‘Plonk,’ Tish mocked.
‘It’s British slang.’
‘Yeah, I figured that. Problem is you’re Southern, Jules. You were born in North Carolina, raised in Charlottesville, your dad has a room full of Roll Tide gear, and your mother was Miss Georgia 1970. The only way you’d be more Southern is if you were somehow related to Robert E. Lee.’
‘No relation to Lee, but my crazy great-aunt used to pass herself off as Margaret Mitchell so she’d get a better table in restaurants.’
‘Close enough.’
As Tish and Jules entered the glass front doors of the lifestyle center, Susannah Hilton rushed from her desk to meet them. ‘I’m so glad you’re both back. Is it true? Are the rumors true? Is Mr Shackleford …’
‘Dead?’ Tish completed the sentence. ‘I’m afraid so.’
‘I can’t believe it. He was here at the lifestyle center just this morning. What happened?’
Reade had warned Tish and Jules against discussing details with the public before he could issue a statement. ‘Well, the police need to analyze the scene, of course, but it appears Mr Shackleford may have been murdered.’
‘Murdered? How? By whom?’
‘As I said, the police are on the scene. I’m sure they’ll release information as soon as they have it.’
‘And you?’ Susannah asked timidly. ‘Are you launching your own investigation?’
‘No, I have enough on my plate trying to get this luncheon together.’
‘So the garden competition is still on?’ Susannah’s voice was hopeful.
‘As of this moment, yes. Mr Ainsley is highly committed to moving forward with the event and, at the moment, the police seem to have no objections.’
‘That’s good. Oh, I hope that doesn’t sound callous, but the people in this community live for the competition. Women plan for months what dress and hat to wear to the luncheon, men take odds on this year’s winner, and the gardeners … well, I happen to know quite a few of them who would no longer be with us if it weren’t for the competition. Many of our residents are widowed and retired. Their families have moved far away and rarely visit. Tending their gardens is often the only thing keeping them going.’
‘Yes, Mr Ainsley touched upon the importance of the competition to the residents of Coleton Creek. He also mentioned how hard you work organizing it each year.’
Susannah rejected the praise. ‘All I do is make a few phone calls. It’s typical of Mr Ainsley to talk it up, though. He’s an old-school Southern gentleman through and through. He’s also got a soft spot for us ladies. In a respectable way, of course.’
Tish wondered if Ainsley’s tenderness toward the opposite sex was behind his comment about Violet Abercrombie, but she thought it best to remain quiet about something that might start a potential scandal.
Before either Susannah or Tish could continue their conversation, the telephone at the front desk rang.
‘Distraught residents, no doubt.’ Susannah ran back to her desk to answer the device. ‘If you find out anything at all from the police, Tish, could you let me know? I’d like to be able to put people’s minds at ease.’
Tish agreed and led Jules past the desk and down the corridor that overlooked, via a series of glass doors and windows, the outdoor pool area. At the end of the hall stood a solid metal fireproof labeled INDOOR POOL & SAUNA and, beside it, a glass door that led outdoors to a brick-paved area surrounded by ten-foot-tall rose trellises and topped by a pergola covered with brilliantly blooming tendrils of bougainvillea.
Jules pulled open the door to the brick area and allowed Tish to enter. Stepping on to the basket-weave patterned brick, she was immediately greeted by the sight of a woman seated alone at one of the patio’s delicately curved wrought-iron bistro tables. She was dark-haired, approximately sixty-five years of age, and quite attractive, if rather heavily made up. She wore a red off-the-shoulder dress, a pair of platform espadrilles tied high upon her calves, and an elaborate pair of red metal chandelier earrings that rattled as she sobbed into a lace handkerchief.
Tish was reluctant to intrude upon the woman’s grief, but she also had to make a start on the decorating if everything was to be ready in time for Sunday afternoon. She stood, frozen to the spot, deliberating whether she should clear her throat to announce her presence or quietly back away without being seen.
Jules inadvertently settled the matter. Oblivious to the presence of the crying woman, he closed the glass door behind him and immediately whirled around to face Tish, his hands on his hips. ‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough Shady Pines drama for one day. Let’s doll this place up and then get the heck out of here. There’s a glass of Chardonnay out there screaming my name.’
As Jules spoke, Tish attempted to divert his attention toward the mysterious woman, but to no avail. The woman’s startled gasp, however, finally did the trick.
Jules echoed the gasp and spun around. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’
‘I’m a resident of Coleton Creek looking for some peace and quiet,’ she sniffed with indignation. ‘What are you doing here?’
Tish stepped forward. ‘I’m Tish Tarragon and this is Julian Jefferson Davis. We’re catering Sunday’s garden club luncheon. We came out here to get a start on the decorating.’
‘You’re wasting your time,’ the woman announced. ‘A man’s been murdered. Hit in the head with a shovel. The luncheon is off.’
The woman’s assertion that the luncheon was cancelled, combined with her detailed knowledge of Shackleford’s death, threw Tish off-kilter, but she quickly recovered. ‘Um, with all due respect, Ms …?’
‘Aviero. Pepper Aviero.’
‘With all due respect, Ms Aviero, we just came from the scene. Mr Ainsley assured us that the competition and awards luncheon are to go ahead as planned. The police gave us their blessing as well.’
‘Jim Ainsley told you it was still on? I should have guessed,’ Pepper scoffed.
‘What do you mean?’ Jules interjected. ‘Why wouldn’t Mr Ainsley tell us to go ahead with the luncheon? He is president of the garden club, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, Mr Ainsley is president of the garden club. He’s also clearly a man without conscience; otherwise, he’d cancel this ridiculous competition. A man’s been killed, for God’s sake.’ Pepper’s olive-skinned countenance turned red hot with anger. ‘Then again, Jim never did care much for Sloane Shackleford. I shouldn’t be surprised at all that Jim’s going ahead with a party instead of planning a memorial service.’
Pepper’s assessment of Ainsley’s feelings toward Shackleford seemed in direct contrast to the fair, even-handed way he dealt with the various allegations garden club members hurled against Shackleford, his dog, and his garden. ‘Why didn’t Mr Ainsley like Shackleford?’
Pepper shrugged. ‘I can only guess he was jealous. Jim and I dated for a time, but lately I had been seeing Sloane.’
‘I suppose that would make any man jealous. A woman breaking up with him to date someone else.’
‘Oh, no. I didn’t break up with Jim. He broke things off with me. It was all for the best, though. Sloane had great taste in food, great taste in music, great taste in art. You saw his garden. Light years beyond Jim Ainsley’s suburban shrubbery,’ she added, quite cattily.
‘Sounds as though you’d found your dream man.’
‘Yes, until Callie Collingsworth got in the way.’
‘Callie Collingsworth? Sounds like the name of a soap opera actress,’ a tickled Jules remarked.
‘She’s probably had as much plastic surgery as one, too,’ Pepper frothed. ‘I was out of town, visiting my sister in Mexico, when Callie threw herself at Sloane. She had the nerve to bring him dinner at his house. Sloane loved my arroz con pollo, so Callie brought him fried chicken. He raved about my tres leches cake, so Callie made banana pudding. How the evening ended, I can only imagine, because when I returned home, Sloane no longer wanted to see me.’
‘If Call
ie knew you and Sloane were dating, then why would she throw herself at him?’ Jules asked.
‘Money. Sloane is – was – a very wealthy man. In addition to his home here in Coleton Creek, he had apartments in Paris and New York and a vacation villa in the Bahamas.’
Tish did her best not to roll her eyes. Although Callie’s behavior was less than principled, the onus was on Shackleford to rebuff her advances. ‘Not to speak ill of the dead, but just because Callie threw herself at him, doesn’t mean Sloane was required to reciprocate.’
‘You didn’t know Sloane,’ Pepper excused. ‘He was a man’s man. Extremely red-blooded. Before he retired, Sloane was a successful businessman with great instincts. He was a man of action, not words, and he always seized opportunity. You can’t expect a man like that to look the other way.’
Tish thought it best to let the subject drop. ‘You seem to have understood Mr Shackleford quite well.’
‘I did. Or I thought I did.’ Her eyes welled with tears.
‘I’m very sorry, Ms Aviero. Jules and I offer our deepest condolences.’
‘Thank you. I’d say I don’t know what I’m going to do without him, but the fact is I’ve been doing without him for a while now.’ Pepper rose from her seat and trudged toward the door. ‘The bastard,’ she whispered beneath her breath before letting herself in.
‘Nice job not investigating Shackleford’s murder,’ Jules quipped when Pepper was out of earshot. ‘The guy’s not even cold yet and you’ve already uncovered a suspect.’
‘It’s not as if I went looking for her, Jules. She just happened to be here when we arrived.’ Tish set about untangling a strand of party lights with birdcage shades on each bulb. ‘That said, it was odd how she knew Shackleford was bludgeoned with a shovel.’
‘Weird,’ Jules agreed as he removed the plastic wrapping from a dried rose garland. ‘Not surprising if this place is a hotbed for gossip. I mean, a guy or gal needs something to do between Judge Judy and the five o’clock news.’
‘You’re awful,’ Tish scolded. ‘Seriously, though, only you and I, Ainsley, and Zadie Morris saw Shackleford’s body and the police have yet to issue a statement. So how did Pepper Aviero know about the shovel to the head?’
‘Someone must have told her,’ he shrugged.
‘But who? Ainsley or Morris?’
‘Why didn’t you just ask Pepper while she was here?’
‘Because,’ Tish nearly sang, ‘I already told you, I don’t want to get involved with the investigation.’
FIVE
After three hours of concentrated effort, Tish and Jules had transformed the patio at the lifestyle center at Coleton Creek into a romantically styled walled garden. The bistro sets had been replaced with long banquet tables which Jules and Tish covered with rolls of dried moss and scatterings of rose petals in various hues. At the center of each table Tish positioned a row of miniature topiary plants – prizes that would be raffled off to table members at the end of the luncheon – and at each setting rested a gold key with a place card attached with tulle ribbon.
The buffet and bar tables bore the same dried-moss covering as the banquet tables, but in lieu of topiaries, they were ornamented with miniature rose bushes, tall pots of lavender, and decorative Victorian birdcages. Adding to the garden-party charm were vintage china platters and tiered cake servers in a variety of floral patterns. And, above it all, entwined with the bougainvillea along the pergola, rows of party lights added an ethereal twinkle.
‘Looks fabulous, honey,’ Jules complimented his friend. ‘But where do these rose garlands go?’
‘They’re to decorate the backs of the chairs. I have some white tulle chair covers I rented. I thought we’d pin short sections of garland to the back of each one. We’ll do that tomorrow, though, just in case there’s a stray shower overnight.’
‘Or a dirty bird.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ she laughed.
The glass door leading to the lifestyle center suddenly swung inward. A couple in their late thirties and clad in business attire stepped on to the patio. He was short – just a tad taller than Tish’s five feet five inches – athletically built, and his skin ridiculously bronzed. The tan suit he wore blended regrettably with the color of his hair, giving him a washed-out, homogenous appearance, and the ill-fitting dress shirt beneath his jacket lent him the air of a used-car salesman. The woman with him was curvaceous, ivory-skinned, and nearly a head taller than her companion – her height only amplified by the short hemline of her navy-blue skirt and the tumble of chocolate brown hair that fell down her back and ended a few inches above her waist.
‘Nathan and Mariette Knobloch,’ the man introduced with an outstretched hand. ‘We’re the developers and managers of Coleton Creek.’
‘Tish Tarragon. And this is Julian Jefferson Davis. We’re the caterers in charge of Sunday’s luncheon,’ Tish clarified after she, Jules, and Mariette had exchanged greetings and limp handshakes.
‘Yes, we know,’ Nathan Knobloch acknowledged. ‘That’s why we’re here.’
‘I’m not sure if either of you are aware, but one of Coleton Creek’s residents is dead,’ Mariette inserted.
‘Murdered,’ Nathan whispered, with an appropriate pucker to his brow.
‘Yes, we’re aware. Jules, Mr Ainsley, and I were the ones who discovered the body.’
‘You were? Oh, my!’ Mariette drew a hand to her bosom to denote her shock.
‘Well, then, the two of you, perhaps more than anyone else in this community, must understand why this luncheon – indeed, this entire competition – needs to be cancelled,’ Nathan presumed.
‘Mr Ainsley’s decision to go ahead with the luncheon seemed in bad taste at first,’ Tish conceded, ‘but then I learned just how important this competition and the garden club are to the residents here.’
‘Too important!’ Mariette’s tone was sharp. ‘Just look at what happened to Mr Shackleford.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Jules stepped forward. ‘You’re not implying that Mr Shackleford was killed because of the garden competition, are you?’
‘Implying? We’re not implying anything. We’re telling you that’s precisely what’s happened.’
‘You honestly think one of the residents killed Shackleford because he won the garden competition?’ Tish was skeptical.
‘Shackleford didn’t just win the competition,’ Nathan corrected. ‘He won it the past five years straight. You can just imagine how that went down with the other members of the garden club. They’re obsessed with the idea of winning the trophy.’
‘I’ve met the residents here, and they do appear to be focused on the competition, but I think that’s more about the pride they take in their gardens than winning the prize itself.’
‘If this were your average village situation, I’d agree with you,’ Mariette prefaced, ‘but many of the residents here aren’t quite – well, let’s just say they’re starting to feel the effects of the aging process. Some of them may not be entirely in touch with reality. When you take someone like that and tell them their garden – the thing they’ve been so obsessed with all these months – isn’t good enough to win a trophy, well, you’re playing with dynamite, aren’t you?’
‘Mariette and I have been afraid something like this might happen for years now. Not murder, of course,’ Nathan Knobloch was quick to correct himself. ‘Maybe an act of vandalism or assault, but we were certain someone would eventually lash out at Mr Shackleford for his winning streak. And now they have.’
‘If only we’d come forward with our concerns about the competition sooner,’ Mariette bemoaned.
‘Even if you’re right and Mr Shackleford was murdered by an irate gardener, I fail to see what either of you could have done about it,’ Tish reasoned.
‘We would have done what we’re going to do now: disband the garden club.’
Tish and Jules fell silent as they digested Mariette Knobloch’s announcement.
‘But the r
esidents here love the garden club as well as the competition,’ Jules argued after several seconds had elapsed. ‘You can’t let one man and one incident mar something that’s brought only good to this community.’
‘Jules is right,’ Tish rejoined. ‘Even those who don’t garden enjoy viewing their neighbors’ efforts, and then there’s the fun of the awards ceremony and luncheon.’
‘They’ll just have to find another event to take its place.’ Mariette shrugged off their objections.
‘And what about the gardeners? For many of these people, preparing for the competition is their reason for getting out of bed each morning.’
‘Well, that’s the beauty of our plan,’ Nathan grinned. ‘We’re going to ask them to help us launch a community garden. Instead of digging their own individual garden beds alone in their backyards, they can share their love of gardening with others on a plot just outside the Coleton Creek development which everyone, including the public, can enjoy.’
‘I like the idea of a community garden,’ Tish conceded, ‘but you can’t expect people to give up their own garden plots.’
‘Why not? The whole point of this exercise is to eliminate the competitiveness that led to Sloane Shackleford’s murder.’
‘You can’t control what people do on their own property,’ Jules challenged.
‘Sure, we can. We just need to get the homeowners’ association to pass it into the bylaws. Given what’s happened to Mr Shackleford, that shouldn’t be too difficult.’
‘Banning residents from having gardens is a bit drastic, don’t you think?’ Tish attempted to speak the voice of reason. ‘And what about the people who can’t drive to the new garden? Won’t they feel isolated? Maybe you should give things some time to calm down before—’
‘Calm down?’ Mariette screeched. ‘What, and take the chance of another gardener being murdered? We need to protect our residents.’
‘I appreciate you wanting to protect your residents, Mrs Knobloch, but this isn’t a nursing home or assisted-living facility. The people who live here are responsible homeowners. They have the right to a certain amount of personal freedom.’
The Garden Club Murder Page 4