you still don’t believe me, do you? You believe I shot the governor?”
“Not you yourself, no. Ms. Matlock–Rebecca–let’s talk about
it. We can all sit down and work this out. If you don’t want to
come back to New York, I can come wherever you are to talk.”
“I don’t think so. Now, I don’t want you to be able to trace this
call. I will say it once more:The madman who shot the governor is
out there and I’ve told you everything I know about him. Everything.
I never lied to you. Never. Goodbye.”
“Ms. Matlock, wait–”
She hung up the phone, aware that her heart was pounding deep
and hard. She’d done her duty. There was nothing more she could
do to help them.
Why didn’t they believe her?
She had dinner that night with Tyler McBride at Pollyanna’s
Restaurant nearly at the end of West Hemlock, on a small curved
cul-de-sac called Black Cabbage Court.
She said over their appetizer, “What’s with the names in this
town?”
He laughed as he speared a cold shrimp, dipped it in horseradish,
and forked it into his mouth. “Are you ready for this? Okay, there
was this rumor that began floating around in 1912 that Jacob
Marley Senior found out his wife was sleeping with the local dry-goods
merchant. He was so upset that he poisoned her, and
that’s why he renamed all the central streets after plants that are
toxic.”
“That’s amazing. Any proof of it?”
“Nope, but hey, it makes for a good tale. Maybe he was a closet
Borgia, who knows? I think my favorite is Foxglove Avenue. It
runs parallel to West Hemlock.”
“What are some more?”
“There’s Venus Fly Trap Boulevard, which runs parallel to West
Hemlock to the north, Night Shade Alley, that’s where my gym is,
and Poison Ivy Lane, just to the south of us.”
“Wait, isn’t the Food Fort on Poison Oak Circle?”
“Yes. Since I live outside the center of town, it’s just Gum Shoe
Lane for the likes of me. However, since you’re in Marley’s house,
you get his piece de resistance–Belladonna Drive. Even better,
you’re not in a big house next to all the peasants, no, you’re out
there all by yourself, surrounded by all those beautiful trees and just
that narrow driveway to get to you.”
She was laughing as she said, “Why did he name his own street
Belladonna Way?”
“That’s supposedly what Marley Senior used to poison his unfaithful
wife. Pollyanna’s Restaurant is on Black Cabbage Court.
That’s the name for this plant in Indonesia that’ll kill you with a
single lick. It evidently has this sugary-sweet smell and taste, and
that’s how it gets its victims.”
She was laughing when a man came up to their table and said,
“Hello,Tyler. Who’s this?”
Becca looked up at the older man, who had lots of white hair, a
good-sized belly, and a big smile. He said, frowning down at her,
“Hey, you look familiar, you–”
“I’ve known Becca for nearly ten years, Bernie. We were at
Dartmouth together. She got tired of the rat race in New York City
and decided to move here. She’s a journalist. You want to hire her
for the Independent?”
She hadn’t gone to see Bernie Bradstreet for the simple reason
that it had dawned on her that she didn’t have any legitimate ID
and now her face was plastered all over TV. She just sat there, smiling
stupidly, not knowing what to say. She’d forgotten to say anything
to Tyler. She was a fool.
Very sharp gray eyes focused on her. He held out his hand, with
large, blunt fingers. “I’m Bernie Bradstreet.”
“Becca Powell.”
“You write what? Crime coverage? Weddings? Local charities?
Obits?”
“None of those things. I mainly write human interest articles
about strange and wonderful things that are all around us. I try to
amuse people and perhaps give them a different perspective on
things. I’m a luxury for a newspaper, Mr. Bradstreet, not a necessity.
I’m the last sort of frill a small newspaper needs.”
She’d whetted his appetite. Just great. He said, a brow arched,
“Like what, Ms. Powell?”
“Why feta cheese and glazed pecans taste so delicious in a