by Gail Oust
I wanted to give myself a good swift kick. A sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach told me I’d blabbed too much. If I were any judge of character, Steven would be on the phone with Jen before the sun rose over the Santa Monica Mountains.
Time to beat a dignified retreat. “Wish I had more time to talk, dear, but gotta run.”
I turned to Bill after disconnecting. “That went well, don’t you think?”
Bill simply shrugged his shoulders and smiled. A Renaissance man if there ever was one.
“Ladies, I’m the bearer of both good news and bad news.”
The announcement made by a man who introduced himself as Just-Call-Me-Thomas was met by eighteen groans. My groan would have made nineteen, but since I was new to the group, I kept my comments—and my groans—to myself. We were clumped around the entrance to Dixie Gardens Nursery in North Augusta, South Carolina. Now this might sound weird when most know Augusta is in the state of Georgia. The city of North Augusta, however, resides along the opposite bank of the Savannah River in South Carolina. Got that? North Augusta is in South Carolina?
Dixie Gardens Nursery was housed in a story-and-a half building constructed of weathered gray siding that boasted a cute little cupola atop its red metal roof. Trim around doors and windows was painted a spanking bright white. Plants were everywhere, giving it a look of—what else?—a garden. Baskets of ferns hung from porch rafters. Planters spaced at frequent intervals overflowed with flowers, red, purple, pink, and white, and trailing vines. Someday, I vowed, I’d know all the names of these pretty blooms. But that was a little too much to expect on my first day as a provisional garden club member.
“Johnny Wade Barrow couldn’t be with us today,” Just-call-me-Thomas continued. “His wife’s cousin twice removed passed unexpectedly. That’s the bad news, ladies. Now for the good.” Just-call-me-Thomas rubbed callused hands together in anticipation, clearly enjoying his time in the limelight. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased to learn that Brookdale’s very own county extension agent, Mr. Kelvin Watson, has agreed to give you a guided tour of our wonderful facility.”
I noticed a lot of smiles, a lot of head bobbing, and murmurs of approval from the Flowers and Bowers bunch. With Kel as tour guide du jour, the day promised to become even more interesting.
“Kel and Johnny Wade’s friendship dates back to when the Dixie Gardens was first established. I’m sure Kel will be able to answer any questions y’all might have,” Just-call-me-Thomas said, completing the introduction.
As if on cue, Kel stepped out and was met with a round of enthusiastic applause. He, too, had dressed for the occasion in gardening casual, which for him consisted of pressed denims and a plaid work shirt. His sharp, angular features were partially hidden by the brim of a woven hat. Each time he turned his head, I glimpsed the neat gray ponytail trailing between his shoulder blades.
Kel stuffed his hands into his jean pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Actually, ladies, Johnny Wade Barrow and I go back even further than Dixie Gardens. We knew each other as kids growing up in Ninety Six. The gang used to call him ‘Wheel Barrow.’”
Ninety Six isn’t a number, mind you, but a name of a town located east of Due West. Jim, my late husband, and I used to chuckle at some of the quirky names of small towns. Towns with names such as Ninety Six, Due West, Caesar’s Head, and Travelers Rest. My friend Joyce recently mentioned there’s actually a North, South Carolina. Sure enough. I looked it up on a map and found out it’s not even in the northern part of South Carolina, but south toward Charleston. For trivia fans, I’ll have you know North happens to be the birthplace of entertainer Eartha Kitt. But once again, I digress.
“…about to have a behind-the-scenes tour of one of the finest wholesale nurseries in the entire state of South Carolina,” Kel rambled. “And let me tell you, ladies, that’s no mean feat. Afterward you’ll have the opportunity to purchase plants not yet available in retail stores. Now, if you’ll kindly follow me.”
I kept close to Rita as we trailed Kel down a brick walkway. While the garden club members were friendly, they weren’t overtly so. Could they sense my deplorable lack of a green thumb? “I’m thinking of relandscaping my yard,” I announced to anyone within distance.
Rita rolled her eyes. “Kate, I swear, you could kill an artificial plant.”
“Landscaping can be quite a project,” said a prune-faced woman on my right.
“Maybe you should hire someone with experience,” advised a Clairol blond by the name of JoAnn.
“How hard can it be? Dig a hole, pop in a plant, then sit back and watch it grow.”
My statement set off a flurry of body parts. Eyes rolled; tongues clucked; heads wagged. I felt the sharp sting of censure. Apparently, I’d committed a faux pas. Was there more to gardening than I thought? To cover my embarrassment, I bent down and examined a plant that looked vaguely familiar.
“Ah, I see someone admiring our gardenias.” Kel paused and shifted into lecture mode. “To my mind, no plant expresses the grace of the South better than the gardenia. Nothing can compare with their exotic fragrance. Gardenias were originally imported from China and are sometimes called Cape Jasmine. As you can see, the plant’s snowy white blooms create a nice contrast against its glossy, dark green leaves. Remember, ladies, gardenias need good drainage and acid soil containing organic matter.”
Acid soil and drainage, right. I pulled out my notebook and jotted this down.
“Since gardenias thrive in heat and high humidity, they’re an excellent choice for this climate,” Kel told the group.
“I have a question,” I said, raising my hand. “Are they poisonous?”
“No, ma’am,” Kel answered politely. I could see from his expression that he recognized me. “Let’s move on, shall we?”
The group shuffled along, stopping here and there to check out a certain bush or shrub. Rita seemed to have forgotten my presence—or maybe her forgetting was accidentally on purpose.
Kel stopped in front of a display of lush purple-blue flowers. I was pleased as punch I recognized them by name—hydrangeas. The same plants I’d purchased from Lowe’s. “Hydrangeas work well as single plants, massed, or in tubs on the patio,” he explained. “Their color is affected by the pH of the soil. Bluest shades are produced in strongly acid soil. Pink or red in neutral to alkaline soil.”
I actually knew this from my previous conversation with Kel. All right, on a written quiz I might’ve gotten my acid and alkaline reversed, but I knew color varied with soil. Most of the women nodded as if they’d been born with this knowledge embedded in their infantile brains. None of them looked like they’d be caught dead not knowing such a basic. Well, I wasn’t too proud to ask questions so I raised my hand and felt Rita’s elbow in my ribs. “Honestly, Kate,” she hissed, “this isn’t grade school.”
“Fine,” I muttered under my breath. Then instead of my hand, I raised my voice and called out, “Excuse me, Mr. Watson, er, Kel…”
He had been about to proceed farther into the nursery, but stopped and turned. “Yes…?”
“Isn’t it true that hydrangeas are poisonous?” I already knew the answer, but asked anyway. People should be aware of this. If the Freedom of Information Act didn’t apply to plant life, maybe it should.
“They contain low levels of cyanide,” he answered hesitantly.
“Mmm…” Arsenic and Old Lace? Or to paraphrase, Cyanide and Old Lace?
Rita glanced around as the group moved forward, then lowered her voice. “What is this obsession of yours with poison? You’re starting to make everyone nervous.”
“I have an inquiring mind.” I shrugged off her concern; I was on a mission.
Kel paused, pointing at a collection of greenery. “Here, ladies, we have a fine selection of oleander.”
Oleander…?
“I love oleander,” gushed Judy, a long tall blond I’d seen at tai chi. “They make a great windbreak.”
“I have one of every color
in my yard—white, pink, red, and yellow,” another added.
“I always caution folks not to burn oleander prunings,” Kel lectured. “The smoke can cause severe irritation in the lungs. That aside, oleander makes a superb landscape plant. Few plants are as adaptable. They can tolerate salt spray, sandy soil, and drought.”
“Is it—” I started to say.
“Yes, ma’am,” Kel interrupted. “Oleander, as most folks know, is highly toxic, so I’d advise you not to take a bite.”
The Flowers and Bowers ladies enjoyed a hearty laugh at my expense.
I scraped together some of my tattered dignity. “I was about to ask if they were deer resistant.”
“Yes, ma’am, they are. Deer are sometimes smarter than we give ’em credit for. Now, if y’all continue the tour…”
We wandered down row after row of colorful plants so pretty I wanted to buy them all. Maybe I didn’t yearn for a garden as much as I yearned for a full-blown nursery alive with vibrant color—complete with a gardener to maintain it.
“Oh, isn’t this lovely!” a woman exclaimed.
All of us stopped to pay homage to a plant with pendulous, trumpet-shaped flowers the color of a ripe peach.
“Angel’s trumpet,” Rita said for the benefit of the unanointed—namely me.
“Also known as brugmansia,” the prune-faced woman chimed, a little too obvious for my taste, in her attempt to be teacher’s pet.
“That’s correct.” Kel beamed his approval. “Only yesterday Johnny Wade brought this beauty out of his hothouse to impress y’all. A relative of the jimsonweed, angel’s trumpet is native to subtropical regions of South America. Here in the lower South, you gals have to remember it needs to be heavily mulched in late fall.”
Nonplussed, I gave Kel a sunny smile. “Is angel’s trumpet…?”
“…deadly,” he supplied. The woven brim of his hat kept Kel’s expression shrouded. But his eyes glittered with something dark—and vaguely menacing. “‘Everything is poison; there is poison in everything. Only the dose makes a thing not a poison.’ That’s not from me, mind you, but Paracelsus, a medieval Swiss alchemist and physician. Let’s proceed to the shady side, ladies. Dixie Gardens offers a huge variety of hostas and hardy ferns awaiting your inspection.”
I trailed behind, pondering his words. I may not have answers to a lot of my questions, but I did know that if someone wanted to poison another, they’d have to look no farther than their own backyard. How convenient. How frightening. And who better to know which plant to choose than one schooled in the science of horticulture or botany?
My goal today had been to learn more about plants of the poisonous variety. Mission accomplished.
Chapter 22
Party, party, party.
Masters Week was always party central, but the impromptu varieties were invariably the most fun. Now that the tournament was winding down, Sheila had decided to throw a cocktail party. She insisted I invite a guest. Naturally I phoned Bill. She’d also requested the numbers of some of the Babes. I wished she’d invite all of them, but it was Sheila’s party, not mine. She’d called the night before, right after I’d unloaded all the plants I’d bought at Dixie Gardens. And, boy, my Visa card had taken a beating. As tempted as I was, I didn’t buy one of everything I’d seen, but I’d taken a good run at it. By the time I finished, my yard was destined to be Garden of the Month with a shiny brass plaque to prove it. I’ll have my picture in the Serenity Sentinel.
Bill and I arrived promptly at eight. Already cars jammed the drive and lined both sides of the street. Our arrival coincided with that of Claudia and the Babes’ all-time-favorite attorney, Badgely Jack Davenport, IV. Better known as “Bad Jack” to his adversaries and “BJ” to his friends. We numbered among the latter. BJ had rescued Claudia from a dicey situation a few months back. But with all the hoopla behind her, she was her old self again. I’m also happy to report that she had donated her flashy—rhymes with trashy—wardrobe to a local thrift store. She’s back to wearing the classier style I associated with her. This time a sage-green number that looked terrific with her strawberry-blond hair. As they approached, I couldn’t help but notice the couple were holding hands. When had that started? I wondered.
“Kate, darlin’.” BJ, spiffy in his signature bow tie, enveloped me with a bear hug. “What’s my favorite lady detective been up to these days? Stayin’ out of trouble, I hope.”
I hugged him back. “I’m trying, BJ, but it isn’t nearly as much fun as getting into trouble.”
Bill cleared his throat, then stuck out his hand. “Nice to see you again, Davenport.”
BJ’s hand enveloped Bill’s in a hearty handshake. “What’s with the Davenport? Much, much too formal for a party. Call me BJ as do these two lovelies. Ladies, we don’t want to keep our hostess—or bartender—waiting.” Placing an arm around both Claudia’s and my shoulders, he guided us up the walk, leaving Bill to bring up the rear.
We entered the foyer and ran smack dab into a wall of sound. The house was filled with people, everyone chattering and laughing and having a gay old time. Spotting us, Sheila separated herself from a circle of guests and walked over to greet us. She looked smashing in a simple but elegant black cocktail dress, her hair and makeup flawless as usual. “I’m so happy you were able to come, considering it was last minute.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” We exchanged perfunctory air kisses like I’d seen celebrities do on TV, making me feel sophisticated and worldly.
Claudia and I introduced Bill and BJ; then Sheila pointed us in the direction of the library. “The bar is in there,” she said. “I hired this marvelous caterer to supply the hors d’oeuvres. Feel free to circulate and enjoy yourselves.”
Claudia and I inventoried the crowd while Bill and BJ left to get drinks. “Where do you suppose all these people are from?” Claudia asked. “Surely not Brookdale or Serenity Cove, seeing as how I don’t recognize most of them.”
No sooner were the words out of her mouth than reinforcements arrived in the form of Connie Sue and her husband, Thacker. Thacker Benton Brody to be precise. Sounds like a law firm, doesn’t it? The Babes and I secretly refer to him as St. Thacker of Macon. “Hey, y’all,” Connie Sue hailed us with a bright smile.
“Hey, Connie Sue. Hey, Thacker,” we hailed back.
“My, my, don’t you ladies look fine.” Thacker gave Claudia and me each a peck on the cheek, then surveyed the crowd. “An affair like this must have cost Dr. Sheila a pretty penny.”
Typical Thacker-like comment. He was a bottom line kind of guy. He’d left a cushy job in Atlanta to become chief financial officer of some hotshot company in Milwaukee. Don’t get me wrong, I like Thacker well enough in spite of his smarmy charm. It’s just that I hate the way Connie Sue caters to his every whim. She once confessed, after two glasses of wine at bunco, that if pot roast wasn’t on the dinner table every Monday, Thacker’d pitch a fit. Her words, not mine.
Claudia did a who’s who of Sheila’s guest list. “I don’t see Rita anywhere,” she announced.
I glanced around. Rita’s tall, buxom figure was usually easy to spot even in a crowd this size. “Surely she was invited.”
“Maybe she and Dave had other plans.” Connie Sue fluffed her blond locks. “After all, this was last minute.”
“Maybe,” I echoed, but wasn’t convinced that was the reason for Rita’s absence. I had the sinking feeling she hadn’t been invited. And that the lack of an invitation had been a slight, not an oversight. Rita made no bones that she wasn’t fond of Sheila. Sheila wasn’t president of the Rita Larsen fan club either. Then another thought hit me like a kick to the solar plexus. What if Rita had been invited—and elected not to come.
Might she have a guilty conscience?
“Say,” Thacker said, rocking back on his polished loafers, “isn’t that guy over there an announcer on one of those cable sports shows?”
Connie Sue, Claudia, and I turned to give the guy in
question the once-over. Not that we’d recognize a sports announcer if we tripped over one. Ask about the Food Network or HGTV and it would be a whole different story. I did recognize Todd Timmons though alongside the man, his head bobbing like a hula doll on a dashboard.
“Oh, my God!” Connie Sue slapped a French-manicured hand to her chest.
We stared at her in consternation. Time to dial 911? Was my buddy, my friend, the grandmother of adorable twins, having palpitations?
“Y’all, I’m not believin’ what I’m seein’.”
“Darlin’ you’re not makin’ a lick of sense,” Thacker reprimanded gently. “Who—or what—are you talkin’ about?”
“It’s Mary Jo Peterson. I met her years ago in Atlanta where we both worked as reps for different cosmetics firms. We occasionally ran into each other when we called on mutual clients. Got to be friends of sorts. We’d get together now and again to exchange industry gossip over lunch.” She gave Thacker’s chest a wifely pat. “Just girl talk, darlin’, we weren’t tattlin’ company secrets. The usual—who’s sleepin’ with whom, who’s preggers, who’s gettin’ divorced, those kinds of things.”
“Well, then, you ought to go over and say hello,” I suggested. “Find out what she’s been up to all this time.”
“You’re absolutely right, sugar. I’ll do just that.” With a jaunty wave, Connie Sue disappeared into the throng.
“If you’ll pardon me, ladies, I’m off to find the bar,” Thacker said as he sauntered off in search of libation, which in his case usually took the form of scotch.
Bill and BJ returned moments later, drinks in hand.
“Chardonnay, my dear.” BJ presented a stemmed glass to Claudia with a flirtatious wink that was duly noted by yours truly. “Bourbon and branch for me. Life is good.”
“I hope this is all right,” Bill said, holding out a wine-glass.
“Perfect.” Bill wasn’t much of a drinker, I knew, and I suspected his highball glass held nothing stronger than ginger ale. I wasn’t much of a drinker either, but I admit I sometimes enjoy a glass of wine. Or a margarita. Or a cosmo. Looping my arm through Bill’s, I asked, “Shall we mingle?”