Marigolds for Malice

by Bailey Cattrell

  Ritter’s steps slowed, and he rubbed his eyes with his fingertips.

  “Here.” I put his hand on a sturdy trellis. “Hold on to this for a second.”

  He watched his own fingers curl around the metal bar as I sprinted to the back of the shop, twisted the key in the lock, flung open the sliding glass door, and urged a reluctant Dash inside to join a startled Nabokov. Quickly, I closed the door again and relocked it. Back at Ritter’s side, I grabbed his arm and urged him toward the street.

  All the while, a part of my brain was scrambling to make sense of how this could have happened. The plant matter couldn’t have been soaking in the wine all that long. At the most, someone had added the Datura after I’d opened it, and that had only been twenty-four hours ago. Who could have—?

  By the front fence, Ritter stumbled again. All thought of who had poisoned the wine flew out of my head, and I focused on getting my wobbly boyfriend into Thea’s mint green step-side pickup.

  “Here we go,” I said cheerfully, and pulled open the gate.

  My heart was pounding, and panic scratched at the edge of my thoughts. I pushed it away. I couldn’t afford to panic. The gate swung closed behind us. Thankfully, the truck was parked right in front of Scents & Nonsense. I half pulled, half pushed Ritter toward it.

  When we reached the passenger side, I said, “Just lean against the bed here for a second.” I tugged at the door handle.

  “Locked.” The word came out slurred.

  “Oh. Okay. Where are the keys?” I kept my tone as light as I could, though my throat was tight with worry.

  He blinked at me.

  “Ritter, honey, I need the keys. Did you leave them back in the living room?”

  He took a deep shaky breath, and he shook his head. “No. They’re in my pocket.” He fumbled with his coat. “Elliana, I don’t feel so great.”

  I pushed him against the truck with one hand and fished in his pocket with the other. “Let’s just get you to the clinic. Ah! Got ’em,” I said, holding up the keys.

  “How much locoweed do you think I ingest . . . ingested?” He sounded truly frightened, and I didn’t blame him. He knew very well what the effects of the poison were.

  Shaking my head, I unlocked and opened the door of the classic old pickup. The hinges moaned. “You only had the one swallow. Right?”

  “Um.”

  “Of the wine?”

  “I think so,” he said slowly.

  Too slowly. One look told me how confused he was, and fear arrowed through my chest all over again.

  “Can you get in the truck? We’re going to see Dr. Scott.”

  He swayed, then gave a nod and pulled himself around the doorframe and lunged into the truck. I tried to help, but he was about twice my weight. A few adjustments later, and he was settled. I reached for the seat belt, then saw he was sitting on it, and thought better of it.

  No time.

  I slammed the door and ran around to the other side. Boosting myself behind the wheel, I fumbled for the seat adjustment. Not finding it immediately, I scooted to the edge of the seat, started up the old truck, and put it in gear. A car honked as I started to pull out onto the street, and my heart stuttered. Inhaling, I closed my eyes for a moment to regroup. It wouldn’t help Ritter if we got into a wreck.

  Looking carefully over my shoulder, I tried again. Once we were on the street, though, I couldn’t help but break the pokey twenty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit.

  Ritter swept his hand over his face. “Sweating. That fits. Skin feels clammy, even to me. The light’s way too bright, so my pupils are dilated.” Despite the fact that he was listing his own symptoms, the solid, scientific tone in which he was doing it reassured me.

  I took a corner a little too fast. “Don’t worry. The doc will fix you up.”

  “What else? Elliana! I can’t remember what else!” Panic threaded his tone.

  “What else what, Ritter?”

  “What the other symptoms are!”

  I reached over and grabbed for his arm but caught his wrist. Holding it firmly, I said, “Stay calm. You’re going to be fine.” I infused my voice with determined confidence, but I could feel his pulse racing beneath my fingers.

  “Ooh.” He breathed out the word like a mantra, then clamped his other hand over mine. “You are my gem, Elliana.”

  “Um, thanks.” A small smile tugged at my lips. “That’s very sweet.”

  “No! It’s not sweet. It’s the truth. You said you waited for me. Thank you for waiting for me, Elliana.”

  “You’re welcome.” I tried to pull my hand back, but he wouldn’t let go. “Honey, I need my hand to shift gears.”

  His grip didn’t loosen.

  “And to steer. This puppy doesn’t have power steering, you know.”

  “You waited for me,” he said again, staring out the window.

  Forcibly yanking my hand back, I downshifted just in time to make the next turn. When I glanced over again, he’d turned his head and was staring at me with big dark eyes. In the dash lights, I could see his pupils mostly eclipsed his irises.

  “I waited for you, too,” he said. “You don’t know how long.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I said, thinking back to our discussion that morning. Had something happened in Alaska that he was going to tell me about after all?

  “For years. I waited for years and years and years to find someone that I love like I love you, Elliana.” He sighed, and his eyes drifted closed. “So much.”

  Even though I knew he was high as a kite on locoweed, his words still made my heart expand to fit my entire body, my entire being, and tears pricked at the corner of my eyelids. At the same time, that warmth met a jumble of worry and angst and fear that Ritter could be really sick or even die, guilt that it was my fault because the poison had no doubt been intended for me because of my questions about Eureka’s murder and the missing manuscript, and finally, a fierce protectiveness.

  Like, lioness fierce.

  My foot pushed down on the accelerator a little more.

  “I told them no,” he said dreamily. His eyes were still closed. “No, no, no. Not again. Not going to lose my Elliana. Came too close this time.”

  What?

  The sign for the Poppyville Clinic lit up the end of the block. A car pulled into the small parking lot from the other direction.

  “Told who no?” I asked in a casual voice.

  “The institute. Got ’nother grant. Glacier National Park. But no, no, no. Gotta stay with Elliana.”

  “Wait, what? Ritter, you got another grant? But you’re not even done with the tundra project. When does the new one start?”

  “Not gonna start at all. Said no. No, no . . .” He trailed off.

  “Honey, I don’t want you to say no.” At least I didn’t think so. “But I’d like to spend some time together before you have to leave again.”

  Truthfully, I wanted to spend a lot of time with him before he left, but I’d known from our first date that the nature of the work he loved would sometimes take him away from me.

  “No, no . . . ,” he repeated. I reached over and patted his wrist. “Okay. We’ll talk about it later, okay?”

  “Hate that sonofa . . .” His voice faded.

  “Who do you hate?” I asked.

  He rallied and spoke with the careful precision of a drunk. “Tanner. Spence. After my girl. Not gonna happen.” He shook his head.

  The truck bumped into the clinic’s lot, the old shock absorbers lending an extra bounce to our arrival. I grabbed Ritter with one hand, but he had sunk into his seat like a contented sloth.

  I shook him, and his eyes blinked open. “Are you telling me you were offered another research project, and you didn’t take it because you thought there was something going on between Tanner Spence and me?” I demanded.

 
He blinked, then gave me a high-wattage, if bleary, smile.

  His door flew open, and Dr. Scott stood on the other side of him. She wore a gray sweatshirt and hiking pants, and her face was scrubbed clean.

  “Hey, Ellie,” she said, climbing partway into the truck and peering into Ritter’s face by the light of the sign outside. “Nan thought you said jimsonweed. But that can’t be right. It’s too early in the season.”

  “Not in my greenhouse, it isn’t,” I said grimly as a Poppyville patrol car veered into the parking lot.

  CHAPTER 20

  OFFICER Danielson was just in time to help us manhandle Ritter into the clinic. Moments later, Dr. Scott’s nurse, Carla Higginbottom, barreled in the door. Soon my boyfriend was situated on the bed, and the doctor was reaching for a stethoscope.

  “Ellie says Ritter ate some jimsonweed,” she said to Carla, then looked up at me. “How much?”

  “Just a little. Actually, he didn’t eat it. It was soaking in some wine.”

  She stared at me. “I know you’re a nature girl, Ellie, but why on God’s green earth would you do that?”

  Vehemently, I shook my head. “I wouldn’t!”

  “Are you saying it was an accident?”

  “No, I don’t think it was. I think someone put it there on purpose. The point is, he didn’t drink very much, but I don’t know how strong it was. Please,” I begged. “Just take care of him.”

  She glanced at Officer Danielson, who was standing by the wall taking down everything into his notebook. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll leave the hows and whys to you and the police.” She turned her attention back to Ritter. “Heartbeat and respiration appear slow, but not seriously compromised.” She leaned over and flashed a penlight in his eyes.

  He knocked it out of her hand, and I ducked as it flew over my head. It broke into several pieces as it hit the wall behind me. “Don’t do that!” He sat up and glared at her, then looked around the room with wide eyes before sinking back down to a prone position.

  “Ritter!” I moved toward him.

  “Stay back,” Dr. Scott barked. “He’s suffering from scopolamine and atropine poisoning. Carla, see if we have any Antilirium. And grab the lorazepam while you’re at it.” Her gaze softened as she looked back at me. “Sorry, Ellie. I’m going to sedate him. Jimsonweed can make people combative, and I’m not taking the chance.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face as I whispered, “Okay.” Then: “Do you need to pump his stomach?”

  She came over and put her hand on my shoulder. “That won’t be necessary. Ellie. He’s going to be okay. Really. I can tell this is a mild case. But the poison has to wear off, and he’s going to be here for a while.”

  Tears threatened, and I set my jaw. “So am I, then.”

  “Of course. Why don’t you wait in the other room while Carla and I get him settled?” She and Danielson exchanged glances. “Maybe you could give the officer your statement about what happened.”

  I nodded reluctantly. I didn’t want to leave Ritter but knew it would be better if I got out of the way.

  “Good girl,” she said. If anyone else had said that to me, I might have been offended, but coming from Dr. Scott it somehow made me feel better.

  Danielson followed me down the maroon-carpeted hallway to the waiting area, where he flipped on the lights. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, toner, and a whiff of Jean Naté perfume over by the receptionist’s desk. We settled into a couple of boxy, peach-colored chairs.

  He quirked an eyebrow. “So? You’ve certainly been busy since I saw you yesterday afternoon at Eureka Sanford’s house. Asking questions around town, I hear.”

  I sighed.

  “So how did your guy in there manage to ingest jimsonweed? You said something about wine?” He sounded skeptical.

  “That’s right.” I took a deep breath. “Well, not right, but correct. Someone stuffed leaves from Datura stramonium in an open bottle of wine. Ritter drank some before I could stop him.”

  “So, you noticed it first?”

  “Yes.” I didn’t elaborate.

  “Saw it?”

  “Smelled it.”

  He stared at me.

  I shrugged. “I’m a perfumer. I have a fine-honed sense of smell.”

  “Ah.” He made a note.

  “Wine is one of the best ways to extract the chemical compounds in plants,” I explained. “Because some are soluble in water, and others in alcohol. Either someone knew that, or they got lucky.”

  “I see. And have you and Mr. Nelson been getting along okay?”

  “Of course . . . what? You don’t think I poisoned him, do you?” Even as the words tumbled out, I could suddenly see how someone might think that.

  My wine.

  My jimsonweed.

  My herbal expertise.

  And I’d known better than to drink the wine myself.

  Dang it!

  “Just gathering the facts,” he said in a neutral tone.

  “I’d never, ever . . . Listen, whoever did this probably took the jimsonweed from my greenhouse. Yes,” I said pointedly. “I know that doesn’t look good. But I’m pretty sure it was intended for me, since the wine was in my house and, as you said, I’ve been asking questions about Eureka’s murder. I’m supposed to be the one in there.” I gestured toward where Ritter lay, probably knocked out by now. Tears threatened, and I looked away.

  “Any idea who could have done it, then?”

  Who’d had access the night I opened the wine?

  Someone who had been at Eureka’s memorial gathering and come through the open back door. The greenhouse had been open. People had been going in and out and all over the garden, chatting and connecting as they told stories and shared recollections about the deceased professor. And while I’d been careful to make sure the front door of my home had been locked so no one would take it upon themselves to explore the cute little tiny house, I probably had left the back door, with its only access from the meadow, unlocked.

  I told Officer Danielson as much, and he dutifully took notes. He did not offer his own opinion, however.

  “I’d like to follow you home,” he said. “It sounds like it could be a crime scene, and I need to collect evidence.”

  Appalled, I stared at him for a few seconds. “I’m not going anywhere until I know Ritter is okay.” I thought, then dug in my pocket and took out my key ring. Removing my house key, I handed it to him. “Feel free to go in and do whatever you have to do. You know where I live?”

  He nodded and took the key.

  “Some of the wine landed on the floor and ottoman when I tried to stop Ritter from drinking it, but there should be plenty still in the bottle for testing.”

  A brisk nod, then: “I’ll take that to check for fingerprints and see what else I can find.”

  “My fingerprints are going to be on it,” I said matter-of-factly. “And Ritter’s. The back door was open when we got home, so check that, too.”

  “Your prints are on file?” he asked.

  I nodded. “They took them last year. Will you be calling one of the detectives to help?”

  One eyebrow flickered up. “Probably. Give me your cell number.”

  I did, but when he left, I felt more relieved that he’d stopped quizzing me than confident that they’d find the person who’d put Ritter in Poppyville’s version of the emergency room.

  * * *

  • • •

  ONCE Ritter was settled and dozing, I went out to the reception area to call Thea. I could hear the television on in the background when she answered. There was a stunned silence after I told her what happened.

  Then she said, “He’s going to be okay?”

  “Dr. Scott says he will be,” I said. “Though she’s going to keep him at the clinic overnight.”

  “I’ll come
right down.”

  “He’s sedated, so he won’t know you’re here.” I left out that Dr. Scott had put him under in case he became violent.

  “But he’ll be fine,” Thea said.

  I understood her need to know for sure. “He didn’t swallow very much, and I got him to the doctor immediately. He gave me a scare, but I believe Dr. Scott.”

  “Idiot,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Not you. That brother of mine. He has a degree in botany, for heaven’s sake. He should know better than to eat jimsonweed.”

  “Oh, no, Thea. He had no idea. Someone got into my house and put it in an open bottle of wine. I think the Datura came from my greenhouse.”

  “Someone poisoned my brother on purpose?” She sounded outraged, as well she should have.

  “Er, I think someone meant to poison me, not Ritter. But I smelled the Datura and didn’t drink it.”

  She swore. “Is this because you’ve been asking questions about Eureka’s death?”

  I sighed. “Probably. Thea, I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh, honey. I’m not blaming you. You must feel horrible enough already. I just want to know who did this.”

  “Well, I think it was someone who was at the memorial this afternoon.”

  Silence.

  “If the jimsonweed came from my greenhouse,” I went on. “It isn’t growing this early around town yet, so it either came from the plant I’ve been overwintering in my greenhouse or . . . It’s a popular ornamental. I don’t suppose you have any at the nursery right now?”

  “No. I don’t typically carry it, anyway. If someone wants it for a landscaping project, I special order it. So, let’s see. Who was there today?”

  I listed everyone I remembered. She added a few names, then asked, “Who out of those people are on your suspect list?”

  “My . . . ?”

  “Don’t be coy, Ellie. My brother’s been poisoned.” Her voice was hard.

  “Right. Well, I don’t know anything for sure, but there are a few people that I wonder about.”