Peril in Paperback: A Bibliophile Mystery

thousands of books in Grace’s house, there might be one or two that described how to get cyanide out of a cassava plant. Or not. But you could certainly Google the information in seconds. Which meant anyone might have done this. But why?
    Ray pointed toward the closet where the shovel was stored. “If someone wanted cyanide, they wouldn’t have to dig up any roots and grind them into mash. They could find it easily enough in there.”
    “What have you got in there?” Gabriel asked.
    “Drain cleaner.” He shrugged. “Weed killer.”
    “Why do you need drain cleaner out here?” I asked.
    “Once in a while the drains back up,” he explained.
    I looked around the room at all the drip lines and hoses and the rows of misters above our heads. “Of course. There would have to be drains.”
    He gestured down at the path we were standing on. “Underneath this layer of pebbles there’s a whole system of drainage troughs that collect the excess water and send it down to a main pipe. That pipe leads to a filtration system. The water is recycled and pumped back inside to be reused by the plants.”
    “Very clever,” I said, then thought of something. “But wouldn’t the drain cleaner also be recycled back to the plants? That could kill them.”
    “No,” Ray said. “When we’re spraying for bugs or washing the windows or unclogging drains, we use an alternate runoff pipe. That one leads to a lead drum that gets changed every month or so.”
    “Smart.”
    “Grace designed the whole thing,” he said proudly.
    “Figures,” Gabriel said. “There’s a complicated brain in that head of hers.”
    “I’ll say.” But I was thinking more about the hanging bookshelves in my bedroom and the holograms and all the switched carpets and hallways and panels inside the house, not some water-drainage design out here.
    “Can I see what you’ve got in the closet?” Gabriel asked.
    “Sure.” Ray opened the door and reached inside to switch on a light. Gabriel walked in.
    “Is this door kept locked?” I asked.
    Ray shook his head. “Nope.”
    I nodded. Why would it be locked? Grace would never suspect anyone she knew of using the conservatory for such nefarious reasons as the ones we were considering.
    “You might want to look at this,” Gabriel called from inside the small room.
    I walked into the closet and looked around. The spacewas well-lit and bigger than I thought it would be. It was wide enough to fit a narrow, waist-high workbench along one edge. Plant pots were stacked next to other pots that held small gardening tools, cloth gardening gloves, small stakes, spray bottles, and all sorts of other supplies, including bottles of plant food and weed killer. Leaning against the wall at the far end were shovels, rakes, and an extension ladder.
    Under the workbench were two stools to sit on, plus a row of plastic clogs and some thick, colorful foam squares. I recognized them as kneeling cushions for working in the garden. My mother used them all the time and she swore they kept her poor old knee bones from crumbling to dust.
    “This is the stuff,” Gabriel said, holding out a red plastic container of weed killer.
    “That’s a brand-new one,” Ray said from the doorway.
    “It’s half empty,” Gabriel said, jiggling it lightly.
    Ray frowned. “Just bought it a few days ago.”
    “But you said you didn’t do much gardening,” I said. “Did someone ask you to buy it?”
    “Yeah, Ruth gave me a list of things to buy at the hardware store. She needed some weed killer, a bag of potting soil, and some small pots to start some seedlings. Guess it’s coming on that time of year.”
    I exchanged looks with Gabriel. Ruth again. Her name kept popping up wherever there was a mention of poison. As Grace’s close friend, Ruth also had easy access to Grace’s balcony. Had she loosened the railing that almost killed Shelly? Had she put poison in the glass that killed Bella? Was she trying to kill her best friend?
    Grace had allowed Ruth to live on her property for free. She considered Ruth her dearest friend. She had established a trust fund for Ruth’s use in case Grace died. I had a feeling Grace would give the woman anything she wanted, so why would Ruth try to kill her own personal golden goose? Did she need the money that desperately?
    It was premature of me to mentally arrest, try, and convict Ruth of murder, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t suspect her.
    But could I really picture her digging up the