Death of a Gardener (Book 3 Molly Masters Mysteries)

by Leslie O'Kane

  As we were getting into our cars, Jim announced that he was going to fill the tank, and he’d meet me at the house. This was one of Jim’s quirks that I tolerate, but don’t understand. I’ve asked him on several occasions, “Doesn’t it make more sense to get gas while you’re driving past the station than to make a special trip?” He always has some answer about how he likes to wash up immediately afterward so his hands won’t smell like gasoline. And he wonders where our son gets his eccentricities.

  I pulled into our garage, grabbed an armload of clothes, and went inside. The house needed to be aired out. I kept the front door locked, but opened a couple of windows. I zipped through the house, opening all of the doors, checking the condition of each room. Everything was exactly as we’d left it.

  I still felt on edge. Would I ever feel safe alone in this house again? I wanted to take a shower and change my clothes, but couldn’t as much as bring myself to undress for visions of undetected hidden cameras.

  To help myself relax, I headed back downstairs, sat down at the kitchen table, and flipped though drawing pad. I returned to a sketch a couple of weeks old that I’d left unfinished. My pencil lines merely needed to be inked, which was all the challenge I was up for at the moment.

  Most of the time the humor in my cartoons is conceptual—the humor lies in the gag itself, instead of the drawing. That’s because I’m a self-taught artist. My college degree was in journalism, not art. This time, though, the humor was in the artwork. The drawing was seen from the floor, looking up. To get the perspective correct while creating this one, I’d lain on the floor with my pad held over my head.

  The foreground shows a pair of elderly women’s legs sticking up in the air. In the background, a woman sits on a couch, curlers in her hair, her brow furrowed, her vision focused on her nails as she gives herself a manicure. The woman yells, “Junior! If I told you once, I told you a thousand times! Don’t leave your marbles all over the floor! Now get in here and pick up your grandmother this instant!”

  I stared at the drawing as my thoughts tumbled. The cartoon reminded me of Tommy’s investigation—all the evidence, like the marbles, laid out so clearly.

  I heard a noise at the front door that sounded as if someone was rattling the knob. It was odd that Jim was using the front door. He normally came in through the garage.

  “It’s locked, Jim,” I called. “Just a minute.”

  “Don’t bother,” came the answer.

  Was I just being paranoid, or was that voice nothing like Jim’s? Worried, I rose.

  I made it only as far as the entrance to the living room before there was a loud bang and the front door flew open, careening on its hinges.

  Roger had kicked it in. Before I could even scream, he was through the door.

  He aimed a rifle at me and said, “Surprise. You lose.”

  Chapter 19

  Well. There Goes the Neighborhood.

  My shock at seeing an armed Roger burst into my house was instantly overtaken by feelings of rage rather than fear. In the past eight hours I’d been kidnapped in front of my mother and children, witnessed a suicide, was force- fed by a fat farmer, rescued and reassured that the culprit was under arrest, only to find myself staring down the barrel of a rifle.

  Yet my rational mother side was screaming at me: This is nuts! He’s stronger than you and he’s got a gun! Stay calm. Keep him talking till Jim arrives.

  “You were in on it, weren’t you?” I said through clenched teeth.

  “In on it?” He snorted. “Hell. It was my idea.” Roger smirked as he managed to shove the door shut behind him despite its damaged hinges. There went my hope of a passerby spotting Roger with his rifle, or even our broken front door. “I knew what my little wifey and her cross-dressing lover were up to.”

  “You’d hired Simon to spy on them.”

  “I needed Simon to get me some evidence as leverage.” He gestured with the rifle for me to back up. “You—”

  “Leverage?” I repeated.

  “Yeah. To control Sheila with.” Again, he gestured at me with the barrel of the rifle. “Move it. We’re going into your attic.”

  Good Lord! Did he think Mr. Helen had hidden more diamonds there? “My attic? Why? There’s nothing up there but my television antenna.”

  “Let’s go!” Roger shouted. “I don’t have to explain anything to you. I’m the one with the gun, you moron!”

  Point taken. This was a man who’d killed once and would kill again. Oh, dear God. Any moment now, Jim would walk in, unarmed and utterly unaware. Roger would shoot us both.

  Stop it! If I let myself panic, it was all over. With two of us, we might be able to gang up on him. I had to hold on to that hope-to battle the urge to fall to my knees and beg Roger to leave me and my family alone.

  My legs felt wobbly. My heart was racing. I had to force myself to breathe slowly. I led the way upstairs, choosing not to point out to him that we would need a ladder. “I don’t understand what my attic has to do with any of this.”

  “Sheila told me there’s a load of cash up there. It’s bad enough I lost out on the diamonds. I’m sure as hell not leaving town without the money.”

  “She’s lying to you,” I told him, turning to meet his eyes. He looked deranged and terrifying. His dark hair was damp with sweat. His body was so tense he seemed ready to strike me if I so much as breathed wrong. No way did I want to be in our grotesque little attic with Roger and a loaded gun when he learned. his neurotic wife had sent him on a wild-goose chase.

  I could come up with only two reasons why he hadn’t already shot me. He either wanted to take me hostage, or he wanted to stash my body in the attic and knew it would be easier for me to climb up there than for him to carry me. “Roger, I spent a good half hour in the attic when Jim and I installed the antenna. It’s empty.”

  He shook his head. “The money’s there, underneath the insulation. I found out about it months ago on one of Simon’s recordings.”

  He gestured with his chin at the small rectangle of walnut-stained trim in the ceiling. “That’s your only access to the attic?”

  “Yes.” I had to do something. He was still directly in front of the top step. I could knock him down the stairs. After which he’d shoot me. “What about your son? What about Ben? You can’t—”

  “He’ll be fine. He’s-coming with me.”

  Coming with him where? Did he hope to uncover vast sums of money and move to Mexico with his son? Roger poked at the attic opening with the barrel of the rifle. “Urn, Roger?” I asked in a near whisper. “Frank Worscheim knew Simon was spying on him. That’s why he put duct tape over the camera lenses when he was trying to dig up the diamonds. Maybe he and Sheila staged the conversation for your benefit, and there’s no money.”

  Roger shook his head. “Worscheim thought Simon was working for some guy back in L.A. who’d shot his partner. Sheila and Worscheim had no idea Simon was working for me .”

  So Frank Worscheim thought Alex Raleigh had located him and had hired Simon to keep an eye on him. That must have been why Worscheim abruptly moved and sold the house. Unfortunately for almost all concerned, the hiding place he’d selected meant the diamonds were trapped until spring thaw, well after we’d purchased our new home.

  Roger gestured at the attic entrance. “Don’t you have one of those pull-down stairs?”

  I ignored the question and asked, “What makes you think he wouldn’t take the money out of the attic before selling the house?”

  He glared at me. “Where’s your ladder?”

  “In the garage.”

  There had to be a weapon of some sort lying around our messy garage. Nothing that could match Roger’s firepower, though. Where was Jim? How much longer could I stall?

  I moved past Roger onto the stairs, then grabbed the banister and turned back toward him. “Could you please explain one thing to me? How did you shoot Frank Worscheim when the police were sure you were in Boston?”

  “I didn’t.
Sheila shot him.” He patted the rifle. “Hell, this is her gun. She’s a sharpshooter.” He chuckled. “It’s a shame, really. I’m never gonna get to tell anyone about how I pulled off the perfect murder. Now, let’s go.”

  By my way of thinking, the only “perfect murder” was one you didn’t actually commit. Since Sheila shot Mr. Helen, that meant Roger had convinced her to do it. She was an insanely jealous woman. Roger must have used that against her. “You forged a Dear John letter from Frank Worscheim to Sheila,” I said.

  He froze and gaped at me. “How did you know that?”

  “You convinced her that Frank was dumping her for someone else, and that the two of you would split the proceeds when she...got rid of him.”

  He grinned. A trickle of sweat was dripping down the side of his face. His eyes looked wild. “All it took was a few doctored recordings and the one letter. You’re very bright, Molly.” Again, he lifted his gun. “Too bad you’re too smart for your own good.”

  He was aiming the rifle right at my heart. Maybe Roger wasn’t the sort of person who could pull a trigger himself. Maybe that was why he was keeping me alive. The concept gave me a glimmer of hope.

  “Oh, believe me,” I said in as obsequious tones as I could muster while petrified with fear, “I’m not as smart as you are. I can’t figure out how you did it. How you managed to be in Boston and get Sheila to shoot him right as he was digging up the diamonds.”

  “I’d bugged Simon’s phone and had Sheila keep watch. Worscheim had told Sheila precisely how he was going to lure Simon out of the house. Meanwhile, I stayed in Boston until it was over.”

  He paused and grimaced. “But she screwed up. She was supposed to wait till he actually dug up the diamonds. Then we were going to divide the spoils and go our separate ways. She shot him too early. Says she got overanxious.”

  “But how did you know that she wasn’t just going to confront Frank with the letter and—”

  “I know my wife, okay? Now let’s go get that ladder and get this over with.”

  My mind worked feverishly, trying to put the pieces together in hope that some item of knowledge could help me. That was Roger I’d seen on the surveillance tape, digging up my yard. Maybe Tommy was scanning those DVDs right at this moment, would recognize Roger, and charge over here. Grasping at straws was better than nothing.

  I walked down the stairs as slowly as I could. All the while, a desperate urge to bolt threatened to overwhelm me. The prospect of my getting shot in the back was far too likely. “What do you hope to gain by taking me as a hostage?”

  “A hostage?” He snorted. “You. wish. If the police catch me, I’m in no more trouble for committing two murders than one. It’s only a matter of time till Sheila blabs. She knows I pushed Simon’s ladder into the power lines. So I’m hiding your car and stashing your body in the attic. By the time anyone thinks to look there, I’ll be safe in South America.”

  Now I was scared. If I climbed into the attic, I was dead. My escape was now or never.

  My stomach was in knots as I led the way into the garage. Where the hell was Jim! This was so like him. Right about now he was probably helping the gas station attendant fix his cash register.

  I’d left the garage door wide open when I drove in.

  Maybe I could scream for help. But that would likely be my last act.

  The hinge squeaked as I entered the garage through the heavy wooden door. Roger again aimed the rifle at me, staying inside the house himself. “Keep your mouth shut and close the outer door. You know how nosy everyone around here is.”

  I was trembling and ready to faint. Weapons. Dear God, let there be a weapon. I scanned the immediate area as I pressed the button to shut the door. The coffee can. It had turpentine in it for cleaning my paint brushes. It was right next to my foot. All I would need was a momentary distraction, long enough for me to pop the plastic lid.

  As the door slowly lowered, Roger stepped into the garage beside me. “Okay. You get the ladder off the hooks and—”

  The garage door started to open. Jim was coming home. Roger looked at the door. “What the—”

  In a flash, I grabbed the can, flung the lid off, and splashed it in his face. He screamed and covered his eyes.

  The rifle fired, shattering a window of my Toyota. The noise was deafening. I couldn’t hear my own scream. Planning to dive under. the door as it shut behind me, I stabbed at the button for the door, then snatched the rifle with both hands.

  Even with one hand, Roger’s hold was too tight. He wrenched it away from me as if I were a child grabbing at a candy bar.

  “My eyes!” Blindly, Roger cocked the rifle. “I’m gonna—”

  The half-open door began to rise again. Jim was still trying to get in. I kicked Roger as hard as I could and took off toward the driveway.

  I dove under the door and yelled, “Roger’s got a gun!”

  Jim’s expression changed from surprise to rage in an instant. He floored the accelerator. I whirled and watched in horror as the Jeep zoomed into the garage, right where Roger had stood. Almost simultaneously, there was a squeal of brakes and a sickening thud.

  Roger was moaning as I raced inside. The rifle had careened off the hood of the Jeep and skidded under my Toyota, I snatched the rifle as Jim got out and dashed to the front of his Jeep.

  “Help me,” Roger groaned. “I think my legs are broken.”

  “Good,” Jim said. “Stay put.”

  I aimed the rifle at Roger to reinforce Jim’s instructions. Roger’s once-handsome face, now contorted with anger and pain, turned to me, his eyes bloodied slits. “I’ll get you for this!”

  “Shut up!” Jim snarled at him.

  Just then, I heard a gasp and turned to see Joanne Abbott gaping from my driveway.

  “Oh, my God!” she cried. “Sheila was right about you!” She turned and started to run, as if she thought I were a killer.

  “Call nine-one-one,” I called after her.

  Minutes later, my ears were still ringing as I sat on the couch beside Jim and gave my statement. My thoughts were in such turmoil, I probably spoke pure gibberish, but Tommy dutifully took notes.

  “These criminals had better learn not to mess with you all,” he said afterward.

  I said nothing, merely watched my hands tremble. No matter how many times I mentally assured myself everything finally was over—that the house was safe and we would soon get our lives back in order—my hands weren’t getting the message.

  I sighed and turned my vision to the bouquet of roses that Jim had brought me. Those roses, unbeknownst to either of us, had nearly cost me my life while he picked them out instead of rushing straight home from the gas station. This was one of those rare times when it really could have killed someone to be a little romantic.

  “Roger was right about one thing,” Tommy said. “Sheila was startin’ to talk about him. Told us she’d bought that poodle as a gift to Frank. Poor thing only lasted a day, till someone ran ‘im over. She said all along she’d blamed Frank for lettin’ the dog run around, but then she snarled; ‘Bet it was Roger,’”

  “She thought her husband deliberately ran over Frank’s pet?”

  Tommy shrugged. “She clammed up afterward.”

  Roger had told me the dog belonged to Frank Worscheim’s brother, and that Frank had run over it. Now that it was clear Roger had surreptitiously known all along about Sheila’s relationship with Mr. Helen, I suspected Sheila’s version was the truth, though Frank had used the poodle’s body as a subterfuge.

  “What’s going to happen to Roger’s son, Ben?” I asked.

  Tommy frowned. “He’s with social services for the time bein’. Roger has a big family, and we’re tryin’ to locate the boy’s biological mother.” I sighed, and Jim gave my shoulders a squeeze as Tommy continued, “Look at it this way. The sooner the boy’s away from his dad and stepmom, the better.”

  The baby-faced officer came through the front door. He glanced at the three of us and anno
unced, “The EMTs said both of Mr. Lillydale’s legs were broken, but that was it.”

  “Lucky for him,” Jim murmured.

  I nodded. It would have been fine with me if every bone in Roger’s body had been broken. He got off easier than that poor, defenseless poodle.

  Another officer, soaked with sweat, came down- the stairs, lowering the white mask that covered his mouth and nose. He was covered with gray dust and cobwebs and pink puffs of fiberglass. A cloud of debris seemed to follow him. “Whew. Hot up there.” He waggled his thumb over his shoulder and looked at Jim and me. “I just tore up the last of your insulation. There’s nothing there.”

  “Drat,” I said. “And here I was hoping to play finders-keepers.”

  Lauren flung open our screen door and rushed into the room, her cheeks flushed. “I just now heard about the arrest over the police scanner. Is everything all right?”

  “Yep,” Tommy said, rising and slipping his cap into the permanent dent in his hair. “Where’s Rachel?”

  “Jasper and Joey are watching her.” She turned her attention to me. “Are you all right, Molly?”

  Lauren’s eyes were full of concern, but mine were drawn to her left hand. “I’m fine, thanks. What was that blinding flash of light I saw?”

  Lauren giggled. “I wanted to tell you later, when things were calmer.” She held out her left hand. Her ring finger sported a large round-cut diamond. “I’m hoping you’ll be my matron of honor:”

  “It’s beautiful,” I told her. “And I’d be delighted to be in your wedding. Congratulations, Tommy.”

  Jim congratulated him, too, pumping Tommy’s hand vigorously. Then he gave Lauren a quick hug and kiss.

  Tommy left, explaining he had to head back to his office and get going on the paperwork. Though still numb with shock, we decided to walk Lauren home and stay at Mom’s with the children until the police were completely done spreading dust and bits of insulation through our house.