by Linda Lovely
I took a sip of coffee and thought about Moll nominating Della as someone likely to want Harriet dead. “I don’t buy it. Our killer needed opportunity as well as motive. None of our luncheon guests was alone long enough to poison anyone’s food. I’m more and more convinced whoever did this snuck into Summer Place while we were out to dinner. Remember, Miss Medley saw a truck parked in the Summer Place driveway for half an hour. Della doesn’t own a truck.”
“Yeah, but who’s to say she didn’t rent or borrow one?” Mollye wasn’t anxious to give up any of her potential villains.
“It’s easier to buy Hill, the blackmailed restauranteur, as a possibility. He’d certainly know how to mask the taste or odor of a poison. He might have read Harriett’s blog to keep tabs on her. If so, he’d have known the details of the tasting.”
Mollye laughed. “He could have learned about the tasting from her blog or her Twitter account. The woman was a regular Tweety Bird. An hour didn’t go by that she didn’t breathlessly report something new about her day and her plans. I checked her tweets. She started talking about her special invite to Summer Place three weeks before the luncheon and followed up with details at least twice a day.”
I frowned. “So anyone who followed Harriett knew I was having a ‘private’ tasting. Did she list the other guests?”
“Yep,” Mollye replied. “Of course, any of the other tasting guests could have mentioned the invite on social media or in casual conversation. Word gets around.”
I sighed. “That means I can’t rule out the possibility the poisoning was meant to embarrass me and doom Summer Place.”
“True,” Moll agreed. “But I’m leaning toward the theory the intended victim was one of your invitees. Haven’t looked yet for any secrets in Bert’s or Dr. Swihart’s closets. Maybe your dad can tap into the university grapevine to see if the toxicologist has deep dark secrets.”
“You left Mom and Ursula off your list of people someone might want to harm,” I said. “How come?”
A moment of unaccustomed silence fell on Moll’s end of the phone line. “Huh. Your mom’s such a sweetheart and, pardon the expression, dudess-do-right, I can’t imagine her doing anything to inspire hatred. But I forgot she’s a prosecutor. Someone she put in jail might want to get even. And I should have included Ursula. I can see her TV persona attracting unhinged stalkers. But how would a stalker from say New York know to follow Harriett’s blog or tweets?”
One of Ursula’s enemies was well aware she was in town. Toomey had not only sighted his former victim, he’d threatened her anew.
I couldn’t share that information with Mollye, but I added Toomey to my list of potential poisoners with Ursula as his intended victim.
“I’ll ask Mom if she can think of anyone who might want to harm her or Ursula,” I said.
With that sobering promise, Mollye and I wound up our conversation just before Eva returned to the cabin. After I shared my morning plans, Aunt Eva urged me to take the rest of the day off as I’d soon be working round the clock with the new kids.
“You sure?” I asked.
“Yep, I have plenty of help lined up for today. Go have some fun.”
I drove to the front gate. We’d warned Gerri, our new full-time employee, as well as Udderly’s part-time workers, about possible picketing. Since we were leaving the gate closed, we all had to stop at a squawk box/gate keeper and enter an open-says-me electronic code. One gatekeeper post sat outside the gate; the other inside. While many security systems were rigged so a motion detector opened gates automatically to let vehicles out, that wasn’t a good solution at Udderly. Sensors might not distinguish our large nannies from say a VW Beetle. So we’d opted for a code box on both sides.
On those rare occasions we closed the gates, Aunt Eva and I could use clickers to open them, eliminating the need to exit our vehicles and enter a code. The remotes also let us close the gates from a distance if we were in a footrace with a goat we feared might be hit crossing the county road. The gate was a half-hearted security measure. All our friends knew the “secret” electronic code.
As I approached the gate, I tried my remote. Nothing happened. Crud. I’d totally forgotten I needed to replace the batteries.
Pickled pigs feet. I exited the car to punch in the open-says-me code. The gate’s two arched halves slowly swung apart allowing me to pass. Outside the gate, I exited my Prius once again to punch the numbers in the squawk box/entry system to relock it. Before I could climb back in my Prius, a car roared down the road and slalomed to a stop in front of me. The driver had trapped my Prius between his kamikaze car and the closed gate. My heart raced as the driver leapt from his car and ran at me like a football tackle.
What in blazes? I braced for an assault, my mind reviewing the self-defense tactics I’d learned when I started working late hours at an Asheville restaurant. The man had no weapon. He skidded to a stop, thrust an envelope in my hand, and grinned like he’d just won the lottery.
“You’ve been served,” he said.
Nice that some folks got their jollies at work.
I studied the white envelope. I was happy the man who’d scared the cottage cheese out of me only had an envelope in his hand and not a knife or a gun. Yet I knew the envelope’s contents had to bring bad news. People didn’t chase you down to award sweepstakes prizes.
I climbed in my car and locked the doors before I broke the envelope’s seal. I’d been served with official notice that a Mr. Bertrand Rider was suing me for medical expenses and damages related to the pain and suffering he’d endured due to my willful disregard of food safety standards.
I closed my eyes and leaned back in the seat. Good thing I was heading to my parents’ house. I hoped Mom would feel up to some legal consulting with me as well as with Ursula. I reconciled myself to the knowledge Rider’s lawsuit would not be the last. Harriett’s heirs were certain to follow.
I had to prove I wasn’t to blame. If I couldn’t prove my innocence, Summer Place and my dreams of opening a B&B and restaurant were circling the proverbial drain.
I’d put all my savings into Summer Place renovations. My partially paid for Prius and the semi-dilapidated mansion I’d inherited were my sole assets—the only assets someone suing me could seize. Maybe I should be happy this was a civil rather than a criminal lawsuit.
Of course that could change, too, if the True Believers managed to convince authorities to charge me with manslaughter or homicide.
TWENTY-FIVE
Ursula answered the knock at my folks’ house.
“Your mom’s stirring up something in the kitchen. As you can see, I’m now quite capable of answering doors and resuming everyday activities.”
“That’s terrific,” I said. “Hope that means you won’t join Bert Rider in a class action suit.”
While the TV star wasn’t wearing her legal robes, I recognized her trademark scowl from watching the courtroom reality show. “What in the devil are you talking about?” she demanded.
Yep, I recognized the authoritative voice, too.
Mom entered the room, wiping her hands on a dishtowel, as I flashed the envelope I held in my hand. “Just got served. Bert didn’t waste any time filing a civil lawsuit for medical expenses and pain and suffering damages.”
“Pish posh.” Ursula dismissed the envelope and its nested lawsuit with a broad sweep of her hand. “It’s frivolous, a nuisance suit. He’s hoping you’ll settle to avoid court. If I were the judge, I’d dismiss it in a New York minute. There’s no corroborating evidence. Nothing that shows you were negligent or intended to poison your guests.”
Mom nodded. “I agree but it’s still bad publicity. Wish I knew the outcome of Harriett’s autopsy and what if anything DHEC found when it tested the luncheon ingredients. I’m betting on some snafu in the harvesting or food processing chain. Just bad luck that Harriett was more susceptible than the
rest of us.”
I shook my head. “That’s what I thought at first. But I’m leaning more and more to the notion this wasn’t any accident. I think someone added something to the mousse after I whipped it up. Unfortunately, I have no way to prove that. All the serving plates and dishes were sterilized in the dishwasher. Evidence destroyed.”
Ursula tapped her finger against her lips. A gesture I’d seen often enough on TV as she listened to testimony. “Maybe, maybe not. The hospital took blood and urine samples from Iris and me. The hospital lab screened for the usual food poisoning culprits, things like salmonella, E. coli, and listeria. But maybe if we can get those blood and urine samples to a private lab, they can be tested for more exotic bacteria or bugs.”
I glanced at Mom. “How long does the hospital keep blood and urine samples once they’ve run their battery of tests? Do they discard them immediately after the patient has recovered and left the hospital?”
Mom’s brow creased. “Don’t know, but I can find out. Excuse me while I make a few calls.”
Ursula sat down on Mom’s couch and patted the cushion beside her. “Come, have a seat. I hope you’ll allow me to ask you some personal questions.”
I fidgeted, reluctant to take an interrogation seat. She studied my face and waved her hand. “Don’t look so scared. It’s just that you and Amber are the same age. I’d like your opinion about my talk with Amber. If you were my daughter, how much would you want to know? Amber has always wanted to know who her father is. But can I tell her the man raped me while I was semi-conscious…that he demanded I have an abortion or he’d ruin my life?”
I felt queasy. I wasn’t Amber. Had never met the woman. No way should Ursula base any of her decisions on my uninformed opinions.
Ursula chuckled. “I’m making you uncomfortable. You haven’t allowed more than two inches of your bottom to settle on that seat cushion. Ready to bolt at any moment.”
I tried to smile and failed. “My opinions aren’t worth much. I grew up with two parents who loved me. I wasn’t adopted. Mom has the Caesarian scar and hospital pictures to prove it. It’s impossible for me to imagine how Amber might feel.”
Ursula nodded. “True. But you share your generation’s attitudes about women’s rights. You know Amber is a detective. Crimes against women are her specialty. She’s tough, seen plenty of misery, knows the horrors people can inflict on each other, things far worse than date rape. I wasn’t beaten. Don’t have flashbacks of a knife at my throat. I was drunk, semi-conscious. It was more like a very bad dream.”
She paused. Her gaze left my face to stare at the hands tightly clasped in her lap. “I’m just not sure it’s fair to tell her the biological father she’s always asked about—perhaps fantasized as a great guy—is a callous liar and hypocrite? Would you want to know his blood was coursing through your veins?”
Uh, no.
I refrained from saying that out loud. But I couldn’t stop the thought. The very notion gave me chills. I let the silence hold a minute as I considered how to corral my emotions into words.
“That knowledge would be a blow, a burden.” My voice wavered. “But there’d be a balance. I’d appreciate my birth mother’s courage.” I paused. “I’m not certain. I think I’d want to see justice served. How well do you know your daughter?”
Ursula closed her eyes and leaned back on the sofa. “Since we made contact, we see each other two or three times a year. Often for long weekends in a spot we’re unlikely to run into media types. We make it appear we’ve met by accident and found we enjoyed each other’s company. One time we signed up for a white-water-rafting trip and agreed to share a tent. Another year we joined a small sailboat charter tour off the Greek Islands. So far, no one’s noticed our accidental meetings are repeats.”
“When you’ve been together has Amber talked a lot about her work?”
Ursula nodded. “Yes, she’s very committed to helping women escape abusive relationships. That might make Amber want to out a man who portrays himself as pious yet uses threats and intimidation to hide his true character. But what if the knowledge tears at Amber’s self-image? Would it gnaw at her to know she’s the daughter of someone so like the men she works to put behind bars?”
Mom bustled back in the room. I was happy for the interruption. I had no clue what more I could say.
“The hospital still has our blood and urine samples,” Mom said. “They agreed to provide them for independent testing if we sign a release. I called Dr. Swihart and she’s onboard to run a battery of tests. I arranged for a courier to take the samples to her lab. The professor said she’s been knocking around several ideas about what might have caused Harriett’s death.”
The judge’s phone pealed a muted version of the Dragnet theme. “It’s Amber.” Ursula walked toward the kitchen for a private conversation with her secret daughter.
Mom looked tired, worried. “Did you give Ursula any advice about what she should tell her daughter?”
I sighed. “Not really. There’s no right answer.”
“That’s all I could tell her.” Mom massaged her temples. “I’ll stand by whatever she decides. Ursula has carried this burden a long time. I’ll do what I can to help her.”
Ursula walked back into the room. “Amber called from the air. Her plane took off on time. She should arrive at the Greenville-Spartanburg airport on time. I need to head out. We’ll come to the cottage as soon as we leave the airport.”
“That’s fine. I’ll be at Summer Place all afternoon,” I said. “It’ll probably take two or three hours to scrub the graffiti off the kitchen appliances and wipe off the fingerprint powder covering everything. Since the vandals took every last condiment and foodstuff, I need to do a major restock. Can I grab anything for the cottage fridge while you’re picking up Amber?”
My renter was enthusiastic and grateful. Her short grocery list included bottled water, wine, beer, tomatoes, romaine lettuce, grapes, two types of salad dressing, and a pound of thick-sliced turkey. Sounded like salads and plenty of liquids to lubricate tonight’s conversation.
My first stop was the Bi-Lo near my folks’ house. Later, I’d take a break from my kitchen clean-up and head to a Fresh Market or a Whole Foods to replace harder-to-find vegan staples.
No one looked askance when I purchased a pound of sliced turkey at Bi-Lo’s deli counter. Since I grocery shopped for Eva as well as myself, meat, eggs, and dairy were quite at home in my shopping cart.
I schlepped two bags of groceries to the cottage for Ursula and stocked the small fridge. I left a note on the kitchen counter—positioned to cover one of the more disgusting stains—and invited mother and daughter to mosey up the path to the “big house” should they need anything.
Back in the Summer Place kitchen, I stowed my own groceries before tackling the spray-painted epithets on my cupboards and appliances. Most of the scarlet spray paint came off with Mister Magic sponges and lots of elbow grease, though some of the white cupboards acquired a pinkish patina. Or maybe it was just my tired, bloodshot eyes.
I took my first break from the drudgery to prep dinner for Paint and me. We’d start with a strawberry and spinach salad and end with a commercially-prepared nondairy dessert. Even vegan chefs need to cheat when the clock is ticking. Ice cream made with coconut cream is pretty darn good.
Actually I hoped to sweet talk Paint into heading to Greenville for dessert. I’d offer to buy though that wasn’t much of an incentive to make a two-hour round trip for a mere slice of cake. I kinda figured Paint had definite ideas of how he’d like to occupy his hands for those hours. Gripping a steering wheel wouldn’t be one of them. Most times Paint’s preferences and mine would align. But I really wanted to lay eyes on Matt Hill, the suspect atop Mollye’s list of would-be murderers.
To get Paint to agree, I’d need to come clean about why I wanted to check out the restaurant and its owner. Paint might e
ven know the guy. He called on Greenville restaurants carrying his moonshine, and he’d begun promoting his soon-to-debut custom-blended whiskies.
I was snacking on hummus and black corn chips when a knock on the sunporch door startled me. The corn chip crumpled in my mitt.
As soon as I spotted my visitors, I smiled and welcomed them. Ursula and her daughter Amber had accepted my invitation to drop by. Amber shared many of her mother’s features, including a regal bearing and raven-black hair. They were about the same height, topping out at five six or five seven. Both boasted hourglass figures.
Then I began to notice differences. Amber’s eyes were hazel rather than green, her nose smaller and turned up, her ears considerably larger. Amber’s deep Florida tan also contrasted with Ursula’s ivory complexion. The daughter certainly wasn’t a clone of the mother. Yet once you knew the genealogy, it was obvious they were related.
We went through the standard greeting ritual, and I invited them inside for a drink.
“Appreciate it but think we’ll take a raincheck,” Ursula said. “Just wanted to let you know we were moving in. Is my car blocking you?”
“No.” I smiled. “This morning Dad demonstrated how easy it is to exit the drive and kill unwanted crabgrass at the same time. Your car is fine. Let me know if there’s anything you need after you unpack.”
“Right now, we’re just dropping off our suitcases,” Ursula answered. “Want to visit the South Carolina Botanical Garden while there’s still a little sun to ward off the chill. I’ve been a big fan ever since your dad introduced me to the garden. Amber and I both want to stretch and get some fresh air.”
“Enjoy,” I said. “Many of the winter camellias are in full bloom. It’ll be beautiful even if it’s a bit chilly. Don’t worry about parking when you get back. There’s enough room to maneuver around.”
I watched the duo stroll down the path to the ramshackle cottage. Was Ursula planning to break the news about Amber’s conception while they strolled among the winter blooms? It was a weekday and quite cool. They wouldn’t have much company. Lots of privacy.