18 Deader Homes and Gardens

by Joan Hess

  “I recognize the name,” she said. I waited for her to laud my modest contributions in the field of detection, but she found the file and pulled out a piece of paper. “Terry did say that he spoke to you. I’m supposed to draw up the lease Monday morning. I guess I ought to wait until he regains consciousness before I do anything further. Thank you for coming by, Ms. Malloy. I hope that next time the circumstances will be more pleasant.”

  I wasn’t about to be sent away before I found out what I could. “Ms. Cranberry, I’m sorry to cause you more distress, but Terry may not regain consciousness.”

  “But you just said that healthy people can handle food poisoning…”

  “That’s true. However, his condition may not have been caused by food-borne bacteria. The police haven’t ruled out the possibility that Terry unknowingly ingested another type of poison. I was talking to him this morning, after his appointment with you. I had lemonade; he had lemonade spiked with vodka. Five minutes later, he was writhing on his kitchen floor and I was calling nine-one-one for an ambulance.”

  “I can’t believe it,” she said. “I mean, why would somebody want to hurt Terry? Sure, the Hollows were unhappy about the transfer of the property to his name, but it’s not worth killing somebody. I’m not one hundred percent confident that they won’t prevail with their lawsuit.”

  “What then?”

  She shrugged. “Winston died intestate, so his estate will go to his closest relative, either a Hollow or a Martinson. It’ll be a mess, but I won’t be involved.”

  “Does Terry have a will?”

  “Client-lawyer privilege prevents me from answering that.”

  “But he told you that he wanted to let me lease the property, didn’t he? He asked you to prepare the lease.”

  Ms. Cranberry hesitated. “I suppose it’s okay to tell you this much. We discussed your lease and the terms. He wants to let you and your husband lease it for a hundred dollars a month.”

  “We’ll be happy to pay whatever the rental market dictates.” My mood elevator raced to the top floor of a very high skyscraper, took in the panoramic view, but then plummeted to the basement. Terry was incapable of signing the lease, at least for the time being.

  I promised to keep her informed. When I arrived home, I called Jorgeson, who said that Terry’s condition was unchanged. Before I could ask, he added that the lab had not produced any results. In an amusingly opaque attempt to sidetrack me, he extolled the fragrance and beauty of roses begging to be cut and given a good home. I thanked him and hung up. I stared blankly at a pile of boxes, suddenly numbed with guilt. I’d sparked the mess by refusing to settle for an unremarkable house. Angela had tossed on kindling by contacting Terry, then disappearing, which had forced me to call him. He’d returned to Farberville, to end up in an ICU cubicle.

  I would have gone back to Hollow Valley to talk to Nattie, despite Peter’s pettiness, but I had no idea what to say to her. No one’s opinion about Terry could help him until the appropriate antidote was administered, assuming there was one—and it wasn’t too late. In a much more potent attempt to sidetrack myself, I tried to remember what I could about the vodka bottle that Terry took out of the lower cabinet. It was half full, as though he’d been nipping the previous evening—but, I thought, he’d been drinking wine, and vodka does not go well with le vin du jour. On the other hand (and there was always the other hand), he might have bought it when he arrived and shared it with friends. A less than amicable friend who added something on the sly.

  Now all I needed was a list of the people he’d visited before he drove out to Hollow Valley and called me. That was a poser, in that he hadn’t dropped any names. I went to the balcony and watched the Farber College students ambling across the green lawn. A significant number of them would head straight to their favorite bars to celebrate the advent of the weekend. I knew of one gay bar in Farberville, and it was well within ambling range. I told myself that I was making a ridiculous assumption, unworthy of my more pragmatic side. I told myself that over and over as I went downstairs and headed for Thurber Street.

  The Toucan Lounge was tucked behind the performing arts center in what had been a laundry. I hesitated and then went inside. Blinds had been lowered to combat the afternoon sun, and it did not seem prudent to yank one open. The tables and booths were occupied by earnest young men and women and a few older ones. Most of the stools at the bar were taken. Although heads turned on my entry, no one seemed at all intrigued. I did not take it personally. I found a stool at the bar. The men on either side had their backs toward me; I felt as if I were in a crevice.

  The bartender would most definitely qualify as a hunk in Jordan’s mind. He put down a coaster and said, “What can I get you?”

  It was encouraging to know my presence was tolerable, if not openly welcomed. “A glass of white wine, please.” I gazed at the occupants, wondering which if any might know Terry. My assumption was not only ridiculous, but also inane and offensive. However, my motive was as pure as newly fallen flakes of dandruff, so when the bartender put down the glass of wine, I said, “Do you happen to know a friend of mine, Terry Kennedy?”

  He did not return my smile. “You mean your gay friend, Terry Kennedy? Every liberal in town has to have one.”

  I struggled not to reach across the bar and poke him with a cocktail stirrer. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “You didn’t answer mine.” He sidled down the bar to take an order.

  “Humph,” I said in a low voice as I picked up the glass of what I suspected would not be vintage wine. I swirled it while I waited for inspiration.

  “I know Terry,” said the man on my right. His hair was gray, and he was of a more civilized age than the hunk/punk bartender. His round face and sparkly eyes reminded me of a naughty cherub. “He and Winston helped us with a performance at the college theater last summer. Winston was a fantastic designer. We had twelve scene changes and pulled them off flawlessly. So Terry’s a friend of yours?”

  I ignored a snort from somewhere down the bar. “We met last night for the first time. He came here to negotiate terms for me to buy his house.”

  “In Hollow Valley? Be careful what you wish for. My name’s Bill Bobstay. Please call me Billy. I’m a professor of drama at the college. I met Terry and Winston through mutual friends, and I played in Winston’s string ensemble. We made terrible screeches and never finished at the same time. God, that was fun.”

  Coincidences do happen, I thought smugly. “Were you scheduled to play that weekend … after the accident?”

  “Yes, Winston made us all confirm the date and swear we’d come. The last time we’d met, the cello player backed out because he met someone. No one saw him for a week, the silly old bear. Then there was a time when we were on the terrace, and Hildebrand got so topsy-turvy that he fell in the pool. With his violin, no less. I thought Winston would throw a fit, not because Hildebrand was splashing like a calf, but because in all the excitement, he let the cassoulet burn.”

  “Did you see Terry late yesterday afternoon or this morning?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  My fishing expedition was going no better than Winston’s had, although I hoped the results would not be similar. “He’s in the ICU with what may be food poisoning. The police are trying to track down where he’s been since he arrived in Farberville. If you have any information, Billy, it’ll help determine the source.”

  “This is terrible news,” he said, shaking his head. “Is he allowed visitors?”

  “He’s in a coma, so there’s no point in attempting to breach hospital protocol. I’m Claire Malloy, by the way.” I gave him a moment to react. When he failed to so much as raise an eyebrow, I asked again, “Did you see Terry yesterday or this morning?”

  “I wish I could say that I had.” Billy took my elbow and escorted me to a vacated booth in the back corner of the Toucan. “Please wait here, Claire. I’ll see what I can find out. Trust me when I say that no one will disturb you
.”

  I watched him as he moved from table to table, speaking quietly to the occupants. He then went to the bar, caught the attention of the bartender, and spoke with some urgency. When he returned to the booth, he said, “He was here yesterday around four o’clock and left with Samuel to visit Loretta and Nicole. Would you like me to take you there?”

  I slid out of the booth. “Yes, and thank you. I had a feeling I wasn’t going to get much information here.”

  “Strangers have to submit an application and be vetted before anyone will tell them what time it is.” He led me to a Volkswagen Beetle, circa nineteen sixty-something. What paint remained was light aqua; rust had eaten significant portions of the bumpers. He took a pile of books and papers off the passenger’s seat and tossed them in the backseat. “The shocks died twenty years ago,” he said cheerfully as he shifted into reverse and swung out of the parking space. “I don’t know if Loretta and Nicole are home, but we might as well try. If they’re not, we’ll swing by Samuel’s house. Don’t you own the bookstore on Farber Street?”

  I admitted that I did, and we conversed about books as the car bounced like a Ping-Pong ball. He drove past the football stadium and turned up a steep street to the top of the hill. I’d accepted the demise of the shocks, but I began to wonder about the brakes. Gravity dictates that going up requires coming down. I did not wish to land on the fifty-yard line in an eroded tin can.

  The women’s house was in need of tender loving care. The yard was overgrown, and the roof was littered with small branches. Billy and I went to the porch. He opened the door and called, “Hello? Anybody home? It’s Billy Bobstay and a friend!”

  A brown-haired woman in a long skirt came into the living room. “Billy! How are you, you old horny toad? We haven’t seen you in months! Nicole and I adored the production of The Taming of the Screw. The original is so nauseatingly sexist. When Kate chopped off Petruchio’s prick, we laughed so hard we slid out of our seats!”

  “It was a masterpiece,” Billy replied with a nod. “Loretta, this is a friend of mine, Claire Malloy. Did you see Terry Kennedy yesterday?”

  “He showed up about five with Samuel. When Nicole got home from her office, we sat around and talked about Winston. Terry got really upset. He hasn’t begun to heal, and I’m afraid he may never get over it. We drank iced tea for a while and then had dinner here. He left at eight.”

  My heart thumped. “What did you have?” I asked, hoping they hadn’t ordered a pizza.

  Loretta gave me a puzzled look. “Is it important?”

  “It might be.”

  “Loretta’s a brilliant chef,” Billy said, as if defending her from an imminent onslaught of culinary criticism. “She uses only fresh, organic produce. I absolutely salivate when I think about the chicken liver crostini with pickled eggs.” His eyes welled with tears.

  “It’s important,” I said to Loretta. “Terry had a ghastly attack this morning, which must have been provoked by something he ate or drank.”

  Her lips pursed as if she were sucking on a tiny straw. After a long moment, she said, “I didn’t want to go to the store, so I used whatever I could find. We had salad, rosemary flatbread, and an onion and mushroom quiche. For dessert, we had fruit and cheese. No one else had any ill effects.”

  I zoomed in on the key word. “Mushrooms? Did you pick them yourself?”

  “Billy, is she a lawyer? I’m not admitting to anything that might get me sued. I’m worried sick about Terry, but let me assure you that the mushrooms were safe. Remember the chanterelles in garlic butter? You carried on all night about them.”

  I held up my hand to prevent another gastronomic wet dream. “I swear that I’m not a lawyer and will never be one. I’m trying to identify the cause of Terry’s condition. Did you pick the mushrooms, Loretta?”

  “Yes, but I know which ones are edible, and I always double-check them.” Her stare defied me to cast any doubt on her expertise. “I have several field guides if you’d like to look at them. Mrs. Pompy and I went out yesterday morning and gathered a basket of shaggy manes and chanterelles. She’s at least a hundred years old, and she’s gathered mushrooms since she was a child.”

  “Mrs. Pompy is blind, Loretta,” Billy said. “When I drove up here last week to bring you tomatoes from the farmers’ market, I saw her fumbling at her mailbox. I stopped and helped her pick up her mail. She tripped on her sidewalk and almost fell on her face.”

  Loretta crossed her arms. “She can still identify death caps and morels. Before I started making the quiche, I sorted through all the mushrooms. There were a couple of ink caps, which I discarded.”

  “Is there a remote chance that you missed one?” I asked.

  “Of course not!” she snapped. “Samuel was peering over my shoulder. Why don’t you go badger him?” She stepped back and slammed the door.

  “Well, then,” Billy said as we went back to his car, “shall we try to find Samuel?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I would appreciate it if you make sure he’s not experiencing any symptoms, and give me a call.” While we bounced and careened down the hill, I scribbled my telephone number on the back of a receipt. I asked him to drop me off at the Book Depot. Once the car shuddered to a stop, I gave him the scrap of paper and thanked him for his assistance.

  “Anything for poor Terry,” he said, clutching my hand. “Feel free to call me if I can do anything else. I’ll spread the word about him and find out if anyone else saw him yesterday or this morning.”

  I went into the bookstore and swept past the clerk, who scarcely looked up from whatever he was doing on the computer. Loretta had field guides, but so did I. I took several to my office and made myself comfortable. After a lengthy foray into the world of mycology, I stumbled across a suspect. Coprinopsis atramentaria contained coprine, logically enough, which was usually nonfatal. However, consuming alcohol even twelve hours after eating them could cause vicious reactions.

  I pushed aside the field guide and called Jorgeson. “I think I may have found out what’s wrong with Terry,” I said, trying not to sound insufferably smug. “Last night he ate a mushroom quiche. The mushrooms were picked by this woman who—”

  “Terry died an hour ago.”

  7

  My eyes filled with tears as Jorgeson’s words pounded in my head. I slumped back, overwhelmed by the tragedy of Terry’s death, my culpability, and fierce anger. I removed myself from the battle waging inside my head and allowed my emotions to roil like a turbulent river. Once I could trust myself, I arose and went to the bathroom for a handful of tissues. Feeling steadier (and less soggy), I considered the entire scenario. Although I’d jumped on the possibility that ink caps were responsible for Terry’s fatal attack, I knew that I was wrong. He’d been drinking the previous evening and had experienced no ill effects. Whoever had murdered him was accountable to me, too. All my idyllic fantasies would never become reality.

  I do not accept defeat graciously.

  Billy Bobstay might come across someone with a serious grudge against Terry, but it was unlikely. It would require a convoluted series of events. Terry had accepted the half-empty bottle of vodka from a so-called friend; neither of them drank it. Of course, he knew that he’d left behind a well-stocked bar and wine selection, minus whatever had caught Moses’s fancy. The vodka brand was commonplace.

  It was time to go back to Hollow Valley and determine who was behind the scheme to retain control of it. I hadn’t precisely promised Peter that I wouldn’t, and I was not about to let a mere man, albeit one to whom I was married, deter my determination to expose the perpetrator.

  I heard two pairs of footsteps on the stairs. There was no sound for a minute, and then one pair went back down the stairs. The other pair continued into the living room.

  “I am so sunburned,” Caron said as she gingerly lay down on the sofa. Her nose was cerise, her cheeks pink. There were pale circles where her sunglasses had protected her, giving her the eerie appearance of an inverted r
accoon. “I am going to require constant nursing if I am to survive, Mother. Cold compresses, aloe cream, herbal tea, whatever. I am In Pain.”

  “Sorry, dear,” I said, “but I’m on my way out. Why don’t you take a long, cool bath, then apply the aloe cream? I’ll be back in an hour.”

  “You don’t even care that I’m Pulsating With Pain. I’m feverish, you know. I could have second degree burns—or third, or even fourth degree, for that matter. When you get home, I’ll be a charred corpse.” She whimpered pathetically until she realized I had picked up my purse. “At least call Inez so that she can come over to administer last rights.”

  “You’re not Catholic, and your cell phone’s six inches from your hand.”

  I drove to Hollow Valley, taking my time as I did my best to formulate some sort of plan of attack. It made sense, I decided, to start with the Hollows I had not yet met: Charles, Felicia, and Margaret Louise. Charles had spoken earlier, although not necessarily to me. Felicia had been mute. As I turned onto the road, I decided to warm up with Margaret Louise before I tackled the pricklier ones. I parked at the top of the path and walked down to the mill. The wheel behind it looked like a Ferris wheel with bench seats; the first half of the ride would offer a panorama of the valley, but the second half would be watery. I knocked on the door. An elderly woman opened the door and said, “I know who you are, so don’t try to pretend you’re selling Girl Scout cookies.”

  Margaret Louise was not a sweet, white-haired granny in an apron, with a smudge of flour on the cheek. Her choppy hair was black, and she was wearing shorts and a T-shirt emblazoned with Mick Jagger’s leering lips. A cigarette drooped from her lips. The only age-appropriate thing about her was her wrinkled complexion.

  I wanted to dash back to my car, but I held my ground. “I’m Claire Malloy,” I said. “I’d like to talk to you, if it’s convenient.”

  “Yeah, okay.” She turned around and walked away. After a moment, I followed her through the living room to a small deck. She sat down in one aluminum chair and flipped her hand at another one. “You’ve made a mess of things,” she commented as if speaking of the weather.