Deadly Nightshade by Elizabeth Daly Page A

road bloomed with the bright colors of wild orchids, fireweed and lady’s-eardrops. Mitchell stopped the car, and they got out.
    â€œThere’s where he was found, just where that rock sticks out of the bank. He pitched onto it, smashed his head. Brake was on, and his legs weren’t clear of the bike.”
    Gamadge walked to the spot, and stood with his hands in his pockets, glancing about him. “Looks as if about six cars had skidded,” he said.
    â€œThere was a good deal of trampling before we got here.”
    â€œI see that; but there’s a great swipe smoothed over.”
    â€œYes; it does seem to run pretty continuous under the tire marks and the footprints.”
    Gamadge and Mitchell were not fond of wasting words in vain surmise; moreover, they were usually able to communicate, when facts confronted them, without any words at all. Neither of them said anything more about the great swipe; it extended from motorcycle tire marks that stopped abruptly beside the road, across the ruts, to the rock itself. The place was a mass of churned mud and leaves, but this wide swath was clearly discernible.
    â€œObviously a skid,” said Gamadge.
    â€œTroopers ain’t supposed to have such accidents.”
    â€œAll part of the Tuesday upset, no doubt.” As Mitchell said nothing, Gamadge asked: “What was the verdict? Misadventure?”
    â€œWhat else could it be?” Mitchell spoke with unaccustomed sharpness. “I went over this place on my hands and knees, almost. It’s a bad road, but it’s used as a highway; and it’s always in a mess. You can see how the tires cut it up and splash the water, and the dead leaves drift across. And there’s all this grass in the middle.”
    â€œI can see what it’s like. Was Trainor’s lamp working?”
    â€œIt was in working order; but it got smashed when he did—only part of his machine that did get smashed, naturally enough.”
    They returned to the car, and drove on amidst a delicious fragrance of pine, spearmint, dead leaves and wet earth. The road widened and became smoother, and the car emerged from the woods and rolled along between stretches of russet marsh. Farms and cottages suddenly sprang up on the left against a background of dark trees, their gardens blazing with dahlias and asters. They passed a filling station, and a neat white house just beyond, which Mitchell pointed out as state police headquarters.
    â€œBut of course you know it,” he said. “Here’s the crossroads.”
    Beyond the crossroads weather-beaten sheds and wharfs prepared the traveler for the fish-laden atmosphere of Oakport Village. The car rumbled over an ancient wooden bridge, and entered a somnolent and ever-dusty square.
    â€œEverything but the post office and Picken’s drugstore kind of folds up from now on,” said Mitchell. “The village caters mostly to summer trade. If you want city goods, you have to go to Ford’s Center.”
    â€œDo the doctors fold up, too?”
    â€œYoung Dickson goes south—he has a connection somewhere in Florida. Ames and his family live in Bailtown; they’re there except three months in the summer. Loring stays right here. He says it’s just what he likes—plenty of doctors at the Center to take care of the farmers, and nothing for him to do but play chess with his cronies, and write pieces for the magazines. He isn’t exactly what you’d call lazy, I guess, but I wouldn’t say he had much ambition.”
    â€œPerhaps he’s ambitious as a writer. What sort of stuff does he write? Medical? Philosophical? Or just plain whimsical?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    They left Oakport Village behind them, and entered a broad, elm-shaded street lined on both sides with stately houses, pillared and green-shuttered.
    â€œSeafaring people built those.” Mitchell waved his arm. “This was a big port, once; China