Heaven Preserve Us (27 page)

"Does Jude strike you as someone who'd make jelly?"

"Not so much. But I could see him in a kitchen more easily
than, say, driving a backhoe."

"Hmmm. True enough. But he hasn't lived here very long, and
I know he lives with a widower Thaddeus Black introduced him
to. Maybe they hang out and make jelly in Mr. Oxford's kitchen."

"You're so fond of asking questions, Sophie Mae. Why don't
you just ask him if he made the jelly?"

"Because if he didn't, then he got it from someplace else, and
that means there's some other source for home-canned food that
we don't know about. Maybe things besides jelly."

Comprehension dawned. "Like, say, beets?"

"Exactly. But if he killed Philip, we don't want to tip him off. I
can find out more without asking him."

"I don't like the sound of that."

"Don't worry. I'm going over to help him move tomorrow. I
can check out where he lives, maybe ferret out a little more info
about his tendency to cook, that sort of thing."

Barr's voice was flat. "I still don't like it."

"Oh, please. I'm not about to go by myself. He asked me to
help him move because I have a truck, but Kelly and Bette are
going to be there, too. Now, which do you want on your sandwich:
raspberry jam or apricot jelly?"

He made a face. "For some reason, the raspberry sounds a lot
better after that conversation."

BACK DOWN IN MY workroom, I concocted a facial mask. I felt
ragged and tired, and a nice little boost to my skin seemed like a
reasonable self-indulgence. Blending colloidal oatmeal, dried
goat's milk and neem powder together with witch hazel created a
green paste that would have frightened the Wicked Witch of the
West. Oh, but it made my skin feel lovely, and mixing the ingredients together, fussing to get the right consistency, proved soothing
in it's own right.

My confident assertion that I'd be able to find out something
useful about Jude as I helped him move didn't quite reflect the
way I actually felt. For days I'd been trying to figure out what happened to Philip, asking impertinent questions with little success. I
knew more about everyone associated with Heaven House by now,
but I didn't seem to be any closer to finding Philip's killer. The
victim had turned out to be a real jerk, and lots of people disliked
him. Still, no one I'd suspected so far had panned out.

Jude felt different, though. He had plenty of motive, the poor
relation now in a position to take over the kingdom of the favorite
grandson. Sneaky, maybe a little passive-aggressive-I could totally see him poisoning someone. If he had opportunity as well, in
the form of some beets gone bad, then it made all the sense in the
world.

But did any of that matter?

Meaning, who cared? Other than me, no one was willing to follow up, make things official. Meghan would have preferred that I
drop the whole thing, Maryjake wasn't interested in finding her
lover's killer, the police didn't want to admit Philip's death might
have been a homicide, and I had the feeling that even Barr was indulging me because I was his girlfriend and because he was bored.
Once he got back to his regular cases his interest would likely wane
as well.

So why should I bother? Even if I had my best suspect yet, why
should I put myself out there, maybe even put myself in danger, in
order to prove it? I had my own life, a busy life I'd partially put on
hold, and for what? Nothing, that's what.

Tootie had mentioned a similar situation, a murder committed
by deliberately exposing someone to botulism. The killer had never
been prosecuted. Maybe she could tell me more.

I put the green paste in a jar and screwed the lid down tight.
Time enough to indulge in the facial goop later. Right now, I
wanted to hear more about that other case of botulism poisoning.

I found Tootie in the activities room at Caladia Acres. It was way
better than the one at Heaven House, brand new dart board at the
latter not withstanding. A series of dings and whistles echoed out
to the lobby, but when I turned the corner a bell started clanging
and lights flashed in the corner.

Someone had won at the Whack-A-Mole game. A wiry little
guy with a shock of wild gray hair that looked like he combed it
with an egg beater swung his arms around like an orangutan. He
whooped as if he'd just picked the winning lottery numbers. Everyone else in the room seemed pretty darn excited, too.

"That'll show you, you rotten little varmints!" he cried and
made a punching motion in the air.

Tootie, serene approval on her face, saw me in the doorway
and made her way over with the use of her silver-headed cane.
"You'll have to excuse us," she said. "Felix takes his mole whacking
quite seriously, and he just beat the house record."

I laughed. "Honest to Pete, Tootie. What will that activities director come up with next?"

"I don't know, but I'm anxious to find out. Things have certainly livened up around here lately. Did you hear about the area
she set up so we can practice our croquet shots for next summer?"

I listened while she filled me in on more of the new doings
around the place. I had to smile at her unaccustomed sprightliness. I hadn't seen her use her wheelchair for weeks, and I wondered whether the increased activity at the nursing home had anything to do with it. As she spoke, we walked over to a round table
in the corner and sat down.

"Our new poker table," she informed me. "We play Texas Hold
'Em every Saturday night. I won eighteen dollars off Felix last
week. That man will bet on anything."

"You're playing for money?"

"Don't be such a stick in the mud."

I laughed again.

"Now, why are you here?" she asked.

"Can't I just come visit?"

"Of course you can. But you have something on your mind. I
can tell."
"

I sighed. "You're right."

She waited.

I ... well, I guess I'd like your advice on something."

She raised an eyebrow. "Really. You're not usually one for asking advice."

I chose not to take that wrong. "I know."

"Does this by chance have anything to do with that young man
of yours?"

"What? Oh. No. Nothing like that." But naturally my mind immediately veered to the question Barr had posed about whether I'd
thought about getting married again, and his hints about how
much he liked living with me.

I tried to concentrate. "You remember the story you told us at
dinner the other night about the woman who killed two brothers
by poisoning them with botulism? Your cousin, wasn't it?"

Her face turned grave. "This is about Philip Heaven."

I nodded. "How did she do it?"

She leaned back stiffly in her chair and studied me. "I don't
know for certain. Only what I heard my older sister say."

"Okay," I prompted.

"Hmm. Well, I think it was quite straightforward. She killed
them by serving them food she knew had gone bad, and she timed
it so it was unlikely they'd be able to get help."

I leaned forward. "Do tell."

"My cousin, or rather second cousin-her name was Edna
Louise-worked in the kitchen of a good-sized boarding house
for men in the early nineteen-twenties. This area was all thick forest then. Huge Douglas firs everywhere. Anyway, the two brothers,
twins actually, were lumberjacks and stayed there when they
weren't out working the surrounding hills."

"Why did she do it?"

"For the sake of her daughter. Women didn't have many options then, including with the law, but Edna Louise made her own
options. She had some preserves that showed all the signs of having `turned."'

Elbow on the fancy poker table, I rested my chin in my hand.
"What kind of preserves?"

"I don't know, but people canned everything back then if it
couldn't be used fresh, dried, or kept in a root cellar. Soups, stews,
whole chickens, all sorts of things. But she served it to them on
purpose, and didn't give it to anyone else."

"Wasn't she still running a risk that someone else would get
sick?"

"Of course she was. And I dare say she knew it. She must have
thought the risk was worth it."

"That's ridiculous," I said.

"Passion makes for some unusual ethical decisions."

That was an understatement. "How did she make sure they
wouldn't be able to get help?" I asked.

"She gave it to them the day they were leaving for a job located
far from town," she said. "It probably wouldn't have mattered
much anyway; there wasn't much help available for a good dose of
botulism in those days."

Even the modern hospital hadn't been able to help Philip. I
wondered what his killer would have done if the doctors had been
able to save him. Thank the powers that be they were able to diagnose and treat Barr.

"The twins had hurt your cousin's daughter?"

Tootie closed her eyes for a moment and nodded. In a tight
voice she said, "Yes." There was a finality to the word that kept me
from pursuing any more details.

Instead, I asked. "Do you think Edna Louise should have been
punished for what she did?"

"No one deserves to have their life taken away from them."

"That's what you told Erin. But it sounds a little too pat."

"You're right," she said. "Reality is a lot more complicated than
that. If I'd been on a jury, I'd have had a difficult time convicting
her."

"So sometimes what's legal isn't necessarily just," I said.

Tootie's narrowed gaze bored into me. "What is this all about?"

I took a deep breath. "I'm pretty sure someone killed Philip intentionally with botulism toxin. I have a fair idea of who it might
be, but it'd be so hard to prove, and no one seems to be all that interested in finding out for sure. Philip wasn't the nicest or best guy
around; he was, in short, an embezzling, cuckolding, trust-fund baby who made promises to everyone that he had no intention of
keeping."

"I'm surprised at you, Sophie Mae. You know better than that.
If what you say is true, you can't just let it go. You're talking about
someone who solved a problem by killing someone else."

Not to mention beating up Ruth, I thought.

"Who is this killer?" Tootie demanded.

Reluctantly, I told her. Every time I'd told someone I had a
good suspect, I'd ended up being wrong. Now it seemed like bad
luck to say it out loud.

"Hmm. Jude Carmichael. The cousin. He certainly did resent
Philip."

I leaned forward. "He did? How could you tell?"

"It was obvious in their interactions. Philip was the top dog,
Jude the poor relation. It's a story told a million times over. Where
do you think he got the preserves?"

Befuddled by her easy observations, I answered absentmindedly. "I can't be sure."

"Did he can them himself, or get them from someone else?
Does he have a lot of friends? Women? Older? I'm sorry to sound
both sexist and ageist, but those are your best bets for finding the
source of home-canned food. Not many people do it anymore."

"He doesn't seem to know that many people in town." A memory tickled my brain. Ruth talking about her friend who had
canned beets, her friend who was now dead. Something clicked
into place. "Hang on. Let me make a phone call."

I went out to the reception desk and asked to use the phone.
Thaddeus answered the phone in Ruth's room. Several voices
murmured in the background.

"How's our patient?" I asked.

"The doctors said she's going to be right as rain, just has a bit
of healing up to do."

"That's terrific news." I'd been concerned about the effect the
blood thinners would have on her recovery. "Is she available?
Sounds like she has some visitors."

He snorted. "I'll say. She's had a whole bevy of them camped
out in the room, knitting and chanting."