Death of a Gardener (Book 3 Molly Masters Mysteries)

by Leslie O'Kane

  I steeled myself and managed to look through a clear portion of the driver-side window. Alex was slumped forward against the steering wheel. His right hand still gripped the pistol. I shut my eyes and turned my face away. Over the sound of the Fenders’ idling engine, Bob’s steps crunched gravel as he rounded his car toward me.

  “He’s dead,” I murmured. “Let’s go get the police.”

  “Shot himself in the head,” Bob said calmly, clicking his tongue. He gently guided me aside and opened Alex’s door.

  Questions whirled through my dazed brain. Was Bob about to grab Alex’s gun? What were he and Betsy doing out here in the first place? How could he act so blase in the face of such a grisly scene?

  Perhaps Bob sensed my puzzlement, for he said, “I was in Nam.” Then he placed three fingers on the side of Alex’s neck and said, “Dead. Probably instantaneous.” He shut the door with his foot, then yanked out his shirt-tail and wiped the door handle. Then he turned and studied my face. Before I could ask why he was removing his fingerprints from Alex’s car, Bob asked, “Are you going to throw up? If so, this would be a better place to do it than in my car.”

  “Bob!” Betsy’s voice trilled through her still-open window. “Don’t be rude! Molly is perfectly welcome to vomit in our car if she wants to. I’ve got a bucket she can use.”

  “Sorry, Molly,” Bob muttered while tucking in his shirt.

  “Let’s get you some help.”

  “Come on, dear,” Betsy said, pushing her door open for me from inside and patting the seat. In the meantime, Bob ushered me into their car and shut the door behind me. He didn’t wipe away his prints from his own vehicle, I noticed, so he wasn’t simply a neat-freak.

  My body shivered despite the heat. While Bob got back into the driver seat, Betsy wordlessly wrapped a dusty afghan with purple and blue yarn around me. Then she reached into the backseat once again and plopped a shiny silver bedpan onto my lap. “Just in case,” she said gently.

  The logic behind their driving around with a bedpan in the backseat was something I truly didn’t want to examine too closely.

  “I’m not going to need this,” I assured Betsy, moving my hands behind me to get as far away from the germy thing on my lap as possible. I eyed my seat belt, but decided that auto safety was the least of my concerns.

  “You sure about that?” Bob asked, peering over the top of his frames at me. I nodded, and as he started the engine, Betsy swept the pan off my lap and stashed it behind us.

  Now what? What were these crazy people doing out here, unless they were somehow involved in the crime? Were they going to take me to a police station? If so, why had Bob wiped away his fingerprints? At the very least, the police would find it suspicious that Alex had managed to get into the car without leaving any prints on the handle. “Thank you for helping me,” I said by way of encouragement. My teeth were chattering. I tightened the blanket around me.

  “Well, we weren’t busy, and it was a nice day for a drive,” Bob replied and backed up the car.

  As Bob negotiated a K-turn, Betsy asked me, “Aren’t you going to ask what we were doing out here in the middle of no place?”

  “I was warming up to it.”

  “We’d just pulled into the parking lot of the store,” Betsy explained, her features animated, “when we saw you getting into the car, and it looked like he was forcing you to go with him. Then this tall, elderly woman ran outside with a store employee and was gesturing at the car and shouting something about you being kidnapped, so we took off after you.”

  Bob drove us up the hill, and I spotted a farmhouse in the distance. I returned my focus to Betsy. “But I didn’t see—”

  “We got a late start and gambled on which way you went.” She smiled and laid her hand on my arm. “You are such a lucky person, Molly. There were three major intersections by the time you get to Route Nine and your odds were only one in eight.”

  “One in seven,” Bob corrected. “We knew the driver hadn’t pulled a U-turn.” He pointed with his chin at the farmhouse, which was just up ahead and down a long driveway. “There’s a couple of vehicles in the garage.”

  To my great relief, he slowed the car as if to turn into the driveway. Instead, he pulled onto the shoulder of the road and stopped.

  In the meantime, Betsy continued, “We picked up the trail on Route Nine, but lost you, momentarily, on that last turn. We doubled back and eventually found you.”

  “I’m grateful, but we need to—”

  Bob interrupted sternly, “You can’t tell the police who gave you the ride.”

  “Why not?”

  Bob merely tightened his lips—what little of them showed behind his big, bushy mustache.

  Betsy sighed. “We’re ...Bob....” She stopped and faced her husband.

  “I am withholding my tax payments for ethical reasons,” Bob said, holding his chin high.

  “Bob hasn’t paid taxes for the last ten years. ‘Fender’ is actually my maiden name. We use pseudonyms for our official dealings. So, you see, we don’t want Bob’s name on some police report.”

  The most important thing here, I mentally urged myself, was to Get Out Of This Car. I opened the door and started to rise, still protesting, “But I’m going to have a hard time explaining how—”

  “Good-bye. Good luck.” Betsy reached out and snatched the afghan from me, then thrust my purse into my arms.

  “I hope these people are home.”

  “Uh, I should warn you. I already told an “Officer your name. Yesterday, when the officer came to my door as you were leaving.”

  The Fenders exchanged alarmed glances. “Sounds like it’s time we moved on,” Bob muttered through his mustache.

  “We were thinking about Florida.” Betsy shut the door with a solid thunk and gave me a smile through the open window. “Maybe we’ll look you up down there.”

  They drove off. I watched them in stunned silence, then finally willed my feet to move. At least, whatever happened from here on, the Fenders were out of my life.

  With the horrendous day I was having, that was truly something to celebrate.

  Where was my purse?! I had left it Arnold’s car. It held my cellphone.

  Judging by design and condition, the farmhouse appeared to be a couple of hundred years old and had faded red paint with white trim. As I made my way down the driveway, I wondered whether I was about to face Lassie’s family or, with my luck, an ax murderer. The screen door creaked open, and a huge woman with a hawk-shaped nose glared down at me with crossed arms. I gulped. It was the latter.

  “If you’re sellin’ something,” she hollered, “the answer’s no, so you might as well turn around right there.”

  “I’m not. There’s been a terrible accident.” I gestured haphazardly. “A mile down the road. A man is dead. I need to call the police.”

  In an unexpected and disarming flurry of motion, she charged down the porch steps, grabbed my arm, and hustled me into the house so fast I’m not sure my• feet touched the ground. Furious activity continued for the next several minutes. My brain was too sluggish from my state of shock to keep up. On some sort of intercom, she radioed someone—her husband, perhaps—then put a phone in my hand, which she’d already dialed; I told a police dispatcher my story. Then, next thing I knew I was seated at a table with a soup spoon in my hand, a bowl of homemade chicken soup in front of me along with an entire loaf of fresh-baked corn bread, and a pitcher of lemonade.

  My stomach was clenched into a tight knot, and though the soup and corn bread smelled delicious, I couldn’t eat a bite. I tried to explain, but the woman clicked her tongue. “Look at you. You’re half starved to death. Now you eat something, ‘fore you fall over.”

  . “First I need to call my mother and let her know I’m all right.”

  “You let me make the call.” She pointed a chubby finger at me. “Meanwhile, you eat. Now what’s the number and your mama’s name?”

  Resignedly, I started force-feeding mys
elf, all the while wondering whether anyone else on the planet was having as bizarre a day as this. Soon the woman was saying on the phone, “Don’t you ever feed your child? She’s all skin and bones!”

  I pleaded with her to give me the phone. The receiver had one of those snaking, twenty-foot cords that had become obsolete with the advent of portable phones. She finally stretched the cord the length of her kitchen and handed me the receiver.

  “Mom?”

  “Thank God. The police insisted we wait here in case someone called. Are you all right? Where on earth are you? Did that kidnapper force you to check into an eating-disorders clinic?”

  “No, no. I’m in a house, out north of ours in the country. I’m fine. He let me go and—” Already, I could hear sirens outside. “Here come the police now.”

  “You tell that woman that you’re not skinny, just small boned! Better yet, tell me where you are and I’ll come get you.”

  There was a knock on the door and some deep-voiced officer began to speak to my food Nazi.

  “I don’t know where I am. Mom, but don’t worry. I’ll get a ride home from the police.”

  “When?”

  “Ma’am?” the officer said to me. I recognized him from the day before. He’d been one of the officers with the tape measure.

  I held up a finger to indicate to the officer I’d be off in a moment and said to my mother, “I don’t know. Tell the kids I—”

  The woman snatched the phone away from me. “She needs to speak to the police now,” she told my mother. “You feed her a good meal when she gets home.” She crossed the room and slammed the receiver into its cradle. “Can you tell me what happened?” the policeman asked me gently.

  At this point, I yearned for a nice, safe, padded room all to myself. “Couldn’t I come with you to the police station and tell you there?”

  Mercifully, the officer smiled at me, said, “Sure,” and helped me to my feet. I collected my purse from where it hung on the back of my chair.

  I murmured thanks to the woman and headed out the door with the officer. As I got into the backseat of the patrol car, the woman hollered, “Wait,” from the porch and soon puffed her way down the stairs with a grocery bag clutched against her enormous bosom. She shoved the bag into the seat next to me, wagged her finger through the window at me, and said, “It’s your leftovers. You eat every bite of this.”

  I nodded and smiled wanly at the woman. If she had owned Lassie, the collie would have been dragging her tummy on the ground en route to rescuing Timmy.

  After what seemed like many hours—though, according to my watch, it was just over two—I had reunited with my children, mother, and husband, who had come to the police station to meet me. Upon my urging, they’d returned to Mom’s house so that I could finish giving my statement. During the process, Tommy had shown me a picture of Alex Raleigh, which the LAPD had faxed upon request. Alex had told me the truth about his identity. I felt certain that, eventually, authorities would trace the death of Frank Worscheim’s accomplice back to Alex.

  Now, I was alone in Tommy’s office, awaiting his return. He had told me he had something important to discuss with me before I could leave.

  He was smiling as he opened the door and took a seat behind his cluttered desk. “Got great news for you, Moll. It’s all over. We got a search warrant and seized that diamond bracelet from Sheila Lillydale. Sure enough, it was hot. Got her in custody even as we speak.”

  “Did she confess to murdering Mr. Helen and Simon Smith?”

  “Not yet. She will, though.” He leaned back in his chair and bore an expression of utter satisfaction. “She blew it. Asked how we’d gotten hold of her letters. We played along, and it turns out she’s got a stack of Worscheim’s love letters in her office, datin’ back five years now. Already got hold of her phone records. She had a batch of calls between her office and the apartment Worscheim rented after sellin’ you your house.”

  “So you think he dumped her, and she killed him?”

  Tommy nodded. “The coward did it in a letter. Wrote to her and said it was over—that she was too possessive, and he’d decided to move on.”

  Something was wrong with the theory, but my brain was too scrambled at the moment to figure out what. “And you think she’ll confess eventually?”

  Again, Tommy nodded. “She’s all shook up. She’s not used to bein’ on the other side of the law, and she keeps insisting she’s gonna act as her own attorney.”

  “What about her husband, Roger? Have you talked to him yet?”

  “Yep. Said he knew ‘bout her affair all along. He’s willing to testify against her, so it’s gonna be pretty cut­’n’-dried.”

  “And you’re sure he wasn’t involved, too?”

  “Yep.” He rose, the self-satisfied grin never leaving his. face. “Rock solid alibi. We placed him in Boston at the time of the shooting.”

  “What about Simon Smith’s death? Do you still think that was an accident?”

  “If not, we’ll get the scoop from Ms. Lillydale. She may fancy herself as a savvy lawyer, but believe me, Molly, she’s actin’ like a scared little girl now.”

  “And what about Bob and Betsy Fender?”

  “Put out an APB, but they’re prob’ly halfway out of the state by now.” His smile faded as he eyed me. “Sure would’ve helped if you’d gotten their license plate.”

  That had been a foolish oversight on my part, which already didn’t sit well with me. Automatically, I launched into an offensive. “What is it with you policemen and license plates? Does it relate back to that guy thing you’ve got with cars? Don’t you have any means of catching crooks, other than by their license plates?”

  The muscles in Tommy’s jaw tightened. Then he rubbed his palms together. “What say we get you home?”

  Tommy drove me in his squad car. We made the short drive to my parents’ house in silence. I was impatient with the niggling worry that seemed to creep along my spine. The case was solved. Sheila had murdered her spurned lover and her handpicked spy for exactly the reasons that I’d already surmised. There was no justification whatsoever for the feeling that tugged at me—the feeling that I was still in danger.

  Karen and Nathan gave me big hugs when I arrived, and I felt overjoyed to be home safe with them. My mother gave me a hug as well, and Jim kissed me and held me in his arms for a long embrace. Then he shook Tommy’s hand, and they moved to the corner. I could hear Tommy explaining how they had Sheila in custody and that everything was over.

  “Guess what, Mom?” Karen said. “Greenie, Brownie, and Biggie are all frogs now! They hopped out of the bowl! Nathan had to catch them.”

  “Biggie got into Grandma’s room,” Nathan said.

  “That’s ‘cuz Nathan took him there and let him loose,” Karen interjected.

  “I did not! It was an accident!”

  Their argument continued as we thanked Tommy and he left. I looked at my mother and asked the question I’d asked myself a thousand times in the last couple of months. “Why frogs, Mom?”

  She straightened and said, “It is one of my great pleasures in life to give my grandchildren gifts that I would never give to my own children. After all.my years as a parent, I’ve earned that privilege.” I had no ready response, but Mom quickly continued, “Jim and I were talking. I convinced him that you two should celebrate. Have a romantic dinner out.”

  Jim grinned. “I already made our reservations. At Bixby’s.”

  “But what about—”

  “The kids will be fine with me for a few hours,” my mother interrupted. “You can have a nice, relaxing dinner for two, and I’ll take the kids out for pizza.”

  That did sound like a good idea. I looked at the children, who had finally grown quiet so as to eavesdrop on our conversation. “Is that okay with you guys?”

  “Sure,” Karen said. “But, Mom, Nathan wants to keep Brownie in his room! And that’s not—”

  “We’re not going to take those frogs back hom
e if you two keep arguing about them,” Jim said firmly.

  Nathan and Karen locked eyes. “I think Littley, Biggie, Greenie, and Brownie, Freckles, and George like it here,” Nathan said.

  Mom winced.

  “Maybe they should stay here for good,” I suggested, giving my mother a vengeful grin. “You and Karen can come visit and feed them every day.”

  “Your grandpa is coming home the day after tomorrow. He’s not going to like having all these frogs in the house,” she countered to the children.

  “But they think of this as their home,” I quickly asserted. “And besides, we’re leaving for summer vacation soon, and we’ll need you to watch them then anyway.”

  Mom met my eyes, pursed her lips momentarily, then bent down to face Karen and Nathan. “Tell you what. Let’s go set the frogs free in the pond, and I’ll give each of you a crisp five-dollar bill as a reward.”

  Nathan pondered this for about a half second, then said happily, “Okay.”

  Karen stomped her foot. “That’s not fair! They were my frogs to begin with, so why should Nathan get money for setting my birthday present free?”

  Mom tousled Karen’s hair and said, “I’ll get you another gift to even things out. What do you say?”

  “Well,” Karen said slowly, “all right.” Mom straightened and winked at me.

  Another gift from Grandma? What now? A Revco Turn-Your-Den-into-a-Butterfly-Pavilion Kit? I fought an involuntary shudder, and Jim and I exchanged worried glances.

  While Mom took kids and frogs to the pond, Jim and I packed. We decided to load up my car so we could just drop it off at home and take Jim’s to the restaurant. Our escape was somewhat slowed when I discovered Jim had packed up my all-in-one printer, and I had to convince him to put it back until I’d had a chance to talk to the phone company and switch its phone number again. However, we were all set to go by the time the rest of the family returned frogless. I gave the kids hugs and big kisses and told them to enjoy their pizza. Jim gave them hugs and told them to “be good for Grandma.”