Page 39 of Trick of Light
“I hope she also told you to cooperate with us,” said Hooper. “Four of your clients have been poisoned, one fatally. And—” He showed her a piece of paper on which items were listed by evidence number. “This is a list of all the toxic plants we found at your home. This one in particular is interesting. It’s one of the most toxic plants on the planet, the castor bean. It contains ricin, which causes the exact symptoms each victim exhibited.”
For the first time, Tamara looked shaken. “I make castor oil from it, that’s all. Castor oil helps induce labor, it helps arthritis, it heals wounds, many other things. I keep my supply of castor bean locked up because it should only be used for oil. How did you get hold of it? You must be careful with that.”
“Don’t worry, it’s safely in our evidence locker.” Hooper set down the paper and leaned forward. “Now are you ready to tell us why you’ve been poisoning Sea Smoke Island residents?”
17
Gabby asked Heather to help her settle into Tamara’s little cottage. The two of them held their breaths as they padded the stonework pathway lined with thick moss.
“This is amazing,” Heather whispered. “It’s not like any other place on the island. These trees must be ancient. I guess that’s why they always call it the ‘old southwest woods.’”
“This is the part of the island that’s been settled the longest. Marianne and her pirate protection detail landed here and didn’t stray far.”
“It’s almost like it’s a different island. At high tide, you have to wade across that path through the salt marsh. I wonder if three hundred years ago it actually was a different island. Sea levels change, land shifts. Rocks tumble. Oh my God, this door!” Heather exclaimed as they emerged into the clearing where the little cottage sat. “It’s like something out of The Hobbit.”
“Right? That’s what I thought too. These hinges are to die for. This thing is solid oak.” She rapped on the door, then pushed it open. “Ugh, those bastards didn’t bother to clean up.”
The interior was littered with clothes pulled from drawers, books tumbled onto the floor, and dried herbs dumped into piles on the table. Complete chaos. In the pile of clothes near the dresser, something caught Gabby’s eye—a flash of familiar color—but she knew Tamara would be more worried about her herbs than her clothing.
“Poor Tamara.” Gabby was glad that Tamara wasn’t here to see this mess. How heartbreaking. “She’s so careful with her herbs, and now everything’s all jumbled together.”
Heather touched her on the arm, offering comfort. “You’re really worried about her, aren’t you?”
“We bonded during our time in the lockup. She’s the sweetest. She’s very wise, too. You know what she told me about my mother?”
“What?” Heather bent down to sniff a mound of herbs, then carefully separated it from the silvery-green pile next to it.
“That I have to find a way to respect her without disrespecting my own self and what makes me tick. I need to embrace my own power.”
“Does she have an herb for that?” Heather quipped.
“You laugh, but I’d take it.” Gabby picked up a sprig of a dried flower and sniffed. “Mmm, I like this one. I wonder what it is.” She tucked it into the buttonhole of her blouse so she could keep smelling its haunting fragrance.
Heather tapped a finger to her lips, a gesture that meant her mental gears were turning. “Am I right in thinking this mess of herbs is the thing that would upset Tamara the most?”
“Definitely.”
“Then let’s try to separate them and put them into baggies for her. She can decide what to do when she gets back.”
“Love it. Let’s do it. I’ll get some bags.” She went to the kitchen and began opening and closing drawers. “I hope it’s not too long. She told me she has a spiritual connection with this land and if she’s away from it for too long, she gets physically ill. I learned so much from her last night.”
“What else?”
Where should Gabby even start? Tamara had shared so many bits of wisdom. “She says people call her witchy, but she prefers ‘crone.’”
“Excuse me, crone?”
Gabby laughed. “You heard right. ‘Never underestimate a crone,’ she said. Apparently it used to be a respectful title for an older woman. Now we have a different image of crones, because our society doesn’t respect elders, especially elderly women. She explained that a crone is an archetype of an old woman with deep intuition and life experiences that give her wisdom and inner power. As a crone, you have no external expectations on you, and you can transform past suffering into meaning. Oh, and she says female energy is more free-flowing and intuitive than male energy. She says our society doesn’t appreciate that enough, and that we ought to respect the power and autonomy of women more. She’s so fascinating. I felt terrible leaving her in there.”
“I’m sure Barnaby’s going to do everything in his power to get her home,” Heather reassured her. “And that’s a lot. He’s got the might of the Carmichaels on his side, and also he’s just a very intense person.”
“He is, isn’t he?” Gabby finally found a box of plastic baggies and brought them back to the table. All these hours later, she still hadn’t processed that strange encounter outside the constable’s office. It had almost seemed as if Barnaby had wanted to say something passionate to her. When she’d taken his hand, pure fire had rippled along her skin.
“Got something to share?” Heather teased.
But Gabby didn’t want to talk about it. It was too…intimate, too new, too different from anything she’d experienced before. She had to think about it some more before she talked about it.
She pulled up a chair so she could sit comfortably while they sorted the herbs.
