Jaymie darted through the shadowy house, stubbing her toe along the way and yelping with pain. When she got to the living room, Ella was still slumped over. But she was alive, her breathing rapid but shallow, her skin hot and dry to the touch! A plate with a crust of toast on it smeared with bright red jam was on the table beside her.
Homemade jam. Bob was experimenting with homemade jam! Could it be…no, no one could do this by accident. She pictured Bob slyly gathering nightshade berries and cooking them. Did cooking kill the poison? But even if it did, that didn’t matter; he could mash up uncooked berries to add to the cooked jam.
“Ella! Ella, wake up,” she said, gently pulling the woman upright. She had to call 911. She snatched up the phone, but when she hit the button to call, there was nothing, no sound at all. No dial tone. But it had rung, earlier, when she called from her place. Was it dead?
A sound behind her alerted her, and she whirled, ducking just in time to avoid Bob’s walking stick. It whistled past her head. She screamed, horrified by the sight of Bob’s pale, sweaty face and bulging eyes. She raced past him toward the front door, shrieking, “Help! Help, someone!”
“Shut up! You’re not getting away with this,” he yelled, lunging after her.
“Bob, I didn’t do anything,” she screamed, confused. Did he think she was hurting Ella? Or…no! She was right in her supposition; Bob was trying to poison his wife! She ducked as he lashed out at her with the stick again. He was blocking her route to the back door, and the front door was securely locked; it would take time to undo the deadbolt. She made a split-second decision and sprinted up the stairs into the darkness above.
“Damn you!” he shouted, and began up the stairs after her, but more slowly.
She felt her way along the hallway and came to a door; she opened it, and crept inside what seemed to be a linen closet from the feel of piled towels and the smell of fabric softener.
“Jaymie, come out now!” he shouted. A hall light went on, a sliver of light under the doorway. “There aren’t too many places you can be, so save us both time and come out so we can talk about this.”
Talk about how he had poisoned his wife systematically with deadly nightshade–laced jam? Her glands ran water, and her stomach revolted. Kathy had suspected or even figured out what he was doing; that had to be the solution! Bob had killed her because she had figured out that he was poisoning his wife! But why hadn’t she turned him in to the cops if she knew?
“Jaymie?” he called, his tone softer. The floor in the hallway creaked as he crept around, trying to figure out where she was. “Come on, I won’t hurt you,” he coaxed. “Let’s talk about this.” The sound of his voice changed, becoming distant and muffled; he must be in another room.
She slipped out of the linen closet and down the hall, but she heard him moving around, opening a door. She dashed into the closest room and softly closed the door, locking it with the knob lock. Luckily it was an old house like hers, and had the same kind of doorknobs. As far as she knew, all he had was the walking stick as a weapon, and how was he going to explain to the cops bashing her over the head upstairs while his wife lay dying in the living room?
He was in the hall again; he tried the knob of the door of the room she was in. “Aha, that’s where you are!” he said. “Come on out, Jaymie. Let’s talk!”
“Kathy figured it out, didn’t she?” she said, raising her voice. “She figured out that you were poisoning Ella!”
He tried the knob again, rattling it. “She wasn’t sure. She thought Ella may have been ingesting the berries accidentally. I placated her, told her I had just learned that the berries I had used in some homemade jam were harmful.”
“So why did she meet you behind the washroom in the park?”
There was silence for a long minute. It sounded like he was leaning against the door. “Oh dear. You’ve figured that out, huh?”
“You were dressed up as Uncle Sam, weren’t you? You came back to the park—after taking Ella home—dressed up as Uncle Sam! Poor Johnny handed you the bowl when you asked for it…or…or told him you’d take it back to our table for him. You knew that bowl was mine, and you knew Kathy and I were enemies!”
In a thoughtful tone, he said, “Too clever by half, that’s what my mom always said when I caught on to something I wasn’t supposed to know. Come on out, Jaymie. Let’s talk. We need to discuss this face-to-face.”
Right. As if. “And you had gloves on, didn’t you?” Some Uncle Sam costumes included white gloves. “Come on, Bob; why did Kathy meet you behind the washroom?”
“I told her I had some legal contacts, someone who could help her get custody of Connor. I knew what she wanted. She almost didn’t agree, though; said she was going to give up on the custody suit. “Don’t give up yet,” I said to her. “Think it over and meet me there,” I said, “just to tell me what you’ve decided.”
“Just let me go, Bob,” Jaymie said, a sob welling up in her throat. She leaned against the door, palm against the wood. What could she say to get out of this mess? “Ella will be all right if she gets some help. You don’t need to do this.”
He rattled the doorknob again. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that. You’ve figured out too much. Just like Kathy…you’re too clever! She was like a darned terrier, tenacious, once she had a bit of information.”
“Bob, I don’t have proof. Really!” Oh crap. Probably not a good thing to say, because if he was planning to kill her, he now knew he didn’t need to worry about her leaving behind any brilliant musings about his role in the killing.
“But you’re a lifelong citizen of good character in this boring little burg, aren’t you? One word from you…I’ve been through the ringer with my first wife and the insurance company. How would it look if I was suspected in another murder?”
Another…? “You killed your first wife?” Oh God, what was she going to do? If she kept running into murderers, she was really going to have to start carrying a cell phone.
“Bitch figured out I had embezzled some money from the charity we ran on her dime, and she was going to turn me in! I couldn’t let her do that. We had a little ‘accident,’ and she died. Insurance and my inheritance was enough to pay off our debts and take care of me for a while,” he mused. “But not long enough. Ella and her nice, fat insurance settlement came around just in time!”
“Insurance settlement?”
“Of course! She was in a car accident, a bad one; that’s why she’s in a wheelchair!”
“I thought she was sick with some endocrine disease!”
“Glad you bought that crap,” he grunted, trying the door. “Ella sure did. She was finally convinced she was really sick, not just injured. I hope everyone else buys it, including that snoop, Valetta Nibley. It’ll make it easier for the coroner to pronounce natural causes.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Oh, come on! Surely you can figure this out. She has a million-dollar annuity. When she’s gone, I’ll get insurance money again—like any loving couple, we bought policies to benefit each other, you know, even though her premiums were through the roof—and I’ll inherit the entire annuity as a lump-sum settlement.” He paused, then said, his tone sly, “Just come on out, Jaymie, and we’ll talk! Maybe we can make a deal.”
There was a pounding at the door downstairs.
“Damn it!” Bob growled, striking at the door with his walking stick. More pounding from downstairs echoed through the house. “I’ve got to go and send whoever that is away.”
Jaymie heard a loud screeching, like furniture on a wood floor. Darn! She unlocked the door and pulled it open, but he had shoved some extremely large piece of furniture against it, a wardrobe or armoire! She flicked the light on to find that she was in some kind of spare bedroom, which was stuffy from disuse. And hanging on a coat rack? An Uncle Sam costume, minus the wig, beard and top hat!
A splash; something tossed into the river; and gray hairs clasped in Kathy’s dead hand. That’s what
it must have been. He couldn’t risk the beard being found at his place, because the police would be able to match the fibers in her hand to his Uncle Sam costume.
But she couldn’t just stand there gaping. She had to get out. There was a window! She dashed across the room and tried to open it, but the old sash was either warped with time or painted or nailed shut. Should she break a pane? That wouldn’t do a bit of good, since it was an old six-over-six type, and one pane was barely big enough to get her arm through.
She dashed back across the room to the door and flung it open, shouting past the huge wooden wardrobe, “Help, help!” and hoping whoever was at the door could hear her. It wasn’t enough. She put her shoulder to the wardrobe and pushed, and it budged. If he could move it, so could she. She did it again, throwing herself against it hard enough that her shoulder felt bruised already. She shoved again, harder, and it screeched, catching on a floorboard and tipping, crashing over against a wall.
She climbed over it and dashed down the stairs to the landing. The front door was open slightly, and she could see Bob’s figure silhouetted by the faint porch light. Was he with someone? It didn’t matter. The door was open, and she was going to have to take her chances. She bolted down the last flight of stairs and flung herself through the door, sending Bob flying down on the porch just as a fire truck and a cop car, sirens blazing, screeched to a stop. A man in boxer shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt stood near the steps, phone in hand, eyes wide with shock.
“He tried to kill me,” Jaymie shouted, panting and pointing toward Bob as the cops came out, guns drawn. “His wife is inside, and she’s very ill, and he was trying to kill her,” she gasped. “He killed Kathy Cooper and tried to kill me!”
And then everything went black.
* * *
SHE WOKE UP as the paramedics were loading Ella into the back of the ambulance. One paramedic was by her side, and she looked up and smiled. “I’m okay,” she said, trying to sit up.
The woman pushed her back down. “Just be calm, miss, and we’ll—”
“I’m okay, really!” Jaymie insisted, shrugging away from the paramedic’s insistent, gloved hands and sitting up. “I just hyperventilated. My shoulder is bruised, and I have a few scratches, but I’m fine.”
Bob Douglas was sitting in the back of the cruiser, and when Bernice Jenkins, the officer standing by the cruiser, saw her, she bustled over. “Can you tell me what the hell is going on?” she asked.
“Bernie! Thank God you’re here. Bob Douglas murdered Kathy Cooper.”
“Well, that’s funny, because that’s what he’s saying about you!” she said, hands on hips. “He said he caught you in his house trying to kill his wife—he says you fed her some poisoned jam or something—and when he tried to ward you off, you went berserk.”
“Right. Not funny.”
The neighbor came over, and hovered, saying, his tone querulous, “I never did trust that Bob Douglas. He kept trying to get rid of me tonight, when I came to the door about his house alarm and the alarm company. If this girl”—he pointed at Jaymie—was trying to kill his wife, would Bob be trying to get rid of me and keep me from calling the cops?”
He stepped closer to Bernice. “Well, would he? I don’t think so! The Douglas’s alarm company called me—I was their contact, you know, because they didn’t know anyone else—and they said that there was some kind of malfunction with the alarms in the Douglas home, so I came over and banged on the door. No one answered at first, so I called 911, and then Bob comes to the door and gets mad! And then I heard someone screaming upstairs, and he’s trying to get rid of me, saying it’s all a mistake. But I said, what kind of mistake has a woman screaming inside your house?”
He said it all in one long stream, and Bernice nodded, listening intently, and finally said, “Okay, sir, let me get your name. We’ll need to talk to you down at the station.”
“I’ll go right now. This minute, if you want. I have important information, and I know my duty as a citizen.”
Another car pulled up, and Detective Christian jumped out of it, dashing over to Jaymie. “Are you okay? What the hell is going on here?”
She put up one hand, and said, “Help me get up, Detective. I think I bruised my butt falling down.”
“I think you ought to stay right there for a minute, until we know you’re okay,” he said.
Bernice eyed the detective and Jaymie. She swiftly hid a smile, but not before Jaymie caught that look. Christian knelt beside her, his arm around her, and she looked up into his gray eyes. This was not going to quell the rumors that he liked her, she supposed. But did she care? “I’m okay, really,” she said, her heart pounding again. She pulled away.
The detective’s concerned expression was soon shielded by a mask of professionalism. As the ambulance carrying poor Ella Douglas roared away, Christian took Bernice aside. The officer talked to him nonstop, pointing out the neighbor, who now sat on the front step of the Douglases’ home, and Jaymie, who hugged herself, feeling chilled and damp from the night air.
At that moment, Valetta, her face slathered in white cream and her glasses askew, came running down the street, shrieking when she saw Jaymie sitting on the ground. “Jaymie, Jaymie, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Valetta, relax!” She explained what had happened, beginning to shiver halfway through. “Why am I so cold all of a sudden?”
“Shock,” Valetta said. “You just had an awful scare.” She whipped off her housecoat to reveal a shorty set underneath, pink with gray Parisian poodles and Eiffel Towers all over the top and shorts. “Put this on,” she said, wrapping it around Jaymie.
It was warm from her friend’s body and smelled of Jergens and Noxzema. The shivering settled. Valetta marched over to the detective, and said, “Jaymie needs to get someplace and have a cup of tea or something. I’ll take her home, then meet you over the police station, okay?” She didn’t wait for the detective’s answer, she just grabbed Jaymie’s arm, hauled her to her feet and marched off with as much dignity as a woman in shorty pajamas and her face slathered in cream could muster.
Twenty-one
SUGARY TEA AND a sweater from Valetta’s closet made Jaymie feel better, and after that, Valetta insisted on driving her to the police station. Jaymie had made one call, though, before they’d left Valetta’s cottage. She just wasn’t sure that she had gotten through to the paramedics, so she called Wolverhampton General Hospital, insisted on talking to the nurse in charge of Ella Douglas and told her that Ella might be suffering from solanine poisoning. If they pumped her stomach, they’d probably find the residue of red berries, deadly nightshade.
At the police station she was faced with a weary-looking Detective Christian, who eyed her cherry red sweater adorned with fluffy kittens gamboling with balls of yarn. She didn’t feel like explaining that it was Valetta’s. The almost-fifty-year-old woman had some peculiar fashion tastes, as evidenced by the Parisian-puppies nightwear. “I know you’ve probably got a million questions,” she said to the detective, “but I have to be sure I was clear. Solanine poisoning…look at the crust of toast with red berry jam that’s on the little table in the living room by Ella Douglas’s motorized wheelchair.”
“Solanine. What is that?”
“Atropine. Belladonna. Deadly nightshade,” Jaymie said tersely, scrubbing her gritty-feeling eyes. “I’ve done a lot of research lately, and I believe Kathy Cooper had gone down the same research paths, given her interest in herbal medicine. Maybe check her computer?” She paused, as a bit of information came back to her. “You know, she may even have been talking to someone at the Payne Institute. I was at her house a couple of days ago when they left a message for her to contact them, so maybe she was asking around. I remember seeing advertised in the Howler that they have a course on the poisonous plants of Michigan.
“Bob Douglas was poisoning his wife with deadly nightshade. I think Ella was sensitive to it anyway, which sped up the process.” Jaymie stopped and thought back. “I we
nt to visit her a few evenings ago, and there was some uneaten toast on her side table, and Bob was out that evening at a Rotary club meeting, too. Oh my gosh! I think he tried to kill her then, but she didn’t eat it!”
Jaymie, with the detective’s thorough questioning, took him and Bernice Jenkins, who sat in taking notes, through her last few hours, how it all had come together, from Kathy Cooper’s naturopathy catalog through her interest in nursing. She told them about her worries for Ella, when she hadn’t gotten an answer on the phone, and about finding the Uncle Sam costume in the spare room. She went through how she’d figured out about the splash she’d heard that night, and got a surprising admission from Detective Christian that they had found an Uncle Sam beard and wig in the river near the crime, and it matched the fibers found in Kathy’s hand. They had been trying to trace it to someone ever since.
“We’re going to have to put you on a retainer if you keep solving crimes,” he said, finally, with a rueful smile.
“I’ve got another one for you,” Jaymie said. She told him what Bob Douglas had said concerning the death of his first wife.
The detective and Bernie left the room. Jaymie got up to look in the big mirror that lined one wall. Good heavens! She looked a fright: smears of dirt on her cheek, her hair like a rat’s nest. She jammed her fingers through it, trying to comb it out. Why didn’t Valetta tell her she looked like crap? Detective Christian came back in, quickly hiding a smirk. Was that a two-way glass, she wondered? Had he seen her primping? Red flooded her cheeks.
Sobering, he said, “You’ll be happy to know that Miss Nibley called Mr. Stanko’s lawyer, who is, at this very minute, at the jail. His client will be released as soon as the paperwork is done.”
Bowled Over Page 24