When Verna’s body went limp, she dropped the corpse on top of her daughter’s body.
For a moment she enjoyed the silence. The lights from the house showed the two bodies piled together. “She wanted to die,” Noreen whispered.
Her calm was coming back to her—and with it came relief. She remembered the divorce papers her husband had presented to her. He was such a fool that he’d told her the truth, all about the “love of my life” and the “darling daughter” she’d given him. Noreen had given Hamish a perfect son but he had never spent much time with the boy. “He’s just like you” had been Hamish’s excuse.
Noreen looked about her. It had all taken a very short time. No one had seen or heard. No one knew anything.
She looked back at the bodies. They were small females and Noreen had little trouble dragging them to the back and dropping them into some disgusting pit. Enough dirt fell down that she didn’t bother trying to cover them. That the hole was there, that the dirt fell down, seemed to be an omen. She’d done what was supposed to happen.
When the bodies were hidden, she used the nearby garden hose to spray the blood off the concrete steps. If anyone came by, she didn’t want them to see the obvious.
She thought about how to more completely conceal the bodies, but that would involve manual labor, work that was beyond her inclinations.
When she got back to her car, she called her son at his basketball training camp. They had finished dinner and were doing whatever it was that teenage boys did when together.
“You have to do something for me,” she said, then told him everything. He would leave as soon as his roommate was
asleep, return to Lachlan and do what needed doing. He’d be back at camp before the boy woke up.
The next morning, Noreen was smiling. She felt better than she had in years. So much of the bad of her life was gone. Forever out of her life. Only her husband remained.
When Hamish came to breakfast, she smiled at him. “Don’t you think aconites would be beautiful in the garden?”
“Whatever you want,” he muttered, “I’m sure you’ll get it.”
Aconite. Also known as monkshood. Deadly poison. She called the gardener and made the order.
TWENTY-SIX
While Mrs. Stewart had told the story, Kate had twisted and pulled on the bindings around her wrists until her skin was raw. In a way, the pain helped her deal with what she was hearing. The cruelty, the total lack of empathy, made her feel sick.
It was when Mrs. Stewart told about killing Cheryl in such a cool, detached way that Kate thought her fate was sealed. There was no way the woman was going to let someone hear the story and then continue to live.
When she told of planting the aconites, Kate stopped pulling against the bindings. Even she knew those plants were poisonous. Alastair had impregnated his sister and it was highly likely that his mother had poisoned her husband. No, she wasn’t going to risk that story coming out.
The woman was looking at Kate as though expecting a sympathetic response for what she’d told her. Kate drew in her breath. “I can see what happened. It was just like now, with you and Alastair. A mother will do anything to protect her child.”
Mrs. Stewart gave a small smile. “That’s exactly right. It was Alastair’s one mistake and I had to fix it.”
“But then, the whole thing was his father’s fault.”
Mrs. Stewart gave a genuine smile. “You do understand.”
Kate blinked. The woman sounded as though an orangutan had just solved a calculus problem. She glanced at the window. It was dark outside. No streetlights. No car headlights. No humans with flashlights. Sympathy! Kate told herself. Give the insane woman understanding, pity, and agree with every terrifying word she says. And keep her talking!
“I bet Alastair had trouble finding out about those brakes.”
Mrs. Stewart gave a dry laugh. “Did he! He said I had confused him with a gardener and now a truck mechanic. My son has a delightful sense of humor.”
The tree he planted, Kate thought. “So Evan wasn’t...?” She couldn’t think how to phrase her question.
“He wasn’t supposed to be there. That Jack Wyatt always did cause problems. I knew where he came from. No one could believe that he’d grow up to own a business. I told people he probably stole the money.”
Just as you spread gossip about Verna, Kate thought. Aunt Sara was right in hiding her involvement with Jack’s finances. If that had been known, this vindictive woman would have made it into something dirty.
Suddenly, Kate remembered something in the woman’s story. The gardening tool she’d used to stab Verna. She remembered opening a box of books at the Morris house. On top was a rusty old weeder. Rusty or covered in twenty-year-old blood? “That was nice of Alastair to plant that beautiful tree. It was a memorial.”
“That’s how we saw it.”