Season Of Glory. Ron/Janet Benrey
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than a consultant who would help Glory Community Church replace a stained-glass window. He was in his midthirties and had an athletic build—she guessed that he stood about six feet, three inches tall and weighed well over two hundred pounds. He wore a heather-colored Harris Tweed jacket and tan slacks that fit him splendidly and went well with his blue eyes and ruddy complexion. His ears were prominent, and his chestnut-colored brown hair was thick enough to flutter in the afternoon breeze. His facial features were craggy rather than classically handsome, but they came together to create a striking whole.
Who cares? Once burned, twice shy.
The familiar maxim was about fire, but it applied equally well to good-looking men. Sharon had learned the hard way that a man’s most important feature—his trustworthiness—was invisible from the outside.
Not that Andrew’s fidelity made much difference to her. He was a short-term visitor to Glory. They’d spend a few hours working together, and then he’d drive home to Asheville. End of story.
But until he does, there’s no reason to be impolite. Or to ignore his positive attributes. Like his smile.
Andrew had a lovely, animated smile, but he never looked happier than when he thanked Sharon for making the Strathbogie Mist.
“It’s my all-time favorite Scottish treat,” he said.
“I know. I read the article about you in Church Art Monthly.”
“Every flattering remark is absolutely true.”
She grinned. “One thing I don’t know—is there a place called Strathbogie?”
He nodded. “It’s an area in northeastern Scotland, not far from the modern city of Aberdeen. It’s famed for its castle…and obviously for its thick fogs.”
He ended his explanation with a curious low-pitched grunt. Sharon might have ignored it, but Andrew immediately made a soft moan, a sound she’d often heard before—from patients in pain. She peered at him. Both the smile and the color were gone from his face.
Oh, my! What’s going on?
He grimaced. “I feel dizzy…really dizzy. And my chest hurts.” He abruptly tumbled to the floor, smashing a white wicker chair on the way down.
Emma and Calvin were tidying the gazebo. They dropped their trash bags. “I’ll call the paramedics,” Calvin said.
Emma rolled a tablecloth into a small pillow. “You make him comfortable. I’ll try to track down Haley Carroll. She’s one of our guests.”
Sharon nodded. “The doctor I met here earlier.”
She could tell from Andrew’s worsening expression that his chest pain had become more intense. “Hang on!” Sharon said. “The paramedics are on their way.”
Haley Carroll arrived in less than a minute and checked his vital signs.
“He’s seriously ill,” she said to Sharon. “It must have been something he ate.”
“My food couldn’t have hurt him,” Calvin said almost pleadingly. “I’ve been sampling the dishes all day.”
Sharon heard Andrew begin to retch. And then the implications of what Calvin had said hit home. It must have been her Strathbogie Mist that had made Andrew ill.
No! That’s not possible.
She saw red flashing lights above the fence that separated the parking lot from the garden. An ambulance. She moved closer to Andrew and knelt down. Save the explanations for later. All that matters now is keeping him alive.
ONE
Sharon Pickard stepped past the unhung Christmas decorations lying on the floor of the nurses’ lounge and hoped that the joy of the season would rub off on the dour-faced detective who’d shown up at the emergency room and asked to see her. He was wide and muscular and had a shaven head. But most formidable of all were his probing black eyes that made it difficult for Sharon to maintain a friendly smile on her own face. Well, intimidating or not, she had no choice but to speak to the police this afternoon. Someone had committed a serious crime yesterday, and she was partly involved.
At least, around the edges.
She pushed a cardboard box full of Christmas tree ornaments sideways on an old vinyl upholstered sofa to make room for the big man, and then read the business card he had handed her. Special Agent Tyrone C. Keefe, North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation.
“We’ll have to keep this discussion brief, Agent Keefe.” She sat down on the top step of a stubby wooden stepladder that someone had used to hang decorations on the artificial Christmas tree in the corner. “I go back on duty at one o’clock. We’ll have the lounge to ourselves until then. The other off-duty nurses are at lunch.”
He scowled at his watch. “I’m investigating an attempted murder, Ms. Pickard. Twenty minutes may not be enough time for you to answer all of my questions.” His skeptical tone seemed to demand a more detailed explanation from her.
“Glory, North Carolina is a small town,” she said quickly, “and Glory Regional Hospital has limited resources. I’m the only nurse on staff with hands-on experience treating acute cardio-glycoside poisoning.”
“Really?” His dark eyes zeroed in on her. “How did you acquire your expertise, Ms. Pickard?”
She grasped her mistake at once. Her offhand remark revealed that she had the specific know-how to kill people with oleander.
Now he’ll consider me the prime suspect.
Her heart began to thud. She felt uneasy—much like when a police car appeared in her rearview mirror then zipped past her on the highway.
The last thing a nurse needs is a reputation as a poisoner. “Ten years ago I took part in a three-month medical mission to Sri Lanka, the island nation in the Indian Ocean that used to be called Ceylon.”
He gave a quick nod. “Go on.”
“I worked in a rural hospital that routinely treated people for oleander poisoning. Chewing oleander seeds is a popular way to commit suicide in Sri Lanka.”
“Is that what happened to Andrew Ballantine at the tea party? Did someone feed him a handful of oleander seeds?”
“Probably not. Every part of an oleander plant is full of heart-stopping toxin. It’s simple to make a lethal infusion by soaking leaves, stems or seeds in boiling water.”
“And I suppose it would have been equally simple for someone to add a few spoonfuls of oleander broth to the unusual dessert Mr. Ballantine ate yesterday afternoon at The Scottish Captain.” He made an indistinct gesture. “I forget its name.”
“Strathbogie Mist,” she said. “Crushed pears topped with ginger-flavored whipped cream. Served chilled, of course.”
“Of course.” He smirked wryly. “We’re fairly certain that the Strathbogie Mist you served Mr. Ballantine contained the poison he ingested. We’ll be entirely certain when our forensic laboratory finishes testing the…ah, ramekins that held the dessert. However, your pear concoction appears to be the only item he ate that came in an individual serving.”
His high-powered gaze impelled her to turn away. It was probably a technique he’d perfected over the years to encourage people to tell him the truth. She focused for a while on the battered Coke machine in the corner and prayed he didn’t sense her blood beginning to boil. How dare he even suggest that she’d poisoned Andrew?
“For your information, Agent Keefe,” she retorted, “I didn’t serve Andrew Ballantine anything. The helpings of Strathbogie Mist were set out on a buffet table—in The Scottish Captain’s backyard gazebo.”
“And you know that because…?”
“I put them on the table.” She looked Agent Keefe directly in the eyes to convince him she was telling the