Swan Dive (3 page)

“She was wearing sweat pants, not a tutu,” I said. 

He shrugged. “The poison probably hit her more quickly than she expected.”

“Sure, sure.” I heard a hoard of kids rush down the hall and into the foyer. All giggles and shouts and footfalls and coughs. I took another squirt from the pump. “Just so I’ve got it,” I said slowly. “You’re saying Lexie Allen kept poison berries in her kitchen, and either she grabbed them by mistake, or deliberately to kill herself?”

“The evidence is stacking up that way,” he said and stood. “I’m sorry, Red. I know this one hit close to home. We’ll get it wrapped up quickly.”

He looked sympathetic. Genuine, sincere, kind. And full of shit. I’d known Nick Ransom since our first evidence class in college more than twenty years earlier. He was sharp, intense, and extremely thorough. He didn’t keep his cards close to his chest, he kept them face down on the table. Like Harvey Specter negotiating a settlement with an unwitting adversary about to sign away the rights to his own company.

“No foul play?” I asked.

“It doesn’t seem so.”

“And all the crime scene techs, police personnel, interviews, and investigating at the theatre? You were there most of the night.”

“Standard procedure,” he said, looking me straight in the eye.

I waited two full blinks and then thanked him. “I appreciate the heads-up. Nice of you to keep me in the loop.”

“Just making sure you’re up to speed, so you don’t feel the need to get involved.” And there it was. In case I’d missed the point of his “update.” We walked down the hall and into the busy foyer. “I know you’ve got your hands full this time of year,” he added.

Matty lifted a tiny girl up close to his shoulder so she could loop a string of popcorn around the tree. A boy hung a colorful ornament on the lowest branch, keeping his other hand pressed into Matty’s leg for balance, and a third promptly dropped her ornament on the floor. It splintered. Crying ensued.

“Indeed,” I said.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he said and left.

Leave me to it is right, I said to myself as I stalked straight back to my office. The phone rang as I grabbed my hipster handbag from the bottom drawer.

“Elliott! Hello!” Mr. Ballantyne shouted into the phone. The line crackled, though I could hear him clear as the sky outside. “This is a terrible day for us, my dear Elli. Terrible! Vivi is devastated.”

“It’s awful, sir,” I shouted back. I lowered my voice. He was in Guatemala, not on the moon. I’d only spoken to him briefly the night before, and he sounded the same. And I couldn’t imagine how sad Vivi, his wife, was. She was as gentle as a kitten on a stack of down pillows. Together they’d run the billion-dollar Ballantyne Foundation since the day Edward Ballantyne inherited it from his father over fifty years ago. “Again, I’m sorry for your loss, sir. I stayed at the theatre, but Tod spent time with the family last night.”

“He’s a good boy, our Tod,” Mr. Ballantyne said. “I’m not sure what happened to that lovely young lady. Poisoned, of all things. Certainly a strange state of affairs. We must do something.”

“I’m already on it,” I said.

“Good to hear! I spoke to the captain this morning. Let him know we’d want to poke around a bit. I don’t mean to contradict their good judgment, but it can’t hurt to make sure. He said he’d send over the lieutenant.”

“He just left, sir,” I said. “I’ll put all my attention on the case.”

“I expect nothing less, Elli, dear,” he said. “We’re off to another refugee camp outside the city. The trains are running today. Stay on top!” And with that, he clicked off.

I wasn’t sure if he meant me or the refugees riding the rails north to freedom. But I definitely planned to stay right on top of things here.

Two minutes later, I tracked down Carla in the foyer organizing ornaments while Matty and the kids painted another batch out on the terrace. “Aren’t you popular, chicken? Two suitors in one day. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“One suitor and one suit,” I said. “Nick Ransom just gave me a soup sandwich. Accidental. Suicide. Stops by as a courtesy. Ha. Someone hurt that girl on purpose and he knows it.”

“He said it was accidental?”

“Yep. He crammed a twenty-minute briefing into a five-minute conversation. Hoping I’d ignore the obvious and he’d keep me off the case.” My director duties at the prestigious Ballantyne charity sometimes stretched beyond board meetings and charity balls. I’m also the real world counterpart to Archibald McNally, performing discreet inquiries for the Foundation’s faithful donors and closest friends. Getting my PI license and working with the police enhanced my skill set. Ransom wasn’t impressed.

“How did she accidentally kill herself?” Carla asked.

“Poisoned berries, he said. Apparently she liked to cook with exotic ingredients and mixed up her nightshades. One called belladonna. You ever hear of such things?”

“Sure. Deadly nightshade. Not sure they’re poisonous after you cook them, though.”

“Mamacita, don’t mess with Santa Claus,” Zibby sang as she wobbled up to the tree. She’d hung an ornament from her left earring and wore a popcorn strand around her neck. “Mamacita…she’s the one to see.”

Carla snapped her fingers. “You said it. Mamacita has the most exotic botanicals in the South and she’s right here on the island. Now that’s cooking with some love. If anyone has nightshade, it’s Mamacita.”

“I’ve never heard of her,” I said.

“Recommendations, that’s how she rolls,” Zibby said.

“Behind the Gullah Catfish Café off Marsh Grass Road,” Carla said. “Sublime garden and greenhouse.”

“If you say so, then I’m headed out,” I said. “Probably be gone most of the day.”

“Knock twice and take a gift,” Zibby said. She turned to Carla. “You ever buy her alligator butter? Dab it on a slice of green olive and eat it on a saucer…”

Their conversation faded as I went to the terrace to find Deidre. She was finishing up the last ornaments, carefully placing them on a large steel tray. She’d put her reading glasses on her nose to inspect the paint jobs. The cookie ornaments were shaped like various candies: canes, bon bons, the ones with the twisty wrapper ends. The paint was bright and cheery and sloppy, as if painted by schoolchildren.

“Deidre, sorry to interrupt,” I said in a low voice so the kids wouldn’t hear us. “I was thinking about those poor dancers at your condo. Were they close to Lexie?”

“Two were her best friends, the other her boyfriend,” she whispered. “Could it be more tragic? They took their college break early to dance
The Nutcracker
at Sea Pine one last time. The Sugar Plum Fairy, the Mouse King, the Dew Drop Fairy and the Cavalier. All the lead roles. Is that why the lieutenant wanted to talk to you?”

“He was filling me in, as a courtesy,” I whispered. “Actually, I was thinking it would be a good idea if I took a look around the condo.”

“You think it’s more than an accidental poisoning?”

“Who said it was an accidental poisoning?”

“Sugar, the whole island knows that poor girl got sick eating her own cupcakes,” she said and leaned in close. “Rumor is it was an accident. Unless you’re saying otherwise.”

“I’m not saying otherwise.” Not out loud, anyway. “I only want to take a quick look. Dot an i, maybe cross a t.”

She looked at me over the top of her bright readers. “Uh-huh. Someone from the ballet company is there now, cleaning things up while the kids are at rehearsal. You’re welcome to stop over. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind the company.”

“Let me think about that, Deidre. I appreciate the offer.”

Keeping someone company wasn’t what I had in mind. I needed to see what the police saw and see what was missing. Ransom clearly wasn’t considering this a joint investigation. He wouldn’t be sharing information and he had a head start. It was just too hard to swallow that Lexie baked poison berries into her own cupcakes. Accidentally or otherwise.

THREE

(Day #2: Friday Afternoon)

Sea Pine Island was shaped like a shoe or a foot or a boot or some kind of podiatrist drawing. The heel part of the island faced north toward Beaufort, South Carolina, while the toes pointed south, straight at Tybee Island, Georgia. Cabana Boulevard ran the length from the toes, across the arch, up the ankle, and over the bridge to Summerton.

With the top down on the Mini and a hat on my head, I zipped out of the Oyster Cove Plantation gates and onto Cabana. I was headed to a quaint shopping area nestled somewhere at the topside of the foot. Zibby mentioned taking a gift to Mamacita and I had no idea what to take an herbalist who made alligator butter.

From Cabana, I made a right onto Marsh Grass Road and followed the two-lane road as it wound around the marshlands, the briny salt air mixing with the scent of fresh cut grass. About two miles later, I turned into an old weathered center of four shops. A dog grooming parlor, a bicycle repair shop, a boot camp gym, and my destination: an artisan boutique. A little bell jingled when I entered and a wall of heavy patchouli air greeted me.

The shop contained handmade everything from hemp clothes to wire lawn chairs. A round wood table was placed in the front window with a feather tree on top. Delicate glass ornaments hung by the dozens on every branch. 

“May I help you?” a woman said with a bright smile. She wore a palm tree print caftan with a matching scarf on her head.

“I hope so. I’m in need of a gift and it’s last minute,” I said. “She likes gardening. And alligators, if that helps.”

“I’m sure we have the perfect objet d’art,” she said and roamed around the room. “I have something in mind…”

She picked up a metal lawn sign. It was hammered into the shape of an alligator in flip-flops with a sharp stake running through its center.

“Well, that’s adorable,” I said. “Though perhaps a bit literal.” That was for a certain type of customer and I had no idea what type of customer Mamacita was.

We went through three rounds of assorted craftsman gifts: a delicate wind chime made with seaglass, a set of clay mugs from a local potter, and an oversized sweetgrass basket. In the end, I decided to stick with my rule for gift-giving: when in doubt, pick out something I’d like. She wrapped up the wind chime for Mamacita and a similar one for me. If you can’t give gifts to yourself, where’s the Merry Christmas in that?

I zipped onto Marsh Grass Road and drove another mile inland, looking for the Gullah Catfish Café. As one who never eats seafood of any kind, fresh or not, I hadn’t ever been there. I slowed to a crawl, putt-putting on the rock shoulder until I spotted it. A ramshackle of a structure with a driftwood sign nailed to the front. Two mismatched plastic patio sets flanked a screen door. A tabby cat cleaned his front paws under one of the tables. Cars parked haphazardly in front, on the side, and out by the shoulder. The strong smell of cooked catfish sank into the convertible and I kept my foot on the gas.

The dirt drive wound around the back. I followed it deep into the South Carolina wild, where trees towered thirty feet, a mix of pines and oaks and Spanish moss. I felt as if I were traveling back in time. The rocky road bounced the Mini. Hard not to since it rode close to the ground, and it took another minute before I reached a clearing. Tucked in the brush off to the side sat a single wide propped up on wood blocks. I circled around until I faced the road and parked.

The trailer may have looked tired and rundown, but the surrounding landscape shone proudly. A paradise garden befitting Eve herself. Gorgeous flowering shrubs, ornamental trees, and bunches of flowers and greenery. All lively and blooming, even though it was the end of December.

With gift in hand, I climbed the rickety steps and knocked. Twice, as per Zibby’s instructions.

The sound of barking dogs was so loud, I feared an entire wild pack was jostling for position inside. Their nails scratched on the door. Combined with their fierce tone, I was sure it’d be enough to ram through the flimsy wood. I quickly scrambled down the steps and away from the trailer.

“¡Hola!” a voice called from around back. “Estoy en el jardín.”

A rocky path cut through the heavily manicured parkland and I emerged to find a master gardener’s utopia. A half-acre of cultivated foliage lay before me, all contained behind a chain link fence. A really tall one.

A round woman in a floppy hat walked through the gate. She wore a floral apron and carried a spade covered in dirt.

“¡Hola!” I said. “Me llamo Elliott...Soy amiga Zibby and Carla.”

“Si, si,” she said. “Encantado de conocerte. Bienvenido a mi jardín.”

“Lo siento,” I said, apologizing. “Mi Español es…pequeño? Little? Small? As in, that’s pretty much all I know. You lost me at conocerte.”

She laughed. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said in accented English. “Welcome to my garden.”

“Thank you. Gracias,” I added. My biggest regret in school was not taking Spanish classes. Such a beautiful language, and so often spoken, it frustrated me to be on the outside of conversations. I bought the Rosetta Stone, but it was slow going.

“What may I help you?”

I handed her the gift bag. “This is for you.”

She unwrapped the wind chime from the tissue and held it up. The blue and green seaglass gently tapped against the delicate chrome centerpiece in the light breeze.

She wrapped me in a hug. “Gracias, gracias. Que hermoso.”

I thought hermoso meant brother, but she probably knew more Spanish than I did. “Do you have a few minutes to talk? I’m looking into Lexie Allen’s death, and Zibby Archibald suggested you might be able to help me.”

“¡Dios mio! That poor girl,” she said and crossed herself. “Poison, si?”

“Si. Something called deadly nightshade,” I said. “Baked into cupcakes.”

She tsked and opened the chain link gate, then gestured for me to enter. “I have many plantas, botanicas, all types I grow.”

The garden was organized in rows, but not in any particular order my OCD could make sense of. Most of the rows crisscrossed one another or curved around large oaks and pines. Little stakes stuck out of the ground in random places, written in Spanish, mostly illegible to me.

We stopped at a rusted metal bistro set near the center of the garden. She reached for a pitcher of iced tea on the table and a plastic cup, pouring the tea to the top before I could protest. “My own recipe. Fine plantas and herbs to improve your health.”

I thanked her then took the smallest sip possible. I never acquired the taste for iced tea, especially Southern sweet teas. And definitely not a special plantas and herb recipe that tasted faintly of black licorice and boiled eggs.

She hung the wind chime from a plant hook bordering the path, then took me to a shrub patch in the far corner. A picket fence no taller than my shins bordered it. She pointed at a tall plant. “
Atropa belladonna
. Beautiful, but deadly. It grows wild, but I keep mine contained.”

“Why grow it at all?”

“Like many danger plantas, it has health benefits.” She pointed out other plants. “Hemlock, foxgloves, oleander. That one makes gorgeous flowers, big as your hand. All good for teas, remedies. But not for, how do you say, aficionada? Amateur?”

An amateur cook experimenting with wild ingredients. What was Lexie thinking? Why would she even have them? “Did you know Lexie?”

“Oh si, si. Of course. She was lovely girl. And very interested in my plantas. Vegetables, mostly, but also flowers. The edible ones. A chef, she was.” She bent down and pulled stray weeds from around the wood fence stakes. “I gave her many samples, but never from these.”

“How would she—”

“¡Oh, dios mío, los venados nuevo,” she exclaimed and went to the chain link fence behind the poison garden.

“The deer,” she said by way of explanation. “They trample, trying to get my leaves.” The vegetation outside the fence was flat and the fence bowed. “But not even they will touch these.”

“The police suspect Lexie mixed up the deadly nightshade berries with other berries. How is that possible?”

We walked down a different row, stopping near what looked like wildflowers. “Black nightshade. See the berries?” She plucked two, popped one into her mouth and held out the other for me.

I smiled, but declined.

She shrugged and ate that one, too. “Sweet, dark berries, very close to the belladonna. Delicioso.”

She pruned the plants, picking off yellowed parts and shriveled berries, sticking the remnants into the front pocket of her apron.

I still didn’t understand how Lexie ended up with the wrong nightshade. Or why she would use these ingredients when the supermarket certainly held all kinds of berries perfectly appropriate for cupcake baking.

“So Lexie wanted the black nightshade, but ended up with deadly nightshade? Did she pick the wrong ones?”

“No. I give her b
lack
nightshade, but never the other. And she only came inside my garden with me. She was a smart girl. She knew the difference.”

“Can anyone grow belladonna? Maybe she decided to grow it herself.”

“Like I say, it grows wild. On the roads. But why? She didn’t want poison, she wanted especial, like her.” She crossed herself again and resumed pruning.

“One last question. Are they poisonous after you cook them?”

She nodded slowly. “Si. Muy mortal.”

“Thank you, Mamacita. For the tour and information. I appreciate it.”

“Si, si. Come back anytime. I have wonderful recipes. Not only the poison plants, but plenty of organic floras and medicinal herbs.”

“You mean like the ones that are legal with a prescription, but not in this state?”

She laughed and squeezed my arm. “Oh, Chiquita.”

I said goodbye and followed the path to the Mini. The dogs commenced their barking as I passed the trailer. Once tucked safely into my seat with my seatbelt securely fastened, I jotted notes in my small book. The nightshade berries definitely looked similar, enough for an amateur, as Mamacita called her, to confuse. But Mamacita insisted she didn’t get them from her. If not here, then where? Maybe Mamacita was lying? Or most likely, someone else got them, switched them, and Lexie hadn’t a clue. Because if she didn’t accidentally poison herself, someone else sure as shit did.