by Joan Hess
I hate deadlines.
I parked in what had become my personal parking space. There was no indication that anyone was present. That meant nothing, I told myself as I went around to the doors in the back. If the goddesses were on my side, Moses was sitting down to roast beef and mashed potatoes at the Old Tavern. I went to the library and paused to soak in the aroma of furniture polish and leather-bound books. There were empty spaces where Terry must have taken his treasured books to Key West. I found a complete set of Jane Austen and another of Dickens. An entire shelf was filled with biographies and histories. The collection of poetry included all of my favorites. First editions were shelved with battered classics from my childhood. I sneezed with delight as I thumbed through a worn edition of nursery rhymes. I would have died on the spot as long as someone was there to turn the pages.
It was not my time to rest in this blissful bed of literature, alas. I replaced the book and sat down to search the desk. The top drawer contained standard paraphernalia. There were enough paper clips to make a chain to encircle the house. Rubber bands nestled in profusion. Scraps of paper had illegible notations, e-mail addresses, and telephone numbers. The stapler lacked staples. When I pricked my finger on a thumbtack, I closed the drawer and moved on. Terry had overlooked a manila folder crammed with receipts for art supplies; oil paint was pricier than I thought. Another was dedicated to travel vouchers, creased boarding passes, and hotel bills. It hadn’t occurred to me that artists and professional poker players took deductions for business expenses. I smiled to myself as I pictured Winston tossing such trivial things on the desk for Terry to sort and file. A successful couple requires a word person and a number person. The poetry books most likely belonged to Winston, and the mathematical theory books to Terry. The odds were good that they’d been happy together.
The bottom drawer held a carton of cigarettes, minus one pack. I was dumbfounded, a reaction that I experience very rarely. When I’d first toured the house, I hadn’t seen any ashtrays inside or on the tables on the terrace. I hadn’t noticed any lingering odor of stale smoke in the drapes or rugs. I attributed the missing pack to Pandora. The carton might have been hers as well. I examined a pack, but there was no stamp advising that it was best used by such-and-so date. Cigarettes didn’t expire, but their users often did. Not that I was an authority, I thought as I replaced the carton and closed the drawer. Ethan could have found the deed among personal items that Terry subsequently removed. Winston had owned a current passport. Most people have copies of their birth certificates, car titles, piles of old bank statements, records of credit card purchases, and other things required to avoid the wrath of the IRS should they descend to audit. I didn’t, to Peter’s oft-vocalized distress. Some of us value poetry over mundane concerns.
I rocked in the chair, waiting for inspiration. When none came, I made sure that everything was back in its place and went out to the terrace. As I looked at the stream, I remembered what Moses had said about Inez and Jordan’s trek in the distant field. I found it hard to believe that Jordan would volunteer to lead a search party in pursuit of medicinal berries, or volunteer to do anything that required exertion. I could be wrong, I told myself, however improbable that was. Jordan might have been so desperate for a friend that she would have climbed a mountain. Inez was older, which mattered in the contorted teenage world, and she wouldn’t have hidden her disdain for Jordan’s hair and piercings. Or she’d hypnotized Jordan with an elaborate analysis of entomological metamorphosis.
I didn’t know if I was stewing over details of no consequence. Inez and Jordan had taken a walk, and Pandora had hidden her cigarettes in a safe place. I couldn’t pin down the correlation between Winston’s death in March and Terry’s death the previous day, but there had to be one. Charles and Felicia Finnelly weren’t going to offer me further information. Nattie had already told me what she knew. Unless a squirrel pegged Moses in the head with a two-ton acorn, his babbles would remain enigmatic, and I didn’t have time to dissect them. I couldn’t bear the thought of another round with Aunt Margaret Louise, who’d savor the opportunity to tell me how she was a Grateful Dead backup singer and slept with Eric Clapton every other weekend and six weeks in the summer. That left Ethan, and Pandora if she’d come home to braid daisies in her hair.
My only recourse required exertion. I drank a glass of water in the kitchen, looked sadly at the island over which I would never reign, and contemplated the best route to the greenhouses. When in doubt, snoop.
I made it across the blacktop road and into the woods that lay between the Old Tavern and Ethan’s house. I encountered no lions, tigers, or bears, but I had to fight through thorns, fallen branches, stumps, and holes concealed by leaves. I definitely preferred the Nature Channel to nature. By the time I emerged into neat rows of saplings, I’d accumulated an assortment of scratches on my bare arms and face, and dried leaves in my hair. My ankles were itchy. Worst of all, I was sweaty.
No one seemed to be working. I stayed in the minimal protection of the baby trees until I had a better view of the greenhouses and outbuildings. One delivery truck was parked nearby. Painted on its side was a depiction of the arched sign in an oval of flowering vines. Beneath that were an e-mail address and a claim that Hollow Valley Nursery had been established in nineteen sixty-four. Their fiftieth anniversary was approaching. I wondered if they’d give each other a dozen rosebushes to commemorate the occasion. Champagne would not be served within range of Charles’s sanctimonious nose, but blueberry tarts might be on the menu.
I sat down on a concrete block to pick the leaves out of my hair and to examine the red bumps on my ankles. Caron had blundered into a patch of chiggers when she and Inez had taken a shortcut home from school, and she’d spent the weekend with her feet in a bucket of hot water and Epsom salts. My maternal impulses had been sorely tested. Peter’s amorous intentions for our midnight assignation would require imagination (and agility) if I ended up in the same situation. I was grinning at the idea when I heard a delivery truck rumble up the hill from the bridge. I slipped behind the back of a greenhouse and peered around the corner. The cab door opened, and the driver grunted as his feet hit the ground. He glanced around and then flicked a cigarette in my direction. I did not take it personally, since I was operating on the theory that he couldn’t see me.
A minute later, Ethan called, “About damn time, Rudy. What happened?”
I resisted an urge to dive into the weeds and put my arms over my head. I wasn’t breaking the law, I reassured myself. I hadn’t scaled a fence or blatantly disregarded warnings not to trespass.
“Had to wait on Coop,” Rudy said. “I wasn’t gonna load the stuff by myself, was I? He said he overslept, but he looked worse than something the dog dragged in. He stank to high heavens and was real ornery.”
“You don’t smell all that good yourself,” Ethan responded. “If you get stopped for a DUI, you’d better be across the border before I hear about it. Grab the nursery receipts and come in the office.” He disappeared into a building that I’d been inside during my grand tour. It housed a desk, a filing cabinet, a squeaky ceiling fan, a wall calendar sporting the HVN logo, and a coffeepot so filthy that Mr. Coffee himself would have wept in shame.
“Neither do you, boss,” Rudy muttered as he stomped to the cab of the truck. He retrieved the documents and went inside the building.
I risked standing up, a move greatly appreciated by my knees. I wasn’t interested in the truck, so I had no reason to make any furtive attempts to gain access. However, I wasn’t sure why I was there or what I’d hoped to discover. I was feeling rather foolish when I was tapped on the shoulder.
My response shall remain unrecorded for posterity.
10
“Are you here to talk to Aunt Margaret Louise?” asked Jordan.
Justifiably startled, I reeled around, then gaped at her. “What have you done?”
Her hair was no longer purple, nor was it aligned in a rigid row across the top of her
head. It resembled a shaggy brown pelt, but it was an improvement. The bling had been removed, exposing small holes that she’d attempted to cover with makeup. The rest of her face was clean. “Better?”
“Good grief,” I said, “did Uncle Charles convert you?”
Jordan blushed. “Not likely. I just decided I was too old for the goth crap. It took a lot of time to pull off, and after the initial horror, nobody seemed to care. Why are you looking for Aunt Margaret Louise here? She’s at the mill, getting ready to go play bridge with her cronies. We need to catch her before she leaves.” She tugged on my arm. “Please, Mrs. Malloy. You promised.”
“I’ll take care of it, Jordan. If your aunt has gone, I can clear it with Nattie. Wait for me by the statue.” I took a peek around the corner of the building.
Her voice dropped. “What are you doing? If you want to steal ornamental trees, you ought to wait until dark. The root balls are heavier than you think. Do you want azaleas or anything like that? I can grab a couple and carry them to your car for you.”
She was clearly in the throes of mall withdrawal and cell phone deprivation, both potentially fatal to teenagers. I shook my head. “Thanks for your offer of assistance, but I’m not here to steal anything.” I would have elaborated, but nothing came to mind. To distract her from asking the obvious question, I said, “Have you seen Pandora Butterfly this morning?”
“No, and I’d better not!”
“You have a problem with her?” I did, but I wasn’t going to proffer it as a topic of conversation. As much as I appreciated Jordan’s efforts to join civilized society, I didn’t trust her.
“No, it’s nothing,” she replied hastily. “We’re fine. It’s just that, uh, her kids made off with a book I left outside. It’s probably in shreds.”
“Oh,” I said. I wasn’t a poker player, but I could read the mendacity in her eyes. I chose not to pursue it. Pandora’s fan base was small, and I wasn’t surprised that Jordan was not a member. Since Ethan was otherwise occupied, it seemed logical that Pandora was at home with her wee beasties. “Jordan, if you want me to arrange for you to come home with me, you need to wait for me at the statue. I’ll be there in no more than half an hour. Got it?”
Her upper lip started to curl into a sneer, but she caught herself. “Okay.”
Once she’d trudged away, I wound my way through the saplings and stayed at the edge of the field until I found a well-beaten path that I assumed led to Ethan and Pandora’s house. The path was littered with sodden piles of discarded clothes and muddy shoes. A headless doll had been nailed to a tree. I did not allow myself to conjure up horrific images of pagan rituals.
The beasties were not in sight when I reached the yard. Pandora was seated on a railroad tie, her head lowered. When I stepped on a particularly crunchy leaf, she looked up. “Are you stalking me? Go play with Dearg Due. He’s got a thing for scrawny, meddlesome redheads.”
I politely overlooked her lack of appreciation for the difference between scrawny and svelte, as well as between meddlesome and inquisitive. In sunlight, my hair has red highlights, so I couldn’t accuse her of total ignorance. “You look dreadful, dear. Do you have a hangover?”
“From one glass of wine?” Her laugh was nasty. “You must be a cheap date.”
“Zeppo took you to a church revival? Charles will be tickled pink.”
She nearly lost her balance as she stood up. “What are you talking about? The guy on the motorcycle owed me some money. I got off at the highway and came home, if it’s any of your business. I don’t even know his name, and I’ve never heard of anybody named Zeppo. That’s stupid.”
“I don’t guess he took you to the Devil’s Roost,” I continued, refusing to flinch as she glowered at me. “Jimmie John said you’re not welcome there anymore.”
I had her full attention. Her fists tightened as she turned away, and I could hear her cursing in a low voice. “My cell phone,” she said abruptly.
“It begged me to hit the redial button, and I didn’t want to hurt its feelings. Jimmie John had quite a lot to say about you, Pandy.”
“That’s a violation of my privacy! It’s like reading somebody’s diary or opening their personal mail.”
“Equally enlightening, too. Does Ethan know about these little jaunts with Zeppo? For the record, I do agree that it’s a stupid name. He should consider changing it to Harpo or Chico.”
“What do you want from me?” she asked with a groan.
“An explanation would be a good start.” I sat down on a splintery railroad tie and waited for her to fabricate a remotely plausible story.
The hangover was too much for her. She sat cross-legged in the grass and sighed. “You cannot believe how boring it is out here. Yeah, Jordan whines all the time, but she’s only been here a month. I’ve been here for ten tedious years. All Ethan talks about is the nursery, and he’s up there all day and half the night. Am I supposed to have intelligent conversations with Rainbow and Weevil? All they do is snuffle and snort like filthy little pigs. What am I supposed to do? If I didn’t get a break, I’d lose it.”
“What happened to the free-spirited lily of the valley? Can’t you commune with the goddesses, or have they cut you off? They may not approve of your participation in the drug business.”
“Jimmie John’s full of it. He’s a runty old alcoholic who runs a bar for losers. I may have been there once, but I didn’t stay. I dance and flutter and act like an idiot because it keeps the rest of the family away. The last things I want to do are drink tea with Nattie and listen to her talk on and on about poor, confused Winston. It gets old. There were times I wished that I could drown her out with a mantra.”
“What were you doing at an ashram?”
“There was a warrant out on me, and it was a safe place. Then Ethan showed up in his tree-hugger sandals, all eager to meditate and starve himself on brown rice and seaweed. He was so squishy and sincere that I wanted to puke. Then he started talking about his inheritance and the nursery, and he looked a helluva lot more attractive.” She shoved her hair back and closed her eyes. “We had this wonderful scheme how we’d take over one of the greenhouses and get serious about growing pot. He wove my wedding ring out of slivers of bamboo. We mumbled a lot of nonsense out in a pasture, with goats nibbling on the hem of my dress and a monk in a purple robe.” She held out her hand to allow me to swoon over an emerald ring surrounded by diamonds. “I replaced the bamboo thingie with this. I can always sell it if I need to. It’s worth eighteen thousand.”
“Your grand scheme didn’t work out so well. There’s no marijuana in the greenhouses.”
“Once we got here, Ethan got all excited about growing trees and flowers. He said we couldn’t put the nursery at risk. It has to comply with state regulations and be inspected at least once a year. Then there’s dear old Uncle Charles. Ethan didn’t tell me about him until we got here. He does his own inspection several times a week. Felicia trots behind him with a notebook, assiduously writing down his grumbles and complaints. One of these days I’ll bake him a batch of brownies that will make his toenails tingle!”
“How are you planning to do that without marijuana? As fond as I am of Duncan Hines, he doesn’t seem like the sort to arouse tingles.” I paused for a moment. “You’re growing it out in the woods, aren’t you? Did Ethan give you any suggestions for an irrigation system, or is he unaware of your horticultural endeavor?”
“He may suspect, but he wouldn’t dare take a hit and imperil his karma. Then again, he gets totally drunk when it suits him and boasts about all the money he’s stashed away. We could be living in Florida in one of those ridiculously expensive houses with plate-glass windows looking out on a white sand beach. You know, hurricane bait. Who cares how much it costs after your roof tiles end up in the Everglades?”
“You can’t convince him to move away from here?” I asked. “He can’t be having too much fun if he puts in so many hours at the nursery.”
Pandora’s mouth curle
d. “He swears we’ll leave every year, but then there’s the spring planting season, and the fall planting season, and the rush at the beginning of the summer, and the rush before Christmas. ‘One more year’ is his mantra. I’ve heard that for a bloody decade!”
Nattie had told me that the nursery did well, but Pandora was talking big bucks. It didn’t sound like the family members were scraping by on their shares of the profit. They did have expensive cars: Charles’s new Cadillac, the Mercedes, the Mustang convertible. The sleek, cocoa-colored Jaguar parked on the far side of the yard had not come from a used car lot in Maxwell County. Pandora’s kimono had been hand-embroidered with silk. I hadn’t realized that holly berries were worth their weight in dollars. Living in a duplex does not require extensive expertise in landscaping. Weeds bewilder me, and grass is grass.
“I need water,” Pandora said suddenly. “Don’t say anything to Ethan about last night, and I’ll bake you some brownies.” She struggled to her feet in preparation to escape my stare.
I had principles, but one of them involved using whatever worked. In this case, blackmail would do nicely. “Wait a minute, Pandy,” I said, laying emphasis on her alias. “I’ll agree to forget about the Devil’s Roost and Zeppo, but you have to give me something more helpful than a vague promise of brownies. Don’t bother to offer me a little plastic bag of pot. My husband’s a cop, and he might ask me where I got it.”
“What do you want? I can have the children’s bags packed in three minutes. You can deliver them to whatever agency will take them. I can tell Ethan they’re hibernating under the house. He won’t care.”
I do not hold grudges, but I was still rankled by her attitude in the library. “Let’s start with Winston’s death. Tell me what you know.”