‘Oh, my!’ Tish exclaimed. ‘And here I thought the patio at the lifestyle center was the perfect setting for The Secret Garden luncheon.’
‘There will be no luncheon’s hosted in this garden. Not after all the work we’ve done,’ a familiar voice joked. From his weeding spot behind a tall patch of Japanese anemone, a salt-and-pepper-haired man dressed in a blue polo shirt and khaki pants tucked into a pair of work boots rose to his feet. He was somewhere in his mid-seventies, of athletic build, and his eyes were covered by a pair of wrap-around sunglasses of the kind that ophthalmologists provide. ‘Tucker Abercrombie.’ He extended a muddied glove to his guests.
Tish extended a hand and then quickly withdrew.
‘Sorry.’ Tucker, realizing his error, removed the glove and then offered his hand again. This time Tish accepted. ‘I’ve been in this garden since the crack of dawn. Starts to play with a man’s mind.’
‘Crack of dawn?’ Violet scoffed. ‘You came out here at nine. You only rolled out of bed at eight thirty.’
‘For me, eight thirty is the crack of dawn. I worked fifty years for the right to sleep late. Now that I finally retired last month, I plan to exercise that right on a regular basis.’
‘And once the garden competition is over, I won’t stand in the way of you doing so. But, as the woman who made your coffee and fixed you breakfast for forty-five of those fifty years, I’d like a trophy.’ Violet folded her arms across her chest and gave a defiant wag of her chin.
‘For making coffee and breakfast?’ Tucker was deliberately obtuse. ‘I admit both have always been very tasty, but a trophy?’
‘For best garden.’ Violet gave her husband a playful slap on the arm.
‘Oh, that.’ He broke into laughter. ‘Well, I’m here to do my best to help make that happen. No one deserves the award more than you, my dear.’ Tucker turned to his guests. ‘My Violet has planned, plotted, dug, planted, and nursed this garden into the vision you see before you. It’s been a true labor of love.’
‘It’s incredible,’ Tish admired.
‘Like something you’d see in a Jane Austen miniseries,’ Jules added.
‘You watch Jane Austen miniseries?’
‘A few of them may have come on after the cooking shows.’ Jules shrugged as he polished his sunglasses on a shirtsleeve. ‘I only watched for a few minutes. For the scenery.’
‘Tucker gives me all the credit, but I couldn’t have done it without his support,’ Violet went on. ‘When I was uncertain of my designs, he gave me encouragement and input, and when I was unable to dig a section myself, he rolled up his sleeves and pitched in. Sometimes even after he’d been at work all day.’
‘It was certainly worth all that hard work. The garden looks better than ever. It’s really come into its own, Vi,’ Jim Ainsley noted.
‘I’m thrilled with the progress it’s made. I just hope it’s enough to win the trophy,’ Violet wished aloud. ‘Although part of me wonders if the prize shouldn’t go to Wren Harper. Her garden won many times in the past and she’s had a difficult spring, what with her husband passing away and now their son, Benjamin.’
‘Honey, if you don’t win, I don’t care who does, just as long as it isn’t Sloane Shackleford,’ Tucker inserted. ‘Man’s won the past five years despite having pro gardeners and the moral fortitude of an alley cat.’
‘Now, Tuck, you know I can’t disqualify Shackleford.’ Jim was quick to defend the garden club judges’ past decisions. ‘He designed and planted the garden himself and now he oversees the general upkeep. The only thing those “pro gardeners” you mentioned do is mow and weed, and that’s because Shackleford’s heart condition precludes him from doing it himself.’
‘Heart condition, my eye. The way that fellow hops from woman to woman, the only physical ailment Sloane Shackleford could possibly suffer from is a social disease.’
‘Tucker,’ his wife chastised.
‘Sorry, Vi, but I have absolutely no use for the man.’
‘Nor do I, as you are more than fully aware. However, we have company, so mind your tongue.’
Tucker responded like a scolded child. ‘Sorry.’
Violet rolled her eyes at her husband and pasted on a beatific smile. ‘I suppose y’all are going to take a gander at some of the other gardens?’ she inquired of Jim Ainsley.
‘Yes, we’re off to Wren’s first and then on to Orson Baggett’s and then, finally, Shackleford’s. Thought it would be nice for Ms Tarragon and Mr Davis to see the top contenders before they get to work on the luncheon.’
‘A lovely idea,’ Violet proclaimed. ‘I’m sure you’ll be too busy to get away from the kitchen while the gardens are open for public viewing tomorrow.’
‘Most likely,’ Tish conceded.
‘Just watch yourself at Shackleford’s,’ Tucker leaned in and advised Tish, sotto voce.
‘Thanks. I will.’ She resisted telling the older man that she could handle herself.
Tucker replied with a wink and a nod as his wife, once again, rolled her eyes.
After an exchange of goodbyes, the trio departed the Abercrombies’ garden and proceeded down the road and around the corner. The houses in this area of Coleton Creek were not duplex townhouses, but expansive single-household structures. Featuring front porches and detached garages, the homes were also situated on larger plots of land.
‘As you can see, this is the higher-rent district,’ Ainsley joked as he led them to the garden gate of the fifth house on the left-hand side of the street. ‘Funny thing is, folks here have to pass by our meager dwellings in order to get out of Coleton Creek. Well, unless they take the long way around. Still, it’s a good thing the garden club doesn’t judge by the size of the garden. Just the design and content.’
Ainsley gave a call over the garden gate. ‘Hello? Wren? It’s Jim.’
There was no reply.
‘Hello? Wren, are you at home?’ Again there was no answer.
‘Let’s try the front door. She might be inside having lunch.’ Ainsley led them to the screen door of Wren Harper’s enclosed porch and rang the bell.
Several seconds elapsed before a light-skinned black woman emerged from the main interior door of the home. She was approximately five feet nine inches tall and, despite the deceptively loose fit of her gingham-print camp shirt and navy-blue cargo pants, of average build. Her eyes were red and her face pinched from crying, but even with the puffiness, it was clear she was barely over Coleton Creek’s mandatory minimum age of sixty years. ‘Oh, hi, Jim. Sorry, I was taking a break from the garden. These darned allergies …’
‘That’s OK, Wren. I just stopped by to show these folks your garden. They’re the caterers for our luncheon.’
‘Oh.’ Wren wiped her eyes, smiled, and opened the screen door of the porch to extend a hand. ‘I’m sorry. It’s so nice to meet you.’
Ainsley proceeded with the proper introductions. ‘I know you’re busy, Wren, but if you don’t mind, maybe I could give these folks a quick glance at your garden. Your plants look fantastic this year.’
‘Sure,’ Wren answered meekly. ‘I’ll take you.’
‘That’s not necessary,’ Ainsley continued. ‘You stay here and tend to your allergies.’
‘Yes, you should rest,’ Tish chimed in. ‘And, really, Mr Ainsley, we have lots of work to do at the lifestyle center. We can come back at another time.’
Jules agreed. ‘Absolutely.’
‘No,’ Wren insisted, this time her voice more ardent. ‘No, I’ll take you out back. I enjoy showing off my garden.’
Wren’s words sounded more like a pep talk for herself than a statement of fact. Still, she swung open the porch door and led her guests through the gate of the rustic, weather-beaten split-rail fence and into a sea of wildflowers. Blue bachelor buttons and lobelia, purple asters, rosy slender gerardia and common pinks, golden sneezeweed and crownbeard, and brilliant white snakeroot and boneset swayed in the breeze as they played host to a bevy of birds, bu
tterflies, and bees. From the gravel walkway, a mowed grassy path stretched to the back of the yard and an apple-tree-flanked pond awash with water lilies. The scene instantly transported the visitor from a backyard in a suburban adult community to a quiet country meadow.
‘Astounding job,’ Ainsley praised.
‘It’s amazing,’ Jules gushed. ‘I can imagine Mr Darcy wading out of that pond, his white shirt clinging to his broad torso.’
‘So you only watched for a few minutes, huh?’ Tish arched an eyebrow in her friend’s direction.
Jules folded his arms across his chest and stared off into the distance.
Tish smirked. She knew Jules couldn’t stay silent for long.
‘What’s even more amazing,’ Ainsley replied to Jules, ‘is that this is the property just before a twist in the road, but you still get a sense of expansiveness.’
Tish surveyed the garden, amazed that she hadn’t noticed the area overlooked three other yards: a thriving traditional colonial-style garden to the right, a lush modern garden of tall grasses and styled hedges to the left, and a standard yard featuring a patio, lawn, and potted plants to the rear.
‘The house back there’ – Ainsley pointed to the comparatively ‘naked’ lawn and patio to the rear of the wildflower garden – ‘was recently purchased by Ms Zadie Morris, former cosmetics queen. Zadie isn’t much into gardening, but given her artistic eye, I’ve asked her to be on the judging committee next year. Have you spoken to her much, Wren?’
‘No, we’ve only waved to each other over the fence,’ Wren replied.
‘Too bad. You should go over and say “hello” once the competition is over. Zadie’s a single woman, too. She’s also sharp as a tack and has a terrific sense of humor. You’d hit it off well, I think.’
Wren nodded her head to indicate that she would follow Ainsley’s advice, but her mind was elsewhere.
‘That’s Orson Baggett’s garden to the right,’ Ainsley continued as he gestured toward the traditional garden. ‘We’ll go visit him next. And the property to the left with the tall grass is Sloane Shackleford’s.’
‘Ah, yes, Mr Shackleford,’ Tish noted.
‘You know Sloane Shackleford?’ Wren questioned, a note of alarm in her voice.
‘Only that he’s won the competition the past few years.’ Tish thought it best not to repeat Tucker Abercrombie’s aspersions.
‘Yes, he has,’ Wren frowned.
‘From what I see here, your garden is the loveliest it’s ever been,’ Ainsley encouraged. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a comeback in your future.’
Wren Harper’s eyes filled with tears. ‘If y’all will excuse me, I need to lie down.’
‘Of course,’ Tish answered. ‘May we help you at all?’
‘Yes, how about we walk you back?’ Jules suggested.
‘No, I’ll be fine. I just need to go inside. It was nice meeting you both.’ She hastened back along the gravel path and through the garden gate.
Upon hearing the slam of the front porch door, Jim Ainsley leaned in close. ‘Wren’s husband passed away last year during open heart surgery, and several weeks ago, she got word that their only child, Benjamin, died while on maneuvers in Afghanistan. Ben leaves behind a wife and two young children.’
‘Poor thing,’ Jules lamented.
Ainsley gave a knowing nod. ‘This wildflower garden has been the only thing keeping her going. She told me it’s her haven where she can escape from life.’
Tish glanced around at the place of beauty Wren had created. ‘Do you think she’ll be OK? Should someone come by and check on her?’
‘I’ll call Violet after our tour. Vi will know what to do. She always does.’
Ainsley’s faith in Mrs Abercrombie’s capabilities hinted at a relationship more intimate than that of mere neighbors. ‘Yes, Wren could probably use the company.’
‘Indeed, she could. In the meantime, let’s get over to Orson’s. I told him we’d stop by sometime after twelve. Knowing him, he’s probably been waiting for us since eleven.’
THREE
As predicted, Orson Baggett was waiting at his garden gate alongside a house identical to Wren Harper’s: screened-in front porch, upstairs dormer window, and detached garage. Orson’s appearance, however, was anything but cookie cutter. Tall, with silver hair, dark eyebrows, piercing blue eyes, and a hawk-like nose, he was finely turned out in a beige ensemble of pleated pants, button-down short-sleeve shirt with winged collars, and a wide, blue-and-burgundy printed tie the likes of which Bing Crosby might have worn in the Road to movies.
As they approached, Baggett received them with a scowl. ‘About time you showed.’
‘Good afternoon to you too, Orson,’ Ainsley greeted.
‘Afternoon,’ Baggett tipped the brim of his straw panama hat in Tish and Jules’s direction before continuing on his tirade. ‘You might have called to say you’d be late.’
‘We’re not late. I told you we’d stop by around noon.’ Ainsley checked his wristwatch. ‘It’s just gone quarter past.’
‘Maybe so,’ Orson allowed, ‘but knowing I’d be waiting on you, you might have stopped here before visiting Ms Harper.’
‘What kind of self-respecting Southerner are you? Of course we visited Ms Harper first. She’s a lady. Where are your manners?’
A self-conscious Orson Baggett removed his hat and pressed it against his chest. ‘Sorry, Jim.’
‘That’s all right, Orson. Now pull up your britches and show these folks your garden. They have a luncheon to put together, man.’
Baggett swung open the gate of the whitewashed French gothic picket fence and led the group into a classic, geometric four-square garden: four raised vegetable and flower beds crisscrossed by a brick pathway, at the center of which grew a circular patch of herbs, punctuated at the heart by an antique bronze sundial.
‘That’s rosemary, sage, thyme, lavender, calendula, hyssop, and winter savory in the center herb garden,’ Baggett explained. ‘The raised beds are all edged with china pinks, dianthus chinesis, and Sweet William. The second round of peas and lettuces are just finishing up and the tomatoes, summer squashes, and beans will soon be gone. That’s when I’ll swap ’em out for turnips, winter radishes, collards, kale, and cabbage. They’ll join the carrots, parsnips, and salsify I planted earlier in the season.’
Tish eyed the raised beds with more than a touch of envy. They were a cook’s dream. But just as impressive as the robust produce was the incredible attention to detail. Everything, from the choice of paving bricks to the woven willow branch trellis supporting the trails of pea plants, harkened back to colonial times. ‘This is incredible. Those vegetables are picture-perfect.’
Orson puffed out his chest. ‘Heirloom varieties. I looked specifically for seeds our forebears might have planted. Would you like to use some of my vegetables for the awards luncheon?’
‘Oh, well, I received a delivery of vegetables and other supplies just this morning.’
Baggett’s grin diminished.
‘But I could use some of those things at my café,’ Tish reconsidered. ‘And that lettuce would be fantastic in my prawn cocktail with Marie Rose sauce. That is, if you have no use for it.’
Baggett’s face immediately brightened. ‘Oh, no, Miss Tarragon. Please take whatever you like. There’s far too much here for me to eat on my own.’
‘Rumor has it you haven’t been on your own for months,’ Ainsley muttered in a clear attempt to get a rise out of Baggett.
‘You know better than to listen to rumors,’ Baggett retaliated. ‘It appears I’m not the only one who might have forgotten what it means to be a Southern gentleman.’
‘Sorry, Orson. I should have known better than to ask you to kiss and tell.’
Ainsley’s tone was apologetic, but his words – primarily the phrase ‘kiss and tell’ – had been carefully selected to incite the other man into disclosing more information. Baggett failed to take the bait. Pulling an army knife
from his front trouser pocket and stepping over a row of china pinks, he set a boot down in a raised bed containing three luscious-looking heads of lettuce. ‘Miss Tarragon, if you just wait there, I’ll harvest up that lettuce for you to take back to the kitchen.’
‘You needn’t do that right now, Mr Baggett. Judging is tomorrow and your garden would look better with those vegetables still in it, wouldn’t it?’ Tish interjected.
‘They would, but I want you to have them in time for Sunday lunch. My garden has never taken top prize, but having my produce served to the trophy winner would be quite the feather in my cap.’
‘I understand, but you needn’t rush. I don’t assemble the prawn cocktails until Sunday morning, so there’s plenty of time for you to show your garden and contribute your vegetables. Also, if I’m not mistaken, we still have another garden to tour.’
‘Yes, Sloane Shackleford’s garden,’ Ainsley confirmed. ‘Then there’s the walk back to the lifestyle center. No sense in Ms Tarragon hauling armfuls of lettuce and a sack of tomatoes through the neighborhood.’
‘Sloane Shackleford? Why are you bothering with that old scoundrel? His garden looks like something you’d see on those Housewives shows on the reality TV,’ Baggett complained, placing the accent on the ‘T’ instead of the ‘V,’ ‘and he lets that mongrel of his destroy other people’s property.’
‘First of all, Biscuit is a dog, not a mongrel. Second, I’ve already discussed Biscuit’s behavior with Shackleford. He’s promised to keep the dog on a leash whenever he’s outdoors.’
‘So you spoke with him, did ya?’
‘Yes. Two weeks ago, after the Abercrombies caught Biscuit sniffing around their prized gardenia.’
‘Two weeks ago, huh? Fat lot of good that did. Just last week I caught the mangy cur wandering through my heirloom pachysandra.’ Baggett pointed to the plush carpet of green that grew along the base of the picket fence. ‘I chased him away, but just a few days ago a yellow patch developed. I spent a good chunk of yesterday pulling out the dead pachysandra and filling in with plugs I made by thinning the healthier plants.’
The Garden Club Murder Page 2