Death Rolls the Dice, page 26
Kel made a good point. Who would take the word of an aging pot-growing, ponytailed hippie over that of the elegant and accomplished Dr. Sheila Rappaport? Sheila was the darling of the garden-and-weed set, Kel an ordinary county extension agent. It would amount to a case of he said, she said.
I rose, more than ready to get the heck out of Dodge with its stale smells and gritty floors. I was nearly at the door when I turned with one final question. “You failed to mention what advice you sought from Sheila.”
He shrugged narrow shoulders and seemed to reach a decision. “I did some experimenting a while back and discovered a method of extracting oil from a certain plant—sea buckthorn—that contains properties that might apply to the cosmetics business. I figured Sheila, being a fellow botanist, might know how to get it to the attention of the right people. Point me in the right direction, so to speak. Guess it hardly matters anymore.”
Or did it matter? I wondered as the jail door slammed shut behind me.
Chapter 35
She sells seashells down by the seashore.
As I drove toward home, the childhood tongue twister tormented me until it turned into Sheila sells seashells.
Seashells . . . ? Sea buckthorn . . . ?
Wasn’t sea buckthorn the same plant Sheila and Betsy had been studying the afternoon of my impromptu visit? I remember vividly because its generic name sounded something like hippopotamus. Betsy had snickered when I’d stumbled over the pronunciation. Then Sheila had quickly stuffed the photo back into a folder. Almost as if she didn’t want me to see it. Almost as though she’d been trying to hide it. I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, willing myself to recall the gist of the conversation. Betsy, Little Miss Snippety, had informed me sea buckthorn didn’t grow in these parts, so my backyard would have to do without. Too bad, so sad.
He said, she said . . . by the seashore.
Variations of the stupid rhyme kept looping through my brain. What if Kel was telling the truth? What if he really was innocent? My stomach knotted at the possibility. Why should I take his word over Sheila’s? Why should I believe a man who’d shot at me, might’ve killed me? Sheila, on the other hand, liked me, wanted me as a friend. She’d even given me tickets to the Masters. Why all the doubt? Why couldn’t I let it go?
But I couldn’t.
And all because of a plant whose name was similar to that of a barrel-shaped mammal. Could sea buckthorn be the key to the mystery?
I concentrated as I drove along the two-lane highway trying to remember the photo. As I recalled, the plant had been large, nearly the size of a small tree, which is the reason I thought it a perfect choice for the empty space at the back of my yard. I’d also been attracted by the silvery green leaves and clusters of bright orange fruit. I clutched the steering wheel tighter as a thought occurred to me. What if sea buckthorn had nothing whatsoever to do with cosmetics, as Kel claimed, but everything to do with poison?
I couldn’t resist a glance at the marquee as I passed the white clapboard AME church. Forbidden fruits create many jams. Were the sea buckthorn’s pretty orange clusters forbidden fruit? Who better to ask than Sheila?
Only one way to solve this quandary once and for all. Rather than turning for home, I headed for Sheila’s rental.
I parked in the drive next to her Lexus. The woman had expensive tastes, I noted, and not for the first time. There must be big bucks in having your own TV show. And she was an author. Sheila must be raking in the dough. Maybe someday I’d try my hand at writing a book. Easy peasy. How hard can it be?
Climbing out of the Buick, I marched up the walk and rang the bell. I waited, then rang it again before the door finally swung open.
“Hi,” I said.
“Kate, what a surprise,” Sheila returned, her tone frosty.
She was dressed in the same clothes she’d worn at the sheriff’s earlier that afternoon. Her navy linen pants remained unwrinkled, her white shirt still stain-free. It was hard to relate to a woman so perfect. “I was beginning to think no one was home. Hope this isn’t a bad time.”
“I didn’t expect to see you again this soon.”
Yep, there was a distinct chill in the air. What happened to our being best buds? If this was the way she treated other women, small wonder no one ever invited her to play bunco. “I’ve just come from seeing Kel at the jail,” I told her. “We need to talk.”
Sheila held her ground. “Sorry, this isn’t a good time. I’m right in the middle of packing.”
“This won’t take long.” Sheila apparently hadn’t been informed of my middle name—Persistence.
“Very well.” She stood aside, but didn’t invite me farther into the house.
I didn’t let that bother me. Faking an end run, I dashed past her into the great room and plunked myself down on the sofa. “Just a couple questions, then I’ll leave you to your packing.” Packing that was nonexistent. The house was in its usual pristine condition, not a knickknack out of place. And Sheila, being Sheila, didn’t surround herself with ordinary knickknacks, or bric-a-brac, she had objets d’art. Crystal and statuettes, all of which appeared very breakable and super-expensive. La-di-dah!
Sheila didn’t sit, but stood, arms folded, watching me. “Really, Kate, most people call before dropping in. It’s the civil thing to do.”
No one had ever accused me of not being civil. Suddenly, however, I’d become the guest who overstayed her welcome. I swept my gaze over the room, and it landed on a single champagne flute on an end table along with an open laptop. Next to it rested a nearly full bottle of chilled champagne. From where I sat, I could read the label: Dom Perignon. I knew the stuff was pricey, probably fifty dollars a bottle, maybe more. I was impressed, but I’m impressionable.
“Looks like you’re celebrating,” I said.
“It’s not every day your attempted murderer gets what’s coming to him. Care to join me for a glass?”
I mulled over the proposition—for half a second. When would I get another chance to drink fifty-dollar champagne? “Sure, I’d love to.”
While Sheila went for another champagne flute, I couldn’t resist taking a peek at her computer. To my way of thinking, since it was open for all to see, the laptop fell into the category of public domain. I jiggled the mouse and, lo and behold, up popped her e-mail. I quickly skimmed a congratulatory note from Betsy Dalton. Betsy extolled Sheila’s discovery of a breakthrough method of extracting oil from the bark of sea buckthorn. She went on to say this brilliant find would revolutionize the cosmetics industry—and Belle Beaute would be the first to reap the benefits. Promise you’ll invite me to visit your villa on the Mediterranean, the e-mail concluded. Clicking open an attachment, I viewed the final packaging of Belle Beaute’s new anti-aging formula, Forever Young.
Brilliant discovery? Breakthrough? Villa? But whoa, wait a minute . . . Didn’t Kel mention an identical find? Wasn’t that the reason he gave for seeking Sheila’s advice. Evidently the discovery was worth millions.
“You just can’t leave well enough alone, can you, Kate?”
I started at the sound of Sheila’s voice. Was it a federal offense to read another person’s mail? Or did that only apply to stealing or tampering? E-mail was another matter entirely, wasn’t it? “Guilty as charged,” I admitted with a feeble grin.
A grin that faded when I noticed the gun in her hand.
“If you didn’t want to share the Dom Perignon, all you had to do was say so.” I desperately hoped this was some sort of sick joke.
“If you think for one second I’m going to let a busybody such as yourself spoil all my planning and hard work, you’re mistaken. I’m becoming quite proficient at eliminating people who stand in my way. I’ve no qualms about doing it again.”
“Is that thing real?” I asked, motioning to the compact gun she held. With its candy pink grip and shiny chrome, it looked like it belonged to Shoot ’Em Up Barbie. “Does it come in other colors?”
Sheila didn’t crack a smile. “Did Rita ever mention I medaled in skeet shooting? Imagine the damage I’d do at close range.”
I swallowed past the golf-ball-size lump in my throat. Puzzle pieces started to click into place. “You, not Kel, poisoned Vaughn.”
“Congratulations, you finally figured it out.” Her laughter sounded like breaking glass. “Sorry, but you’re too late. Yes, I’m the one who poisoned Vaughn—and myself as well. Naive, unsuspecting Vaughn was becoming tiresome. It was simple actually—almost as simple as planting the arsenic in Kel’s shed. I only needed to add a larger concentration of my special honey to his tea than I did to mine. I’d even experimented giving myself small doses of the toxin to lessen my sensitivity. Naturally I was aware of Vaughn’s heart disease. It wasn’t difficult to cause an arrhythmia. The idiots at the crime lab in Columbia still haven’t figured out his death was a case of Mad Honey Disease.”
I inched along the sofa. If I could distract her, I’d bolt for the door and run like crazy. “Mad Honey Disease . . . ?”
Considering the gravity of the situation, Sheila seemed almost relaxed and in no great hurry to shoot me. Besides, everyone knows how hard bloodstains are to remove from carpeting. “Vaughn preferred tea sweetened with honey,” Sheila continued. “The honey I used to sweeten our tea was distilled from the nectar of azaleas. It contains grayanotoxin, which in Vaughn’s case proved deadly. While I exhibited similar symptoms, they weren’t to the same degree as his.”
I cautiously rose to my feet, my legs rubbery. “Why?”
“Chalk it up to the oldest motive known to mankind. Pure unadulterated greed.” She shook her head at my stupidity. “I’m not talking penny-ante cash, Kate, but millions. In addition to copious amounts of vitamin E, beta carotene, and antioxidants, sea buckthorn is high in essential fatty acids. Vaughn and I nearly perfected a method of extracting its oil and were about to present our findings to Belle Beaute for further testing. Then along comes Kel Watson, a bumbling, local yokel of an extension agent, who not only made the same amazing discovery but found the solution to our little problem. Well, that would never do. After I convinced Kel to explain his process to me in detail, I needed to eliminate him as a threat to my financial future.”
“But what about Vaughn? I thought you two were lovers. Why kill him?”
She snorted a laugh. “I’ve never been the type who likes to share. This was no exception.”
Wasn’t it nice we were finally having a heart-to-heart girl talk? Too bad it was with a gun pointed at my chest. It detracted from the warm fuzzies I usually feel when sharing secrets with a pal. Angling my body, I took a small step sideways. “What do you plan to do with all that money?” Not that I gave a hoot, but it bought me precious time.
“I’m ready to move on.” A humorless smile twisted her mouth. “I’ve worked hard all my life, now I’m ready to reap the rewards. I’ll be able to live as I please. Clothes, cars, homes, travel, they’re all within reach. Now”—she motioned with the gun—“let’s go for a drive, shall we?”
Chapter 36
“Are you going to shoot me?”
Though the line was cliché, it summed up my fear in a nutshell.
“No, I have something much more original in mind.” Sheila’s cunning smile made her a shoo-in for the role of Cruella de Vil in the Disney classic 101 Dalmatians.
I reviewed my options as Serenity Cove Estates vanished in the rearview mirror. I could stomp on the gas, veer off the highway, and probably hit a tree. Just my luck, I’d wind up deader ’n a doornail, while Sheila would be rescued by a cute EMT, and the pair would live happily ever after in the south of France. Plan B: I could try to fast-talk my way out of this, but I needed snappier dialog than “Are you going to shoot me?” Problem was I didn’t feel particularly snappy at the moment. Sheer terror has that effect on me. Plan C: Duh! I didn’t have a Plan C.
“Just drive.” Sheila casually flung my purse in the backseat, where it landed on the floor with a thud. “I’ll tell you where to turn.”
I shot her a sidelong glance. Sheila was much too calm for my liking. The woman had nerves as hard and cold as granite. Her gun hand was rock steady and remained leveled at my chest. Then lightning struck. Plan C came to me in a flash. I’d wait until we met a car coming in the opposite direction and swerve into oncoming traffic. The instant our cars collided, I’d jump out and yell for help. Problem with Plan C was it depended upon oncoming traffic. One of the perks of living in a rural area such as Serenity Cove was that there wasn’t any traffic. It used to be a running joke between Jim and me that if we ever encountered two or more cars at an intersection, we’d have to move.
“You know, don’t you, Kate, that you brought this whole situation on yourself?” Sheila said, her tone conversational.
My fault . . . ?
I stifled the urge to bop myself on the head and exclaim, “Gee, I could’ve had a V8,” but was afraid Sheila’d shoot me if I took my hands off the wheel. Was this another variation of Blame the Hapless Victim? Kel had tried the same tactic. Well, I refused to play the game. I needed all my energy to formulate Plan D.
“All you had to do was follow the breadcrumbs,” Sheila graciously explained for my slow-witted benefit. “The trail would have led straight to Kel Watson’s front step. But did you do that? No,” she answered before I could open my mouth. “You stubbornly refused to follow my lead. After listening to Rita brag how you solved a murder or two, I thought you’d achieved a certain level of credibility with the sheriff. I was certain that if I pointed you in Kel’s direction the sheriff would follow. But Wiggins regards you as pathetic. A nuisance. A rank amateur.”
Her words stung. “Did Sheriff Wiggins really say those things about me?” I asked in a small voice.
Impervious to my wounded pride, Sheila continued. “I’d all but painted a bull’s-eye on Kel’s back—but what did you do? You suspected my coworkers. I nearly laughed myself silly at the thought. Imagine thinking Todd Timmons smart enough to pull off a caper this complex. He’s almost as simpleminded as you. As for Roger, the man can barely get his head out of a book long enough to go to the bathroom, much less plot a homicide. Betsy would have been the most logical candidate. She’s the only one of the three with enough guts to off Vaughn. Too bad she was miles away when he ingested his fatal dose of honey.”
I had no idea where we were heading, but knew it was nowhere I wanted to go. Houses along this stretch of the road were nonexistent. State forest occupied both sides of the road with an occasional dirt fire road thrown in here and there. Take your pick; any of them would be the perfect spot for a murder—namely, mine.
“Turn here,” she ordered abruptly.
I swallowed hard. This road led to the Huguenot Cemetery—and the beehives.
“Do it, or you’ll be sorry. I’m an excellent marksman, and I’ll start with your left foot.”
With dread churning my stomach, I did as she commanded. Even though it was nearing the dinner hour, the days were noticeably longer as spring edged toward summer. At this time, most residents of Serenity Cove would be home with their loved ones. Soon they’d be eating pot roast or ordering gas station pizza. It was highly unlikely we’d encounter anyone idling down a dirt road in the middle of the woods. Panic showed its claws and dug in deep. My palms grew slick with sweat; my pulse hammered in my ears. I had things left undone and unsaid. I wished I’d been a better mother. More patient with my children’s well-meaning attempts to micromanage my life. Did the Babes know how much their friendship meant to me? I wanted to say the L word out loud to Bill and risk the consequences.
I slowed to a stop when I reached the fork in the road. I looked longingly toward the one leading to the Huguenot Cemetery. I regretted not being a better garden club soldier and pulling my share of weeds. Rita had wanted the cemetery to look special for the photographer from the Serenity Sentinel, and I had let her down. I wish I could tell her I was sorry.
“Quit stalling,” Sheila snapped. “Take the road on the left.”
The Buick continued down the rutted road. My only chance was once I stopped the car, I could distract her long enough to make a getaway. I’d read somewhere it was harder to hit a moving target. Maybe I’d run a zigzag pattern. Or did that only apply when being chased by an alligator? One thing I did know, though, at close range Sheila was certain to hit a vital organ.
“I’ve heard all about your unfortunate reaction to bee venom.” Sheila performed her Cruella impersonation again. “Pity you’ll be stung again so soon. Death from anaphylactic shock can be quite dramatic. You won’t suffer long. The onset should be within minutes.”
The idea of being stung by bees nearly paralyzed me. My throat was too dry to swallow. Cardiac arrest seemed imminent.
Judging by her expression, Cruella, er, Sheila seemed to relish my fear. “Left untreated, shock and death can occur anywhere from within a few minutes to an hour or more. First you’ll experience swelling of the tongue and face, especially the lips and around the eyes. Next your body breaks out in nasty red, itchy welts.”
I shivered convulsively at the picture her words painted.
“Then you’ll wheeze and gasp for air. Finally your blood pressure will drop. You’ll lose consciousness, lapse into a coma, and die.” Her voice was clinical and detached as she described the gruesome symptoms.
I moistened my lips with the tip of my tongue. “Friends will never believe I was stupid enough to come out here knowing what happened last time.”
Sheila shrugged, nonplussed. “Who knows why people do things? For a while, I imagine your poor judgment will be gossiped about over coffee or in line at the drugstore. Eventually life moves on. People cease wondering and get on with it. Enough chitchat,” she said, her voice taking on a sharper edge. “Stop near the hives.”
Even from a distance I could see bees swarming around the boxes, or supers or whatever the darn things were called. Given my druthers, I’d rather take my chances with a bullet than try to outrun a swarm of angry bees. My brain scrambled for a means of escape. Did I have my EpiPen handy? Good news: Yes, I did have it with me. It was in my purse, probably in the nether region fraternizing with tubes of lipstick and ballpoint pens. Bad news: My purse was on the floor of the backseat where Sheila had tossed it. I doubted whether she’d delay my execution while I retrieved it and rummaged through the contents for my lifesaving dose of medication.
