Free Drop Dead on Recall by Sheila Webster Boneham

porch. There was no storm door, so I wedged the scrap of paper into the frame around the leaded glass, hoping he’d see it there, and returned to the car.
    “Speaking of toxic plants.” Goldie nodded toward the ratty vacant lot next door.
    “What?”
    “Right there. Poison hemlock.”
    “As in Socrates and death by hemlock?”
    “Precisely. The stuff with the purple stems. Grows all over in waste areas. When it’s in bloom it’s easy to mistake for wild carrot, you know, Queen Anne’s Lace, or for wild parsnip. If in doubt, think ‘hemlock is hairless.’ Wild carrot has little hairs on the stems and leaves, hemlock doesn’t. Not that you’re likely to be collecting wild carrot, although it is pretty in a late summer bouquet.” She spoke faster. “I remember a field near a lake, now where was that? I can’t remember, but this field was like a gigantic bouquet of Queen Anne’s Lace and ironweed and black-eyed Susans. Oh my, that white, purple, and yellow combination was exqui …”
    “Shit!” I was about to turn left from Greg’s street onto Rothman Road when a green car with cancerous rust patches squealed around the front of my van from the right, nearly taking my left headlight as a souvenir. I slammed on the brakes.
    Goldie twisted in her seat. “Don’t see many of those anymore.”
    “What? Idiots?” My stomach heaved from the adrenaline surge.
    “Yugos. And I’ve seen that one before.”
    “Yeah?” I made myself resume breathing. “Well, I hope I never see it again.”
    “So you don’t know whose it is?”
    I glanced at her. “Why would I know tha … ?” The grumpy mailman shuffled into my thoughts. “Wait a minute! The mailman said there was a Yugo parked in front of my mailbox yesterday. That’s weird.”
    “Weirder still, it drove by three or four times while I was waiting for you back there.”

19
    I’d been home about half an hour when the doorbell rang. The canine welcoming committee was in the backyard, so Leo trotted to the front door and meowed at me to see who was there. He’s not the most patient character in the world. I picked him up and pulled the door open.
    “Ms. MacPhail. You never returned my call.”
    “I, uh …” I gestured for Detective Jo Stevens to come in. “I meant to. I’ve been busy.”
    “I have a few questions.”
    Like why did you tamper with evidence? I glanced at the magazines, books, videos, and unopened mail on the couch and coffee table in the living room, and suggested we talk in the kitchen. When I put Leo down, he promptly rubbed against the detective’s leg, leaving a streak of short yellow hairs on her navy slacks. She bent to pick him up and settled at the kitchen table, rubbing his head. “Nice cat.”
    “His name is Leo. Thinks he’s a lion.” I picked up the carafe from the coffee maker in one hand and the teapot in the other and waggled them at her.
    She asked basic getting-to-know-you questions while I set Mr. Coffee to work. I’m not particularly paranoid, but couldn’t help but wonder if this was her way of putting me at ease before the interrogation, or if she was genuinely interested in my work and my furry family. I sat across the table from her, and watched her reassemble her expression as she slid Leo gently to the floor. By the time she sat up she was all business again.
    “Where’s your sidekick?” I asked.
    “Hutchinson? He had other things to do.”
    Like play tiddlywinks, whispered Janet Demon. As if she knew what I was thinking, Jo added, “He’s not as dopey as he acted the other day.” I withheld further comment, and she got back to business. “What do you know about the circumstances of Ms. Dorn’s death?”
    Something twisted in my chest, but I worked at staying calm.
    “I saw her fall, but I don’t know anything else except what’s been on the news.” I studied her face, and decided she must be a heck of a poker player. “You’re investigating her death?”
    “Just asking a few