Chapter Twelve
The fluorescent hum in the Halibut Cove Police Station was steady, punctuated only by the rustle of papers as Jill scanned the autopsy report once more in front of her.
Chips Hogan’s cause of death was clear: respiratory failure due to ingestion of a lethal dose of Atropa belladonna, more commonly known as …
“Deadly nightshade,” Jill murmured, leaning back in her chair. “Not exactly an ingredient you’d expect in your chowder recipe.”
Mason, sitting across from her, sipped his coffee and tapped his pen against the desk. “With the plant we found hidden in Waldo’s pantry, it seems pretty open and shut. Poisoned chowder, Waldo’s deadly nightshade—case closed.”
Jill frowned. “But Waldo seemed genuinely shocked when we found it. Like he had no idea it was there.”
“Could be a great actor,” Mason said with a shrug.
“Maybe.” Jill tapped her fingers on the desk. “Where would someone even get their hands on some deadly nightshade? It’s not exactly something you find at the local grocery store.”
Mason pulled out his phone, typing rapidly.
“Let’s see … aha! Apparently, you can legally buy it in small doses in the U.S.
It’s used for all kinds of things: dilating pupils for eye exams, treating stomach cramps, even as a pain reliever.
But yeah, it’s also supertoxic. Definitely fatal if ingested in large amounts. ”
“Could it be purchased nearby?”
“The closest place,” Mason said, scrolling, “is a nursery about fifty miles away in New Hampshire. Cute name, though—Plant Parenthood.”
Jill raised an eyebrow. “Plant Parenthood? That’s … something.”
“Right?” Mason chuckled. “Whoever named it probably had a field day. I bet they considered names like ‘Leaf It to Us’ or ‘Branching Out.’”
“Stop,” Jill said, standing and grabbing her coat.
“‘Just Grow with It?’”
“Mason.”
He held up his hands in surrender, chuckling. “Fine. So, what’s the plan?”
Jill stood and grabbed her jacket. “We’re going on a road trip.”
“To New Hampshire?” Mason asked, following her out. “Can we stop at the Starbucks in Portland on the way? They’ve got this new wrap I’ve been dying to try. I bet it goes great with a Caramel Macchiato.”
Jill glanced at him, exasperated. “How are you not three hundred pounds?”
“Good metabolism, maybe?”
The drive to Plant Parenthood was serene, the winding coastal roads flanked by evergreen trees and rocky cliffs. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows as they crossed the bridge from Kittery into New Hampshire.
The nursery was nestled at the end of a gravel driveway, a rustic sign out front painted in cheerful green lettering: PLANT PARENTHOOD—GROWING LIFE, NATURALLY!
The property was a mix of rustic charm and hippie aesthetic, with colorful wind chimes and rows of potted plants arranged in seemingly haphazard patterns.
A faint smell of marijuana lingered in the air.
Keil and Madge, the nursery’s owners, greeted them at the entrance. Keil was tall and lanky, with a bushy beard and a tie-dye shirt that proclaimed MAKE PLANTS, NOT WAR. Madge, shorter and rounder, wore a flowing hemp dress adorned with hand-painted flowers.
“Welcome to Plant Parenthood!” Madge said in a sing-song voice, her bare feet dusted with soil.
Jill introduced herself and Mason, flashing her badge. “We’re investigating a case and need to ask you a few questions.”
“Of course,” Keil said. “We’re all about helping people.”
Jill got straight to the point. “We’re looking into a recent purchase of deadly nightshade.”
Madge’s eyes widened. “Oh, yeah, we sell that! Pretty plant, but dangerous. What’s this about?”
Mason held up his phone, showing them Waldo Duggan’s recent mug shot. “Do you recognize this man?”
Keil scratched his beard. “Nope. Never seen him.”
Madge shook her head. “I don’t think so. If he’d come in, we’d know.”
Jill frowned. “So you have no other employees, it’s just the two of you?”
Keil nodded. “Sorry we couldn’t help. Can I interest you in a lovely Peace Lily?” He held up a plant with white spathes.
“One of my favorites,” Madge cooed. “So elegant and purifying.”
“No, thank you,” Jill mumbled, frustrated by the lack of information after coming all the way out here.
“Well, if you change your mind, be sure to check out the online store on our website,” Keil said.
“You have a mail-order business?” Jill asked, her tone sharp.
Madge beamed. “Yep! Keil set it up last year. Super-handy for customers who can’t make the drive. We ship all over the world.”
“Can we see a list of recent credit card purchases?” Jill asked.
Keil hesitated, glancing at Madge. “Uh, that’s private information.”
Jill sighed. “Fine. I’ll buy something.”
Mason perked up. “How about one of those marijuana plants out back?”
Jill glared at him. “How about you pick something else? Maybe a nice flower you can give to one of your many admirers.”
Mason blushed. “We had a deal!”
Inside, Madge printed out a list of recent transactions.
“Two deadly nightshade plants were sold last month,” the clerk explained, flipping through the invoice book. “Paid in cash—no name given. But we did ship them to a post office box not far from Halibut Cove.”
“Whoever placed this order wanted to stay off the radar,” Mason muttered. “Cash, no signature, just a P.O. box.”
“Could be anybody hiding behind that box,” Jill said, folding the receipt into her notebook. “But the plants turned up in Waldo Duggan’s pantry. Let’s see what he has to say about it.”
By the time they arrived at Waldo Duggan’s modest house, a small, weather-beaten cottage on the edge of town, its shutters askew and paint peeling from the siding, the sky was dark, and the porch light cast a weak glow over the peeling paint and cracked steps.
Jill knocked firmly, and when the door opened, she froze.
“Mom?” she blurted.
Maggie stood in the doorway, wearing an apron and holding a wooden spatula. “Jill,” Maggie said evenly, stepping aside to let them in. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“You’re cooking for him?” Jill demanded, stepping into the house.
Waldo was sitting at the kitchen table, looking sheepish. “She insisted,” he mumbled.
“Mom, are you serious?” Jill asked, incredulous.
Maggie returned to the stove, where a casserole dish bubbled enticingly. “It’s chicken and broccoli with a cream sauce,” she said lightly. “I figured Waldo could use a home-cooked meal.”
Jill’s jaw tightened. “He’s a murder suspect!”
Mason, who had been silent until now, sniffed the air appreciatively. “It does smell good,” he admitted.
Maggie turned, holding out a plate. “Would you like some, Mason?”
Before Mason could answer, Jill shot him a warning glare.
He cleared his throat. “Uh, no thanks, ma’am. I’m good.”
Maggie sighed, setting the plate down in front of Waldo.
“Mom,” Jill began, “we just came from a nursery in New Hampshire.”
“Plant Parenthood!” Mason chimed in.
Maggie chuckled. “Oh, that’s adorable.”
Jill ignored the clatter of silverware around the table and leaned forward, eyes locked on Waldo. “We traced a shipment of deadly nightshade to a P.O. box near Halibut Cove—and then it turned up sitting in your pantry. What do you have to say about that?”
Waldo’s fork froze halfway to his mouth. “I don’t rent any P.O. box. Never have. And I sure as hell didn’t order poison.”
“Convenient,” Jill said, folding her arms.
“It’s the truth!” Waldo snapped. “You think I’d keep a plant in a pantry? There’s no light in there. I don’t even like plants—can’t keep a fern alive. Somebody planted that thing in my house to frame me.”
Jill’s eyes narrowed. “So you expect me to believe someone went out of their way to buy a toxic plant, had it shipped under some phony claim, and then tucked it into your pantry just to make you look guilty?”
“Exactly!” Waldo’s voice rose. “Why else would it be there? Somebody wants me to take the fall.”
Maggie threw her napkin down. “See? That makes perfect sense. Why would Waldo go through all that trouble just to leave it sitting in plain sight?”
“Mom, please, I don’t need you in my ear right now,” Jill shot back.
“Well, somebody’s got to talk some sense into you. You’re barking up the wrong tree, and you know it.”
“Don’t tell me how to do my job!” Jill snapped.
There was an awkward silence.
Mason kept his eyes fixed on the floor.
Waldo continued eating as if he hadn’t just been confronted with this new evidence.
Maggie gestured at Waldo with a sympathetic smile. “Does he look like a cold-blooded killer to you?”
Jill sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This is unbelievable.”
Waldo swallowed, wiped the corners of his mouth with a paper napkin, and leaned forward. “Chief Holbrook, I swear on my life, I didn’t kill Chips. Someone planted that stuff to make me look guilty.”
Mason glanced at Jill, who remained silent, her eyes fixed on Waldo.
After a long pause, she turned to Mason. “Let’s go.”
Mason hesitated, glancing at the untouched plate of casserole, then followed her out the door.
As they drove back to the station, Jill’s mind raced. Waldo’s story was flimsy at best, but Maggie’s unwavering belief in his innocence planted a seed of doubt. Could there be more to this case than met the eye?