items that suggest it’s a lab of some kind.
Most of the plants I see are instantly recognizable by the unique shape and serrated edges of the leaves. “Wow. It looks like our farmer has quite the little marijuana farm going,” I observe.
“I suppose that’s one way to keep the farm afloat,” Brenda says. “Make a little extra cash on the side.”
“I’m not sure it’s for extra cash,” I say. “It may be the primary source of income. That equipment upstairs doesn’t look very used, and there’s no livestock on this farm.”
Sheriff Carson gives me an approving look. “That’s an excellent observation.”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling a blush of pleasure. “Do you think this marijuana is the reason he was killed?”
“Illegal drugs and murder?” Sheriff Carson says. “They go together like a hand and glove.”
Brenda has wandered down a row of plants that look different from the others. There is a long line of them, bushy plants with red stalks and large maroon leaves.
“These aren’t marijuana plants,” she says with a frown. “Not sure what they are. And who knows what that stuff is growing behind curtain number one,” she adds, nodding toward the plastic sheeted area. “I’m going to get Laura up here to get some pictures and take some samples. She knows plants.”
Brenda takes out her cell phone, frowns at it, and then waves it around in the air. “No signal here,” she says. She pockets the phone and uses her radio instead to contact Al and request that Laura be sent up to the barn.
While Brenda is doing that, Devo says, “If Mr. Fletcher was killed for this stuff, why is it still here? You’d think whoever killed him would have taken the plants, or at least tried to hide it and his death better.”
“Maybe they haven’t had time yet,” I say. “Do we have an estimate on how long Mr. Fletcher has been dead?”
Carson answers this one. “Doc Morton said the guy is in full rigor. He gave a rough estimate between eighteen and thirty-six hours based on that.”
“I don’t think our victim was killed because of the marijuana,” Brenda says, staring at the red-stalked plants with a frown. “I think there’s more to this,”
“Such as?” Sheriff Carson asks, eyebrows arched questioningly.
“Let’s wait and let’s see what Laura says,” Brenda demurs. “She has a degree in forensic botany, and I think she’ll be able to shed some light for us.”
As if on cue, we hear a “Yoo-hoo” from the area of the bulkhead stairs and then Laura Kingston descends into the marijuana pit. “Okay, I’m here. Oh, boy, it looks like we have quite the pot den down here, don’t we? What was our farmer man cooking? Oh, look, a stove! We really could be cooking something, couldn’t we? Though I suppose smoking would be more accurate, wouldn’t it? I wonder why there’s a stove in a barn cellar. Maybe the farmer was processing the plants for the oil? The pot plants are illegal, but the oil can be harvested and sold, particularly if the THC is removed. But you need special permits for that and—” She stops midsentence, staring at the bush beside Brenda. Slowly, her eyes move down the row. She stares at the makeshift greenhouse area and takes off toward it. Finding a gap in the plastic sheeting, she pushes it aside and looks at what’s growing behind it. There is a long silence, something that rarely happens when Laura is in the room because she’s a total motormouth. Her silence now is telling. And scary. Those hairs on my arms and neck start to rise again.
Finally, she lets the plastic fall back into place and turns toward the rest of us. “Oh my,” she says, her eyes big.
“What?” Devo says.
“These,” Laura says, pointing to the row of red-stalked plants, “are castor bean bushes. And this,” she pulls back the plastic and points to a plant inside the greenhouse area, some sort of tree, “is a nux vomica.” She points to other plants behind the plastic. “And these are jequirity bean plants.” She turns and looks at all of us, a worried expression on her face. “These plants can be interesting ornamentals, but only one of them, the castor bush, would typically be grown in our area. The nux vomica and the jequirity are tropicals.” She makes an equivocal face and shrugs. “Maybe they’re being grown here to sell to a garden center of some sort but...” Her tone makes it clear this is not what she thinks.
Brenda and Laura exchange a look that makes me nervous.
“But what?” Devo says, clearly impatient.
“Yeah, get to the point,” Sheriff Carson says irritably.
“Well, they’re also the source for some of the strongest and deadliest poisons known to man: strychnine, ricin, and abrin.”
I take a couple of steps back from the plants, tugging on Roscoe’s leash.
Laura points to the glass-walled room at the opposite end of the barn. “Given the presence of what appears to be a chem lab along with these plants, I’m guessing the reason for growing them is a nefarious one. I think we have a potential bioterrorism situation in the making here. The marijuana plants are likely a form of financing.”
I don’t like the sound of this at all and suddenly I’m afraid to even breathe the air in here. Worried for myself and Roscoe, I say, “I’m going to step outside and call the hospital, check on Danny.” Devo nods distractedly and I make a hasty retreat.
Walking toward Devo’s cruiser, I take out my cell phone to call the hospital, but I can’t get a signal. I keep walking, holding the phone toward the sky and waving it from one side to the other, watching for some bars. I’m almost at the house when I finally get two bars. I dial the number for the ER and a nurse answers.
“Hi, it’s Hildy. I’m calling to see how Danny is doing.”
“He’s gone,” the nurse says. “Just left, in fact. He went home with his sister about ten minutes ago.”
“How was he?”
“Better. He still insists he saw a ghost, but other than that he was alert and oriented and seemed to be living in the real world.”
“Okay, thanks.” I disconnect the call, put Roscoe in the carrier in the back of Devo’s cruiser, and then venture inside the house. I find Doc Morton and Christopher there, working the scene along with Al Whitman. Al and Christopher are busy swabbing blood spatter on the wall and ceiling, and I suspect they will be at it for a while because there’s plenty of it. A quick glance tells me the paramecium has been removed, most likely bagged to take along to the morgue with the body. Doc Morton is laying out a special bag on the kitchen floor in preparation for removing the body from the scene.
“Find anything interesting?” I ask.
“Well, you were right about this not being a suicide,” Doc Morton says. “There are only scant traces of gunshot residue on the victim’s hands. If he’d been holding the gun when it fired, there should be a lot more, but instead, there are void patterns that indicate someone else might have been holding the victim’s hands and the gun when it was fired.” He pauses and frowns, and I can tell there’s something else. I’m about to prompt him when he adds, “And it’s possible our Mr. Fletcher was already dead when the shot was fired.”
“Really?
