Death of a Gardener (Book 3 Molly Masters Mysteries)

by Leslie O'Kane

  “I don’t believe him. I demand to have this man arrested! He’s done all kinds of illegal things to me!”

  “Please, Mrs. Masters. Why don’t we just all sit down and have a calm discussion about this?”

  “I’m as calm as I care to be under the circumstances.” I pointed at Simon. “You still haven’t explained why you were spying on me!”

  “Wasn’t spying on you. Not ever.”

  “Then you were spying on Helen Raleigh. And you left the equipment there after we bought the place.”

  He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at me. With this expression on top of his wiry features, he looked like• a rattlesnake set to stick out his forked tongue at me. “I’ll go get the damn tapes.”

  “I’ll come with you and give you a hand,” Officer Dave said.

  Simon shook a knobby finger at me and demanded, “You stay put, young lady.” He led the way, mumbling to Dave, “Man’s got a right to....” His voice trailed off.

  As soon as the coast was clear, I returned to the living room and glanced around for something to smash the LED with. There was a sooty poker by the fireplace, but that seemed too extreme, considering a policeman was readily available to arrest me. Instead I reached underneath the coffee table, located the wire, and gave it a good yank. It held firm. A floorboard creaked upstairs. The men were returning. I rose and stuffed my hands in the pockets of my denim shorts.

  Officer Dave gave me a sympathetic, though helpless look as he returned carrying two DVR recordings. Simon slunk down the stairs a step behind him. He clicked his tongue and shook his head when he spotted me and realized I hadn’t “stayed put.”

  “Like I said,” Simon muttered. “All you can see is Helen covering the cameras. Then a couple of minutes later you hear the gunshot.”

  He had audio, too! What if he had a high-powered audio recorder aimed at my house? My inane daily conversations with my family might have been recorded and tittered at by this old coot! Every time I’d been a less-than-perfect mother, nagged, or whined, my words might have. been permanently recorded for all the ages. The thought made my stomach spin.

  “You have motion sensors that are triggered when anyone’s moving in our yard. Do you pick up our conversations as well?”

  Simon nodded. “Got all your conversation with Helen before the shooting. And you weren’t being very nice to her, by the way. Can’t hear a damn thing when you’re inside your house, though. ‘Less a window’s open.”

  “What a relief,” I snarled and gave him my most evil glare, but he seemed unaffected. “I insist you stop this invasion of my privacy this instant! I want that equipment dismantled!”

  He crossed his arms and set his jaw. He seemed to be proud of his contemptuous behavior.

  The officer looked absolutely lost, staring at the tapes in his hands as if searching for the answer to some multiple-choice test of correct police responses. “I’ll need to talk to the sergeant about this, Mr. Smith.” Though Dave had tried to deepen his voice to affect an authoritative presence, it just didn’t match the soft-cheeked face. He made his way back toward the foyer as he spoke, and we followed.

  “You do that,” Simon answered. “The cameras are aimed at the yard, not at the windows, and they’re there just to make sure my fence is secure. I’m not doing a damn thing that’s illegal.” He lifted his chin as he looked at me. “Not a damn thing.”

  The officer pushed out the squeaky screen door to the front porch and rapidly descended the steps as if in a great hurry to leave. I lagged behind, but wasn’t about to stay alone with Simon.

  “We’ll see what Sergeant Newton has to say about all of this. He’s a close personal friend of mine.” I brushed out the door, but turned on the front porch and leveled a finger at him. “Even if this somehow turns out to be legal, which I doubt, spying on your neighbors like this is reprehensible. “

  He shook his head. “Man’s got a right to do what he wants in his own home!”

  “So does woman and child, without being spied upon in the process! You should be ashamed of yourself.” I marched down the porch steps without waiting to assess Simon’s reaction. If he’d been one of my children; he would have had a quivering lip right about now. Too bad guilt trips don’t work as well on seventy-year-olds as they do on seven-year-olds.

  Halfway between our homes, I scanned his roofline, trying to spot the cameras. Along the underside of his roof at each corner were two domes of glass, not unattractive, which I’d always taken for some sort of over-head light. I’ d never seen them illuminate. Now I knew that was because they weren’t lights in the first place.

  Not only did I stick my tongue out at the nearest dome, but I gave Simon Smith’s camera the finger. I also toyed with the idea of throwing a rock. But I have a terrible arm and probably would have missed not just the camera, but the entire house.

  Once at home, I chastised myself. Giving one’s neighbor the finger is extraordinarily childish. There had to be a more mature way of handling this. I should have mooned him. Maybe I could send him a particularly nasty greeting card. That would surely bring him to his knees.

  The nastiest card I’d ever created was for a woman client who felt widowed by her husband’s attention to his computer. She had me design a card that showed a woman clinging to a rope by one hand. To the right of the drawing, an arrow indicated “Rope.” Then a second arrow indicated “End of Rope.” A third arrow pointed to the woman and was labeled “Me.” The caption below read, “We need to talk.”

  I eyed the Smith house through my window before picking up my phone. If he was going to listen in on this particular conversation, all the better. I’d give him an earful. I opened my window to make sure he could hear, then called the station house. Tommy was not in his office, and I got his voice mail. “Sergeant, it’s me,” I began, wanting to make it clear that Tommy and I were such good friends he would recognize my voice. Not that I would normally address my “good friend” as Sergeant. “We uncovered a major crime here. In fact, I’m quite certain this phone call is being recorded by the perpetrator; Simon Smith. And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he had a hand in Helen Raleigh’s murder. In any case, he is not a nice man. Plus, he’s a rotten neighbor. I don’t feel safe having my two little children living next door to such a despicable person. Who should be ashamed of himself.”

  I hung up and was now all the more determined to find Tommy and explain to him in person what was going on before he heard that message and drew incorrect conclusions about my sanity. Last night after we’d fetched Nathan’s pajamas and returned to my mother’s house, Tommy had remained on my property. That meant he had endured an inordinately long day. Playing a reasonable hunch, I locked up and headed to Lauren’s.

  Sherwood Forest, the unfortunate name of the subdivision in which we lived, was a truly attractive area that featured exceptionally nice, large, two-story homes and lush, well-manicured lawns-not counting mine. Most houses were colonial style, which was appropriate because some of the old farmhouses immediately outside the division were more than a hundred years old. The heat and humidity, however, only served to blot out my appreciation for the scenery and increase my indignation toward Simon as I walked.

  I glanced at my watch as I had to stride past my parents’ house to get to Lauren’s. The garage and front door were shut tight. Mom was still at the store, though she’d be returning in half an hour.

  Lauren’s house was nearly identical to my parents’, though it was a mirror image. Only the screen door was shut, but now that Tommy was essentially living there, I rang the doorbell and waited, instead of calling, “Hi, it’s me,” and letting myself in as I used to.

  Lauren was wearing sandals, black culottes, and a silk top the color of Dijon mustard. She grinned at me as she opened the door. “Uh-oh. You look ready to kill somebody. I hope it’s an enemy we have in common.”

  “No, but consider yourself lucky you don’t know him. Is Tommy here?”

  She led me to her dining r
oom. Tommy was eating an enormous breakfast of bacon, eggs, and fresh-baked muffins. Lauren pulled out a chair for me across from Tommy, handed me a buttered muffin, which had some sort of crunchy sugar-cinnamon globs on top, and left the room. I greeted Tommy, then took a bite. It was delicious. The globs reminded me of a Sara Lee crumb cake; warming those up in the microwave was as close to baking as I ever got myself.

  “Simon’s got all sorts of surveillance equipment trained on my property,” I said after my first swallow.

  “Uh-huh, Noticed what looked like cameras when I was checking the scene yesterday afternoon. They were covered up with duct tape, though.”

  “Yeah, that’s true. But they were covered up by the victim just prior to getting shot to death. So there goes the theory that she was just digging up her poodle.”

  He munched away at his breakfast, staring into space for a minute. Finally he shrugged. “Prob’ly so, but you never know. Maybe Helen didn’t want anyone spying while moving the remains.”

  “You think Helen wanted a private moment with a dead dog? Give me a break! She didn’t even own a dog. And so first, Helen ‘had to get Simon out of the house on a wild-goose chase. Then fetch the ladder and climb up it. Then put—”

  “Let me ask you this, Moll,” he interrupted. “S’pose you were Helen. S’pose you’d known about those cameras and, let’s say for the sake of argument, you’d asked him to take them down but he refused. What would you have done?”

  I’d probably borrow one of Tommy’s sons’ pellet guns and shoot out those “damned” cameras myself. This was not a good answer to give to a policeman, however. “I’m not sure.”

  He leaned back in his chair and eyed me. “Now, I know you pretty well, Moll. I can see you climbing up a ladder or two to cover ‘em up. Though you’d probably take a pick ax to ‘em instead.”

  “Maybe so; but—”

  “Know what else? Mr. Smith never worked for the CIA.. That’s just a story he concocted. He’s retired from the post office in downtown Boston.”

  Surprised, I took a moment to let this revelation sink in. “Are you sure?” Tommy nodded.

  Suddenly a sympathetic pang for Simon tugged at me. The man must have been desperately lonely to feel impelled to create a fictional personal history to give new neighbors.

  “Got some more news for you,” Tommy went on, “but you’re probably not gonna like hearing it.” Tommy shoveled some dripping eggs-over-easy into his mouth.

  I averted my eyes. It’s difficult to pay serious attention to someone who’s currently dribbling egg yolk.

  Through a mouthful of food, he muttered something along the lines of, “Think I got your shooter in custody as of five A.M. this morning.”

  “You arrested someone already?”

  He nodded and, thankfully, wiped his chin. “Got us a pair of hunters. Same kind of rifle as did in our Helen.”

  “Were they shooting in the vicinity of my house yesterday afternoon?”

  He nodded. “They were loaded to the gills. Doin’ whiskey shots as well as firin’ off the other kind. Havin’ themselves a regular twenty-four-hour party back there in them woods. It’s likely they were the culprits.”

  “Can you do a ballistics check on the bullet casing to see if it was fired from one of their guns?”

  Lauren, drying her hands on a dish towel, reentered the room. “Hey, Lauren. Hear that? Molly thinks I should test the rifles. Now, why didn’t I think of that?”

  Lauren, to my immense pleasure, glared at Tommy and said, “You need to get caught up on your sleep and stop sniping at our friends,”

  I gave Tommy a smug smile, which he pretended not to see.

  It suddenly occurred to me that Lauren should be at her office at Carlton High School by now. She worked mornings as secretary for the principal. “Aren’t you late for work?”

  She grinned. “I called in sick. Cough, cough.”

  “You’re playing hooky?”

  She swept up an empty cereal bowl near Tommy’ and turned on a heel to return to the kitchen. “This is the first day I’ve missed all year, and it’s the last week of school, so I’ll be done as of Friday anyway.”

  I returned my attention to Tommy. “None of this answers why Simon Smith has cameras surveying my yard twenty-four hours a day.”

  He gave me a one-shoulder shrug. Then he stood up, grabbing his last strips of bacon and two muffins as if he intended to eat those in the car. “Look at it from his viewpoint. Here’s a postman who’s got all his gullible neighbors believing he’s a retired CIA agent. Guy’s obviously off his rocker.”

  “But, Tommy, why would he zoom in on my house? And the former owner gets killed right tinder his nose. Doesn’t that sound like, at the very least, Mr. Smith might be guilty of considerably more than voyeurism?”

  “Check out the other side of his house sometime, Moll. Look for those dome-type lenses.”

  “More damn domes,” I grumbled to myself. “He’s got cameras on the Abbotts’ house as well?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I paused for a moment to digest this news. I wondered if Stan or Joanne were privy to this unsettling information. “But I didn’t see any TV sets in his ‘workshop’ showing anything from that side.”

  “Probably got those in a room on the other side of his home.”

  “He’s got some sort of audio hookup recording my conversations in my yard, too. Can I get this guy arrested, Tommy? Please say yes. There’s no way I’m putting up with this!”

  He shrugged. “Looked it up last night after spottin’ the cameras. Might make a case for aggravated harassment, so long as those cameras of his have a view inside your windows. Even so, we’d have to show he was usin’ the videos for sexual gratification or was able to witness you with, er, exposed body parts.”

  I grimaced, realizing now the significance of his claiming those cameras weren’t aimed at my windows. I should have mooned him after all!

  “Got a better chance at gettin’ him for eavesdropping,” Tommy continued. “Depending on what he’s doin’ with those audio recordings, he could be guilty of a Class Six Felony.”

  “What do you mean, ‘depending on what he’s doing’ with the tapes?”

  “It all hinges on his intent. For it to be a punishable ‘eavesdropping’ offense, he’s got to be sharin’ the contents of your private conversations with another person for financial gain, such as to aid or abet a crime, or conspiring to—”

  “What if he’s just recording us because he’s a nosy old coot?”

  “Then you’re out of luck.”

  Even if I let my imagination run wild, there was no scenario I could concoct in which Simon was sharing his audio recordings with someone else. Here’s a hundred bucks, Simon. Eavesdrop on the Masterses till you get me that hamburger-and-vegetable-soup recipe of Molly’s. The future of Western civilization depends on it! I let out a sigh of frustration as Tommy rounded the table and walked past me toward the front door. I followed him as we neared the entrance to the kitchen. “Have you discovered Helen’s true identity?” I asked.

  “Nope. ‘Sides, we’ve got an obligation to notify relatives ‘fore we let any names get out.”

  “Have you even figured out why Helen was disguised as a woman for the entire time he owned the house?”

  Lauren dropped a dish.

  Tommy pivoted and shot me a glare. Then he ran his hand through his red hair. “Helen Raleigh was a man? “ Lauren cried, rushing into the hallway.

  Tommy ignored her, but when she met my eyes I nodded enthusiastically, then asked Tommy, “Has someone come forward to claim the body?”

  “No. Ran a fingerprint check through AFIS, but nothing. Still don’t know who Helen is.”

  “But we do know somebody who could have been recording Helen’s every movement for the last two and a half years,” I said. “Under the circumstances, doesn’t that sound like you’ve got good legal cause to confiscate all of that equipment as evidence?”

  Tommy gri
nned broadly and winked at me. “Works for me. ‘Course, that’s not to say the judge’ll agree, but I’ll give it my best shot.”

  Good, I thought, glancing around for any signs of Tommy’s sons’ pellet gun. Then I won’t have to give those cameras my best shot.

  Chapter 6

  Check Condition of Remote Facts

  If I’d even remotely considered the notion of staying in my house while this shooting was being investigated, Simon Smith had sealed my fate. Call me a worrywart, but there was no way my family could remain in a house where a murder had occurred and a neighbor had video cameras and bugging devices trained on us.

  Egged on by the knowledge that my mother would return from the store soon and fear for my whereabouts, I jogged home and ordered call-forwarding, which would allow me automatically to receive my business calls at my parents’ number. Let’s see how well Simon’s cameras could pick up my family’s activities when we were living three blocks away.

  My fax machine rang as I was in the process of packing up the computer. I awaited the fax eagerly. Maybe they’d already decided to buy my cowboy-in-an-elevator cartoon.

  I was surprised when the display panel on my machine showed the fax had been sent by S. Smith. Could Simon have sent me a letter of apology? In defiance of the watched-pot-never-boils philosophy, I stood over my machine as it slowly chugged forth my printout. Curiously, the inch-wide margins were solid black and the message was handwritten. Before the mechanism could fully release the sheet of paper, I tugged it free and read:

  My Dear Mrs. Masters,

  You are messing in matters of no concern to you, at a terrible risk to your own and your family’s safety. I must urge you to stop this at once. You don’t know how dangerous the people involved in this are.

  I wish I could identify myself to you, but I am not in a position to do so. Please, heed my warning.

  LET DEAD DOGS LIE!

  Sign me:

  A Concerned Friend

  I rolled my eyes. Simon must have used magic marker to blacken the borders of his original document in attempt to cover up the margin text where my fax machine had printed the phone number and name of the sender. Unfortunately for him, the sender tag printed above his blacked-out margins. Plus, the transmission log for my machine would. have registered this information, even if his black margins had done the trick or I hadn’t been physically present to read his name on my display panel.