Dipped to Death

by Kelly Lane

  “When used properly, belladonna can be an extremely useful medicinal plant for humankind, delivered to the human body in many ways. However, like its name ‘deadly nightshade,’ all parts of the plant are extremely toxic—leaves, roots, berries—to the point of being quite deadly. It must be used with extreme care. The roots are most poisonous; however, the pretty berries with their intensely sweet, inky juice are particularly problematic. They’ve killed many people accidentally, even unaware children. Just two berries can kill a child.”

  “And an adult?”

  “Oh, ten or twelve would do it, I suppose. Thinking about it, I’d guess that those pretty yet deadly berries are one reason we don’t often see the plant marketed to ornamental gardeners. Plus, like I said, it’s not a terribly easy plant to grow. Of course, it’s less common to accidentally poison a person with the leaves, which have a bitter taste even when dried. It would only take one leaf to poison a person to death.”

  “Can you be more specific? About the poison, I mean. What happens?”

  “Let’s see . . . the alkaloids are anticholinergic, which means they block certain nerve impulses involved in the parasympathetic nervous system that regulate certain involuntary bodily functions or reflexes.”

  “Such as?”

  “I’m sure you’ve heard of atropine being used to dilate pupils. Also, belladonna can impact heart rate, secretion of glands and organs, the lungs, and the digestive tract. The plant relaxes smooth muscles of the internal organs and inhibits or dries up secretions. Still, we often see it used as a homeopathic remedy to treat symptoms like fever, nausea, delirium, spasms, flushed skin, and dilated pupils . . . basically, all the things that a belladonna poisoning might trigger.”

  “All those things?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “And if someone were to take a deadly dose of belladonna, what would happen?”

  “Well, the toxic alkaloids would target the nervous system, causing the person’s heart rate to increase while inhibiting skeletal muscle movement. Symptoms might include dilated pupils, sensitivity to light, increased heart rate, headache, hallucinations, and delirium.”

  I remembered how Claudia had said she’d heard Dex in the yard outside Friday night, calling me like a crazy, deranged person. And when I’d found him, he’d had no clothes on in the pond.

  Had he been crazy with delirium from the poison?

  “Delirium? Like a crazy person?”

  “Yes. And these symptoms could last just for hours or for several days.”

  “And then?”

  “Coma and convulsions, followed by death.”

  “Sounds grisly.”

  Joy nodded. “Yes, I suppose so. Still, if one wanted to do away with someone, belladonna would be an exemplary way to do it. It’s been used as a poison since ancient times. For example, the Roman emperor Augustus was rumored to have been killed by his wife with the poison.”

  “Really?”

  Joy smiled. “And, of course, author Agatha Christie used the poison to kill her victims quite a few times in her mystery books.”

  CHAPTER 42

  Despite all the doom and gloom around us, Pep and I giggled all the way home that afternoon.

  “Well, I’m glad I thought to bring my truck,” Pep said. She let out a little piglet snort. “I bet Debi’s still up in that tree, hollerin’ for folks to get her down.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Debi’s probably pretty capable of slithering down a tree. She’s like a snake—isn’t that what she said?”

  “She’s definitely a snake, that one!” Pep guffawed. “Although I didn’t notice anyone rushing over to help her before we left.”

  She grinned.

  “Still, it was genius of you, Pep, to take the ladder while she was still standing on the tree limb.”

  “Well, it is Daddy’s ladder! I nearly forgot that he’d leant it to Bubbles Bolender for the garden club event today. And when I remembered to grab it, I guess”—she rolled her eyes dramatically—“I didn’t notice that Debi was still in the tree.” She sighed. “Oh well. Too bad.”

  Pep turned and looked over her shoulder at the sixteen-foot ladder stowed behind us in the bed of her GMC pickup. A red bandana flapped off the end of the ladder hanging beyond the back of the truck.

  We high-fived each other before breaking out into peals of laughter.

  A few minutes later, after Pep dropped me off at home, I found Daphne on her knees under a big, floppy straw hat, cutting roses in the garden behind the big house.

  “Oh, there y’all are, Eva, dear. Did you and Pepper-Leigh enjoy the afternoon? I know everyone in the garden club appreciates y’all joining us in the village today to help.”

  Not quite everyone, I thought, with a giggle. I was still embracing my image of Debi, stranded up in the tree, with no ladder to get down. As far as Pep and I knew, Daddy’s ladder had been the only one at the cleanup that day.

  Daphne stood up to give me an air-kiss on each cheek.

  “Actually, Daph, despite my reservations,” I said, “I have to admit that I thoroughly enjoyed the day. It was both informative and surprisingly entertaining.”

  “Well, that’s wonderful, dear. Actually, you look . . . rejuvenated. It’s lovely to see a smile on your face again. Now, if we could just find you some nice clothes . . .”

  “Daphne, Joy Birdsong said she thought that you might have a belladonna plant around here somewhere. Do you know?”

  “Belladonna? You mean nightshade? Let me think . . . I’m not sure. If there is one, it might be out behind your cottage, Eva. That’s where most of the herbs and shade-loving plants are. Do y’all know what it looks like?”

  “Kinda nondescript, five feet tall, with little bell-shaped flowers that turn into big purple berries—”

  “Wait!” Daphne cried. She stood up and began heading down the walk, toward the lawn. “I think I know just the plant you’re describing. Come with me.”

  A few minutes later, Daphne and I stood in the garden behind my cottage where most of the flowering plants soaked up the bright sunshine. Then Daphne pointed to the far side of the garden, over in the corner against the cottage, where there was a cluster of big, flowering crepe myrtles.

  “There!”

  In the shade of the tall crepe myrtles, there were low-growing shrubs and green-leaved perennial plants and herbs.

  Dang.

  No doubt about it, dead center in a cluster of shaded perennials under the biggest red-flowering crepe myrtle tree was a leafy plant that matched Joy’s description to a T, deadly black berries and all.

  CHAPTER 43

  I groaned.

  Finding the belladonna behind my cottage meant that I had motive, means, and opportunity to kill Dex. And since I was able to put together all those pieces, I knew that it wouldn’t be long before Detective Gibbit would put it all together as well. If he hadn’t already. It was only a matter of time before he’d return for me.

  “Probably with a warrant for my arrest,” I said to Dolly.

  She yipped and wagged her tail as I threw her my last pizza crust.

  I need to figure this out . . . and fast.

  It was about an hour or so after I’d been in the garden behind my cottage with Daphne, looking at the belladonna plant. Sitting at my dining table inside the cottage, I popped into my mouth the last bite of a quickie dinner Precious had made for me—strawberry pizza, made with strawberries, fresh greens, and our olive oil and drizzled with balsamic vinegar; it’d been positively delicious. And Precious had bragged about how easy it’d been to make.

  “I need to make strawberry pizza my regular Sunday evening meal,” I said to Dolly. “That is, if I’m not eating prison food off a tin plate.”

  Dolly barked and spun in a circle.

  “Dolly, Precious said the guests requested an early dinner. They
must be in the dining room by now, don’t you think?”

  Dolly wagged her tail.

  I got up and headed toward the cottage door. Then I stopped short. My smartphone was sitting on the antique trunk, at the foot of my bed.

  Aside from the fact that I rarely used my phone, when I did use it, I never put it there . . . on the trunk. I always kept it stored in the top drawer of the Sheridan dresser, next to the cottage door. Of course, the phone was usually dead. I could never remember to keep the thing charged.

  I picked up the phone.

  Full charge.

  “Huh.”

  When had I last used it? I couldn’t remember. Still, it surely hadn’t been charged up all the way . . . had it? My mind was on more important things . . . I couldn’t remember.

  I shrugged.

  I shoved the phone in my jeans pocket and headed outside and across the lawn to the big house.

  CHAPTER 44

  I’d been right. According to Precious, the Boston crowd had just sat down to a fancy dinner in the big-house dining room. I grabbed the master key from the back pantry and hightailed it up the back stairs to the second floor.

  “I don’t know what kind of business you’re up to, Sunshine,” Precious whispered loudly from the bottom of the staircase, “but whatever it is, you’d better be lickety-split. I ain’t never seen a bunch of folks eat as fast as these folks from Boston. They positively inhale their food!”

  I turned to look down at Precious at the bottom of the stairs.

  “That’s because your meals are so delicious, Precious!” I blew her a kiss before heading down the second-floor hallway toward the guest rooms.

  Okay. I only have a few minutes . . . Which room?

  I decided to check out Wiggy’s room first, because, clearly, he’d been acting as the group ringleader. I slipped the key into the door and stepped inside.

  The room was decorated in elegant country style, with floral-patterned chintz curtains covering the bay window. The pretty bedroom was filled with antiques, including a king-sized four-poster bed, my grandparents’ antique side table and drop-down desk, along with some upholstered chairs. Over on an upholstered bench at the foot of the bed, Wiggy’s hard-sided black suitcase was left open. Quickly, I shuffled through the contents of his suitcase . . . extra socks and underwear, mostly. And some other random stuff. I checked the pockets . . . nothing other than pipe tobacco. Then, I went over to the closet, quickly yanking the doors open. Again, it was filled with Wiggy’s clothing. A tweed jacket—what was he thinking? It’s much too hot down here for tweed!—a lightweight seersucker jacket—much better—some oxford cloth shirts, a few polo shirts, and several pairs of khaki slacks. And, the stupid safari-wear.

  I stifled a laugh. The safari shirt and shorts were from L.L.Bean!

  Except for the extra pillows and linens, laundry bag, and shoe-cleaning stuff on the top shelf, there wasn’t much else. I closed the closet door and scrambled across the room to the drop-down desk where, quickly, I yanked open all the drawers, rifling through the contents. Again, nothing except what we normally left for our guests . . . pens, pencils, notepad, phone directory, a promo card about our olive oils . . . that sort of stuff.

  There’s got to be something somewhere!

  That’s when I spied a briefcase, nestled on the upholstered bench, underneath Wiggy’s big suitcase. I yanked the briefcase out from under the suitcase, careful to notice exactly how it had been positioned and which side was up. It wasn’t locked. I opened the case and pulled out papers. There weren’t many, perhaps ten or twelve sheets or so. Mostly, the bag held Wiggy’s pipes and bags of tobacco. Plus his laptop and charging cords were there. I thought about opening the laptop; however, I didn’t feel confident enough that I could get in and out of it without my nosing around being discovered later. I mean, it’s not like I was a private detective or anything.

  I took my smartphone from my pocket and, working as quickly as I could, snapped a photo of every page from the briefcase. Most looked like official Perennial Paper forms and documents. Then I put it all back inside the case and slid the case back under the big suitcase. After one quick look around, I hustled to the door, opened it, and peeked up and down the hall, before stepping out and closing the door quietly behind me.

  One down.

  I figured that I had time to check at least one more room. Maybe two. I moved down the hall to the next room. Again, I inserted the master key into the door and slipped inside the room.

  It was Dex’s room, done up in pretty Laura Ashley–style florals, wide pink and white stripes, and lots of antique furnishings. In fact, the room was my favorite, having been my own room as a girl. Of course, Daphne’s renovation had made the place an absolute palace compared to what it’d been when I’d grown up there. And the little sewing room off the hall had been converted into a pretty pink and white bathroom with bronzed fixtures and a marble-topped sink, transforming the bedroom into an elegant suite.

  Fit for a princess.

  As far as I could tell, Dex’s personal things had been left pretty much as they’d been when he’d been alive. If the detective and his crew had removed or moved stuff, I’d never have known it.

  A brown Louis Vuitton duffel bag sat open on a luggage rack near the window. Quickly, I rummaged through it. Mostly underwear, socks, and phone and computer cables. And a book titled Purchasing Your Own Private Island for Status, Privacy, and Wealth Management.

  An unusual choice for a man who was cleaned out by his ex-wife.

  Most of Dex’s clothes hung in the closet, along with a Louis Vuitton hanging bag.

  On the marble counter in the thick-striped pink and white wallpapered bathroom, there was a leather dopp kit, containing all the usual items: razor, shaving cream, nail clippers, deodorant, cologne, hair product, hair comb . . .

  Back in the bedroom, in a corner next to a tall Chippendale desk, I spied a shopping bag that read GIFTS GALORE on the outside. Inside there was a tube of sunscreen, a couple of maps, a brass paperweight shaped like a peanut, some local honey, some pens with ABUNDANCE, GEORGIA printed on them, and an extra-large tee shirt that read OLIVES on the first line, GROWN IN on the second line, ABUNDANCE on the third line, and GEORGIA USA on the fourth line.

  I had to laugh. I’d designed the tee shirt myself, and had several hundred printed up at Tommy Burnside’s Hot Pressed Tees downtown. Gifts Galore owner Soletta Overstreet had agreed to take a bunch of the shirts on consignment to sell.

  “This is the shopping bag Pottie Moss forgot,” I whispered to myself.

  She’d been right. The bag was mostly touristy stuff.

  I made one more pass around the room before I found Dex’s briefcase, behind the drapes. It was unlocked and I opened it. Only to find it empty.

  “That’s odd,” I said aloud. “Surely, he hadn’t come to Abundance with an empty briefcase.”

  Did Detective Gibbit empty it? Someone else?

  Worried about my time, I went to the door and pulled it open a crack and listened. I could hear the Bostoners downstairs, still talking in the dining room. I shot out into the hall, quietly closing the door behind me, and I moved on to the next room.

  We called Claudia’s room “the yellow room” for obvious reasons: The walls and furnishings were covered in cheery yellow-patterned papers and fabrics with bright white, lacy accents. The antique furniture was dark mahogany, and the star of the room was a queen-sized canopy bed. This time around, when I stepped into the room, I knew exactly where to go. Sitting on the tall, open-front Chippendale desk in the corner, Claudia had left a gray metal file box.

  That’s it.

  I raced over to open the box. Only the lid was closed and the box was locked shut.

  Of course.

  I tried fiddling with the lock for a minute before giving up. Then I looked in the desk cubbies and pulled open all the desk d
rawers, hoping to find something to help me open the lock. I grabbed an antique letter opener. It’d been my granddaddy’s. Except it was way too big to do me any good with the tiny lock on the box.

  How do they pick locks on TV? Paper clip, I thought. But does it really work?

  Again, I scrambled around the desk, hoping to find a paper clip.

  Not that I’d know what to do with it, even if I found one.

  It didn’t matter. There were no paper clips to be found.

  I considered breaking the box open.

  Stop, Eva. Think! If you were Claudia and had this key, and it wasn’t with you—which, of course, is a distinct possibility—where would you hide it?

  I looked around the room, considering everything I saw. Then it hit me.

  Makeup bag.

  I scurried into the cheery yellow and white bathroom. Behind a large ottoman with a fluffy sherpa top, the late-day sun filtered through lace curtains that were flanked with floral-patterned floor-to-ceiling drapes. The big ottoman was dual-purpose . . . it was both a seat and a storage container for extra towels and linens. Over at the sink, as expected, Claudia had left her makeup bag sitting on the marble countertop.

  Inside her purselike red leather bag, there were several clear pouches chock-full of stuff—body cream, face cream, travel-sized shampoo and conditioner, deodorant, mascara, blush, eyeliner, a compact with eye shadow, nail polish, nail polish remover wipes . . . I kept looking through the pouches . . . aspirin, ibuprofen, acetaminophen—won’t just one of these do?—allergy pills, blood pressure pills, insomnia pills, nail clippers, nail file, breath mints, tooth floss, brush, comb . . . it was endless.

  Still. No key.

  Then I noticed a zippered compartment on the outside of the bag.

  “That’s where I’d put it.”

  And sure enough, that’s where it was.

  I grabbed the little key and scurried back to the file box in the other room. I stuck the key in the lock and unlocked the box. There were ten or more files, stuffed with papers.