A Quiche Before Dying

carried it to the guest bathroom off the kitchen, set it on the floor, and closed and locked the door. She sat back down at the kitchen table, her mind racing erratically.
    Aconite.
    She remembered the name vaguely from her days of working in Steve’s family pharmacy. Locked up. Warning labels. Could be handled only by the chief pharmacist. Old-fashioned skull-and-crossbones label.
    Jane reached for the phone book, looked up the number of the florist shop. She thought nobody was going to answer, then on the seventh ring, a whiny teenaged boy answered. She could practically hear the pimples. Jane gave her name and address. “I need to know about the flowers you delivered here yesterday.“
    “Why? Was there something wrong with them, lady?“
    “No. Just look up the delivery record. Please. It’s very important.“
    “Okay,“ the boy said in surly voice. “What’s the address again?”
    She told him, then waited a terribly long time. He finally came back. “Naw, lady, we didn’t bring nothing to you yesterday.“
    “What about the addresses on either side of me? Maybe it came to the wrong house?“
    “Naw, nothing there either,“ he said after another interminable wait.
    “Are you positive about this?“
    “Sure, lady. Whatsamatter?“
    “Nothing. Thank you.”
    It was the answer she expected—and feared.
    She could hear a shower running upstairs. Think, Jane. You’ve almost got it. She paced back and forth, pieces falling into place in her mind with sickening thuds. She searched frantically for a copy of Mrs. Pryce’s autobiography. One day the house is littered with the damned books, and when you need it, there’s not one anyplace, she fumed to herself. She finally found her mother’s copy and thumbed through. She found the page she was looking for and read it over twice, then dog-eared the corner and closed the book.
    Yes, it all fit. The flowers, the birdcage, the book. She’d been right. Her instinct had told her they were important, and now she knew why. And it seemed so obvious now that she couldn’t imagine why she hadn’t seen it immediately.
    But why? Why? She went down to her office in the basement, where she could phone without being disturbed or overheard. She dialed the police station. “Is Mel VanDyne in, please? It’s important.“
    “He was here a while ago. Think he left. I’ll see. Hold on.”
    She could hear the clack of typewriters and the murmur of voices. There was a high-pitched laugh closer to the phone. “Come on, Mel. Be there,“ she said to herself. Her heart was beating at twice the rate it should be, and she felt breathless from running down the stairs.
    “Yes?“
“Mel. It’s Jane. Thank goodness I caught you.“
    “Jane, what’s wrong? Are you hurt? I’ll be right—“
    “No. No, just listen. I know who killed her. It all fits, but there’s no proof whatsoever. But I think you can get the proof.“
    “Who, Jane? Who are you talking about?“
    “I’m afraid to say, for fear I’m wrong. But I know I’m not. No, what I’m most afraid of is that I’m right. Still—I’m sorry, I’m babbling. Give me a second.“ She covered the mouthpiece and took a long breath. “All right. Just listen. There are some things you have to do. Some information you have to get. If I’m right, that information will tell you all you need to know. First, call Evergreen Memories, that’s a florist shop, and find out which of the suspects has been sent flowers recently. The paper was saved and wrapped around the flowers that were left on my porch.
    “Next, tell the pathologist to test for aconite. If I’m right, that’s what killed her.
    “Third, you need to get some birth and death certificates from the State Department.“
    “Hold it, Jane. Birth and death certificates are registered with individual states’ vital statistics departments, not the State Department.“
    “Not if you’re an American who’s born or dies outside the country. I know, because that’s where I have to get copies of mine.“
    “What name?“
“You’ll have to ask Maria Espinoza that. Do you have a copy of Mrs. Pryce’s autobiography?“
    “Someplace. The teacher gave us one.“
    “Good. Find it. Look on page one twenty-eight. Question the maid about that page. Get names. Get the birth and death certificates from the State Department. Mel, my daughter’s yelling for me. It think there’s somebody at the door. I have to go—“
    “But, Jane—”
    She hung up.
    “Mom,