When her sack was full, she heaved it into the back seat, buckled Luciano and Cesare in, and then sat in the driver’s seat, staring out at the shimmering surface of the river, the graceful weeping willows, the blazing red maples, and the mist-covered mountains beyond. How could such an evil soul live here, surrounded by so much beauty?
Clutching her phone, she stared at it, almost in a trance. Then, slowly, with trembling fingers, she dialed Chief D’Agostino’s number.
“Ah, Rita, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
She winced; “pleasure” was not the word for it. “I was wondering—have you spoken to Susan Cartwright yet?”
“Oh, yes.” He adopted a more suitably subdued tone. “She had quite a story. Something about Coach Stiglitz being deliberately poisoned—and by something other than the ketamine, too. I don’t think there’s much in it—the hospital probably just doesn’t want the bad publicity of the coach dying on their watch—but I’ve got Detective Benedetto over there now interviewing the nurses.”
Rita harrumphed. Detective Benedetto did not have much experience “detecting” anything—there simply wasn’t much crime in Acorn Hollow—and he had attained the title solely by being the only employee of the police department other than the chief with more than five years’ tenure. “Susan does not make up stories,” she said firmly, a little louder than she intended.
“Of course not. Not intentionally, anyway. But she’s not—”
He stopped himself.
“She’s not what?” Rita bristled. “Not the sharpest knife in the drawer? No, she’s not. But she saw what she saw. Dilated pupils, erratic movements, sweat pouring off him. And what about the monitors? They don’t lie. And they showed a very irregular heartbeat.”
“We’re looking into it, as I said.” He chuckled. “Good for you, Rita. You’re really warming up to the girl. May as well since she’s going to be your daughter-in-law. I know we always thought Courtney and Marco would end up together, but I guess—”
“Things change,” Rita said. “Children have minds of their own. My mother wanted me to marry you, after all.”
“But you had to go and marry Sal instead.”
“And that turned out well for both of us,” she said, and she meant it. “All I’m asking is for you to take Susan seriously. Because I do. And because I suspect that whoever poisoned Coach Stiglitz may have read my article on Miss Simms’s poison garden. Did you read it?”
He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Not yet,” he said apologetically. “It’s been a busy day.”
“Well, read it now. I don’t think this was the first attempt on his life, either. The ketamine—”
The chief chuckled. “Now, Rita, just because he overdosed—”
Not waiting to hear the rest of the sentence, she clicked the “off” button in a fury. If she needed any reminders of why she hadn’t married him, he had just given her a dozen.
He was more pig-headed than Sal, and that was saying something.
Chapter Nine
Angelica dispensed with the usual pleasantries when Rita called later that evening to offer her condolences. “Haven’t you done enough?” Angelica barked into the phone.
“I’m so sorry, cara. I didn’t think—I just couldn’t imagine—that anyone in this town was so evil. Or that anyone would want to kill Jay.”
“Twice. Someone hated my fiancé enough to try to kill him twice.”
“Or,” Rita said gently, “two different people wanted to kill him. The question is, who?”
“Beats me. Everybody liked him. Or so I thought. But you’re the investigative journalist.” Angelica snorted. “So go investigate—just leave me out of it.”
“Angelica, again, I’m so, so sorry.”
The conversation seemed to be at an end, but to Rita’s surprise, there was no click on the other end. Just stony silence.
At last, Angelica said, “Maybe I’m crazy, but I have this idea that maybe Miss Simms was in on it. I mean, he was poisoned just hours after the story ran. That doesn’t give a murderer much time to read the story, gather the plants, sneak into the hospital, and administer the poison, does it? But if Miss Simms had been planning it, she could have gathered the plants days before and just waited for the story to run…”
Rita finished the thought for her. “To exponentially increase the number of suspects. But why would she do that?”
“No idea. But she and Miss Van Der Hooven are best friends, and Miss Van Der Hooven hates me. Absolutely, completely despises me.”
Rita decided that tact was called for, not candor. “Any idea why?”
“None whatsoever. But I’m sure you’ll find out.”
“Of course, cara. Again, I’m so sorry for all of the trouble I’ve caused—”
There was a wail and then a click. Rita shook away tears as she pictured distraught little Angelica climbing into bed alone, the loneliness closing in around her. All because of Rita’s stupid pride—well, that, and someone’s murderous hatred.
The conversation had been difficult, but she was glad of one thing: Angelica hadn’t been able to see her expression. Because Rita knew why Miss Van Der Hooven hated Angelica, and she couldn’t bear the thought of breaking the news to the heartbroken girl.
****************************
The following afternoon, Rita trudged down the corridor to room 207, raised her knuckles to the glass, and then lowered them again. Her throat was dry, her hands clammy. She was not looking forward to confronting Miss Van Der Hooven but, then again, she had no choice. She owed it to Angelica.
Hunched over her desk, grading a stack of papers, Miss Van Der Hooven was wearing one of her trademark bearded dragon sweatshirts. She absentmindedly slid a red pencil in and out of her beehive hairdo. From time to time, she suddenly yanked it out and practically stabbed the page with it, scribbling a torrent of words across the page with delight. That woman loves to prove someone wrong, Rita thought, shuddering as she recalled being on the receiving end of Miss Van Der Hooven’s wrath. Did that make her a murderer? Hardly. But then, Rita couldn’t picture her as Coach Stiglitz’s lover either.
Mustering all of her courage, Rita took a deep breath, knocked twice, and pushed her way in. She closed the door firmly behind her.
“Ah, Mrs. Calabrese.” Miss Van Der Hooven peered over her glasses at her. “I thought you wrote a very nice article about me. And I liked the one you wrote about Julia’s garden.”
Rita slid into the desk across from Miss Van Der Hooven and sighed. “Did you—did you hear the sad news?”
“About Jay? Yes, Dr. Walker told the faculty and students this morning.”
Rita inspected the biology teacher’s face carefully. Her brow was furrowed and she looked vaguely concerned, but her eyes were clear. There was no sign that she’d been crying. No sign of grief over her lover’s death.
“And did he, er, mention how he died?”
“He said the coroner hasn’t released his report yet.”
“Yes,” Rita said slowly, “but I have a feeling the coroner’s report will say he was poisoned. Probably with belladonna—or something else from Miss Simms’s garden.”
“Well, now, that is a twist.” She looked momentarily surprised. “And I take it you’re investigating.”
Rita sighed. “An occupational hazard. I never would have agreed to write about Miss Simms’s garden if I’d known that it would give someone ideas.”
“I hope this doesn’t cause any trouble for Julia.”
“I hope not.”
“So is that why you’re here? To ask me to break the news to Julia?”
“Partly,” Rita said weakly. “And partly to ask you about your relationship with Jay.”
Miss Van Der Hooven pursed her lips, but said nothing.
Rita leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Elizabeth”—Miss Van Der Hooven stiffened, and Rita realized this was the first time she had dared to address the woman by her first name—“I know that you and Jay were”�
��she swallowed, searching for a delicate term—“together.”
“You know no such thing.”
“Actually, I do. What I don’t know, though, is why. Why would a man engaged to a beautiful, charming young woman have a clandestine relationship with one of his colleagues twenty years his senior?”
Miss Van Der Hooven smirked. “Maybe he liked older women.”
“I’ve known Jay since he was a baby and I’ve never known him to take a shine to older women. And even if he did, I don’t think he’d risk his relationship with Angelica.” Rita looked her straight in the eye. “I think you had something on him. And I want to know what it was.”
“You won’t get it out of me.”
Rita tried to hide a smile. Miss Van Der Hooven had not denied it. She had been blackmailing the coach. Standing up, Rita said, “I understand, of course. Just doing my job. Will I see you at the funeral then?”
“Of course. Got to pay my respects to an old colleague.”
Rita turned to go. Her hand was just grazing the doorknob when Miss Van Der Hooven called out after her, “You might want to ask Vinnie where he was the night of September sixteenth.”
Rita froze. The papier-mâché likeness of the coach had been found the morning of the seventeenth. The prank was probably a misdemeanor—which was bad enough—but it might also cause Chief D’Agostino to link the perpetrator of the crime to the murder. Surely, that was not what Miss Van Der Hooven meant.
Rita turned around slowly. “Meaning?”
A malicious little smile rippled across Miss Van Der Hooven’s face. Her eyes sparkled. “Meaning you’re not the only one in this town who knows secrets.”
“I don’t believe you. Vinnie’s changed.”
“Has he?” Miss Van Der Hooven’s chest shook with laughter, the bearded dragon wiggling across her ample bosom. “I’d be careful if I were you, Rita. You see, in every game—in every situation—I hold the trump cards. No matter how good your hand is, mine is better.”
Struggling to see through a veil of tears, Rita stumbled down the corridor. How could Miss Van Der Hooven possibly know anything? Sure, the high school was awash in gossip, but Vinnie didn’t hang out with high school kids anymore. So they wouldn’t—they shouldn’t—know anything.
And there was nothing to know anyway, right? Vinnie was reformed. And he’d never done anything that bad, anyway. He hadn’t been a bad kid, just high-spirited, as Sal liked to say.
She spied a corridor on her left. It loomed towards her, wavy and sinuous in her teary-eyed vision, and she lurched gratefully down it, eager to get as far as possible from room 207 and its odious petty tyrant. When she reached the first bank of lockers, she leaned against them, the cool metal pressing into her forehead. She found it strangely soothing.
Rita thought of the widow Schmalzgruben. A century of wisdom all boiled down to one lesson: no one is who he or she seems.
Not even her children.
“Um, excuse me?” a sing-songy voice said behind her. “This is, like, my locker. And you’re blocking it.”
Rita spun around and found herself eye to eye with a petite, pimply blonde girl, whose green eyes widened in horror as she took in Rita’s tear-streaked face. Rita could only imagine what she looked like with rivers of mascara and brown eyeshadow running down her face.
“Are you okay?” the girl asked. “Are you drunk? I saw you stumbling down the hallway.”
Rita sighed. “I’m Vinnie Calabrese’s mom,” she said, as if that explained everything. “Do you know him?”
“Well, he did come to school drunk a few times. At least that’s what my older sister said.”
Rita rolled her eyes. “I’m not drunk.”
“Okay. If you say so.”
“Really. I haven’t had a drop. I’ve just received some upsetting news.”
“Oh, about the coach.”
“Ah—yes. About the coach. An old friend of mine.”
“Sorry. I’m kind of late for class. If I could just get into my locker—”
Rita moved aside. “Of course, dear. Sorry. Tell me,” she said as the girl fiddled with her lock, “you haven’t heard any, er, rumors about Vinnie, have you?”
The girl scrunched up her face. “Well, there was the time he stole the principal’s garden gnomes and went sledding down the hill on them. And then there was the time at Prom—”
Rita was not eager to relive her son’s past escapades. “No, I mean recent rumors. In the past month.”
The girl’s face was a perfect blank. “Not that I know of. I could ask my sister, though.”
“No, that’s all right, dear.” Rita patted her on the arm. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
With a wave, the girl was off down the hallway, textbook in hand. Rita trudged down the stairs and out into the gloomy drizzle. Their nearly perfect autumn weather was at an end.
Standing there in the parking lot, raindrops pelting over her face, she hatched a plan.
Cannoli. That sweet little ricotta filling was like truth serum.
Chapter Ten
Rita prepared thoroughly, as usual. She ransacked Vinnie’s room, including all of the usual hiding places—the hole in the wall behind his Taylor Swift poster, the shoeboxes tucked away in the back of his closet, the tattered cardboard box of old Playboy magazines under his bed. The magazines were full of women—if you could even call them that, as they were about as real as Rita’s jet-black hair—doing all sorts of ridiculous things, like spraying each other with garden hoses. She was positively revolted and had half a mind to send them up the chimney in smoke, but that, of course, would give her away. Just as she had done a hundred times before, she had to put everything back exactly as she had found it.
“Nothing,” she groused to Rose over the phone as she smoothed the poster back on the wall, careful to leave it slightly askew, with the bottom left corner curled up. “Absolutely nothing.”
“Well, what did you expect to find? A diary? This is Vinnie we’re talking about, not Anne Frank.”
“Well, I can almost always find some clue of what he’s up to. Cigarettes, fireworks, booze. Something to help me formulate my interview questions.”
“Interview?” Rose snorted. “It’s more like the Spanish Inquisition.”
“Hardly,” Rita said tartly. “No one’s going to be burned at the stake.”
After enduring a few more of her sister’s jibes, Rita hung up. She cast an appraising glance around the room and, convinced that it was just as Vinnie had left it, went to the kitchen to fill the cannoli. Marco’s got the traditional treatment—cheese filling, chocolate chips, and candied orange peels—Vinnie’s got chocolate chips only, and Gina’s was a chocoholic’s dream—cocoa-infused cheese with extra chocolate chips, all dipped in dark chocolate.
Her daughter was the first to arrive. “Hey, ma.” There was the hint of suspicion in her voice as she strode in the kitchen, heels clacking on the hardwood floors. “What happened to Vinnie and Marco? I thought this was a family affair.”
Not trusting herself to meet her daughter’s gaze, Rita busied herself with arranging Gina’s cannoli on a plate. “Vinnie got held up at the nursery, and Marco just called to say he’s running late.”
Technically, what she said was true. Vinnie was detained at the nursery, but only because Sal, at her insistence, had manufactured a minor crisis. Marco was busy at the hospital, but only because Marion Von Beek was running over her allotted appointment time with an endless list of questions—questions that Rita had so helpfully provided.
Taking a seat at the kitchen island, Gina bit into her cannoli. “So good,” she murmured with her mouth full, her eyes closed in ecstasy, as the brittle shell shattered and the cheese filling oozed onto the plate. “Delish.”
With a swift kick, Gina sent her four-inch heels clattering to the floor. Rita smiled. Her daughter was in full relaxation mode now. She was bound to be loose-lipped.
“Rough day, cara?”
Gina licked some c
heese off her fingers. “One teller quit; the other told me she’s going on maternity leave. I had to turn down the loan application of one of Acorn Hollow’s best retail establishments”—she wagged a finger preemptively at her mother—“and no, I cannot say who, but it was not a pleasant conversation. So yeah, it was a tough day.”
“I’m so sorry. Coffee?”
Gina nodded happily, and Rita filled her mug.
“And now”—Gina peered over her mug at her mother—“I suspect that my mother wants something from me.”
Rita tried to hide her chagrin. Had Rose been right? Was she too obvious this time? “Is it so hard to believe that I want to make cannoli for my children?”
“No. But your invite sounded more like a summons. If you just wanted to give us cannoli you could have called and said, ‘come on over and get it; the cannoli are on the table.’ We’ve still got keys, you know.” She took a swig of coffee. “So what is it, ma? You’ve got some plan to break Marco and Susan up?”
“No,” Rita said, gritting her teeth.
“Well, it’s clear you don’t like her.”
“It’s not that I don’t like her. I’m just not sure if she’s the best fit. That’s all.”
“Ma, there’s no woman on earth that would be good enough for your little Marco.”
“That’s not true,” Rita said indignantly, ticking off Marco’s past girlfriends on her fingers. “There was Nicole Falegname, his Prom date. She was Homecoming queen, student body president, and now she is a principal in Saratoga Springs—”
The Secret Poison Garden Page 6