by Gail Oust
Thankfully the wonton soup arrived just then. I crumbled noodles into it, stalling for time while I digested all Sheila was telling me. “I’m sure Rita just needed time to adjust to the notion,” I said on my friend’s behalf.
“If Rita had had her way, I’d have found a quiet spot elsewhere for Vaughn and me to complete our book.” Sheila’s lips curled in a mirthless smile. “She changed her tune quickly enough once I offered to speak to her precious garden club.”
“It turned out to be quite a coup for Rita personally,” I said, sampling my soup and finding it delicious. “Not only did you attend Flowers and Bowers’s annual banquet, but you graciously consented to be guest speaker afterward at a lecture open to the public.”
“I also presented the Garden of the Year award,” Sheila added modestly. “Contrary to what Rita might have told you, it was the board of directors, not her, who issued the invitation to appear.”
“You don’t sound as though you like her very much.” Even as I said this I felt disloyal to a dear friend.
“It’s more as if I don’t…trust her.”
I stared into Sheila’s perfectly made-up, unlined face. “Surely you don’t think she’d do anything to harm you,” I asked, aghast.
Sheila daintily sipped tea. “I’m merely saying that Rita’s been jealous of me since the day we met. Jealousy, Kate, tends to bring out the worst in some people. It can cause an insecure person to resort to extreme measures.”
I resisted the urge to squirm. Girl-pal bonding or not, I didn’t like the direction of this conversation. “Even if Rita harbors a grudge against you,” I said, clearing my throat, “why harm Vaughn, a man she barely knew?”
The question hung between us like dense fog on a winter morning.
Su Me returned, whisked away my half-finished soup, and replaced it with an egg roll and several cellophane packets of sweet and sour sauce. I shoved the egg roll aside, curious to hear what Sheila would say next. I didn’t have to wait long.
“Don’t get me wrong, Kate. I never meant to imply Rita would harm me in any way.” She traced her fingertips along the condensate on her glass of ice water. “I only wanted to let you know how she feels about me.”
She looked so dejected I couldn’t help but feel a stab of pity. Beauty, brains, and success didn’t necessarily spell H-A-P-P-Y.
“My poor, darling Vaughn,” Sheila said with a catch in her voice. Grabbing a napkin, she dabbed at her eyes. “Every time I think of him, my heart breaks.”
General Tso’s chicken chose that moment of high drama to make its fragrant appearance, but I’d lost my appetite. I’m not saying I still wasn’t hungry, just not as hungry. There’s a fine line between the two. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I mumbled, reverting to the tried and true. When it comes to clichés, I have a lifetime subscription.
Sheila sat up straighter, leaned forward, and lowered her voice. “I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought, Kate. At first I believed whoever did this evil deed wanted both Vaughn and me dead. But my mind’s clearer now. I no longer believe Vaughn was the intended victim. It was me—and only me—all along. Dear, sweet, Vaughn unfortunately was collateral damage.”
I speared a chunk of my General Tso’s and chewed. Collateral damage? That seemed an odd way to describe the death of a loved one, a paramour. “What made you change your mind?”
“Vaughn was so easygoing, so low key.” Sheila blinked rapidly to stem a flood of tears. “Everyone loved him; it was impossible not to. He didn’t have an enemy in the world.”
I don’t know about his enemies, but I did know Sheila was delusional if she thought Vaughn was well liked. At least according to the bits of conversation I’d overheard. I decided then and there to work the case, so to speak, from two angles—Vaughn’s and Sheila’s. Both were victims, one more fortunate than the other—one being alive, the other cremated. It also occurred to me that if Sheila was right, and she was the intended victim, whoever was responsible might very well try again.
I poked at my lunch. My thoughts scattered, an occurrence I generally blame on menopause for lack of a better excuse. Maybe I should have ordered something that hadn’t been baptized in a pot of hot grease. What was it about deep-fried that appealed to my taste buds? Belatedly I recalled Bubba’s hand-breaded shrimp that I’d eaten Saturday night. With each mouthful I’d imagined ugly plaque clogging my arteries. When was the last time I had my LDL and HDL checked? How high were my lipids? And did I even want to know?
“Something wrong, Kate?” Sheila asked, interrupting my cholesterol triage.
“Who’d want you dead?” I asked as I scooped up a forkful of rice. “Surely you must have your suspicions.”
Sheila leaned back in the booth, arms folded over her chest. “I’ve made my share of enemies over the years.”
She sounded remarkably calm for a woman who feared for her life. I’d already begun my list of potential members of the Murder of the Month Club. But I couldn’t help but wonder who topped hers. In for a penny, in for a pound. Only one way to find out and that was to ask. “If you had to venture a guess, who do you think would try to kill you?”
A mere hint of a frown marred Sheila’s usually smooth brow. Whether a defect in Belle Beaute or Botox, I couldn’t say. “I’d hate to point a finger without proof,” she replied slowly, “but…”
“But…?”
Her expression, from what I could see beneath the brim of her hat, appeared pensive. “Kel Watson,” Sheila answered. “That man gives me the creeps. The way he persists in showing up where he isn’t wanted scares me. He refuses to leave me alone. I feel as though he’s stalking me.”
“I couldn’t help but notice your reaction at the hospital, and again at the reception following Vaughn’s service.” I pushed my plate aside and signaled for a to-go box. “How long has this been going on?”
“It all started when he came to the set of How Does Your Garden Grow?”
“What did he want?”
“Kel insisted on forming a partnership of sorts in some half-baked scheme he’d conjured up. He assumed that since we were both botanists I’d go along with his idea. Well, he was mistaken. I wanted no part of his wild scheme and told him so in no uncertain terms. But did he let the matter rest? No. He refused to take ‘no’ for an answer.”
Kel Watson looked like an aging hippie, but a harmless one. During my brief stint as a detective-in-training, however, I’d learned appearances can be deceiving. I promised myself to check out the county extension agent first chance I got.
Sheila leaned over and clutched my hand. “Will you get to the bottom of this for me, Kate? I desperately need you on my side. You have an easy way with people that I admire. Everyone seems to like you. And best of all, you have an inquiring mind. From everything Rita’s told me, Sheriff Wiggins values the help you’ve given him in the past.”
I nearly choked on my egg roll at hearing this. “Well, I’m not so sure that’s the case,” I said, stifling a laugh, “but I’ll do what I can. After all, what are friends for?”
She gave my hand a squeeze. “Thanks, Kate. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
Lounging against the booth, I reached for the fortune cookie Su Me had deposited along with the check. I broke it open and read the message printed on a narrow ribbon of paper: Jealousy is the dragon in paradise.
How apropos, I thought with a grimace. Would jealousy also be the dragon in Serenity Cove Estates?
Chapter 15
No time like the present.
Instead of driving straight home after leaving Sheila, I decided that as long as I was in town anyway I might as well pay a visit to my extension agent—and prospective murder suspect. Though I’d never been there before I knew the Brookdale County Extension Office was housed on the second floor of the old bank building. The first floor of the weathered brick structure had been converted into an antiques store. I entered by a side door and climbed stairs creaky and concave from years of foot traffi
c.
My tentative knock was answered by a gruff, “Door’s not locked. C’mon in.”
Kel Watson sat with his feet propped on a desk that to my unpracticed eye wavered in the nether region between just plain old and antique. He gave me a quick once-over as he swung his booted feet to the floor. He motioned me to have a seat on the one and only chair that wasn’t piled a mile high with journals while he continued his phone conversation. From what I overheard, I gathered that the person on the other end of the line was having sod problems. The terms “fescue” and “zoysia” provided a solid clue. Kel Watson, much to his credit, was patient to a fault, diplomatic even, as he reviewed the merits of each.
I gingerly lowered myself into the cracked leather chair he’d indicated and took advantage of the opportunity to leisurely study him and his surroundings. No one could ever accuse the man of being handsome. His nose was too large for his narrow face, his mouth too wide. His skin was tanned the color of tobacco, furrowed by a lifelong exposure to the harsh Carolina sun without benefit of SPF. Hair, more salt than pepper, was skinned back into a ponytail. He would have blended seamlessly into the Haight-Ashbury scene back in the midsixties. Unfortunately for Kel, times had changed and Brookdale County was a far cry from Haight-Ashbury.
The office was much like the man himself—outdated. The hardwood floor showed wear and tear; the institutional beige walls cried for a fresh coat of paint. A computer, the once-white monitor yellowed with age, occupied a corner of the desk. Bookshelves along one wall sagged beneath the burden of reference books and journals. A rack on the wall next to the door was crammed with brochures with titles such as “Pesticide Safety,” “Fire Ants in the Vegetable Garden,” and “Food-borne Illnesses.”
Hmm. Interesting. I was forever curious about others’ taste in reading material. Whether at an airport or pool-side, I could never resist sneaking a peek to see what people were reading. Whodunits versus romance versus bestsellers. I recalled how much fun a bunch of us regulars at a Florida time-share had floating around the pool with our foam noodles and casting the characters in a popular mystery series.
The debate between fescue and zoysia raged on. Bored, I started to dig through my purse for a nail file when I noticed a glossy brochure that must’ve slid off his desk and landed on the floor. Naturally I bent and picked it up. Much to my surprise, it had nothing to do with landscape gardening and everything to do with cosmetics—Belle Beaute in particular. The products listed promised to renew and regenerate, to revitalize aging complexions and smooth out wrinkles. Who could resist such claims? I darted a glance at Kel. Was he seriously thinking of purchasing creams and lotions promising to make him appear years younger? Was he trying to impress someone? Sheila Rappaport, perhaps?
I viewed my visit today as a reconnaissance mission of sorts. I intended to get the lay of the land, so to speak. Find out what made the man tick. Just because Kel Watson gave Sheila a case of the willies didn’t give me a green light to come right out and ask him if he was a stalker.
Or worse yet, a crazed killer.
His call concluded, Kel hung up the phone and turned his attention to me. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said.
His voice, though deep and pleasant, was no match for Sheriff Wiggins’s smooth-as-molasses baritone. I held out the brochure still clutched in my hot little hand. “I’ve been told Belle Beaute has an excellent line of face creams and moisturizers. Expensive, but I’m thinking of trying them myself.”
A dark flush spread across Kel’s high cheekbones. Springing to his feet, he snatched the brochure from my hand, stuffed it into a desk drawer, and slammed it shut.
What was that all about? I wondered as I watched it disappear. Was he afraid folks would find out he was a closet face cream and moisturizer kind of guy?
Kel lowered his lanky body into his chair and asked, “How can I help you, ma’am?”
You can start by telling me if you poisoned Vaughn Bascomb and Sheila Rappaport. “Ah, I’m Kate McCall,” I replied, reverting to the more conventional greeting. It’s never wise to antagonize a potential killer if it can be avoided. It wouldn’t do to come right out and accuse the man of being Sheila’s nemesis and crazy stalker guy—at least not at our first “official” meeting.
Elbows planted on the armrests of his chair, he studied me over steepled fingers and quietly waited for me to speak. I noted he had the large, callused hands of a laborer, the fingers square-tipped, the nails clipped short. He wasn’t wearing a wedding band and, from lack of a tan line, hadn’t for some time. Note to self: Ask Rita what she knows of Kel’s background.
I cleared my throat. “Please, call me Kate. It’s less formal.”
“All right, Kate,” he said. Leaning forward, he folded those strong, capable hands on the desk in front of him, pious as a priest waiting for a confession. “Suppose you tell me your problem.”
Instantly I felt guilty. Should I cross myself or genuflect…? “Um, sorry. I bought too many plants at Lowe’s and now I don’t know what to do with them.” Was my transgression horticulture gluttony or simple botanical lust?
“Well, that’s not so terrible,” he said, absolving me with a kind smile. “Now, tell me what you purchased, and I’ll make some suggestions.”
Your sins are forgiven. Five “Our Fathers” and ten “Hail Mary’s.”
“Lantanas…?”
“Lantanas are a good choice.” He nodded approvingly. “They’re tough as nails. Thrive in our hot, dry summers. Butterflies are drawn to them like a magnet, but the deer leave them alone.”
“What about Lenten roses?” I fumbled through my purse for pen and paper. This information was too good to trust to a memory susceptible to “senior” moments.
“Lenten roses, also known as hellebore, prefer full or partial shade. Deer also tend to avoid them.”
I made a note of this on a Piggly Wiggly cash register receipt I’d found crumpled at the bottom of my purse. “And last but not least, hydrangeas.”
“Pretty things, aren’t they? Hydrangeas are a little trickier to grow than, for instance, lantana. Their color is affected by the pH in the soil—blue flowers require acidic soil, pink or red like alkaline.”
I scribbled like mad to jot all this down. “Where do they grow best?”
“Plant them where they’ll get morning sun, but light shade in the afternoon.”
My head swirled with do’s and don’ts as I rose to leave. Morning sun, light shade? I was going have to pack a picnic lunch and spend a day getting better acquainted with my yard. My respect for gardeners was growing by leaps and bounds. I had always ascribed to the dig-a-hole-in-the-ground-and-hope-for-the-best theory. No wonder I had so many failures. No wonder my late husband had hired a landscaper.
Kel rose too. “The whole time we’ve been talking, I’ve been thinking you look familiar. Have we met before?”
I tugged my lower lip while I debated my answer. Of course I could admit I was at the Cove Café after Vaughn’s memorial service and witnessed Sheila’s meltdown. I might even mention I was in Sheila’s hospital room and watched her faint dead away at the sight of him. Nah, too much information. Instead, I took a chance he hadn’t noticed me in the shadow of Rita’s big knockers. “I, um, attended a couple of your lectures with a friend of mine.”
My answer seemed to mollify him since he turned his attention away from me and toward his computer.
I was about to leave when I turned back with another question. “Why do deer leave certain plants and shrubs alone, but eat others like candy?”
Kel looked up from making an entry. “There are a number of theories. Some folks insist deer sense which ones are poisonous, which ones aren’t. Others believe poisonous plants aren’t all that tasty. Guess you’ll have to ask a deer to find out the real answer.”
I stood, one hand on the doorknob, while I processed all this. “You just finished telling me deer leave lantana and Lenten roses alone. Are you saying they’re poisonous?”
�
��Yep,” he drawled. “Even your pretty hydrangeas contain low levels of cyanide.” He resumed his hunt-and-peck typing. “Just don’t eat them, and you’ll be fine.”
Poison in my very own yard—and in countless yards throughout the South, I marveled as I descended the stairs, careful not to touch the grimy banister. How convenient for someone with murder on their mind.
“I’m ready to officially join the garden club. Sign me up.”
I sensed Rita’s hesitation from three blocks away.
“Are you sure you’ve thought this through?” she asked.
“Positive. I’m turning over a new leaf.” I giggled. I’d quite literally be turning over new leaves as well as old ones. “My ultimate goal is to have one of those cute Garden of the Month plaques in my front yard.”
“Remember ceramics?”
Leave it to Rita to remind me of my failures. Ceramics, by the way, happens to be much more difficult than people realize. I tried it for a time with limited success. Then to add insult to injury, my masterpiece, a sweet, little birdhouse that had taken months to complete, had exploded in the kiln.
“Remember salsa dancing? Kayaking? Duplicate bridge?”
“This is different,” I protested. “Gardening doesn’t require coordination.”
Rita heaved a sigh. “Kate, you ought to have a sign over your door that reads: DEATH TO HOUSEPLANTS. Somehow you even managed to kill the ZZ plant I gave you. A plant practically guaranteed indestructible.”
I felt bad, I really did, over the plant’s untimely demise. In my opinion, ideal houseplants should be able to tolerate long periods of drought followed by flash floods. “Gardening can’t be much different than cooking, right?” I asked, rallying my defense.
I heard Rita’s groan on the other end of the line.
“All one has to do is read the recipe typed on those plastic plant-stick things and follow the directions. If I can make a soufflé, how hard can it be to grow a plant?”