Pushing Up Daisies db-1

by Rosemary Harris

  It was almost too easy to dislike Winthrop "Winner" Fifield. The unauthorized Loser Web site told the tale. Rich kid, faked his way through school. Bought out of half a dozen scrapes—that the papers knew of—before the age of twenty. Probably more that Daddy's money and position were able to bury, pun intended.

  Early pictures show him unlined, always smiling, exposing more teeth than the rest of us have. He ran for class president at Fairfield Prep, and his Ken-doll looks helped him get elected by unanimous vote; apparently even his opponent voted for him. That's when people started calling him Winner. At twenty-eight, Winner slid effortlessly into Connecticut's 53rd congressional seat finally vacated by eighty-four-year-old Warren Chamberlain, who one morning decided to sleep at home instead of in the House.

  Since then, Winner had an inauspicious career, avoiding the tedious subjects of health care, education, crime, and rebuilding inner cities in favor of two burning issues—supporting recognition of quasi–Native American groups for casino development and extending the bow-hunting season. His position on Native Americans was well crafted by his aides, but in a rare moment when his handlers weren't watching, Winner committed to the bow-hunting faction, mistakenly thinking it would get him in solid with the Indians, who, of course, couldn't care less.

  Now the clock was ticking for Winner. If he was ever going to have a national presence, it had to happen soon, and message boards were betting it was going to be in a scandal rather than because of some groundbreaking legislation.

  Still online, I called Babe. She gave me an earful about Winner and one of his "scrapes." Apparently, he got a girl "in trouble," as they used to say, and she refused to have it "taken care of." Whole family moved away, relocation paid for by the Fifields.

  "That must have set them back a bundle," I said.

  "I don't think so. They were just a decent, working-class family. . . ." She sifted through her memory to find a name. "The Yampolskys. Seems they were more concerned about preserving the family honor than extorting money from Loser. Don't know what happened to them or the baby."

  "How long ago was that?" I asked.

  "Twenty, twenty-five years."

  The timing could be right, but why come back here to bury the baby if you've already left town? Still, it was a place to start. While she talked, I continued with my snooping. More unflattering photos of Congressman Win Fifield appeared on the computer screen.

  In addition to his lousy record in and out of the House, Winner was not aging well. Only a vestige of the boyish good looks remained, just enough to make him look like a child actor who's outgrown his cute-ness. The endless comp meals and drinks had added thirty or forty pounds to his once-athletic frame. In another twenty years it might lend him an air of gravitas ŕ la Ted Kennedy; right now, it gave Winner a sweaty, overinflated look to go with his perpetually worried but trying-not-to-show-it look. Not attractive.

  "Okay, we have a flabby congressman of questionable character," I said. "Alert the media."

  "But your friend Lucy's instincts were right: he is a loser," Babe said. "I gotta go; the after-theater crowd is coming in. Did you, by any chance, look up Cadbury's?" Babe asked. "She ticked me off with that question, but now I'm kind of curious."

  "Forgot. I'll see you in the morning."

  I keyed in Cadbury's chocolate, and a page loaded. And another, and another.

  CHAPTER 17

  "Did you know that Good and Plenty candy is the oldest branded candy in the United States?"

  "I did not know that."

  "Yup. The Quaker City Confectionery Company in Philadelphia started making them in 1893."

  I closed the door of the Haviland police substation behind me and strolled over to Mike O'Malley's desk.

  "Fascinating," he said. He motioned for me to sit down, but I was already settling in.

  "And Milk Duds were originally supposed to be perfectly round . . . but they kept coming out lumpy—duds, get it?"

  "Before you move on to Whoppers and Goobers, want to tell me what this is about?"

  "Just like a man. No sense of . . . buildup, anticipation. Never mind."

  I fished around in my backpack and pulled out my candy research papers; I enjoyed spreading them out and messing up his unnaturally tidy desk.

  "Cadbury's has been around since the 1820s, but didn't merge with Schweppes until 1969. If we can get a closer look at the package that was in the box with the baby we might have a better idea when the body was buried. And we wouldn't need anyone's approval— no medical examiner, no missing relatives—just another look-see at something we've already seen, right?"

  He stared at me blankly.

  "Okay. It's not carbon dating but it's a clue. You don't seem to have many of those. If the sisters are ruled out because of the candy wrapper, maybe we can make a case for DNA testing of the body."

  "Let's see, where did I put it?" He patted his pockets, opened his pencil drawer, then pretended to look in the garbage for the candy wrapper. "For someone who doesn't want to get involved, you sure do stick your nose in a lot."

  "I've printed out a whole list of milestones in the history of Cadbury's Chocolates—Dairy Milk Bars were introduced in 1905, Roses in 1938 . . ."

  He held up his hands to silence me. "It's good. Very clever, really, but it's unlikely to rule them out completely," he added more thoughtfully, "unless—"

  "Unless what? What do we do next?" I interrupted.

  "We do nothing. I'll make a few phone calls. I'm not even sure where the wrapper is. It may still be in New Haven."

  "Why New Haven?"

  "Chain of custody. I think the Forensic Science Center still has everything. I'll look into it."

  He seemed ready to send me on my way.

  "How long do you think it will take?"

  "Sweet Jesus, you're impatient. This isn't the big city, you know."

  "My point entirely. Have you found any other bodies around here lately?"

  He picked up the phone and hit a button.

  "It's Mom. I've got Paula Holliday here. The woman who found the body? She's got a notion related to the Peacock matter. Okay if I put you on speakerphone?"

  I was annoyed by his use of the word notion. He pressed the mouthpiece of the phone to his chest.

  "I'm on with Marian Lyle. I took some of the pictures at the crime scene, but she took the ones that came out."

  I told Marian my Cadbury's theory. I couldn't tell if her silence meant she was considering my suggestion or covering the phone and laughing her ass off.

  "All the pictures I took are on a disk," she said finally. "I can send them to your computer, Mike, but I don't recall spending much time on the candy wrapper other than to record its existence. I was more interested in the necklace the baby was wearing. Took a lot of shots of that. Thought it might help with the ID."

  "And I've been kicking myself for not having taken a closer look at that medal," I added.

  "It was something in Spanish; I couldn't quite make it out," she said.

  "Send everything here," Mike said. "My home computer, too." He hung up.

  "So now that we're, sort of, partners, are you going to tell me what happened to Dorothy's sister?"

  "Number one, we are not partners. Number two, Dorothy Peacock's sister died four years ago. Check Morning Glory Cemetery if you don't believe me."

  "Right. And Jimmy Hoffa is alive and well and in the witness protection program." I got up to leave, taking my research with me.

  "Where's the other Hardy girl?" Mike asked.

  "Lucy? Home. Working. Like I should be, instead of wasting my time here."

  "If anything comes up, I'll call you."

  "Sure you will. Thanks a lot, Sergeant," I said, silently vowing not to share anything else with that guy until I could rub his nose in it.

  CHAPTER 18

  I was on my hands and knees, weeding, when Hugo and Felix pulled into the Peacocks' driveway in a thirty-foot U-Haul truck. As soon as they parked, the back door rolled up
and five other men piled out and immediately started off-loading the shrubs and trees they'd been riding with.

  Hugo stayed with the men, acting as foreman, while Felix joined me at the perennial bed. He dropped to his knees alongside me and sat back on his heels.

  "Hi, boss. Hugo thought you would want to plant these today," he said, motioning to the shrubs. "He says it will rain tomorrow and if we get them in the ground today, they'll get off to a healthy start."

  "Smart thinking."

  "He may even turn me into a gardener—always good to have something to fall back on if the president thing doesn't work out. He looks after you. You've been very kind to him and to Anna."

  "They're good people," I said. "I didn't realize they were a couple. I guess that's why she comes over so often."

  "That's not the only reason. She likes you. We all like you," he said. I realized our knees were almost touching, and scrambled to my feet, losing my balance and nearly falling over into the bed. Felix stayed on the ground for a minute, looking up at me. Then he got up, too, calmly brushing himself off. Hugo joined us and bailed me out of the awkward moment.

  "My knight in shining armor. I see you brought in the cavalry again," I said, referring to his helpers. "We'll need them."

  "The men are happy to do it," Hugo said. "For you and for Don Felix. And for the baby. Some of the men consider it a blessing that you found it."

  "I don't know how much of a blessing it's been for anyone. I just seem to be annoying people and raking up a lot of old stuff."

  "Perhaps it's like turning the compost pile," Hugo said. "The material takes a while before it is ready to be used."

  I hadn't seen Anna since the incident at my place, and it was unlike her to disappear for days, unless more cosmetic enhancements were involved, which was entirely possible. Now that the cat was out of the bag I asked Hugo how she was doing.

  "She is good. Very busy, but she will be back to work this week."

  "You two should have told me," I said, and he actually blushed.

  "Anna wanted to," he stammered, "but I am a very private person, and old-fashioned. There are traditions to be followed, from my family and my village. It will take some time, but we will be married," he said proudly.

  Two men came over to us, awaiting more instructions. Balled and burlapped trees were dragged to the spots that Felix and Hugo had previously prepared. Nursery pots were placed where they'd eventually be planted—starting with fifty small boxwoods on either side of the oyster-shell path that separated the herb garden and the white garden.

  "Is this everything from the nursery?" I asked, getting back to business.

  "Only the evergreens. I didn't think we'd have time to plant everything today. Better to let the nursery's men water them until we get them in the ground than to have to do it ourselves. Excave los hoyos tan hondos como las bolas de las raíces," he told the men.

  "żQué estás diciendo?" I asked.

  "I was just telling them to dig the holes as deep as the root-balls."

  The men operated like an assembly line, and the work went quickly. Dig, place, fertilize, backfill, water. The allée was finished. Five large rhododendrons replaced those that had had to be severely cut back in the front of the house. Luckily, two twenty-foot viburnums on either side of the porch had survived and would serve as a backdrop for the rhododendrons until they filled in and re-created the lush hedge that had once been there.

  Woolly adelgid, the sticky white critters ruining the hemlocks in Connecticut, had done a number on the trees marking the property line shared by Halcyon and the Fifield home. The men planted a dozen new ones. Staggered, they'd look less like puny replacements and more like offspring of the larger ones. At least, I hoped they would.

  My biggest challenge had been finding mature cypress trees to fill in Halcyon's Italianate hedge that lined the far side of the Peacocks' stone wall and separated the garden from the lawn and Long Island Sound beyond. These were grown in Oregon, and were a remarkable match for the ones Dorothy Peacock had planted.

  The men dug a long trench on that side of the wall. The cypresses would be evenly spaced along the length of the wall, providing shelter and privacy, which I now understood was a priority for Dorothy and Renata.

  We stood on the brick terrace, telling the men where the trees should go—this one to the left, this one to the right.

  "Perhaps we measure the space and plant them equidistant," Hugo suggested, no longer feeling the need to hide his exceptional English.

  "That's a good start, but they're not all the same size. We'll have to eyeball it, too." I squinted into the sunlight and motioned for the last one to be moved closer to the edge of the wall.

  "The third one from the left must be turned around to face the terrace," someone said decisively.

  It was Guido Chiaramonte.

  "Mr. Chiaramonte, how are you?"

  Arms folded, he inspected our work but didn't answer. "It looks good, not bad. I'm surprised, with the level of help you have. Scusi," he said, barely acknowledging Felix and Hugo's presence. "These boys, they don't work hard, and they think you should give them chicken every day for lunch. You have to keep after them, or else they'd sit around all day taking siestas."

  Hugo bristled but said nothing; Felix wisely pulled him away.

  "That hasn't been my experience. My partner and I have worked with some very good men, very knowledgeable, too."

  "Partner, eh?" He laughed.

  "That may be a little optimistic on my part, but I certainly hope Hugo will be my partner on future projects."

  I'd had my fill of Guido, with his sexist and racist cracks, but I still had his garden tools and equipment, so I was obliged to suffer his company a little longer.

  "Will you be coming to the Historical Society's event?" I asked, changing the subject.

  "Absolutely. There will be beautiful women there. That Anna is a beautiful woman. But she shouldn't waste her time with a skinny runt like that," he said, gesturing in Hugo's direction. He said it loud enough for Hugo and the other men to hear. He leaned in and whispered what he'd like to do to her. I marveled at the acrobatic details.

  "I'm just trying to make you jealous." He chuckled and touched my forearm. "She's delicious, but she's not you."

  Oh, goodie. I was still number one. I wriggled out of his oily reach.

  "You're too much of a gigolo for me. I couldn't keep up with you," I said. Couldn't keep from throwing up with you, I wanted to say.

  "Don't say that. I'm a very sensitive man. I know how to take care of a woman." He flashed a little bit of tongue. If that was supposed to convince me of his desirability, it had the opposite effect.

  "Mr. C., I have a small struggling business. I've really got to get back to work." Or go do my hand washables or get a root canal or anything to get away from you, you slug. "I'll make sure all your tools and machines are returned by the end of the week," I said, anxious to be out of his debt.

  "Come yourself. It was naughty of you last time to send your boys. Forget about that Hugo. I can be a very good partner. We can have a drink to celebrate your new venture." He patted my cheek and left.

  Yikes. Did he have much success with that shtick?

  Hugo had been watching us the whole time, waiting to come to my aid if I needed him. I gave him a thumbsup to let him know everything was okay, and we got back to work.

  After a few minor adjustments in placement—Guido was right about the tree—we backfilled and tamped down the soil around the cypresses. What would have taken a week on my own took just one day with team Mexico.

  When we finished, all the trees and shrubs had been watered in, and Felix and Hugo loaded the men back into the U-Haul.

  "Do they have enough air back there?" I asked.

  "Sí, sí. The roof is open." Hugo backed out of the driveway. He looked up at the overcast sky. "With the weather tomorrow, I don't think you will need us here. There is a new bank going up downtown and they need many workers. And I h
ave a few personal things to attend to, so you will be here on your own then."

  I nodded, and watched Felix leave, flashing a smile that I realized I was going to miss.

  CHAPTER 19

  The extra manpower had put us way ahead of schedule. I took the opportunity to get back to the quiet, anti -social side of gardening that I loved. Just a girl and her trowel.

  My tiny bud get for Halcyon was long gone, spent on things Richard Stapley and I couldn't beg or borrow. One of the society's members was the own er of a chain of seafood restaurants, so we scored two truckloads of free oyster shells and clamshells to line the garden's paths. In this light, the mother-of-pearl paths glistened against the rich brown of the newly turned beds like the bleached bones of a skeleton.

  Richard had been feeding me weekly updates on ticket sales, and the numbers were strong. Our little wine and cheese party had blossomed into a full-fledged social event, at least by Fairfield County standards. Once I knew tickets were selling, I'd ordered the more expensive trees, shrubs, and perennials and, with Richard's approval, had the bills sent directly to him.

  Three nurseries provided the plants—Lee's for shrubs and woody ornamentals, Gilbertie's for herbs, and Guido's for annuals. Guido wasn't thrilled he wasn't getting more of the business, but even he had to admit Lee's had the best shrubs; and Gilbertie's had been around so long, they may have provided Dorothy with her original herbs.

  The herb garden occupied the same amount of space as the white garden but at the opposite end of the allée. In each corner of the large square was a triangular bed that probably had held taller perennial herbs like yarrow and bee balm. A round central garden, with a raised bed, was surrounded by four curved beds with spaces in between so Dorothy could tend and harvest the herbs. Again, the paths were covered with crushed shells, and they evoked the sea and fresh herbs, even though most of the vegetation was long gone.

  My plan was to install Halcyon's herb garden last; that way it wouldn't be damaged by any late spring frosts. The newspaper photos weren't much help, but, judging from the vintage Comstock, Ferre seed packets I'd found in the green house, the sisters had made some eclectic choices.