Digging For Death

by Clemmons, Caroline

  “I’ll look forward to seeing the garden completed and established.” He shifted his weight. “Listen, thanks for coming to the funeral. Mom and I appreciated your family showing up.”

  “Um, it was a nice service.” What could anyone say about a funeral—especially when the deceased was a rat and there was a murder involved?

  “Vance wasn’t that popular. Most of the people who came worked for him. It was nice to see faces from Gamble Grove too.”

  Changing from an unpleasant topic back to one I loved, I asked, “Have you seen the plans for the gardens?”

  He looked embarrassed. “Mom gave them to me, but I have to confess I haven’t had a chance.” His eyes held a very un-nerdlike twinkle. “Why don’t you just tell me the short version?”

  “You see where we’ve extended flagstone steps from the terrace. The four-season perennials will flank those as well as at the rose garden’s four corners. That fountain will be the center of the roses. Up near the house, so your mom can see it from the breakfast room, will be an old-fashioned cottage garden. Below the roses—where you see the second fountain—will be the maze’s center.”

  “A maze, here? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “That’s what I meant when I said hedge plants should arrive Monday.”

  “Looks like you’ve got everything covered.” He waved away a fly. “But that’s not the only reason I came out here. Would you have dinner with me tonight? You can give me the long version of the plans then.”

  Though I’d seen the interest in his eyes, the actual invitation surprised me. “S-Sounds nice. We won’t finish up here until six. What time did you have in mind?”

  He swatted at the fly again. “Will half past seven give you time to get home and catch your breath?”

  And a shower. That fly had been circling me for a reason. “That’d be great. I live over my grandparents’ carriage house. Theirs is the yellow house behind the garden center.” I gave him the address and directions.

  “See you there at seven-thirty.” He smiled and ambled back toward the house.

  Although, calling the Rockwell place merely a house was massive understatement. The mansion? The castle? The palace? Any of those terms would fit.

  Miguel came up beside me. “Dating a customer? This, you never do it before.”

  “I know it’s not a good idea, but in this case—technically—his mom is the customer, not him.”

  Miguel chuckled and walked away. He was a first generation American. His folks and even he and his wife spoke Spanish at home. He might not speak perfect English, but he understood way too much.

  We knocked off at six and I rushed back to make sure Chelsea had done the deposit. She had. With both Miguel and me working at the Rockwell’s and Walter still in jail, that left Chelsea in charge of the garden center. A sobering thought. At least Steve could be depended on to oversee the nursery plants. Not that I couldn’t depend on Chelsea. She looked like a slacker but she worked hard. Usually. In the first or last stages of her many short-lived romances, she sometimes lost focus and spaced out. Having witnessed Sam Rockwell’s fit of temper, I worried about her attraction to him.

  This evening, all appeared well. Dozens of sticky notes decorated my desktop and computer screen and a pile of phone messages caught my attention. I checked the messages and wrote tomorrow’s instructions for Chelsea on those that couldn’t wait.

  I hurried home and took Rascal for a fast walk before urging him back up the stairs. We both had a long drink of water, him from a bowl and me from a tall glass.

  I whirled through the shower, then practically took a bath in lotion and moisturizer. No amount of pleading would force my hair to curl, so I plaited it and wound it into a coil at the base of my head. In spite of the sunscreen manufacturer’s promise, my nose looked pink. A light layer of makeup took care of that problem. Sort of, but by now I was out of time.

  I chose my tangerine dress. The rayon challis felt cool against my skin. I slid my feet into white sandals as I gave myself a spritz of cologne. In case I ever cooled off after today’s baking, I carried a short-sleeved white cotton cardigan.

  Devlin was on time. Instead of asking him in, I met him on the landing. It’s really a porch about five feet deep and fifteen feet across. A white wicker chair is at one end and an assortment of plants takes up a good bit of the other space. Those with flowers bloomed in white or hot pink. I thought it looked cheerful even from below the steps.

  Devlin dodged a hanging basket of ivy geranium. “Your personal jungle?”

  I made sure the porch light timer was set then locked the door. “Pitiful, isn’t it? People give me ailing plants and I can’t let them die.”

  He pointed at a plant near the rail. “That definitely looks healthy. I’ve never seen so many blooms on one of those...whatever they’re called.”

  We started down the steps.

  “Bougainvillea. Of course, most times when I want to sit and admire the vegetation, I use my grandparents’ swing.” I nodded at their garden, pleased by the eye appeal of the neat beds and lawn. The scent of jasmine and honeysuckle drifted our way, and I thought I detected the roses and the pergola’s wisteria as well.

  “You nursed all those on your porch back to health?”

  “A personal challenge. I love plants, obviously, or I’d be in another business.” By this time we were down the stairs and beside a white Lexus.

  After we’d climbed inside, he said, “I’m pretty new to Gamble Grove. Do you have a special place you’d like to recommend?”

  “It’s not as if there’s that much to choose from unless you want fast food. For inside dining, most people go to Turrentino’s or the country club.”

  “In that case, where’s Turrentino’s?” He started the car. “I’ve been to the country club.”

  So had I, and enjoyed its quiet, restful atmosphere. But I supposed we might as well face the inevitable and prepared myself for when we arrived at Turrentino’s.

  Following my directions, he found the restaurant. The parking lot was crowded, Friday night being the busiest night of the week for dining out. We waited until a family backed out of a prime parking spot and pulled into their space.

  When we stepped inside, my Aunt Clarice spotted me and rushed over to give me a hug. “Heather, we don’t see you enough.” As if I hadn’t seen her five days ago on Sunday. Aunt Clarice turned to Devlin. “Who’s this?”

  I can always sense the speculation when I’m seen with a man. Not that it happens that often. The mischief in me wanted to introduce him as a lover with whom I planned to run off to Tahiti right after dinner—or any sassy remark guaranteed to set my aunt on her tiny buns. Instead, I sighed and gave in to propriety. “This is Devlin Douglas. The garden center is doing a large project for his family. Devlin, my Aunt Clarice Turrentino.”

  “Combining business with pleasure. Nice.” She gestured for us to follow her. “This way.”

  She led us to a table in a corner and left us with menus, raising her eyebrow at me before going on her way.

  “Your aunt owns this place?” Devlin opened his menu.

  “She and my uncle Rico, short for Frederico. He’s the head chef. My cousins Lisa and Ricky are pretty much forced labor but I think they plan to come into the business.” I indicated which two of the waitstaff were my cousins. “Although several other relatives have worked here at one time or another, I don’t think the other current staff are my kin.”

  He asked, “They have a specialty you’d recommend?”

  “You won’t go wrong with anything, but the tortellini is my favorite.” I tapped a finger on the menu to show him the selection. “And the salad features a secret dressing I swear is the best I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Okay, I’ll trust your judgment. Besides, I’m too messy with spaghetti to eat it when dining with a beautiful woman I’d like to impress.”

  While I basked in his compliment, Ricky appeared with a basket of rolls. “Hey, Heather, how’s it going?
”

  “Great. Congratulations on your scholarship. Devlin, this is my cousin, Ricky Turrentino, a soon-to-be college man.”

  They exchanged greetings then Ricky took our orders and hurried toward the kitchen. Devlin and I discussed his mom’s garden for a while, but he didn’t appear interested in the benefits of one plant over another. Ricky delivered our drinks and promised our food would soon be ready. I decided to make good use of the time we waited and probed for clues.

  “You said you’re staying with your mom for a couple of weeks? I guess you have a lot of your own relatives at your house now.”

  “Not many. My Aunt Kay will stay a few days. Uncle Lionel will probably go back to Dallas after the will’s read.” He looked up from dredging a piece of bread in olive oil. “He’s not really my uncle, of course. He’s Vance’s attorney. Sam and I have always called him uncle because he’s a family friend.”

  That fit with what Grandpa had speculated. “I guess that was your aunt beside you at the funeral.”

  He looked embarrassed. “Yeah. She’s my dad’s sister, and she’s been in the company since it was founded. She never married and she’s always talked to Sam and me as if we were her kids. We should have insisted she take a tranquilizer or something before the funeral like Mom did.”

  I wondered if he knew his aunt had dated Rockwell before the rat threw her over for Bootsy? “Are you nervous about the will or is it pretty cut and dried?”

  He froze for a few seconds and appeared as if he tamped down anger.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I feared I’d pushed Devlin too much.

  Then, he smiled. “Doesn’t really make any difference to me. I suppose everything goes to Mom, except maybe a few bequests to employees or something. Maybe some company shares for Sam and me.”

  “Will you go back to your work or help in the company?”

  He shrugged. “I haven’t decided.”

  I figured that meant he was waiting to hear the will’s contents and congratulated myself. “What is it you do?” I asked as Ricky brought our food.

  “I’m a chemist for Aragon Pharmaceuticals in McKinney.” He dug into the salad.

  “Sounds impressive. You inventing new cures for anything I’d recognize?” I adored Uncle Rico's cooking and savored a bite of my tortellini.

  “Nothing I can talk much about. Wow, this food is as good as you promised.” Then after he’d finished another bite, he launched into a detailed description of his latest project. He must have noticed my eyes had glazed over because he looked embarrassed he’d talked so long. “What about you? You always want to design formal English gardens?”

  “No, for a long time I wanted to be Nancy Drew. Then my grandfather and Walter started letting me help around the garden center and I fell in love with the business.”

  Considering my determination to find enough clues to free Walter, I guess I hadn’t exorcised Nancy out of my system after all.

  His eyes twinkled. “Just as well you switched to horticulture. I heard Nancy grew up and became Kinsey Millhone.”

  I laughed. “So I heard. Or was it Jessica Fletcher?”

  He stared at the restaurant’s front. “Looks as if that detective likes the food here too.”

  I swiveled in my chair and saw Aunt Clarice showing Kurt Steele to a table nearby. “So it seems.” I craned my head to see who accompanied him. “That’s Jennifer McGregor, head police dispatcher. And the other couple with them are Officer Winston and Jennifer’s sister, Melissa. I forget Winston’s first name.”

  Jennifer looked pretty enamored with Kurt, and who could blame her? But Devlin was no slouch in the date department either. Chelsea was partly right. Devlin appeared a bit of a nerd, but it’s not as if he wore a pocket protector filled with pens or had tape on his glasses. He was brainy, handsome, rich. What’s not to like?

  He said, “Must be nice to know everyone in town.”

  Or a pain in the rear. “Sometimes. Don’t tell me you’re thinking of leaving the big city for our town?”

  “Not a chance. McKinney is as small a place as I ever want to live. Although, I’ll admit Gamble Grove has its attractions, I love Dallas.” He raised his wine goblet in a toast.

  Of course, his glass contained iced tea. Somehow it’s not the same as being toasted with wine.

  I raised my own glass then sipped my tea. “I don’t know why Aunt Clarice won’t give up and use regular drinking glasses.”

  “Is she against alcohol?” he asked.

  “No. She keeps insisting that soon she’ll be able to get a liquor license for the restaurant and offer wine with dinner like restaurants in civilized places. Her words, not mine.”

  “Seems odd she hasn’t. There’s a couple of bars and a liquor store, so why can’t she get a license?”

  Why indeed? I loved our town, even with all its warts, but I resented this slight to my uncle, who’s a terrific man and excellent chef.

  I explained, “This side of town is in a different precinct than that with the bars. Plus, when he first built the restaurant, Uncle Rico crossed words with some of the city councilmen.” I leaned forward so none of the nearby diners could overhear. “Frankly, I think it’s because he’s a New Yorker and first generation Italian American. So far, he hasn’t been able to cut through the red tape and secure his license.”

  “And your grandparents can’t intercede?”

  “Grandpa tried, but nothing’s happened so far. Partly, it’s because of family feuds so old no one remembers why there’s a problem—just that they’re continuing. If Will Harris votes for something, for instance, you can be certain Bernard Evans will be against it. The only time they agree is to vote against someone they consider an outsider, like Uncle Rico.”

  “Ah, small towns.” He nodded sagely. “See, this is another reason to stick with the city.”

  “Like Dallas doesn’t have problems?”

  He flinched. “Ouch, you have me there.”

  We finished our dinner and I declined dessert. On our way out, I nodded at Kurt and Jennifer facing toward us as we walked by. Jennifer looked triumphant at being escorted by the hunky detective. But maybe it was the candlelight.

  Devlin and I walked to his car.

  He opened the door for me. “I guess it’s not much of a treat to eat at a family business. You should have told me and we could have gone to the country club.”

  “Wouldn’t work. I’m related to so many people in this town that there’s no escaping my kin.”

  “Strange. I thought Mom said you were an only child.”

  “My mom and I were only children, but Dad had three sisters and his parents had lots of siblings. With my extended family, trust me, there are a lot of us.” I slid onto the car seat.

  He went around, climbed into the car, and started the engine. We drove out of the parking lot. “I have tickets for the Dallas Symphony tomorrow night. Would you go with me?”

  Just full of snappy repartee, I stuttered, “Tomorrow?”

  “I know it’s a busy day for you, but we could leave here as late as half-past six and make the concert. We can have a late dinner afterward.” He flashed a heart-stopping smile. “Do you have relatives there too?”

  Rapidly calculating tomorrow’s work schedule and my clothing, I said, “I’d love to go, and no, I doubt we’ll meet any of my kin tomorrow night.” At least, not if I could help it.

  Thank goodness our landscape jobs always stopped work at noon on Saturday. Normally, I’d go back to the garden center and put in extra time getting caught up on paperwork after the store closed. Sad statement about my private life that I could spend Saturday evenings at work, but finally it was my turn to have a Saturday night date.

  Chelsea would be eager to leave at the stroke of six tomorrow, but Miguel could be counted on to secure the garden center for me. Remembering his comments about me dating Devlin, I wasn’t looking forward to the ribbing Miguel would give me for seeing the same man two nights in a row, or what Chelsea would
have to say. But how could I pass up a chance to accompany Devlin to his turf? Who knew what I might learn?

  ***

  The next day, Grandpa drove up as I was walking back to my apartment. I waited while he parked, trying not to wince as he pulled the boat-sized sedan in beside my Jetta and climbed out of his car.

  He slid his arm across my shoulders and hugged me. “I heard from my friend this morning.”

  “Friend?” It took me a minute to figure out what he meant. “Oh, you mean the genealogist.”

  He nodded. “Had a long email from him this morning. Come on up to the house and I’ll fill you in.”

  Once we were in Grandpa’s study, he sat at his desk and reached for a stack of paper. “Remember when you told me that Bootsy was a woman who lived up to the stereotype of the dumb blonde?”

  I cringed as the heat of a blush spread across my face. “I did say that, didn’t I? What was I thinking? She’s been nothing but kind to me.”

  He laughed so hard the papers he held in his hand quivered. “This time, it appears you were right.” With his free hand, he wiped laughter tears from his eyes.

  I sat in the armchair nearby. “Really? You mean he just didn’t find out anything, right?”

  “He found out a lot.” Grandpa pushed the papers toward me. “Where she was born, where she went to school, all of it. Makes me uncomfortable to know that much about another person without the person telling me himself. Or, in this case, herself.”

  “Hildegaard Ernesta Beauchamp. Ugh, no wonder she prefers Bootsy.” I scanned down the paper. She was born in Dallas. When I saw the address, I said, “Wow, Swiss Avenue. Old money.”

  Like Grandpa, seeing all these private details about a living person I knew without her permission made me a little uncomfortable. Not so much I quit reading, of course. I was like an information druggie who had to have the next fix—the next detail of Bootsy’s life.