The Secret Poison Garden

by Maureen Klovers

  Rita was overwhelmed by her gratitude. She hadn’t done much, really, except drop a few leftovers off. But to Fay it had been much more than physical sustenance. It had been an emotional lifeline, a sign she was not alone.

  The sobs slowly died down. When she finally pulled away, Fay shot Rita a tentative little smile through her tears. “You can stop now, though,” she said. “Ted got a job. He started Monday.”

  Rita rocked back on her heels. So that’s why his head was no longer in the window. “How wonderful!” she exclaimed. Then Rita frowned. “But, seriously, how did you know?”

  “Rita, there’s no one in town that hasn’t tasted your famous cantucci. Everyone knows you make the best. It was either you, or someone sneaking into your kitchen at night.”

  Rita smiled ruefully. She had overlooked that small detail. Apparently, if she wanted to be stealthy in the future, she would have to make something totally unexpected, like Norwegian apple cake.

  “Where is Ted working now?”

  “The Best Western. Apparently, Emily Bachmann was their first choice, but when she turned them down…”

  “They snapped up Ted.”

  Guilt tugged at Rita’s heart strings. If she had invested half of the energy she had poured into Emily’s job search into Ted’s, he would have found a job long before now.

  Fay looked down at the pavement. “He was really depressed, you know. Clinically. His mom died, and he just went to pieces.”

  This was news to Rita. She silently scolded herself for not knowing—and not knowing because she hadn’t really cared. The truth was that she had never given much thought to why he was the way he was. “I didn’t know, actually. Is he, er, feeling better now?” she asked.

  “Finally. He went to this counseling group for men. It really helped.”

  “Would you do me a favor, dear?” Rita pulled out her phone, scrolled to Al Scalzo’s number, and copied it onto a notecard scrounged from her purse. “Could you have Ted give Al a call and invite him? He’s very depressed about the loss of his son.”

  “Of course,” Fay said, pocketing the notecard. “Anything else I can do to repay you?”

  “Help me solve Jay’s murder,” Rita joked.

  “You and me both. I’m afraid my cousin, Craig, is a suspect.”

  “Craig Balducci?”

  Fay nodded. “I’m a Balducci on my mother’s side.”

  Rita was surprised, to say the least. With her sandy brown hair and pale skin, Fay didn’t look particularly Italian and she certainly didn’t resemble the short, stout, swarthy Balduccis.

  As if reading her mind, Fay said, “I’m Dutch on my dad’s side.”

  “Ah.” Rita bit her lip. “How’s Craig holding up?”

  “Okay, I guess. It helps that Angelica’s been supportive.” She shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe they’ll even get back together after all this dies down. Stranger things have happened.”

  Rita remembered the friendly conversation she had observed on the sidelines of the Homecoming game. “Do they talk often?”

  “I guess. She called him last weekend to pass on her birthday wishes to his mom. Craig and his brothers always go visit her in Connecticut this weekend closest to her birthday. This year, that was the weekend before Homecoming.”

  “The weekend Jay was admitted to the hospital.”

  “Yeah. Which is lucky, I guess. Craig certainly can’t be blamed for that. He was two hundred miles away.”

  “When did he come back?”

  “Really late on Sunday, I think. They usually have a big Sunday dinner and then everyone drives back.”

  “But he was back teaching on Monday?”

  Fay frowned. “Yes, but he had nothing to do with Jay’s death.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, dear,” Rita said, kissing her on the cheek. “Give my best to Ted and congratulate him on the new job for me.”

  Rita headed back down the walkway and over to Marion Von Beek’s house.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Marion Von Beek’s burnt orange shag carpeting was covered in quilt squares, which a gaggle of middle-aged women was arranging and re-arranging like the pieces of a giant jigsaw puzzle.

  Announcing her presence loudly, Rita placed the cake carrier on Marion’s counter with a thud, and made a big show of removing the lid. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tricia Benedetto light up.

  “I made it this afternoon,” she said loudly to Marion.

  “Oh,” Marion bellowed, “I just love your chocolate almond mousse cake, Rita.”

  In less than a minute, Tricia was hovering next to Rita, who smiled indulgently as she handed her a plate with an extra thick slice of cake. Tricia took a bite and shot Rita a grateful, but guilty, little smile. “Sometimes I dream about this cake.”

  “Oh, so do I.” Rita cut herself a slightly thinner slice and began gently steering Tricia towards the far corner of the room. “How’s Tony?”

  “Oh, fine.” Tricia furrowed her brow. She was the youngest woman there, around forty. Little frown lines were just beginning to form between her eyebrows and the bridge of her nose, like an inverted set of parentheses. Her dark eyes searched Rita’s. “He’s been a little preoccupied with Jay’s death.” Tricia lowered her voice. “Well, murder.”

  “I can imagine. I got a copy of the M.E.’s report this morning. Does he have any leads?”

  Rita immediately regretted her directness. She could almost see the doors to Tricia’s mind snap shut, a mask of studied cluelessness descend on her plain little face.

  “Oh,” Tricia said warily, “I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me if he did. It’s an active investigation. You know the drill.”

  Rita savored a bite of cake and glanced at Tricia out of the corner of her eye. “Chief D’Agostino’s my age,” she observed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he retired at the end of the year.”

  “Do you think so?” Tricia’s voice was eager; the mask had temporarily dropped.

  Rita nodded sagaciously, as though she knew something but could not say it. She tried to look like a journalist who could not, even under threat of imprisonment, reveal her sources. “You didn’t hear it from me, though.” Rita lowered her voice another notch. “It sure would be nice if Tony were the next chief. He’s certainly paid his dues.”

  “Oh, he has.”

  “If only he could solve this case. Then, I think he’d be a shoo-in.”

  Tricia glanced at Rita slyly. “Do you know anything that could be, uh, helpful?”

  “Let’s just say that I’ve uncovered some very interesting coincidences. I’d like to help Tony, you know. But it sure would help if we could put our heads together.”

  “He does everything by the book,” the younger woman insisted, but Rita could tell that Tricia was weakening.

  “Oh, I’m sure he does. Tony’s a good man.”

  They ate in silence for a moment, eyeing each other warily. Rita was just about to change the subject when Tricia surprised her by saying, “He doesn’t tell me anything he finds out, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “But”—Tricia bit her lip and looked down—“sometimes, in frustration, he tells me what he doesn’t find out.”

  Rita waited patiently for a moment. When Tricia was not forthcoming, she prodded her with a “For instance?”

  “Well,” Tricia began in a small voice, “the only fingerprints in the room were the ones of people who freely admitted to being there—the nurses, Angelica, and Elizabeth Van Der Hooven. Well, and Jay, of course.”

  “Go on. Tell me about the smoothie.”

  Tricia looked rattled. “Oh, you know about that? Well, then I guess it’s okay to tell you that the only fingerprints on the Styrofoam cup containing the poison-laced smoothie were Jay’s.” She went on in a rush of words, as if trying to get it all out before she could stop herself. “And no veterinarians in Morris County or any neighboring county reported the theft of any ketamine, or the sale to any person connected to t
he case. And nobody on Miss Simms’s block reports seeing anything. It’s as though a ghost killed Jay.”

  Rita shook her head and sighed. “It sure seems like it. But I’m afraid it’s a real person—and probably someone we know.”

  “Rita—” Tricia began reproachfully.

  Bringing a hand to her mouth, Rita made the sign of a key turning in a lock. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll be zitta zitta. And, anyway, you haven’t told me anything. All you’ve told me is what Tony doesn’t know.” Squeezing Tricia’s arm, she added, “I’ll call you the minute I know something. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some detecting to do.”

  She left Tricia speechless, backed into a corner with half a piece of cake left on her plate. Rita went in search of her next prey.

  Within fifteen minutes, she had her hostess sequestered in another corner. This interview, however, was much easier, as Marion had no qualms about sharing what she knew.

  “Now,” Rita said, “tell me exactly who you saw at the hospital and when. Tell me who they were visiting and what they said. What they were wearing. Absolutely everything.”

  “Well,” Marion began, “Annemarie Copeland and I decided that since Maggie and Jane were both in the hospital, we may as well hold bridge club there, so we went and played in Maggie’s room. Of course, we were interrupted frequently by the nurses and there was all the beeping of the machines and it was hard for Maggie to reach the table, but then it did work in my favor, because sometimes I saw her cards—”

  “Marion,” Rita interrupted gently, “who did you see?”

  “As I was entering Maggie’s room, I saw Mary Beth Walker leave her mother’s room. Poor dear, she’s so devoted. That must have been around 2:15. Then, I popped out at some point to use the restroom, and I saw Vinnie bringing a bouquet of yellow roses into Mrs. LoPresti’s room. She was so happy to see him. It was really very sweet of Vinnie to stop by.”

  “Did you talk to them?”

  “Well, not just then, but I briefly talked to Vinnie as he was leaving.”

  “When was that?”

  “I don’t know. Alex Trebek was just introducing the contestants on Jeopardy. It was playing in the background of the common room.”

  “Who else?”

  “I didn’t see her up close, but I saw Elizabeth Van Der Hooven in the distance.”

  “Coming out of Jay’s room?”

  “Probably. I couldn’t see exactly, but she was down the hall. Jay’s room was four down from Maggie’s.”

  “How did you know it was her?”

  “The bearded dragon sweatshirt, the beehive hairdo.”

  “Someone else could arrange her hair like that and borrow her sweatshirt.”

  “She walked like Elizabeth.”

  “Hmmmm.” Rita knew what Marion meant. Elizabeth didn’t really just walk—she lumbered. Just looking at her, you could almost feel the stiffness in her knees. “Anyone else?”

  “Maggie’s granddaughter Becca stopped by towards the end of Jeopardy. And Jane’s husband Andrew.”

  “Did you see Susan?”

  “Marco’s Susan? Of course. She was the nurse on duty. She made rounds every hour.”

  “Right on the hour?”

  “Twenty after, or so.”

  Rita considered this. If Susan started at the end of the ward where Jay was, it was reasonable to assume that it would take twenty minutes to check on three other patients and then wind up in Maggie’s room. Susan’s timeline seemed to check out.

  “Did you see Jay?”

  “I popped in to say hello when I arrived.”

  “How did he seem?”

  “Fine. Cheerful. Improving, I’d say.” Tears sprang to Marion’s eyes. “And by the time I left…”

  She trailed off.

  “He was dead,” she said in a small voice. “Half the hospital staff seemed to be in his room.”

  “Was it a scene?”

  “Terrible.”

  Rita squeezed Marion’s arm and leaned in. “Marion, think hard. Was there anything else unusual that you saw?”

  Marion hesitated for a moment.

  “Yes?” Rita prompted her.

  Marion flushed. “I had, er, digestive problems that day. Too many brownies the day before. There was a special at the Sunshine Café.”

  Chuckling, Rita said, “Oh, I’ve done that myself.”

  “So,” Marion continued in a hushed tone, “I had to excuse myself to go to the bathroom five, maybe six, times.”

  “And you saw someone in there?”

  “Not exactly. I mean, I did, but I don’t know who it was. The last stall was locked, you see, which was annoying, because it’s the handicapped stall and it’s more comfortable for someone like”—she waved a hand, indicating her girth—“me. But every time I went in there, it was locked.”

  “Every time?”

  Marion frowned. “Well, not the first time. But every time after that.”

  “When was the second time?”

  “Just as Ellen was coming on.”

  “Do you have any idea who was in there?”

  With a shrug, Marion said, “Someone with brown loafers. There was a little bit of something green on the left toe. Maybe some soggy spinach from the cafeteria.”

  “What size?”

  “Seven and a half? Eight? Normal-sized. Not big, not small.”

  “When was the last time you used the restroom?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but probably only ten minutes before Susan started yelling for help.”

  “And the shoes were still there then?”

  “Yes. And I didn’t go after that.”

  Rita wondered if the woman in the loafers was the same woman who’d left her footprints in Miss Simms’s garden. She had thought that Julia Simms was lying, but now she wasn’t so sure.

  Rita thanked Marion, left the cake for the others to enjoy, and hurried home to check the local TV schedule.

  Ellen came on at 2:30 each afternoon, which meant that the woman—or very small-footed man—with the brown loafers entered the bathroom stall by 2:30 at the latest and remained there until at least 3:50 or thereabouts.

  Jeopardy came on at 3:30, so Marion must have seen Vinnie leaving Mrs. LoPresti’s room around 3:35.

  Rita updated her timeline accordingly and then, remembering her disturbing conversation with Stephanie, headed over to the high school to give Dr. Walker a piece of her mind.

  Her favorite violet-haired gatekeeper greeted her with what, for Hannah, passed as a smile. “Hey, Mrs. C., what’s up?”

  Rita was never quite sure what the proper response was to this bizarre question. It seemed as though the range of possible responses was endless—“the sky” or “the ceiling” if taken literally, or an afternoon-long recitation of everything she had done since last encountering her conversation partner, if taken figuratively.

  Mercifully, Hannah saved her the trouble of replying. “Are you here to see the boss?” she asked, squinting at Rita. When she squinted, the whites of her eyes almost disappeared, and the swoop of her heavy black eyeliner and the smudge of her violently purple eyeshadow became even more pronounced. “I’ll warn you. He’s in a bad mood today.”

  “Is he ever in a good mood?”

  Hannah eyed her suspiciously. “Is that a rhetorical question?” She cocked her head and lowered her voice. “Before you go in, I have some information that might be interesting to you. I’m not quite sure what it means though.”

  “Oh?”

  “A couple of weeks ago, Miss Van Der Hooven stormed in here. You know, the way she always does. Like she owns the place.”

  Rita knew exactly what Hannah meant.

  “She didn’t even bother to ask if Dr. Walker’s in, or tell me she has an appointment,” Hannah said. “She didn’t acknowledge me at all, in fact, except with a grunt.”

  “That might be more than most people get.”

  “She opened the door, went in, and started talking very loudly. I
couldn’t hear exactly what she was saying.”

  “So what’s odd about that?”

  “That fact,” Hannah said, “that I didn’t hear Dr. Walker’s voice. She talked as though she were talking to someone, but I don’t think he was even there.”

  “What do you mean ‘you don’t think’? Was he there or not?”

  “Well, that’s the thing. I had gone to a doctor appointment and had just arrived back in the office a few minutes before Miss Van Der Hooven arrived. I hadn’t checked whether he was in or not.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “She left, slamming the door behind her, and muttering something under her breath. And then, a minute after that, the fire alarm sounded. And the strange thing was that, when I went outside, I spotted Dr. Walker filing out of the gym with the soccer team. Normally, they practice outside, but that day it was raining.”

  “Did you tell Dr. Walker that Miss Van Der Hooven had gone into his office while he was away?”

  Hannah rolled her eyes. “Would you want to spark an argument between the two of them?”

  “Only if I wanted to see them draw blood.”

  Hannah leaned in and lowered her voice another notch. “And one more thing: his phone line lit up when she was in his office.”

  Rita wasn’t quite sure what to make of Hannah’s story. Miss Van Der Hooven was just the sort to barge into someone’s office. It probably wasn’t the first time she had done so, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. But her motive was unclear. She could have been snooping around (after all, she prided herself on knowing everything about everyone), or she could have gone in there to alter her personnel file, or perhaps just because she got a thrill from calling her lover from Dr. Walker’s office. Rita could think of all kinds of reasons, but while none of them were innocent, neither were they directly connected to Jay’s murder.

  “Thank you, dear,” Rita said. “Now, I’m actually going in. Don’t come in unless you hear me scream.”

  After knocking twice, she pushed open the door and was pleasantly surprised to discover that Dr. Walker’s foul mood had blown over.