Death of a Gardener (Book 3 Molly Masters Mysteries)

by Leslie O'Kane

  This seemed too stupid an oversight for someone to make who was supposedly a retired postal clerk posing as a former spy. Maybe he really was a CIA agent after all.

  The last line of his fax: Let dead dogs lie ran through my brain long after I’d set the fax aside. Was that just a takeoff on the cliche about sleeping dogs? Or maybe “lie” meant tell a lie, as in: Let the dead poodle conceal the truth of what was really buried in my yard.

  I heard some loud engine noises outside and went out to investigate. Someone was out there with a Bobcat bulldozer pushing the dirt around. I waved at him, trying to get his attention, but he merely waved back. I ran up to him and shouted over the engine noise, “Excuse me. This is my house. What are you doing?”

  “The police sent me over here to fill up these holes again, ma’am.”

  I stepped back and watched as one of my tulip bulbs toppled into a hole. Four feet of dirt was dumped on top of it. That was going to have to be one heck of a long-stemmed flower. Would just the little petals peek out above ground level?

  Helen Raleigh, or whoever he really was, would roll over in his grave at the sight of his property in its current condition. Brown dirt was ground into the grass by tracks from the miniature bulldozer. How pathetic. The one time I ever actually tried to install a garden of my own, and it resulted in not only the destruction of my entire yard, but in someone’s death. This had to go down in the annals as one of the world’s worst gardening debacles.

  With the distinct, though predictable, feeling that someone was watching me, I turned and looked up at Simon’s white curtains. I caught just a glimpse of my wretched neighbor before he stepped away.

  That reminded me. Did Joanne Abbott have any idea she was being watched, too? I edged my way past Simon’s property, keeping a watch on the place. Every harmless detail of his property now struck me as a possible bugging device. If that was really a bird feeder hanging from the elm tree out front, why were no birds or squirrels eating from it? He had a lamppost placed a step or two in from the sidewalk. I studied it, prepared to “accidentally” disconnect anything that looked- suspicious. Though nothing leapt out at me as out of place, the petunias that hung from a peg a few inches below the bulb were in a “pot” that consisted of nothing more than a wire mesh. Now, if you choose to go through the considerable effort of raising and maintaining flowers, why hang them such that dirt and roots were the most prominent features? He might have wired the pot for sound. I couldn’t study them long enough to be certain. If I stayed near for too long, the flowers would detect my aura, curl up, and die.

  Just as Tommy Newton had forewarned, there were two more inverted domes on the opposite side of Simon’s house, one on each roof corner. Indeed, my property was not the only one Simon Smith was monitoring.

  I continued up Joanne’s front walkway, but kept an eye on Simon’s house. For the first time, I realized how odd it was that only Simon Smith had a cedar privacy fence that enclosed most of his property, boxing it in from one front corner of the house to the next. Everyone else in the neighborhood delineated the property lines of their large, sprawling lawns by an occasional split-rail fence or, more often, hedges or rosebushes.

  The Abbotts had a brass knocker with “Stan & Joanne” engraved in a looping scrawl. I loved door knockers—the little vibrations they sent through my fingertips, the resonant, solemn sound they made.

  Joanne Abbott came to the door. She was now wearing leather sandals and odd-looking ballooning apricot pants. Only her white T-shirt saved me from assuming she was on her way to the airport to tap a tambourine for Hare Krishna. I must have interrupted her from some sort of exercise routine, for her strong-featured face was damp with perspiration and her green eyes looked glassy.

  “Why, Molly,” she said with a slow smile, “what a pleasant surprise.”

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  “Oh, no. I just finished my morning’s Tae Kwon Do and was in the process of making myself some orange juice. Would you care for some?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  She smiled and led the way through her house. A baby grand piano, its natural wood grain polished to a perfect sheen, graced the living room. It was atop a full-size Oriental rug in rich red and black hues that protected the hardwood floor. In the area of dull but requisite small talk, I asked whether she played the piano. She said no, that her husband, Stan, was the musician in the family.

  I glanced into their dining room as we passed and spotted a gorgeous antique hutch filled with what looked at a distance like Waterford crystal. Not a mark or fingerprint anyplace. A pang of nostalgia hit me for those long-gone pre-child days when Jim and I could choose furniture based on its appearance, as opposed to its sturdiness or how well stains would blend with the fabric design.

  I followed her into the kitchen, where brass pots hung along one wall. This, in my opinion, ventured into the area of ostentatious display, As much as I loved brass, especially door knockers, those pots had obviously never been used even once. This was not unlike suspending a nice couch from the living-room ceiling and sitting on the one the cat used as a scratching post.

  To my delight, Joanne had a juice machine. The closest I came to making fresh-squeezed juice was when I squished the container to get the frozen concentrate out. Joanne tossed in the orange slices. A few whirs later, she handed me a glass. It was delicious. Joanne took a long sip, then asked, “Have they notified Helen’s relatives yet?”

  “No. They can’t seem to locate the next of kin.” That brought to mind a good question to ask her . “You lived near her for a couple of years, Who used to visit her?”

  “Nobody. Like I said, she was a recluse, just like Simon Smith.” She tilted her glass and began to gulp its contents.

  “Speaking of Simon, did you know he has surveillance cameras on your house?”

  She shot out a spray of juice. I winced and felt my cheeks warm with embarrassment. “I guess you didn’t. I’m sorry. I should have put that more tactfully.”

  She set down her glass.. “How do you know he’s got cameras on us?”

  “He’s got video cameras aimed at our house, too. In our case, the recordings are showing on TV s in a room he calls his workshop. The cameras are installed on each corner of the overhang of his roof.” I gestured at the window. “I’ll show you.” She parted the blue-and-white checkered curtains, and I pointed out the lenses.

  “This is an outrage! He can’t do this!”

  “Actually, according to the police sergeant, he can so long as the cameras don’t give him a view inside our windows.”

  “So what are we supposed to do? Just wave and smile at the camera every day?”

  “I’ve asked the police to look into getting a court order to seize the equipment as evidence in Helen Raleigh’s shooting. In the meantime, we might want to bring this up for discussion at the home-owners’ association meeting tomorrow night.”

  She smiled. “Bet we can stage a regular protest rally in front of Simon Smith’s house. And Sheila Lillydale is a lawyer. We can get her to serve him some legal papers. I can call her right now.”

  That reminded me of another area in which I wished to compare mental notes. Just as Joanne picked up her handset, I asked, “Have you been getting crackling noises on your phone line, by any chance?”

  She dropped the phone and peered down her considerable nose at me. “Yes, as a matter of fact. That’s been an ongoing problem for the last few weeks or so. Why?”

  “So have I. And Simon Smith has this setup in his workshop that he claims is just a phone tap of his own line.”

  Her eyes widened in alarm. “You think he’s bugging our phones, too?”

  She looked so upset at this notion I felt a bit of guilt for putting my unsubstantiated claim into her head. “I probably shouldn’t have said anything. It’s just something I’m worried about, but if he is listening in on our phone lines, the police will put a stop to it.”

  After further discussion and more
cajoling on my part, we decided that, since I had additional questions about my current situation, I would call Sheila Lillydale on both Joanne’s and my behalf. We exchanged hasty goodbyes, and I walked briskly back to my parents’ house.

  Not surprisingly, my mother was standing just a step away from the front door when I opened it. She had probably been pacing by the door. My mother was five inches taller than I, so it was easy to slip right into the role of subordinate child. She scolded me for not leaving a note to tell her where I was. “I hate to be meddlesome,” she went on, “but after all, someone was shot to death some three feet away from you. Any mother would be concerned under the circumstances.”

  “It was more than three feet. Plus, we were separated by a wall and tons of dirt, since I was in the basement. But you’re right. I should have left a note.”

  Mom pursed her lips. “No. That’s okay. You’ve been on your own for so many years now, you’re not used to reporting your whereabouts. I’ll just have to tell myself not to worry. Somehow.”

  I muttered more apologies, but having known the woman for thirty-six years, I had long since realized that if Mom wants to take the blame for something, sooner or later you had to let her. However, I did appease her by announcing that I had decided to keep the family out of our house until Helen Raleigh’s killer was in custody.

  Mom naturally assumed that meant we’d move back home and that she should “take the guest room, at least till your father gets home. After all, there’s only one of me and there’s two of you.”

  “No, no. Please. I like the guest room. It’s right next to the office, where I’ll have to put my fax machine anyway.”

  Mom parted her lips as if to protest, but then smiled. “Whatever makes you happy, dear. Can I do any laundry for you?”

  “No, thanks.” The rational side of my brain had to assure the emotional side that I was not, God forbid, reentering my childhood. I dashed downstairs.

  I grabbed the phone in the room that would once again become my temporary office headquarters. Using the number listed on the business card given to me yesterday, I called Sheila Lillydale. She answered on the first ring, saying melodically, “Sheila Lillydale speaking.”

  Hmm. Since no receptionist answered, Sheila’s practice must be very small, indeed. I told Sheila I wanted to hire her after all, that my yard was an unmitigated mess, and that Simon Smith had cameras on both my house and the Abbotts’ house.

  There was a pause. “You’re certain about the cameras?”

  “Yes. I was in his house earlier this morning and saw the television screens myself. Then I told the police about them, and the officer told me that Mr. Smith wasn’t necessarily breaking any laws. But there has to be something we can do to put a stop to this. Oh, and I think he’s listening to my phone conversations as well. That’s why I’m calling from a different phone now.”

  Again, there was a pause. “I think, under the circumstances, you and I had better have a face-to-face.”

  “I can come to your office.”

  “It’s almost lunchtime. Tell you what. Can you meet me at my house in twenty minutes?”

  I agreed, wolfed down a turkey sandwich and iced tea that Mom, bless her, had set out for me at my old spot at the cherry-wood dining table. I apologized to my mother yet again for eating and running, but assured her that I was simply going to speak to a lawyer down the street and would return in an hour. Just as I strode up Sheila’s walkway, she drove in, giving me a friendly wave. I cast a glance behind me at Simon Smith’s house, but if he was watching me right now, he was at least doing so subtly. I stared at his wooden mailbox, though. For an instant, it had seemed as though the goose’s eyes had followed me.

  On second glance, they were just painted black circles. Basic paranoia on my part.

  Sheila left her car in the driveway and let us in through her front door. Today she was wearing her long, dark brown hair down, instead of in’ its usual efficient bun, adorned by a pair of shining gold barrettes. I wondered if she consciously chose the bright red skirt suit she wore to make herself stand out in court despite her small stature.

  Sheila’s house was a nicely decorated tri-level. She led me to an office on the main level, which had a direct view through a bay window to Simon’s house across the street. When Sheila sat at her desk, I had no choice but to sit on the stuffed bench seat with my back to the window where Simon was probably aiming binoculars right about now.

  Before we could settle into a discussion of my legal concerns, I said, “I got the impression the other day that you and Helen were close. You must have been really sad when she moved out of the neighborhood.”

  Her thin eyebrows drew together. “I was shocked at the news. To be honest, though, Helen and I weren’t close.” Her dark eyes met mine. “I was actually relieved when Helen moved.”

  “You were?”

  “My husband and she were getting a little too friendly, if you know what I mean.”

  Under most circumstances, I would know exactly what she meant. But the thought of handsome Roger cheating on his stunning wife with homely, not to mention male , Mr. Helen was too bizarre for me to fathom. “Friendly ...as in romantically?”

  “I was afraid the two of them might be having an affair.” The expression on her pretty face was inscrutable, and her voice was matter-of-fact, as if she were merely reciting a bit of trivia. “It was a load off my mind when she finally moved. Though she was still in town, at least the two of them were no longer flaunting their affections for each other in front of my face.”

  This was simply too bizarre. What on earth was going on here? If Mr. Helen’s choice of wearing women’s clothing had simply been a lifestyle choice; could he have coincidentally found two men on the same cul-de-sac attracted to him? Or, if Roger and Mr. Helen weren’t having an affair, then what? What was Roger doing with Helen to lead his wife to conclude that they were lovers?

  To test Sheila’s reaction, I said, “I really don’t think your husband and Helen Raleigh were having an affair.”

  “Why? Because she was ugly? Looks aren’t everything, you know.”

  “Yes, I do know. In fact I’ve known that for a sizable portion of my life.” Again, I tried to read her expression, but couldn’t. Even her body language told me nothing. Her forearms were resting on the desk. No telltale fidgeting or shaking hands. It occurred to me that, as a lawyer, Sheila was used to keeping tight control on her emotions. “But, beyond that, there’s...Helen was rumored to have been a recluse. That she avoided everyone in the neighborhood.”

  “Everyone except Roger,” she said quietly.

  So, if that were true, Roger Lillydale was the best source of information about Mr. Helen. “Has Roger talked to the police yet? If he knew Helen at all, he might be able to help them locate her missing relatives.”

  “He’s out of town. A business trip. He’ll be gone for a couple of weeks.”

  “Does he even know about Helen’s death?”

  “Yes, I called him yesterday. He told me he intended to speak to the police about it immediately, since he knew Helen better than anyone in the neighborhood.” She tossed her shiny dark hair back from her shoulders with an angry flick of her wrist. This was the closest she’d come to an emotional display; not someone I would want to play cards with. “But enough about Helen and my husband. It’s time to get to the reason for your visit: Simon Smith’s snooping.”

  “Try saying that five times fast,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

  Sheila merely blinked.

  “How would you advise me to handle this? What type of law do you specialize in?”

  “Family law. That’s somewhat of a euphemism, though. Mostly divorces, actually. The destruction of families is my specialty.” For just a moment, pain was written all over her face.

  Uh-oh. Her husband’s out of town and she grimaces at the mention of divorce. “Yesterday I got the impression you handled murder cases.”

  “No, that was just to keep the police f
rom trampling all over your rights.”

  “As well as my lawn.”

  Sheila straightened and, returning to her officious tone of voice, said, “Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll have a conversation with Mr. Smith. I can threaten to bring him up on charges of both eavesdropping and aggravated harassment. Unless I badly miss my guess, he’ll be taking those cameras down before the home-owners’ meeting tomorrow night.”

  “That would be fine with me.”

  Sheila then told me how much she charged an hour. It was so high I nearly choked and asked her if she’d be willing to accept cartoons as payment. She was not amused, so I told her all I wanted her to do was draw up something that might intimidate Simon, but wouldn’t require more than two hours from start to finish. She agreed, studied me at length, then said, “I must admit that I haven’t been particularly friendly to you.”

  That was a tough one to respond to, because it was unflinchingly correct, yet she awaited my reply as if expecting me to let her off the hook. “That’s okay. After all, it’s not like you opened fire on my house or put up surveillance gear. My standards for being a good neighbor are lowering by the minute.”

  She averted her eyes and said wistfully, “This has been a difficult time for me. I’ve felt so isolated. Roger spends all of his time with his son.”

  “Are you Ben’s stepmother?”

  Sheila nodded. “His mother, Roger’s first wife, was a horrible woman. She left him years ago. Deserted him and the baby. I’m the only mother Ben has ever known. But still. It’s hard to step in, instantly become both a wife and a mother. If I’ve failed, it isn’t for lack of trying.” She paused and ran a hand through her hair. “That’s what was so difficult about having you move in across the street. You’re going for Mom-of-the-Year award. You seem to focus every ounce of yourself into your kids. I just can’t do that. And watching you made me feel like the wicked stepmother.”