Authors: Sandra Parshall
Poisoned Ground (16 page)
The mother, holding a tiny black and brown terrier, rolled her eyes as her young son and daughter continued their argument at the front desk over the puppy’s name.
“It’s not a problem.” Rachel handed Shannon the billing sheet for the dog’s exam and vaccinations. “We can call her ‘Puppy’ on her file for now and change it when you decide on a name.”
“No!” the girl, a freckled eight-year-old named Annabelle, cried. “She needs a name
now.
I want to call her Cindy.”
The little terrier yipped.
“See?” The boy, ten-year-old Maverick, looked triumphant. “She doesn’t like it either. Her name oughta be Cinder, ’cause she’s mostly black.”
“Compromise, children,” a familiar voice said.
Rachel turned. Winter Jones stood behind her, an imperious figure in a long black coat.
“Call your puppy Deeder,” Winter declared.
“Huh?” the boy said.
What was the woman doing here? She didn’t have an appointment, and she didn’t appear to have a cat with her.
“D-y-d-e-r,” Winter spelled out, in the patient but emphatic tone that marked her as a longtime teacher. “A combination of the endings of Cindy and Cinder, pronounced as Deeder.”
“I like it,” the mother said, a note of desperation in her voice. “Thanks, Miss Jones. How about it, kids?”
The brother and sister held a silent consultation, their gazes locked for a long moment. “Okay!” they cried in unison.
With that, the matter was settled. The family departed and Rachel turned her attention to Winter Jones.
“Were you waiting to see me? Are the rabbits okay?”
“Oh, yes, yes, they’re thriving.” Winter waved away the question. “I know you’re busy and have patients waiting, but I wanted to make sure…” She paused, glanced around in a furtive manner. “Could we speak somewhere more private?”
Rachel wasn’t about to take Winter into her office or an exam room. She was afraid she would never get rid of her. “I only have a minute to spare. Why don’t we step over here?”
Without waiting for a response, Rachel led Winter to the wall of shelves that held pet toys, beds, and other items for sale.
Her brow creased with concern, Winter spoke in a near-whisper. “I wanted to ask how you’re feeling. Are you all right?”
Did she know Rachel had been sick after visiting the Joneses the day before? How was that possible? She recalled joking with Tom about the sisters trying to poison her. But that was only a joke. She didn’t believe it. “Why do you ask? Why wouldn’t I be feeling okay?”
“Well… Oh, dear. This is simply mortifying.”
Winter did appear embarrassed, an emotional reaction Rachel would never have expected to see from her.
Rachel waited for her to continue.
“It appears an ingredient in the pastry we served yesterday was tainted.” Winter met Rachel’s gaze with earnest, apologetic eyes. “My sisters and I all fell ill shortly after you left, and we could only assume that you and Simon suffered the same digestive upset.”
That made sense to Rachel, except for one thing. “Yes, I felt sick, but Simon was fine. He never showed the slightest sign of having an upset stomach.”
Relief washed over Winter’s face, and she pressed a hand over her heart. “Oh, that is so good to hear. That sweet child—we would all feel terrible if he had suffered any discomfort as a result of his visit with us. And of course we’re so very sorry that you were taken ill.”
Why would the pastry make four adults sick and leave a child unaffected? “You think the pastry was tainted? How? With what?”
“I’m very much afraid that Beulah is to blame.”
“Beulah?”
“Oh, of course, you don’t treat livestock, so you don’t know Beulah. She’s our milk cow. And the source of the cream that was in the pastry. Now and then a noxious weed springs up in our pasture, and we don’t realize Beulah has been nibbling on something unhealthy until it turns up in her milk and makes all of us ill.”
“Ah. I see.” Rachel could believe that. She’d heard stories of people suffering severe allergic reactions and internal inflammation after drinking milk from a field-grazing cow. But still—why didn’t Simon get sick, too? Was Winter telling the truth about all three of the sisters getting sick? If she’d concocted the story, that meant only Rachel was affected, and she had no idea how to explain it. “Well, no real harm done. I’m fine now. Have you found the plant?”
“Not yet, but we are on the case.” Winter’s tone had turned jaunty. “It will be found and extirpated.”
“Good. Thank you for letting me know what caused my nausea. I was wondering.” Wondering if she could be pregnant. Now that she knew she probably wasn’t, she felt an undeniable pang of loss and disappointment. “I’m sorry to rush, but I have a client waiting with her pet.”
As Rachel started to walk away, Winter touched her arm lightly to detain her. “Could I take just another second of your time? My sisters and I were so distraught to hear what happened to Octavia Richardson.”
Really? Rachel could have sworn they felt only contempt for the woman.
“We can’t help wondering who’s going to be next,” Winter went on. “And we have no way to defend ourselves. We haven’t had any firearms in the house since our father died. We feel so terribly vulnerable.”
Of course. Rachel should have known Winter’s distress has less to do with Mrs. Richardson’s death than with the possibility that they were in the crosshairs, too. She couldn’t think harshly of them for that. Anybody in their position would be terrified. “I don’t know what to tell you, except that it’s probably not a good time for all of you to be out searching your pastures.”
“Searching our pastures?” Winter looked puzzled.
“For the plant your cow ate.”
“Oh! Oh, of course. You’ll have to forgive me. I seem to be having more than my share of senior moments these days. You’re right, we will have to be more careful. We won’t breathe easy until this is over. Is Tom any closer to catching the murderer? Does he have any suspects?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know anything I could tell you.” Nothing I’m willing to tell you.
“Just be careful.”
“Yes, dear, we will. Thank you for your concern.” Winter gave Rachel’s arm a light pat. “And I hope you’ll give Joanna McKendrick the same advice.”
***
“Doesn’t look like anybody’s been here,” Tom said as he pulled into Tavia Richardson’s driveway. The yellow crime scene ribbon he and Brandon had stretched across the door, forming a giant X from top corners to bottom, remained in place.
“At least not through the front door,” Brandon said.
Tom wanted to collect the guns from Tavia Richardson’s basement before somebody walked away with all of them. The tape in itself wouldn’t keep looters out, but three murders in the area might be enough to scare them off.
He and Brandon walked around to the back door and found the tape there undisturbed as well. Tom ripped it loose from the top of the door frame and unlocked the door with the dead woman’s key.
The kitchen looked much the same as it had the day before, when Tom had disturbed Tavia and Jake’s breakfast, but it had the stillness of an abandoned place and felt empty and unused despite the clutter of dirty dishes on the counter by the sink and the green sweater hanging on the back of a chair. The cat’s bed and dishes had gone with the cat to the Hollinger house, but a small catnip mouse toy, made of an unnatural red fabric, lay forgotten in a corner.
Tom led the way down the basement steps. They had done a cursory search of the first and second floors following Tavia’s death on Sunday, and they hadn’t come down to the basement at all. “Let’s take a good look around. Make sure there’s nothing down here that could help us find her family.”
“Does it matter anymore?” Brandon asked. “I mean, she didn’t have anything to do with them and didn’t leave them anything.”
“Don’t you think her children ought to know she’s dead? Regardless of whether they’ve been in touch, she was still their mother.”
Most of the basement had been used as a recreation room and contained no cabinets or storage boxes that might yield information. Part of the space had been walled off, though, and when Tom opened the door he found it served as furnace room, laundry room, and storage. An old wooden table in the middle held an assortment of tools jumbled together.
“Grab one and start looking.” Tom gestured at a stack of eight file boxes next to the gas furnace.
They worked in silence, flipping through old bank statements and tax returns dating back more than thirty years. Only one box held anything promising: a cache of old handwritten letters addressed to Tavia. Tom read a couple with postmarks from Pittsburgh and another Pennsylvania town he’d never heard of. “These sound like they’re from relatives. They’re old, but we might find somebody who still lives at the same address. Take the whole box out to the car, then come back and help me with the guns.”
Feeling around on top of the metal gun cabinet, Tom found the key Tavia had used the day before. He swung the door open and reached for two of the rifles. Then he realized he wasn’t looking at the same collection of rifles and shotguns Tavia had shown him.
She’d said one gun was missing. Eleven had been left in the cabinet, and Tom had taken one with her permission. Now only six remained.
He felt like kicking himself. Since yesterday morning, somebody had walked off with four more guns, and because he hadn’t checked the cabinet immediately after Tavia’s death, Tom had no idea when the theft occurred.
Rachel took a deep breath, grabbed her medical bag from the passenger seat, and hopped out of her Range Rover onto Joanna’s driveway. Maybe Joanna had forgotten that they’d rescheduled Rachel’s visit to vaccinate the dogs after the Kelly murders sidetracked them on Saturday afternoon. But Rachel had carved time out of her day for this appointment, and nothing short of a door slammed in her face would keep her from doing her job. The dogs needed their vaccines. And Rachel needed to heal the rift in her friendship with Joanna.
As she walked over to them, the three dogs rose from the spot on the front lawn where they’d lain basking in the mellow sunlight. The Kellys’ dog, Bonnie, wasn’t on a tie-out. She must have settled in enough that Joanna was sure she wouldn’t take off.
“Hey, guys, how are you doing?” Rachel crouched and set down her bag so she could devote both hands to scratches and pats. The little mongrel, Riley, stood up with her paws on Rachel’s knee and licked her face with excessive enthusiasm. Bonnie still looked a little sad, and when Rachel hugged her she pressed her head into Rachel’s neck. Nan, Joanna’s aging golden retriever, accepted attention with her usual dignity.
The front door of the house opened and closed again, but Rachel didn’t look around. She braced herself for an angry outburst.
That didn’t come, but Joanna’s voice sounded harsh when she said, “They don’t know you’re about to stick needles in them.”
Rachel glanced her way. Joanna stood on the porch with her arms crossed like a sentry ready to deny admission to the house.
“They know, but they forgive.” Rachel rose and picked up her bag.
“Well, I guess there’s something to be said for that attitude.” Joanna sounded grudging, but her rigid posture loosened a bit and she unfolded her arms. “You want to do this on the porch or inside?”
“The porch is fine. I’m going to include Bonnie. She’s due.” Marie Kelly had made an appointment to bring the dog to the clinic for a routine visit later in the week. Shannon had called it to Rachel’s attention that morning and canceled the visit.
The dogs escorted her across the yard and up the steps. For the next few minutes Rachel focused on the animals, kneeling on the porch to administer vaccines, listen to hearts and lungs, peer into eyes and ears, fend off Riley’s slobbering kisses. Joanna, sitting in a wicker chair, answered her questions about the dogs’ behavior, diet, and activity in a cool, impersonal tone.
Rachel waited until she was zipping up her medical bag to say, “I need to talk to you about something. I want your opinion.”
She saw Joanna tense again as a protective wall went up between them. “Oh?” Joanna said. “What would that be? My opinion doesn’t seem to have much value these days.”
Sighing, Rachel took the chair next to Joanna’s without being invited to sit. “You know, this marriage thing takes some getting used to. All of a sudden we’re a unit, not two individuals. I have to answer for what Tom does, even when I don’t know he’s done it. Even when I don’t agree with him.”
Joanna grunted. “He’s your husband. I’d expect you to go along with him.”
“I thought you knew by now how stubborn I am.” Rachel grinned.
Softly, softly. She didn’t want to provoke another outburst by flatly telling Joanna that her assumptions were both wrong and hurtful. “Tom’s pretty much given up trying to tell me what to do. And God knows I’d never get away with telling him how to do his job.”
For a second Joanna looked as if she might cry, as her eyes filled and her chin trembled. But true to form, she instantly banished all signs of weakness, and the tough, stubborn woman Rachel knew took charge again. “I’ve known Tom all his life. I’ve never been so disappointed by anybody. How could he accuse me of murder?”
Rachel doubted Tom had made a bald accusation, but she let it go. It had felt that way to Joanna, and at the moment that was what mattered. “He hasn’t discussed it with me. I really don’t know what’s going on. But I certainly don’t think you killed Tavia Richardson.”
“Well, I wish you’d tell him that.”
“I will. He won’t like me interfering, but I will. You know, some people are holding him responsible for my behavior too. I’m sure his life was a lot easier before he married me.”
That piqued Joanna’s interest and made her swivel her head toward Rachel. She was silent a moment, and Rachel knew she was wrestling with her curiosity as she tried to maintain her chilly aloofness. “Is Tom in some kind of trouble because you spoke out against the resort development?”
“Yeah. Apparently the county supervisors expect him to keep me on a leash. Lawrence Archer stopped by this morning to tell me they’ve threatened to remove Tom from office if I side with the opposition.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Joanna’s invisible wall collapsed in the face of her outrage. “Lawrence Archer is a snake oil salesman. You’re giving him way too much credit if you believe a word he says.”
“I’m afraid it’s true, though. They’ll invent something they can use under the law to take Tom’s job away from him.”
“Honey, listen to me. Those bozos on the county board don’t have as much power as they pretend they do. And you have a right to your opinion. Don’t you ever let anybody take that away from you. Not Tom or anybody else.”
Rachel wished it were as easy as holding onto her principles, with no regard for the way her actions affected others. The anxiety she’d held at bay since Archer’s visit gripped her now, as all her fears burst from their hiding places like monsters ambushing her from behind doors. She would hurt Tom. She would cost him something he valued. She would never fit in here and would always be a liability. But those were minor worries, dwarfed by her deepest and darkest fear.
“People are getting killed over this, Joanna. If somebody thinks the sheriff is on the wrong side, just because I mouthed off at a meeting—”
“Stop that.” Joanna reached over to squeeze her arm. “Don’t let yourself think that way.”
Rachel searched her friend’s face and found, despite Joanna’s bravado, an echo of her own terror. “You’re scared too, aren’t you?”
Joanna pulled in a sharp breath and raised both hands to her face. “Oh, God. I try not to think about it. I try to go about my business, do what I normally do.”
“But it’s there in the back of your mind.”
Joanna dropped her hands to her lap and clasped them tightly. “Always. Every second since Lincoln and Marie—and then Tavia, for no earthly reason. She was on the other side. It’s crazy. I don’t know what’s going on, so how can I protect myself against it? I’m always thinking I could be next.”
Rachel nodded. “Winter Jones said pretty much the same thing today. I think she and her sisters feel like sitting ducks.”
Joanna’s abrupt laugh startled Rachel. “I wouldn’t worry too much about them. They hardly ever leave their house, and they can defend themselves if somebody tries to get in.”
“Defend themselves how? Winter told me they haven’t had any guns in the house since their father died.”
“Well, I remember them selling a whole collection of shotguns and rifles to Sam Richardson, but I just assumed they’d kept one for protection.”
“Would they know what to do with it?” Rachel couldn’t picture any of the Jones sisters wielding a firearm.
“Are you kidding? Isaac Jones made sure all his daughters knew how to use a gun. Somebody told me that when they were kids, he forced them to go hunting with him, and he wouldn’t let them come home until every one of them killed something. They’d come back bawling, carrying all these dead squirrels and rabbits, then he’d make them skin the animals and cook them and eat the meat. No wonder they became vegetarians.”
“And no wonder they never got married, with that kind of father representing the male gender in their lives.” The thought of any child being forced to kill an animal appalled Rachel. “He sounds like a sadistic bastard.”
“No, I’m afraid he was just a typical father for these parts. You’d be amazed how many ten-year-olds are out trying to kill some innocent animal to please dear old dad. You know, now that I think about it, I guess it makes sense that they got rid of all their father’s guns. But they ought to have one now, just to be on the safe side. In fact, I think I’ll tell them exactly that.”
Rachel had come here intending to ask Joanna’s opinion about the strange pastry incident, but now she felt so sorry for the sisters that she hesitated to say anything accusatory. Winter had explained Rachel’s sickness. Simon was lucky enough not to have a sensitivity to the toxic plant the cow had eaten.
The thought of Simon brought her to her feet. “I have to pick up Simon before I go home. Tom’s aunt and uncle are keeping him after school while Tom and I are both at work.”
Joanna rose to see her off. “When are Darla and Grady coming back?”
“Tomorrow or Wednesday, if the news is good. If it’s not, they might stay a little longer while the doctors work out a new treatment regimen.”
“Well, let’s hope for the best. We’ve seen enough tragedy lately to last us a while.” Joanna startled Rachel by stepping closer and pulling her into a tight hug. “You be careful, okay? Don’t go out walking or running alone, and keep Simon close to home. Remember there’s a nutcase running around loose with a gun.”
