The Garden Tour Affair: A Gardening Mystery

by Ann Ripley

  “Whoa,” said Bill. “That’s a real stretch, Louise. And yet, what I have to remember, when I doubt your theories, is that you’re usually right.”

  She smiled. “I know. I have a pretty good track record, haven’t I?”

  Nora, leaning forward in her chair, said quietly, “I saw them, too, Friday night.”

  Louise smiled with satisfaction. “There you are. Nora saw them, too. I think we have to keep that theory in mind.”

  Janie sat back, draped her arms along the back of her chair, and clasped her hands behind her head. “Why would a well-known guy like Jeffrey want to spill the beans about a thing like that? Why wouldn’t he just want to keep it a secret?”

  Bill scratched his head. “Not a bad point, Janie. I don’t know. I also had the Gasparras checked out. Not much there, but they owe a big tax bill to Uncle Sam—they just haven’t been making it lately. But no criminal record on either Rod or Dorothy.”

  “No wonder they were so angry when they thought someone stole their red iris,” reflected Louise. She told them of her encounter with the couple and Fenimore Smith, the owner of Wild Flower Farm. “They could have paid off their debts if they had perfected the reddest iris of them all.”

  “So they didn’t?” asked Janie.

  “According to Fenimore Smith, their iris is not the Sacred Blood iris, but probably another one that’s similar, just not that red. I suspect the Gasparras convinced themselves that someone had stolen their plants without any concrete evidence. Or it could be an example of people suing big outfits and hoping for an out-of-court settlement. Maybe they thought Smith would pay them off rather than go through the hassle of a lawsuit. At least they didn’t kill anyone over it—or not yet.”

  Nora’s eyes were bright with excitement. Louise realized how important it was for her friend to make a contribution here, if only to help her out of her terrible depression. She could hardly wait to take her turn. “I may have found out something terribly important about Grace,” she said. “My poet friend teaches at several schools in the New York area. The class that Grace took from him is at NYU. He saw her just last week.” She smiled. “What do you think of that? That gives us four people with NYU connections: Mark and Sandy Post, Jeffrey, and Grace.”

  “Hmm,” said Louise. “And Grace and Sandy met each other in a poetry class there, too. Could Grace have known the others—”

  “Louise, what’s important is what this teacher said about Grace. She was an excellent student. Oh, of course he could tell she had problems—they came out in the things she wrote, as did her delirious love of trees and flowers. But her work was good enough to be accepted for publication in Poetry Lore. I can tell you from firsthand experience that any poet would love that. He said Grace was on a creative ‘high’ these days, and didn’t believe she would consider taking her own life.”

  “Neither do I,” said Bill. “The woman was a hopeless romantic. But not someone with the courage to throw herself over a waterfall.”

  “Good work, Nora,” said Louise. “Bill, how about Bebe?” She wondered if it was time to reveal that Bebe had had her in a death grip last night in the hall.

  Bill launched right into it: “I want you to picture a warm, bombastic, loving, belligerent, extroverted woman with twinkly dancing feet—”

  “That’s going to be a little difficult,” said Nora dryly, “except for the dancing feet.”

  “What I’m telling you is that she’s a woman of contradictory moods; she’s made as many enemies as friends in Mattson. But there’s nothing yet from the police on whether she was responsible for good old Ernie’s death.”

  Louise noticed they talked about Ernie now as if they had personally known the wealthy old farmer. Bill had even committed to memory one of Ernie’s favorite phrases, relayed to him by Bebe: “hissy-fit,” as in, That woman’s having a hissy-fit! Louise had a secret fear Bill would use it someday to describe her.

  She sighed. “Then it’s my turn, I guess. I haven’t reached the botanic garden yet, but I did hear from Charlie Hurd. He says Higher Directions schools are going strong, especially with all the national publicity. The irony is that they’ve grown too fast, and they’re terribly in need of money. And then there are the suicides.” She told them about the two unfortunate youths.

  “Two suicides?” said Bill. “That must have flashed red lights at Drucker when he checked out Higher Directions.” He frowned. “Do you realize none of this gets us anywhere on Grace’s death? It only implies that Jim Cooley and Frank Storm could have been in league with Neil Landry in trying to disable Barbara Seymour. It has nothing whatsoever to do with the two deaths.”

  Janie leaned forward. “Neil Landry loosened that carpet—no one else. He looks guilty as sin. The other relatives don’t.”

  Louise stared thoughtfully out the big front windows. “No, Jim and Frank never look guilty. They’re too righteous.”

  “Not very charitable, are we, Louise?” noted Bill. “It will be hard to prove anything about Barbara’s accident. I ran a check on Landry. He’s clean. Maybe the stair rod just popped.” He arched an eyebrow. “If it were at our house, Louise, we wouldn’t suspect foul play. We’d just suspect atrophy on the part of all physical things, especially houses with large mortgages.”

  Chris spoke up. “Janie and I talked to Teddy, who knows next to nothing. You’d think the guy would be more observant, hanging around here all the time. He said it would be hard for people to tramp over the lawn without someone from the kitchen staff seeing them.”

  If a kitchen staffer like Teddy was involved, thought Louise, no one would consider him out of place. She tried to recall the other thing about Teddy Horton that didn’t set right with her.

  Janie, her blond hair straggling into her eyes, gave Chris a sideways glance and he blushed, bowing his head. Louise wondered if there was some crisis she had missed among the three young people—for Chris, Janie, and Teddy had definitely become a triangle as the weekend progressed. Janie continued, “He did tell us one thing that has to do with Grace. But the police already know this, so it couldn’t mean much: Frank intercepted Grace and Bebe’s dinners when Teddy was about to deliver them. Frank delivered them instead.”

  “Why?” asked Louise. “Did he say?”

  “Frank said he was going up, so he was being his usual helpful self—or so Teddy said.” Louise remembered Grace’s untouched dinner sitting on a dresser in her bedroom. The woman had not eaten a bite of it. “Oh, my,” she said, “this is getting us nowhere.”

  Bill said, “We’ve come up with nothing new on Grace except that her poetry teacher didn’t think she was suicidal. But so what? That was last week. Everyone since then has agreed she was a delicate vessel. And Bebe, the only one with opportunity, doesn’t add up as Grace’s killer. Now, on the matter of Jeffrey Freeling’s death: Mark Post may have had a reason to kill Jeffrey. Revenge—or there’s Louise’s far-out sexual intrigue scenario. Let’s see, I’ve lost track. Who else … oh, Gasparra. Not likely, I’d say—a blusterer, but not a murderer.”

  “It’s not very substantial stuff,” said Louise quietly.

  “Not a sound theory in the bunch of them,” said Bill. “We’ll pass these fragments on to Sergeant Drucker when he gets here. Meanwhile, let’s pack and get ready to go home. We’ve done our best. These two people were not killed. One fell, the other jumped. Right?”

  Faintly, the others answered, “Right,” except Janie, who stubbornly retorted, “Wrong.”

  Reluctantly, they adjourned their little meeting and dispersed to their separate rooms. Louise trudged up the winding front stairs, lost in thought. There was one ambiguous statement that had been dropped in a conversation this morning, or maybe even yesterday afternoon: something offbeat—the kind of thing a murderer might say to throw her off the track. In the confusion of conversations with more than a dozen people, she couldn’t quite put her finger on the one that really disturbed her.

  The phone call came when Louise returned to her
bedroom to retrieve her suitcase. Paul Warren, listening to her long, detailed message, had done some legwork before calling her back. A practical man, the director of horticulture had gone right to the personnel at the front gates. “We have plenty of people there to eyeball the customers.”

  Yes, they did remember the woman, he said. Louise’s description of a near-anorexic female, with rosy light brown hair, wide-set blue eyes, and poetic manner had rung a bell with more than one of the attendants. They remembered her as a studious note-taker. An alarm went off in Louise’s head: She had forgotten that Grace’s notebook was still missing—probably the most important clue of all. Drucker had said the evidence people hadn’t found it.

  Warren told Louise that this frequent botanical garden visitor was often accompanied by a person who appeared to be her husband. “Does she have a proprietary husband—a tall guy with light hair?”

  “Indeed, she does.”

  “We might even have her on videotape.”

  “You have surveillance cameras in the botanical garden?”

  “No, but we’ve had some problems lately—you’d be surprised at the nerve of people, who think they’d like to take home a small bush or plant from the garden. A security guard goes out with a videocamera during crowded periods. I can’t guarantee anything, but if she’s a regular, we’ve probably photographed her. Why don’t you fax me a picture of the woman and I can verify her presence here, at least—and her husband’s. And then maybe I can fax you back a confirmation. The attendant said the reason she remembered them was that they were followed recently. That makes it all the more likely that they were photographed.”

  “Followed?”

  “By a tall, dignified black man. Our security people noticed this and intervened with him—warned him about his behavior in the garden. At that point, he disappeared and hasn’t been seen since. I’m sure he’s on video.”

  Frank Storm, tailing Grace and Jim? But why?

  Louise was trying to control her excitement and organize her thoughts. She made a mental note to ask Sergeant Drucker to fax a photo of Grace to the botanical garden. Another fantastic plot, almost as crazy as the scenario she built with Mark Post and Jeffrey Freeling, was forming in her mind.

  She hung up the phone just as Janie burst in, happy to be going home. “Ma, this was a great trip, but too many accidents, and too rainy. Pick a better spot next time.”

  Louise sat on the bed and looked at the girl. Janie was one of the last people to see Jeffrey Freeling. There must have been something … “Janie, tell me one more time, because this is important: What did you and Jeffrey talk about on the way up the mountain?”

  “He was cool, Ma. Told us about his genetic engineering. He was obsessed with plants and studying their molecular makeup, and how it resembles human molecular structure— as a plant person, don’t you love that? Super guy, the kind who could almost convince a reasonable person like Chris to switch from organic chemistry to biology.”

  “Did he talk about anything personal—anything at all?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing. Not his house? Just his work?”

  “Not his house—well, he did tell me he lives in Briarcliff, in Westchester County. And he mentioned his garden.”

  Louise felt as if she had just reached Nirvana. “Tell me what he said about his garden.” She pulled in a long breath.

  “He was embarrassed about it, actually. He had what he called a’ romance’ garden. It had love-in-a-mist, love-lies-bleeding, Sacred Blood iris—natch—and, I can’t remember, rosemary, maybe. Stuff like that.”

  Louise stared out the window. “Gotcha!” she said quietly to the air.

  “Ma, are you all right?”

  The phone rang then, Chris for Janie. “Something’s shaking, Ma,” her daughter said. “Gotta run.”

  Louise didn’t have a chance to tell the girl about her startling new take on the deaths in Litchfield County. She didn’t even have time to tell her to be careful.

  Chapter 19

  IT WAS NOT SILLY TO DO THIS BY HERSELF. Louise would be completely safe. After all, the yellow police tape outlined the crime scene where no one was supposed to tread. The worst that could happen was that she would meet the two patrolmen who were still scouting the grounds near the falls for evidence.

  Passing the kitchen complex, she could not resist peeking in. For one, she was starved, and looking forward to a more substantial tea than the soggy one at Wild Flower Farm. She could imagine the scones served with clotted cream and jam. Whirlybird sandwiches with green-and-pink filling. Anchovy-paste sandwiches, just like Fortnum and Mason’s in London. Pudgy cream puffs. Eclairs dripping with fresh chocolate frosting. Fruit tarts …

  Her mouth was filled with saliva. Louise slipped into the kitchen only to find Barbara with Stephanie Landry, hovering beside her, helping to arrange tea snacks.

  Barbara must have read her mind. She took a tart off the tray and proffered it to Louise.

  “How did you know?”

  “You looked hungry, my dear. And I wanted to thank you for the story in The Litchfield Hills Sentinel: That Tom Carrigan got it just right. The whole town’s read it. I’ve had lots of calls supporting my position.”

  The lovely Stephanie looked only slightly abashed. “I guess the town didn’t want a new development here, either,” she said. “Neil and Jim and I were wrong.” Louise wondered if the young woman would decide Neil was wrong for her. She thought it was significant that she hadn’t laid eyes on Neil this morning.

  “Altogether, I fear it’s been a dreadful weekend,” said Barbara, whose face was gaunt and gray.

  Louise took a few steps toward them. “It must be particularly hard on you, Barbara,” she said. “Especially Grace’s death.”

  “Yes.” The woman’s capable hands placed tarts on a tray with lightning speed, and Louise realized the proprietor knew every job in this place, backward and forward. “Of course, I’m not that surprised, Louise.” She looked up dreamily from her work, out the big kitchen window into the fog. “I knew somehow that we were going to lose her.”

  “But—how did you know that?”

  “I saw Jim and Grace in April, and, surprisingly, she seemed so much happier. Her eyes shone with excitement. And yet—I had this feeling that it wouldn’t last.” Barbara turned her blue-eyed gaze on Louise. “Wasn’t that a terrible thing to think? She was so thin, so—emotional. And they were on another wavelength than she was …”

  “You mean Jim, and Frank and Fiona?”

  “Yes. Tougher than she, maybe too tough on her. They are all so competent that… it almost seems to destroy people. They showed Grace up for a weakling, or at least she thought so. ‘Dilettante,’ she once called herself. ‘I’m just a dilettante who hasn’t accomplished a thing in the eyes of my husband’.” Tears crowded Barbara’s eyes. “Isn’t that incredibly sad?”

  Louise’s voice was hollow. “Yes, incredibly.” Sadder than Barbara knew, for the young woman had turned to something—something very dangerous—to make her feel better about herself.

  Barbara, having finished one tray, moved it briskly to a side counter, dusted her hands on her apron, and turned to Louise again, businesslike now. “At least we’ll finish off the weekend with a lovely tea. We’ll be serving in half an hour.”

  Stephanie watched her aunt with concern. Louise thought how ironic it all was: It was Stephanie’s husband, Neil Landry, who had probably made a crude attempt to disable her aunt. Stephanie had no doubt been convinced of this by Jim Cooley. The righteous Jim Cooley always steps forward to make sure justice is done, Louise thought.

  Teddy stopped her as she circled around the kitchen garden. “Mrs. Eldridge—I wanted to say a personal word.”

  “Yes, Teddy.”

  With a beatific smile that would melt any maiden’s heart, and might already have melted her daughter Janie’s, he said, “You did good by Miss Seymour. But there’s something else.” His forehead wrinkled, giving him a puzzled, littl
e-boy look beneath that distinguished cowlick. “These people dying … can you figure that out? I’ve tried, and so have Janie and Chris, but we’ve come up flat. You’re so smart about these things—I bet you could get to the bottom of it.” There was a distinct echo here, she realized, of what Jim Cooley had said to her at Wild Flower Farm.

  “Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, Teddy. I’m still hoping for something. In fact, I’ve got a new slant on the whole thing. But I need proof, so I’m going out on a little hunting expedition.”

  He stood, arms akimbo, worried now. “You be careful, ma’am. There’s police out there, but I suppose nothin’ worse than that. And I hope Chris eventually forgives me.”

  “Forgives you? For what?”

  He made a dismissive “aw, shucks” gesture with his hand, and said, “You’ll probably find out about it from him. If not, I’ll tell you about it the next time I see you.”

  “If there is a next time,” said Louise.

  “Oh, there will be,” said the confident young man. “It’s all set—I’m visiting at Thanksgiving.” His pale blue eyes registered concern. “I—I hope that’s all right with you.”

  Louise nodded absently. “Oh, of course.” She conjured up a memory of Thanksgiving at the Eldridge house. Parents and family visiting. A nightmare of cooking that she always made worse by leaving everything to the day itself: pumpkin pies, with their excessive number of ingredients. Homemade cranberry sauce, the only kind Bill would eat. Candied sweet potatoes, which the girls insisted upon. Special sage turkey dressing, her grandmother’s tradition. Even the defrosting of the turkey, which she invariably accomplished in the last two hours before baking time, by running a swimming pool’s worth of cold water over the chilly beast in the kitchen sink.

  Let’s face it, Thanksgiving is hell—always has been since I’ve had to do it myself. Dismally, she recalled the contrast with the years growing up when her grandmother had them down to her farm for the holiday. Gram pulled off Thanksgiving like a professional. Food prepped ahead of time like any sensible housewife. Everything cooked or baked or canned so delightfully that even now Louise could taste the crisp exterior turkey meat, the dark, rich, fleshy pumpkin pies, the crunchy homemade pickles.