Fruit of the Poisoned Tree Page 7

  But when they got to the shop, it was more cleanup than close up. Selena had locked the front door and gone into the back storage area for a few minutes to help a customer load some peat moss. When she came back, Shakespeare had ripped open a few dozen bags of potting soil and dragged them across the old wood floor.

  Selena didn’t realize she was playing his game as she chased him across the shop, spreading the mess everywhere as planters, pots, and gardening implements fell down in their wake. She grabbed him around the neck and tried to wrestle him to the floor. Shakespeare thought it was a new game. He rolled with her still holding on to him through the spring garden scene.

  That’s where Peggy came in. “What in the world happened here?”

  Selena looked up from under the demolished snowman. “It was a dog quake. I tried to stop it, but it was at least a seven on the canine scale.”

  Steve picked up a shovel lying across Shakespeare’s back. The dog looked up and wagged his tail. “Don’t try to get on my good side. I’m the one you dragged through the holly bush the other day.”

  “We have got to get you those obedience classes.” Peggy frowned at the dog.

  He whined and hid his head in his massive paws.

  “Bad dog!”

  They cleaned up the mess and took Selena home first after they left the shop. Dinner ended up at Steve’s house. Peggy didn’t want to go out. Besides being exhausted mentally and physically, she didn’t want to talk to anyone else yet about her experience with Park. The cocoon wouldn’t last long; only one night. Then the media would have done its job, and everyone would know. But she knew she’d be able to handle it better tomorrow.

  Feeling a little like another Southern woman who thought she could handle everything better tomorrow, she apologized to Steve for not being better company when he finally took her home. “Maybe you should’ve let me find my way back without you. All you got for your trouble was a mess at the shop and a lot of silence from me.”

  He kissed her good night at her door and told her it didn’t matter. “I love being with you no matter what. Besides, someday I might need you to be there for me. That’s what having a relationship is all about, right?”

  “Right. Thank you. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Neither one of them were surprised when she didn’t invite him in out of the cold night. Peggy watched the headlights from his SUV fade into the darkness.

  She let herself in the house and dragged herself up the curving marble staircase to her bedroom. Shakespeare followed. He jumped on the bed beside her, wagging his tail and waiting for her to complete her nightly ritual of washing her face and putting on her nightclothes before he settled down.

  The house was familiar and quiet around her. The sounds from the old furnace in the basement reassured her as she closed her eyes, wishing she could shut out the world so easily. Even the prospect of visiting her botanical experiments couldn’t rouse any interest or excitement. She lay under the heavy green comforter, with her arm across Shakespeare’s neck, crying. People, good people, died too soon.

  Park’s death brought back all the old memories of losing John. She wasn’t prepared for them, thought they were behind her. But they rose again like terrible specters haunting her, chasing her through the night.

  She finally realized she wasn’t going to sleep that night. Her hand hovered over the phone as she thought about calling Steve. Shaking her head, she got up, changed clothes, and splashed some cold water in her face. “You’d better get a grip, Margaret Anne. This isn’t going to help anyone. Especially not you!” She studied her red-eyed, blotchy-faced reflection in the mirror over the bathroom sink. “I don’t think you want to see Steve looking like this! Let’s go take care of the plants.”

  5

  Lenten Rose

  Botanical: Helleborus niger

  Family: Ranunculaceae

  Common name: Christmas rose

  Also known as virgin’s mantle. It is said to be good for breaking spells and curses and should be planted near the front door to prevent evildoing from entering the house. It was used in the seventeenth century as a treatment for insanity and depression.

  Not to be confused with lady’s mantle, helleborus is poisonous.

  IN THE BASEMENT WORKSHOP of her turn-of-the-century home, Peggy kept a botanist’s laboratory with various experiments going year-round. A large frame of strawberries was in full bloom under the strategically timed grow lights. She checked her notes. It was in these early stages as the plants started making fruit that they needed help. Slugs, white flies, and other pests looked at the feast and got ready to munch.

  Her ideas about introducing herbal remedies, including sprays and complementary plantings of mint and borage, hadn’t worked. The fruit ended up tasting like the herb. Her friend at Broadway Farms, who grew two acres of pick-your-own strawberries, tried companion planting to draw the insects and birds to other plants. But the insects were too focused on the juicy red fruit to pay any attention. At the same time, he didn’t want his berries to taste or smell like garlic or other strong, natural repellents. It wouldn’t matter if the insects stayed away; so would his customers.

  They’d taken care of the slug problem by putting diatomaceous earth around the plants. The rough edges kept the snails away by snagging on their slimy little bodies the same way ashes or crushed glass work for many home gardeners. A snail won’t cross anything too rough, or its body will tear and it will die. They seemed to understand and stayed away.

  For the insect problem, she was working with some different theories from a few colleagues in California. They managed to solve the problem with specially bred “good” insects. These insects were handpicked for their voracious appetites. They ate the offending thrips and mites in massive numbers.

  Her friend at Broadway was a little skeptical. Peggy told him she’d test the idea on plants in her lab. Since he was dedicated to using only organic means to protect his fruit, she believed this might work for him. The proof would be in the next few days. The berries on her plants were large, red, and juicy. Yesterday, she dumped some spider mites and thrips on her healthy plants and told them to do their worst. Tomorrow, she’d have the pleasant task of dumping lacewings and ladybugs on the plants to see what their effect would be.

  Her friend couldn’t use most pests’ worst enemy, birds, since they were also his enemy. But if the lacewings and ladybugs worked, he could encourage them to stay with small plates of water and a little shelter from the sun and rain among his plants. That way they’d be less likely to run away when they’d eaten the thrips and mites.

  In a normal strawberry garden, she’d tell the owner to encourage the ecosystem this way. Peggy’s experiment in her home was limited by a cover to protect the rest of her plants in the lab and by the tiny space she had to work. But if the lacewings and ladybugs did their job here, they’d be effective in the field as well.

  Another experiment was in the large pond. The filtration system hummed as recycled water circulated through the six-by-eight-foot tank. Her showy water lilies from Longwood were still there but in a dormant cycle now. She was working instead with some rice plants, helping a colleague from the University of Louisiana to develop a heartier form of rice.

  More than half of the world’s population was dependent on the crop for their existence. Certain blights and colder weather had reduced the amount of crop worldwide. If they could get the plants to yield larger amounts of rice in more difficult growing conditions, it would be a boon to everyone.

  Her rice paddy, a very recent addition to the pond, was maturing nicely. The fine green shoots were sprouting toward the light source. Some koi she’d introduced were swimming through them and taking a right turn at the tangled water lily roots.

  Somehow she’d managed to get a few frog eggs in the mix. They must have been on one of the plants. She thought she got them all out until one night when the sound of a large bullfrog caught her attention, almost startling her into the pond.

  He was seated
on the edge of the pond, staring right at her as she leaned into the water to plant the rice. She didn’t have the heart to put him out in the cold where he’d die, but she promised him a ticket to the backyard when spring arrived.

  She sighed, wet and cold after checking her experiments. But she felt more like herself. She didn’t bother going back upstairs. Most of the night was gone anyway. Instead, she sat in an old chair she kept in the basement and pored over her well-worn garden catalogues. Almost every page was marked with her wants and needs. Mostly wants. Shakespeare yawned at her feet but was still for a while.

  She was thinking about acquiring a piece of land to start a fruit orchard. Fruit trees did well in the area, everything from peaches and cherries to apples and pears. It would give a whole other dimension to her work. The basement of the ancestral Lee home was huge but not large enough for trees. Her backyard was filled with hundred-year-old oaks whose thick branches would keep smaller trees from growing. She wasn’t sure where the money would come from yet for the undertaking. It was probably just a pipe dream, but she liked planning it in her mind on nights like this.

  She was placing a sentimental order tonight. John had loved sunflowers. He’d talked several times about planting the entire backyard with them. Only Peggy’s assertion that they wouldn’t grow well under the old oaks kept him from his dream. That and taking away his chain saw! It made her smile to think he’d actually cut those ten-foot tree circumferences. He loved the old trees as much as she did. Still, he yearned for a sunflower garden.

  When she was approached to help out with the community garden Darmus Appleby’s Feed America group planned for Charlotte in the spring, she went out and bought a hundred pound bag of sunflower seeds. She was having a plaque made up to dedicate that part of the two-acre edible garden to John. She knew it would make her cry when she saw the golden flower heads turned toward the sun, but it would also help her keep his memory alive.

  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 inves
tigation 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.”