by Stephen John
“Well, Eddie, let’s go have some dinner, shall we? Francine’s good? My treat.”
He perked up and smiled.
Chapter Eighteen
The following morning, I went on my run as usual, showered, ate some grapefruit and a dry piece of toast, made a hot cup of coffee and opened my laptop. I spent the next five hours sifting through the photos I had taken and researched the information I had gathered, trying to put to together all the pieces of the puzzle I had before me.
By 2:30 p.m. I was ready to speak to Victor and Bessie about what I’d discovered. I called Emma’s house. Bessie answered on the second ring.
“Do you guys have time to talk?” I asked.
“We do,” she said.
“Then I’m on my way over now.”
Twenty minutes later I was sipping tea with them at Emma’s dining room table.
“We have made progress,” Victor said. “How about you?”
“I have,” I replied. “You go first.”
“I researched a number of deaths involving older women in Thibodaux,” Bessie said. “I read the obituaries for the last year. You can imagine how exhilarating that little exercise was.”
“It sounds brutal,” I replied.
“It was still better than the last Zadie Smith book I read,” she scoffed. “I would have thought that the follow-up to White Teeth would have been brilliant, but not so . . .”
“Bessie, my dear,” Victor interrupted, “as you so often say to me, please stay on task.”
“Oh . . . sorry,” she said.
“Did you find anything of use in the obituaries?” I asked.
“Oh yes, indeed. I found something quite interesting,” Bessie said.
She had a stack of papers sitting in front of her. She took the top sheet off and slid it toward me. It was an obituary, printed from a website.
“Meet Miss Thelma Slater, lifetime resident of Thibodaux. She was a spry and active sixty-six-year-old when she passed away suddenly in February.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “From a heart attack.”
“Great guess,” Bessie said. “Thelma had been widowed for eleven years.”
“A sixty-six-year-old widow dying of a heart attack is not all that unusual,” I said. “Something else must have caught your attention.”
“Read the highlighted section of the obituary at the bottom of the page,” Bessie said.
I read aloud, “Thelma attended Thibodaux Family Church and sang in the choir. She enjoyed spending time with her two sons, daughter and seven grandchildren. She also loved spending time in her award-winning garden.”
“If the word ‘garden’ wasn’t enough to get my attention, the phrase award-winning garden certainly did,” Bessie said, “so I started perusing the back issues of The Daily Comet.”
“The newspaper in Thibodaux? What did you find?”
Bessie slid the next piece of paper over to me. It was an article dated in August of the previous year. There was a large, color picture of Thelma, standing and smiling in the center of a beautiful garden. She was positively beaming.
“That looks a lot like Emma’s garden,” I said.
“Even more like Maxine’s garden, more to the point,” Victor said. “Look at the plant just to the left of Thelma’s elbow in the picture.
“Holy crap!” I exclaimed. “That’s an Aconitum plant. That’s wolfsbane.”
“It is,” Victor said. “Now look at the sentence I underlined in the last paragraph of the newspaper article. It’s a quote from Mrs. Slater.”
I read aloud again, “I owe so much thanks to my wonderful gardener, Gus Proctor,” she said.
I sat the paper down. “Oh, my god! He killed her.”
“I was able to reach one of Thelma’s sons, a nasally bloke named Henry,” Victor said. “I introduced myself as a gardening enthusiast and told him I was interested in the landscaping design of his mother’s garden. He shared with me that his mother had passed away unexpectedly.”
“Victor told Henry that he had seen Thelma’s picture in The Daily Comet,” Bessie said. “He expressed surprise that Henry’s mother had passed, because ‘she looked so healthy and happy in the photograph.’ The man replied that the entire family was truly shocked because she had no health concerns the family knew of, and in fact, had recently had a complete physical examination. The doctor declared her as . . . what phrase did he use, Victor?”
“Fit as a fiddle,” Victor replied.
“Yes, that was it,” Bessie said.
“Did the family suspect any foul play when she died?” I asked.
“It does not appear so, and since we do not yet have proof of murder in Emma’s case, I wasn’t prepared to arouse suspicion by asking,” Victor said.
“He did offer one other interesting note, however,” Bessie added. “Victor had asked Henry if he could see Thelma’s garden some time.”
“That’s right,” Victor said, “but Henry told me that the garden was no longer being tended to.”
“Really?” I said.
Victor nodded, “It seems that Henry and his entire family were disturbed to find that Thelma was not in as strong of a financial position as they thought. As it turns out the old girl had much less money than the family believed. As a result, they released Gus as their gardener because they felt they could no longer afford him.”
I raised my eyebrows, “Now that’s interesting. The family thought she was well off and she wasn’t?”
“Yes,” he replied. “It gets even better. It turns out Thelma opened an off-shore account in the Cayman Islands. It also turns out that Thelma had no records of the account in her possession. The only reason Henry knew about it was that an account statement was mailed to Thelma’s home a month after her death, a zero-balance account statement.”
“He wiped her out?” I asked.
“It sure looks that way,” Bessie said. “The bank would not help them out at all, because Thelma did not list Henry or any of her other children as her beneficiary.”
“Henry took the matter to the authorities but they didn’t seem interested.”
“The whole matter took the family by surprise,” Victor said. “It’s not conclusive, however. Henry indicated that Thelma Slater was guarded about her finances, as most people are.”
“This is the most encouraging evidence we’ve found to date, but we still have a long way to go,” Bessie said.
“Now tell us what you have,” Victor said.
I spent fifteen minutes giving Victor and Bessie my update, up to and including the documents I discovered in Gus’s truck. I showed them the pictures I had taken with my cell: the Witchcraft and Wicca magazine article on brewing Aconitum tea; the pages of his appointment book; his contact list and the deposit slip for $6,112.35.
“$6,112.35?” Victor noted. “An interesting coincidence that the $5,000.00 Emma withdrew from her account with Mark Baker and the $1,112.35 balance of her checking account adds up to that exact amount.”
“I thought so, too,” I replied. “Emma was giving him money, but why?”
“We don’t know,” Bessie said. “Her regular landscaping and gardening checks to Gus amounted to about six-hundred dollars per month and those continued until she died. The $6,112.35 was in one lump sum. We need to find out what this was for.”
“I presume you read this witchcraft article?” Victor asked. “Anything of use jump out at you?”
“Yes. The interesting thing I discovered about the Witchcraft and Wicca magazine is that not only does the article describe how to make a lethal potion in tea, but also how to mask the flavor, so the victim doesn’t taste the bitterness of Aconitum. I think he poisoned her with tea.”
“Emma loved her tea,” Bessie said. “and she was fond of different, exotic flavors. It would not have taken a great deal of convincing for her to try something new.”
“According to Carter, there was no spilled tea on the floor when Emma was discovered,” I said.
“We must
remember it was Gus who discovered her,” Bessie said. “He could have cleaned it all up before he called the police.”
“If the suggestions in the article turned out to be valid ones, Emma would have never realized the tea was tainted until she was on the floor dying,” Bessie noted.
I nodded in agreement, “If you can believe the article, the victim would actually enjoy the taste.”
“It’s pure bollocks that articles detailing how to make poison tea are allowed to be in print,” Victor said. “They would never allow such drivel like this to be published in England.”
“Victor, this is a British magazine,” I said, holding up the picture of the magazine on my cell.
“Let me see that,” Victor said, taking it from me.
“Well . . .” he said, handing my phone back to me. He blew a raspberry.
“You and your friends have done excellent work,” Bessie said.
“I think we’ve made tremendous progress,” I replied, “but you both look troubled.”
“We are,” Bessie said. “All of this evidence we’ve accumulated is purely circumstantial. I wish we had one good, solid piece of evidence that placed Gus at Emma’s on Friday evening, but we don’t.”
“Let’s figure that out,” I replied.
Victor shook his head, “We’ve already tried . . . and failed, abysmally. He has an ironclad alibi. We have verified where Gus was on Friday night. He was in Thibodaux all day Friday and well into the evening.”
“Are you certain?” I asked.
“Yes,” Victor replied.
“He wasn’t anywhere near Sinful on Friday,” Bessie said.
“It’s Sinful,” I corrected.
“I said Sinful,” she insisted.
“Oh, yes, you did. Sorry, I’m just used to you saying . . . never mind. So, how do you know where he was on Friday?”
Victor stood, “When I was speaking to Henry about Thelma’s garden, he let it slip that she was, at one time, most upset that Gus had switched days of the week to tend to her garden.”
Bessie nodded, “Gus was at Thelma’s regularly on Fridays, but he had switched several weeks ago to accommodate a new client, a woman named Mildred Peabody. Victor called Mildred, pretending to be in the market for a gardener, asking for a recommendation.”
“During the course of conversation, I asked Mildred if Gus had been there this past Friday,” Victor added, “and not only was he at Mildred’s during the day, but she had invited him to her home for a “garden” party she was throwing that very evening—a party where Gus was the guest of honor. Mildred was so smitten with his work she was, in fact, introducing him to her friends—all potential new clients. It seems that during the time the poison would have been administered to Emma, Gus can draw upon six witnesses who will place him in Mildred’s home—in Thibodaux.”
I quickly looked at the pictures of Gus’s appointment book that I had taken, and looked at last Friday. Sure enough, the entire day had been blocked out for Mildred Peabody. I shared the photo with Bessie. It was as Victor suggested; iron clad. She handed it to Victor. Collectively, we sighed.
“Oh boy,” was all I could managed in reaction. “Maybe he has an accomplice.”
“Doubtful,” Bessie said. “Gus Proctor is a loner. During this entire time, I’ve not seen or heard mention of anyone else associated with him.”
I hadn’t either, but still, my radar was going off, “We know that Gus is smart, right?”
They both nodded.
“We know he killed Thelma and got away with it, and he’s getting away with Emma’s murder as we speak,” I continued.
“Your point?” Bessie asked.
“My point is, Gus would have created an alibi for himself, right?”
“And this one is a damn good one, I might add,” Victor said.
“So, if you were going to murder someone, can you think of a better time to do it than when you have six witnesses who will place you a hundred miles away?” I asked.
“Really Fortune, I don’t understand where you are going with this. He was in Thibodaux, an hour and a half away by car. He didn’t leave the party until well after 10:00 p.m. Even if he drove straight to Emma’s, it would have been 11:30 p.m. when he arrived. Emma had been dead for several hours by then. I really don’t know how he could have pulled it off.”
I shook my head, “I don’t either . . . yet.”
Victor stood, placed his hands behind his back and began to pace silently. The three of us sat in reflection for what seemed like a long time. Finally, he spoke.
“Let me ask both of you something,” he began. “Do either of you have any doubt that Gus Proctor killed Emma?”
Bessie and I looked at each other and then back at Victor. We both shook our heads, no.
“Good,” he said. “I feel the same. What we have here, ladies, is an overwhelming amount of circumstantial evidence. We have a motive, money. We have the means, the Aconitum; the delivery system, the tea. He had access to her. We have other circumstantial evidence; little bits and pieces of the puzzle, like the deposit slip, the magazine, the books he read, but we are unable to place him at the scene of the crime on Friday evening.”
“I hope there’s a ‘but’ coming?” I said.
“But . . .” Victor said, pointing a finger in the air. “There is one person who can tell us exactly how he managed to do it,” Victor said.
“Who?” I asked.
“Gus Proctor, himself,” he said, smiling.
“So . . . you’re going to do what? Ask him?”
“Precisely,” Victor said. “Listen. I have a plan. Fortune, it involves you. Are you up for a challenge?”
I smiled, “I’m always up for a challenge.”
“Is there a place in this godforsaken town where one might be able to purchase a few . . . specialty items?” Victor asked.
“Like what?” I asked.
Victor told me.
“No. Sinful is far too small. I do know of a great store in New Orleans, though.”
“Would you be willing to drive there and purchase these items on my behalf?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you have any experience with these sorts of things?” Bessie asked.
“You know about my real background, what do you think?” I replied.
“Fair point. Listen carefully,” he said.
Victor told me in detail exactly what he wanted. At the end, he asked, “Do you understand?”
“No. I’m not really following you.”
“Perfect. We’ll need two days to prepare.”
Chapter Nineteen
Two days later, I arrived at Emma’s house, parking two blocks away so that my car would not be visible to anyone pulling into the drive way. As I walked toward Emma’s house, I noticed a Toyota RAV4 parked across the street at Mrs. Smith’s house. I knew Celia Arceneaux drove a RAV4. Was it hers? That particular vehicle in silver was quite common in Sinful. It could have belonged to anyone. On the other hand, Gertie did mention that the Smiths were contributing to Celia’s statue project. So, seeing it there was not all that unusual.
Bessie answered the door. I was surprised to see two tall, strongly-built men in their early forties, standing in the living room. Both men sported dark suits with crisp white shirts and thin, black ties. They were clean shaven with closely cropped hair, wearing serious looks on their faces. FBI? Government agents in Sinful? Victor was engaged in a deep discussion with them when he saw me walking towards them.
He offered a smile, “Ah, Fortune, please, join me.” He turned back toward the men.
I could hear Victor talking to them as I approached, “Thank you again for coming on such short notice,” he said to them.
One of the men nodded and smiled, “Sure, Victor, anything for you.”
“Well, if you pull this off for me, there’s a special bonus in it for both of you at the end.”
“That’s what we like to hear,” the second man said, smiling. Despite the smile
, the two men looked serious and physically imposing.
“What’s going on here, Victor?” I asked.
He smiled at me, “It’s not what you think, Fortune. I’d like you to meet two former colleagues of mine. This is Chad and Jerry. I won’t mention their last names because they are friends, and friends normally introduce each other by their first names.”
“You are so odd, Victor,” I said.
Both men laughed, as did Victor, who continued, “They are friends of mine who have come to town to support Bessie and I in the wake of our sister’s death.”
“You mean they aren’t here to help with . . .?” I began.
Bessie raised her hand to stop me, “Fortune, it’s very important for you to hear what we are telling you. Chad and Jerry heard about Emma’s passing. They have merely come here to pay their condolences—nothing more. They are our friends, who have come to pay their respects. Nothing more.”
Both men smiled at me and nodded, “Deeply indebted friends,” Chad said, smiling.
I looked at Bessie quizzically and nodded, “Okay.”
“This is the young woman who helped me prepare for today,” Victor told the two men. “I would not have been in a position to try something like this without her help.”
“I take it we’re on,” I said to Bessie. “Gus didn’t suspect anything when you called him?”
“Not in the end, no,” Bessie said. “I merely told him I was Emma’s sister and that I wanted to discuss a new plan for the ongoing upkeep of the garden. He seemed cautious at first, but I used my air-head, little-old-lady, I-need-a-big-strong-man-to-help-me voice, and, at that point he seemed delighted to come.”
“Well, if we do our job right, he won’t be delighted for long. What are they doing here?” I asked, nodding toward the two men.
“Theater my dear, theater,” she replied, dropping Victor’s charade.
“Chad and Jerry are Federal agents, aren’t they?” I asked.
“No, most certainly are not,” he replied. “They are merely friend of mine—friends from Vermont. They have no affiliation with any law enforcement agency, whatsoever.”
“So, they’re just . . . friends?” I asked again.