Peril in Paperback: A Bibliophile Mystery

capacity.”
    “Really? Who are you playing against?”
    He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Suzie. And she cheats.”
    “Get out of here,” I said, chuckling, and pushed him onward. “Let’s go find us some poisonous plants.”
    It took almost two hours to examine every deadly tree and plant in the conservatory for telltale signs of scratched tree bark, torn limbs, or missing leaves. We almost overlooked it, but finally found what we were looking for in the most unlikely place. The dirt. Someone had dug up, then patted down, the dirt around the base of a cassava plant.
    “Cassava roots are used to make tapioca,” Gabriel said.
    “How do you know that?”
    “One of the many useless facts I’ve collected over the years.”
    I read the blue-tipped informational plaque that described the multileafed plant. “It says right here, ‘The starchy tuber of the cassava plant is the basis for tapioca pudding and serves as an important staple crop throughout South America, Africa, and parts of Asia. The roots, leaves, and bark of the plant are used in herbal remedies to heal skin sores and snakebites.’” I looked at Gabriel. “Doesn’t sound poisonous to me.”
    “Keep reading.”
    I skipped a few sentences, then continued. “‘If prepared improperly, the starch can produce cyanide, a deadly compound when consumed.’” I frowned. “But how?”
    He shrugged. “When the root is chewed, it releases anenzyme. That’s what turns into cyanide if it’s not processed right.”
    I stared at him for a few long seconds. “You know way too much about this stuff.”
    “It’s a gift.”
    I frowned. “My mom makes tapioca from a package.”
    “Pretty sure you’re safe with that,” he said.
    I studied the cassava leaves that fanned out from the thin branches like green fingers. “There must be a few million people eating this stuff on an everyday basis. Are they all getting low doses of cyanide with every bite?”
    “Some are,” he said. “If it’s consumed raw as part of a regular diet, it can cause poor vision, bad hearing, paralysis—all sorts of complications. In places where cassava is the main food source, malnutrition is rampant.”
    “I don’t get that. Except for the whole cyanide issue, it sounds sort of nutritious.”
    “It’s filling,” he corrected. “But it’s also very low in protein, so if that’s all you’re eating, you’re going to be malnourished.”
    “Great,” I muttered, frowning.
    “Hey, guys.”
    We both turned and saw Ray walking toward us.
    “Hi, Ray,” I said. “How’s Shelly doing?”
    “Hundred percent,” he said, thrusting his thumb up. “She’s back to work and feeling good. Thanks for asking.”
    “Glad to hear it,” Gabriel said, then waved him over. “Take a look at this.”
    We showed him where the cassava plant had been dug up and shared our suspicions with him.
    “So you want me to dig it up again so you can check the roots?”
    “If you have a few minutes and wouldn’t mind,” I said.
    “I’m on it. We’ve got tools right over here.” He jogged over to a small utility closet built out from the wall next to the house. Opening the door, he stepped inside andcame out a few seconds later, holding a spade in one hand and a short heavy-duty shovel with a very sharp serrated blade in the other. “These should do the trick.”
    “I’ll say,” I murmured. That shovel would do some serious damage if it were used as a weapon.
    Ray walked back to the cassava plant and began digging. Within a minute, the tops of the thick roots were exposed. A few minutes later, he was pulling out the three-foot-high plant and plopping it onto the dirt.
    “Wow, those are big suckers,” I said, staring at the chunky root ball. Extending out from the fibrous mass were eight or nine thick, gnarly tubers that were as big around as a healthy parsnip and as long as a good-sized carrot.
    “These are actually kind of small,” Gabriel said, tapping his knuckle on one of the roots. “They can grow as long and wide as my arm if given enough sun and good soil.”
    Ray touched his spade to the root ball. “Looks like a bunch of them were broken off here.”
    We both stared at the jagged stumps. Then I frowned at Gabriel. “So someone stole some tubers? Who in this house knows how to produce cyanide from cassava?”
    He shook his head, equally mystified. “No botanists here that I know of.”
    “What’s going on?” I muttered. It occurred to me that with the