by Judith Mehl
When he said “Tattoo Man,” Lance jerked on Nick’s arm in concern, motioning with his head that he needed to know who Nick had on the other end. Lance faced Nick squarely and uttered words like fire and farmhouse, tattoos and schemers. Nick absorbed enough to know fear for Kat and called a halt—to both her and Lance.
“Kat, your Tattoo Man looks bad from this end. I need to find out more and get back to you. Please don’t go near the farm.”
She muttered more of her fears. Her husband held firm. “Meet at the suite and we’ll work it out. I promise if the farm hands appear to be in danger I’ll send someone out to protect them if Burrows doesn’t. Don’t forget to come in the back way.”
Fear and fire, money and payouts, danger and hope balanced precariously in his mind as he turned to Lance. He’d needed a report from all fronts and wanted to move forward. It was that or hand over the five million the developers expected from him and hope he saw it again some day.
Now Lance’s report that Farmer Jones’ barns had been set ablaze gained more urgency. Before Nick could panic, Lance explained how the fire was extinguished and they had the likely arsonist, a man covered in tattoos, in the car with Tom.
The men rallied as details emerged. The Tattoo Man was caught at the scene of the fire at Jones’ farmhouse. The frightened farmer wanted to hide from repercussions. “I don’t want to call the police,” he’d told Lance as the fire trucks arrived. Lance had tied up the suspected arsonist and hauled him to Nick to let him decide. He dragged him up the back stairs while Nick gathered the information he needed from Kat. Then they questioned the man.
Tattoo Man sat strapped into a corner chair. Tommy attempted to draw him out and called him a sniveling little firebug.
“Don’t you call me that! I have good cause to set my fires. Money. I’m a pro,” he said. “They pay. I light.”
They learned that the pay came in cash for jobs in prearranged locations. He admitted that one time he saw two men in a Ford Explorer. It was dusk and he could see inside the vehicle as it turned to leave the drop-off point. The passenger was staring out the window and smiling. He said he remembered because it was such a strange smile.
“I don’t know who paid and I don’t care.” Though he admitted to no specific fires other than the one they’d nabbed him for, he hinted at others, nearby and recent. He may have been an arsonist with little brains, but he knew not to condemn himself, Nick thought.
They’d bagged his hands and shirt when they caught him and now were ready to hand him over to the police and arson investigators. It made it tough to offer him a smoke, one of their stalling tactics. Lewis pulled out a pack and shook out a cigarette.
“You shouldn’t smoke,” Tattoo Man said.
Nick blinked. Was this guy for real?
“You never used a cigarette to start a fire?”
“Naw, too unreliable.”
“And you don’t smoke?”
“Bad for your lungs.”
They all stopped talking. Nick was the first to respond. Before he could ask the man if he was insane, he saw the doorknob turn slowly. On high alert, he motioned to Lewis. The next thing he saw was Kat peeking into the nose of a revolver. Before she could react, Lewis withdrew the gun.
“Jesus, Kat. You shouldn’t do that. Agatha knows not to open the door. Didn’t she tell you.”
She sputtered, “Guess I should have knocked. I didn’t want to disturb you if you weren’t finished.”
Kat explained how she wanted a photo of the man so the sisters could take a look. He agreed and took the phone from her, hoping to shield her from the worst of the damage in person.
The men looked at each other. Nick knew they all wondered if this was the same man as the one the sisters saw scoping out the herb farm. Did that mean they could eliminate tentative connections they were exploring with the herb shop, the shop employees and customers? Then why the intruder the other night at the shop?
If this man didn’t smoke, he may not be the intruder at the herb shop. Others must be involved. On course, if he’d just set a fire somewhere, the smoke could have lingered in his clothes.
Too many questions, no answers.
The door to the connecting room burst open and in walked Agatha carrying a tray, complete with flowered cups and scones. Wreathed in smiles she announced, “Tea time.”
All movement stopped. Everyone looked up at Agatha. Nick saw Kat drop into the nearest chair and study her Manolo Blahnik shoes. He only knew what they were because she talked endlessly about them this morning while he helped her put them on.The trivia of how the London-based shoe king hated platform shoes wandered slow motion through his mind as he watched Agatha.
Maybe they ought to just all sit down and have tea. He imagined that Tattoo Man wouldn’t mind, considering his meager options at the moment.
Agatha caught sight of the bloody man in the corner about the same time as Tommy O’Shea, a meticulous makeshift mechanic but swift in reaction, caught the falling tea tray. Lewis caught Agatha.
Chapter 21
A lower case ‘c,’ somewhat curled within itself, could indicate a shrewd and calculating person.
Kat scurried across the kitchen with a makeshift shuffle that favored her bad ankle. She alternately packed her briefcase and nibbled on the last of the bacon while her husband cleaned up the remains of their tomato and cheese omelets. It had been his morning to cook and she hadn’t minded letting the dear Lord know her kind thoughts when she prayed before the meal. She hadn’t recovered from the frightful night before. Maybe the prayer would help realign her life and put it in perspective.
Nick exemplified the meaning of patience yesterday, with kind words and a soft approach to Agatha once she recovered enough to sit up in the suite’s bedroom. He personally soothed her with a washcloth and made no reprisals for her walking in without checking—one of the rules of this dual arrangement. Grateful that his kindness encompassed Kat, she kept to the sidelines. He merely tapped her lightly on the forehead, shook his own head in consternation, and requested that Lewis take her home late that day. He walked in much later as she drifted off to sleep.
Briskness topped today’s agenda, however.
“Did you get a chance to talk with Agatha about the new list of suspects she was formulating?” he asked.
“Oh sure, right after we peeled her off the floor.”
“Kat, let’s not exaggerate. Lewis caught her before she hit the floor. She doesn’t have a bruise on her.”
“That’s true. But she’s still recovering from the mental abrasions. Apparently it’s not every day she sees a bloodied man at tea. I’m hoping to visit her today. Do you think I can sneak in?”
Nick filled his thermos with the last of the coffee. “Just come in through the parking garage and up the service elevator. You’ll be fine.”
She stretched backwards, trying to secure the heel of her butter soft calf pumps and praying they were appropriate for the day ahead. Graceful Paul Green shoes for a carefree day. And they even stretched over her still-swollen foot—minus the bandage. No tattoos, no blood, no murders, and no poison. Wouldn’t that be wonderful for once? With any luck she’d stick to campus and its minutia of public relations details that required nothing more than a simple stroll through the day.
All right. So maybe she’d stop by and gather the back records boxes from the herb shop before meeting with Agatha. Fanny could put them in the car, or maybe that handsome Detective Fulton Hill. She wondered briefly how that apparent romance progressed.
Nick swatted her with the dishtowel on the way out and planted a kiss on her nose at the same time. Somehow, he stayed on her wavelength.
“I’m just happy the Tattoo Man didn’t get a look at Agatha before Lewis whisked her back through the door.”
Nick grabbed her briefcase and did the normal amount of facetious groaning from the weight before he turned off the light and eased her out the door.
“I don’t think he’ll be out of jail any time s
oon. We don’t want him telling anyone where she is, if he even recognized her and is involved in her end of this mystery.”
She kissed him as she reached her car door.
“Remember to stay off that foot. You’re probably praising God that you injured your left foot and can drive already, but don’t forget the cane. He settled it and the briefcase in the back as she fumbled for some sense to it all. “If we tie that man to your scam and to the farmhouse, where does that lead us?”
“The police are interrogating him now. Maybe they’ll find out more. Meanwhile, they’ve covered the two entrances to the farm.”
He strode the three paces to his car backwards, trying to reassure her. “That’s the best we can do for now.”
Kat stopped at Bittersweet Herbs on her way in to work. Fulton gathered up the two boxes that Agatha requested and put them in Kat’s trunk. Fanny arrived a few minutes later. She seemed harried and explained she needed to finish up some bookwork before she switched roles and prepared for the evening cooking class.
Kat didn’t even open the boxes. The records wouldn’t mean much without Agatha’s help anyway. Today, Kat needed the balm of steady work, cheerful students, and the soothing comfort of routine. Later she’d review this latest hope of Agatha’s for clues to the sinister happenings to her friends and the shop.
Encased in an apron, Fanny stood over a huge cook pot in the tiny kitchen at the rear of the herb shop. She was preparing the herb soup ahead for the evening cooking class and made a stab at wheedling Fulton into volunteering to help at the class as she sprinkled a few more herbs into the pot.
Fulton hedged. He knew little of cooking, but he sensed she didn’t need him for his expertise. Maybe she perceived the danger as the crisis grew. She seemed intuitive.
He wondered how much to say. No one told her of the fire, as still unconnected to the herb shop and the murders. Until someone could determine the relevance of the intruder, they still needed to search for a link between Rosalin and Margaret’s deaths, and the herb shop.
How close did he need to stay to Fanny? How close could he afford to get? How much could he tell her?
Obviously unaware of his internal questioning, she’d continued to expound on the purpose of the class.
“We make the common herbs available in fresh or dried form, while teaching people to use them from their own garden if they wish. Each has a unique flavor that adds a special twist to a dish.”
He drew closer to peer into the pot.
She added, “The focus is on experimenting, taking notes, and trying again.”
His spark of interest was all she needed to start her spiel for class. This would be her first one alone without Agatha and she took advantage of the opportunity to practice.
“The most flavorful culinary herbs are plucked from well-tended plants in their leaf-making stage. Once flowers appear, leaf production slows and the leaves become bitter.”
She placed the sage on her hand and held it within his sniffing range to entice him closer. “These are fresh.”
He glanced over her shoulder and studied her notes, more to enjoy her proximity than in herbal interest. He became intrigued with what he was reading. He read out loud, “Sage—the prime herb for all poultry and fish, adds special flavors to lamb and pasta, sauces and soups. Leaves should be dried whole and left in an air-tight container. They will stay potent for 3-4 months. Combine with thyme for a fine wedding of flavors.”
His senses reeled as he eased himself back a little. The word wedding conveyed too much additional meaning. How could her scent entice him? Why wasn’t it overpowered by the herbs?
Too intent on her cooking to notice his dilemma, she continued, “Use rosemary judiciously because a little is a big delight. Use with turkey or Cornish game hens, chopped fine.”
The last one he knew. Though God knows what nationality his oregano was, at least he had some at home. Hers was Greek. Did it matter?
“Greek oregano is strong when added at the last moment. It withers with prolonged cooking,” she explained, but glanced at her watch and freaked. “I’m out of time. Here.” She pushed the spoon upon him. “Stir slowly. I need to ready the herb packets for our customers to buy if they don’t have their own.”
Fulton stirred. It was almost hypnotic. Eventually he realized Fanny had been gone a long time, but he was afraid to leave the pot. He debated his options and turned off the burner. He was a cop, not a chef. He saw Fanny leaning out the front door, her enticing rear end still in view. Wondering what drew her attention, he walked forward and tapped her on the shoulder.
She leapt up and bashed into him before righting herself. “Fulton, what was that for?” She rubbed her sore spot and spun toward the kitchen area.
“You seem engrossed in watching that guy leave. Someone special?”
“Yeah, he was looking for the owner of the herb farm. Said he had a deal for her. Knew it was a her, too. He trotted out as soon as two customers walked in.”
Fulton stiffened. Sheesh, I was in the kitchen for ten minutes and missed it all. “So who was he?”
Rita Mae assisted the last customers as Fanny went back to stir the soup. She noticed it was turned off, and with one of those superior sniffs, flicked it back on and walked to the opposite counter.
He explained how important this could be. “Anyone looking for Agatha right now could have ulterior motives. Anything more you can tell me about him?”
She had a memory for details and expounded. “He had a balding head with hairs falling all over, no attempt to comb them over the bald spot. That’s an over-statement of honesty, in my mind. It’s like he’s saying, ‘I’m so open; I have no deceptions.’”
She went out front and he followed right behind this time, only to have her push some bagged herbs into his arms. She grabbed more herself, and returned to the kitchen, continuing as if she hadn’t detoured. ”He was gross. Smiled constantly, showing off those apple cheeks.” She shuddered.
She shared her fears with Fulton. In the store she’d been unable to find the words to describe the feelings, and worse, unable to find some facts to support them. She could only run to the door to see what car he drove. She’d thought of tailing the guy later in hopes of confirming his sinister deceit. Fulton’s accidental assault had stopped that idea.
Fanny bustled around, preparing for the evening class. She swept past the soup pot, gave the spoon a swirl, and moved over to the worktable, piling up herb reference books and storage bowls for the student chefs. Fulton hovered in the background. He toggled between snooping on her and checking out the front room. Nothing happening there.
Fulton asked Rita Mae what she’d seen as he watched he close out the day’s receipts. and get ready to leave. She said she was at the other end of the shop stocking shelves and didn’t see the man Fanny talked about.
Then not much emanated from the back kitchen, either, unless you counted the delectable smell of the soup.
While Fanny completed her preparation, he glanced at the page in the book on the back counter next to the pot. This time the herbal lore grabbed him by the throat.
“Hemlock, Conium maculatum. Also called poison hemlock, poison parsley, or yuk, muskrat weed. Found in eastern North America. The whole plant contains poison. The root is almost harmless in the spring, but deadly thereafter. The fruits are especially poisonous at flowering time. The leaves can be made into a poisonous salad. The poison is soluble in alcohol, chloroform, ether, and diluted alkalies. It paralyzes the muscles.”
What was she doing? This stuff was criminal.
He glanced up nervously, then continued reading rapidly to himself as she left the room again. “Common on roadsides. A perennial herb with purple spots and small white flowers. When the rootstock is split, drops of yellowish aromatic oil appear, which gives the plant a peculiar odor.”
He hadn’t realized she’d returned and sprinkled more chopped ingredients into the pot. She stared ahead, stirring almost hypnotically, so intense she did
n’t hear him come up behind her. He discreetly sniffed the soup. Was there a peculiar odor?
She jumped when she realized he was there. Did her instant blush confirm his suspicion?
Had the little pixie poisoned the soup?
Fanny grabbed hot pads and carried the soup to a hot plate on the front counter where the students would gather.
“Don’t eat that soup!” Fulton ran to the front area as the first students trickled into the class. Fanny looked mortified. “What are you shouting about?”
“Hemlock can kill,” he said, waving one arm in the air with a book in the other. “Listen to this. First symptoms start in half an hour but could take several hours to die. Pain in the stomach, violent vomiting. . . .” He looked up at her in dismay.
She knew enough not to call him detective in front of the students, thank heavens. Her eyes bore into his with anger and dismay. “Fulton, I was checking on ‘healing with herbs’ and the page must have flipped forward to ‘hemlock.’ Chill!”
The students looked at her, the ingenuous face and perky nose, and knew she had to be telling the truth. Just as he did.
“There’s no hemlock in the soup,” she promised.
The students laughed. Fulton turned pink, and the class began.
Chapter 22
When a writer uses intense pressure with broad, dark strokes and flooded ovals it reflects sadistic tendencies.
“Burrows, stop your whining and just order something.”
“God damn it, Katharine. When you said you wanted to pick my brain over breakfast at the new restaurant in town I got my heart set on some steak and eggs. Maybe some hash browns.”
“That’s not your heart grumbling. If you can’t stand the thought of an eggless omelette, than order a bagel.”
“I eat bagels every day.”
“But this is an avocado, tomato bagel with onions and sprouts.”
“That’s not a bagel, it’s a vegetable patch.”