And Marco no longer played football, ever. And he was marrying a skinny, vegetarian Southern Baptist. Oh, how things had changed.
“So what’s the story there, Elizabeth?”
Breathy and high-pitched, Miss Simms’s voice matched her ethereal appearance. She was a pale woman in her early forties, tall and willowy, with flaxen hair and big cornflower blue eyes. Miss Simms had the air of an absentminded professor; Rita always sensed that her mind was on something other than the mundane matter at hand, but all the same, Rita could find no fault in the biology teacher. She was unfailingly agreeable and always seemed in a perpetual state of wonder. Miss Simms was everything, in fact, that Miss Van Der Hooven was not and so their friendship struck Rita as very strange indeed.
“Angelica hasn’t been divorced,” Miss Van Der Hooven began, raising her voice loud enough to attract the attention of everyone in the immediate vicinity, “more than a month.”
As Rita expected, Miss Simms took the bait. “And she’s already engaged!” she exclaimed, wide-eyed.
“To” –Miss Van Der Hooven’s eyes narrowed—“her husband’s old rival. Jay Stiglitz and Craig Balducci were rivals for her affection, all the way back in high school. She was a cheerleader; they were on the football team right here at Acorn Hollow High. She picked Craig of course, who—”
“—is the coach of the Mount Washington Hawks,” Rita finished grimly. “Maybe that’s why the pranks are so nasty this time. It’s personal.”
“I’ll say.” Marion Von Beek, who had been sitting in the armchair next to Rose, leaned in and scrunched up her eyebrows. She was the town gossip, and Rita was sure she was savoring every minute. “He stole Craig’s wife.”
“Now, now,” Rita scolded her friend. “She’s a big girl. Angelica couldn’t be stolen unless she wanted to be.”
Miss Van Der Hooven popped up the leg rest and kicked off her shoes. “Or someone encouraged her.” Licking her lips and lowering her voice, she added, “In the form of photos of her husband—ex-husband now—with a hooker. Angelica was devastated.”
“How do you know that?” Marion asked.
“I know everything. That’s why they should have picked me over Christa McAuliffe.”
Rita took this as her cue to exit the conversation. The last thing she wanted to do was get stuck listening to Miss Van Der Hooven’s rant about Christa McAuliffe again. “Time to circulate,” she said brightly, jumping up from the couch.
As she stood up, she caught a glimpse of Angelica behind her, who was now deep in conversation with Mary Beth Walker, the principal’s wife. She shot a warning glare in Miss Van Der Hooven and Miss Simms’s direction, indicating Angelica’s presence with a little backward nod of the head.
Her twin leapt to her feet as well. “That’s right,” Rose said hastily, with more than a touch of pride. “Now that Rita’s a reporter for the Morris County Gazette, she’s got to always be talking to people. You know, in search of her next scoop.”
“Oh?” Miss Simms swilled the wine in her glass. “What kind of stories are you writing?”
“A little of everything, but mostly personal interest stories. In fact, I just filed one about Miss Van Der Hooven. It should run this week.”
Miss Simms’s eyes widened even further than usual. “Elizabeth,” she gushed, “you didn’t tell me you were going to be famous.”
“Well, it’s not the New York Times,” her friend replied modestly, fingering her bearded dragon brooch, but Rita could tell she was pleased with herself.
Turning back to Rita, Miss Simms said, “I have a story idea for you.”
Rita was stunned. Miss Simms was a good teacher and a very pleasant woman, but hardly interesting enough for a human-interest piece. But then maybe she had a student in mind—someone who was a contender in the state science fair. Or a wacky neighbor hoarding priceless Revolutionary War-era antiques in his attic.
“Oh?”
“My poison garden.”
“Your—what?” Rita sputtered. On many a sunny afternoon, Rita had walked Luciano and Cesare past Miss Simms’s rambling Victorian manse, pausing to admire the tidy garden beyond the white picket fence. It was true that she hadn’t actually been able to identify many plants other than the lilies of the valley; unlike her garden, which was a veritable cornucopia of the region’s bounty, Miss Simms’s garden did not seem to contain anything edible. But she never would have guessed that any of the decorative flowers and shrubs was deadly. If anything, she’d be more inclined—although only very slightly more inclined—to believe that the garden contained plants with mildly narcotic properties. Vinnie insisted that Miss Simms was cultivating marijuana, but Rita assumed that this was merely a figment of Vinnie’s overactive imagination or, in her more cynical moments, attributed it to wishful thinking on Vinnie’s part.
“Poison garden,” Miss Simms repeated. “Every plant in my garden is poisonous. In some cases, a single drop could kill.” She took a sip of wine and emitted a little sigh of pleasure. “Do you think that’s peculiar? I guess all biology teachers—good ones, anyway, ones who really love their field—have a little hobby that’s related to their work. Elizabeth has her bearded dragons; I’ve got my plants. I have a Master’s degree in botany, you know.”
Rita pushed the contents of her plate around for a few moments, trying to hide her astonishment. “Well, how interesting,” she finally managed to say. “I’m sure our readers would find a story on your garden fascinating.”
“Then it’s settled.” Miss Simms sounded confident, commanding—nothing, in fact, like the mousy, deferential biology teacher that Rita had known for years. “Come by tomorrow after Mass and I’ll give you a tour.”
Chapter Five
Rita didn’t need a map to find Miss Simms’s house. It was a few blocks north of Elm Street, near the park. Even on a street lined with charming old Victorians, hers stood out, with its gleaming black shutters, lace curtains, porch swing, and enormous wrap-around porch. The cherry red door was adorned with stalks of Indian corn, the maple tree in the corner of her lot was blazing orange, and the rest of her yard was arranged in lovingly tended raised garden beds with nary a weed in sight.
But plenty of noxious plants, apparently.
Rita pushed open the gate of the white picket fence, plodded up the red brick walkway, and rapped twice on the door. The door flung open, and Rita struggled to suppress a smile. Clearly expecting a photo shoot, Miss Simms was dressed in an expensive navy-blue blazer and swathed in strands of pink pearls, her hair and makeup flawless.
“Ready for the grand tour?” Miss Simms asked. Without waiting for an answer, she took Rita by the arm and led her just a few feet back down the brick path.
“Now these,” Miss Simms said, indicating the perfectly manicured evergreen hedges that crept beneath her front windows, festively adorned with round red berries, “are primitive conifers related to the monkey puzzle tree in Chile and the Gingko biloba tree in Asia. They were considered sacred by the Greeks, Romans, and Druids and associated with immortality, rebirth, and access to the underworld. When you see yews in England, they often mark a burial site.”
“Are there any bodies buried here?” Rita joked.
“Oh, loads.”
Miss Simms’s blue eyes were wide and innocent, and Rita tried not to drop her pen in astonishment.
“Loads?”
“Well, there’s Mitzi and Fred and Ginger and Orange Julius—”
Rita breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, your cats.”
“Yes, all seven of them. Plus three of Elizabeth’s bearded dragons. They live a surprisingly long time, you know. Then there’s Chip, a baby rabbit I rescued from the backyard. His mother abandoned him and I did the best I could to nurse him back to health but, well, I think he died of a broken heart. And last, but certainly not least, there’s poor Frank’s finger.”
“Frank?”
“An old boyfriend of mine. That was years ago. He cut off his finger by accident while choppin
g some onions and, well, we couldn’t think of any better place to bury it.”
Rita could feel her eggs Benedict churning in her stomach. She had once seen a sign for the burial site of Stonewell Jackson’s arm while on an interminably long family road trip to Florida. But the intervening one hundred and thirty-odd years, as well as the patina of historical importance, had sanitized that somehow. The bloody severed finger of bumbling Frank, on the other hand, seemed more like a grisly memento of a failed relationship, and one that should have been jettisoned as hygienically and with as little fanfare as possible.
“Now, over here,” Miss Simms continued, pulling Rita briskly along to the edge of the first raised flowerbed, “are what look like marijuana plants.”
Aha. So that’s what Vinnie was referring to. Rita tried to nod sagely as if to say, of course, I would recognize pot anywhere. In reality, even though she had lived through the swinging sixties, it was not really in her nature to “experiment,” as Sal would say. Vinnie certainly didn’t get that gene from her.
Miss Simms tut-tutted and shook her head emphatically. “But it’s not marijuana. It’s actually the plant of the castor bean. They remove the ricin—that’s the poison the Soviets used to carry out the assassination of a Bulgarian dissident in London using the tip of an umbrella—from the bean before making castor oil.”
“What a relief,” Rita murmured, struggling to write as fast as Miss Simms spoke. She brightened as she glimpsed a plant that she actually recognized. “But now that is lily of the valley. Even with the blooms gone, I’d recognize that anywhere. But surely you wouldn’t call that tox—”
“Oh, but I would!” Miss Simms exclaimed. “Just because it’s common and beautiful doesn’t mean it’s not dangerous. If you eat it, you’ll start vomiting, have explosive diarrhea and abdominal pain, and it causes an irregular heart beat.”
Rita nodded, her head spinning. She took notes furiously as Miss Simms pointed out the white snake root, which had clusters of tiny spiky white flowers, and recited, in hushed tones, the tale of Abraham Lincoln’s mother, who died after drinking milk from cows that had munched on its tasty flowers.
By the time they were in front of a plant that was laden with what looked like very dark blueberries, Rita was fighting the urge to fling her notebook and pen in her purse and bury her hands in her pockets. She was afraid of accidentally touching a poisonous plant, or bumping into it, or even just breathing wrong—a fear that Miss Simms’s admonition not to “sniff anything—and I mean anything” did nothing to allay.
“Now this is belladonna,” the biology teacher said proudly.
Rita instinctively translated from the Italian. “Beautiful woman.”
“How did you—oh, yes, I guess you would know that. Yes, it was called ‘beautiful woman’ because the Venetian ladies of court used eye drops made from it to dilate their pupils—apparently large pupils were considered beautiful during the Renaissance. It’s also called devil’s cherry, and every part is toxic because it contains the alkaloid atropine. Since it interferes with the body’s ability to regulate sweating, breathing, and the heartbeat, it’s quite often fatal. Plutarch described whole armies wiped out by this plant and, according to legend, Macbeth’s soldiers poisoned Danish invaders with wine made from it. The fruit tastes very sweet, you see.”
Miss Simms pointed to the left. “Now this one has atropine too. Plus hyoscyamine and scopolamine. Datura Stramonium, also known as devil’s trumpet.”
The name certainly fit. They were long fluted white flowers that hung down towards the ground, flaring out at the bottom like the horn of a trumpet.
“It’s a member of the nightshade family.”
Rita frowned, thinking of all the nightshades used in Italian cooking. “You mean like tomatoes, peppers, and eggplants?”
Miss Simms nodded. “And potatoes and tobacco. Those edible nightshades contain toxins too—although much milder—and concentrated in the parts we don’t eat, like the leaves. Devil’s trumpet is a rather popular way to commit suicide in India, and in small amounts, it’s considered an aphrodisiac.” She shot Rita a coy little smile. “Appropriate, isn’t it? There’s such a fine line between what attracts you and what kills you. Love is dangerous.”
Rita shuddered slightly and looked over her shoulder towards the yew trees, thinking of poor Frank’s finger. After this little interview, she’d never look at Miss Simms the same way again.
There was just something not quite right about her.
An electronic version of “Va, Pensiero” from La Traviata began emanating from the depths of Rita’s purse. “Sorry,” she mouthed as she whipped out her phone and retreated to the corner by the maple tree. “Rita Calabrese, Morris County Gazette.”
“Rita, it’s Sam. Listen, I know it’s Sunday, but, I need you to haul ass—”
Before she could stop herself, Rita coughed, the way she always did when her children used foul language.
“Er, I mean, hurry over,” Sam corrected herself, “to the hospital. Coach Stiglitz was admitted this morning.”
When Rita walked in, Angelica was staring at the TV without really watching it, tears streaming down her face. Connected to tubes and monitors and things that beeped, Coach Stiglitz was fast asleep in the hospital bed beside her. Rita could hardly believe that this was the same seemingly robust man she had seen just last night at the Athletic Boosters party.
Angelica wiped her nose and regarded the older woman with an expression more doleful than curious. “Rita, what are you doing here?”
“Coming to see the patient, dear.” Rita clasped Angelica’s hand in her own, gave it a squeeze, and kissed the younger woman on the cheek. “Plus, my editor sent me to get the story. With your permission of course. Everyone will want the latest update on the coach’s condition.”
Angelica kicked the floor, a hint of bitterness in her voice. “Yeah, with the Homecoming game next week.”
“Oh, cara, I know that’s the last thing on your mind. Sal had a little heart scare once—it turned out to be not much of anything—but the nursery was closed for a couple of days in May just when everyone was putting in their gardens. I got so tired of everyone asking ‘When is the nursery re-opening?’ I just wanted to scream, ‘Sorry, but my husband’s life is more important than your petunias’.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Well, maybe I did, once or twice.”
Angelica laughed while Rita rummaged around in her purse and extracted a bag of the homemade almond biscotti that Florentines call cantucci, a small bottle of vino santo, and two little plastic cups. “Want some?”
“Oh, thank goodness. The cafeteria food is terrible. It’s brown. Absolutely everything’s brown.”
Rita poured two glasses. Angelica dipped her cantucci in the dessert wine, took a bite, and smiled. “Just like my nonna’s.”
“She was a Monteferrante, right?”
Angelica nodded. “Did you know her?”
“Of course, cara. Everyone knew everyone back then. She was going steady with my mom’s cousin when I was a little girl. I thought she was so glamorous. She used to wear these angora sweaters, and my mom’s cousin would come home covered in fur after a night dancing with her. She really knew how to mark her man.”
Rita dipped her cantucci in the wine and took a bite. “Monteferrante means ‘iron mountain,’ you know. That’s what she was like. A really strong woman. Your nonna was a tower of strength when your grandfather got hurt in that factory accident.” She pointed at Angelica with her biscotti. “And you’re the same way. I know it may not seem like it now. But you’re strong and you will get through this.”
“Sure,” Angelica mumbled, shooting a glance at her fiancé, “but will he?”
Rita sighed. “What happened?”
“Rita, it was the strangest thing. We slept in after the party this morning, and everything seemed fine. He went into the master bathroom, I heard him cry out and when I went to go check up on him, he was glassy-eyed,
immobile, and having trouble breathing. So I called 9-1-1, and the ambulance came and brought him here.”
“And what do they think it is?”
“That’s the really crazy thing.” Angelica swallowed, hard. “They claim he was injected with ketamine. It’s a party drug apparently—somewhat common on the gay party circuit—but usually it’s snorted or swallowed if taken recreationally.”
“And the injectable kind?”
“Used as horse tranquilizer.”
Rita put down her cup. Now that was a twist. “Did you ask how much time elapses between injection and the onset of symptoms?”
“A few minutes.”
“Are you telling me,” Rita said slowly, “that they think he injected it into himself?”
Andrea sighed and threw up her hands. “Well, it seems to be the only possible explanation. When I found him, he had an empty syringe next to him.”
“But what did he think he was injecting?”
Angelica shook her head, and a tear rolled down her face. “Beats me. It shows you don’t really know anyone, do you?” She glanced over at the coach. Her voice broke, and her chin quavered. “Not even your fiancé.”
Slinging an arm around the distraught young woman, Rita cradled her against her shoulder and rubbed her back. “Non piangere, cara,” Rita murmured into Angelica’s dark mass of curls, slipping into Italian. Speaking in the dulcet tones of her mother’s native tongue somehow seemed more maternal, more comforting. She had done that often with her own children, and they had seemed to understand. But Angelica either didn’t understand, or as was almost universally true, telling her not to cry had just the opposite effect. The room was filled with shuddering, heaving sobs; Angelica quaked in Rita’s arms.
When she finally extracted herself from Rita’s embrace and looked up, Angelica’s face was red and blotchy, her curls matted against her wet temples. Rita pulled a tissue out of her purse and handed it to Angelica, who mechanically wiped her eyes even as the tears kept silently flowing.
The Secret Poison Garden (Rita Calabrese Book 1) Page 3