and held it out to him.
To my surprise, Doc shook his head vehemently as he stepped back from me, waving his hands to refuse my license. “Nope. Can’t do it.”
“Why not?” I protested, a lump rising in my throat.
Doc avoided making eye contact with me as he busily brushed the crumbs from his shirt front and adjusted his shirt cuffs. “I’m not approving any new permits—not until after the election. It’s just not fair to Margie or Cal if I make that kind of decision without their input. It’s not far off, so you’ll just have to wait a couple more weeks.”
I wanted to screech with frustration. I did some quick mental math. Two weeks of eggs piling up, and I’d have eighty or ninety dozen more! I couldn’t store that many unless I had a restaurant-style walk-in refrigerator. I cast around desperately for a solution. The only point of hope was that Margie, stuck in her hospital bed, probably hadn’t told Doc about rejecting my previous application.
“Surely Margie would approve me,” I lied glibly. “What if Cal agreed as well? If he did, would you consider issuing me the permit? That way the election results don’t matter.”
“Oh, they matter!” Doc declared. Loyal to a fault, that guy.
“Of course—they matter. But they wouldn’t be a factor in deciding whether to approve me for a farmers market booth. It’s such a minor thing, not like a building permit or even a business license!” I attempted one of Eli’s innocent blinking routines, hoping I looked more like a Girl Scout selling cookies than a menopausal chicken farmer with an eyeball affliction.
After another minute of consideration, Doc gave a grunt of approval. “If Cal agrees.”
Nearly leaping out of my shoes, I flung my arms around his neck in a grateful hug. “Thanks, Doc! You won’t regret it!”
Outside, no lights shone down the hill from the windows of the Church of the Everlasting, so I headed home for the evening, my stomach grumbling for dinner despite my big brunch earlier. I’d have to wait until tomorrow to speak with Cal. I almost stopped off for a burger at the Greasy Spoon, but the thought of all the eggs piled up on my counters tempted me home. I’d do my egg-farming duty and have an omelet for dinner, maybe with a little goat cheese and asparagus inside.
My stomach growled again at the thought of dinner, so I downed both purse cookies as I drove home. They were a tiny bit stale, but at least I knew they were safe. With all the women being poisoned in Honeytree lately, I wanted to know exactly what was in my food. I was ashamed of my own paranoia. I sounded like Tammy Jenson, I chastised myself as I drove home through the Curves, suspecting everyone based on zero evidence!
But there was some evidence backing up my suspicions.
My conversation with Doc had shed light on two important things. One, it was certain that Amelia had coffee at the church on Saturday and had probably ingested the tetrodotoxin there. And two, the doughnuts that poisoned Margie with peanut oil were from the church, too.
Chapter 22
Friday, Day 7
After my morning chicken chores and an hour of egg-washing, sorting, and labeling, I changed into my good jeans—the ones without any rips or stains—and bid Boots goodbye. The sun was out, so I decided to wake my little red convertible from her safe, cozy spot in the barn and let her stretch her legs. The only vestige of my life in LA, the Porsche was the one thing I hadn’t been able to give up from that lifestyle. I was looking forward to the dry Oregon summer when I’d be able to drive her more often, and I babied her like a souffle just out of the oven as I eased her out through the barn doors.
On the highway, I reveled in the feeling of the wind in my hair. I might show up in Pastor Cal’s office looking like a lion who stuck her finger in a light socket, but man, it was worth it for these few blissful moments. I was in my element, and I was heading to get my farmers market booth approved. Everything was going to be OK. I eased off the gas when I hit the city limits, and it was like coming down to earth after a rocket trip to the moon.
When I pulled up to the church, I groaned. Eli’s black SUV with “Sheriff” printed in gold letters on the side was already parked right in front. Suddenly my lion’s mane didn’t seem like such a good look. I grabbed a hair tie from the glove compartment and bundled my hair into some excuse f
or a bun using my reflection in the rearview. I couldn’t see my whole head in the small slice of mirror, but it’d have to do. And at least I had on my good jeans.
The creak of the church doors echoed through the sanctuary as I pushed them open, bracing myself for a confrontation with Eli. He’d given me clear instructions to bring him the golden Scramble egg, and to not get involved in pursuing my suspicions about Amelia’s death, and here I was flagrantly doing neither of the things he’d asked. Well, he could kiss my—
“Hey! What’re you doing here?” Eli’s voice boomed across the room. I nearly peed my pants a little. I hadn’t spotted him leaning in the open doorway to Cal’s office.
“Farmers market!” I squeaked. It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t a lie. I blinked rapidly as I hustled over to the office and brushed past him. “I came to talk to Cal about the farmers market.”
Cal looked up in surprise from where he was seated at his desk, his face pale. Preston was lounging in one of the armchairs nearby but sat up instantly when he saw me.
“This is a private conversation,” he snapped, rising to his feet. “Cal’s not involved in organizing the farmers market, anyway.”
“Doc said—” I began, but Preston cut me off.
“Doc doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He should really mind his own business.” He took my elbow and gently but urgently ushered me back the way I’d come, past Eli into the sanctuary.
I dug in my heels and turned around, craning my neck to see Cal still at his desk. “It’ll just take a minute!” I called.
“I’m pretty much done, anyway,” Eli said mildly to Preston as we passed him. He added in a low voice for my benefit, “The county released Amelia for burial.”
A heaviness settled on my heart. No wonder Preston was acting so protective of Cal. Cal had finally been given permission to bury his wife. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have interrupted.”
