Holly angled the sketch her way. “Well, this is a royal pickle. You’ve got a big garden—lots of space for a killer to disappear temporarily while everyone else’s attention is on the flowers—and the food is inside, meaning people are going in and out constantly and no one is really paying attention to that.”
“And there were drinks inside,” I said. “Valerie had a glass of iced tea, and Caroline was drinking whiskey or something like it.”
“Doyle had a glass of iced tea when I was in the kitchen getting a tart,” Julia said, “but he didn’t like it, and he poured it out in the sink.”
As we stared silently at my sketch, it struck me that we weren’t going to solve this case by determining who had been where and thus had the opportunity to put the berries on Caroline’s tart. There was no way to know that. We had to come at the case from a different angle.
What puzzled me most was how the killer had made certain Caroline ate the right fruit tart—or tarts. I was sure no one else had eaten the berries. None of the other guests had complained about so much as an upset stomach.
“It’s like someone performed a magic trick right in front of our eyes,” I said. “Making sure only Caroline was poisoned.”
“We need to ask more questions,” Julia said.
Holly nodded in agreement. “By tomorrow, everyone who was at the party will know Caroline died of belladonna poisoning. Maybe one of them saw something that only makes sense in retrospect.”
“There’s something else we need to find out,” I said. “Which one of them knew Caroline was self-medicating with belladonna?”
“Because if they knew that,” Julia said, “they knew one berry could kill her.”
CHAPTER 7
The next morning, as I stumbled around my kitchen in my robe, trying to make breakfast after a fitful night’s sleep, Julia phoned. She told me she had racked her brains last night trying to figure out how to dig up more information on our suspects. Did one of them have a beef with Caroline that went beyond any of their ambitions for TV stardom?
“And what did you come up with?” I asked, gazing longingly at my coffeemaker, which I had yet to turn on.
“Royce,” she said. “He used to head the Records Section at Town Hall, remember?”
“Oh, yes.” I perked up a bit. And he was still well regarded there, I thought. All he had to do was ask and the town’s records—property sales and taxes, liens, contracts—were his to peruse. “Has he talked to them yet?”
“He’s there now.”
In truth, by delving into town records we were intruding in people’s private lives, and I felt a little queasy about it. But if it solved a murder, it was worth ignoring my qualms. “Let’s not get into anything private that we don’t need to know about, okay? Only if Royce discovers something that speaks to motive. We limit our investigation to that.”
“He already knows that, Rachel. If it was just gossip, he wouldn’t tell you.”
“You’re right. I don’t even need to bring it up, do I?” Royce Putnam was another one of the good guys. He was Julia’s “gentleman friend,” an old-fashioned term that fit because Julia was in her early sixties, Royce was sixty-nine, and together they were at least as old-fashioned as I was. Not to mention darn cute, though I never told them that.
“If you’re not dressed, get dressed,” Julia said. “I’ll be over there in five minutes.”
I got the coffeemaker going—priorities, after all—and ran upstairs to slip into a T-shirt and pair of jeans. I had time to fix but not eat my eggs before Julia rang the doorbell.
“You eat, I’ll talk,” she said, commanding me to sit at my kitchen table.
“Pour yourself some coffee,” I said, digging into my eggs. “When do you think you’ll hear from Royce?”
“I told him to drive back to your house as soon as he was finished.” She poured coffee into a white mug and sat down across from me, her eyes bright with excitement. Her hair was brushed to perfection, and she wore her favorite white jeans—favorite because they made her short legs look longer—and a green button-front shirt with rolled cuffs.
“How long have you been up?” I asked.
“An hour and a half. Time’s a-wasting.”
I scowled and gulped my coffee.
“If Royce finds anything, we should stop at the station and tell Chief Gilroy,” Julia said.
“Uh-huh.”
“We don’t want to hide anything from him.”
“We never do.”
“So we’ll stop at the station first, then decide what to do next.”
“Royce can do that, can’t he? Or you and Royce together?”
“You don’t want to?”
I paused to take another gulp of coffee, giving myself time to come up with a reasonable-sounding excuse for passing up a chance to see Gilroy. “We should split up. We can cover more ground that way. I need to talk to someone who can give me the unvarnished truth about what’s going on with Lucas’s job at the TV station.”
“Who could you call?” Julia asked.
I shrugged. “I’m not sure a phone call would do it.”
“You’re not thinking of driving to Denver. You hate going down there.”
“I know, but how else can we find out?” I hadn’t considered making the trip, but why not? Lucas himself didn’t seem certain that he would continue to host his little Front Range Gardening segments for long. Only station management knew that.
“You can’t show up unannounced at the station and start asking questions,” Julia said. “They’ll slam the door in your face.”
“True.” I finished my eggs, took my plate to the sink, and poured more coffee, topping off my cup. Julia was right. Showing up at the TV station’s door wasn’t going to get me anywhere. On the other hand, making a phone call just might. “Does the Juniper Grove Post report on the Garden Design Show winner?” I asked.
“There was an article in this morning’s paper,” Julia replied. “You still don’t get the Post?”
“Can’t stand that paper,” I said, returning to my seat. “Are they still publishing every other day?”
“Six days a week now. Every day but Wednesday. Really, Rachel, you should get it so you can stay informed.”
“Do I seem uninformed to you?” My experience with the Post last September, when it had dragged Julia and Gilroy through the mud with its shoddy and even devious reporting, had left a lasting bad taste in my mouth. It didn’t matter that the paper was under new management. The reporters were the same, and I didn’t trust them as far as I could throw Gilroy’s SUV. “Did the article mention that Lucas is the host of Front Range Gardening?”
“Yes.”
“But that may no longer be the truth.”
“What are you up to?”
Before I could answer, the doorbell rang, and Julia, pushing my plan to her back burner, jumped to her feet like a woman half her age. She sped to the door, and a moment later I heard Royce chattering away in my living room. Then the pair of them strolled arm in arm into my kitchen. I stood so Royce could greet me with his usual hug. It was his way. If he hadn’t seen me in more than a couple days, we hugged.
“Tell her,” Julia said, nudging him with her elbow. Nudging was Julia’s way.
“Three of our suspects have greenhouses—did you know that?” Royce pulled a little notebook from his back pocket and flipped it open. “Doyle Charming, Allegra Jones, and Stella Patmore. They had to apply for permits and have them inspected.”
“It stands to reason. They all love gardening,” Julia said. “Now sit down and let me get you a cup of coffee.”
Royce smiled and settled into a chair, making himself comfortable. He liked Julia’s small attentions. He had been a widower for two years before he started dating Julia—at Juniper Grove’s annual Valentine’s Day dance in Town Hall. At the dance he’d worn his old wedding band, but it wasn’t on his hand now.
“Julia’s right,” I said. “It’s not surprising they would have greenh
ouses.”
“Julia said you were wondering where the belladonna grew,” he said.
“Oh, I see!”
“Exactly, Rachel. If Chief Gilroy doesn’t find a plant in any of the contestants’ gardens, then why not in a judge’s garden?”
“Or better yet, a judge’s greenhouse,” I said.
“Where the neighbors can’t see what’s growing,” he said.
Julia set a cup of coffee in front of Royce, turned the handle his way, and sat. “You could easily get rid of a greenhouse belladonna plant, especially if it was growing in a pot. Grow it for the berries, pull it out by the roots when you’re done. No one would be any the wiser.”
“Hold on,” I said. “Stella is only twenty-seven. I heard her say so at the Sieglers’ house. And she’s working at Grove Coffee, which can’t pay much. How could she afford a greenhouse?”
“That I couldn’t tell you.” Royce took a sip of his coffee and ahhed with satisfaction. “But I didn’t find anything else in the records that I’d call a motive for murder. Except for gardening, our suspects don’t seem to have a connection to one another. Let’s see, what did I find?” He again checked his notebook. “Stella Patmore is single, Allegra Jones is divorced with no children, Valerie and Lucas have been married for thirty-three years and have four grown children living outside the home, and Doyle Charming is a widower. His grown children live out of state. Do you have a chief suspect, Rachel?”
“I wish.” I lowered my chin to my hand. “Stella was at the bottom of my list, but this greenhouse thing is very strange. Do you know how big it is?”
“I didn’t see the plans, but it has to be substantial enough to require a concrete floor. If it was one of those do-it-yourself deals, it wouldn’t have needed a permit and inspection.”
“And that means she lives in a house, not an apartment,” I added.
“You’re correct,” Royce said, “and it was her name on the house, not an ex-husband’s or parent’s.”
“So she’s not your typical struggling and under-employed graduate.”
“We should ask to see all of their greenhouses,” Julia said. “Just out of curiosity, of course. We wouldn’t let on what we’re looking for.”
But the more I thought about it, the less likely it seemed that Doyle, Allegra, or Stella had planted belladonna in their greenhouse or garden. “If one of the judges planted belladonna from a seed or bulb,” I pointed out, “this murder was planned weeks or months ago.”
Royce took off his glasses and wiped them with the tail of his shirt before slipping them back on. “I know what you’re going to say, Rachel. How could such a murder be planned weeks ago? Who knew about the fruit tarts back then? How do you get someone to eat berries when you don’t know how you’re going to disguise them?”
Smart man. “Although that doesn’t mean one of them wasn’t already growing belladonna and he or she saw a way to use it.”
“We’ll file it away and keep it in mind,” Royce said.
“What were you going to say about the Juniper Grove Post?” Julia asked.
“We need to find out if Lucas will be hosting Front Range Gardening for the foreseeable future,” I said to Royce. “Or if the TV station has already contacted their number two choice.”
“Since Caroline was number one,” Julia said.
“Following so far.” Royce sipped his coffee.
“I’m sure the Post has already written on Caroline’s murder,” I said, turning to face Julia. “Did they mention she was supposed to be the new host of Front Range Gardening?”
“No,” Julia answered. “I don’t think they know that.”
“But let’s say the paper found out,” I said. “In the Post’s article about the garden show, it stated that Lucas is the host. What if the paper blended the two stories—the murder and the garden show—and in doing research, found out who the permanent host will be? A reporter could call the station. I have a feeling Lucas’s hosting duties are about to end.”
“We could put a bug in the paper’s ear,” Royce said.
“If the station had a number two host in mind, and they let Doyle or Allegra know that,” I said, “then that’s a motive for them to kill the number one host.”
“Is this TV show our only motive?” Royce asked. “What if the station has decided to go with a Denver personality and everyone in Juniper Grove is out of the running?”
“But would Doyle or Allegra know that?” I said. “They’re both so full of themselves. I guarantee you they think they’re next—one or the other. With Caroline out of the way, it’s their turn.”
“TV is not our only motive,” Julia said. “Rachel and I had an uncomfortable talk with Valerie Siegler. There’s jealousy and possibly infidelity at work here too.”
I’d almost forgotten. Caroline had been after something, and I was sure she’d been using Lucas to get it. Had she started an affair with him? Or was she merely using him to get where she wanted in her career? To Valerie and Lucas, it might not have mattered. Either action was a betrayal.
“Jealousy and infidelity,” Royce said. His face grew troubled. “You can’t go wrong placing your bet on those two dragons.”
CHAPTER 8
I convinced Royce and Julia that they should go without me to the police station to tell Gilroy what Royce had discovered at Town Hall. Afterward, we would meet for lunch at Wyatt’s. Though we all admitted that the greenhouses probably had nothing to do with Caroline’s murder, by digging through the records, Royce had found out that our suspects weren’t connected outside of the gardening world—or maybe outside of an affair—and that was valuable information.
While they headed to the station in Royce’s car, I drove to Grove Coffee to see Stella. I couldn’t face Gilroy so soon after the Deer in the Headlights Incident. It’s not that I was angry with him—at least I didn’t think I was angry with him—but I didn’t trust my emotions yet. I needed a little time to come to terms with the expression I’d seen on his face so I could talk to him like an adult, not a whimpering child. I’d been under the illusion that my timetable matched his. He loved me—he’d said so—but I was pressuring him where he wasn’t ready to go. Though for crying out loud, he was forty-eight. I’d even thought about where we were going to live after we married. Would it be his house, mine, or a brand-new house?
Wisely, I’d kept my ruminations on that to myself.
Main Street in downtown Juniper Grove was bustling with activity: shoppers, window-gazers, children eating ice cream cones, shop owners watering their hanging baskets. Our small town’s center, just four blocks east to west and three blocks north to south, was a lively place in the summer, and I counted myself lucky to find a parking spot only two blocks from Grove Coffee.
Clouds had rolled in from the foothills, and for the first time in a week the midmorning was pleasantly cool, the July heat vanishing with the sun. We were about to enter Colorado’s monsoon season, and for me, not a moment too soon.
Once inside the café, I searched for Stella and found her quickly, courtesy of the blue streaks in her hair. I walked right up to her, raising a few eyebrows when I cut in line at the counter, and asked if she could take a break.
“Two minutes,” she said, glancing from side to side. One of her co-workers nodded an okay. “I’ll bring coffee. Iced latte for you?”
“Sounds great, thanks.”
I scored a just-vacated two-seat table by the shop’s front window and waited there for her. Was I wrong in thinking she was eager to talk? She hadn’t seemed surprised to see me, and she must have known I wanted to ask her about Caroline.
At the sound of thunder, I looked to the window. A light rain had started, and stray raindrops, driven by the wind, speckled the glass. The wind picked up, and I wondered if we were in for a brief, gentle rain or a rip-roaring storm. Through the drops and streaks, I saw Gilroy strolling down the sidewalk, hands in his pockets. He came closer to Grove Coffee, and I reared back, willing him not to see me inside.
He slowed, smiled, and mouthed a hello to a woman carrying a big red umbrella. I saw her hair—long and also red—but not her face.
“He just said, ‘Not yet.’”
I jumped in my seat.
“You were watching so intently, I thought you were trying to lip-read,” Stella said. She grinned and set a large plastic cup in front of me. “Your latte, no charge. Iced black for me, and I’m leaving work early, so no need to rush on my account.”
“Thank you.” I focused all my attention on Stella, thus avoiding the window, and simultaneously willed myself toward an optimistic explanation for Gilroy saying “Not yet” to a woman I’d never seen before. He was the police chief, and he greeted people all the time. It was part of his job. Of course it was.
“Caroline’s murder has you jumpy,” Stella said.
I didn’t correct her misdiagnosis. “So you know she died from belladonna poisoning.”
Stella sucked long and hard on her straw. “Mm-hmm.”
In case she had missed the point, I said, “Someone at the party murdered her.”
She stopped drinking and leaned forward, putting her arms on the table. “Caroline didn’t have a lot of friends.”
“I’m beginning to realize that. She was an ambitious woman.”
“This was my first year as a judge in the Garden Design Show. I was excited. It was something related to my degree. And I felt . . . recognized in a way.” Stella fingered her cup, her words coming slowly, carefully. “Then I discovered Caroline fought to keep me out. She didn’t like the fact that I’d never been a judge, and she didn’t like the fact that I have a degree in horticulture. Either way, I couldn’t win with her.”
“She spoiled it for you.”
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