brambles. “Did you know that the Egyptians believed honey came from the tears of the sun god Ra? No pharaoh was buried without a sealed honey—”
“Theo,” Kincaid interrupted the enthusiastic monologue, “is there someplace we could talk?”
“Talk?” Theo sounded baffled. He looked hopefully around the shop, and when no chairs appeared, said, “Uh, sure. We could go upstairs, I guess.” He turned and led the way, glancing back over his shoulder anxiously. “It’s not much, you know … I hope you won’t mind …”
The upstairs flat obviously served as both living quarters and office—the office consisting of a scarred wooden desk coveredwith scraps of paper and an old, black Bakelite telephone. Living quarters fared not much better, in Gemma’s opinion. A day bed, hastily made, and a cracked leather easy-chair dominated the furnishings, both positioned with a good view of a new color television and VCR. A curtained alcove hid what Gemma assumed to be cooking and bathing facilities.
“Lunch,” Theo said apologetically, scooping up a plate which held bread crusts and a paper instant-soup container, and placing it behind the curtain. He gestured Kincaid into the leather chair and pulled up the desk chair for Gemma. That left him standing awkwardly, until he spied an empty packing crate, turned it over and used it as an impromptu stool. Some of his anxious manner seemed to leave him and he smiled self-deprecatingly. “I don’t do much entertaining, as you might have gathered. I would have tidied the place up a bit for Jasmine, if she had come.” Theo took a deep breath. “Now, Mr. Kincaid, what did you want to see me about? You obviously didn’t bring this pretty young lady to admire my stock.” He nodded toward Gemma as he spoke, and, again, she had the impression of a slightly old-fashioned quality.
“I’ve heard your sister’s post mortem results, Theo. She died from an overdose of morphine.” Kincaid spoke softly, unemphatically.
Theo’s eyes lost their focus and he sat so quietly that Gemma looked questioningly at Kincaid, but after a moment he sighed and spoke. “Thank you. It’s what I’ve been expecting since you spoke to me about it on Friday night. It was kind of you to come all this way to tell me.”
Gemma, knowing that kindness had not been his intention, saw Kincaid color faintly.
“Theo—”
“It was the shock that upset me so, you know. I’ve had a bit of time to get used to the idea now, and I see that it was just thesort of thing Jasmine would do. But what I still don’t understand,” Theo looked from Kincaid to Gemma, including her in the question, “is why she phoned and told me to visit her today.”
“Theo,” Kincaid tried again, “there is another possibility. The coroner will most likely return a verdict of suicide, unless we find evidence to the contrary.”
“Contrary? What do you mean, contrary?” Theo’s brows drew together over the gold rims of his spectacles.
Kincaid sat up and leaned toward Theo, speaking more urgently now. “Someone else could have given her the morphine, Theo. Maybe Jasmine told Margaret the truth—maybe she had changed her mind about suicide, and maybe someone didn’t like that decision at all.”
“You’re not serious?” Theo searched Kincaid’s expression for some hint of a joke, and finding none, turned to Gemma for confirmation.
She nodded. “I’m afraid he is.”
“But why?” Theo’s voice rose to a squeak. “Why would anybody want to kill Jasmine? She was dying, for Christ’s sake! You said yourself she’d only a few months left.” He took a breath and shoved his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose, then shook his finger accusingly at Kincaid. “And how could somebody give her that much morphine without her knowing?”
A good point, thought Gemma, and one that Kincaid hadn’t tackled.
“I don’t know, Theo. I’d assume it would have been someone she trusted. As to why,” Kincaid’s
“Theo,” Kincaid interrupted the enthusiastic monologue, “is there someplace we could talk?”
“Talk?” Theo sounded baffled. He looked hopefully around the shop, and when no chairs appeared, said, “Uh, sure. We could go upstairs, I guess.” He turned and led the way, glancing back over his shoulder anxiously. “It’s not much, you know … I hope you won’t mind …”
The upstairs flat obviously served as both living quarters and office—the office consisting of a scarred wooden desk coveredwith scraps of paper and an old, black Bakelite telephone. Living quarters fared not much better, in Gemma’s opinion. A day bed, hastily made, and a cracked leather easy-chair dominated the furnishings, both positioned with a good view of a new color television and VCR. A curtained alcove hid what Gemma assumed to be cooking and bathing facilities.
“Lunch,” Theo said apologetically, scooping up a plate which held bread crusts and a paper instant-soup container, and placing it behind the curtain. He gestured Kincaid into the leather chair and pulled up the desk chair for Gemma. That left him standing awkwardly, until he spied an empty packing crate, turned it over and used it as an impromptu stool. Some of his anxious manner seemed to leave him and he smiled self-deprecatingly. “I don’t do much entertaining, as you might have gathered. I would have tidied the place up a bit for Jasmine, if she had come.” Theo took a deep breath. “Now, Mr. Kincaid, what did you want to see me about? You obviously didn’t bring this pretty young lady to admire my stock.” He nodded toward Gemma as he spoke, and, again, she had the impression of a slightly old-fashioned quality.
“I’ve heard your sister’s post mortem results, Theo. She died from an overdose of morphine.” Kincaid spoke softly, unemphatically.
Theo’s eyes lost their focus and he sat so quietly that Gemma looked questioningly at Kincaid, but after a moment he sighed and spoke. “Thank you. It’s what I’ve been expecting since you spoke to me about it on Friday night. It was kind of you to come all this way to tell me.”
Gemma, knowing that kindness had not been his intention, saw Kincaid color faintly.
“Theo—”
“It was the shock that upset me so, you know. I’ve had a bit of time to get used to the idea now, and I see that it was just thesort of thing Jasmine would do. But what I still don’t understand,” Theo looked from Kincaid to Gemma, including her in the question, “is why she phoned and told me to visit her today.”
“Theo,” Kincaid tried again, “there is another possibility. The coroner will most likely return a verdict of suicide, unless we find evidence to the contrary.”
“Contrary? What do you mean, contrary?” Theo’s brows drew together over the gold rims of his spectacles.
Kincaid sat up and leaned toward Theo, speaking more urgently now. “Someone else could have given her the morphine, Theo. Maybe Jasmine told Margaret the truth—maybe she had changed her mind about suicide, and maybe someone didn’t like that decision at all.”
“You’re not serious?” Theo searched Kincaid’s expression for some hint of a joke, and finding none, turned to Gemma for confirmation.
She nodded. “I’m afraid he is.”
“But why?” Theo’s voice rose to a squeak. “Why would anybody want to kill Jasmine? She was dying, for Christ’s sake! You said yourself she’d only a few months left.” He took a breath and shoved his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose, then shook his finger accusingly at Kincaid. “And how could somebody give her that much morphine without her knowing?”
A good point, thought Gemma, and one that Kincaid hadn’t tackled.
“I don’t know, Theo. I’d assume it would have been someone she trusted. As to why,” Kincaid’s
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