Deadly Nightshade by Cynthia Riggs Page B

tongue to clean his shoulders. Victoria laughed, roughed his head with her grimy hand, levered herself up with the handles on the kneeler, and shifted to a new spot. The cat cleaned his head where she'd patted him, then moved again.
    “Here's some catnip for him.” Elizabeth pulled up a fuzzy-leafed plant and tossed it to McCavity, who scooped it up, rolled over onto his back, and pawed the catnip with his back feet.
    “The ground is nice and soft. Last night's rain was just what we needed,” Victoria said. They pulled weeds companionably, a gentle cropping sound, like animals munching. “I'll pull up this poison ivy. It doesn't seem to affect me.”
    “Do you want it on the burn pile?” Elizabeth got to her feet.
    Her jeans had a long rip in the right knee, worn through from kneeling in the garden.
    “No.” Victoria tossed the shiny-leafed plant to one side. “The oils get carried in the smoke, and if you breathe it in, you may have a problem.”
    “In your lungs, ugh.” Elizabeth tossed grass clumps and lamb's-quarter and purslane and red clover, feverfew and mint and digitalis seedlings into a pile at the side for the compost heap. “What's this purple flower?”
    “Which one?” Victoria asked.
    “It's star-shaped, with yellow centers.” Elizabeth moved peony leaves aside so Victoria could see. “Is it something you're trying to grow on purpose?”
    “Nightshade,” Victoria said. “Pull it out.”
    “It's poisonous, isn't it?” Elizabeth tugged the plant out by its roots. “Deadly nightshade.”
    “Same family as tomatoes and eggplant,” Victoria said, shaking the dirt off the roots of a bunch of grass. “Better wash your hands right away. People have gotten sick from touching it.”
    “I'll put it on the burn pile. Guess we don't need it to seed itself any more than it has already.” As she passed McCavity, who was lying on his back like a limp toy, the catnip resting on his soft belly fur, he suddenly reached out and swiped at her jean-clad leg.
    “Whoa, McCavity! You crazy cat.” She stepped over the iris spikes onto the grass. “There are enough weird weeds in this border alone to give everyone on the Island itchy rashes, or make them sick, or drive them crazy.”
    “Or worse,” Victoria said.
     
    “I can watch Victoria an hour or so a day.” Noreen and Domingo were sitting at the glass-topped wicker table and she was making a list on a pad of legal paper. They were watching Court TV in a desultory way. A black woman lawyer with heavy horn-rimmed glasses and a red dress gestured at something on an easel. Occasionally, Domingo would look over at the television.
    “All right!” he would say. Or “Yas!” Or he would shake his head and say, “Don't do that!” Sometimes, he would laugh.
    “Would you pay attention?” Noreen said. “This is serious.”
    “I am paying attention, honey. Who do you think called Chief O'Neill?”
    “Ernesto can drive by on his way to and from work,” Noreen said. “He could stop in for coffee. Victoria likes him.”
    “Glad somebody does.” Domingo leaned back in his chair. “Keep him out of my way for another half hour.”
    “Don't talk that way about your son-in-law.” Noreen wrote Ernesto's name. “He's married to your daughter, remember?”
    “Yes, honey.” Domingo took off his cap and blinked his eyes.
    “You are full of it.” Noreen shook a cigarette out of the package on the table near her, lighted it with a disposable green lighter, and inhaled.
    “What about your friend on the board of selectmen?” She looked at Domingo through a screen of bluish smoke.
    “Liz Tate is no friend of mine.” He got to his feet and went up the step into the kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee. “She accused me of harassing her niece.”
    “You're shittin' me!” Noreen's blue eyes opened wide. “Allison, the scrawny blond kid? Liz Tate claims you harassed the kid? You?” Noreen started to laugh. “What did you do?”
    “I told her to