Fruit of the Poisoned Tree

shops and restaurants, it was natural to extend the area to include the outdoor courtyard.

The Potting Shed, an urban gardener’s paradise, was set on the corner of the courtyard across from the Kozy Kettle Tea and Coffee Emporium and beside Anthony’s Caribbean Cafe. Office managers in stiletto heels and Ann Taylor suits browsed through catalogs and ordered faux antique garden implements, seeds, and even professional help in setting up their gardens. It was the only store of its kind in uptown Charlotte.

Peggy was grateful for the patronage of the workers as well as the contracts she received to care for plants in the office buildings they worked in. The Potting Shed also did special orders for parties as well as outdoor landscaping. It kept everyone who worked for her busy. She wished John could’ve seen it.

But at least he’d seen his son grow to manhood. A luxury Park was denied.

Guilt gnawed at her. She knew there wasn’t anything she could do to help Park’s family. It didn’t keep her from wanting to help. She thought about it while she waited on customers and straightened shelves. Beth was right, of course. The so-called investigation was stingy. How could they possibly know what happened on the ramp that morning so quickly?

Keeley Prinz, the daughter of Peggy’s best friend, Lenore, came in to work early. A tall, dark, and handsome combination of Lenore and her husband, Keeley was as nice as she was gorgeous. When Peggy explained what happened, the younger woman was outraged. “I can’t believe she asked you that! What was she thinking? What were you supposed to do?”

Peggy rang up the sale for the Helleborus mix Keeley was boxing up. Also known as the Lenten rose, it was good for adding color to the late winter and early spring landscape. “It was hard knowing what to say. Of course, I wanted to help her. But I wouldn’t know where to start.”

The customer, a new member of the growing uptown condo dwellers, took in their words and waited for an opening. “Peggy? You said these will flower in the shade, too, right? Because I have a shaded area underneath the eaves on my balcony where I need some color.”

“No problem.” Peggy smiled at her. “These little plants are hearty, and they like the shade as well as the sun. They should bloom for you. If they don’t, let me know, and I’ll come by and take a look at them.”

“Thanks.” She knitted her brow as she put her hand on her hip. “And Keeley’s right. Your friend may be grieving, but she had no right to ask you to go through that again. You aren’t a police officer or a private detective. I’m sure she’ll come to see that later.”

Peggy glanced at Keeley. That’s what she got for discussing her private matters in public. At least she hadn’t mentioned Beth’s name. “Thanks. You’re right.”

“Damn straight. You take care of all of us here. We don’t need you traipsing around solving murders all over the place. You’re our plant lady. Everyone calls you that.”

Plant lady. There were worse names. Peggy thanked her again but didn’t tell her it wasn’t another murder. The woman, she didn’t even know her name because she’d only been in a few times and paid cash for her purchases, didn’t need any more information. She could just see the headlines in the Charlotte Observer: “Plant Lady Solves Suicide.” The police would love that!

Keeley giggled as the customer left the shop with her Lenten roses. “That was strange! Guess you have to be careful what you say. You never know who might be listening.”

Peggy agreed as she went to help another customer choose a lighted fountain for his backyard. He wanted something with a light sensor so it wouldn’t come on until he got home from work and would go off in the morning. There wasn’t anything like that in the shop, but she found one in a new catalogue, and he ordered it. She took his payment for the fountain as he bought a new Christmas cactus for his office.

“A friend of mine has one of these,” he said as he admired the red-rimmed leaves and inch-long pink flowers on the plant. “She says she barely does anything to it, and it still flowers. That’s for me!”

“That’s right,” Peggy assured him. “They’re good little show plants. Water them when they get dry, but be sure they have good drainage. They don’t like their feet to stay wet. Then fertilize once a year, and you should be set.”

“Thanks.” He picked up the plant and tucked away his wallet. “I tried a poinsettia, but it was too much work. I ended up killing it. But the ladies like a man who has plants, you know? When should my fountain be in?”

“About two weeks, probably. But I’ll give you a call as soon as it gets here. We can deliver it if you don’t have time to come and get it.” She glanced at his catalogue order. “Whatever works for you, Mr. Burnette.”

“I’ll let you know when you let me know.” He grinned at her. “Thanks.”

Peggy watched him walk out of the shop. Keeley watched her watching him and nudged her. “Come on! He’s not all that much. Steve’s much cuter. You’ve got a good thing going with him. Don’t be checking out the competition!”

“It’s not that.” Peggy shook her head, feeling as if she’d seen a ghost. “That was the man who took Mark Warner’s place at Bank of America.”

Keeley whistled through her teeth. “Really? Small world, huh?”

They split up again to help other customers. Peggy couldn’t help ruminating over the appearance of a dead man’s replacement in the Potting Shed. She was a scientist by profession but a gardener in her heart. Working in the fields with her father as she was growing up, she heard many strange tales of omens and apparitions. They were part of the Low Country lifestyle in the Charleston area.

Everyone in her family, even her very proper mother, believed things could happen that foretold the future. A pregnant cousin once saw a man lose his leg in a combine accident. Her child was born three months later with one short leg. The rest of the family agreed the combine accident was an omen.

Was the appearance of Mark Warner’s successor an omen? Was it telling her she needed to do as Beth asked? It sounded ridiculous. She didn’t mention it to Keeley. No one else who wasn’t raised as she was would understand.

It didn’t help that Beth’s words continued to eat at Peggy’s conscience as she worked. She knew she wasn’t responsible for the accident that killed Park. She certainly wasn’t responsible for the insurance company deciding to call his death a suicide. But was there something she could do to help? Before Mark Warner’s death in her shop, she probably hadn’t thought she could solve a murder either. Yet that’s exactly what she did. With a little help from her friends, of course.

What would John do if he were alive? How would he respond to Beth’s call for help? It wasn’t an easy question. He was a police detective. He had thirty years’ experience investigating circumstances that didn’t seem right. She had thirty years’ listening to him talk when he could talk about his cases. That hardly qualified her to investigate Park’s death. She was probably foolish to let Beth’s words bother her.

The lunch hour went quickly. Many workers couldn’t take their orders with them, so they either arranged for delivery or planned to come back. The sunlight seemed to have inspired spring in many winter-weary breasts. If sales continued at that pace, she wouldn’t have to worry. Her profit margin would sail into spring.

But a few years’ business experience had taught her better safe than sorry. She sent out the sales circulars to all of her customers. She fully intended to retire from her work at Queens once the shop was secure. She always kept that goal in mind.

Keeley stepped out for a well-deserved break as the rush slowed to a trickle. Peggy planned to leave when she came back. She had to stop by her house to feed and walk Shakespeare, then teach the afternoon class she’d exchanged with her friend at the university.

She was organizing a new shipment of vegetable seeds in a display when a hoarse voice took her by surprise. “You’re somewhat of an expert on flower lore, aren’t you, Margaret?”

Peggy turned to face Isabelle Lamonte. The old matriarch was dressed in her usual black. The sunlight streaming through the tall windows facing the courtyard drew harsh lines in her face. “I’ve dabbled in it. Is there something I can help you with?”

Park’s mother looked around on the smooth tongue-and-groove wood floor. “Where was that man killed? I remember! He was facedown in a basket of anemones. Was he right here? I read all about it in the newspaper. What made you decide to investigate his death?”

“I’m not sure,” Peggy answered cautiously. She wanted to ask: Why are you here? You’ve never come in before. “I suppose it was because he was in my shop, and an innocent man was accused of killing him.”

“Suppose you found him lying in a field of orange lilies.” The older woman tested her knowledge of flower lore with a superior smugness to her thin lips. “What would you think then?”