Fruit of the Poisoned Tree

“Peggy? Can you come over?” It was Beth. Her voice was strained and filled with sobs. “I need your help. Can you come over right away?”

Peggy glanced at her watch. She had an early botany class at Queens University that morning. She might be able to switch classes with another professor if someone could cover for her at the Potting Shed that afternoon. Selena was such a dear. She didn’t want to abuse her willingness to help. But this was a difficult time. “I just got out of the shower. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Thanks.” Beth hung up without another word of explanation.

There was a wealth of relief and gratitude in her shaky voice. Peggy knew it was the right thing to do, even if it was a tricky balance of time on her part. She wrapped the thick white towel around her shoulder-length hair and started punching numbers.

WARM, DESPITE THE CHILL, in a heavy autumn tweed sweater and brown pants, Peggy rapped on Beth’s door about an hour later. She’d maneuvered her schedule, dried her hair, settled Shakespeare, and called a taxi. No time to waste pumping her way on her bike that morning.

While she was waiting for her ride, she glanced in on her experiment in converting John’s father’s Rolls to a hydrogen-burning vehicle. It was a work in progress, hampered now by the cold weather. But she’d already been at it for almost a year. The Rolls was always at the bottom of the list. She looked at a few of the new hybrid cars but couldn’t bring herself to buy one. She horrified the salesperson by telling him how inadequate the vehicle was, particularly for the exaggerated price. So she humbled her principles and constantly promised herself to get the job done.

Between her part-time professorship at Queens and a growing customer base at the shop, she could scarcely find time to turn around. She was retired from teaching when John died, but financial concerns about setting up the shop drove her back to her twenty-year career. As the Potting Shed surged forward in sales, she knew the time was coming that she’d have to give up her teaching again just to remain sane.

“Thank God you’re here!” Beth opened the door and dragged her into the house. She took Peggy in the kitchen and poured some orange spice tea into two heavy glass mugs. “I thought you’d never get here. I never knew a night could be so long.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be here sooner.” Peggy took a mug and looked embarrassed when her stomach growled loudly. In her rush to get out of the house, she forgot to feed herself and Shakespeare. Poor dog. A victim of her haste. She silently promised him an extra dog biscuit when she finally got home.

“I have some muffins.” Beth shrugged and offered the box from Harris Teeter. “Someone brought them last night. Everybody brought food, of course. Isn’t that what we do when people die? It’s a strange custom, isn’t it?”

Peggy took a blueberry muffin, warm red spots on her cheeks. Beth must’ve heard her stomach growl. That probably shouldn’t embarrass her. It should’ve been left behind in her proper childhood with always wearing gloves on Sunday. But some things never changed.

She glanced around the cluttered kitchen. There were baskets of fruit and boxes of food everywhere. Casserole dishes and cake plates littered the counters. Beth was right. In the South, at least, the response to death was a smorgasbord of food. “Thanks. This is good. I was in such a hurry to get here, I forgot to eat. I guess people don’t know what else to do to express their grief. Food is pretty basic. We either forget it or overdo it.”

“I guess.” Beth sat down at the table with her but forgot her own mug of tea on the stove and had to go back for it. “Peggy, the police called me this morning and told me their official report is going to be that Park committed suicide. The insurance investigator already left Charlotte. That’s how sure they are. I don’t even have the funeral planned, but the report says that Park committed suicide because of some money. What kind of investigation is that? How can they know what happened so quickly? I don’t understand.”

Peggy sipped her tea to cover her sympathy for Beth’s problem as she let the other woman rant about the unfairness of the process. She didn’t believe Park committed suicide either, but if the police and insurance investigation proved otherwise, there wasn’t much anyone could say. “I’m so sorry. Maybe you could appeal it.”

“I plan to,” Beth assured her. “I’m not going to let them get away with this.”

“I wish there was something I could do to help.”

“There is!” Beth’s drastically stricken face turned hopeful as she slapped her hand on the table. “You found out what happened to the man who died in your shop last year. You have to find out what really happened to Park. Did he fall asleep? Was he ill? There has to be some way for you to prove it wasn’t suicide.”

Peggy scrambled to regroup. What could she say? She wasn’t actually volunteering. Polite phrases could get you into trouble with a desperate person. She had to be more careful what she said in the future. She smiled and tried to find a tactful way to say no. “I’m not a private investigator, Beth. I wouldn’t know where to start. Maybe you should hire someone. Maybe one of Park’s friends would have some idea.”

Beth pushed back her chair with a sudden screech on the wood floor. Her long dark hair was braided but showed signs of her sleeping on it, little dark hairs poking up through the smooth twists. Her eyes were circled with black shadows. “You were Park’s friend. He needs you now. No one else wants to do anything. No one wants to help him. They all sympathize and pat my hand, but they won’t really help. I don’t know what you did to prove who killed the man in your shop. But whatever it was, you need to do it now for Park and me. For Reddman and Foxx. Don’t let him die like this.”

Peggy was surprised by her outburst. Of course, her friend wasn’t herself. She didn’t really know what she was saying. Still, her heart twisted in pain at Beth’s words. Park was always there when she needed him. There was very little she wouldn’t have done for him in return. She wanted to help.

But this wasn’t something she could do. Mark Warner’s death at the Potting Shed was one thing. It was a fluke, a one-time event that wouldn’t happen again. “I’m sorry, Beth. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do to prove that Park didn’t commit suicide. There has to be someone better qualified than me. The appeals process is there for a reason, too. You’ll be able to get help there.”

Beth strode to the stove and threw her cup of tea into the sink. The fragrant tea splashed everywhere, showering the room with the orange herbal scent. The cup shattered in the sink, pieces crashing to the floor. “Then I guess that’s it. Park is a suicide. He killed himself because he lost a few thousand dollars. That’s what everyone will think. That’s the legacy he’ll leave his sons. He deserves better.”

Peggy’s hands were shaking as she got up from the chair. “I’m sorry. I wish there was something else I could do. Something I’m qualified to do.”

“So do I.”

It seemed so final, so devastating. Peggy felt she should leave. There was nothing more to say. In time, Beth would understand. The pain and rage would fade. Their friendship was strong enough to handle this. “Let me know if I can help with anything else.”

“I will,” Beth promised in a whisper, but she didn’t look at her. “I’m sorry, Peggy. I don’t know what I’m thinking right now.”

“I know. I’ll give you a call later.”

Peggy was numb as she got in the taxi to go to the shop. She supposed she could understand Beth’s desperation. How would she have felt if John had been accused of committing suicide? She wanted to help. But what she did after Mark Warner was killed in her shop was purely dumb luck. She didn’t think she could do it again if she tried. Besides, that was different. Maybe Park didn’t kill himself. She didn’t believe he did. But this wasn’t a murder. There were no real answers to find.

Fortunately, shop traffic was light that morning. It gave her time to think about everything that had happened. She couldn’t close her eyes without seeing Park’s car going over the edge of the ramp. Sometimes the sheer horror of it made her physically ill. She knew it would pass in time. At least Beth didn’t have to deal with that part.

The weather cleared as it neared lunchtime. Workers in the downtown buildings spilled out into the sunlight like little seedlings turning toward the warmth. A break in the weather was always good for business.

Latta Arcade swelled with people who spilled out into Brevard Court behind it. The sun was magnified inside the restored 1915 shopping area by the high skylight roof used originally for the grading of cotton. Now filled with