Poisoned Ground

by Sandra Parshall

  “Did he tell you to come over here and waylay me and talk me into cooperating?”

  Rachel resisted the impulse to throw back an answer in the same harsh tone. This wasn’t the Joanna she knew. This was a woman who felt she was under attack and couldn’t help lashing out. “He didn’t tell me to do anything and he doesn’t know I’m here. I meant what I said. I think you might be able to help the investigation if you sat down with Tom and talked to him.”

  “Until he tells me to my face that I’m not a murder suspect, I’m not saying a word to him about anything.”

  All Rachel could do was let her go, and as she watched Joanna shove the door open and storm out, she felt she was letting go of a friendship she had cherished.

  ***

  Jake Hollinger slumped in a chair in the conference room, his hands laid limp and flat on the tabletop. He had come in willingly at Tom’s request but seemed removed from the situation, his mind elsewhere, his eyes dull and unfocused. His rumpled shirt and pants looked as if he’d slept in them, and he had a two-day growth of white stubble.

  Tom switched on the tape recorder that lay in the middle of the table and gave his and Jake’s names and the date and time. Jake remained indifferent.

  “We haven’t been able to locate any of Mrs. Richardson’s children,” Tom said. “Can you remember anything she said that might help us find them?”

  Jake shook his head, the slow movement of someone too exhausted to put any effort into it. “She didn’t know where they were. All she had were old addresses. They abandoned her years ago. Decades.” Tears welled in his eyes. “I was the only person in the world who gave a damn about her.”

  “How’s her cat doing?”

  “How do you think? He hates being in a strange place. He wants to go home. He wants Tavia.” Jake’s voice choked up on the last words.

  “He’ll settle down after a while. Call Dr. Goddard if you need any help with him.”

  Jake didn’t respond.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that she wrote a new will and made you her sole beneficiary?”

  Jake released a long, weary sigh. “Because I knew as soon as you found out you’d get me in here and throw a lot of questions at me. And here I sit.”

  “I know you didn’t shoot her. I was there, remember?”

  “That won’t stop you. You probably think I hired a hit man or something.”

  Tom let that go unanswered. “Did you change your will too and make her the beneficiary?”

  He took the slight dip of Jake’s head as an affirmative nod.

  “Your sole beneficiary?”

  “Except the lumber mill.”

  “Does the mill go to your son Mark?”

  Another barely perceptible nod.

  “But Tavia would have inherited your land?”

  “What does it matter now? She’s dead. Why are you asking me about this?”

  “How many people knew you changed your will?”

  Jake hesitated for a second before he said, “The lawyer. Tavia. I guess the secretary who typed it. And Mark.”

  “How did Mark feel about it?”

  Jake stirred at last, shifting in his chair, sitting a little straighter. “I didn’t want him to find out. But he heard Tavia and I went to see the lawyer together. You know how it is. You can’t take a piss in this county without fifty people passing around the news.”

  “Was he angry?”

  “Hell, yeah. He hates Tavia. Hated her. He couldn’t stand the thought of her getting anything of mine. He thinks he’s entitled to it all, and I don’t have any right to decide who gets it. No right to spend any of it making life easier for myself in my old age. It’s all for him and his kids after him. I think he’d be happy if I dropped dead and got out of his way.”

  Tom stayed silent a moment, waiting to see if Jake would retract what he’d said. He didn’t. “That’s a strong accusation against your own son.”

  “It’s true.” Jake’s voice had dropped to an angry mutter. “I didn’t know what a selfish little shit he is until that offer from Packard fell in my lap. Then all of a sudden it was gimme gimme gimme.”

  “What did he say about Tavia when he found out you’d rewritten your will in her favor?”

  Before answering, Jake scrubbed his hands over his haggard face and flexed his shoulders. “I caught him at the house, going through my papers. He—”

  “When was this?”

  “Two, three weeks ago, not long after we saw the lawyer. Mark went in the house while I was in town, and I came home and found him pawing through the file cabinet where I keep financial records.”

  “He still has keys to your house?”

  “He did up to then.” Jake rubbed the back of his neck as if trying to loosen the tension there. “I changed the locks after that, he made me so damned mad.”

  “To get back to my question, what did he say about Tavia when he realized you’d changed your will?”

  “Called her a slut, a whore, a schemer, every name you can think of. Said she didn’t have any right to the family assets. Those are the words he used, the family assets, like we were some kind of aristocrats with a big estate that had to be passed down to the son.”

  “It will be a big estate if you sell to Packard.”

  Jake leaned his arms on the table and hunched his shoulders. “If that happens, it’ll be my money. And he won’t get his hands on a damn penny of it.”

  “I don’t know much about the estate laws, but if you die without changing your will again, won’t your son get everything? Now that Tavia Richardson is out of the picture.”

  “That’s probably what Mark’s counting on. But I called the lawyer first thing this morning, and I’ve got an appointment tomorrow. I’ll have a new will done and signed by the end of the day.” Jake paused, his lips twisting in a bitter little smile. “Provided I live that long.”

  “What are you telling me? You think your son might have shot Mrs. Richardson? You think he’ll come after you next?”

  Jake took a long moment to answer, clenching and unclenching his fists. “I’m just saying I’ll be sleeping with a gun next to me tonight.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The mother, holding a tiny black and brown terrier, rolled her eyes as her young son and daughter continued their argument at the front desk over the puppy’s name.

  “It’s not a problem.” Rachel handed Shannon the billing sheet for the dog’s exam and vaccinations. “We can call her ‘Puppy’ on her file for now and change it when you decide on a name.”

  “No!” the girl, a freckled eight-year-old named Annabelle, cried. “She needs a name now. I want to call her Cindy.”

  The little terrier yipped.

  “See?” The boy, ten-year-old Maverick, looked triumphant. “She doesn’t like it either. Her name oughta be Cinder, ’cause she’s mostly black.”

  “Compromise, children,” a familiar voice said.

  Rachel turned. Winter Jones stood behind her, an imperious figure in a long black coat.

  “Call your puppy Deeder,” Winter declared.

  “Huh?” the boy said.

  What was the woman doing here? She didn’t have an appointment, and she didn’t appear to have a cat with her.

  “D-y-d-e-r,” Winter spelled out, in the patient but emphatic tone that marked her as a longtime teacher. “A combination of the endings of Cindy and Cinder, pronounced as Deeder.”

  “I like it,” the mother said, a note of desperation in her voice. “Thanks, Miss Jones. How about it, kids?”

  The brother and sister held a silent consultation, their gazes locked for a long moment. “Okay!” they cried in unison.

  With that, the matter was settled. The family departed and Rachel turned her attention to Winter Jones.

  “Were you waiting to see me? Are the ra
bbits okay?”

  “Oh, yes, yes, they’re thriving.” Winter waved away the question. “I know you’re busy and have patients waiting, but I wanted to make sure…” She paused, glanced around in a furtive manner. “Could we speak somewhere more private?”

  Rachel wasn’t about to take Winter into her office or an exam room. She was afraid she would never get rid of her. “I only have a minute to spare. Why don’t we step over here?”

  Without waiting for a response, Rachel led Winter to the wall of shelves that held pet toys, beds, and other items for sale.

  Her brow creased with concern, Winter spoke in a near-whisper. “I wanted to ask how you’re feeling. Are you all right?”

  Did she know Rachel had been sick after visiting the Joneses the day before? How was that possible? She recalled joking with Tom about the sisters trying to poison her. But that was only a joke. She didn’t believe it. “Why do you ask? Why wouldn’t I be feeling okay?”

  “Well… Oh, dear. This is simply mortifying.”

  Winter did appear embarrassed, an emotional reaction Rachel would never have expected to see from her.

  Rachel waited for her to continue.

  “It appears an ingredient in the pastry we served yesterday was tainted.” Winter met Rachel’s gaze with earnest, apologetic eyes. “My sisters and I all fell ill shortly after you left, and we could only assume that you and Simon suffered the same digestive upset.”

  That made sense to Rachel, except for one thing. “Yes, I felt sick, but Simon was fine. He never showed the slightest sign of having an upset stomach.”

  Relief washed over Winter’s face, and she pressed a hand over her heart. “Oh, that is so good to hear. That sweet child—we would all feel terrible if he had suffered any discomfort as a result of his visit with us. And of course we’re so very sorry that you were taken ill.”

  Why would the pastry make four adults sick and leave a child unaffected? “You think the pastry was tainted? How? With what?”

  “I’m very much afraid that Beulah is to blame.”

  “Beulah?”

  “Oh, of course, you don’t treat livestock, so you don’t know Beulah. She’s our milk cow. And the source of the cream that was in the pastry. Now and then a noxious weed springs up in our pasture, and we don’t realize Beulah has been nibbling on something unhealthy until it turns up in her milk and makes all of us ill.”

  “Ah. I see.” Rachel could believe that. She’d heard stories of people suffering severe allergic reactions and internal inflammation after drinking milk from a field-grazing cow. But still—why didn’t Simon get sick, too? Was Winter telling the truth about all three of the sisters getting sick? If she’d concocted the story, that meant only Rachel was affected, and she had no idea how to explain it. “Well, no real harm done. I’m fine now. Have you found the plant?”

  “Not yet, but we are on the case.” Winter’s tone had turned jaunty. “It will be found and extirpated.”

  “Good. Thank you for letting me know what caused my nausea. I was wondering.” Wondering if she could be pregnant. Now that she knew she probably wasn’t, she felt an undeniable pang of loss and disappointment. “I’m sorry to rush, but I have a client waiting with her pet.”

  As Rachel started to walk away, Winter touched her arm lightly to detain her. “Could I take just another second of your time? My sisters and I were so distraught to hear what happened to Octavia Richardson.”

  Really? Rachel could have sworn they felt only contempt for the woman.

  “We can’t help wondering who’s going to be next,” Winter went on. “And we have no way to defend ourselves. We haven’t had any firearms in the house since our father died. We feel so terribly vulnerable.”

  Of course. Rachel should have known Winter’s distress has less to do with Mrs. Richardson’s death than with the possibility that they were in the crosshairs, too. She couldn’t think harshly of them for that. Anybody in their position would be terrified. “I don’t know what to tell you, except that it’s probably not a good time for all of you to be out searching your pastures.”

  “Searching our pastures?” Winter looked puzzled.

  “For the plant your cow ate.”

  “Oh! Oh, of course. You’ll have to forgive me. I seem to be having more than my share of senior moments these days. You’re right, we will have to be more careful. We won’t breathe easy until this is over. Is Tom any closer to catching the murderer? Does he have any suspects?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know anything I could tell you.” Nothing I’m willing to tell you. “Just be careful.”

  “Yes, dear, we will. Thank you for your concern.” Winter gave Rachel’s arm a light pat. “And I hope you’ll give Joanna McKendrick the same advice.”

  ***

  “Doesn’t look like anybody’s been here,” Tom said as he pulled into Tavia Richardson’s driveway. The yellow crime scene ribbon he and Brandon had stretched across the door, forming a giant X from top corners to bottom, remained in place.

  “At least not through the front door,” Brandon said.

  Tom wanted to collect the guns from Tavia Richardson’s basement before somebody walked away with all of them. The tape in itself wouldn’t keep looters out, but three murders in the area might be enough to scare them off.

  He and Brandon walked around to the back door and found the tape there undisturbed as well. Tom ripped it loose from the top of the door frame and unlocked the door with the dead woman’s key.

  The kitchen looked much the same as it had the day before, when Tom had disturbed Tavia and Jake’s breakfast, but it had the stillness of an abandoned place and felt empty and unused despite the clutter of dirty dishes on the counter by the sink and the green sweater hanging on the back of a chair. The cat’s bed and dishes had gone with the cat to the Hollinger house, but a small catnip mouse toy, made of an unnatural red fabric, lay forgotten in a corner.

  Tom led the way down the basement steps. They had done a cursory search of the first and second floors following Tavia’s death on Sunday, and they hadn’t come down to the basement at all. “Let’s take a good look around. Make sure there’s nothing down here that could help us find her family.”

  “Does it matter anymore?” Brandon asked. “I mean, she didn’t have anything to do with them and didn’t leave them anything.”

  “Don’t you think her children ought to know she’s dead? Regardless of whether they’ve been in touch, she was still their mother.”

  Most of the basement had been used as a recreation room and contained no cabinets or storage boxes that might yield information. Part of the space had been walled off, though, and when Tom opened the door he found it served as furnace room, laundry room, and storage. An old wooden table in the middle held an assortment of tools jumbled together.

  “Grab one and start looking.” Tom gestured at a stack of eight file boxes next to the gas furnace.

  They worked in silence, flipping through old bank statements and tax returns dating back more than thirty years. Only one box held anything promising: a cache of old handwritten letters addressed to Tavia. Tom read a couple with postmarks from Pittsburgh and another Pennsylvania town he’d never heard of. “These sound like they’re from relatives. They’re old, but we might find somebody who still lives at the same address. Take the whole box out to the car, then come back and help me with the guns.”

  Feeling around on top of the metal gun cabinet, Tom found the key Tavia had used the day before. He swung the door open and reached for two of the rifles. Then he realized he wasn’t looking at the same collection of rifles and shotguns Tavia had shown him.

  She’d said one gun was missing. Eleven had been left in the cabinet, and Tom had taken one with her permission. Now only six remained.

  He felt like kicking himself. Since yesterday morning, somebody had walked off with four more guns, and
because he hadn’t checked the cabinet immediately after Tavia’s death, Tom had no idea when the theft occurred.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Rachel took a deep breath, grabbed her medical bag from the passenger seat, and hopped out of her Range Rover onto Joanna’s driveway. Maybe Joanna had forgotten that they’d rescheduled Rachel’s visit to vaccinate the dogs after the Kelly murders sidetracked them on Saturday afternoon. But Rachel had carved time out of her day for this appointment, and nothing short of a door slammed in her face would keep her from doing her job. The dogs needed their vaccines. And Rachel needed to heal the rift in her friendship with Joanna.

  As she walked over to them, the three dogs rose from the spot on the front lawn where they’d lain basking in the mellow sunlight. The Kellys’ dog, Bonnie, wasn’t on a tie-out. She must have settled in enough that Joanna was sure she wouldn’t take off.

  “Hey, guys, how are you doing?” Rachel crouched and set down her bag so she could devote both hands to scratches and pats. The little mongrel, Riley, stood up with her paws on Rachel’s knee and licked her face with excessive enthusiasm. Bonnie still looked a little sad, and when Rachel hugged her she pressed her head into Rachel’s neck. Nan, Joanna’s aging golden retriever, accepted attention with her usual dignity.

  The front door of the house opened and closed again, but Rachel didn’t look around. She braced herself for an angry outburst.

  That didn’t come, but Joanna’s voice sounded harsh when she said, “They don’t know you’re about to stick needles in them.”

  Rachel glanced her way. Joanna stood on the porch with her arms crossed like a sentry ready to deny admission to the house.

  “They know, but they forgive.” Rachel rose and picked up her bag.

  “Well, I guess there’s something to be said for that attitude.” Joanna sounded grudging, but her rigid posture loosened a bit and she unfolded her arms. “You want to do this on the porch or inside?”