Digging For Death

by Clemmons, Caroline

  “Must be why your complexion has remained so lovely.”

  On the other side of him, I said, “Steele, you are so full of it.”

  He only grinned as he stopped at the bottom of the steps and handed her off to me. “See you at the cemetery.”

  He and Winston hurried away to whatever detecting they had planned. Gigi and I walked the half block to our car, and Grandpa and Grandma followed us.

  When we reached the cemetery, we saw Rockwell money at work again. Instead of the usual lone awning for the family and close friends, there were three shelters ringing the open grave and all were filled with folding chairs. We found seats in one of the side tents where we had a good view of the bereaved family. Attendance had thinned out and there were far more than enough chairs for everyone.

  Kurt stood at one side of our awning, carefully observing mourners. Officer Winston watched from the other side of the casket. I wondered if they’d learned anything new today. I couldn’t say I had, other than Mr. Denby being a pallbearer and the Ormond family showing up at the last minute. The Ormonds had taken chairs on the second row under the family awning, but it appeared as if no conversation passed between them and the Rockwell group.

  The minister started his final goodbye to Vance Rockwell. Sam had his arm around Bootsy, and she was more composed than earlier in the church. She dabbed daintily at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. On her other side, Devlin had his arm around the woman I’d labeled as his Aunt Kay.

  To check, I leaned near Grandpa. “Is that Kay Douglas between the sons?”

  “Looks like her, though it’s been years since I’ve seen her. But I’m sure the man beside her is that crooked lawyer, Wyatt. Man ought to be disbarred.”

  I cringed.

  Like a lot of older people whose hearing was waning, Grandpa’s whisper was too loud. I wanted to turn around and see who else might have heard, but I didn’t.

  The minister stopped while the casket was lowered halfway. Pallbearers stepped forward to toss their white rose boutonnieres onto the casket. The funeral director gave each of the family a single long-stemmed white rose. Bootsy looked at hers as if she wasn’t certain what had happened.

  Apparently not realizing it was intended as a souvenir to be pressed, she stood as if to toss it onto the casket. Suddenly, she swayed and looked as if she might pitch forward into the grave.

  Both Sam and Devlin jumped up and hauled her back before she fell into the grave. Sam made a show of shoving Devlin aside so he alone could minister to his mom. She opened her eyes and Sam helped her back into her seat. Devlin tried to help her as well.

  Once again, Sam shoved aside his hand. “Just stay the hell away. We don’t need you.”

  Devlin grabbed Sam’s arm and held it. “Whether you like it or not, she’s my mother too.”

  Kay quit sobbing and leaned forward and said, “Dammit, Sam, show some respect to Devlin. He’s trying to help. Think of someone besides yourself for a change.”

  “It’s all right, Aunt Kay.” Devlin sent his brother a glare before he sat back down and took his mother’s hand.

  Sam straightened his jacket and took his seat.

  Devlin asked his mom, “Are you all right? If not, the limo can take you home now.”

  Bootsy said, “I’m fine. Just a little dizzy.”

  After Devlin peered into her face, he leaned back.

  I gazed around and saw most of the mourners watching Devlin, Sam, and Bootsy instead of the minister. I wondered if Bootsy was prone to dizziness or fainting, or if her sedation was too heavy. I was relieved when the minister started talking again. Beside me, Grandpa exhaled, so I guessed he shared my opinion.

  Soon, it was over. We filed by and I offered a solemn nod to Sam. Though clearly upset, he was more composed than when I’d seen him raging at his brother earlier in the week, and he seemed to have calmed down from today’s outburst. He was handsome if the shallow-frat-boy look appealed to a woman, as it must to Chelsea.

  I shook Bootsy’s hand. Her fingers were so limp and her eyes so dilated, that I knew she was heavily medicated and that must explain her dizziness.

  “Please accept my sincere condolences.” I hated spouting an old, trite phrase, but what else could I have said? I couldn’t lie and say he was a wonderful man or that I’d miss him.

  I moved along to let Grandma and Gigi express their sentiments while I murmured the same phrase to Devlin.

  He held my hand and said, “Thank you for coming, Heather. It means a lot to mom and me.”

  With a last glance at Bootsy, we walked toward Grandpa’s car. I saw Kurt and smiled at him as we left the gravesite.

  When we were out of earshot, I said, “I’ve never been to a funeral where someone almost fell into the grave or family members argued during the service.”

  “Give me your arm, Heather.” Gigi leaned her slight weight on me. “Old bones break easily and this lawn is uneven.” She took a couple of steps. “Worst thing I’ve seen was when Virgie Gordon insisted on kissing her Lester before the casket was closed. Creeped me out, and at that point I don’t think it did anything for Lester.”

  “I remember.” Grandpa walked behind Gigi and me.

  I said, “Even though I was only twelve at the time, I remember Nora’s funeral. What a sad occasion. We were all crying, but I remember Walter was dignified.”

  Gigi snorted. “Bootsy was too, when she wasn’t falling all over the place. Don’t know what was going on with that Sam.”

  I wondered what Kurt and his fellow officer made of that?

  We were walking four across by this time, and Grandma shot me a pensive glance. “The Rockwell boys are nice looking. I’m sure the stress of the murder and compassion for their mother overcame them today. Probably they’re nice young men under normal circumstances.”

  If they hadn’t been eligible bachelors, she would have condemned their bad manners. Now she was cutting them some slack.

  A desire for descendants does strange things to grandmothers.

  When I didn’t take her hint, she asked, “Have you met them?”

  “You mean Devlin Douglas and Sam Rockwell, the murder suspects?” What devil gets into me, baiting my nice grandmother like that?

  Grandma jumped on the lure like a sunfish on a wiggling red worm. “What do you mean?”

  “You know, the immediate family are always the first suspects. If it weren’t for Walter’s shovel, I’ll bet the police would have already arrested someone in the family.”

  Grandpa said, “I imagine your detective has already explored them.”

  “He’s not my anything, Grandpa. In trying to help Walter, I’ve run across Detective Steele a couple of times.” Four times, including today, but who was counting? Not me, that’s for sure.

  “Mmmhmm,” Grandpa said, and he and Grandma exchanged smug looks. Grandma would probably be picking out wedding invitations by tomorrow.

  Sometimes I hate a small town. Everyone knows your every move. And who you saw and when and where. And how old you are and that you aren’t married yet.

  Chapter Twelve

  After I’d gone home and changed clothes, I hurried to my office and started answering phone messages. Chelsea was usually off on Thursday afternoons, but she’d volunteered to work so I could attend the funeral without leaving the garden center shop short-staffed.

  Chelsea stuck her head in. “You have a stack of...oh, I see you’re on it.”

  “Arranged to meet with three prospective design clients—the Madisons, Robishaws, and Gregsons.” I checked to make sure the times and dates were correct on my calendar. “Sad to say a death and the publicity increased our business that much, but I’m grateful for whatever reason.”

  “The news accounts showed the Rockwells’ house and grounds. Several only showed that entry you did, but it looked great.”

  “Mmm, wait until this garden is done.” I couldn’t conceal my pride—the awed kind, not the boastful kind—that I’d snagged this prime des
ign job. “There couldn’t be anything like it in Medford County.”

  “Or all the counties around. It’ll be a showplace and you’ll get the credit. Maybe Bootsy will leave your sign up for a while.”

  A merchant’s sign littering Bootsy’s perfect lawn? I didn’t think so. “Don’t count on it. But if she gets written up in Southern Gardens or some such, she’s promised to mention us.”

  “Couldn’t hurt.” Chelsea started to leave, but turned back. “By the way, I finished up the displays boards.”

  I stood and walked back into the shop. “Wow, they turned out really well. Way to go, Chelsea.”

  She basked in my praise. “Prickly Felicia came by earlier. She actually acted pleased. I thought her face might crack, because she almost smiled.”

  “No wonder.” I peered closely at the display wall. “Even Felicia Tucker couldn’t find fault with this, and that’s saying something. She finds flaws with everything we do.”

  Felicia Tucker was a distant relative and friend of my grandmother’s. We bought heirloom seeds from her for our shop and for online sales, plus cuttings for our hothouse. Felicia was certain we were going to cheat her and was merciless in overseeing her sales and packaging. She was from one of Gamble Grove’s founding families, and she lived in the house built by her ancestors in 1863. They’d brought seeds with them from their plantation in North Carolina, and generations later, those flowers still bloomed true.

  Chelsea had enlarged photos of the flowers represented by Felicia’s seeds that we stocked and artfully arranged the labeled photos on a three-foot by five-foot display board over the trays of seed packets.

  Beside photos of heirloom plants, Chelsea had a similar exhibit of native Texas wildflowers, courtesy of the state tourist board, and seed packets for those, along with planting instructions. Next to that, she surprised me with an even larger demonstration of poisonous plants.

  I stood back to get the impact of the three displays. “This is so much nicer than I visualized, Chelsea. Heavens, this must have taken hours.”

  She looked pleased at my praise. “I used the photos and descriptions you prepared for talks to the garden club on cultivating wildflowers, and the Mommy-and-me group on preventing poisoning. I only had to enlarge the font on the explanations.”

  “You’re an artistic genius.”

  “Does this mean I get another raise?”

  “Are they ice skating in hell yet?”

  She laughed. “You’d need to ask Rockwell to find out.”

  I shivered at the mention of that man’s name, as if his cold hand reached from the grave to grab me. I wanted to run and hide, but where?

  ***

  Scottie would have to deal with Walter’s legal problems. I was furious with Judge Farley for denying Walter bail, but I was no help there. What I could do was visit Walter, and once again I enlisted Grandpa to go with me.

  Poor Walter looked terrible. His scratches and bruises were healing, but he appeared to have shrunk. It appeared that, little by little, he was disappearing before our eyes.

  He peered at Grandpa then at me. “You went to the funeral?”

  We nodded. Grandpa and I looked at one another, and I guessed he felt as uncomfortable talking about it as I did.

  Finally, Grandpa leaned forward. “Not many showed up.” He sounded pleased to be able to deliver that tidbit.

  “Just as well I wasn’t there. I’d a danced on the bastard’s grave.”

  I spoke into the small open circle in the glass. “You still can, when you get out.”

  “He buried in the old part?” Walter frowned.

  I knew he hated the fact that Rockwell was in the same cemetery as Nora.

  Grandpa shook his head. “New section, near the front gate.”

  Walter smiled, and a hint of his old self shined from his eyes. “Not near my Nora.”

  Grandpa returned a grin. “Not even close.”

  “That’s good news then. Tell me what else’s been going on.”

  We chatted for ten or fifteen minutes and I told him about all the new landscape jobs lining up. Then I remembered the one thing he’d asked of me. I hated to admit I’d failed.

  “Walter, I haven’t found your watch, but I’m still keeping my eyes peeled for it.”

  “Thanks, but I reckon it’s gone with everything else. But I remembered something.”

  “What?” Grandpa and I chorused.

  “I really believe those scratches and bruises were because I fell. I kind of remember being on my hands and knees trying to get up, and hearing laughter somewhere behind me.”

  “You think someone pushed you?” I asked.

  “No, reckon I just stumbled because I was drunk, but someone saw me. Guess it won’t make a difference now. I’m good as convicted.”

  I didn’t want him thinking on those lines. “Think positive, Walter. I’ll keep searching. And the police really are looking for other suspects. I’ll keep trying to find the watch and anyone who saw you.” Hallelujah, someone had seen Walter that night. Who?

  I stopped rejoicing when I spotted the moisture gather in his eyes.

  “Heather, you got to face up to the fact it looks like I’m guilty.” He rubbed at his chin. “You know how I hated him. Except for the fall, I still can’t remember what happened after I left the Alibi until you found me. Maybe I did go back for my shovel, see Vance, and kill the bastard just like the police said.”

  My heart broke for him. “Walter, please stop saying that. You remembered the fall and laughter. Maybe you’ll remember something else. Whether you do or not, I know you, and you could never do such a terrible thing.”

  Once again, I prayed I spoke the truth.

  ***

  Devlin had assured me that Bootsy wanted work on her English garden to resume immediately after the funeral. Early the next morning, Miguel, Juan, and I showed up at the Rockwell estate with our truckload of bushes for the rose garden around the central fountain. Our work crew pulled up behind us in our two double cab pickup trucks.

  I noticed Miguel parked in a different spot than on Tuesday when he’d found Rockwell’s body, but we still had to walk the same path as Miguel had then. I couldn’t resist indulging my curiosity as I trudged past the place where the body had lain. In spite of someone’s effort to erase any sign of the crime, broken branches in the hedge and signs of heavy foot traffic remained. Thank God the police hadn’t found Walter’s watch there.

  When the Rockwells bought this place, the grounds were mostly lawn kept golf course green, with only a few trees or shrubs. The terrain and previous work to be salvaged meant we couldn’t get big machines in to do the digging. While we were unloading, the planting crew arrived. Miguel and Juan carried the roses to their designated places and the crew dug holes and planted roses and crepe myrtles. I kept as busy as Miguel did, directing workers and checking planting sites.

  On most projects, I did designing and buying and let Miguel carry out planting. This was way too important and too large for me not to help Miguel check each detail. Not that I don’t trust him implicitly, but we’d talked this over and agreed both of us would work on it at first. With the plans unfurled on a portable architect’s drawing board, we wanted this to be perfect.

  The sunshine heated us more like mid July than late May, and I was glad we’d brought the big cooler of water with us. I wore my garden center cap and sunscreen. Back in my father’s ancestry were Cherokees, hence my straight black hair, so you’d think I’d tan nicely. Instead, I burn not-so-nicely, thus the SPF-45. I wore my short-sleeved garden center shirt and khaki slacks, and I was already wishing I’d worn shorts instead.

  The irrigation team had done a great job extending and rearranging the still-exposed water lines. We were making good progress with our planting. At noon, we knocked off for lunch. I sat on the ground in the truck’s shade to eat my sandwich. A couple of workers brought their lunch but I’d arranged for the roach coach, as the guys called the refreshment truck, to come by and
save anyone who needed food from going into town.

  I took my turn in one of the two portable toilets set up at the edge of our workspace. I hated going into one of those things. Even clean, they heat up like an oven. They didn’t do much for neighborhood beautification, but served a need.

  As I came out, Juan called, “Hey, Heather, I hope you didn’t forget and leave the seat down again.”

  Like I’d never heard that one.

  We always took a full hour for lunch, and some of the guys stretched out in a shady spot for a mini-siesta while others talked. I sat beside some of the rose bushes not yet planted. Closing my eyes, I picked out the individual scents. The Millie Pavie and Mermaid were easy to distinguish, almost overpowering the more delicate fragrances of Sombreuil and Gene Boerner.

  The timer on Miguel’s watch pinged and snapped me out of my reverie. The guys went back to work and I stood to follow. Then I noticed Devlin ambling our way, and I waited for him.

  “Thought I’d come out and check your work.” He peered at the number of roses and crepe myrtles we’d planted and smiled. “Hey, you’re making amazing progress.”

  “Thanks. Hedge plants should be here Monday.” I pushed up my sunglasses. “Your mom was very specific about the plans and plants. Some are Texas-friendly substitutes for those used in England which can’t take our intense heat and wind.”

  “Yeah, Mom always knows what she wants.” He leaned over to peer at one of the bushes. “Is that a rose without thorns?”

  “Yes, it’s called Marie Pavie. I love it, but I think my favorite is the Mutabilis, or Butterfly Rose, here.” I touched one of the multi-colored blooms.

  “Did you guys graft several roses together to get the different colors on one bush?”

  “No, the orange buds open to yellow, then darken to apricot and finally to crimson. When the bush has grown, it looks as if a cloud of butterflies settled on it.”

  He looked at the plants as if he’d hadn’t seen them before now. “I never knew there were so many kinds of roses.”

  “Hundreds. Your mom wanted a wide range of colors and types. Many of these are old varieties that have proven to be hardy yet dependable bloomers. Several like this,” I pointed to a double pink Knockout, “are the new Earthkind roses which resist drought and disease.”