Destined for Trouble (A Jules Cannon Mystery Book 1)

by Claudia Lefeve

  “I don’t care for curry myself. Leaves such a distinctive odor, it takes days to get rid of.” Leave it to Mom to find some way to contribute to the conversation despite her aversion to the topic being discussed.

  I made a mental note to look up the case after he left. “And the medical examiner got aconite poisoning from remembering that particular case?”

  “Seems he has an affinity for studying up on odd murders involving poisons. At any rate, the symptoms were similar, so he had a pretty good idea of what to test for.”

  “Smart guy,” I said.

  Justin shrugged. “That’s why he’s in charge of the forensic center.”

  Hours after I’d reluctantly let Justin into the house, I was showing him out for the night. As annoyed as I was at having him over for dinner, it actually turned out to be not so bad. Aside from freaking out my mom with talk of murder and mayhem, it was fun having company over for a change. And, as an added bonus, he’d told me about the aconite poisoning. He didn’t have to, but he did. I wondered why he suddenly did a one eighty.

  “Why’d you tell me about the poison?” I asked as we said our good-byes. “I thought you didn’t want me to get involved.”

  “I still don’t, but since you insist on meddling, I thought maybe I could use it to my advantage.”

  I knew there had to be a catch. Any other person might be fooled, but not me. “I’m listening.”

  “You do research for the bureau, right?” Justin didn’t wait for an answer. He knew exactly what I did as a crime analyst. Doing research and gathering intelligence made up a good portion of my job description. “Well, I need you to see if you can track down who might have recently come into the possession of aconite.”

  Before I could say anything in response, he added, “And by ‘track down,’ I mean on your computer. I don’t need you running around asking folks in town or breaking and entering people’s homes.”

  Right, as if I would break into someone’s home. But he did make a good point. I could easily use my connections and resources to get the type of information that could take days, if not weeks, for a small police department from Trouble to acquire.

  “You really want my help?”

  Justin offered me a smug smile. “If it means satisfying your need to help Abby Lee and keeping you out of trouble, then, yes, I’d like your help.”

  He must have really felt bad for ruining my date with Hartley to come over and give me this information. I accepted the olive branch, but on my terms. If Justin thought he could keep me occupied with sitting in front of my laptop, he was seriously mistaken. I would definitely take him up on his offer, but that still wasn’t going to stop me from snooping around. “Deal.”

  After I saw Justin out, I dodged questions from Mom about Justin and immediately ran up to my room. I flipped open my laptop to see what I could find on aconite poisoning. First, I did a preliminary search on aconite. While I had an idea of what kind of poison it was, I didn’t know the specifics. Justin said it was a fast-acting toxin. But how did it work? Did it need to be ingested, or was contact through the skin sufficient for a lethal dose? Knowing this would tell me a lot about the person who acquired it and how it was administered. If I could find the answers to that, it might point me in the right direction and narrow down my scope.

  Within seconds, I had everything I needed to know about the poison. Aconite, or wolfsbane, was highly toxic, with symptoms typically occurring within an hour, and death within several hours. The poison could be either ingested or absorbed through the skin.

  Next, I had to find out where it was available. If the plant could be grown locally, it would broaden my suspect list. But if it only grew in remote locations, that could narrow it down. A few more quick keystrokes on Google, and I had my answer. Aconite could be used in planters as a filler, but with warnings to use extreme caution. It was grown in India, as well as various parts throughout the northern United States. But not in the South, I noted—especially not in the Gulf Coast region.

  This told me two things: one, the killer had to purchase the plant, and two, it was premeditated, very much like the case Justin told me about earlier. I didn’t think the killer had to go all the way to India to procure the plant, since it was widely available in most areas in North America.

  I had to look for someone who either recently made a trip up north or ordered it.

  Also, because the poison was fast acting, whoever poisoned Harvey did it the night of my welcome-home party.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Now that I knew what to look for, I had to enlist Aunt Lula’s help once again, against my better judgment, in order for my plan to work.

  “I need to gain entry into Sheila’s house,” I said the second I set foot in Palmetto Pink. It was my day off, but I knew she was working that day.

  Aunt Lula stopped what she was doing and looked at me like I was a crazy person. “Good Lord, child. Why would we want to go visit Sheila Boyette?”

  “Well, I don’t really want to visit her, per se. I just need access into her home. Think you can get me in?”

  My aunt lowered her eyes down at me. “You want to do some snooping. Do I have that right?”

  “Yup.” I smiled, not the least bit apologetic. “Is there a problem with that?”

  She mirrored my wicked grin. “Not at all. The gals and I have always wanted to know the exact shade Sheila uses to dye her hair. Personally, I think it’s a cross between banana parfait and banana pudding, but I could be wrong,” she said. “Now, I don’t think I can get us in without her being there, but I might have an idea.”

  “Us?” Did I inadvertently invite her along? “No way, Aunt Lula. I can’t let you get involved. I’m willing to risk getting caught, but I can’t let you get in trouble, too.”

  “Nonsense! Besides, I have an idea, and it won’t even involve us getting arrested for breaking and entering.”

  I eyed her suspiciously. Even some of her better ideas had a way of backfiring. Like the time I was ten years old and she had the brilliant idea that she could teach me how to shoot skeet and operate a boat at the same time. She ended up accidentally shooting a hole in the boat, and Daddy had to come rescue us. Aunt Lula had me promise not to tell Daddy or Uncle Jep she’d been drinking while operating heavy machinery.

  “What did you have in mind?” I asked.

  “We’re going to bring her a casserole.”

  “I don’t see how—”

  “Her husband just died. She probably hasn’t gotten around to doing any cooking or baking. Not that she was much of a homemaker.” She said the last part under her breath.

  “Ah, the old Trojan horse trick.”

  “Exactly.”

  We plotted, planned, and cooked all afternoon. It was decided that the best way to approach Sheila was by using the element of surprise. There was a lesser chance of her turning us away if we went over unannounced instead of calling in advance—it was easy to come up with an excuse over the phone.

  Nervous, I rang the doorbell to Sheila’s small beach bungalow. Even though I desperately wanted to have a look around, I almost prayed she wasn’t home. I didn’t think I was cut out for detective work.

  An annoyed Sheila finally came to the door after the third ring. “What’s this?” she asked, eying the condolence casserole in Aunt Lula’s outstretched hands.

  “It’s a King Ranch casserole,” Aunt Lula gushed. “My niece and I figured you needed a good, homemade dinner after everything you’ve been through the last two weeks.”

  “A what?” Hailing from Florida, Sheila probably hadn’t sampled all the regional culinary cuisine Texas was known for. This particular casserole was, in a nutshell, an unsightly, hot mess consisting of chilies, cheese, and chicken, with a can of Ro-Tel thrown in for good measure—oh, and the requisite cream of chicken and mushroom soup.

  A sigh escaped Aunt
Lula’s lips. She didn’t like repeating herself. “A King Ranch casserole, dear. It’s a Texas staple,” she explained, horrified that Sheila had never heard of the dish.

  Sheila was so preoccupied, staring at the foil-covered Pyrex dish my aunt held, she didn’t recognize me from the incident with Abby Lee back at The Poop Deck. I was sure if she had, she would have thrown us off the premises.

  She held her arms out to accept the offering. “Thanks. I’ll just put it in the freezer with the others.” Guess we weren’t the first ones to bring over a dish.

  “Oh, goodness me! I totally forgot to write down the instructions,” Aunt Lula said, handing her the casserole. “If you’re going to freeze it, you’re going to need to know how to reheat it.”

  “What instructions? Isn’t it already baked?” Sheila asked.

  “Yes, but you have to set the temps correctly. Bake it too low and you got yourself an icy center, bake it too high and it’ll just turn into a big glob of hot goo. If you’ve never had this casserole before, I insist on showing you the proper way to reheat it.”

  “That’s OK, I think—”

  “Nonsense! Now, this will only take a minute or two to jot it all down for you, right, Jules?”

  Aunt Lula poked me in the ribs. I’d been peeking over Sheila’s shoulder to get a better look at the inside of the house. “Oh, right. It won’t take long at all.”

  Sheila totally didn’t want to invite us in, but she was stuck. No one refused Aunt Lula. “Uh, yeah, sure. Do you two want to come in?”

  Satisfied, Aunt Lula marched straight into the kitchen to show Sheila how to reheat the casserole. Personally, I didn’t think my aunt knew what she was doing, but it got Sheila’s attention away from me.

  I loitered in the living room, while the two of them remained in the kitchen. I could hear Aunt Lula reciting bogus heating instructions. I took a quick inventory of the room. Nothing much had changed since we were here the day of the funeral. Though it looked like Sheila hadn’t done any housekeeping since then.

  There was no way I was going to get access to any other part of the house without getting busted, so I called out to the kitchen. “Sheila, do you mind if I use your restroom?”

  Ideally, I was going to need more than a few minutes to toss Sheila’s house for anything incriminating. But that meant breaking into her home, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready to add breaking and entering to my repertoire, so I had to work with what I had.

  Sheila popped her head into the hallway that separated the kitchen from the living room and narrowed her eyes at me. If she didn’t want us in her home in the first place, she certainly didn’t want me in the bathroom. “I guess,” she finally said. “It’s the last door on your left.”

  I passed the hallway guest bathroom and went directly toward the master bedroom. If she was hiding something—like poison, for example—it wouldn’t be in the guest bathroom. Hopefully Aunt Lula would stall long enough for me to have time to check her medicine cabinet.

  First impressions? The woman was a slob. It seemed her lack of housekeeping in the living room extended to her bedroom—and the bathroom. She must have had three months’ worth of mildew buildup in her tub, and her toilet wasn’t much better. Gross. It was a good thing I didn’t really have to go to the bathroom.

  The mildew Chia Pet growing out of her tub was the least of my concerns. I headed straight for the medicine cabinet. Since her place was as close as you could get to a pigsty, I doubted she’d notice if I left something out of place.

  I quickly realized this mission was a bust. There was nothing in here to implicate Sheila of any wrongdoing. A half-empty tube of toothpaste and a roll of Tums were all she had lying around. She didn’t even have a bottle of Tylenol. This wasn’t going to be as easy as I thought.

  Knowing my time had run out, I scurried out of the bedroom and into the hallway.

  And bumped right into Sheila.

  “Find what you were looking for?” she asked.

  “Uh, yeah,” I said. “Thanks for letting me use the toilet.”

  Aunt Lula grabbed me by the arm before Sheila demanded to know what I was doing in her bedroom. “There you are. I was getting worried,” Aunt Lula said. She turned to Sheila. “My niece has irritable bowel. Sometimes she can’t control herself.”

  Ew! “I—”

  Even that stopped Sheila from demanding an explanation. “I think you two better be on your way.”

  “Yes, of course.” Aunt Lula pulled me toward the front door. “Now, don’t forget,” she called out to Sheila. “Thirty minutes at three fifty.”

  Aunt Lula couldn’t even wait until we crossed Sheila’s front yard. “Did you find anything?”

  “Sh . . . she’ll hear you,” I said, looking over my shoulder to make sure Sheila didn’t have a window open or something. I knew it was a bad idea to get Aunt Lula involved. On the bright side, at least no one got hurt—or arrested for trespassing.

  “Well?”

  “Not a thing. It was weird. You’d think someone who’s been living in the same house for several years would have more than just toothpaste in her medicine cabinet.”

  “Maybe she’s a naturalist,” my aunt offered.

  “A what?”

  “You know, those folks who don’t rely on modern medicine.”

  “Oh, you mean holistic.”

  “Yeah, one of those.”

  “Nah. She doesn’t seem the type.” Sheila was artificial from head to toe—fake hair, fake nails, and fake tan. Which made it all the more confusing. Why would a woman like Sheila—who obviously favored the fake look—not even have a bottle of nail polish?

  “Did you by any chance get a peek at what color hair dye she uses?” Aunt Lula asked.

  “Nope. It’s like the woman was only visiting.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I stopped by to check on Abby Lee before my shift at Palmetto Pink. The temperature had already reached record-breaking highs. It was like an open sauna outside. Even if you managed to run to the nearest building with central air, the steam from the outside would eventually penetrate through the cracks.

  Abby Lee had been prepping all morning for the lunch crowd. She was pleased to have the company before she got too busy dealing with customers.

  “God, it’s like that song,” I said, fanning myself with one of the menus. The oppressive heat had put a damper on my mood. All I could think about was spending an hour in her walk-in freezer.

  “Jules,” Abby Lee said, snapping her fingers. “You’re not making any sense. What song?”

  “You know the one . . .” I proceeded to sing off-key, mixing up the words as I sang. “I think it was Tanya Tucker who sang it—where she hopes to go to Texas if she doesn’t get into Heaven. Only she had it all wrong.”

  “I think the humidity is seeping into your brain. Had what wrong?”

  “Texas—being like Heaven. She had it wrong in the song. It’s more like hell. Lord knows it’s just as hot here as it is down there.”

  She laughed. “Nothing we can do about it, unless you want to go for a swim after we get off work,” Abby Lee said.

  That reminded me of how we used to spend our summers here on the island. Every weekend, Abby Lee and I would go down to the beach and catch some rays. Sometimes Justin and his friends would join us for some beach volleyball or football, often extending our time well into the evening, complete with a bonfire on the beach. I missed that.

  And now, I’d been home for two weeks, and I still hadn’t found the time to go swimming or get a decent tan. The only reason my legs had gotten any sun at all was due to walking to and from Palmetto Pink for work.

  “Can’t I just spend five minutes in your walk-in?”

  She giggled. “No. What if I forgot you back there? I’d be accused of two murders.”

  “Good point.” I shuddered.
It made me think of being locked in the stockroom at Palmetto Pink. I certainly didn’t want to relive that. But I was glad Abby Lee still had her sense of humor.

  Since none of the other staff members had arrived yet, I filled her in on what happened at Sheila’s house the night before.

  Abby Lee doubled over, laughing at my expense. “Irritable bowel? Did Lula really say that? Classic! Where does she come up with that stuff?”

  “Wasn’t that funny,” I mumbled under my breath.

  She wiped the tears from her eyes. “Seriously, Jules,” she said, placing her hand over mine. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you and Lula going out on a limb to help me.”

  “You’re my best friend,” I said. “I know I haven’t been around the last few years and we haven’t really spoken in ages, but—”

  “Stop. I know how much you hate talking about your feelings,” she said. “You’re my best friend, too.”

  Aside from my heart-to-heart with Abby Lee that morning, it was definitely not a good day for me to be working at Palmetto Pink. It was an unusually busy day at the store, and we were short staffed.

  This pretty much summed up my day at the store:

  “What you need is a padded bra if you want to fill out the bust of that dress,” I told one customer who was so flat chested nothing in the store fit.

  “Have you considered using duct tape to bind your boobs down?” I asked another customer whose chest was too big to fit into anything we carried.

  And the lady who inquired about the Lycra-spandex blend in a pair of capris wasn’t pleased when I suggested she consider supportive undergarments. “You know, everyone wears Spanx these days.”

  After running back and forth around the store, hanging up clothes no one bothered to purchase, I went back to the dressing room area to make sure everyone was doing OK.