Murder in the Smokies - By Paula Graves Page 0,44

gut. “It’s belladonna.”

“That’s—”

“Deadly nightshade,” he finished for her.

“I don’t see any of those plants on the other graves around here.”

“Could be a coincidence,” he suggested, not sounding convincing even to his own ears.

She started walking again, moving at a determined clip. He caught up and followed her to a third grave. The headstone read “Amelia Sanderson.”

With her foot, Ivy nudged a leafy plant growing by the grave, making the leaves and star-shaped purple flowers gently shake. The flowers alternated with darkening purple berries—belladonna again, Sutton recognized. “Same plant, right?” Ivy asked.

He nodded. “The whole plant is poisonous.”

She scanned the graveyard, then started walking again. By the time they stopped at a fourth grave, Sutton wasn’t surprised to find a fourth belladonna plant growing near the headstone of April Billings’s grave.

“It’s his calling card,” he said.

Ivy looked up at him. “What does that do to the idea that these murders are professional hits?”

He rubbed his jaw. “I don’t know.”

“Could these plants have gotten here by natural means? Birds scattering seeds or something like that?” Ivy asked.

“I don’t think so—it’s not a native plant in this area.”

She bent and grabbed leaves, flowers and berries from the plant, stripping off her latex glove inside out and tying the end to create a makeshift evidence bag. Pulling more gloves from her pocket, she repeated the process at each of the other three grave sites until she had samples from each. “I’ll get these tested to be sure we’re right about what they are.”

He nodded. “Good idea.”

“Meanwhile, I’m going to go talk to our surveillance teams. We’ve had the cemetery under surveillance since the third murder.”

In case the killer wanted to spend some quality time with his kills, Sutton thought with approval. It made sense. “Nobody’s reported anything unusual?”

“No.” Her dark eyebrows flicked upward. “But maybe I haven’t been asking the right questions.”

* * *

IT WAS LATE IN THE afternoon before Ivy heard back from the Knoxville botanist with whom she’d left the plant cuttings. While waiting for word, she’d spent most of her time sifting through the stacks of surveillance notes and photos from the shifts of two-man teams who’d kept the cemetery under watch for the past three weeks.

Nothing jumped out at her as significant in the surveillance files. Photos showed exactly what she’d have expected to see at a graveyard—mourners, grounds crews, regular weekly visitors to specific graves. She saw nothing that struck her as significant.

The call from Dr. Phelps at the University of Tennessee proved more interesting. “It’s definitely Atropa belladonna,” Dr. Phelps told her. “Deadly nightshade, in the vernacular.”

“And it’s not a native species here in eastern Tennessee?”

“It’s not a native plant, but it’s a cultivated plant species here in the States, so it’s not that strange to find it growing. It has weedlike characteristics such as self-cultivation.”

“So it could have gotten into the cemetery naturally?”

“Theoretically,” Dr. Phelps agreed. “But from your description of where you found the plants, I’d say they were deliberately planted there. The sheer odds against the plants all self-cultivating in the same general area of the grave, near the headstone? It just defies belief.”

“Is there any way to trace where the plant originated?”

“Possibly. But any tests we could run would, at the very least, require that you find the original rootstock.”

“Are there legitimate reasons to cultivate the plant?”

“Oh, absolutely. Atropine, which derives from Atropa belladonna, is an anticholinergic agent. It’s a common treatment for organophosphate poisoning.”

“It’s a poison but it’s also a poison antidote?” Ivy asked, confused.

“Not an antidote per se. In the right dosage, it blocks acetylcholine—” Dr. Phelps cut off the explanation, as if he sensed he was only making things less clear for Ivy. “Basically, it limits the effectiveness of poisons attacking the nervous system. Soldiers in battle who might encounter chemical weapons generally carry atropine injectors with them as an antidote.”

“Do you know of any growers here in Tennessee who cultivate belladonna?”

“Not off the top of my head. I could look into it for you.”

“That would be great. Thank you.”

“You’ve got a lead?” Antoine Parsons had come into the bull pen while she was talking to Dr. Phelps. He’d perched on her desk until she’d finished the call.

“I’m not sure I’d call it a lead exactly. It’s more like a whole new set of questions.” She caught him up on the plants she’d found in the cemetery. “What about you? Anything new?” Antoine had gone out to recanvass the neighborhoods around the previous victims’ homes, with the potential truck angle in