LITMIR.BIZ

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an endangered fish. This newest call had come just as we were relaxing with a favorite old film—Ladyhawk—and a bowl of popcorn.

      “I’ll have to leave tomorrow,” he said with a rueful smile. I didn’t have to be a clairvoyant to see that gleam of anticipation lighting up his blue eyes. “I’m shipping on the Esperanza to Miami. You remember that Greenpeace is being brought up on charges for boarding a ship transporting illegally harvested mahogany from Brazil to the United States?”

      “They arrested the activists instead of checking out the illegal cargo?”

      “Yeah, and all we were going to do was to hang a banner, ‘Mr. President, stop illegal logging.’”

      “Well, sure—you dummies had to bring in the president.”

      “It’s called the right of free speech and peaceful protest. Anyway, we’re making another run at the scene of the crime to see what happens.”

      “Throw your hats in the door, so to speak?”

      “In the port. Probably the worst thing will be a media feeding frenzy.”

      “You hope.”

      “The case against Greenpeace hangs on a hundred-year-old law called ‘sailor-mongering.’”

      “I don’t even want to know what that is.”

      “It’s what you think—a law against boarding a ship that’s entering the harbor with the intention of accosting the crew. Pimps used to row out to arriving ships and proposition the guys, take them to shore, and after some revelry with the girls, relieve them of their money. Not exactly applicable to Greenpeace. And sympathetic public opinion, I admit, may make a difference, possibly get the charge thrown out of court.”

      “So the feeding frenzy is okay by you?”

      “Right.”

      “You might even, if necessary, stir up the media a little?”

      Joe merely smiled, a male version of Mona Lisa’s inscrutable smirk. “It’s all just part of the job, ma’am.”

      “So, let’s see. It’s almost Samhain now. Think you’ll be out of jail by Thanksgiving?”

      “If this is still a free country.”

      “Or at least by Yule?”

      “Our first anniversary! Would I miss that?”

      That called for a kiss, and the kiss led to a prolonged farewell in the warm, cushioned nest of our bedroom. As always, his compact muscular body and spicy scent were irresistibly sexy. And I was addicted to the gentle strength of his touch. Perhaps the honeymoon is never over for sailor’s wives.

      “Do you think that poison is a woman’s weapon?” I asked Phillipa. We were in her spacious kitchen, where she was putting the finishing touches on the fruit breads for the TV show. These were the perfect creations she would display on a buffet at the end of the show, not the ones haphazardly mixed on camera and baked during the taping.

      “Hmmm,” she replied, realigning a candied fruit decoration.

      “Phil, it’s perfection. Stop messing around, and answer me.”

      “Well, it would be my weapon of choice, that’s for sure. Such a simple thing to do, if you know your herbs—right, dear? My personal favorite would be the Destroying Angel mushroom. But, unfortunately, I don’t know a toadstool from a puffball.”

      “Amanita. I learned all about mushrooms at my grandma’s knee, so I could teach you, if you like. My experience has been that if you’re not trained in foraging as a child, you’ll never be a confident forager later. No wonder poison as a weapon comes to mind for you, since you’re a professional cook. But what about other women, regular women…”

      “…who spend a good portion of their lives in kitchens, preparing foods for unappreciative men to consume? If time’s no object, and a wife can afford a leisurely pace, it could be done simply by loading up the husband with salt, sugar, and saturated fats. Women do that all the time. Perhaps that’s why we have so many merry widows.”

      “I had no idea you harbored these murderous impulses.”

      “Not at all. And especially not toward my own lean and lovely husband. You asked me a question, and I replied with a creative scenario. The bottom line is, yes, poison is a woman’s weapon. Same as a medical worker’s first choice might be drugs, and good old boys favor guns.”

      “But not necessarily a woman’s weapon.”

      “Especially if you wanted to make it look like a woman’s work.”

      “So I’m back to square one.”

      “No, because you’re a clairvoyant. You’ve already seen where the poison hemlock grows. It’s only a matter of time before you see who’s been harvesting it.”

      “If I find that stand of hemlock, I’ll root out every bit of it. Before there are any more deaths. It’s a mercy, though, that this criminal herbalist didn’t use water hemlock instead of plain old poison hemlock.”

      “What’s the difference? Poison’s poison.” Phillipa busied herself making cappuccino for two.

      “Water hemlock is a root, also known as cowbane. It’s even more painful and deadly. Supposing you survive the convulsions, there’s still liable to be heart damage. And it tastes better, sort of like parsnips, to which it’s related. Poison hemlock is ferny, works more slowly, and tastes fetid. Thankfully. Because that’s why I ate only half of that brownie.”

      “Many people don’t have a finely honed sense of taste.” Phillipa held a metal pitcher under the steamer nozzle to froth the milk. “If I were to use poison hemlock, I’d double up on the vanilla, maybe throw in a shot or two of crème de cacao.”

      “Now that you mention it, there was a stronger taste of vanilla than is usual with brownies. I wonder if we should warn people about the taste of hemlock, maybe write a letter to the Pilgrim Times.”

      “Don’t be a fool. The public will be lynching self-confessed herbalists like you if this poison gambit continues, as I guess you believe it will. You think the poisoner will strike again.” She handed me my cup of cinnamon-scented cappuccino. “And here I thought this was a one-time hit. Some disgruntled parishioner holding a grudge against the church. Drummed out of the choir perhaps, or she found one of Peacedale’s sermons personally libelous.”

      “I feel this isn’t the end of our troubles. More I don’t know.” I took a sip. Perfection!

      “Well, I can’t see how we would be involved again. There, how do these look?” Phillipa had arranged her breads on a large wooden cutting board and surrounded them with fake fall leaves.

      “Superb. When’s the taping?”

      “Tonight, actually. Live audience, too. Want to come?”

      “Thanks, but I’m expecting a call from Joe. They’ve reached Miami, and as soon as they’ve docked and made their point, he’ll be on his way home. And I can’t very well bring my cell phone to your taping.”

      “All right, loyal helpmate, false friend. Stay home and pine away if you wish. Just remember that Joe’s probably out carousing with the crew in Miami’s hotspots.”

      I sighed. “Maybe. Okay. What time?”

      “Oh, good. Five-thirty sharp. Bring the Wagoneer, will you. I hate transporting food in my BMW. So messy.”

      So there I was, in the studios of WSOS-TV, the South Shore’s community access cable station where Phillipa tapes Kitchen Magic. The show was aired on various PBS channels, and sometimes on the Food Network at odd hours of the night. The taping’s small but appreciative audience included the Myles Standish Free Library’s Cookbook Club, some members of the Sizzling Seniors with their chaperone, Patty Peacedale, who waved to me

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