5 Buried By Buttercups (2 page)

She stormed off, not caring what he thought of her. He was always complaining about how the gardenia bushes grew between their houses and that her crape myrtles blew purple flower petals into his yard. It was exasperating!

It was still early enough that Queen’s Road wasn’t crowded with traffic headed for uptown Charlotte yet. She crossed the street to her house. She could hear Shakespeare barking loudly from outside. Bellows certainly wasn’t going to like that.

Shakespeare was her one-hundred and forty-pound Great Dane. She’d rescued him from a man who’d been abusing him.

The dog was always excited to see her and worried when she was gone. She’d had him for a couple of years and they got along very well together—especially since he was her first pet.

She opened the side door to the kitchen. She hadn’t closed it and set the alarm as she should have. She’d only been gone for a short time and was close by. Her son, Paul, also a police officer, would have thrown a fit. Doors were made to be locked and alarms to be set. Peggy loved him dearly but he could be a little paranoid at times.

Shakespeare greeted her by running toward her then pulling up short so that he slid across the hardwood floor in the large kitchen. She rubbed his head and gave him some breakfast as she put on the kettle for tea.

Peggy had lived in the big, turn-of-the-century house since John Lee had brought her here from Charleston South Carolina as a young bride. He’d frequently complained about the quirks and problems with living in the rambling house which had belonged to several generations of his family.

John had inherited the house, but Paul would not. At some point, John’s nephew would inherit. Until then, Peggy was staying put.

Upkeep was ridiculous and sometimes improbable. It was difficult to replace items with duplicates when they were so old.

She didn’t care. Peggy loved the old house as if it were a part of her family’s history. She loved the feel of the cool marble stairs on her feet in the summer. She loved all the nooks and crannies. She kept a thirty-foot blue spruce growing in the entrance hall. Each room in the house had a fireplace. The ceilings were still the original plaster.

The basement was her passion. Here she dabbled and played with Mother Nature. In her botanical lab, she cross-pollinated and modified, looking for new varieties of plant life for pleasure as well as medicinal and other purposes.

The basement sprawled the length and width of the entire house but it still wasn’t enough room for her ‘experiments’. French doors opened into an acre garden that she cultivated by the season. Here she once produced a coveted black rose.

Under a two-hundred-year-old oak with branches thicker than her body, she grew purple mushrooms. She’d produced a small green melon that tasted exactly like a peach one summer. She’d also created a water lily that glowed in the dark.

Someday she’d be forced to move a lifetime’s worth of work and memories somewhere else. Not today.

Today, it looked as though she was going to help Al find a killer. First tea and an English muffin. She needed to take a shower and get dressed. She’d have to call her partner at The Potting Shed, Sam Ollson, and let him know what was going on. She’d need him to open the shop.

She glanced at the laptop on the old wood kitchen table. There was a green light flashing. That meant Steve had called. With a little thrill, despite their old married status of one year, she went to answer it.

Paul and Steve had taught her how to use Skype for when one of them were out of town. Steve was at a veterinary conference in Tampa for a few days. He attended dozens of conferences and workshops during the year.

 It was always good to hear his voice and see his face, even if sometimes he looked a little like a cartoon. That was only when they had a bad connection.

“I didn’t know if you were going to answer,” he said after she’d logged in.

“I was a little busy.”

“Code words for getting caught up in your tomatoes or some other experiment in the basement.” He smiled at her. “I’m at least as important as a purple tomato.”

“At least. How’s the conference?”

“Boring. I’ve learned a few things about treating terriers and a new billing system that I’ll probably never use. How’s Shakespeare doing?”

“He’s fine. Are you still coming back tomorrow?”

“Yes. Is something up?”

She laughed. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you look particularly pleased with yourself. You’ve been worried for weeks about The Potting Shed. Now you look happy. New revenue source?”

“I had a little good news this morning—well, good for me—not really good for the two people who died recently due to poison.”

“They want you to work with the police again?” He looked surprised. “I thought you weren’t doing that anymore.”

Peggy told him about Al asking her to help with the case. “I couldn’t say no. He needs me.”

He shook his head. “Someone always does. Just be careful. I can’t rescue you from Tampa.”

“Like you’ve ever had to rescue me.”

“There was that time with the fire. And that time the man tried to shoot you.” He counted off his rescues on his fingers. Some of them were true—not all.

“I’ll be extra careful until you get home.” She smiled at him, seeing his face that she’d once thought so ordinary, making her happier than anything else. “You be careful too. I’ll pick you up at the airport tomorrow. I love you.”

“I love you too. If there are any changes to the schedule, I’ll let you know.”

His face disappeared from the screen. Peggy touched the space where he’d been. This was better than not seeing him at all. Still, it left a lot to be desired. She’d be happy when he was home again.

Despite their age difference—Peggy was almost ten years older—they were very happy together. She had never believed she would ever love another man after John. Steve Newsome had been a gift from heaven. He’d changed her life again just as she’d thought it was settled and over.

She was about to close the laptop when she noticed an email had come in. She recognized the name.
Nightflyer.

It surprised her to hear from her old, online chess buddy. It had been a long time since he’d contacted her.

Peggy opened her email, ignoring the hundreds of emails from fellow botanists and friends around the world.

She read Nightflyer’s email. “More will come. What flower comes after buttercup?”

Chapter Two

Buttercup –
Ranunculaciae
-
Known for their bright gold flowers that dot meadows and roadsides. All parts of the plant are poisonous to humans and pets. Toxic element is Protoanemonin. Can cause blistering to skin (external), vomiting and diarrhea (internal). May be fatal.

Time hadn’t changed her friend’s cryptic nature. Nightflyer—that was the only name she knew him by—was always worried that someone would intercept his emails. He only wrote what he had to and then, in such a way that she had to guess what he was talking about.

One thing was for sure. He knew about the murders. Not surprising since he seemed to keep up with that kind of thing. He’d warned her before about events that had affected her. He’d always been right.

That meant there was another murder to come, unless Al stopped the killer. She thought about her long-time friend as she dressed in tan wool slacks and an autumn-hued tan and brown sweater.

The colors were good for her white-streaked red hair. Fall was all around her. Why not dress the part? She closely examined the fine lines beside her eyes and mouth, ignoring the scattering of freckles she’d always hated. Finally she put on some sun block and smiled at her refection. “You’ll have to do. I don’t have anymore time to primp.”

Her partner, Sam, hadn’t been happy about opening The Potting Shed that day. “I have a big order of mulch coming in. With Keeley gone and you out doing whatever you think is more important, that leaves Selena handling customers by herself while I unload the truck.”

“I know it’s difficult, but it’s for a good reason. I’ll be there by lunch,” she’d assured him.

“That’s fine. If you don’t make money, I don’t make money. I’m sure we won’t miss a few customers Selena can’t get to.”

He’d certainly been in a bad mood. Her excitement over helping the police again was dampened by his attitude. She’d wanted to tell him about the murder case—and that the money she made from it would go to The Potting Shed. She was uncertain if she should mention it. It was possible it wouldn’t work out.

“I’m sorry about this, Sam. Once I get there, you can take off for the day.”

“I’m sorry too, Peggy.” His voice cracked. “Hunter and I had a big fight last night.”

Hunter was Sam’s sister. She was also a fledgling attorney who was struggling to make a living.

“Anything I can help with?”

“Not really. She’s in the same boat we are. Without joining a big firm, it’s all she can do to pay the bills. She went out and tried to buy a new car. They wouldn’t let her have it and she wanted me to co-sign. I wouldn’t do it.”

“I’d be happy to co-sign for her, Sam.”

“See, that’s the whole deal. She can’t keep falling back on everyone else.”

Peggy could tell this wasn’t a good time to talk about it. “We’ll talk when I get there. I promise not to take any longer than I have to.”

Sam said that was fine and hung up.

With a sigh, Peggy sat back down at her computer and looked at Nightflyer’s email again. She knew it wouldn’t do any good to respond. He only used an email once and then changed it. She wasn’t completely convinced that he wasn’t making his problems sound worse than they were. What was he, after all, a spy or something?

She went down to the basement to check on her experiments after she let Shakespeare outside in the backyard for a while. She put on an apron to cover her clothes and slid on a pair of gloves.

Everything was progressing nicely. She was part of a group experiment with other botanists across the country. It involved independent studies of a new form of wheat that grew faster and used fewer resources. If the plants were successful, which they seemed to be, the wheat could be grown in smaller, drier fields in countries where people were desperate for it.

Another experiment was more for fun than to accomplish anything important. Peggy had received plants from a friend of hers at the University of South Carolina. They were a combination of every berry known. The fruit was delicious and very healthy. They were about the size of strawberries, but dark blue like blueberries, with large clusters like raspberries.

She ate one as she watched Shakespeare playing in the garden. He enjoyed chasing the falling leaves and scaring the squirrels.

Peggy couldn’t stop thinking about the dead man in the park this morning. Why did people do such terrible things to others? It was something she’d never understand.

Obviously, the perpetrator was mentally ill. It was bad enough to use plant poisons to kill people. Doing it in alphabetical order was diabolical.

She wondered where the first murder had taken place. The park across the street was a very public spot. Mothers took their babies through it everyday and runners took advantage of its paths. What if one of them had found the body first?

If identifying plants and poisons would help bring this person to justice, she wanted to help. She let Shakespeare back in, grabbed her pocketbook, and made sure the door was locked and the alarm was set.

Shakespeare was barking again. She hated the idea, but she might have to muzzle him. Mr. Bellows was cranky—she didn’t want her dog to be annoying. She hoped it would be better when Steve got back. Maybe Shakespeare missed him.

Peggy got on her bike and started pedaling down Queen’s Road toward the police station in uptown Charlotte. Traffic was heavy now and drivers weren’t particularly courteous. Horns blared at her and some people even made rude remarks from their car windows.

Honestly, weren’t people ever going to get used to sharing the road?

After the adventure getting to the police station, Peggy locked her bike into the stall for it. Right next to her bicycle and several others, was an azalea bush that was still blooming, despite the colder temperatures.