Fruit of the Poisoned Tree plgm-2 Read online

  Looking away from his red-rimmed blue eyes as they stepped into the elevator to go to their rooms, she pushed number six for her floor. She sighed at their personal differences that were mostly ignored in the light of their long-standing friendship.

  They knew each other in college. He grew up with her husband, John Lee. John was a police detective for twenty years. They consulted on many police cases over dinner at one of their houses. Park didn’t leave her side for three days when John was killed two years ago. “I guess I’ll have to make an appointment for you to meet Steve.”

  “Don’t be that way, Peggy. Let’s go ahead and make plans to get together for dinner. I’m back in Charlotte on Thursday. Can you do dinner Friday evening at seven? I know Beth is free that night. I talked to her this morning.”

  “I think I can manage that.” She smiled at him, not liking the terrible darkness in his eyes. He looked more than tired to her. It had probably been years since he’d even thought of having a medical checkup. “Steve and I will be there. Take care of yourself. Don’t leave Beth alone so much if you don’t have to.”

  He hugged her, shifting his expensive alligator briefcase to his left hand as the elevator reached his floor. “You worry too much. Have a good flight, Peggy. I’ll see you back in Charlotte. Friday night. Don’t forget now.”

  She watched as Park walked toward his room down the elegantly appointed hallway. A tall, scraggly looking young man in ripped jeans and a red T-shirt approached him as he took out his key card.

  “What are you doing here?” Park asked, visibly drawing back.

  “You know why I’m here,” the young man returned before the elevator doors closed on the scene.

  Peggy stabbed her finger on the three button to return to Park’s floor, but the elevator went to her floor first, then back to his. By the time the doors opened again, both men were gone. She thought about trying to find his room but decided against it. Whatever was going on between them was none of her business. That alone wouldn’t usually stop her. But there was a long line of doors to knock on since she didn’t know the right room number. She didn’t want to miss her flight. And Park could take care of himself.

  She went back to her floor and used the key card to open her hotel room door. After putting down the insulated bag that held the tobacco plant and her pocketbook, she noticed the flowers that had been delivered while she was gone. They were beside a large gift basket from the hotel that she hadn’t opened yet.

  She didn’t need to read the card on the flowers to know they were from Steve. He was the only one likely to send Queen Anne’s lace as a gift. He already knew her so well she felt like they’d been together for years rather than months. Where he’d managed to find the flowers in the dead of winter was another story. She suspected Sam had something to do with it. He had access to most of the greenhouses in and around Charlotte.

  She opened the card and saw the broad, masculine handwriting. “Shakespeare and I miss you. We hope you enjoy this ‘fantasy.’ Come home soon. Love, Steve.” She brushed her hand across the broad top of the flowers. They were one of her favorites. Most Americans refused to see it as anything but a weed. In England, however, it was cultivated for its lacy beauty. Its traditional meaning in floriography, the language of flowers, was fantasy. Steve must have looked that up.

  Seeing the flowers and reading the card made her eager to get on the plane and go home. The Potting Shed was in capable hands while she was gone, but she missed being there, helping her customers get ready for spring. Some gardeners got depressed in the winter. She knew spring was always just around the corner. In Charlotte, North Carolina, the temperate climate meant an early spring. After the one or two obligatory ice storms in January, February was mild, and March would be warm, already beginning the spring growth cycle.

  Just thinking about the Potting Shed . . . and Steve . . . made her pack her single bag quickly. The flight home would only be about an hour. Steve and Shakespeare, her adopted fawn-colored Great Dane, would be waiting for her. She couldn’t think of anything more likely to get her moving.

  Sirens and shouting disrupted her train of thought. She went to the window that overlooked the street and watched as police clashed with the demonstrators on the steps of the hotel. Had she known what was going on, she might’ve joined them. Being a botanist and a gardener, she had a stake in keeping the major corporations from trampling on everything living to keep their stockholders happy. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d taken to the streets to protest, but it had been a while. Like thirty years . . .

  She thought about Park again. Was he moved at all by the protesters’ sincerity that made them willing to go to jail for their cause? Was he watching from his window and questioning his values? Probably not. His single-minded, bullheaded determination made him a top corporate attorney. If it meant he couldn’t look from side to side, she was sure he’d find a reason why that was better.

  They’d decided a long time ago to keep their individual politics from affecting their friendship. Not that her friend had any ideals or issues he wouldn’t compromise for the right price. She didn’t know what happened to the free-spirited young man he’d been in college, sneaking away from his tyrannical mother’s watchful eye and spurning his father’s racial bigotry with already enviable debating skills.

  John remained idealistic until he died, despite terrible things he’d seen on the street. Park grew more interested in the bottom line. He could be witty and charming, always gave good parties to the right people, and had a soft heart for his family and friends. But he changed, became harder, more ruthless.

  She suspected the three of them had remained friends more because of their shared past than what went on in their present lives. Sometimes those things happened. She always hoped something would open Park’s eyes one day. She realized she loved him for what he had been, not for what he’d become.

  When her bag was packed, she called the front desk to let them know she was leaving. The concierge offered to call her a taxi since her rental car was blocked by the protest in the street. “No charge to you, of course.”

  She thanked him and took a last look around her room. She’d already pressed her flowers into some damp newspaper and stuck them in a plastic bag for the flight. The food-filled gift basket she left untouched on the bedside table. Maybe they could give it to the next visitor.

  Drawn by the angry scene on the sidewalk and in the street, Peggy walked outside to wait for the taxi despite warnings from the hotel staff. She watched the police load the angry protesters into vans. There weren’t many of them, but they were tough and resilient. They didn’t so much fight as resist. Most of the signs were lying in the street now, but several television cameras were videotaping the disturbance. She knew they’d scored some airtime for their cause.

  The scraggly young man from Park’s room ran toward her, wild-eyed. He looked anxious to get away from the hotel. He carried a banner, dropping it at her feet. She couldn’t tell what it said anymore. The fat, wet snowflakes had blurred the marker he’d used to make his statement.

  He was running from two policemen, who were yelling at him to stop. Peggy started to step aside until she saw the desperate yet determined look on his face. She wasn’t sure what made her put herself between him and the police. Maybe it was because he reminded her of her own intense son. Maybe she just got caught up in the moment.

  “What’s going on?” she demanded, hoping to give the young man a chance to get away. Even though she seemed to recall it being a badge of honor to be arrested, she didn’t think he looked the type. He hadn’t lain down in the street with the others. Instead, he reminded her of a terrified animal.

  “Get out of the way, lady. This is police business,” the first officer warned.

  “Is there a problem?” She tried to take their attention away from their quarry. “It seems like you’d have something better to do than chase these young people.”

  “I won’t ask you again.” The officer charged,
almost running into her on the slippery sidewalk. “This is a police action. You don’t want to be standing around out here.”

  Peggy couldn’t tell if the young man got away yet. She bent down and picked up the banner he dropped. “You can’t even tell what this says anymore. Give the boy a break. He was only standing up for what he believes in.”

  “That’s it! I warned you!” The officer snarled as he snatched the banner from her. The next thing she knew, the police were lifting her and carrying her to the waiting van. The reporters took her picture as the doors closed on her. Another fine mess . . .

  2

  Jerusalem Artichoke

  Botanical: Helianthus tuberosus

  Family: N.O. Compositae

  Common name: Sunchoke

  The name of this edible plant is a misnomer, since it doesn’t come from Jerusalem and is not an artichoke. The name is from the Italian girasola articiocco, the sunflower artichoke, girasola meaning “turning to the sun,” and articiocco, “artichoke.” In the 1920s, famed American psychic Edgar Cayce extolled the virtues of this plant in treating many medical maladies and brought it to the attention of the public.

  “SO THE POLICE ARRESTED you?” Sam followed through to the logical end of her story as Peggy explained why she missed her original flight home.

  “Not arrested exactly,” she hedged. “More like detained. They didn’t press charges against any of the protesters. They held us for a few hours, then let us go when we promised to leave Philadelphia. Except for the man with the concealed weapon. They kept him.”

  Sam laughed as he easily navigated through early morning traffic from the airport to the Potting Shed. “At least you don’t have a record. When you called me last night, I thought maybe I should send Hunter up after you. I hope the experience taught you a lesson.”

  Peggy raised her eyebrow. “I didn’t need your sister’s legal defense, but thanks for thinking of me. Exactly what lesson is it that I should’ve learned?”

  “Don’t always jump into things until you know what’s going on.”

  “I prefer to think of it as a good deed. Those people had a righteous grievance. That company has no business looking for oil in an estuary!” Peggy’s words were as fiery as her once-red hair. Her green eyes gleamed with purpose.

  “Yeah? What happened to the protester you were trying to save from the police?” Sam stopped at a red light and grinned at her, the sunlight catching in the golden strands of his long hair. “Did he stop by to say thanks?”

  “I didn’t see him again.” She folded her hands in her lap and looked out of the side window. She shouldn’t have told Sam the truth about what happened. Really! She was fifty-two years old. If she chose to join in at a protest, she had the right.

  “Case closed. You helped him get away from the mess he created, and the police nabbed you instead. You did what you always do: jumped in with both feet, and it put you in a bad place. I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

  He was joking, of course. They had a long-standing, easy-going relationship that allowed them both tremendous freedom in what they could say to each other without making the other person angry. Peggy sighed and sat back in her seat. She could take the ribbing.

  Sam pulled the pickup into the loading zone behind the Potting Shed. Peggy waited until he turned off the engine. “When did you become a philosopher? It must’ve been while I was gone, because I could’ve sworn you’re the same Sam Ollson who played that prank on his friend last week. Didn’t that put you on the dean’s blacklist for the month?”

  Sam was a big man, more suited physically to being a construction worker than the surgeon he planned to be. His natural Scandinavian coloring and year-round tan made him look like a surfer. He had large hands that he used frequently to express himself when he wasn’t coddling plants or shoveling dirt. He shrugged his broad shoulders covered by a tight-fitting green Potting Shed jacket. “I’m only twenty. People expect me to do things like that.”

  She burst out laughing at his excuse. “I’m over fifty. People expect me to do things like that. It’s only the middle-aged people who are supposed to be the sane pillars of society. I guess we’ll have to agree not to lecture each other.” She looked up at the back of the shop. It was early. Brevard Court wasn’t open yet to allow them in the front door. The big wrought-iron gate was still locked. But she couldn’t wait. “It’s good to be home anyway. Let’s go inside.”

  He was ready for her barrage of questions about the shop and handed her a few printed pages of what transpired while she was gone. “I knew you’d want to see these. I thought this would be the best way.”

  She took the pages after she opened the back door. The air outside was cool and damp, with the pungent aroma of garbage waiting to be picked up from the restaurant next door. In an hour or two, the smells from cooking would overpower it. Now she hurried inside and was immediately embraced by the smells of new plants and potting soil they kept in large quantities in the back storeroom.

  She glanced at the sales figures on the sheets Sam gave her, but they didn’t really matter. Her heart was already home as she walked across the squeaky heart-of-pine floors and opened the door into the main body of the shop.

  Peggy loved this time before the customers started coming in, before anything was moved or spilled. It was a quiet balm for her soul. Plants she’d started from seeds or cuttings stretched out new tendrils in the gauzy white sunlight coming in from the wide front windows. The oak rocking chair sat squarely on the multicolored rag rug, the display ready with plants and everything a gardener needed for spring. She sat down in the rocker and sighed.

  “Orange spice tea?” Sam asked, smiling at her contentment.

  “That would be perfect.” She rocked the chair a little. “Now. Tell me how things went while I was gone. Don’t leave anything out.”

  EMIL BALDUCCI WAS CLEANING off some bird droppings from his shop window at the Kozy Kettle Tea and Coffee Emporium just across the courtyard from the Potting Shed when Peggy came back from lunch. “Hey, Peggy! Good to see you! That boy you left in charge while you were gone doesn’t have a brain in his head!”

  She joined him in the cobblestone courtyard. Emil always had some complaint about how things were done when she went away. She took a deep breath and smiled at him. “Good morning. How are you? How is Sofia?”

  “She’s fine. I’m fine. You have to fire that boy. Find someone more reliable. I have a nephew, Christo, Sofia’s brother’s son. He would do a good job for you. And his father is a widower. He’s still got his hair and teeth. He’s got plenty of money, too. You could sell this place and marry him.”

  Not daring to laugh, she asked, “Are you talking about me living with Christo or his father?”

  Emil took a moment to curl the ends of his heavy gray mustache that he oiled every day. “You make jokes, but it’s a hard life for a woman alone. Ask Sofia. She had an aunt who tried to live alone. Three years she was without a man. The first salesman who stopped at her door married her. She was desperate. Now she’s happy.”

  Before she was married off to Sofia’s brother or his son, Peggy got to the point. “What did Sam do this time?”

  “He got dirt on the stones in the courtyard when he was working with the big flower pots. He came back after a while, when he felt like it, and cleaned up, but three customers noticed the mess. Then he sent people to that new bakery up the street. It’s not bad enough I have to compete with Dilworth Coffee House, now I have to worry about my pastry being better than theirs.”

  “I’m sure he had a good reason, Emil. I’ve known Sam for years and so have you. He’s a hard worker, and I trust him. I’ll have a talk with him and let you know what happened.”

  “Oh! You’ll have a talk with him.” Emil shrugged and shook his head. “I’m sure that will take care of the problem. Especially since what he really needs is a boot in his rear. If you had a husband, like Sofia’s brother, Angelo, he’d know what I’m talking about.” He contin
ued ranting in Sicilian as he walked back toward his shop.

  Peggy thanked him, not sure what else to say, then hurried into the Potting Shed to get away from his tirade. With her back against the door, she looked up to find Sam and her shop assistant, Selena Rogers, who’d come in for the afternoon, staring at her.

  “What happened?” Selena asked. “You look like someone chased you in here.”

  Peggy took off her heavy purple jacket, unwound the red scarf from her neck. “Mr. Balducci wants me to hire his nephew to run the shop.”

  “Does he want you to marry his brother-in-law again?” Sam laughed, his even, white teeth gleaming against his darkly tanned face.

  “Of course. I’m sure one day I’ll have to meet him.” Peggy picked up the mail and looked through it, tossing away some ads for life insurance. “How are you, Selena? How did it go while I was gone? Any strange requests?”

  Selena shrugged her thin shoulders, her blond hair sliding against her neck. “It was about like February. It’s cold outside. It’s hard for most people to think about planting yet. But there was this one guy. He wanted to plant a whole yard full of stuff right now.”

  “Oh yeah.” Sam zipped up his jacket. “I forgot to tell you about him. Mr. Crawford. He offered me a thousand dollar bonus if I could get enough plants in his yard to make his wife think they were there already when the house was built. I think it’s one of those treeless wonders from over in Pineville.”

  Peggy stopped opening her garden catalogues. “What did you say to him?”

  “It was hard, but we both said no.” Selena looked at Sam. “First of all, none of those plants would survive right now. How happy would he be after his wife pulled up into a yard filled with dead plants? It was a crazy, desperate idea.”