Ladies Courting Trouble Read online

  At Samhain, when the veil between life and death is so thin that a soul might traverse from one state to another, we would light candles for those we loved who had gone before us to Summerland. I could count on Heather for bunches of quirky handmade candles. I’d dedicate a special one to Grandma—how I wished she could fly in for a moment and bless my presence in the home she’d left to me, and the gardens, and all the herbal recipes and remedies written in her own spidery script.

  Samhain is also the best night of the year for divination. Pagan time is not linear but circular, and on this one evening, when another cycle is poised to begin, the bonds of time are loosened and dissolved into the cosmic chaos. For a few hours, the world exists outside of time, and it’s possible to see in all directions, including ahead to the future. So this year Phillipa would read the tarot, and I—perhaps I would have another vision, one that would reveal the face of the poisoner.

  “You’re on your way to where?” I wailed into the phone.

  “To Greece, sweetheart. Now, let me explain it again. Picture this. We applied to the port of Miami for one week’s berth to resupply the ship, change crew members—that sort of thing. Well, I was specifically recruited to help conduct a few onboard tours, too, since the Esperanza is a retrofitted Soviet Navy icebreaker.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Probably because you’re so smart and sexy.”

  “There’s that,” he said with a chuckle. “Then a new engineer would come aboard, and I’d fly home.”

  “The real engineer. A wizened old salt.”

  “I’m not just smart and sexy, sweetheart—I’m a real engineer, too. But the port’s director refused to allow us to dock. Said we’d be too much of a security risk, requiring extra personnel, and citing the ongoing criminal case, although at worst, it’s only a misdemeanor. We couldn’t get any nearer than two miles. Helicopters buzzed us, Coast Guard vessels circled us, bullhorns warned us to move along. We faxed protests to everybody—the Coast Guard, the port of Miami, the county manager, the Miami Herald. No go. With all the uncertainty, my replacement was instructed to remain in Amsterdam. So the Esperanza is continuing its voyage to Greece for repairs, and I’m going with it. No one is more surprised than I.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Like these detours never happen in Greenpeace. But when will you be home?” I really hated to hear that whining note in my voice.

  “I’ll be flying back in a couple of weeks or so.”

  “I guess it’s a good chance to visit your mom and brothers, right?”

  “Hmmm. Well, my mother is getting on in years. I should fly to Athens. But trust me, I’ll absolutely be home long before Thanksgiving. So what are you doing right now?”

  “Getting ready to celebrate Samhain. We’re having it here at my house…our house.”

  “Admit it—I would only have been in the way.”

  “Not at all. We might need a male sacrifice for some weird sexual rite.”

  “If only you’d mentioned this earlier, I’d have been glad to sacrifice myself. What exactly is it you gals do at Halloween?”

  “Oh, never mind. We’ll just have to find some other good-looking, lusty Greek guy.”

  We carried that theme about as far as it would go, and the call ended in a pleasantly sexy mood. Still, when we hung up, I was looking at three or more weeks alone just as I had become used to sharing bed and board with a handsome husband, as well as never having to worry about changing fuses or flat tires. Damn!

  Don’t feel sad, Toots. You’ve still got me to cuddle with. Scruffy always understands when I’m feeling a bit melancholy and might need some companionable nudges with a cold nose.

  Samhain began just as the sun was setting. Later, there would be a tipped golden bowl of moon and a brilliant Jupiter blazing in the southeast sky. It was a clear, crisp evening, too cool for an outdoor ceremony, although I did light the walk to the back door with solar torches. I follow the New England Yankee tradition of reserving the front door for visiting dignitaries or departing coffins.

  I’d decorated the living room window seat as an altar in black, orange, silver, and gold, with bouquets of dried mint, sage, and catnip (fortunately, no felines lived here to roll in the arrangements!), gourds, apples, and nuts, and a statue of Hecate, a loan from Heather, who favored that dark goddess.

  Ugh, prickly stuff! And hard old nuts—what do you think I am, a squirrel? If I can’t leap up on my watching place, how can I be expected to guard us? Scruffy paced back and forth, with many canine scowls and mutterings, in front of the new altar, where he normally took his ease on throw pillows and kept an eye on the street.

  “It’s just for one night. If you don’t behave yourself like a gentle-dog, it’s into the bedroom you go for the evening.”

  Hey, Toots—you’re always shutting me into or out of that room of yours. How come I never get to sleep on the big bed anymore since we got that furry-faced guy?

  “Long story, mutt. Count your blessings, and don’t steal anything off the dining room table.”

  A Sabbat at my house meant I would be the priestess, since it was our custom to take turns conducting the ceremony. For this I’d been saving a long, gauzy green dress studded with silver moons and pentagrams that I’d ordered in a mad moment from a metaphysical catalog—not the kind of outfit a gal could wear just anywhere, especially anywhere in Plymouth.

  Twilight was deepening, only a trace of pink over the trees, when we gathered in a flurry of hugs and “merry meet” greetings.

  “You look amazing, Cass. A post-midlife Titania.” Deidre pulled off a peaked wool cap and shook her short blond curls free. An aura of lily cologne surrounded her. “Will’s at the firehouse on Halloween watch. So my mother-in-law, Mary Margaret, insisted on taking the children trick-or-treating. I can’t say I like the idea of their collecting a bunch of suspicious sweets. I did impress on M&Ms—so the kids call her—that nothing is to be eaten until I’ve examined the loot.”

  “Toss ’em out directly” was Phillipa’s glib advice—she who’d never had to reason with thwarted children. Tonight she looked the most traditional of us all, dressed entirely in black. Her straight black hair had the sheen and smoothness of a raven’s wing. Attached to her belt, a single note of color, was the scarlet silk bag in which she carried her tarot.

  “Be sure your darling poodles don’t get into the chocolate,” Heather warned Deidre. “Chocolate is poison to dogs.” In her pumpkin-colored tunic and dark brown tights, a leather-sheathed ceremonial knife at her waist, she looked ready for a run in Sherwood Forest.

  “That’s where dowsing comes in so handy,” Fiona said for the umpteenth time. “I never eat any strange food without testing it with my pendulum.”

  “I can attest to that, having been out to lunch with Fiona,” I said. “And I find that having your companion swing a pendulum over her crabmeat roll and fries while muttering a spell does tend to attract some unwanted attention at The Walrus and the Carpenter. The place was crowded that day, so we were eating at the bar, and soon were the center of attention.”

  “Oh, for Goddess’s sake,” Fiona said. “For all anyone knew, I was saying grace. And what’s more important, anyway—other people’s opinions or safe food? I’d say, with a madwoman running around town poisoning the church brownies and Phillipa’s beautiful breads, it’s no time to take chances.”

  “She has a point there,” Deidre agreed.

  “We can argue later,” I said. “It’s the Sabbat, and I’m ready to celebrate.”

  A general murmur of assent, and we gathered in the living room. Scruffy had already found his sulking spot, stretched out on the hooked rug in front of the fireplace where a small pine-scented fire was ablaze. Between his paws was a Granny Smith apple, stolen from the altar and indifferently gnawed. I gave him my strongest “don’t give me any trouble” look, thereafter ignoring his sighs.

  With my athame, I consecrated a nine-foot circle, a place for us to work “between the worlds.” The mantle was aglow with as m
any candles as would fit between the animal stone carvings I collected, mostly Inuit and Zuni.

  I invoked the four elements, the six directions, the female and male incarnations of the Creator. We proceeded to the work, a simple banishing of the poisons in our midst, a purification ritual to cleanse their evil influence, then various visualizations for healing and other good things. Heather and Fiona each said a few pungent words that the purchase of acreage around Bonds Pond would somehow, for the good of all, and harming none, be smoothly executed by the Conservancy. Then we reached for the invisible force of spirit and pressed each other’s hands to pass that energy among us faster and faster until we could contain it no longer, and at a signal from me, we threw our arms upward to let the power of our wishes zoom into the universe—a transcendent moment.

  There was a collective sigh, a laugh, a relaxation to our shoulders. It was definitely time to adjourn to the dining room for mulled wine and cakes, pumpkin and apple (lavishly provided by Phillipa). And teasing and fun. We always laughed more deeply after the Sabbat ceremony, the rich, deep laughter of friends who were as close as family. At the brink of winter darkness, we were warmed and cheered by each other.

  “You know I’ve never actually seen a red-bellied turtle,” I said. “If the Conservancy manages to pry those old cranberry bogs out of Clarence Finch’s grasping fingers, I’d like to see what they look like.”

  “When,” said Fiona.

  “When what?”

  “When, not if, Finch gives up that land,” Fiona corrected me. “You must believe for good things to happen.”

  “Sounds like something out of a Disney movie,” Phillipa said.

  “Say what you will, believing is seeing,” Fiona declared. She didn’t spare us the promised lecture on healing, either, pulling out quotes and pamphlets helter-skelter from the bulbous green reticule from which she is never parted. Sometimes in the past it has been reassuring to know that down in the bottom of that satchel is a pistol, a gift from her late husband.

  “As I mentioned at the hospital, a disharmony of the spirit brings about dis-ease.” She fished out a leather pouch from the pocket of her coat sweater of many colors. It was decorated with geometric symbols. Taking a pinch of a powdery substance from the pouch, she sprinkled it around the room. “Pollen from Arizona,” she answered our unspoken question. Phillipa nudged me and winked. Fiona caught the wink but continued unperturbed: “It’s the work of the healer to restore that harmony, however that may be accomplished. Music and dance are often used among the Native Americans. I credit my trip to the Navahos and all I learned there with helping to cure my arthritis.”

  “And Mick Finn’s attentions seem to have loosened you up a bit, too,” Deidre said. The Plymouth fire chief had been smitten with Fiona’s widow’s charms and was a frequent caller. Naturally, all the firemen, including Deidre’s husband, Will, teased Finn about Fiona to the limit of his patience.

  “I shall remember to dance down the hall the next time I have to visit one of you in the hospital.” Phillipa took her tarot pack from her red silk bag, in which she kept a piece of sodalite to enhance psychic awareness. “I was trained in ballet as a girl, you know. Tap, too. Perhaps I’ll wear a Navaho headband.”

  At my dining room table, where jack-o’-lanterns variously leered or grinned, Phillipa read the tarot for each of us, cards arranged in the Celtic-cross manner. Notable among the warnings was the three of swords for Deidre. Ominous-looking thing—a pierced heart. And for Fiona, a fish leaping from the page’s cup predicted a surprise. I got the two of swords, of course—stalemate! With my bridegroom steaming away to Greece, what else?

  I had the sense that everyone was waiting for my eyeballs to roll back in my head while I swooned into a clairvoyant vision. It’ll never happen, I thought, and then, miraculously, while my gaze was fixed on a gleaming, candle-lit pumpkin, I slid out of myself. In an instant I was watching a wooden spoon stirring batter in a blue-striped bowl. A box on the table. A chocolate batter, dark as sin. I caught a strong scent of vanilla followed by that fetid hemlock odor. And that was all.

  Heather was shaking me. “What, Cass, what?”

  “Sweet Isis, more brownies. Chocolate batter being mixed with wooden spoon. But there was a box on the table, you know, like Pillsbury or something. Who are those brownies for? And why is this happening?”

  Phillipa spread her deck across the table. “What? From a box? It isn’t awful enough that she’s poisoning people left and right, she’s using a mix as well? And, really, brownies are so easy to make from scratch. I bet she’s adding extra vanilla to kill the taste. Maybe even artificial vanilla flavoring, ugh! I wouldn’t put it past her. Pick a card while you’re hot, Cass,” she said. I did as I was told. The nine of cups, reversed.

  “Forget culinary niceties, Phil. What does it matter how the brownies are made if they’re going to kill you?”

  “There are standards, dear. But look at this—greed!” she declared. “No matter how random these events may seem, we’ll find greed is the motive at the bottom of all these poisonings.”

  Chapter Five

  You’d think that after all the publicity the poisonings at the church received, national as well as local coverage, no one in Plymouth would ever dare to eat a brownie again. Not so! The batch I’d “seen” being made in my Samhain vision materialized on the following day. This time, brownies appeared at a Halloween get-together for the Silver Lake Senior center. Senior center parties were never held at night. This one took place the day after Halloween, which was actually All Saints’ Day. As an advisor to the center’s board of directors, the Reverend Peacedale was there with Patty. The Plymouth chapter of the Sweet Adelines, a harmonizing singing group, were entertaining with a medley of songs popular in the Gay Nineties. Also among the guests was our own Heather Devlin with her registered therapy dog, a golden retriever named Honeycomb.

  As Patty breathlessly told me later, the minute she’d spotted the brownies at one end of the table, between the Casper the Ghost marshmallows and the vampire-bat cookies, she’d dashed over, slapped at hands reaching for the treats, and rushed them away before Wyn, who’s very fond of brownies, or anyone else could be poisoned. I’d mentioned the fetid smell of hemlock to her, and how it might have been overwhelmed by vanilla. So she gave the brownies a knowledgeable sniff. They did indeed smell funny to her. Having no completely safe place to stash the suspect treats, she simply emptied the serving dish into her knitting bag and clapped it shut.

  Patty’s quick action earned her some strange looks from the volunteers who were hostessing the party. But she was too late for one of them. Vera Lindstrom, who had sampled the brownies while she helped to lay the table, was soon after overcome with weakness, nausea, and difficulty breathing. Heather was already calling 911 when poor Vera began to lapse into unconsciousness.

  Patty tried to revive Vera with her ever present bottle of smelling salts. A few minutes later the paramedic team arrived and took over. By then the poisoned woman was barely breathing. Meanwhile, while Heather was reassuring the other seniors, resourceful Honeycomb, following that favorite dog adage, “In confusion, there is profit,” seized the opportunity to munch up a few slices of spiderweb cake and was nosing Patty’s knitting bag with interest when Heather collared her, literally.

  As had happened at the Gethsemane Ladies’ League, no one knew exactly when or how the brownies had arrived in the senior center’s kitchen among the other donated goodies. Before being grabbed and dumped by Patty, they’d been arranged on a plastic Halloween platter decorated with gravestones. All the fingerprints later retrieved from the platter belonged to the women who had set the table, one of whom was the victim. A chocoholic like Lydia Craig, Vera Lindstrom had consumed a generous amount of the poison and was in critical condition for several hours.

  No surprise to me, the poison was again found to be hemlock. The poisoner had to be a woman, I theorized, a herbalist as knowledgeable as myself. Both poison hemlock and privet b
erries were easily obtained locally and incorporated into foods for someone familiar with both poisonous plants and cooking.

  The media loved the ghoulish possibilities. Scary headlines variously reported “Homicidal Botanist Runs Amok on South Shore,” “Mysterious Serial Poisonings Terrorize Plymouth,” “Poison Peril in Plymouth, the Halloween Connection,” “Are Satanists Poisoning Plymouth? Local Clergy Comments.” And the ever popular “Death by Chocolate—Plymouth Police Baffled.” Restaurants stopped serving chocolate desserts; no one would order them. But interest in Phillipa’s cooking show mushroomed, the public hoping perhaps to see a guest double up after sampling her Gateau Cocolat. Plymouth crime news made CNN again, and this time Joe caught the report.

  “Jesu Christos, sweetheart!” was his informal greeting on the phone.

  “Oh, hi, Joe. Where are you, honey? Not jail, I hope.”

  “I’m calling from the Ulysses ancestral home, where I happened to bring up the CNN Web site on my brother’s computer. The poisonings are still going on there! You haven’t got yourself involved, have you?”

  I wanted to say, “Is your patriarch Greek?” but I restrained myself. “Don’t you worry, darling. I was never in danger. The second incident involved Phillipa’s show, privet berries in the pumpkin bread. And this last one, a senior citizens’ party—well, the Peacedales and Heather just happened to be guests.”

  “Hey, Sherlock. Have you considered there’s a mighty big coincidence here?”

  “I have indeed, Dear Watson.”

  “So my question is, what’s next? Or rather, who’s next?”

  A chilling thought. Fiona. Deidre. The children.

  “I don’t think it’s the circle being targeted.” My tone sounded uncertain to my own ears. “And Phil’s tarot cards said greed is the motive. So it’s not a hate crime, right?”