Stolen Honey

by Nancy Means Wright

  Gwen glanced back at Sharon Willmarth, who was sitting behind her in the courtroom. Sharon winked at Gwen and stuck up her thumbs. Gwen hoped it was victory, although she wasn’t sure what victory was in this case. If the judge ruled the death an accident, Gwen might still be sued by the Noble family for growing belladonna. But what about Camille’s message? Well, they’d never know what it was, so she had to stop thinking about it. Beside her, Donna sat with her hands folded in her lap, her head sunk on her chest as though she’d fallen asleep. But her rigid limbs, her rapid breathing, belied her posture.

  “Almost every part of the plant is poisonous,” Jack went on, his auburn head nodding for emphasis, “but especially the roots and leaves. The victim in this case would have come in contact with the roots. And since he had a small cut to begin with”— he nodded at Donna—”and because the victim had asthma, the roots and leaves would have been especially toxic.”

  There was a murmur of voices in the packed courtroom—the whole town, it seemed, was caught up in this rare case of possible homicide. It was now being proven, Gwen felt, and the townspeople with her, that the death itself was not homicide, but an accident.

  Warming to his subject, Jack described the history of the plant, how it “poisoned the troops of Marcus Antonius during the Parthian wars.” The soldiers of Macbeth, he said, poisoned a whole army of Danes by mixing belladonna in their drinks. “The Scots murdered ’em in their sleep,” he went on, the freckles pinkening on his round cheeks.

  But he had over-researched for this court. “Stick to the case in hand,” the judge grunted.

  The defense attorney came back to the purplish bruise on the forehead. “It would have been caused by the nightshade, you conclude?” he asked the ethnobotanist.

  Jack nodded. He was a convincing witness, Gwen felt; there was something of the Boy Scout about him, a look of artlessness in the wide blue eyes. He went on to describe the dilated pupils, the hot dry skin, the rapid pulse, the convulsions.

  “But the bruise. The swelling of skin,” the lawyer prompted, wanting it nailed down in words.

  “It happens,” Jack said. “Especially when the victim spent hours facedown in the plant. It wasn’t actually a bruise—it was an allergic reaction, a kind of edema. And in this case the discoloration went away more quickly than a bruise would. You have the photo the mortician, um, William Hanna, took.”

  “It could have been a blow to the head, a glancing blow from a rock, a shoe,” the prosecuting lawyer shouted, and William Hanna, a hunched-over man with cheeks like polished apples, stood up and shook his fist. “No, damn it! It wasn’t there by the third day. And it wasn’t the makeup, either, by jeez, I can tell you that. My makeup girl can’t do it that realistic!”

  The spectators chuckled, while the judge shushed both men for “speaking out of turn.” The old man was yanked down into his seat by his son Colm.

  Jack was cool. He repeated his analysis. “I can cite case histories. In 1984, for instance, up in Cabot, a child stumbled into a patch of nightshade. She was horribly bruised. Two days later, the bruise was gone. There were no lesions, no indication of violence—other than the nightshade.”

  The prosecuting lawyer gave up finally, and Jack sat down beside his wife, whose loud congratulatory whispers could be heard all over the courtroom. Gwen wanted to hug him, but it wouldn’t be appropriate. Instead, she hugged Donna, who responded only by blowing her nose. When the girl looked up finally, her eyes were shiny with tears. Gwen reached for her hand, but Donna pulled away. There was no comforting her. She had been in the witness stand, was almost paralyzed by the experience.

  Olen Ashby got up to testify next, and then William Hanna limped up to give the spiel that he’d already shouted out of turn. The attorneys gave their concluding speeches, and the jury tramped out. In the recess that followed, Sharon came up to apologize for her mother’s absence. “Another cow freshened,” she explained. “It’s a bull calf, it got stuck in the vagina and Mother had to call the vet. She really wanted to be here, though.”

  Gwen waved away the concern. “That cow needs her more than we do. It’s all in the jury’s hands now. Though, either way—that boy died.” Sharon put a hand on Gwen’s shoulder from behind. Her long brown braid swung loose to hit Donna’s cheek and the girl burst into tears. Sharon looked distraught, and Gwen patted her arm. “It’s not you,” she said, and handed her daughter a Kleenex.

  A short time later the jury ambled back in, and the courtroom quieted. It was as though people were holding in their breath to hear the verdict. It came loud and nasal from the jury spokeswoman, Hetty Burdoch, a local resident. “We find the defendant Gwen Woodleaf”—she paused for dramatic effect—”not guilty. We conclude that the death was .. . accidental.”

  There was a cacophony of voices in the courtroom; most of the spectators applauded, some booed the decision—Gwen heard the word “witch.” They were hushed by the judge’s gavel. He admonished the defendants to pull up the belladonna. “A child might walk into your woods,” he warned, his eyebrows in a morbid V, “and fall into it. You are not to grow it, and that’s final.”

  Someone in back hollered, “I seen it growin’ down to the Branbury swamp. The government owns that land. Who’s goin’ to pull ’at stuff up?”

  The judge banged his gavel again to quell the laughter. His features settled into a defensive mask.

  * * * *

  Olen was outside the courtroom when Gwen and Donna came out, almost the last to leave after Sharon and Jack, whose freckles were crimson as he strode off, arm in arm with his laughing wife. Olen was now in plain clothes; he had the rest of the day off. “Have a cup of coffee with me,” he urged Gwen. “That bagel place across the street. I need to talk to you.”

  He settled her at a corner table, leaned across his coffee mug to gaze in her face. “I want to apologize,” he said, sounding breathless, as though it were a life-or-death matter with him if she didn’t accept what he had to say. When she waved his urgency away, he leaned even closer. “It was accidental, that death,” he said. “That was the jury’s conclusion and I accept it. So I’m sorry about accusing your hired boy, or your, um, husband. Though he’s in enough trouble without that, I’d say.”

  His voice had risen, and he took a deep breath, restrained himself. “I want you to forgive me, Gwen. I came on too strong. I wasn’t thinking of your feelings. I wasn’t thinking of you.”

  Gwen had to smile, he looked so terribly earnest, his face a blotchy red as if he were the one immersed in the deadly plant. “There’s no need for apologies, Olen. You were only doing your job. You had to look at everyone. Me, even. I might have done it.”

  He looked shocked. “Not you, Gwen. Never you. I never once suspected you. You’ve got to know that.”

  He reached for her hand and she pulled it back. A woman across the room was looking at them. “Not here,” she said. And then was sorry she’d said it. Not anywhere, not even at her home, was the true answer. “About Russell,” she said. “He found a shell bead, you see, from the grave. It was on the path leading to Balls’ farm. That was why he went up there. We went,” she amended.

  Olen settled back in his chair, cupped his mug—he hadn’t drunk the coffee yet, while her mug was almost empty. “Even so,” he said, the man of law again, “he should have called me. Or one of us. It wasn’t his job to trespass—I heard about it from Ball. He can’t do that, Gwen. You have to make him realize. I overlooked it this time—but next time, well.. . you know, I’d have to bring him in.”

  Gwen sighed, sipped the last drop of her coffee. Russell was so vulnerable, he wore his grievances on his sleeve. The thin veneer of Abenaki pride he wore masked generations of put-downs and prejudice. Maybe this was why he loved his work, underpaid as it was. The reenactments allowed him to run through the woods and defend his own; to be his ancestors.

  “Leave him alone, Olen. I’ll be responsible for him. I’ll make him behave. Just stay away from him. Please.”

&n
bsp; They sat in silence while he finished his coffee. The cup trembled in his hand. He looked feverish; she told him he should “take a little time off, get some R and R.”

  He said, “You know why I’m in civvies?”

  She looked up, questioning.

  “I’m the top speeding ticket writer, and yet Fallon’s grounding me for twenty-four hours. He says I ran some woman off the road. Not true!” His hands coiled into fists on the table’s edge. “I mean, I’ve brought in twice the revenue for the station.” He glanced at his watch. “Look, it’s only eleven-thirty. I have the rest of the day to fill up. How? I have to keep busy, Gwen— my head, my hands.”

  She stared at him. “Good Lord, Olen, I’d love to have time off. But the bees won’t let me. Today I go to Wolcott to split the hives there. I’d rather be home, the place needs cleaning. Mert can’t do it. And Russell—well, Russell tries, but he’s all thumbs.”

  She supposed she should ask Olen to come along with her to Wolcott. But Leroy was coming, the pair wouldn’t match. Leroy in his brand-new jeans—he’d even bought a secondhand car. Where did he get the money for that? Olen might wonder. Gwen thought, too, about something Leroy had told her about his Aunt Camille. She’d been married once, to a childhood friend. The marriage had lasted six months. Then she’d moved in with another friend, a woman. Leroy’s smile told her that Camille might have been lesbian. That would have made her, too, an outsider. Gwen was beginning to understand why the professor had been so impassioned in her research on the so-called “degenerate” women. Poor Camille. Gwen wished she had gotten to know her better.

  For some reason Gwen didn’t want Olen to know this about Camille. Ruth, though, would understand.

  “I have to go now, Olen, I really do. Why don’t you go to Burlington? To a bookstore. A movie. There’s a new cop film there, I saw it in the papers.”

  “I don’t watch cop films. They’re phony.”

  “Maybe you should see a doctor. Take something to calm your nerves.”

  She was sorry she’d suggested it when he jumped up, hovered above her stiffly, awkwardly, like a helicopter taking off, said he was sorry to take up her time. When she stood up, too, trying to smile, afraid she’d hurt his feelings, he said, “I think I’ll take another look at Ball’s place. That bead you said Russell found might give us just cause for an outdoor search, anyway. Like you say, it’s possible the fellow did take that skeleton. That’ll make it easier for you, right, Gwen? You won’t have to worry about Russell’s going up there if we find it?”

  “Sure,” she said. “But what about your day off? Aren’t you supposed to keep on the civilian clothes? Lie low, like the chief said?”

  “I still have my badge.” He patted his blue shirt pocket. “I’m still a police lieutenant. I’m still on the force.”

  Pride shone in his face. He wore the badge like a knight wore his armor. Who would dare try to remove it?

  Chapter Fourteen

  There was more than one reason to celebrate on Tuesday afternoon. Jane Eyre had produced, without intervention, a beautiful black and white heifer calf. As always, Ruth was thrilled. Jane was a good mother, she practically purred while the calf nursed. The euphoria increased when Sharon burst into the barn, hollering, “Jack did it! You should have heard him. He was a hero!” She shouted a word-by-word account of the proceedings as they all went back to the kitchen for a coffee celebration.

  “Hey, all I did was look up stuff in a couple of books,” Jack said, the freckles blossoming on his cheeks. “Belladonna’s an amazing plant. You gotta respect it.”

  Gwen did respect it, Ruth told him. “But I’m going over tomorrow to help her pull it up. I’m curious to see what it looks like—in case it’s growing here. Vic’s asthma, you know.”

  “I’d never do anything dumb like lying in a mess of nightshade,” said Vic, who was home from school with a spring cold. He blew his nose for emphasis.

  “Maybe not, but you never know. We’ll have a little ceremony, Gwen says. Oh, dear. I suppose I should have apologized to these daisies before I cut them. Plants do feel, they say. Do you think so, Jack?”

  “Of course,” Sharon said before Jack could open his mouth. “You have to thank the flowers. I always do. Plants not only feel, they communicate. Isn’t that right, Jack?”

  Jack told them how he’d cut down an aging maple tree on his property, and the one still standing nearby began to shed its leaves. “It wasn’t till I planted a new one that the second tree revived. I mean, trees do communicate chemically. They’re connected through fungal strands to other trees.”

  “See?” said Sharon, to whomever might disbelieve.

  “Jeezum,” said Vic, “now who’s being ridiculous?”

  Vic, Ruth observed, was going through a negative phase. He thought his sister Sharon “kooky.” He argued against his mother growing hemp, even Christmas trees. He helped with the calves, but otherwise wanted nothing to do with the farm. Obviously turned off by the whole conversation, he grabbed a plate of cheese and crackers and took it upstairs with him, where he could eat, read the O’Brian sea novels his father had sent him, and blow his nose in peace.

  “What’s with him?” Sharon asked, and Ruth just raised an eyebrow. What he really needed, she knew, was a father. But she couldn’t do anything about that at the moment.

  As if she’d read her mother’s mind, Sharon asked, “What do you hear from Dad? What’s going on with this farm deal? I thought he’d relent by now, come down on his price. I called him up, you know. I told him he was hurting all of us.”

  “Oh? How so?” Ruth asked.

  “Well, you’re our mother!” Sharon cried, her braid shaking loose with her indignation. “What happens to you affects us. If you go to the poorhouse we’ll have to bail you out.”

  “For chrissake, Sharon,” said Jack, who always took his mother-in-law’s side, “your mother’s not going to any poor-house. Anyway, they don’t have them anymore, do they?”

  “They call them shelters now,” said Sharon. “For the homeless.”

  “So that’s it,” said Ruth. “You’re worried about my landing on your doorstep. Well, my dear, you don’t have to worry about that. I can always sell the house and live in the barn. Snuggle up between a couple of cows, and who needs a woodstove?”

  “Not a bad idea,” Jack commented. “That’s what they did in the old days.”

  Ruth shot her son-in-law a grateful look. “But seriously, Pete’s not relenting. He wants his money. He’s giving me more time, I can say that for him. I may get a bigger loan from my bank. They’re considering. If I can get it, I’ll have your father off my back.”

  “They’re not getting along,” Sharon said with a little smile. “Dad and that phony actress. They’re still not married, you know. He pushed you into a divorce so he could marry and now he’s holding off. I wouldn’t get in a jam with too much bank interest.”

  “Ho ho,” said Jack, nursing an O’Doul’s. “Listen to who’s talking. What’s our credit card bill now—up to twenty thousand? At lemme see, ninety percent monthly interest?”

  “Well, it’s not all me!” cried Sharon, banging the table with her fists. “Two kids, and you work seasonally, and I work in the counseling service for peanuts.”

  “If you’re going to argue,” said Ruth, “do it at home. Where are the kids, anyway?”

  “At Martha’s Day Care. We’ve got to go get them. And Mother. It’s not true about the credit card. We only owe twelve thousand. The mortgage on the house you know, and the car payments. But we’re paying back. I mean, slowly.”

  “Who’s going to bail whom out of debtor’s prison now?” Ruth asked, smiling, and waved the couple off.

  Afterward, though, alone in the kitchen, she sank her chin in her hands. At this rate, they could all land in the shelter: mother, daughters, son, and grandkids. Pete sent a minimal check each month to help out with Emily’s college, but it didn’t stretch far beyond. She still had Vic to feed, and a hired ma
n who was willing to work for minimal pay and free milk and beef, but might not forever. At least Joey came free, God bless him. She was fond of that boy—though investigating the Godineaux, made her, for some reason, worry about him.

  “I’m thinking of changing the name of Willmarth Farm,” she told Colm when she’d rung him up at his real estate office. “I’m thinking of calling it Stone Broke Farm. It fits—both words. What do you think?”

  Colm laughed. “Is it really that bad, Ruthie? Look, I can give you another loan. I just sold a house on your road. The guy has two kids in Branbury College and wants to have a place for them to come to.”

  “College kids will be living in it? Whooping it up all night?”

  “Come, now, Ruthie, you were in college once.”

  “On scholarship,” she reminded him. “Anyway, I wanted to tell you. Tomorrow at ten we’ve got an appointment with a man called Shortsleeves. I don’t know what he can tell us about Pauline Godineaux, but we’ll try. He knew her back when.”

  “We, Ruthie? You and I?”

  “What other ‘we’ would I have in mind?”

  He chuckled. “Let me look at my calendar. If he’s anything like that Godineaux up on the mountain, you’ll need me. Four rifles in the rack and one pointed at me.”

  “Exactly my reasoning. I can’t leave Vic without a mother.”

  “There’s always Jane Eyre. Anyway, I’ve a real estate appointment, but I can change it. I’ll pick you up at nine. We can take my car.”

  “Did you have the muffler fixed?”

  “Not yet, but I’ve got an appointment for next week.”

  “We’ll go in my truck.”

  “The John Deere might be safer than that.”

  She told him to shut up, and then laughed, in spite of herself.

  * * * *

  Marcel Shortsleeves wasn’t a gun-running man at all; on the contrary, he was as short as his name implied, a mild-mannered septuagenarian with a high-pitched tenor voice. He sang, he told her, in a men’s quartet. They sang French-Canadian songs while another fellow played the fiddle. ‘We’re trying to get better known,” he said, handing her a brochure. “We do dances and weddings.” He winked at Colm.