Mysterical-E

He Said, She Says

John Floyd’s

LAW AND DAUGHTER series

The last thing Sheriff Lucy Valentine usually wants is interference from her bossy mother Fran. But now and then it comes in handy—especially when the suspect is a relative . . .

A GREEN THUMB

by John M. Floyd

Sheriff Lucy Valentine was waiting beside her patrol car when her mother arrived at the Grimes farm a mile from town. “Am I glad to see you,” Lucy said.

Frances Valentine—Fran to her friends—waited for the road dust to settle before climbing out, slamming the door, and hitching her purse over one shoulder. She nodded to Deputy Ed Malone and gave her daughter a wary look. “I thought you told me last week not to butt in on police business.”

“Maybe I haven’t had enough verbal abuse today,” Lucy said. She turned and shouted, “She’s here, Harlan.”

Fran could only stare. Fifty feet away, the owner of the farm—a bearded, burly man named Harlan Grimes—was pulling on a taut rope that disappeared down into a well.

“What in the world’s happening here, Lucy?” Fran asked.

Sheriff Valentine sighed. “What’s happening is Harlan’s gone crazy. He’s been asking for you.”

“For me? Why?”

“It involves Bernie Plunkett.”

Fran’s eyes narrowed. “The Mouse Man?”

“He’s the Snake Man, now. Bernie’s slithery pets ate all his squeaky pets.”

Fran rolled her eyes. She’d known Bernie Plunkett since they were kids, and he’d always been weird.

“And?”

“And Harlan says Bernie tried to kill his wife yesterday,” Lucy said.

“His wife? Harlan’s not married.”

“Not Harlan’s wife. Bernie’s.”

Fran blinked. “You mean Sophie? Harlan’s sister?”

“Yep. And now Harlan’s set on killin’ Bernie Plunkett.”

“Good grief,” Fran said. “But I still don’t see the problem. Why don’t you just arrest him? You’re the sheriff.”

“I can’t arrest him, not as long as he’s holding that rope.”

“Why not?” Fran asked. “What’s on the other end of the rope?”

“Bernie Plunkett,” Lucy said.

Fran’s jaw dropped. She turned again to look at Harlan Grimes, who was leaning back on the rope at a forty-five degree angle, his muscles bunched in his forearms, his heels braced against the edge of the well. His thick hair and beard were soaked with sweat.

“Bernie’s down there in the well?” Fran asked.

“He sure is. Apparently Harlan whacked him on the head, tied him up, and lowered him into the well, to just above water level. Then he called me, asking for you. Says he’ll let Bernie fall in if we make a move. And, tied up or not, unconscious or not, Bernie can’t swim.”

“None of the Plunketts can swim,” Fran agreed. “Never could. But why does Harlan think Bernie tried to kill Sophie? Where is she?”

Lucy took her hat off and ran a hand through her matted hair. “Sophie’s in the hospital. She almost died yesterday afternoon from a snakebite on her hand. Doc says she’ll recover in a day or two. Folks in the hospital lab think the venom’s from something called a krait, from India or someplace.”

Once again Fran turned to stare at the man holding onto the rope. He looked like the world’s dumbest fisherman. “So Harlan figures Bernie let one of his pet snakes bite her on purpose?”

“He’s convinced of it,” the sheriff said. “Thinks Bernie put one in her bed or something.”

“What’s he want me for?” Fran asked.

“He wants your advice. He says you’re his cousin, so you won’t lie to him.”

“You’re his cousin too.”

“I’m law enforcement,” Lucy said, putting her hat back on. “Big difference, to a guy like Harlan.”

“Fran!” Harlan shouted, as if on cue. “We need to talk.”

“I’m coming, Harlan.” In a lowered voice Fran said to her daughter, “So what do you know about what happened?”

Lucy took off her sunglasses long enough to rub her eyes. “Sophie’s mother told me Sophie was fine yesterday morning. The two of them drove up to Memphis to shop just after lunch, and when they got home Sophie was really sick and finally passed out on their way to the emergency room. Nobody saw any snakes. Her mother’s still with her at the hospital.”

Fran rooted around in her purse until she found her cell phone. “Give me a minute, Harlan,” she called. As she punched numbers she whispered to Lucy, “You won’t have to shoot him, will you?”

“I couldn’t even if I wanted to, with this setup. That well’s really deep. If he releases that rope Bernie drowns. I told you, he’s tied up—we’d never fish him out in time.”

Fran turned away to speak with Martha Robbins on the phone. Martha—Sophie’s mother—told Fran that Sophie had bought a potted fern at a nursery in Memphis yesterday, and then they’d stopped at a fabric store on the way home. No, nothing had seemed strange. Except that Sophie had had a Band-Aid on when they checked her into the hospital.

“A Band-Aid?” Fran asked.

“On her right thumb,” Martha said. “Doc Hardin says that’s where she got bit. I never noticed it until then.”

Fran’s next call was to Merrill’s Garden Shop in Memphis, then to the fabric store on Highway 51. By the end of that call Harlan shouted that he was getting impatient, not to mention tired. Fran stuffed the phone back into her purse and marched over to talk with him.

Five minutes later—to the sheriff’s amazement—Harlan sighed, nodded to Fran, and with the deputy’s help hauled Bernie Plunkett up to safety.

Lucy supervised as Deputy Malone arrested and handcuffed Harlan and put him in the back of his patrol car. Meanwhile, a soaked and frightened Bernie Plunkett was untied, dried, and loaded into the front seat. When Malone had driven them away toward town, the sheriff turned to her mother.

“I doubt Bernie’ll actually press charges,” Lucy said. “They’re family, after all, and Harlan’s more stupid than mean.”

“That’s true.”

Lucy pushed her hat back off her sweaty forehead. “What on earth did you say to him, Mother?”

Fran smiled. “I convinced him Bernie hadn’t caused Sophie’s ailment.”

“How’d you do that?”

“I pointed out that Sophie was fine when she left the house, so she must have gotten bitten somewhere on the trip. In fact I said a snake must’ve been hiding in that big fern Sophie bought in Memphis, and probably bit her on the way back home. I said her mother told me the fern was sitting between them on the car seat, and Sophie kept running her hand through it as she drove.”

“Wouldn’t she have noticed the pain?”

“The pot had a wire handle. My suggestion was, she probably thought it cut her.”

“But what was an Asian snake doing in the fern?” Lucy asked.

“I told Harlan the nursery’s one street over from the zoo, and when I called the zoo they said a krait was missing.”

The sheriff frowned. “Wait a minute. I’ve been to Merrill’s Garden Shop. It’s nowhere near the Memphis zoo.”

“I know,” Fran said.

“You know?”

“I stretched the truth a little.”

“You mean—”

“The zoo isn’t missing a snake,” Fran said. “I made all that up. And the snake wasn’t in the fern. I’m pretty sure Sophie got bitten in the fabric store.”

Lucy just gaped at her.

“The Band-Aid puzzled me,” Fran said. “There were none in Sophie’s purse—I asked her mother to look. Then, when I called the fabric store, the owner remembered giving Sophie a Band-Aid. Sophie had complained that something had stuck her thumb, probably a staple, when she was feeling around in a pile of loose drapery material on a display table. When I pressed the issue, the owner admitted she’d thought she glimpsed something alive earlier in the day, behind a bolt of cloth, but figured it was a lizard.”

“Was it the snake?”

“I think so. I saw a documentary on TV awhile back. Apparently, all kinds of exotic bugs and varmints stow away in shipments of fabric. And a lot of that material comes from overseas.”

Stunned, Lucy said, “Then why’d you make up the story about the fern?”

“I just told Harlan what I thought he would believe. In case you haven’t noticed, he’s not your Discovery Channel type.”

“What about the real snake?”

“When I figured it out, I called and told the fabric store owner to evacuate the building and contact the animal control folks. They’ve probably caught him by now.”

The sheriff shook her head and chuckled. “Not bad, Mother. Not bad at all. Maybe hostage negotiation is your thing.”

“I’m always available,” Fran said, looking smug. “Unless it’s my sewing-circle day.”

Lucy opened the door of her patrol car, started to climb in, and paused. “Something just occurred to me,” she said. “I guess Bernie’s guilt wasn’t the only thing Harlan was wrong about.”

“Why’s that?”

“He said you were his cousin and wouldn’t lie to him.”

Fran grinned. “Well, I am his cousin.”

“So?”

“So he was half right,” Fran said.