Ladies Courting Trouble

by Dolores Stewart Riccio

  A leash! Moi? What does he think—that I’m some kind of pin-headed greyhound? It would serve Furry Face right if I dragged him into a ditch. Scruffy stalked to the door and scratched the patch of bare wood on the frame in a disgusted fashion.

  “You’ll do no such thing!”

  “You’re talking to the dog right now, not me, correct?” Joe said.

  “Yes, of course. You watch your footing out there, honey, in case you-know-who makes a dash for you-know-what. And by the way, don’t bother to spell L-E-A-S-H anymore. He’s got that one.”

  “Yeah? Well, maybe he’ll get this one, too. I’m the A-L-P-H-A male here, and we’ll have no mutiny on my watch.” Joe looked Scruffy right in the eyes as he snapped on the leash, and I could swear that Scruffy blinked first.

  The next day, I visited the Peacedales as soon as I thought I’d be allowed to sneak in, just after lunch. Patty was much recovered. She was wearing a pink velour jacket over her hospital gown, part of the pants suit she’d had on when she arrived. I found her sitting beside Wyn, holding his hand while he slept, his cherubic cheeks looking slack and gray. Patty held her finger to her lips, and we tiptoed out of the room and down the hall to a rather pleasant alcove with a window. A light, nonthreatening snow was falling, melting as soon as it encountered trees and roofs. The real winter in New England arrives in January.

  “What do you make of this, Cass? Detective Stern has as much as told me that it’s no coincidence the poisoner got us twice—someone is trying to kill my Wyn. Why would anyone want to do that? He’s such a good man—a man of God. What kind of a mind would conceive of trying to murder Wyn, for heaven’s sake?”

  “I agree that we’re dealing with a very sick person,” I said. “As for motive, I don’t mean to alarm you, but you have to be made aware that wherever there’s a great deal of money, there is also a great temptation.”

  “Oh dear!” Patty’s hand flew up to cover her mouth. “You and Detective Stern both believe that someone is after the Craig money. Gosh, the will’s not even through Plymouth probate yet. Wyn hasn’t had a chance to spend one cent. But if that’s the motive, then it could only be…” Realization passed over Patty’s face, turning her cheeks red, then white. Her voice sank to a whisper. “The Craigs are doing this? I can’t believe it. I’ve met them all, and they seem like decent people, even if they did get nasty when the will was read. Especially that lawyer, Geoffrey’s wife. Threatened to contest it, you know. Old Mr. Borer—such a dignified person, he is, with a voice like Moses on the Mount—assured her the will’s unbreakable. ‘We know what we’re doing at B, B, and B,’ he said. ‘We’re an old-fashioned firm, not a bunch of ambulance chasers.’ Lord, the atmosphere in that conference room was worse than a church board meeting.”

  “What about the other Craigs, Bruce and his wife, and Jean Deluca? What were their reactions?”

  “Bruce seemed okay with it, just tipped his chair back and whistled. His wife hoped they’d use their twenty-five-thousand bequest as the down payment on a house, but he was talking about a racing car. Arthur and Jean Deluca were as quiet as two church mice. She’s a tense little person, isn’t she? Stiff little smile, you know, but if looks could kill…” Patty stopped rattling on and looked aghast.

  “I know it’s a shock, Patty, but I feel you should be prepared for whatever the police investigation might bring to light.”

  “But you, Cass,” Patty wailed. “You and the girls are praying—or whatever it is you do—for a holy vision, right?”

  “Absolutely. And with all forces aligned against this person or persons unknown, we’re sure to bring her to justice soon.”

  “It’s a woman, then? Because only a woman would make poisoned chocolate brownies?”

  “Well…” Did I feel a little jolt of intuition? “The male of the species can cook, too. Besides, those brownies came from a mix, not at all complicated to whip up. And that chocolate coconut cake that got Wyn at Thanksgiving was from a mix, too. Ergo, we can’t say for sure it’s a woman.”

  “But you suspect! Cass, you’ve had some insight, haven’t you?” Patty demanded, grasping my hand tightly in both of hers.

  “Hmmm. What did Stone want to know?”

  “Who delivered the groceries. Was the bag of salad open or closed. Did I hear any strange noises in the kitchen, or see someone lurking about.”

  “And?”

  “I never saw the delivery person. The box was left on my kitchen table while I was upstairs in my office answering parish requests and complaints. I don’t remember if the bag was open, but I think it may have been, because I don’t recall needing the scissors. Everything is so darned hard to open these days, I have to keep a pair of shears in the kitchen. And I didn’t see any villains lurking about the parsonage. Oh dear, dear me.” Patty took back her hands in order to wring them. “I’m so stupid, I’m no help at all.”

  “Patty, you are not stupid. Never, never think that being unsuspecting equates with stupidity. Now, you get yourself some rest, and give Wyn my warmest thoughts and wishes. I’m going over to Fiona’s and see what she’s discovered.”

  “Oh. With the pendulum, you mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “I wish now I’d taken Mrs. Ritchie’s advice and—what did she call it?—dowsed our food. Do you think she’d give me a refresher on how to detect poisons? She said this cross of mine would do fine. I’ll just explain to Wyn that it’s a Celtic blessing of the food.”

  “Sure. Fiona will go over the basics with you again. Good thinking, Patty.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fiona flung open her front door before I was halfway up the curved flagstone path. “Oh, Cass! Such great news!” From inside the house, I could hear a CD player. A familiar voice was belting out at top volume. “Come on-a my house…”

  “You found the greenhouse!”

  “Not that, dear. Oh, I may have done, but we’ll get to that in a moment. Come in, come in. I have something to show you.” Fiona was barefoot and wearing a crown of some kind of dried flowers. She began waltzing around with a broom through her crowded living room, nimbly dodging stacks of books and magazines and baskets filled with all manner of oddities. Omar Khayyám was hunched under the sofa, his cat eyes slitted with disapproval. Is Fiona planning to fly off like a regular witch? I wondered. Without benefit of psychedelic ointment? Not a sign of that arthritis, either.

  A moment later I realized that actually Fiona was halfway between sweeping and waving a paper in midair. It appeared to be an e-mail message. “It’s my little Laura Belle! She’s coming to live with me again. Well, maybe not forever, but at least while her mother is in The Hague.”

  Laura Belle, affectionately called “Tinker Belle,” was a dear little girl born out of wedlock to Fiona’s niece, then a law student. Fiona had cared for the child for the first year and a half of her life. While the charming child with morning-glory eyes had been in residence, Fiona’s messy quarters metamorphosed into a child-centered, apple-pie-neat little cottage. But after her mother, Belle MacDonald, had passed the bar exam and gone to work at the State Department, she’d whisked Laura Belle away and discouraged further contact.

  “Belle’s going to The Hague?” I was trying to get my bearings in this domestic drama.

  “Yes, yes!” Fiona paused in her broom waltz long enough to thrust the e-mail into my hands. I read that Fiona’s niece was thrilled to have been chosen to provide legal research support to the U.S. Government conferees at the International Jurisdiction and Foreign Judgments in Civil and Commercial Matters conference, which would require her to take up residence in the Netherlands. And between the lines, I read that Belle’s parents, Fiona’s brother and sister-in-law, were less than thrilled at the prospect of taking on the full-time care of Laura, now an active four-year-old, while Belle worked overseas for an indefinite period of time. So after being shut out of Laura’s life for more than two years, Fiona had suddenly become the ideal candidate for full-time “nanny.”


  But what did fairness matter when Fiona was obviously in a state of complete delight? The only spell words the circle had ever said about Fiona’s situation had been entirely open-ended—we’d sought only the best of all possible worlds to nurture Tinker Belle, however that might manifest in reality. The Universe of Infinite Solutions had come through with an unexpected but lovely answer once again! “For the good of all…” had worked out to be a boost for Belle MacDonald’s ambitions, peace and quiet for her parents, and Fiona’s little love returned to her heart.

  “Miracles happen,” I murmured. “I am so happy for you! Now do you think you could pause for a few minutes to share a cup of tea and some news of the Peacedales? And don’t you think, now that it’s December, you maybe ought to wear shoes and socks?”

  “Don’t nag, dear. I’m embarked on a magical cleaning, so naturally I needed to be barefoot and wear a crown. I have some of your nice smudging herbs left over from our last crisis—what was it? Oh, that clock man I had to shoot in the foot. Anyway, I plan to smudge away any negative vibrations. I want everything to be perfect when my darling arrives.”

  While Fiona slowly let her joyous feet touch earth again and donned tartan sock slippers, I put on the kettle and made us an aromatic cup of Lapsang Souchong, noting that the kitchen counters showed signs of a recent scrubbing. The Rosemary Clooney CD finally warbled to a close, and a calming quiet descended. While we drank the steaming brew in Fiona’s thistle cups, I related my visit to the Peacedales, winding up with Patty’s request for a refresher in poison detection by pendulum. “Patty’s going to use her Celtic cross. She wants to call it a ‘food blessing.’”

  “Of course she does. Best not to alarm a husband, I always say. Especially when Wyn’s just recovering from two attempts on his life. Not to worry,” Fiona continued. “I’ll zoom over for a visit as soon as she’s sprung from the hospital. I wonder if she’d like me to smudge her kitchen? I’m really proud of Patty for deciding to protect herself. I only wish the rest of you—”

  “Now, Fiona,” I interrupted. “What about my greenhouse? I want to know what you’ve found. You know I depend on you.”

  “Oh, yes—that. It’s the strangest thing, Cass. I dowsed over a map of Plymouth, and the pendulum kept settling on Heather’s neck of the woods, can you imagine that? There are several other mansions like the Morgan place in that part of town, not all of them in good repair like Heather’s. Do you think the greenhouse might be a forgotten part of some decrepit estate?”

  “Hey! Of course—that’s it!” I yelled. Omar Khayyám, who had been about to emerge from his refuge, hissed and backed even farther under the sofa.

  “What’s ‘it,’ dear?” Fiona smoothed out the e-mail message on the coffee table and read it again. Clearly, I didn’t have her full attention.

  “Fiona! Think! Whose old mausoleum mansion is located near Heather, on the other side of Brian and Maeve Kelliher, your roommate in Manomet Manor?”

  “Maeve, dear child, has got herself up into a walker now. Isn’t she amazing!”

  “Yes, it’s wonderful. Now back to the greenhouse…”

  The light dawned slowly over Marblehead. “Cass, you’re thinking of Lydia Craig’s place, the sagging porch and all. Who inherited that, by the way?”

  “Wyn. He got everything except those modest bequests to nephews and niece. Old Borer, who’s ninety-five if he’s a day, of the law firm of Borer, Buckley, and Bangs, is the Craig executor, and I doubt very much if he checks around the old manse very often—or ever. If there was a greenhouse, it must be in great disrepair, judging by the rest of the Craig property. I’d be afraid even to tiptoe across that porch.”

  “So any of the Craigs might be aware of an abandoned greenhouse.”

  “If it exists in reality.”

  “Dear Cass, you simply have to have more faith in your visions. I think you’re onto something important. Do you want to call Stone?”

  “Well, yes, of course I will.” After I check this out myself, I thought. “But first I ought to drive over to Heather’s and get her to show me around the neighborhood. She probably knows that property very well. She grew up there, and I seem to remember her telling me that the kids used to call Lydia “Old Lady Craig” because she’d chase them out of her cracked tennis court. But once we find the place, I’ll call Stone first thing.”

  “Uh huh. Want to investigate on your own, eh? Perfectly natural.” Fiona looked around for her reticule, which was, as always, leaning against her easy chair. “Would you like to borrow my little pistol, dear? Just in case.”

  “No, Fiona, thank you all the same. We’ll just be going for a little walk in the woods.”

  “You never know whom you may meet when you’re poking around like you do. Personally, I prefer packing a little security. If I didn’t have so much to get ready for my darling Tinker Belle, I’d go with you, dear.”

  “Oh, that’s okay, Fiona.” Truth be told, I didn’t relish the prospect of tramping through the Craig property with Annie Oakley and her reticule.

  It was only four o’clock, so I scooted directly from Fiona’s to Heather’s. Unfortunately, the cocktail hour had already begun at the Morgan manse, and Heather was trying her hand at mixing a Big Rita like the ones that had almost put out our lights at the Wander Inn. Dick was still seeing his four-legged patients. Acupuncture days always ran long. But Heather expected him shortly. A whiff of some delectable fish dish wafted in from the kitchen, where Captain Jack was at work, and I could hear an occasional squawk from his green-feathered companion.

  Honeycomb was lying on a folded blanket under the bar in the conservatory, looking mighty pleased with herself. Trilby the bloodhound and Luke the Lab, were lying against the French doors, gazing dismally at the lacy snowflakes still falling, while a couple of greyhounds tussled with a stuffed bunny behind the potted palms.

  After I’d delivered a report on the Peacedales and waved away a Big Rita, I said, “I suppose you don’t want to go hunting through the Craig estate for a deserted greenhouse, do you?”

  “Fiona found the greenhouse! Isn’t she a treasure! I’m surprised it didn’t occur to us to look there in the first place—it makes such perfect sense. I’ll bet all the Craigs had a good look around when they went to pay court to their rich auntie. Jean probably thought, what with winter coming and her supply of poison hemlock dying back, that she’d better move a few plants to indoor quarters.”

  Something about that picture was bothering me. “She doesn’t seem to care who she poisons on her way to that fortune, does she?” I said. “I mean, it’s so whimsical and haphazard, and she doesn’t seem the haphazard type. Well, will you go or won’t you?”

  “Hey, Cass. Look out the window. It’s almost Yule, shortest days of the year. How about if we go bright and early tomorrow?”

  “Okay, but what if the snow builds up in the meantime?” There really wasn’t much danger of that. But I do dislike having to postpone an investigation once I’ve set my heart on it. Still, I wasn’t quite prepared to tramp around the Craig place on my own.

  “Do you want me to rent snowmobiles?” Heather took an approving sip of her mammoth Margarita.

  “No! No snowmobiles, but I will appreciate your company. You know the lay of the land. I bet you already have an idea where the greenhouse may be hiding itself.”

  “Sure I do. Shall we say elevenish?”

  “Shall we say tenish?”

  “Okay, slave driver. And if you change your mind about the snowmobiles, let me know.”

  I got out of there before our simple plan could get any more complicated.

  By the next morning, there was no evidence it had ever snowed. The sky was a clear, unpolluted blue, and the sun was shining, but the temperature, which had hovered around a melting thirty-four degrees the day before, was rapidly dropping into the twenties. I dressed for our tramp through the woods in long johns, a thick turtleneck, a hunter’s cap with the earflaps down, and an L.L. Bean Rugged Ridge parka, a
s well as sheepskin-lined boots and heavy gloves. I could hardly move.

  Heather, on the other hand, was lightly attired in a red ski outfit obviously made of some miracle fabric, ski boots, ear muffs, and slim mittens. She set off for the Craig place at a brisk rate—“the short way, off-road,” she called it—and I lumbered after her, breaking through the branches like a fat brown bear.

  “Did you say anything about this greenhouse notion to Stone or Joe?” Heather turned to inquire.

  I paused to catch my breath and answer. “It’s so tenuous. What would I say? That a greenhouse had come to me in a vision and Fiona found it with her pendulum somewhere near your house? So we’re going to trespass on the Craig property to see if the greenhouse actually exists in this plane of being?”

  “Yeah, I see what you mean. This is about where the Craig property begins.” Heather indicated a line of fir trees that seemed to have been planted several decades earlier and now formed an effective barrier. We wedged our way through. “I think if there is a little greenhouse, it might be somewhere near the old stables, on the other side of the tennis court.”

  We trudged on. The tennis court looked as if an earthquake had roiled beneath the concrete. Dried brown stalks of weeds erupted through the cracks. In times past, the stables had been converted into garages, but even these were peeling and unkempt.

  “Oh, look there!” With growing excitement, I pointed to a ramshackle building with small-paned windows near an equally decrepit gardener’s shed. “You were right on, Heather.”

  Heather ran lightly past the tennis court. I wallowed in the rear. We had found the place, but something was very wrong. It appeared to be completely deserted, the door hanging off by one hinge, and not a living plant inside.

  “The ground is scuffed,” I said. “Look there, and there. Someone was here, but we’re too late.”

  We looked inside. Bare, broken shelves. No space heater in sight. All the plants, if there were any, had been moved or dumped.