Death In The Garden

by Caroline Clemmons

  Grandpa said, “I did. Made me even happier you were always an A student.”

  “Homecoming queen, an exclusive sorority, plus, it appears Bootsy was Miss Everything up until she married George Douglas. Then she still belonged to the Junior League, did all the rich-young-matron stuff, had a housekeeper/nanny paid for by her parents.”

  Grandpa said, “Nothing wrong with her marrying George or her parents helping them, I guess. She and George should have avoided Vance. George had a little money from his parents. They’d probably have been okay without Vance interfering.”

  “Especially if they had a housekeeper like Ruby who took good care of them.” I looked up at him over the papers. “Vance Rockwell is the big fat fly in the ointment.”

  Grandpa rubbed at his chin. “Only if she’s been unhappy. Seems to me—other than losing George—Bootsy has had everything she ever wanted.”

  “Losing a husband, the father of her son, must have been rough.” I was staggered to see Bootsy had been younger than me when her first husband died. “Most widows would give all they own to have their husbands back.”

  “You’d hope so. Bootsy appeared on the up and up to me.”

  I was glad Bootsy didn’t have skeletons lurking in her closet, but it didn’t help me free Walter. I let the papers drop in my lap. “So, I guess Freud was right, ‘Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.’ Or, a nice wife is just a nice wife.”

  “No hoodlums or gangsters popping up in her past, that’s for sure.” Grandpa laughed again. “And once in a while, a blonde actually is dumb, no matter how nice a person she is.”

  “Looks like it. Thanks, Grandpa. Tell your friend I appreciate the thorough job he did.” I stood and kissed his forehead. “Now, I have to go. I have a date to the Dallas Symphony tonight.”

  Giggling to myself, I carried the print outs and left him staring after me. I wondered how long it would be before he rushed in to tell Grandma and Gigi about my evening’s plans. Not long, I’d bet. That’s one tidbit of gossip Grandma wouldn’t squash.

  I thought about the papers as I climbed the stairs to my apartment. How much was available online? I hated to think of all my personal data floating across cyberspace to some nosey person’s computer. How creepy was that?

  ***

  Dallas’ Morton H. Myerson Symphony Hall was one of my favorite places, though I could count the times I’d been able to attend. When I’d been here before, we’d parked in the Arts District Parking Garage. Devlin drove down the ramp and stopped at the valet parking circle below street level. We got out on red carpet and walked through the doorway into the lower lobby. Photos of conductors and musicians hung on walls.

  “Would you prefer taking the elevator? In those shoes, your feet might appreciate our avoiding stairs.”

  “I love heels, and my feet are already reminding me I don’t have much opportunity to wear them. But I love people-watching and the lovely views from the stairway.”

  We climbed up the creamy marble steps to the main lobby. Impressive even from the modernistic exterior, the concert hall is a rectangle set at an angle within a square outer enclosure. Sounds like an architect’s practical joke when it’s explained, but the effect is remarkable. Spherical glass curtain walls admit light to the lobby in daytime. Now, sunset muted the light. Shadows interceded and it became other-worldly, like a beautiful space port in a futuristic movie.

  Devlin guided me through the throng and toward another stairway to the loge tier. “Did I say you look even lovelier than yesterday? Your dress is the same color as that bougain—whatever I admired on your porch. I like it.”

  “Bougainvillea, and thank you. You did mention how I look, but I don’t mind hearing it again.”

  His comment made me happy I’d worn my new hot pink silk dress with the handkerchief hem. The halter top looked respectable from the front, but the back was low enough to be scandalous. I’d brought my white cashmere shawl in case the concert hall was too chilly for so much exposed skin.

  We climbed the stairs and Devlin escorted me to Loge Box H near the center of the concert hall. “Here we are, with a few minutes to spare.”

  I sat down, trying not to stare at my surroundings and reveal I was a country bumpkin. My curiosity won over make-believe sophistication. The starkness of the creamy marble and soft gray lobby had merged with a burst of colors. And in contrast to the modern asceticism of the building’s exterior, the traditional concert hall blossomed in gold, red, and blue. The effect was striking and I soaked up the experience.

  I swiveled to spot the organist at the top back of the hall. She sat with her back to everyone, and I wondered at the fact that she was up there but the pipes were down at the rear of the stage. I’d heard she had a small video monitor at her right hand so she could watch the conductor.

  “Great seats.” I was sure I spotted Ross Perot, Jr., a couple of enclosures to our left. Was that former President and Mrs. George W. Bush across the auditorium?

  “Vance kept this each season, but he seldom attended.“

  “Then I guess your mom used it.”

  He nodded. “Hasn’t used it much this year, what with Mom and her interior designer remodeling the house in Gamble Grove, and then the move there.”

  The Nancy Drew in me saw a chance to pry. “Gamble Grove has nothing to compare to the Myerson. I’m surprised your mom would leave Dallas.”

  “Vance insisted.” A hard look flashed across Devlin’s face, then he smiled. “Once Mom saw the house there, she was won over. She loved the arrangement of the rooms plus the grounds lent themselves to her desire for an English garden.”

  “And I’m grateful for her vision of the gardens.” My private opinion was that Rockwell wanted to show his hometown acquaintances how wealthy he’d become, never mind that he may have cheated some of them to bolster his career. He certainly didn’t return home because of convenience, since it was at least fifty congested miles north from his office to Gamble Grove.

  I remembered details about Bootsy from the report, but I could hardly divulge that to her son. Besides, I wanted Devlin’s take on their life. He kept derailing my sleuthing, so I steered him back. “Where did your family live when you were growing up?”

  “We moved several times when I was a kid. By the time I started junior high, we’d ended up in Highland Park.”

  I love my hometown, but Highland Park was such an exclusive and beautiful area of the Dallas Metroplex that I couldn’t imagine anyone whose family wasn’t anchored in tiny Gamble Grove leaving Dallas for our town. Saying so aloud would make me feel disloyal.

  Instead, I said, “I’ll bet you went to St. Marks boys’ school?”

  He laughed. “How did you know.”

  How could I say? I pretended I’d guessed. “It fits. Later, SMU, right?”

  “Now you’re scaring me. You psychic or something?”

  “No, just seemed logical.” It did. Even without the report from Grandpa’s friend, those schools would have been my supposition for boys from this family.

  Doing some prying of his own, he asked, “You said you spent a lot of time in the garden center as a kid. Guess you grew up in Gamble Grove. Did your folks press you to learn landscaping?”

  I told him about my parents’ death and living with my grandparents. “I sort of fell in love with gardening early, but maybe it’s genetic.”

  “Oh? Your dad was in the business too?”

  “My parents met when my dad came to work for Grandpa, then married and built on to my grandparents’ home. I lived in that house until I went away to Texas A&M University. Walter, the man wrongly accused of killing your stepfather, was friends with my father and taught me a lot about plants.”

  I thought of Dad’s journals detailing his plans for the future. It made me sad to go through them, but reading those neatly written entries kept him alive in my mind. “Dad had grand ideas for the garden center.”

  “You plan on incorporating his visions?”

  “Some aren’t pr
actical now that the giant depot type businesses have come to North Texas. Others, such as our extensive gardens and use of xeric wildflowers, paved the way to some fab publicity in Southern Living, Texas Highways, Country Living, and other periodicals.”

  He frowned. “Sounds intriguing but you’ll have to explain xeric to me.”

  Eager to discuss one of my favorite subjects, I said, “Xeric plants are natives used in xeroscape. They don’t require much care and, once they’re established, they thrive even in drought conditions. We used xeric plants in the roadside beds by your mom’s entry wall.”

  He nodded. “That area looks nice. Your grandparents must be proud you’ve taken over the family business. I guess you’re close to them.”

  Just my luck. When I want a guy to talk about himself and his family, I finally find someone who wants to hear about me. “In spite of losing my parents, or maybe because of it, we’re tightly knit folks. We consider Walter Sims a member of our family too, which is why I was so upset he was arrested for your stepfather’s murder.”

  He shrugged. “Too bad, but I guess the police will find whoever’s guilty. I’m sorry if it turns out to be your friend.”

  “Yeah, me too. Walter even joins in on our family get togethers.” Using this to segue into a question, I asked, “Did your family do a lot of things together?”

  “You mean the four of us—Sam, Vance, Mom, and me? I suppose, but not the way you mean. Not harmoniously. No matter where we’ve been, Vance played Sam and me off one another. Son and stepson. Mom spent most of her time interceding.”

  I could imagine Rockwell favoring his own son over Devlin and wondered what sort of ill will that engendered between the two. Sam had appeared to harbor major resentment toward Devlin that day at Bootsy’s home. It appeared Rockwell set them up as Cain and Abel. Yet it was Rockwell who’d died, not his son or his stepson. Before I could probe for more, the lights dimmed and I held my questions for later.

  The concert of Aaron Copeland pieces began and captured my attention. “Appalachian Spring” is one of my favorites and I let myself sink into the music.

  At intermission, Devlin excused himself to answer a phone call. I couldn’t imagine purchasing these wonderful seats and not attending performances. I pulled my shawl tighter around my shoulders then thumbed through the program. Vance and Bootsy Rockwell’s names were with the donors and there was a separate listing under the corporation’s name.

  After the concert, Devlin drove me to Chateau Henrí, a small, exclusive restaurant near the arts district. As he escorted me inside, he said, “This place is one of my favorites. It’s quiet and we don’t have to shout to be heard.”

  He was correct—the dining room was quiet in comparison to those warehouse places so popular now. Classical music filtered softly through the room, low enough for diners to enjoy without intrusion. Wait staff were efficient and numerous. Over dinner, Devlin dominated the conversation with anecdotes from his work. I gave up probing for clues that would help Walter and enjoyed the ambiance and my food.

  As we walked to the car, he asked, “Would you like to see the company offices?”

  His offer surprised me, and I hoped he meant Rockwells’ company and not the pharmaceutical business. “Yes, I’d love to. Are they nearby?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Devlin said, “The office isn’t far and not much out of the way home. Just up Oak Lawn and a few miles north on Preston.”

  It took only about fifteen minutes to arrive at a modest office complex, not at all what I’d imagined Rockwell would choose. On a low brick wall, foot high metal letters spelled The Douglas-Rockwell Corporation. The wall was prominently displayed amid a raised flowerbed neatly landscaped—but without imagination—in begonias, petunias, and dwarf nandinas.

  Devlin must have noticed my scornful glance. “These plants not something you’d choose?”

  Caught. “They’re well balanced, but the selection is . . . ordinary.”

  “While you’d use something different?”

  “Yes, but these present a pleasant view to visitors and that’s probably all that’s necessary.”

  The uniformed night attendant in the lobby recognized Devlin and opened the door. “Evening ma’am, Mr. Douglas. Sorry to hear about your stepfather.”

  “Thank you, Mick. We won’t be long.”

  The guard went back to the half circle that served as a reception desk where he had a view of several monitors. I wondered if one of them could be changed to receive a television station on dull nights.

  The lobby was spacious, but not inviting. All grays, a color I usually enjoy, but this looked institutional instead of soft. The oil landscapes on the walls looked as if they’d come from a motel sale. Two sofas flanked a glass coffee table near where two ficus and a spathiphyllum added some greenery.

  Rubbernecking as we walked to the elevators, I asked, “Do the company’s offices occupy the entire building?”

  “The company owns the building but an insurance company leases the second floor. A couple of doctors have the first. Vance took the third and fourth floors.”

  The doors opened on four and we stepped out into the hallway. More drab interior.

  “This is it. These offices house the licensing clerks and billing and receivables.” He nodded to our left. “Aunt Kay’s office is there and Uncle Lionel’s is next.” Devlin guided me down the hall.

  He stopped and pulled out a key ring. The gold lettering on the door clued me that this was Vance Rockwell’s private office. Inside the corner office, the drab grays became soft and luxurious, accented by burgundy and green. A wall of windows on one side offered a view toward downtown.

  “Very nice.”

  “I need to pick up some papers. Won’t be long.”

  Devlin sat at his stepfather’s desk and opened a drawer. The sleuth in me wanted to look over his shoulder, but I wandered to a display of photos on the console behind the desk. I recognized Rockwell posing with various dignitaries, but an early photo showed Rockwell with another young man.

  I held up the photo and held it where he could see it. “This your dad?”

  He glanced up. “A month before he died. Not that I remember the occasion, of course. I was two.” He resumed his exploration of Rockwell’s files.

  Scrutinizing another photo, I was surprised to see Mr. Denby. He stood next to Rockwell, smiling broadly as Rockwell shook hands with President Reagan. On his other side stood a man who looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him.

  I tapped Devlin’s shoulder. “Do you know all these people?”

  “You mean other than Reagan?” Devlin grinned and placed a file folder on the desk. “That’s Vance with Everett Denby. The other man is Vance’s cousin, Frank. His wife, daughter, and sons were at the funeral.”

  A prickle of unease crept up my neck. “The Ormonds?”

  He nodded. “That’s right.” He went back to searching through the desk, and pulled out another folder.

  So, Vance Rockwell was related to the Ormond family and that explained their appearance at the funeral. Frank reminded me of Bubba, and that’s why he looked familiar. “You never saw them much then?”

  “Not since I was a kid. Used to visit them then. Only recognized them Thursday because Sam pointed them out to me and I remembered this photo. Why?”

  Sam pointed them out? “I was thinking about Mr. Ormond. He ran up a lot of debts and then killed himself. His family lost their home. The family’s luck has been all bad since then.”

  Devlin looked at me, and a pained expression crossed his face. “That so?” I thought he was going to say more, but he looked down and stacked another file on the desk before he closed the drawer. “Well, these are what I needed. You want to see more or shall we go?”

  There were no more photos to look at in this office, and I doubted Devlin would include his aunt’s office or the attorney’s on a tour. “It’s late and it’s my turn to open the garden center tomorrow.” I checked my watch.
“Make that this morning. Why don’t we head home?”

  We arrived at my place at a quarter past two. Devlin parked near the steps to my apartment. “Am I invited up for coffee?”

  As if I didn’t know what that meant? “Thanks for a wonderful evening, but I’m dead tired and I have to open the center in the morning.”

  He looked disappointed but took it like a man. “I’ll take a raincheck then.”

  I smiled without agreeing and climbed out of the car, glad I’d remembered to leave my porch light on. He drove away and I climbed the stairs.

  I wondered if Walter knew about the relationship between Sharee’s father and his bitter enemy Rockwell? How could he not know? I could hardly wait to pump Grandpa for information.

  I was curious about the material from Rockwell’s office. Devlin had been careful to keep the folder labels down so I couldn’t read them. Why? And what kind of file gathering needed to occur at this late hour? In my opinion, the Rockwell-Douglas family had taken the fun out of dysfunctional.

  ***

  The next morning, I skipped my run and gave Rascal a quick walk to our nursery. The tree nursery was fenced and the one place I could let Rascal run off lead. He grumbled when I called him and then I practically pushed him up the stairs to my apartment.

  “I know how you feel, old boy. I’m a little crabby myself today.” I unsnapped his lead and ruffled his fur. “Been neglecting you, haven’t I? I promise I’ll do better, starting with a trip to Nana Cameron’s this evening. You can run like crazy with her poodle. Maybe there’ll be squirrels to chase.”

  He muttered under his breath and flopped down in a patch of sunlight. I was certain he scowled as he rested his muzzle on his paws.

  Inside the garden center, I flipped on the neon Open sign and unlocked the doors. Chelsea, Miguel, Steve, and I took turns working Sundays. We rotated the rest of the staff as well, but I made sure Juan was off when Miguel was. Sad that even if Walter had been free, we never left him in charge. If I were truthful, I had to admit his semi-reliability had deteriorated the last couple of years. Though he knew more about plants than the rest of us, he was moody and sometimes didn’t show up.