The Poisoned Pen

by E. Joan Sims

  When the cop opened the door and dragged me out of the car, all I could do was croak Andy Joiner’s name. “Aaannthy! Aaannthy Jahhhnn!”

  “I know, lady,” the big cop said soothingly. “Them D.T.’s is the worst. But just settle down, please. I’d really hate to zap a little bit of a thing like you again.”

  I shut my mouth obediently as he hefted me easily over his broad shoulders and carried me to the one and only cell in the Rowan County Jail reserved for female miscreants. Unfortunately, it was in the back—far away from all the others—and Andy’s office. When the officer dropped my unresisting body on the hard bottom bunk, I knew I was there for the night. Trying to get Andy’s attention would probably get me nothing more than another session with the Taser, so I closed my eyes and let my abused and exhausted mind and body slip into an uneasy darkness.

  When I opened my eyes again, Andy was watching me from a chair on the opposite side of the cell. I tried to sit up, but the cocoon of blue plastic sheeting held me prisoner.

  “Do you mind?” I groaned. “I have to pee in the worst way.”

  If I hadn’t been so uncomfortable on just about every level, I would have laughed at Andy’s red-faced embarrassment as he jumped up and fumbled for his pocketknife.

  “Careful!” I ordered, as he slit the plastic away from my body and helped me up. I staggered and grabbed onto his shoulder for a moment until the dizziness passed.

  “You okay?”

  “Well, let me see,” I answered, my voice heavy with sarcasm. “My clothes are ruined. My favorite shoes are missing. I’m a filthy, muddy mess—and a criminal to boot.”

  Andy gave me a big, slow grin. “Forget the criminal bit, Paisley. I got Mrs. Lyons calmed down as soon as I found out that you were the bull in her china shop. And Billy Martin admits that he didn’t smell any alcohol on your breath.”

  “Billy Martin?”

  “The officer who arrested you.”

  “Then why in the hell did he arrest me?” I demanded hotly. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong!”

  Andy blushed again. “He said you were acting weird.”

  I felt the anger subside. Billy Martin was right, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell Andy why I was acting weird, or what I had seen in Beth Davis’s kitchen last night—at least not just yet.

  “Can you give me some privacy?” I asked instead.

  “I can do better than that. The female employees of the county EMS have a shower in back of the fire station next door. I have some fresh overalls if you want to clean up before you go home.”

  “Yes! By the way, I hope you let my family know that I’m not dead in a ditch somewhere.”

  Andy grinned. “Called Cassie last night and again this morning to tell her when to pick you up. You’ll just have time for that shower, if you hurry.”

  I grabbed the orange cotton overalls Andy proffered and headed for the shower. Twenty minutes later I was drinking my second cup of tea in his office, and trying not to lose my cool while he and Cassie had a big laugh over my predicament.

  “No wonder Mr. Martin thought you were drunk, Mom!”

  “Yeah, yeah, can we go home now?”

  Cassie was having a grand old time at my expense. Her brown eyes sparkled with mischief and her cheeks were rosy and flushed from laughter. I had a hard time staying mad at her.

  “And it was so sweet of him to go back to Mrs. Lyon’s yard and dig your shoes out of that mud puddle.”

  “He’s a peach, all right. Now can we go?”

  “Take her home, Cassie,” ordered Andy. “Feed her some breakfast and let her get some real sleep. I keep a clean jail, but nobody could accuse me of having the most comfortable beds in town.”

  “You can say that again!” I groused. “And don’t worry! I’ll send this little orange polyester-cotton number back as soon as I can.”

  Unfortunately, Cassie had parked Mother’s baby blue Lincoln right smack dab in front of the jail. For a moment I considered asking her to move the car to the back so I could get in without being seen, but I figured it was already too late. Everybody in town had probably known before they ate breakfast that Anna Howard Sterling’s daughter spent the night as an unwilling guest of the Lakeland County taxpayers.

  “What are you doing, Mom?” demanded Cassie, as I sauntered insolently around the front of the car for the second time.

  “Waving,” I answered with a big wicked smile. “Waving—just in case somebody hasn’t seen me yet.”

  “Get in,” she ordered. “Officer Martin was right. You are acting weird.”

  I climbed in the car and leaned back in the soft leather seat with a satisfied sigh. “Take me home, Jeeves, and if you don’t mind, stop at the Dairy Que….”

  “No!” interrupted my outraged daughter. “No more fat and sugar for you! I’m convinced that if you eat more sensibly, you’ll behave more sensibly.”

  “Wow, that’s quite a leap!”

  “I’m worried about you, Mom,” she sighed. “You’re not getting any younger.…”

  “Oh, stop! If I promise to cut out the cheeseburgers and fries, will you cut out the sermonizing? And please, no more references to the grim reaper.” I shuddered, suddenly remembering the dark-hooded figure I had seen last night.

  “Are you cold?” Cassie asked with quick concern. “I’m sorry, Mom. You’ve had a terrible experience, and I’ve been making fun of you. I’ll get you home as soon as possible, then tuck you in and bring you breakfast in bed. How does that sound?”

  “Fine, as long as there are no sprouts involved.”

  Cassie was true to her word. She tucked me up in my big four-poster bed and

  brought me a sensible breakfast of poached eggs, toast and tea, all of which I devoured in about three minutes flat.

  “That was very satisfying, Cassie. Thanks very much,” I sighed. “But if you don’t mind, I’ll save the plain, non-fat, aspartame-sweetened yogurt and wheat berries for later.”

  Cassie didn’t blink an eye. She removed the tray to my dressing table and

  returned to the bed to sit at my feet. “Okay, Mom. ’Fess up. What really happened last night?”

  “I might have known there was a price tag on all this tender loving care,” I grumbled.

  “Mom! That’s mean!” she cried, jumping up to leave.

  “Oh, Cassie, please don’t go! I’m just kidding. Besides, I know Mother is probably going to chew me out about last night and I really need an ally.”

  She grudgingly returned to sit beside me. “You’re right about Gran,” she said. “She was pretty ticked off when Andy called and woke her up to say you were in the poky. Apparently, you’re the first Sterling to have that dubious distinction.”

  “Oh, God! It’s going to be worse than I thought,” I moaned. “Mother will never forgive me.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” she agreed. “So you might as well distract yourself by telling me what you were doing at Beth’s house last night. She’s all right, by the way.”

  “Who?”

  “Beth Davis, of course. I called the hospital this morning before I came to pick you up.”

  My pillows felt wonderful as I scooted down in the soft welcoming comfort of the silken sheets. “It’s all her fault,” I decided, morosely. “If she hadn’t fainted and knocked her head on the kitchen floor….”

  Cassie braced her back against one of the four posters before she dropped the bomb. “Dr. Dhanvantari thinks someone really did hit Beth from behind.”

  “You’re kidding!” I said, sitting up straight in bed. “With the infamous blunt object, I suppose?”

  “Something like that. At any rate, Beth didn’t just faint away. Someone knocked her down before we got to her—just like she said.”

  Cassie leaned up closer to me and whispered, “Do you think that ‘someone’ was still in the house while we were there?” She shivered theatrically. “Could we have been in mortal danger?”

  “I suppose, so; but I just can’t belie
ve….”

  “Well, Dr. D. does. He spouted some medical jargon that means Beth’s eyes look funny, which—and I quote, ‘is the result of a forceful blow to the occiput.’”

  “Cassie, do you remember anything strange about Beth’s house?”

  She laughed, and stretched like a cat across the bottom of the bed. “Sure,” she answered with a yawn. “It was a moldy, dusty, mildewy mess except for that wild and wicked bedroom.”

  “No, that’s not all,” I said, shaking my head, as if the movement would invigorate my brain and help me to remember more. “I heard water dripping when I first entered the house, but I forgot about it when you came back around from the garage and scared me half to death. Do you remember if the kitchen sink was wet?”

  “What are you getting at, Mom? You think maybe there’s a homicidal plumber on the loose?”

  Cassie’s yawn was contagious, and the long, exhausting night was finally catching up with me. “I don’t know why it seems so important,” I said with a shrug. “Maybe if I get some shuteye first.…”

  Chapter Eleven

  When I woke up, I discovered that Mother was really, really mad—even madder than she had been when I staged a fake protest at the Atlanta Park Zoo because they had no Pandas. That little incident got my face plastered on newspapers from coast to coast, but I was just a student then, and immaturity was my excuse for inappropriate behavior. That wouldn’t work now. Mother firmly believed that once you attained the age of forty, mistakes in judgment were no longer acceptable. And then there were other considerations.

  “Have you forgotten that you are a Sterling?” she inquired, in that cool, calm way she has when harboring an explosive volcano within.

  “No, Mother,” I answered, my head respectfully bowed.

  “Our family has certain standards which we must uphold as an example to rest of the community.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Were you inebriated, Paisley?”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” I exclaimed, stepping neatly into her well-laid trap. “You know I never drink enough to do anything that stupid!”

  Her smile was warm and lovely, and very lethal. “Then, perhaps, you have some other excuse for your stupidity, dear?” She paused in front of the hall mirror to smooth the collar of her smart beige silk suit before she zoomed in for the kill. “Horatio is taking me to the Country Club for luncheon so I can initiate damage control. Perhaps together we can quell the tide of your impending notoriety. Maybe I should volunteer to head their next charity bazaar. What do you think, Cassandra, dear?” she asked, turning to her granddaughter. “It’s for a very good cause—the Rowan Springs Home for the Impetuous and Foolhardy. You may have to commit your mother to their care someday.”

  Furious that my bare feet made no satisfying sound when I stomped back to my bedroom, I released my mounting frustration by childishly slamming the door. It served no purpose, however, because I could hear the silvery peal of Mother’s laughter even through the feathers of the pillow I held over my head.

  “Damn! Damn, and rats!”

  I spit out a mouthful of dog hair and threw the offending pillow/doggie bed across the room just as my daughter opened the door. Instead of catching the pillow, she stepped neatly aside and watched open-mouthed as it landed with a crash on top of my dresser.

  “Wow!” she exclaimed, as the last bottle of perfume skidded across the floor and smashed into the opposite wall. “That’s some smell! Do you want me to call ‘the home’ and reserve your room, or should I get some paper towels and help you clean up?”

  “Oh, Cassie! I’ve made such a terrible mess of things,” I moaned, as I sank down on my bed.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Mom. Last night was kind of a screw up, I have to admit—but it worked out okay. And Gran just left, so we have plenty of time to clean this up before she gets back. Besides,” she said, picking up broken pieces of fancy little bottles. “You hate this stuff. I don’t know why you ever kept it in the first place.”

  “Birthday presents,” I sniffed. “And Christmas….”

  “You never even wear scent,” she rambled on, ignoring me, “except for that Cartier that Daddy gave you. And while we’re on the subject, Mom, after twenty-something years, it’s getting a bit stale.”

  That was the last straw. I threw myself down on the bed and sobbed with abandon—even ignoring my stricken daughter when she came to sit beside me.

  “Oh, Mom, I’m so sorry! I’ll get you some more perfume, I promise. What would you like? Gucci, Pucci, or sushi?”

  I stopped crying to laugh at her silly joke and discovered that I was all cried out. “Never mind, Cassie,” I sniffed. “You’re right. The Cartier is a bit off, and I did hate all those other perfumes. I just kept them because the bottles were pretty.”

  “You kept them because you were afraid Gran would get mad if you threw away her expensive gifts.”

  “Right, as usual,” I sighed, giving her a hug.

  “You’re too old to worry about what your mother thinks,” she decided.

  “I don’t know,” I argued, crossing over into the bathroom to wash my face at the sink. “Do you ever really get too old to care about a mother’s opinion?” I walked out of the bathroom swabbing my face with a cool washcloth. “Cassie?”

  My daughter pointedly ignored me as she searched for more bits of broken glass. “I think we’ll need the vacuum for this job,” she declared. “I’ll go get it.”

  I never did get an answer to my question because we jumped headfirst into another mess when we used Mother’s expensive new vacuum cleaner to suck up the glass.

  “Well,” said Cassie, delicately holding her nose. “We’ll just change the bag. That’ll take away the smell, won’t it?”

  It didn’t. Neither did washing down the innards of the fancy Hoover with rubbing alcohol, or spraying them with Lysol.”

  “Oh, my God,” I moaned. “What next?”

  “The phone,” said Cass. “I’ll get it.”

  I held my head in my hands and prayed that nothing else had gone wrong, but it just wasn’t my day.

  “Mom. It’s Dr. D. from the hospital. Beth’s gone missing.”

  Saijad was very sorry to have to tell me, but sometime during the morning—sometime after the seven o’clock nursing shift checked on her—Bethlehem Davis disappeared from her hospital room.

  “But how can that be?” I asked him, frustration creeping into my voice. “She was under your personal care!”

  “Ah, little sister,” he explained. “You must forgive me, but I am not a jailer to keep my patients under lock and key.”

  “Is that a dig?” I demanded angrily. But Saijad was totally incapable of sarcasm. He was, however, not above dissolving into fits of laughter when I filled him in on my little escapade of the night before.

  I hung up on him.

  I felt terrible. My two hour nap had done very little towards alleviate the nagging backache caused by eight hours of restless sleep on a hard bunk, and now my sinuses were rebelling fiercely against competing fragrances—attar of roses, violet, bergamot, gardenia, and orange blossoms. Nevertheless, I knew what we had to do.

  “We have to find her, Cassie,” I managed to blurt out between sneezes.

  “For heaven’s sake, why? She’s not our problem!”

  “Isn’t she?” I sniffed. “Think about it, Cassie. None of this would have happened if she hadn’t given me her manuscript.”

  “Whoa! That’s quite a stretch even for you,” she admitted “What makes you think even for a moment that Beth’s manuscript has anything to do with it?”

  Instead of answering, I rummaged through the refrigerator, finally taking out some Gouda and country ham butter. “Cassie, do we have any of those little Bremner wafers left? They go so well with cheese.”

  She was sitting on the kitchen floor trying to reassemble the smelly vacuum cleaner. “In the pantry,” she answered absentmindedly—intent on her task.

  I m
anaged to gobble down three cracker sandwiches before she noticed what I was eating and took it away from me.

  “I suppose you’re right about our trying to find Beth,” she sighed, as she measured out a minuscule dot of low-fat blue cheese dressing on top of my spinach and arugula salad.” But where do we start? We certainly can’t set foot near her house again.”

  “Can’t we?”

  “Mom! You haven’t learned a thing from all this!”

  “See! I told you nutrition had nothing to do with it! ‘Impetuous and foolhardy’ is my middle name. It doesn’t matter what I eat! Pass the Gouda, please.”

  My favorite wardrobe items were in the laundry room in a brown paper bag labeled, “Evidence—Rowan Springs Jail.” They would have to undergo some big time cleaning before I could wear them again. I only hoped that my Cole-Haan moccasins could be salvaged. They were the second pair I had gone through this year.

  I finally settled on a pair of old chinos, soft and frayed from years of wear, and a pale blue cotton polo. Shoes were a bigger problem, however. My feet were spoiled—soft and tender from three years of nothing but sock feet, bare feet, and moccasins. Leather loafers were not an option, even though I had enjoyed wearing them once upon a time—and the thick dimpled soles of tennis shoes tripped me up and made me clumsy.

  I sneezed again—this time because of dust in the back of my closet—and wiped my nose on a piece of tissue paper from a shoebox. I was still tired, my head was stuffy, and my neck was getting stiff; but I just couldn’t sit here like a bump on a pickle. No matter what Cassie had said, I knew there was something sinister going on, and I was determined to find out what it was.

  I held my arms above my head and stretched, wincing more at the ominous popping sound of protesting tendons than at the pain. I looked at the ceiling while I counted slowly to ten, then stretched some more. My neck felt better, but as I stared upwards my mind was instantly flooded with pictures of Beth’s little cottage and I knew we had to get there before it was too late.