Death on a Platter (20 page)

“Aren’t poodles hyper anyway?” Amelia asked.

“Mikey is fourteen, so he’s settled down some,” Ted said. “Becky went upstairs and found out Mikey had gotten in the hidden stash of chocolate she keeps in her bedroom drawer. Becky saw the torn-up chocolate wrapper all over the floor and brought him straight in. We had quite a fight, but it looks like we’ll save the little guy. Mikey spent the night at the clinic. If he’s still there, I’ll see him tonight.”

“If chocolate is poison for dogs, why do they eat it?” Amelia asked.

“Animals are like people,” Ted said. “Dogs can develop a taste for things that aren’t good for them. Cats can, too.”

“I know,” Amelia said. “Mom wouldn’t let Harry have chocolate ice cream.”

“Your mom was right. We don’t want your cat to learn to like it. Becky’s dog is such a chocoholic that she jokes Mikey needs a twelve-step program. This was his second serious chocolate binge, so Mikey obviously didn’t learn he should avoid it. Becky will have to keep her stash on a top shelf or in a locked closet.

“She felt bad about Mikey and called herself a terrible pet owner. She’s not. We’ve had people abandon their animals at the clinic because they didn’t want to pay the bills.”

“That’s how Grandma got Stuart Little,” Amelia said. “Some man wouldn’t pay for him.”

“That’s right,” Ted said. “He was too dumb to know he lost a good dog. Becky will pay Mikey’s bills. She blames herself, but it wasn’t her fault. She had the chocolate hidden. Mikey found it. He couldn’t resist what was bad for him.”

Gemma Lynn wanted another woman’s husband, Josie thought. Desmond wants another woman’s restaurant. And Lorena wants a life. Did any of them kill to get what they craved?

Ted walked Josie to the door and gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Until next time,” he whispered. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she said. She watched Ted jog to his car, his lean, muscled body moving in long, easy strides.

If we were married, you’d come home to me tonight when you finished work, she thought. She remembered how good it felt to have a man in her bed. Not just for sex, but the small pleasures of sleeping like spoons, of having someone warm to hold on a cold night. She could feel the fall chill in the air. Winter would be here soon, and Josie would be shivering alone.

Josie looked up and saw her nosy neighbor, Mrs. Mueller, was also watching Ted. She stared out her bedroom window through the miniblind slat. Josie waved at her and the blind dropped. If we were married, I’d be free of that old bat, Josie thought, as she picked her mail out of the box.

Josie saw another letter from a religious organization peeking out of her mother’s mailbox. The letter seemed to call her name.

Won’t hurt to look, she told herself. Let’s see if more leeches are feeding off my poor mother. This letter was from the St. Thalamus Society for Indigent Children. Josie stuffed it into her purse, away from Mrs. M’s prying eyes.

St. Thalamus. The name sounded familiar. Josie tried to remember the stories of the saints Jane had taught her. Was St. Thalamus a Roman martyr? An early Christian virgin? Maybe the letter would give her a clue. Josie opened it in her living room.

The letterhead showed a photo of a smiling dark-skinned child with her hair in braids, supposedly a student at the St. Thalamus Orphanage. The letter thanked “Dear Mrs. Marcus” for her generous donation of one hundred dollars.

“Your money will help educate a poor African orphan for an entire school year. The children are depending on you, Mrs. Marcus. We’ve enclosed an envelope for next month’s donation. Please help.”

A hundred dollars a month? On top of five hundred a month to Our Lady of the Sheets and the Sisters of Divine Poverty? Nearly all of Jane’s Social Security check was going to those charities. Were they helping the poor—or helping themselves to her mother’s money?

The Lord helps those who help themselves, Josie told herself. She checked on Amelia. Her daughter was sitting at her bedroom computer with Harry curled next to her on the desk. Josie went into her own bedroom and flipped on her computer, ready for a thorough Internet search.

She checked the name St. Thalamus online and couldn’t find a trace, except for a colorful Web site dedicated to the St. Thalamus Society for Indigent Children. Josie scrolled through two pages of adorable dark-skinned children reading, sleeping in sparsely furnished dormitories, sitting respectfully in a whitewashed church, playing soccer in a dirt field. Photos that could be easily Photoshopped. A donations page offered to take credit cards, PayPal accounts, or checks. The checks could be sent to a post office box in Kansas City.

Josie’s search was interrupted by squeals, giggles, and pounding feet. She swung around on her chair and saw Amelia chasing Harry down the hall.

“Keep it down, will you?” Josie said. “I’m trying to work. You two sound like a herd of buffalo.”

The thumps and giggles turned into surly silence. Josie went back to her computer search. The name sounded familiar. Was St. Thalamus a medieval bishop who’d helped care for plague orphans? Josie knew she’d heard the name somewhere. Recently, too. And not from Jane.

Come on, she told herself. Use your brain.

Brain. Of course. Amelia had told her and Ted about the parts of the brain she was studying in school the night they ate the gooey butter cake. The thalamus was one of those parts.

St. Thalamus, indeed.

Josie did another search and confirmed her hunch. The thalamus was part of the brain. Next she searched Guidestar and the Better Business Bureau, then checked the state attorney general’s Web site. There were warnings against all of Jane’s charities. They were three frauds, preying on the generosity of the devoutly gullible.

Josie checked the clock. Her mother should be leaving shortly to see Tillie. Let’s get this over with, Josie thought. I’m not going to spend all night fretting about these bogus charities. Jane won’t like hearing this news, but she has to know. She could give her money to real charities that would actually help poor children.

Josie prayed for courage as she dragged herself up her mother’s front stairs. Her body seemed to be resisting her command to move forward. She had to fight gravity and her own reluctance.

Woman up, she told herself. What’s the worst a seventy-six-year-old can do to you?

I’m about to find out.

Josie tapped on her mother’s door.

“Come in,” Jane said. Her voice sounded weak. She was on the couch, watching
The Young and the Restless
with Stuart Little. Jane had on her best pink pantsuit, and Stuart rested his head in her lap. A few months ago, Jane had banned the dog from the living room. Now he was sprawled on the couch, shedding on Jane’s good suit. Josie caught the sweet scent of Estée Lauder and hair spray. Jane must have added more Final Net to prevent another follicle malfunction. Despite the fresh powder and pink lipstick, Jane looked gray with fatigue.

She brightened when she saw Josie. “Stuart and I are watching our favorite show.”

“What’s happening with Victor?” Josie asked. That was always a safe question. Josie could never remember the plots. It would allow her to stall a little longer.

“That Victor! If he doesn’t straighten up, I’m going to start watching the Oprah channel instead,” Jane said. “Now he’s taken up with Diane, who is no good, and he’s done it just to spite his son, Nick, who was having an affair with her.”

Stuart growled.

“Even Stuart knows he’s bad,” Jane said. “Not only that, he is making some kind of devil’s pact with Adam.”

“Nick is?” Josie asked.

“No,” Jane said. “Victor. Adam is also Victor Junior—his child by Hope.”

“Right,” Josie said.

“And you remember that Adam stole Sharon’s baby and gave it to Ashley, but now Sharon has her baby back and is living with Adam and all is forgiven, I guess, but gee whiz, would you live with a friend like that?”

“Absolutely not,” Josie said. “They sure do a lot of bed-hopping.”

“That’s life, Josie,” said Jane, church woman and serious celibate. Josie was pretty sure her mother had lived like a nun since her father had left more than twenty years ago. Time to talk about their own soap opera.

“How are you, Mom? How’s Tillie doing? Have you heard anything else?”

“I’m tired,” Jane said. “And worried. Josie, I don’t know how Tillie’s going to survive. This arrest is hard on her.”

“I’m sure it is, Mom. Her friends know she’s innocent. You’ll tell her that, won’t you?”

“It won’t help, Josie. The shame is killing her. I talked to her daughter today and Lorena said business is way down. Why didn’t you tell me you and Ted went there for lunch?”

“I didn’t want to worry you, Mom.”

“I found out anyway, didn’t I?” Jane said. “You can’t fool me, Josie Marcus. I can read you like a book. Now you want to ask me something but you’re afraid. Out with it! I’m seeing Tillie as soon as my show is over.”

Here goes, Josie thought. “Uh, Mom, you’ve been sending money to the St. Thalamus Society for Indigent Children, Our Lady of the Sheets, and the Sisters of Divine Poverty.”

“So? Why is that your business?” Jane’s glare should have burned a hole in Josie’s forehead. “And how did you find out?”

“I, uh, saw the envelopes in the mailbox,” Josie said. “Mom, they’re not real charities. They’re crooked. I checked them out on the Internet.”

Frail Jane rose up out of her chair like an avenging fury. Any trace of weakness was gone. Her eyes burned with anger. Stuart jumped off the couch and stood next to his mistress, alert and on guard.

“I refuse to believe that, Josie Marcus,” Jane said. “Mrs. Mueller donates to all three of those charities. So does Mrs. Gruenloh at our church. Are you telling me we’re all wrong?”

“Yes, Mom,” Josie said. She hated the trembling in her voice.

Jane reached for her purse and car keys. “You can’t believe everything you read on the Internet, Josie. I’ll thank you to keep your nose out of my business. If you must investigate something, then help my friend. I’m going to see Tillie now. I’ll call Mrs. Mueller and find out what happened on my show tomorrow. You may leave.”

Jane brushed past her and marched down the front steps. Josie felt twelve years old as she slunk down the stairs. Jane waited at the bottom. She watched Josie open her own door. Once Josie was inside her own flat, Jane slammed her front door and locked it.

Everyone seemed to be giving Josie the same message.

Ted had told her, “That weedy lot next to Tillie’s can’t be the only source of castor beans. Maybe you should find out where else people can get them.”

Jane had said, “If you must investigate something, then help my friend.”

Maybe I should try listening and start searching the Internet, Josie decided.

She’d almost made it to her room when Amelia said, “Mom, I’m hungry. Can we order pizza?”

A good mother would make sure her child had a well-balanced diet, Josie thought. A good daughter would listen to her mother and investigate Tillie’s case. I can’t be a good mother until I get Jane off my back.

“Let me make sure I have enough cash to buy pizza,” Josie said. She rooted a twenty-dollar bill out of her purse, pulled a pizza coupon off the fridge, and told her daughter, “Make the call and take care of Big Dave the pizza guy, will you?”

“Yay!” Amelia said, bolting for the phone. Harry charged behind her, a striped furry streak.

Josie sat down at her desk and started Googling castor beans. She was amazed by their deadly power, even after she’d seen what they’d done to Clay. One site warned, “As few as four ingested seeds can cause death in an adult human, and lesser amounts may result in symptoms of poisoning.” The long list of symptoms, all violent and unpleasant, was almost enough to put Josie off her pizza.

Castor beans were “among the most lethal naturally occurring toxins known today,” said eMedicine, another site.

Josie thought of the beautiful big-leaved plant outside Tillie’s kitchen door. Six feet of death, prettily packaged and bearing brown speckled beans. The castor beans looked like hand-painted art in the online photos.

“The beans are most commonly used for ornamental purposes,” the site continued, “such as prayer or rosary beads, or in musical shakers (maracas).”

Maracas? Gemma Lynn told Josie that her shop had a sudden run on Mexican maracas. Someone had bought two pairs of the musical instruments. Josie had dismissed that story as a salesperson’s exaggeration, but maybe Gemma was telling the truth. It made sense. Clay’s killer could crack open a couple of cheap maracas for a lethal dose and avoid a nasty rash and a bug-infested lot.

Gemma Lynn would know who bought those maracas. If Josie went there tomorrow, she could talk Gemma into giving her the buyer’s name. That would be easier than trying to follow Lorena or Desmond, hoping they’d slip up.

She’d take Alyce. Her friend was looking for more pieces of that Rose Point china. Even a shopkeeper as lazy as Gemma would dig out the china once Alyce flashed her cash.

Josie would even tighten her own belt and buy that sampler at full price. Gemma wouldn’t be able to resist that much business. Josie would have to watch the grocery budget and cut unnecessary car trips to save gas money, but it would be worth the expense to end this investigation. Then she could—

“Mom,” Amelia called, “pizza’s here. I’m starved.”

“Me, too,” Josie said. She opened the boxes on the kitchen table and inhaled. “Mmm. That smells good.”

Harry jumped up on the table and stuck a paw on a mushroom. “Hey!” Josie said. “Amelia, get that cat out of here.”

“Aw, Mom, he’s so cute.”

“Not on my pizza, he isn’t. He dug around in his litter box with that foot and now it’s on my dinner.”

“Mom, you’re disgusting,” Amelia said.