Ladies Courting Trouble. Dolores Stewart Riccio

you go anywhere without being drawn into danger?”

      “Is this the pot calling the kettle black ass?” I suggested. As a ship’s engineer for Greenpeace, Joe continually sails into his own share of perilous misadventures.

      “And I thought that once we were married you’d be happy to stay at home and tend to the weaving,” he complained, grinning sheepishly. After a few restorative kisses, he left, with touching reluctance, and the evening nurse appeared.

      “Hi. My name is Brenda. Are we feeling better now, Mrs. Ulysses?” she inquired briskly while she took my blood pressure. Although assuming an air of motherly authority, she was at least ten years younger than I, a pale girl with slightly protruding eyes and fine brown hair falling out of its coil. “You were lucky, you know, honey. You didn’t eat too much, and it didn’t get too far. Was that your husband who just left? Nice tan for this time of year. Tanning salon?”

      “No, Greenpeace. He travels the world in search of environmental hazards, often in tropical climes. And it’s Ms. Shipton,” I mumbled. My throat was still sore. “My good luck was being the guest speaker at the League. People kept asking me questions, so I was delayed in getting to the hospitality table until after almost everyone else. And I didn’t finish my brownie, which didn’t taste very good.”

      She checked my bracelet I.D. “Oh, yes. Shipton. I see. I wouldn’t mind being a Mrs. myself, but that’s just me. What was the talk about, honey?”

      “Nature spirituality religions in pagan times. The origins of Halloween. And modern-day Wicca.”

      “Is that, like, witches, curses, and all?” Nurse Brenda glanced at my face again as if she might have missed some telltale sign, such as green skin or a wart on my nose. Soon she’d connect “Shipton” with our circle’s notoriety in becoming involved in local crimes.

      Speaking of which, any minute now the circle would be alerted. Phillipa would probably hear the news first and call Fiona, Heather, and Deidre. The circle would be swarming in here, bringing their various healing arts, none of which would include anything as cursed as gastric lavage, ugh. A few stomach-calming herbs, a little white light, a homey lecture from Fiona.

      “Not witches. Wiccans, actually,” I corrected Brenda. “So, have they discovered who brought the lethal brownies to the Ladies’ League yet?”

      “I can’t imagine who would try to poison a nice group of church ladies. Two detectives are working their way down the hall right now, questioning the victims who are well enough to provide information. They’ll get to you pretty soon, and you can ask them if an arrest is imminent.” Brenda cast a calculating look my way. Perhaps I had made her personal list of suspects—either because of the Wiccan connection or my herbal business, Cassandra Shipton, Earthlore Herbal Preparations and Cruelty-Free Cosmetics.

      Besides “whodunit?” the other big question on my mind, which I did not voice aloud, was how a person with clairvoyant skills like myself could munch up a poisoned brownie without a clue. Admittedly, I could hardly ever summon up my visions at will. They came and went by their own mysterious plan, hardly ever with glad tidings or a winning lottery number.

      I was relieved to see it was Stone Stern and his partner, Billy Mann, who arrived at my room soon after Brenda bustled away. Phillipa’s husband is a tall, scholarly looking man, surprisingly gentle for one in his profession. “Cass, what in the world?” Stone took my hand and squeezed it gently. There was real warmth in those gray eyes behind oval, metal-framed glasses. “I don’t mean to scold you when you’re in a weakened state, but why do I always find you in the midst of mayhem and murder?”

      “Same question Joe often asks me. Obviously, it’s my karma. Does Mrs. Peacedale know who donated the hemlock treats? Did Bevvy Besant eat the damned things? She’s the hospitality chairperson, so she might have an idea who brought them. And how many victims were there, anyway?”

      “Relax, Cass. Mundane as my talents may be, I’ll do the investigating. But no, the minister’s wife doesn’t know who donated the brownies to the hospitality table. And yes, Mrs. Besant is here in the hospital but indisposed at the moment. Thirteen persons in all were admitted to the hospital, including a teenage boy delivering office supplies who copped a brownie out of the church kitchen. Tough on him, but a good thing, actually. Narrowed the poison field down to the brownies, although you helped with that, too, so I heard. Nevertheless, every item served will be tested.”

      “Uh oh—Bevvy’s getting pumped, the poor baby,” I murmured. “And what about poor Lydia Craig? She seemed like a sprightly old lady. The poison took her rather fast, didn’t it? Has her family arrived?”

      “Yes, it was all over quickly. Speedier than Socrates, in fact. But relatively painless as poisons go. The ancient Greeks considered it a humane method of execution. Weakness of the limbs, followed by paralysis of the breathing apparatus. She must have eaten quite a few of those brownies, although all the survivors mentioned a kind of ‘musty’ or ‘bitter’ flavor. Apparently, the Craig woman was known to have a big yen for chocolate.” Turning to his partner, Stern said, “Have the Craig family members been notified yet, Billy?”

      Billy, a beefy, red-cheeked guy who looked as if he’d been sent down from Central Casting to play an Irish cop, had been leaning on the door frame, studying his notes with a puzzled frown. At the mention of his name, however, he looked up and grinned. “Hey, Cass. How ya doing? Reverend Peacedale and a uniform are breaking the news to the Craigs. I understand the old lady was a spinster, no immediate family, but some nephews and a niece who are local.”

      “So, Cass,” Stone continued, “can you shed any light at all on the poisonings?”

      “Did the incident have anything to do with your being the guest of honor?” Billy asked. He removed a pencil stump wedged behind his ear and poised it above his notebook.

      I hadn’t thought of that. Could anyone be crazy enough to register their protest to Wicca by poisoning the brownies? “Maybe. But I don’t really feel that was the motive. And beyond that, I haven’t a clue. Sorry.” And I was sorry. I really wanted to help Stone. What I needed here was a helpful little vision showing me why, when, and, above all, who. “Maybe something will come to me later.”

      “No one seems to know anything,” Billy complained. “We can pair up every single one of those sweets with a church member except the brownies. They simply appeared out of nowhere in the kitchen, and the coffee-hour hostesses set them out on the buffet.”

      “Like magic.” Stone winked at me, squeezed my hand again, then stepped back to allow my so-called dinner tray to be placed in front of me. After the orderly left, Stone said, “Before you eat any of that stuff, I should warn you that Phil’s on her way.” Then he and Billy departed to see if Bevvy was talking yet.

      “Drink it, you mean,” I muttered to myself, eyeing my tray. Insipid broth, industrial tea, pale apple juice, and some kind of weird gelatin, Laboratory Lime perhaps.

      My next visitor was Selwyn (“call me Wyn”) Peacedale, pastor of the Garden of Gethsemane Presbyterian Church of Plymouth, which was located just around the corner from my house, an antique saltbox overlooking the Atlantic. I’ve always thought Wyn resembles a heavenly cherub who has aged a bit, but today his round cheeks and dimples were lost in grief. He took my hand in a pastoral way; his was feverishly damp, mine icy cold. “How’re you doing, Cass? What a terrible thing this is! I’m so sorry that you were a victim in this vicious attack on the church. As it happened, I had to leave to attend to some pressing parish matters right after your most informative talk, or I probably would have been poisoned myself. I love chocolate stuff, you know. But you…your first time as a visitor to Gethsemane….”

      “Not exactly the first time. I attended the Donahue funeral—standing room only at that one. Anyway, I’m alive—that’s the main thing. Poor Lydia Craig. It must have been terrible telling her family. And how’s Patty?”

      “Patty’s doing well physically, I believe. Like you, she’s been treated, had her whiffs of oxygen, and now she’s having a little liquid