Poisoned Petals

by Joyce; Jim Lavene

  “Over here are my hardy soybean plants. I’m working to try to get them to grow in less than an inch of topsoil in extreme conditions, hot or cold.” She bit her lip when she realized she was about to mimic Darmus’s words to her. “There can never be too much research into the idea that no one on this planet should ever go hungry.”

  “Are these blue gourds?” Her father was looking through another section of the basement. “I don’t know how well they feed the hungry, but I sure like ’em.”

  Peggy smiled. “I’m just playing with those. Like the Carolina Flamingo parrot tulips in the front yard. I can’t be serious all the time, and neither can my plants!”

  When there was nothing else to see in the basement, she moved them all upstairs. Cousin Melvin was visibly drooping after going through the downstairs tour of the house. She stopped at the thirty-two-foot blue spruce in the foyer. “I’m sorry for dragging you through this. Maybe we should all get a good night’s sleep and start again tomorrow.”

  Paul kissed her cheek. “I’m going, too. I’ll see all of you for dinner tomorrow night.”

  “Oh, stay the night, Paul,” his grandmother coaxed. “That way, we’ll see you some in the morning, too.”

  “Wish I could, Grama, but I have to work tonight. I think I better go home.” He kissed her cheek, and she hugged him.

  “All right. But try to come early tomorrow evening. We haven’t heard about your girlfriend yet.”

  Paul glanced at Peggy, who shrugged. “There isn’t a girlfriend right now,” he said. “I’m kind of between.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” his grandfather declared. “A fine-looking boy like you and a professional, too! What are the young women up here thinking? If you lived in Charleston—”

  “Go now, Paul,” Peggy warned, “before he launches into his speech about the graces of Charleston.”

  “Margaret!” Her father looked shocked. “Charleston is your home, too! I think your son would prosper there.”

  “Not tonight, Dad. Good night, Paul. See you tomorrow.”

  Ranson and Lilla kissed their grandson and said their good nights to him as Cousin Melvin and Aunt Mayfield found their bedrooms.

  “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, too, banning any emergency,” Steve told Peggy. “Are you okay?”

  “I’ll be fine,” she replied without thinking. “I’m always fine.”

  He hugged her as Paul waved before walking out the front door. “Take it easy on yourself, huh? This has been a shock. And just for the record, you didn’t look fine when you came home. No one is fine all the time, Margaret Anne.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Not you, too!”

  “Okay. Just wanted to make sure I had your attention. You were looking a little glazed over there for a minute.” Steve smiled and waved to her parents. “Good night. It was nice meeting both of you.”

  Ranson shook his hand. “You, too, Steve. I hope to see you again before we have to leave for home.”

  “I’ll find some excuse to be here tomorrow.”

  “Great!”

  When the heavy oak door closed behind him and the dead bolt slid into place, she and her parents started up the wide circular marble staircase that led to the second floor.

  “Steve’s very nice,” her mother said with a sigh. “He lives close by?”

  “Yes.” Peggy switched off the downstairs lights, leaving only a soft glow that illuminated the stairway. “We’ve become very close in the last few months.”

  “I could see that”

  Peggy’s eyebrows lifted.

  “He knew where to find everything in your kitchen!”

  “Sometimes I think he uses it more than I do,” Peggy replied with a smile.

  “That’s very close.”

  “Not tonight, Lil,” Ranson said, wrapping one arm around Peggy’s shoulders. “Good night, sweet pea. Get a good night’s sleep so your mother can interrogate you in the morning.”

  Lilla nudged him in the chest with her elbow, then hugged her daughter. “We’ll talk, won’t we, Margaret?”

  There was no real answer to that. Of course they’d talk. Some of it would be great. Some of it, like always, would make her want to run away. Her mother had that effect on her. She loved her, but it was hard to be her daughter and be so different sometimes.

  Peggy smiled and waited until they were in their bedroom before she urged Shakespeare into her room and closed the door. Steve was right. It had been a bad day. Tomorrow would be better. She needed some sleep and a better frame of mind.

  The melancholy that sank into her after learning about Darmus’s death was bad enough. She wasn’t close to Luther, but he pulled himself together when he had to. He truly rose to the occasion. But being brutally honest with herself, she knew she was more depressed because his death brought everything back about Darmus’s death. She didn’t want that sadness hanging over her shoulder again, whispering in her ear before she went to sleep.

  She put on some soft blue cotton shorts and a tank top. Shakespeare lay on the bed watching her, tail thumping when he thought she might come near enough to scratch his head.

  The presence of other people in the big old house again was a strange feeling. It had been so long since there was more than just her there. Paul occasionally spent the night, but they usually ended up downstairs talking until morning. It wasn’t the same as having people sleeping around her. She missed that sometimes.

  Mostly, her life and memories of time with John filled the house, even when she was alone. She rarely thought of it as being empty. There was always so much to do and so much to plan to do. More than one friend pointed out how busy her life had become since John’s death. She supposed it was her answer to grief. But for her, it was better than lying in bed crying every night or running back home to her mother and father.

  Peggy lay down on the bed next to Shakespeare but couldn’t sleep. She stroked his fur and thought about Darmus. He had a lot of plans, too, and a lot of dreams. He always had. His dark eyes glowed with them when he spoke. There was a fire in him that wouldn’t be quenched.

  She thought about the fire again. She couldn’t help it. She saw Darmus lying next to the stove. The arson investigator said he was standing next to it, trying to light it when it didn’t come on. Not the brightest thing from a brilliant man. Why didn’t he smell the gas? She could smell it from outside.

  She recalled how cold his arm had been when she tried to move him. She sat up in bed. Was that something she remembered to tell the investigator when she talked to him at the hospital that day? Why was he so cold? Even if he’d died the instant the stove blew up, he wouldn’t have been dead long enough to be cold. She’d tried to put it from her mind. Now it came back to haunt her.

  And why did Luther have Darmus’s wedding band when he died in the garden? It should have been on Darmus’s finger. She’d seen his will. He’d asked to be buried with it. It had never been off his finger since he and Rosie broke up.

  Peggy realized she’d accidentally put it into her pocket instead of putting it back into the bag with Luther’s possessions. She got up and took it out and looked at it.

  There was no doubt it was Darmus’s. She remembered him showing it to her when he was planning to propose to Rosie. The fact that he still wore it and had never remarried told her he never really got over Rosie. He might have been dedicated to his causes, but he always held Rosie in his heart. What would he have said if he’d known they had a son together?

  She wished he’d confided in her more. He was a very private person. She knew him better than anyone but always knew he held back. Darmus was very conscious of his role as a teacher and a facilitator. He wanted people to admire him to the point of shutting people away from the real person he was.

  He never welcomed the spotlight Feed America brought him. He seldom appeared in public except for his classes. He let other volunteers take the limelight for his accomplishments.

  He wanted to work behind the scenes, but sometimes Peggy fe
lt he lost himself in trying to be an icon for the world. His view became too lofty and too untenable. They’d argued about some of his extreme ideas. Peggy always took the middle ground. Now she regretted those arguments. He wanted to be more than his humble beginnings in Blacks-burg, South Carolina. She understood that concept now.

  She was almost asleep when she heard the ping of her computer telling her she had email. Thinking a diversion might be nice, she went to check it out.

  Good evening, Nightrose.

  Peggy sat back in her chair with a sigh. She hadn’t heard from Nightflyer in weeks. Her online chess partner and sometimes informant was always sketchy about his appearances and disappearances, but she thought she’d ask anyway.

  Where have you been? She typed back to him.

  Busy, as always. Would you like to play some chess?

  That would be nice. The usual site?

  You know me. I have a link to a new place.

  Peggy agreed, though she didn’t really know him. All she knew about him was what he wanted her to know. She knew he’d been with the CIA when John was alive. She knew he worked with John. But otherwise, she was in the dark about Nightflyer, except he was either paranoid or really needed to be careful. She couldn’t tell which.

  He appeared when he wanted to, usually out of the blue, and played a very good game of chess. He knew things about people, things he shouldn’t know. He’d explained that away as curiosity. She’d accepted the explanation but privately thought he must sit around monitoring information constantly. Where he was when he was doing that was a mystery to her.

  She’d had him investigated by the police when she first met him online. Then he proved himself to her with knowledge about John she didn’t believe he could get any other way but by knowing him. And she remembered John telling her he worked with a strange man from the CIA on a case. Nightflyer had been helpful to her, but she was always a little wary of him. She was always a little excited when she heard from him, too, she admitted, even though she was way too old to feel that way about some strange man! Especially with Steve in her life.

  She ignored the dozens of blogs and Web logs she had received from friends around the world and went to log on to the chess site. Everyone had ideas about something they wanted to share, but really, a twelve-page blog was too long! Someone could only read about phytoprotein for so long! Most of her friends were botanists. Somehow their blogs were turning into dissertations!

  Peggy entered her name and found herself on a screen with a virtual chess set in front of her. Instead of the usual regulation chess set, this one was a grand wizard and dragon set, no doubt patterned after one from the Middle Ages. She waited until Nightflyer logged on, too, and remarked on how much she liked the set.

  He replied. I found it accidentally. I thought you might like it. I hope you’re feeling lucky tonight. I think I might win. The computer kept track of their moves. White moves to e4.

  Not particularly lucky. It hasn’t been a good day. Black moves to e5.

  Yes. I know about your friend. I’m sorry. White moves to f4.

  It seems like his life was cut short just as he was beginning to live. Black moves to d5.

  I don’t think his death was accidental. White moves to Nf3.

  What do you mean? Peggy was shocked at his assertion. He fought cancer for two years. He told Holles his heart was bad. Black moves to Bd6.

  That may be. But there were mitigating factors. White moves to Qe2.

  Such as? Black moves to Qe7.

  Who takes over as head of Feed America now? Both men who captained the group are gone in a very short time. I think the situation is suspicious. White moves to Qxe4.

  I think the doctor said Luther died from natural causes. Black moves to f6.

  Be sure they do an autopsy. White moves to d4.

  Do you know something you aren’t telling me? Black moves to fxe5.

  Undoubtedly. White moves to fxe5.

  Peggy squirmed with frustration. A hint would be nice! Black moves to c6.

  There is a lot of money at stake. The group got a huge private donation just before Darmus left. When you follow the money . . . White moves to Bc4.

  Left? Peggy picked up on the word as she moved. Black moves to Bc7. He died.

  Her husband’s old buddy responded, Darmus isn’t dead.

  “What do you mean?” She said out loud, wishing she had him on the phone. Sometimes nonverbal communication wasn’t the same. You couldn’t hear the nuances in the voice or see the body language. Even the phone might not do. She wanted to slap some sense into him. She repeated the question on the screen for him again, her heart fluttering in her chest. He couldn’t mean what she thought he meant. What do you mean? Darmus is alive? But people identified him. I saw him in his house when it blew up.

  Did you? Or did you see someone who looked like him? Trust me, Nightrose, there is more here than meets the eye. Darmus may have staged his own death.

  Peggy rubbed her eyes. She must be too exhausted to take it all in. He couldn’t possibly be right. She wrote back, Where is he, if he’s still alive? Why hasn’t he told anyone? That doesn’t make any sense.

  I don’t have all the answers yet, Nightrose. But Darmus is still alive. Must go now. Talk later.

  Peggy was so frustrated when his name left the screen, she wanted to scream. Nightflyer threw a bomb in her lap then left as it went off. She paced the bedroom with long strides, muttering to herself and stomping her foot occasionally.

  There was nothing she could do. It was too early or late, depending on how she looked at it, to call anyone about his preposterous ideas. It was ridiculous, of course. Everyone would think she was insane for suggesting the idea that Darmus was still alive. Shouldn’t she know better than anyone that he was dead?

  But what about him being cold when you touched him?

  There was probably a logical explanation for that. The medical examiner would know exactly why that was. No doubt burn victims got cold.

  But what if Nightflyer was right?

  She stopped pacing and went back to her computer to try to look up anything she could find on burn victims. She didn’t want to look like a complete idiot when she called the police later that morning. Nightflyer was right too often in the past to ignore him, no matter how stupid or ridiculous his assertion seemed.

  But she couldn’t find anything about burn victims being cold. She picked up the phone to call a doctor friend of hers but realized it was four a.m. Her questions would have to wait until later. She hoped her curiosity wouldn’t drive her crazy by then.

  After a long, restless night thinking about Darmus, it was finally dawn. Peggy took a quick shower, put on an old purple sweat suit, and went down quietly to check on her plants. She planted her milkweed seeds, watered them, and then put them under a grow light. She might still have to end up buying some. The plant would probably take too long to seed. According to what she read, her larvae would be out soon. But it would be nice to grow something different anyway.

  “You couldn’t sleep, either?”

  Her father’s voice startled her. “You’re up early, even for you.”

  He sat down in the rocking chair near the pond and stroked Shakespeare’s head. “I don’t sleep much anymore. You know how it is. Too much like dying.”

  “I never thought of it that way.” She finished picking a handful of strawberries for breakfast. “When did you start thinking about dying?”

  “About seventy years ago.” He chuckled. “I don’t know. It’s been on my mind a lot lately.”

  She looked at him carefully, but he seemed fine. Or did she just want him to seem fine? “Is something wrong, Dad?”

  “No!” He stood up and threw his broad shoulders back. He was still as tall and lean as she remembered him from childhood. He was never obviously strong, but she’d seen him lift logs and calves without breaking a sweat. “You just start thinking about these things when you get to be my age, sweet pea. How about you?”

 
“I’m fine. Just confused.” She told him about Nightflyer and his suppositions about Darmus and Luther.

  “Could there be any truth to that?”

  “I don’t see how. It doesn’t make any sense. Darmus wouldn’t have any reason to fake his own death. And if Luther was killed, whoever did it made it look totally natural.”

  “Well we both know that’s possible. As for your friend, Darmus, you said he was under a lot of stress. Maybe he cracked under the pressure. He wouldn’t be the first man.”

  “Or maybe Nightflyer is wrong.” She dusted dirt from her gloves.

  “Well that’s possible, too.” He followed her upstairs, with Shakespeare trailing him. “I guess I assumed since you were giving it so much thought that you think he’s right.”

  “Dad, you and I think too much alike!” She smiled and kissed his cheek. “Is Mom sleeping in today?”

  “Steve is coming to get her, Mayfield, and Melvin and take them to the mall. I was thinking about going to take a look at the Bass Pro Shop. He said it’s really something special. I hope it’s worth a trip to the mall.”

  “I hope so, too. Would you like to have some stale donuts and blackberry tea with me before I go out?”

  “Sounds great!” He switched on the kitchen light. “When are you going to take us to see your shop?”

  “When Mom runs out of other things to do.”

  “Are you nervous about her seeing it, Margaret? There’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’ve done well.”

  “I know.” She put the three-day-old Krispy Kreme donuts down on the table. “I guess I’m a little nervous.”

  He shook his full head of silver white hair. “Don’t be silly. Let’s go today or tomorrow. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she agreed. “We’ll do it!”

  Peggy went back upstairs after breakfast, knowing what she had to do. She couldn’t do anything without proof. The bad thing about not being a police detective when you had a theory about something was that they didn’t want you to investigate. She wanted to tell them that it encouraged snooping.