I apologized to Glenda for the blood and urine that remained on Inga. I’d done my best to get the mess out, but I’d wanted to avoid hurting or frightening her; I was playing good cop, and Glenda was stuck playing bad cop. When Inga was back in her carrier, I poked a finger through the grated door and wiggled it at her. She looked pathetic and scrawny.
“I promise I’ll come back for you. I promise.” I wiped tears from my eyes as I left the shop.
ELEVEN
TO avoid feeling overwhelmed by my sympathy for Inga, I spent the ten-minute drive to my parents’ house cursing the clumsiness of my efforts at detection. As social work’s answer to Nancy Drew, I was a flop. The official investigators, however, weren’t exactly a success, at least so far, and they’d presumably known the autopsy results longer than I had. Furthermore, they weren’t motivated the way I was: I was the one who’d seen Francie suffer the effects of the poison, and I was the one who couldn’t get that image out of my head. So, instead of scaring Adrianna about her baby’s health and instead of asking Josh ridiculous questions about Digger’s cardiac status, I needed to cool down and apply my powers of rational thought. For example, Josh had said that the person from the department of health had asked about herbs. Was there some reason to suppose that the digitalis had been added to the herbs that Josh had used? Or was there some other connection between digitalis and herbs? I’d scanned only a few of the Web pages that my Google search had produced. I’d return to the task when I got home. In the meantime, I decided, I’d do my best to avoid discussing Francie’s murder with my parents. Their house was going to be my safe harbor. My happy place.
My parents’ white Spanish stucco house did look happy—or at least improbable and whimsical, belonging as it did in Santa Barbara, California, rather than where it actually was, in Newton, Massachusetts. I let myself in the front door and found my mother and a young man huddled over the dining room table. My mother, Bethany Carter, was decked out in virtually every piece of hideous jewelry she owned, and she owned a lot. I could never reconcile my mother’s good horticultural taste with her astoundingly awful taste in almost everything else. Despite the vile adornments, my mother was a pretty woman, and not the tiniest wrinkle had appeared on her face, so I had high hopes for aging well. She’d recently cut her hair into a wash-and-wear style that fell in soft waves around her face and had colored it a chestnut brown to erase the four gray hairs that had dared to grow on her head.
Hearing me enter, she popped her head up. “Chloe, come meet Emilio. Emilio, this is my daughter, Chloe.”
Whoa. Happy place, indeed! Emilio was hot. Not just good-looking or handsome but downright hot: sexy, rippling biceps, broad chest, dark skin, and a strikingly gorgeous face. Think Mario López meets John Stamos. All coherent thoughts flew out of my brain, and I stood there thunder-struck and mute as I fought off the mental video I’d inadvertently created of a tan, sweaty, half-naked Emilio playing beach volleyball to the Top Gun soundtrack.
Miraculously, my knees did not buckle out from under me as I stepped forward to shake Emilio’s hand. “Hi, I’m Chloe,” I said breathlessly. “Oh, my mother already said that. It’s nice to meet me. You! I mean you! I already know me. Myself. I know myself, of course. Ha-ha!” I laughed idiotically. “Should we talk about rain barrels?”
When Emilio the God smiled, dimples appeared. As if this guy needed any more alluring physical traits! “It’s really nice to meet you, Chloe.” Although my mother had told me that Emilio was Colombian, he sounded totally American. If he’d had a Spanish accent, I’d have been totally gaga. “I heard you’ve drummed up a lot of business this summer,” he continued. “I’m ready to get going on this with you.”
“Yes, I’m ready to get going on you, too.” Oops. “On the projects!” I said quickly. “I’m ready to get going on the rain barrels!” One hot guy, and I fell to pieces. Get it together, Chloe! I already had a good-looking boyfriend. But there was no denying that Emilio was more than drool-worthy.
Okay, I just wouldn’t look at him.
“So,” I started as I sat down next to Emilio and across from my mother, “Anna Roberts is our first client. She’s going to have three rain barrels installed, and she’d like them to be enclosed in a rounded rock wall to match the existing rock walls she has in her yard.” I handed Emilio the photos I’d taken of the house and grounds. I relied heavily on my digital camera for these projects, because my drawing skills were limited to stick figures, and sloppy ones at that. “Do you think you can come up with some sort of top to go with this? Maybe a wooden one that would coordinate with her deck? And something environmentally friendly, of course.”
Emilio nodded enthusiastically. “Absolutely. I could do bamboo, for instance. That’s a great wood to use because it’s an easily renewable natural resource. There are also really beautiful materials made from recycled plastics that I could use. I can show Mrs. Roberts a few options and let her decide.”
“Perfect.”
My mother went into the kitchen to get us some lemonade, and I pulled out the next client’s specifications. “So, Emilio, my mother told me that your family owns a large nursery and garden center nearby. My parents do business there. You came back to Boston after college?”
Emilio flashed his dimples. “That’s right. One of my interests at Princeton was environmental studies, and after I graduated, I spent a year working with my family at their business. I did a lot of work on their property, finding ways to save energy and turn their business green. We actually won a local award from the Small Business Association.” More dimples. “Then I spent a few years interning with an architect in Boston and learning about green design. It’s amazing what can be done now with eco-friendly design. It used to be that anything made from recycled products was . . . something you wouldn’t want to look at. But not anymore. So I wanted to bring some of what I’d learned back to my family’s business and keep them on the cutting edge. The problem is still the initial investment costs, though. The people who can afford to install things like wind turbines and solar panels aren’t the people who need four-dollar electric bills.”
Handsome and politically conscious to boot. I could be in trouble.
I nodded in agreement. “You’re right. We really need to get energy-efficient structures into low-cost housing areas. We need to get costs in the reach of the middle class. I think over time we’ll see the costs come down, but for now it’s the wealthy who are benefiting from these kinds of resources.”
My mother returned with tall glasses of iced lemonade. As she set a glass down in front of me, I noticed a hint of makeup on her usually bare face. Ah! Apparently my mother wasn’t immune to Emilio’s looks, either—hence her overzealous display of jewelry today, too. I was feeling a bit guilty for admiring Emilio, but knowing that my happily married mother wasn’t resistant to his charms made me feel better. There was nothing wrong with looking, right?
Look but don’t touch! Look but don’t touch! I repeated in my head.
“Chloe, did you know Emilio’s family is from Colombia? He’s been a great translator for me. My Spanish is quite rusty. Last month I asked Fernando and Matias to dig an ocean in the Marberrys’ backyard.”
Emilio waved away my mother’s compliment. “Glad to help, Mrs. Carter. Listen, I hate to rush us here, but I just moved into my new apartment. I’m right by the Hynes T stop, near Newbury Street and Mass. Ave. It’s a cool location, even if the apartment is pretty small. Anyhow, I’ve got loads of work to get done there, and I’m hoping to finish unpacking today so I can start building tomorrow. Can we run through the other projects?” An apologetic Emilio looked hopefully at us.
“No problem,” I said. “There are four more, and they are all pretty straightforward.”
Fifteen minutes later, when we’d run through the last of the clients, Emilio left to finish his unpacking. “It was nice to finally meet the carpenter you’ve been talking about. He seems nice,” I said casually to Mom.
“Yes, an
d isn’t he positively gorgeous?” my mother said exuberantly.
“Mom!”
“Well, he is. There’s no denying it. No harm in admiring, is there?” She took a sip of lemonade and skimmed over the schedule for constructing the rain barrels. “I guess he and his girlfriend just broke up, and he moved out of the apartment they shared. I’m sure it won’t be long until he finds someone else, though.”
“Probably not,” I agreed.
“Are you and Josh doing all right?”
“Yes, we’re fine,” I said quickly. “Why would you even ask that?” I glared at her.
“Just checking. Emilio is a great catch, that’s all. Don’t misunderstand me, Chloe. I adore Josh, and I think you two have a wonderful relationship. It’s just that I know how much he works, and I imagine that must take a toll on you. It’s hard enough for couples who’ve been together for years, but you two have only been dating for a year. His schedule must present some challenges.” Mom rose from her seat and picked up our glasses. “And that damn restaurant world is not the most conducive place for cultivating a romance, right? Josh is under tremendous stress a lot of the time, and I just hope you’re not getting shortchanged in the relationship.”
“I’m not. Everything is okay, Mom. I’m used to his schedule, and we always manage to find time for each other.” At least we tried to find time for each other.
“Oh, did I tell you that Emilio and a couple of his cousins are going to help out at the wedding? They’re going to carry out food, serve drinks, that sort of thing. I thought we’d need a few extra sets of hands, especially people who aren’t in the wedding and aren’t guests. Maybe Emilio can help Josh with the food, too.”
Emilio and Josh. Josh and Emilio? An interesting combination. I shrugged my shoulders. “I think Josh will be fine. Digger will be here to help him out.” Digger was not only Josh’s friend, of course, but a chef who could be counted on to put out delicious food. Besides, I had no visceral reaction whatever to Digger, whereas the prospect of having Josh work next to the hunky Emilio was all too . . . visceral, let’s say. “But we could definitely use Emilio’s help with all the other work that will need to be done that day. Anyhow, I’ve got to get going. I have to go pick up Inga.”
“Who is Inga?” my confused mother asked. “A new friend from school?”
I laughed and explained how Josh had rescued the white cat from death by Charles River. “She’s at the groomer’s right now. I’m just hoping the owner there didn’t have to shave all her fur off.”
“Josh is an angel, isn’t he?” Mom said warmly.
I had to agree. Josh was an angel. I felt scummy for even noticing Emilio. Would Emilio ever save a pitiful cat from death? His dedication to finding solutions to a multitude of environmental crises might save the world, but I couldn’t say for sure that he’d have rescued Inga.
But I did want to think so.
TWELVE
“HERE is Miss Inga!” Glenda beamed as she lifted the cat carrier onto the counter. “She looks like a whole new cat, doesn’t she?”
She truly did. Even peeking through the grated door, I could see she looked clean and beautiful. “I told you I’d come back, little girl, didn’t I?” I cooed to my cat.
I swear that there was gratitude in Inga’s big blue eyes. Sticking a finger into the cage for her to smell, I felt her touch me with her wet nose. Then she rubbed her head against my finger.
“How was she, Glenda? Was she a monster?” I was sure that Inga had peed all over the groomer as she had the vet, but I was wrong.
“She was fine. No trouble at all. I think she knew I was trying to help her. Those were some nasty mats she had, but I managed to just shave off the clumps and let her keep the rest of her coat.”
“Thank you so much for fitting her in today. How much do I owe you?” I reached for my purse. Even though Glenda gave me a discount because of Inga’s escape from death, I still shelled out a hefty sum. But my money bought me a clean cat no longer tormented by mats that yanked at her skin. As if to celebrate Inga’s rehabilitation, Glenda had tied a silly pink bow between the little cat’s ears. I waved thanks to Glenda and drove Inga back to my condo.
When we got home, Gato was sitting on the couch, but one look at Inga sent him back to the top of the fridge to mope. I knew that he’d come around in a few days, but I hated to see him even crankier than usual. Gato normally ate dry food, but I kept a small reserve of canned food for special occasions and bribes. I opened a can of salmon and chicken, dumped it in a bowl, and placed it on top of the fridge in an effort to cheer my boy up. Gato didn’t share my opinion that the cat food smelled like garbage. On the contrary, it elicited a steady purr. As Gato scarfed down his meal, I reached up to pet his shiny black coat.
Then I went to my bedroom, which was the largest room in my small condo and hence doubled as a work space for school and for my summer job. Sitting at my desk, I checked my e-mail, sorted through a few messages about rain barrels, and decided to do another search for information about digitalis.
Wham! Digitalis was a genus of perennial plants, the most common being foxglove. As the daughter of two horticultural experts, I should have known! In fact, my parents would’ve been horrified to realize how little botanical information I’d absorbed over the years. In particular, I liked the common names of plants and had never bothered to learn botanical names. So, digitalis was a stranger, but foxglove was an old friend. I’d always adored the tall, spiked plants with their showy, tubular flowers.
Digitalis in the form of foxglove was obviously much easier to obtain than was digitalis in the form of a prescription medication. In fact, as I read about foxglove, I had to wonder why such a dangerous plant was positively all over the place: offered in seed catalogs, sold at garden centers, and grown in backyards. Every part of the foxglove was poisonous, and especially toxic were the leaves from the upper stem. The symptoms of having ingested foxglove were identical to those that Francie had shown. Furthermore, it had a strong, bitter taste. So that was why Josh’s arugula pesto and lamb had tasted so putrid! Dear God, all of us who’d tasted it could have died! I remembered how sick Josh had been. It was a blessing that in vomiting up everything in his system, he’d rid himself of most of the poison.
Damn. Instead of pestering people about possible cardiac conditions, I should have been asking about gardening. My questions about heart problems and family health histories had been awkward and unwelcome, but gardening was an ordinary topic that was easy to introduce in a casual conversation. My mother was always saying that gardening was the most popular hobby in America. Had anyone present at Leo and Francie’s house pursued the hobby?
Evan and Willie shared an apartment. I hadn’t been there, but they could be growing foxgloves in pots on a balcony or in a yard, and they might well not have realized how lethal a practical joke involving digitalis could be. Leo and Francie’s house had some kind of a disheveled garden, but I hadn’t really paid attention to it except to notice that it was a weedy mess. Foxglove was a biennial rather than a perennial. In its first year, it produced leaves, but it didn’t blossom until its second year. Then, I thought, it died. But it self-sowed. In other words, if someone had planted foxglove in Leo and Francie’s yard a long time ago, the descendants of the original plants could still be growing there. Although it was obvious that neither Francie nor Leo had been maintaining the garden, Leo might have known all about foxglove and might have known that it was growing right outside his house. Murders were often family affairs, weren’t they? They were on TV. So Leo had to be a suspect. What’s more, the rest of us had just met Francie. What possible motive could Robin, Marlee, Digger, or Nelson have had for killing her? None, so far as I could tell. Except possibly Nelson? Not that the cameraman had had anything personal against Francie, but he’d certainly been the weirdest person there. He’d kept spouting off at the mouth about the power of reality television, and he’d ghoulishly kept filming when Francie had fallen ill and after she’d died.
He’d even tried to film the aftermath of the poisoning in the ER. Could Nelson have killed Francie only to have “reality” to film? If Nelson was, in fact, the murderer, he probably hadn’t cared which of us died. Maybe he’d even been disappointed to have only one victim. Sick thought, yes, but especially as a social-worker-to-be, I knew that there were sick people in the world.
I remembered something else potentially important. When Josh and I had both sampled some of the food before it had been served, there had been nothing wrong with it. But when we’d tasted the same food after Francie had complained so forcibly, it had been horrible. In between those two times, there’d been chaotic activity. The food had been served, returned to the kitchen, and served again. The scene at the dinner table had been filmed and filmed again. Everyone, or almost everyone, had had the opportunity to contaminate the food with poison. Marlee and Digger had handled the food when Robin and Nelson had accompanied them to the kitchen to reshoot the plates. Leo had had his hands all over the food, hadn’t he? To complicate matters, it seemed possible that the digitalis had been added either to what was originally on Francie’s plate or to one of the bowls or pans used to replenish her plate before the dinner-table scene was reshot.
It’s typical of me that the thought of food, even food loaded with a fatal toxin, made me hungry. I was in the kitchen getting myself a snack when the phone rang. “Hello?” I managed between bites of garlic-stuffed olives. I really needed to go food shopping.
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