Fruit of the Poisoned Tree (10 page)

Sometimes in her rush to go on with her life after her thirty-year marriage came to an abrupt, terrifying end, she worried John would be forgotten. It wasn’t just Steve or the changes she made to her life or resuming normal routines she’d had before his death. It was realizing she could only
really
remember his face when she looked at a photo of him. He was so dear to her. How was that possible?

Shakespeare got up, stretched, and whined. Peggy glanced at her watch. It was seven a.m. She noticed the gray morning light spilling into the basement from the French doors that led into the backyard. “You’re right,” she told the dog. “It’s time to go out and face the world again.”

She barely finished showering when the phone rang. Shakespeare had already been out for his walk. He was at the bedroom door waiting to be fed. Every time she moved, he jumped up and started down the stairs, only to come back, disappointed, when she didn’t follow. “Take it easy! I don’t get ready as fast as you do. The food will still be there!” She patted his head and turned off the shower.

Peggy wrapped her heavy white chenille robe around herself, shivering a little in the chilly morning air. The furnace kept the basement warm but always had a difficult time reaching into the master bath and bedroom, even though she kept the other eight bedrooms closed off.

It was part of the price she paid for living in a rambling old house that had seen better days. Not that she’d think of moving. John’s family hinted occasionally that they’d like to pass the house to the next in line to inherit. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be Paul. The Lee family had the house set in trust for the oldest son in the family. John’s brother, Edward, had a son who would live in the house after her. Legally, it was hers until she died or couldn’t live there anymore for whatever reason. The young and impatient Lees were just going to have to wait.

“Hello?” She finally, breathlessly, answered the phone. She sat down on the bed to dry her hair.

“Peggy? Can you come over?” It was Beth. Her voice was strained and filled with sobs. “I need your help. Can you come over right away?”

Peggy glanced at her watch. She had an early botany class at Queens University that morning. She might be able to switch classes with another professor if someone could cover for her at the Potting Shed that afternoon. Selena was such a dear. She didn’t want to abuse her willingness to help. But this was a difficult time. “I just got out of the shower. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Thanks.” Beth hung up without another word of explanation.

There was a wealth of relief and gratitude in her shaky voice. Peggy knew it was the right thing to do, even if it was a tricky balance of time on her part. She wrapped the thick white towel around her shoulder-length hair and started punching numbers.

 

WARM, DESPITE THE CHILL, in a heavy autumn tweed sweater and brown pants, Peggy rapped on Beth’s door about an hour later. She’d maneuvered her schedule, dried her hair, settled Shakespeare, and called a taxi. No time to waste pumping her way on her bike that morning.

While she was waiting for her ride, she glanced in on her experiment in converting John’s father’s Rolls to a hydrogen-burning vehicle. It was a work in progress, hampered now by the cold weather. But she’d already been at it for almost a year. The Rolls was always at the bottom of the list. She looked at a few of the new hybrid cars but couldn’t bring herself to buy one. She horrified the salesperson by telling him how inadequate the vehicle was, particularly for the exaggerated price. So she humbled her principles and constantly promised herself to get the job done.

Between her part-time professorship at Queens and a growing customer base at the shop, she could scarcely find time to turn around. She was retired from teaching when John died, but financial concerns about setting up the shop drove her back to her twenty-year career. As the Potting Shed surged forward in sales, she knew the time was coming that she’d have to give up her teaching again just to remain sane.

“Thank God you’re here!” Beth opened the door and dragged her into the house. She took Peggy in the kitchen and poured some orange spice tea into two heavy glass mugs. “I thought you’d never get here. I never knew a night could be so long.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be here sooner.” Peggy took a mug and looked embarrassed when her stomach growled loudly. In her rush to get out of the house, she forgot to feed herself and Shakespeare. Poor dog. A victim of her haste. She silently promised him an extra dog biscuit when she finally got home.

“I have some muffins.” Beth shrugged and offered the box from Harris Teeter. “Someone brought them last night. Everybody brought food, of course. Isn’t that what we do when people die? It’s a strange custom, isn’t it?”

Peggy took a blueberry muffin, warm red spots on her cheeks. Beth must’ve heard her stomach growl. That probably shouldn’t embarrass her. It should’ve been left behind in her proper childhood with always wearing gloves on Sunday. But some things never changed.

She glanced around the cluttered kitchen. There were baskets of fruit and boxes of food everywhere. Casserole dishes and cake plates littered the counters. Beth was right. In the South, at least, the response to death was a smorgasbord of food. “Thanks. This is good. I was in such a hurry to get here, I forgot to eat. I guess people don’t know what else to do to express their grief. Food is pretty basic. We either forget it or overdo it.”

“I guess.” Beth sat down at the table with her but forgot her own mug of tea on the stove and had to go back for it. “Peggy, the police called me this morning and told me their
official
report is going to be that Park committed suicide. The insurance investigator already left Charlotte. That’s how sure
they
are. I don’t even have the funeral planned, but the report says that Park committed suicide because of some
money.
What kind of investigation is that? How can they know what happened so quickly? I don’t understand.”

Peggy sipped her tea to cover her sympathy for Beth’s problem as she let the other woman rant about the unfairness of the process. She didn’t believe Park committed suicide either, but if the police and insurance investigation proved otherwise, there wasn’t much anyone could say. “I’m so sorry. Maybe you could appeal it.”

“I plan to,” Beth assured her. “I’m not going to let them get away with this.”

“I wish there was something I could do to help.”

“There is!” Beth’s drastically stricken face turned hopeful as she slapped her hand on the table. “You found out what happened to the man who died in your shop last year. You have to find out what
really
happened to Park. Did he fall asleep? Was he ill? There has to be
some
way for you to prove it wasn’t suicide.”

Peggy scrambled to regroup. What could she say? She wasn’t
actually
volunteering. Polite phrases could get you into trouble with a desperate person. She had to be more careful what she said in the future. She smiled and tried to find a tactful way to say no. “I’m not a private investigator, Beth. I wouldn’t know where to start. Maybe you should hire someone. Maybe one of Park’s friends would have some idea.”

Beth pushed back her chair with a sudden screech on the wood floor. Her long dark hair was braided but showed signs of her sleeping on it, little dark hairs poking up through the smooth twists. Her eyes were circled with black shadows. “You were Park’s
friend.
He needs you now. No one else wants to do anything. No one wants to help him. They all sympathize and pat my hand, but they won’t really help. I don’t know what you did to prove who killed the man in your shop. But whatever it was, you need to do it now for Park and me. For Reddman and Foxx. Don’t let him die like this.”

Peggy was surprised by her outburst. Of course, her friend wasn’t herself. She didn’t really know what she was saying. Still, her heart twisted in pain at Beth’s words. Park was always there when she needed him. There was very little she wouldn’t have done for him in return. She wanted to help.

But this wasn’t something she could do. Mark Warner’s death at the Potting Shed was one thing. It was a fluke, a one-time event that wouldn’t happen again. “I’m sorry, Beth. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do to prove that Park didn’t commit suicide. There has to be someone better qualified than me. The appeals process is there for a reason, too. You’ll be able to get help there.”

Beth strode to the stove and threw her cup of tea into the sink. The fragrant tea splashed everywhere, showering the room with the orange herbal scent. The cup shattered in the sink, pieces crashing to the floor. “Then I guess that’s it. Park is a suicide. He killed himself because he lost a few thousand dollars. That’s what
everyone
will think. That’s the legacy he’ll leave his sons. He deserves better.”

Peggy’s hands were shaking as she got up from the chair. “I’m sorry. I wish there was something
else
I could do. Something I’m qualified to do.”

“So do I.”

It seemed so final, so devastating. Peggy felt she should leave. There was nothing more to say. In time, Beth would understand. The pain and rage would fade. Their friendship was strong enough to handle this. “Let me know if I can help with anything else.”

“I will,” Beth promised in a whisper, but she didn’t look at her. “I’m sorry, Peggy. I don’t know what I’m thinking right now.”

“I know. I’ll give you a call later.”

Peggy was numb as she got in the taxi to go to the shop. She supposed she could understand Beth’s desperation. How would she have felt if John had been accused of committing suicide? She wanted to help. But what she did after Mark Warner was killed in her shop was purely dumb luck. She didn’t think she could do it again if she tried. Besides, that was different. Maybe Park didn’t kill himself. She didn’t believe he did. But this wasn’t a murder. There were no real answers to find.

Fortunately, shop traffic was light that morning. It gave her time to think about everything that had happened. She couldn’t close her eyes without seeing Park’s car going over the edge of the ramp. Sometimes the sheer horror of it made her physically ill. She knew it would pass in time. At least Beth didn’t have to deal with that part.

The weather cleared as it neared lunchtime. Workers in the downtown buildings spilled out into the sunlight like little seedlings turning toward the warmth. A break in the weather was always good for business.

Latta Arcade swelled with people who spilled out into Brevard Court behind it. The sun was magnified inside the restored 1915 shopping area by the high skylight roof used originally for the grading of cotton. Now filled with shops and restaurants, it was natural to extend the area to include the outdoor courtyard.

The Potting Shed, an urban gardener’s paradise, was set on the corner of the courtyard across from the Kozy Kettle Tea and Coffee Emporium and beside Anthony’s Caribbean Café. Office managers in stiletto heels and Ann Taylor suits browsed through catalogs and ordered faux antique garden implements, seeds, and even professional help in setting up their gardens. It was the only store of its kind in uptown Charlotte.

Peggy was grateful for the patronage of the workers as well as the contracts she received to care for plants in the office buildings they worked in. The Potting Shed also did special orders for parties as well as outdoor landscaping. It kept everyone who worked for her busy. She wished John could’ve seen it.

But at least he’d seen his son grow to manhood. A luxury Park was denied.

Guilt gnawed at her. She knew there wasn’t anything she could do to help Park’s family. It didn’t keep her from
wanting
to help. She thought about it while she waited on customers and straightened shelves. Beth was right, of course. The so-called investigation was stingy. How could they possibly know what happened on the ramp that morning so quickly?

Keeley Prinz, the daughter of Peggy’s best friend, Lenore, came in to work early. A tall, dark, and handsome combination of Lenore and her husband, Keeley was as nice as she was gorgeous. When Peggy explained what happened, the younger woman was outraged. “I can’t believe she asked you that! What was she thinking? What were
you
supposed to do?”

Peggy rang up the sale for the
Helleborus
mix Keeley was boxing up. Also known as the Lenten rose, it was good for adding color to the late winter and early spring landscape. “It was hard knowing what to say. Of course, I wanted to help her. But I wouldn’t know where to start.”

The customer, a new member of the growing uptown condo dwellers, took in their words and waited for an opening. “Peggy? You said these will flower in the shade, too, right? Because I have a shaded area underneath the eaves on my balcony where I need some color.”

“No problem.” Peggy smiled at her. “These little plants are hearty, and they like the shade as well as the sun. They should bloom for you. If they don’t, let me know, and I’ll come by and take a look at them.”

“Thanks.” She knitted her brow as she put her hand on her hip. “And Keeley’s right. Your friend may be grieving, but she had no right to ask you to go through that again. You aren’t a police officer or a private detective. I’m sure she’ll come to see that later.”

Peggy glanced at Keeley. That’s what she got for discussing her private matters in public. At least she hadn’t mentioned Beth’s name. “Thanks. You’re right.”

“Damn straight. You take care of all of us here. We don’t need you traipsing around solving murders all over the place. You’re our plant lady. Everyone calls you that.”

Plant lady. There were worse names. Peggy thanked her again but didn’t tell her it wasn’t another murder. The woman, she didn’t even know her name because she’d only been in a few times and paid cash for her purchases, didn’t need any more information. She could just see the headlines in the
Charlotte Observer: “Plant Lady Solves Suicide.”
The police would
love
that!