Free Fruit of the Poisoned Tree by Joyce and Jim Lavene

would be less tiring to go out and plant a thousand tulip bulbs than stand by helplessly and watch death ruin someone else’s life.
    The weather was worse. Heavy clouds promised snow or sleet. Peggy pulled her coat closer and wrapped her scarf around her neck. It would be unusual for it to snow this month but not unheard of. Somehow it fit with what happened to Park. Snow was the ultimate concealer. It could hide a multitude of sins, changing a brown, drab landscape to a sparkling wonderland.
    Let it snow, she prayed with her eyes closed. Let it help all of us through this terrible time.
    “Margaret,” a familiar voice hailed her.
    There were only a few people who called her by her given name. Her mother wasn’t there. It could only be . . . “Mrs. Lamonte.” Peggy took a deep breath as she opened her eyes and faced her.
    She knew most of what she felt about the older woman was still tinged with adolescent anger about the times Park’s mother wouldn’t let him do what he wanted. Parties she wouldn’t let him go to. Friends she forbade him to see. It was stupid, really, and she needed to get over it. She and Park joked about it sometimes, but she couldn’t keep holding it against the old woman. “I’m sorry we have to see each other at such a tragic time. I’m so sorry about Park’s death.”
    The Dragon Queen looked down her long, straight nose. Her thin lips never came near a smile. Sallow cheeks, sunken in with age and disappointment, lent her face a look usually only accorded death masks. Her elegant black coat enfolded her emaciated body, hiding the skin barely covering bone from view. But the black made her look even more like an evil caricature of a witch. “Never mind all that fine sentiment. Where’s his wife?”
    “If you mean Beth, she’s inside.” Okay. Maybe not all of what she felt about Isabelle was left over from her college days. “Her parents are here with her and the boys.”
    “Who else would I mean? Don’t be obtuse, girl.”
    Peggy took a deep breath. She knew Isabelle was suffering. Park was her only child. But she was suffering, too. She didn’t want to put up with this woman’s rude attitude more than she had to. “I was just leaving. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.” She ended their conversation curtly and started to walk away.
    “The police visited me,” Isabelle called after her. “He didn’t commit suicide, you know. That’s unacceptable. My son wasn’t made that way. I raised him better than that. Talk to your husband. Have him explain to the police.”
    “I’d be happy to do that if it were possible,” Peggy assured her. “But John was killed a few years back. There’s not much I can do.”
    Without a word of sympathy for her loss, Isabelle Lamonte brushed her aside. “You’re no good to me then. Might as well go home. Take all those regrets with you. No use for them.”
    Peggy watched the haughty old woman go into the house after a sharp rap at the door with her ivory-headed cane. Everyone who knew Park well sympathized with him over his mother.
    Old newspapers from the 1940s showed a different side to the woman. Peggy had seen some of them once when she was helping John clean out the attic.
    During that time, Isabelle was the reigning queen of society in Charlotte. She married Park’s father, a prominent lawyer who took over his father’s prosperous law firm. They built a life for themselves in Myers Park with their large, showpiece house where they entertained important people from government and the arts. Isabelle was beautiful back then, but there was a harshness to her eyes and mouth even in the black-and-white photos.
    After Park’s father died in the 1970s, Isabelle mostly kept to herself. She occasionally surfaced to manipulate her son or some other family member. She was behind Park’s failed marriage to Cindy Walker, a protégé of hers, as well as his attempt to run for city council. Mother and son were never close, but