by Gail Oust
“Yeah, it’s strange, but…” Rita’s nice easy swing sent the range ball soaring into the wild blue yonder.
“He practically ran out of the office.” When Rita failed to respond, I got down to the business of golf. I balanced the range ball atop a tee in the center of a rubber mat. Mentally I ran though a checklist of things to do: feet shoulder width apart, arms straight, knees flexed. I took careful aim, drew back for a calculated swing—and watched as my ball dribbled down a grassy incline. I heaved a sigh. Some things never change.
“Next time keep your head down,” Rita counseled.
“I wanted to see how far it went.” My excuse sounded lame. Why couldn’t I just concede I was a better bunco player than a golfer? Truth is, I’m not even all that great at bunco. My scores have been so lousy that I haven’t taken home the tiara in nearly a year.
“Watch how I do it, okay?”
“Okay.” I was content to watch Rita until the cows came home, but in my heart of hearts, I knew that wouldn’t help one iota. Golf required rhythm along with a good amount of coordination. I lacked both. Over the years, I’d developed the theory that being a good golfer was directly proportional to being a good dancer. Therefore, if one could dance, one could golf. And vice versa. Take Pam for instance. Pam can watusi, cha-cha, and recently won a shag—the official dance of South Carolina—contest. Pam can also drive a golf ball one hundred fifty yards down the fairway straight as an arrow. Suddenly I missed Pam. My BFF wouldn’t matter-of-factly tell me to keep my head down. She’d know I needed a “poor-baby” pat on the head. Thinking of Pam made me wish I’d asked her for pointers instead of Rita. Why hadn’t I? Oh yeah, I remember. I planned to pump Rita for information about Kel Watson.
“So, Rita,” I said, casually picking another range ball out of the bucket. “Tell me everything you know about Kel Watson.”
Rita groaned. “Please tell me you’re not playing detective again.”
“Can’t help it if I have an inquiring mind.” I placed the ball on the mat. This time I wiggled my hips as I took my stance in the fond hope wiggling would simulate dancing. “I noticed Kel doesn’t wear a wedding band. I take it he’s not married?”
Rita rested her hands on top of her Big Bertha driver and cocked her head to one side. “Why do you ask? Thinking of trading Bill in for a newer model?”
“Chalk it up to the ponytail.” I took a practice swing, then stepped up to address the ball. This time it managed to leave the tee, but its departure wasn’t exactly a Kodak moment.
Bending, Rita dug out a ball, placed it on the mat. “Kel’s been divorced for years.”
“What happened?”
“Same tired story.” Rita adjusted the position of her hands on the club. “His wife left him for another man.”
Since my driver didn’t seem to be working properly, I exchanged it for a 3-wood. “Did Sheila and Kel know each other before Serenity Cove?”
“Hard to say.” Rita hit several drives while I looked on under the guise of studying her swing.
“Why is it so hard to say whether they’ve met?” I persisted when Rita paused to take a break.
She shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible they might have met at a seminar or conference over the years. After all, they are in the same field.”
I wasn’t making much progress—either with golf or my interrogation—but I wasn’t ready to give up. “Sheila’s convinced Kel was stalking her. You know the man better than I do. Do you think that’s possible?”
Rita whiffed, completely missing her ball. Almost unheard of for a golfer of her caliber. “Jeez, Kate,” she cursed. “Next you’ll try to convince me Kel is responsible for Vaughn’s death.”
Well, if the shoe fits…I didn’t need to be clairvoyant to sense Rita’s growing frustration, so I quickly asked my next question before she stonewalled me. “Do you suppose Kel uses marijuana?”
“Who knows? Whether he does or not, it’s none of my damn business.” Rita took another practice swing, but I noticed she’d lost her rhythm.
“Think he might be growing pot?”
Rita whiffed again. “Those are only rumors. Unfounded, malicious rumors.”
Hmm, I thought to myself as I took a swipe at a range ball. Much to my amazement, I seemed to be getting the hang of a semi-mediocre swing. The quality of Rita’s drives, however, seemed to be deteriorating.
My small bucket of range balls nearly depleted, I mused out loud, “I can’t help but find it odd that a man would lie about a beekeepers meeting.”
“He probably wanted to get rid of you, but was too polite to say so. Look, Kate.” Rita rammed her driver back into her bag, a surefire sign my lesson was finished. “Kel Watson is one of the good guys. He’s always been ready to lend a hand with garden club projects either as a speaker or to help with the actual planting. I suspect Sheila’s spreading gossip. It would be just like her to stir up trouble.”
“Why would she want to do that?”
“You’re Nancy Drew. You figure it out.” Rita’s mouth compressed into a hard line. “Maybe Sheila views the man as a professional rival. I stopped trying years ago to figure out what was going on inside that woman’s head.”
“Didn’t mean to upset you.” I returned my clubs to the bag. “How about lunch, my treat?”
“Sure,” Rita relented. “Didn’t mean to be so touchy.”
“Sorry if my questions made you lose your rhythm,” I said as we trudged toward the Watering Hole, often referred to by golfers as the “Nineteenth Hole.”
“I didn’t lose my rhythm as much as I forgot it,” Rita confessed.
I hoisted the golf bag higher on my shoulder. “How so?”
Rita grinned down at me. “If you promise never to tell anyone, I’ll give you my secret.”
The day seemed full of secrets, but I’m always up for a few more. “If this darn golf bag weren’t so heavy, I’d cross my heart and hope to die.”
“Stick a needle in my eye.” Rita completed the childhood phrase. “Suzie and the boobs,” she said then, giving me a conspiratorial wink.
I looked at her, puzzled. “Who is Suzie, and what do her boobs have to do with your golf?”
“Simple.” Rita’s grin broadened. “Whenever I take my swing, I always chant the words ‘Suzie and the boobs’ to the tune of ‘Bennie and the Jets.’ ‘Suzie’ is the position of my hands before my stroke. ‘Boobs’ is the down-stroke.” She shrugged, looking a bit sheepish. “It helps me find the rhythm.”
I shot my friend an envious glance. Rita’s boobs were impressive 40DDs. As we deposited our clubs in a stand outside the Watering Hole, I caught myself wondering if invoking Suzie would help a modest 34B.
Inspiration, like lightning, doesn’t usually strike twice. Today, however, was an exception. An idea occurred to me as I stepped onto my deck, morning coffee in hand, and surveyed my yard. The shrubs and flowers I’d recently planted were coming along nicely. The combination of warm, sunny days and occasional April showers had blessed them with a strong start. Plants, I’d discovered, often hid deadly secrets beneath their colorful faces. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t rid myself of the certainty that Vaughn Bascomb had been poisoned.
And that the culprit was as plain as the nose on my face.
With this thought relentlessly looping through my brain, I went inside, picked up the phone, and began dialing. The Babes always came through in a pinch. I knew this would be no exception.
They didn’t let me down. An hour later, fortified by caffeine and armed with optimism, I started my rounds.
Gloria appeared from the back of her house carrying a plastic trash bag. “Iris and narcissus as requested. Didn’t know what else to put them in.”
“The society garlic was my idea,” Polly said as she joined us. “Don’t smell too good, but it wards off evil spirits. I know this for fact ’cause I’ve been watching one of those vampire shows on TV.”
“Perfect.” I laughed. “Maybe society garlic will fend off evi
l spirits at the sheriff’s.”
Janine’s was the next stop on my route. Seeing me, she stopped pulling weeds from a mulched bed near her front porch and waved. “Here’s the loropetalum, which, by the way, I’m pretty sure is harmless,” she said, handing me a woven basket. “Even though it broke my heart, I threw in some cuttings from my azaleas, roots and all. They’re blooming like mad right now. I’d hate to think I did something to stop the show.”
“Drastic times call for drastic measures.”
“I think it’s, desperate times call for desperate measures,” Janine corrected.
“Whatever. Drastic or desperate, it’s all a part of the elimination process.” I placed her offerings on the floor of the Buick next to Gloria’s.
A frown marred Janine’s smooth brow. “I hope you’re mistaken, Kate.”
“The worst my little experiment can do is to prove that I’m on the wrong track. It won’t be the first time. Thanks.” I waved as I drove off.
As promised, Pam had left a box containing her contributions—lantana, camellias, and calla—on the porch. Since this was Megan’s day off, the two of them had gone shopping. Sweet, I thought. I have to confess that I often envy their mother-daughter relationship. On my last visit to California, Jen had taken me to Rodeo Drive. A quick glance at price tags, and I’d developed a severe case of sticker shock. I’d broken down and admitted Kohl’s and Stein Mart were more my speed. Jen swore she’d never heard of either.
Humming “Bennie and the Jets, ”I drove into Brookdale. I wasn’t finished yet. Not by a country mile. A Jeep pulled out of a parking space near the sheriff’s as I drove up. I took this as an omen, a good one, and pulled in. I maneuvered close to the curb and turned off the ignition. Going around to the passenger side, I gathered my arsenal and, colors flying, marched off to battle.
Chapter 30
Deepening my voice, I adopted a phony-baloney Southern drawl. “Delivery for Sheriff Wiggins.”
“Go right on in,” Tammy Lynn replied absently, not glancing up from her filing. “Down the hall, on your left.”
Camouflage. Why hadn’t I thought of it sooner? All I needed was to hide behind an armful of greenery, and pow! Immediate access to the inner sanctum. No cooling my heels reading dog-eared magazines. No memorizing the mugs of hooligans pinned to a bulletin board. No listening to lame excuses. Just grab a bunch of plants and trot right in.
I eased open the door with my hip. “Delivery,” I sang out.
“What the Sam Hill?” a familiar voice thundered. Even in thundering mode, the deep baritone held a certain melodious undertone. I wonder if felons appreciated the fine quality of the sheriff’s vocal range.
“I brought more samples for you to test,” I said from behind a veritable forest of branches and leaves.
My announcement was greeted with a sneeze.
I dumped the entire conglomeration—bag, box, and basket—down in front of him. “The rest should be arriving shortly.”
“Tammy Lynn,” he bellowed. “Get in here.” The melodious quality I previously mentioned was beginning to sound somewhat nasal.
When Tammy Lynn failed to appear in response to his summons, he rose from his desk to glower at me. “What in blue blazes…?”
Just then Connie Sue, followed closely by Claudia, breezed in. Both women, bless their hearts, carried plants of some sort. Like I always say, if you can’t count on girlfriends, who can you count on?
“So, this is where y’all are hidin’.” Connie Sue shoved aside a neat stack of folders to make room for her donation.
Claudia deposited the three-gallon plastic pot she carried on the floor next to the desk. “Nice to visit, Sheriff, when I’m not a guest of the county.”
Sumter Wiggins sneezed again.
“Gesundheit,” we chorused in three-part harmony.
Sheriff Wiggins turned away and began pawing through a desk drawer. Paper clips, pens, and Post-it notes spilled onto the floor before he produced a box of tissues and loudly blew his nose. “Ladies,” he began. He probably aimed for stern but had to be content with congested. “Kindly state your business, then take those…those…things out of heah.”
“I’m afraid we can’t do that, Sheriff,” I said sweetly. “The Babes and I have discussed this. All of us agree that the crime lab needs additional samples of everyday plants.”
“For instance, did you know that water hemlock is one of the most dangerous plants in the whole country?” Connie Sue asked, showing off her newly acquired knowledge.
“Yes, yes, I’ve been informed, but…” He reached for another tissue.
Connie Sue, never afraid to seize the moment, continued. “I didn’t have any hemlock, so I brought along both hyacinth and daffodils. If there’s any left when that lab of yours is done testin’, they’ll make a right pretty bouquet.”
“I brought gardenias.” Claudia pointed at her contribution. “Don’t know if they’re poisonous or not. They won’t bloom for another month or so, but when they do their scent is absolutely divine.” Turning, she directed her next words to Connie Sue and me. “I just splurged on an expensive perfume, White Gardenia, to wear next time I go out with BJ. He loves gardenias. The clerk said it’s practically guaranteed to bring a man to his knees.”
I smiled to myself when I saw the sheriff blink moisture from his eyes. The lawman seemed genuinely touched by our unsolicited offer to help solve the case. We were the poster children for caring individuals everywhere. Our actions set the bar high.
“I thought I heard voices,” Diane said, poking her head in the door. “Where do you want all this?”
Diane, as promised, had raided the woods behind her big old farmhouse. She had filled a large carton with samples of Carolina jessamine, dogwood, and red bed.
“Over there,” I said, pointing to a spot next to the wastepaper basket. The office seemed to shrink under the barrage of plant life, which filled every nook and cranny.
“What the…?” The sheriff’s tirade was cut short by a trio of sneezes.
Diane brushed off her hands, then shoved a brunette strand behind one ear. “According to my research, all parts of the Carolina jessamine, or yellow jessamine as it’s sometimes called, are poisonous.”
Claudia shook her head sadly. “Hard to imagine those bright yellow flowers with that wonderful aroma could be harmful.”
“Did you know Lenten roses—hellebores—were responsible for the death of Alexander the Great?” Diane asked.
“No,” I replied aghast. “I just bought some at Lowe’s.”
“Well, sugar, don’t put them in your salad,” Connie Sue cautioned dryly.
Sheriff Wiggins dabbed at his watery eyes with a crumpled tissue. “Ladies, please…”
But that didn’t deter Diane when she was on a roll. “Many historians believe Napoleon didn’t die from natural causes, but was poisoned.”
Lordy, how that girl loved her trivia. Even Alex Trebek on Jeopardy! would give one of his rare nods of approval.
Claudia shook her head in disbelief. “You don’t say.”
“Arsenic.” Diane nodded, her expression somber. “And speaking of arsenic, I came across a case where sixteen members of a Lutheran church became deathly ill after drinking coffee in the church hall. One man died a short time later. Come to find out, the coffee was heavily laced with arsenic.”
“Coffee…?” Claudia arched a brow and cast a meaningful glance at the large mug resting on the sheriff’s desk.
The rest of us stared at it, too. After Claudia’s previous encounter with Sheriff Sumter Wiggins, the thought of lacing his coffee must have been awfully tempting.
Scowling, the sheriff followed the direction of our stare. Reaching over, he shoved the mug aside. “Tammy Lynn,” he bellowed,
“Hey, guys, sorry I’m late.” It was Rita not Tammy Lynn who appeared as if by magic. “This is the angel’s trumpet I told you about. Just be careful,” she warned. “It’s beautiful, but deadly.”
“T
ammy Lynn,” the sheriff called again. He looked toward the doorway, his expression hopeful, clearly expecting his gal Friday to rescue him from an onslaught of crazy women. “Where in the blazes is that girl?”
“Tammy Lynn?” Rita asked. “She’s out on the front walk flirting with that cute young policeman, Eric Olsen.” Rita gave us Babes a broad wink. “And from what I could tell, Eric was flirting right back. The two didn’t even notice me.”
“Woo-hoo!” Connie Sue pumped her fist in the air. “The makeover was a resoundin’ success. Let’s hear it, girls.”
Our cheers sent Sheriff Wiggins fleeing.
“Tammy Lynn,” we heard him yell. “Where are my allergy pills?”
“This room needs repainting,” I mused aloud.
“Hmm…” Bill murmured.
The two of us sat side by side in the library/den/study admiring Bill’s handiwork. I occupied Jim’s sturdy but shabby recliner, the footrest up. Bill sat next to me in the desk chair, his feet propped on an upturned box. The bookshelves were complete. And as I’d known he would, Bill had done an excellent job. His craftsmanship impeccable. A testament to the man’s talent with hammer, saws, and drills. In spite of the lovely cherry shelves, however, the room still didn’t resemble the elegant room I’d envisioned.
“Maybe a different color. Soft, but not too soft. What do you think about butternut?”
“If we’re talking squash, I like mine baked.”
I shot him a look. “No, silly, I’m talking paint colors.”
Bill shrugged. “They make paint in squash colors?”
“Sage green might be a nice contrast with the cherry stain.”
“Green’s good,” Bill agreed amiably. “Can’t go wrong with green.”
I continued in the same vein. “And then there’s the matter of furniture. This room could definitely use new furniture. I’m thinking leather, or perhaps one of those new microfiber fabrics that resemble suede. Which do you like best?”
Bill shifted—squirmed might be more like it—in his seat. “Either, er, both are fine with me.”