by Ann Ripley
Bebe leaned her elbows on the table and clutched her iced tea in both hands. “I would just love to go and pick a huge bouquet of them, and put them on my husband’s grave.”
“Oh, dear, no,” protested Grace.
“What’s the matter—you don’t think graves should have flowers?” asked Bebe, her tone a little sharp.
Grace answered gently. “It’s not that. It’s just that I don’t believe in picking flowers. Each one of them is God’s creation.” She laughed, closing her eyes self-consciously, as if when she did that, people would not be looking at her. Ironically, this only emphasized her beauty—the luminous skin, the finely sculpted face, the pale, long lashes. “Some things I truly believe in. Over my dead body would I have a picked bouquet in my house. It disturbs the unity of God, earth, nature, and man.”
“Oh, for heavens sake,” said Bebe, “that sounds so off the wall—is that New Age?”
“I’m sorry you don’t like it,” said Grace, chin firm—for once. “I just don’t happen to pick flowers and let them die—it’s unnatural.” She smiled radiantly, her defenses down after a pleasant, social afternoon. “I even wrote a poem about it.”
“Really? A poem?” asked Bebe.
“Yes. I keep the poems I write—and other snatches of verse—in here,” and she produced her little, rumpled red notebook from her pocket. In a soft voice, she recited:
“’The pulse of life in the iris red
Is the passion that makes my blood flow fast.
Oh pick it not, this perfect flower,
For, like desire, we must make it last! ”
She looked around the group, seeking approval.
“Far out,” said Doug, stroking his ample beard. He directed a good-natured smile toward Grace: “This woman is a poet, that’s for sure. And it even rhymes—I like that in a poem.”
The Storms, listening from the next table, seemed to be a trifle disgusted with this latest speech. Louise could understand that Grace’s poetry did little to add to the success of Higher Directions.
“I like it very much,” Nora called from the neighboring table.
Encouraged, Grace said, “I was telling Nora about Coleridge. He was one of the many poets who wrote about or used the symbolism of the flower.” She riffled through the notebook again. “Ah, here it is: This was written after he read the German Romantic poet Novalis’ writings about the ‘blue flower’ …” She searched out Nora’s face. Her fellow poet nodded encouragement. Grace read.
“’If a man could pass through Paradise in a Dream,
and have a Flower presented to him as a pledge that
his Soul had really been there, and found that Flower
in his hand when he awoke—Aye! and what then?’”
She looked around again. “Isn’t that lovely and mysterious?”
It was hard to read Bebe at first, hard to see the anger in the woman in her sleeveless tank top, shorts, and New Spirit walking shoes. But this young woman was treading on all of Bebe’s gut feelings about graves and death. “Well, Grace, you’ve got a problem.”
“A problem?”
“Yes, because somebody picked that flower Coleridge was carrying through Paradise, didn’t they, now?”
“Oh, but I didn’t mean—”
Bebe went on relentlessly, green eyes flashing an unkind look at Nora as she did. “You and Nora may be the intellectuals, the English majors, the poets, who spout off about all these books about German Romanticism and nonsense like the ‘blue flower.’ What does ‘blue flower’ stand for, anyway, some secret sex symbol? You may be the one who has to jot all those garden notes and poetry down in your little notebook all the time …”
Grace, sitting opposite Bebe, was almost visibly wilting, as her lawn dress had already done, her joyous nature attacked frontally by her companion.
“… but as far as I’m concerned, it’s ninety percent pure foolishness. Foolishness comes in many forms. There’s this intellectual stuff you’re talking about. There’s the town gossip where I live—it’s all the same.” Bebe’s face was red and perspiring, her voice even hoarser and louder than usual. “Oh, yes, our town is like a bad joke—the people are like the kids who followed the Pied Piper. They follow and believe anyone—anyone, even old biddies!—who tell them some juicy story in a convincing way.”
Whether Grace thought she still possessed the woman’s friendship, or whether she herself was fed up and ready to strike back at the older woman, Louise didn’t know. The pale blue eyes were guileless, the hair with the now-sagging tortoiseshell clip flopping in her face, giving her a faintly mad appearance. But Grace threw out the next remark in an innocent voice, like a grown-up who had not yet learned all the rules of politic speech. “Bebe, you’ve gone back to talking about your husband’s death. There’s something to be said for keeping your own counsel on some of these personal matters—at least I try to do that. Don’t you think you’re complaining too much? Why, surely people will think that a person who is innocent would not have to be constantly complaining—”
The rest happened in a flash. Bebe rose from the bench, shoving it and its other occupants mightily back from the table so that they had to grapple quickly with it to keep it from tipping over. She stood there, a large, apoplectic presence, with her hands knotted into fists. The still-seated Grace cringed before her. “You twit!” she bellowed, bringing the young man and woman behind the food counter hurrying over. “You overromanticized little twit, who doesn’t know diddly-squat about life, to say nothing of gardening … who are you to accuse me of killing my darling Ernie? How dare you?”
The Storms had a strange reaction to the outburst. At first, they seemed to enjoy someone telling off Jim Cooley’s wife, but then they swiftly amended their expressions when they realized there was every indication that Bebe was going to do physical harm to the younger woman.
At Bebe’s first loud words, Bill, who had been talking to the crew, had slid off his seat and hurried over to the woman. Now, he stood between her and Grace, his voice low, like someone trying to talk a terrorist into giving up his gun. “Bebe, maybe we’d better save this conversation for later. I know you Ye upset, but—”
“It’s all right,” said Bebe, shoving her way past him. “I’ve said my piece.” She fumbled inside her purse, extracted some cash, and gave it to Bill, who was patiently following her. “Pay my share, will you, while I go out and have a smoke? I need something to soothe my nerves.”
Nora realized how far things had deteriorated and stepped up to take her turn at monitoring Bebe. She put her arm companionably through Bebe’s, turned her calm gray eyes upon her, and said, “I’ll go with you, since I’m a smoker, too.”
Louise looked at Grace. The woman’s hair and dress were messy, her blue eyes as blank as an empty TV screen. Her only link with reality at that moment was the little notebook she clutched in her hand. But was there any reality in that notebook?
Her heart stirred by pity, Louise took a step toward her, but the young woman flinched and turned away, too crushed to accept solace.
Chapter 10
THE BESPECTACLED YOUNG MAN HAD been following them all day, aiming his Nikon at Louise and Doug, as Doug aimed his camcorder at Louise. Tom Carrigan was with The Litchfield Hills Sentinel, doing a story on her visit to Litchfield County and the program she was shooting for Gardening with Nature. In between shoots, he would sidle up to Louise and ask her questions about her show, which she would answer politely but distractedly. Given a choice, she preferred to be left alone to concentrate on the script during breaks.
It wasn’t until they were at Wild Flower Farm, three miles out of town, that Louise gave young Carrigan a good look. He was a narrow-shouldered, academic-looking fellow with a calm, intelligent face. Suddenly she felt like a cat contemplating the demolition of a mouse. Because she was going to use the press this time—instead of the usual pattern of the press using her.
They had reached the garden path lined with Sacred Blood iris,
and she dismissed the reporter from her mind for the moment. Now Louise realized what all the excitement was about: The flowers were the most stunning she had ever seen. She had to work hard to maintain some measure of professional detachment in the presence of Doug and the crew. After taking her first look at their exquisite red forms, she was afraid she would babble something like, “I adore these gorgeous beauties!” Instead, she somehow stuck to the script. The translucent red blossoms seemed to glow, like the red of an Art Deco vase from the hand of a master, and they stood out all the more on a day that was still shrouded in mist. The glaucous, swordlike foliage complemented the red, only making their beauty more irresistible. And they exuded a faint, spicy, incredibly desirable smell.
Once she had recovered from her horticultural swoon, Louise became aware that this was one of the botanical discoveries of the decade. And Wild Flower Farm was going to make a killing—eventually. Their price was fifty dollars per plant, and the nursery would be paid a royalty for each plant sold by another nursery, in perpetuity! But Wild Flower Farm had already spent several hundred thousand dollars bankrolling the research at NYU that had produced this wonder, and it would take some time to recoup this cost before the profits began to roll in.
With the iris segment completed, Louise and the crew made their way to the next setup at the farm’s popular Moon Garden. Looking up, she saw the reporter had fallen into step with her on the wide path.
“Nice piece of equipment,” she said, noting the Nikon with telephoto lens slung around his neck. “That camera makes you a …”
“Photojournalist,” Carrigan finished with a smile, pinching his glasses up from where they had slid down on his nose. “It suits the budget of a small paper to have reporters take their own pictures.”
“I should have guessed that.” As they walked, they talked about how her program’s popularity had spread to several hundred PBS stations throughout the country. He jotted down everything she said. Suddenly she plucked his sleeve. “Let’s sit here for a minute,” she said, directing him to an aged teakwood bench at the edge of the path.
She called out to Doug, “I’m stopping here, just for a moment or two.”
Doug nodded. “No problem. I’ll give you a heads-up when we’re ready for you.”
Once seated, she got right to it: “I have information that might make a story—a big story.” Big for a paper the size of The Litchfield Hills Sentinel, anyway. Then she told Carrigan about Barbara Seymour’s desire to turn the Litchfield Falls Inn over to the Connecticut Trust. “With its thirty acres and that waterfall, it has to be one of the prize properties around here.”
“The prize property. There are millionaires who would give a good chunk of their fortune for that site. Tell me all about it.”
Louise felt only a few brief pricks of guilt at babbling someone else’s business to a reporter, but her great desire to make Barbara Seymour safe soon overcame these twinges.
“Does her family go for this?” asked the reporter. “I’d heard that the family wanted a bigtime development there— especially her niece’s husband, who’s a builder from down-state. Word here is he’s a little overextended, needs a bailout.”
Neil Landry: He was known even at this tiny, but growing, county newspaper. But then, Louise reflected, the size of the newspaper has nothing to do with a given reporter’s capacity to amass knowledge—or suspicions—about the larger world. Carrigan, for instance, wearing a dress shirt and tie on a steamy day in the face of all the other men’s casual sports shirts, and choosing a Nikon as his camera, looked like an overachiever in the category of Woodward and Bernstein. At any moment he would surely be driving down to Manhattan to knock on the editorial doors of The New York Times or Newsday, seeking a job. He needed a big break. Probably much bigger than the story she was giving him, Louise thought wryly, but what the hell.
“The only way to get this story is to call Barbara Seymour herself,” she told him. “She’s the owner, and she’s the one who will make the decision. I hear she wants the property to stay undeveloped.”
“Well, that’s what the town wants, but she’s owned it for so many years that none of the local covenants could stop her if she wanted to build four or five hundred homes on the place.”
“Ah,” said Louise, “five hundred homes. Definitely talk to Miss Seymour. I think you’ll find that’s as far from her thoughts as traveling to the moon.”
Louise and Bill arrived back from the long day’s shoot two hours after the rest of the crowd. That left little time to find Barbara Seymour. Louise had wanted to prepare the inn’s proprietress for Tom Carrigan’s phone call before she became busy with afternoon tea.
While Bill joined the group lounging on the veranda, Louise detoured into the kitchen annex. It was a recent add-on to the inn, its counters, sinks, ovens, and refrigerators gleaming steel, its huge Aga stoves deep blue enamel. On one counter were steel pans with majestic racks of lamb resting on them, waiting to be roasted. Teddy Horton bustled about, assembling tea things, his cowlick visible even from a distance; its unruly aspect seemed to be the last thing he was concerned about. Completely focused on cutting lemons into narrow wedges, he still took a moment to give Louise a cheery greeting. Barbara was standing near the big ovens, looking weary. A trail of whitish-yellow hair had escaped from her sumptuous bun and was lying, sweaty, on her wrinkled cheek. She was examining a tray the pastry chef had just removed from the oven: miniature tarts with English custard and raspberries.
“Yum,” said Louise. “I can hardly wait to try one of those.” From their expressions, she could tell she was intruding at a busy time, but she had no choice. “Um, Barbara, can I talk to you for a second? It’s important.”
Trying to disguise any minor exasperation she might have felt, Barbara led Louise to a kitchen garden tucked behind a four-foot-high Connecticut rock wall. Here, raised beds held herbs of many kinds, while others contained squashes, broccoli, beans, and kohlrabi. Barbara sank gratefully into a cushioned lawn chair and beckoned Louise to the one by its side.
“How delightful,” Louise said, looking around. But Barbara seemed truly exhausted, so she hurried to deliver her message about her meeting with Tom Carrigan.
“You discussed the disposition of the inn?” she repeated incredulously. The woman’s proud shoulders seemed to droop visibly.
“I—I was scared for you, Miss Seymour.”
“I know why you did it, Louise,” the older woman said in a wan voice. “It must be as plain as the nose on your face. Anyone could see that stair rod had been loosened, for the whole world knows how well we maintain this place.”
“I don’t think everyone thought that,” said Louise.
Barbara made no attempt to straighten herself in the chair. Instead, she closed her eyes, and for a moment Louise thought she might be falling asleep. But then she spoke. “Louise, you are keen of eye and of mind. And I like you. It appalls me that someone might have wished me harm. But I suspected immediately that Neil Landry had given way to his darker nature—for I always knew he had one. And you figured it out soon after.”
The blue eyes opened and suddenly crinkled in a smile. “You’re a very practical problem solver, and I think this Tom Carrigan might be just the solution to the problem at hand.”
“The story could go in Sunday’s paper if you’re willing to talk to him. Oh, I’m so glad you can forgive me for being nosy.”
“I’ll do it, Louise. I’m not ready to go out just yet.” And then little frown lines formed in the noble forehead, like cirrus clouds passing overhead and putting the weather’s future in doubt. “The only problem that remains is darling Stephanie. You don’t know her yet, but she is a worthy young woman—too worthy to be linked with a man who would attempt to harm someone.”
Louise didn’t know what to say. Barbara stretched out a hand and touched Louise’s arm, her eyes half closed. “Now leave me, my dear. I’m finding it very comfortable here: just the place to rest my legs and take forty winks.
”
“Should I—tell the staff that you’re here?”
“If you don’t mind terribly, just tell Teddy. Then everything will be all right.” She opened her eyes. “You see, I can trust Teddy with everything, Louise. He’s proved himself. He’s become like one of my own.”
Louise’s pulse quickened. “But your heirs are—”
“My heirs are Stephanie and Jim. But I’ve provided for Teddy, too, although they don’t need to know that—that’s just between the two of us.” The tired eyes closed again, and Louise went to tell Teddy where Barbara was.
When she found the young man, the staff had completed tea preparations, and he was on the phone. “Tom Carrigan?” he said. “Hi, Tom—yeah, I remember you. Just a minute, I’ll get Miss Seymour for you.” He gave Louise a curious glance as he rested the phone on the counter, and she felt a little like an intruder. Had he guessed that Barbara Seymour spilled her business to Louise?
But true to form, he gave her a disarming smile and said, “Mrs. Eldridge, I have a feeling you know where Miss Seymour is—don’t you?”
Louise had barely joined the group on the veranda when the hikers filed in, their faces strangely taut. They discarded their backpacks on the wide-board floor, slumping into available seats or leaning against pillars.
Janie came straight over to her mother and her slim body melted against Louise’s, almost as it had when she was a tiny baby. “Ma,” she murmured against Louise’s shoulder, “you won’t believe it.” She said no more, deferring to someone older to speak for the group.
The group included Mark and Sandy Post, Janie and Chris, Rod and Dorothy Gasparra, Jim Cooley. But no Jeffrey Freeling.
“What’s the matter?” asked Bill curtly. “And where’s Jeffrey?”
Jim Cooley was the one to speak. Always the leader. “Bad news, Bill. Dr. Freeling had a fall from the summit of Bear Mountain. He’s dead.”