The smaller statues weighed close to three hundred pounds each and required three men to lift them off the brass rods anchoring them to the fountain's base. We hired a piano mover to raise Neptune and deposit him on his new perch facing the water on a quickly built platform of gravel and Pennsylvania bluestone. That alone took half a day, and anyone watching might well have wondered why I was more interested in a hole in the ground than a thousand-pound marble statue hanging precariously by a cable. Once Neptune was enthroned, I sent the men home.
Lucy was there to record the event, if, in fact, there was one; and Felix and the newly sprung Hugo provided the muscle.
In the center of the now empty marble pool was a concrete ring housing the fountain's pump and tubing. Four cinder blocks surrounded the pump.
We moved the cinder blocks and external pump. Underneath the pump was a thick square of black slate. It took Felix and Hugo and two heavy crowbars to flip over the slate. Black landscape fabric was wrapped around a lumpy, unidentifiable object, but poking through the weed mat was something that looked eerily familiar. A bone. A bone I was convinced belonged to Yoly Rivera.
CHAPTER 50
"There's such a fine line between cheesy and clever." Babe Chinnery held up that morning's edition of the Springfield Bulletin. "GARDENER DIGS UP TRUTH IN 30-YEAR-OLD MYSTERY." I curtsied and slid onto a stool at the counter to a smattering of applause from my fellow diners at the Paradise.
"Breakfast is on the house," Babe said, pouring me some coffee. "If I had a liquor license I'd buy you a drink."
The previous week had been a blur. The bones found underneath Dina Fifield's fountain were conclusively identified as Yoly's remains by matching a sample of her DNA with Celinda Rivera's. Guido Chiaramonte had apparently stashed her body under Neptune and, over the years, in the course of checking on Dina Fifield's plumbing, kept an eye on Yoly.
Jon Chappell's editor had unleashed his inner Rupert and given him carte blanche on Yoly's story. To Jon's credit he kept the tone reasonably respectful.
Guido's killer was still at large, but as long as Hugo was in the clear, I was leaving that problem to the professionals. The closemouthed day laborer community wasn't providing many answers, and Mike O'Malley feared the killer had already left the country and would never be found. Like Yoly, Guido would wind up on a yellowing flyer on someone's bulletin board.
It wasn't my problem; I'd solved my two mysteries and was happy to be back digging in the dirt. As people had predicted, I was inundated with job offers once the story broke.
"Where've you been? Busy giving interviews?" Babe asked.
"I've been working my little tail off," I said, picking at the crisp, parsleyed potatoes next to my omelet. "Halcyon opens to the public next week, we just finished Dina Fifield's hardscaping so the landscaping starts soon, and I am booked solid until the end of this season. And I've got a meeting set up with a small golf course in Westport that could be big."
"Muy bien. Any word from the beautiful muchacho?"
Felix Ontivares had accompanied Celinda Rivera and her daughter's remains back to Mexico. Mexican news online ran the story for three days, complete with pictures of Felix and Yoly's surviving family members, including her mother and beautiful nineteen-year-old niece, a budding Tejano star.
"Ships passing in the night," I told Babe. "He had his arm around the niece in that picture, and if he's anything like his father, he likes them young. I'm a big girl. At least I'm not still mooning about the ex."
"True. I always say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone."
"Lucy said the same thing. Was that something you got in a fortune cookie?"
"Just a saying. Neil's the quote guy. I don't think it's Shakespeare, but I'll ask him."
"While you're at it, ask him about these, too." On a clean napkin I scribbled down some of the lines I'd seen on the Peacocks' needlepoints. "I've been meaning to look them up but keep getting sidetracked."
The Springfield Historical Society had agreed to let Hugo and Anna have a small ceremony on Halcyon's brick terrace the day after the opening, in appreciation of all the work Hugo had done there. Anna was thrilled; she'd been lobbying me since they set the date.
"I've got a few final touches for the garden. Then on Saturday night, I'm going to bring in an arbor and cover it with vines and flowers as a surprise."
"Cool. You know Pete's baking their cake."
"Don't tell him I said this, but his cooking's getting better."
"Be nice. He's been practicing for weeks, even took a cake-decorating class in Wilton. Here, try a piece of today's test cake. I've gained three pounds being his guinea pig."
It was charmingly decorated with a cluster of wisteria made entirely of sugar. Impressive, but it was a little early for buttercream, so I asked her to pack up the huge slab she'd cut for me and promised to try it later.
I considered swinging by SHS to pick up the bonus check Richard finally agreed to, but there was time. Besides, next week I'd have a new assistant to handle collections, the future Mrs. Hugo Jurado.
CHAPTER 51
The stone planters on Halcyon's brick terrace were overflowing with coleus, sweet potato vines, and dwarf fountain grass. Smaller, lightweight containers held masses of colorful zinnias and licorice plants spilling over the edges. I dropped my backpack and lunch in a shaded spot on the brick steps and got to work.
I wriggled one of the heavy stone dogs out of the way to make room for the rectangular buffet table SHS was delivering tomorrow. I rolled the other stone dog out of its regular spot to accommodate a small lectern where Richard would say a few words at the opening on Saturday, and a priest would marry the happy couple on Sunday. All the other planters were repositioned to flank the arbor under which Hugo and Anna would be married and to make room for the folding chairs for the wedding guests.
The work left me sweaty and a little winded, so I took a break on the steps for some water and a sugar rush from the buttercream icing on Pete's test cake. It was a home run—quite possibly the best thing I'd ever tasted.
Only a few months before I'd sat on these same steps, my life a shambles. Now I had more work than I could handle and I'd solved two mysteries; and two good friends were getting married. Life was good. I treated myself to another swipe of icing, surveying my work.
In all the time I'd been at Halcyon, I hadn't paid much attention to the maze, which was a ten-foot-high privet hedge of five interlocking circles. It needed only the annual crew cut, which Hugo had given it early in the season, and the occasional nip and tuck, which I decided to give it now. I placed a napkin on top of the cake to keep the ants away, and left it and the water on the steps for later.
My long-handled loppers were in the toolshed; I found them and walked past the white garden to the maze, where I trimmed a few wayward branches and yanked out errant strands of Virginia creeper and wirelike, mile-a-minute vine. The maze wouldn't be open for the ceremony this weekend, so if all I got to do was a little cosmetic pruning on the outside, that would be enough.
I was almost finished when my phone beeped with the Ca rib be an music that let me know I had a text message. It was from Neil MacLeod: Needlepoint quotes in Peacock house are from Song of Solomon, pretty amazing under the circumstances. Neil
Under the circumstances? What did that mean? I put down the loppers, crossed the terrace, and entered the Peacock house through the unlocked door that had welcomed so many other women. In the mudroom, the two needlepoints I'd seen on my first visit were still there. I am a rose of Sharon, a lily of the valley, and Like a lily among thorns is my darling among the maidens, each bordered by rambling roses, now grimy with age. I went upstairs to the library to check on the others Neil and I had seen. On the paneled wall were two more. What shall we do for our sister? Okay, I get it. Come to my garden, my sister. That wasn't much help. I scanned Dorothy's library for a copy of the Bible, kicking up a puff of dust when I set the heavy, leather-bound book on the table. I flipped th
rough the pages until I located the Song of Solomon. Come to my garden, my sister, my spouse; a spring shut up, a fountain sealed.
I dialed quickly. No answer. I waited for the beep to leave my message. "Gerald, it's Paula. Look, I'm at Halcyon. There's something strange here. The Peacocks had a series of needlepoints with lines from the Song of Solomon. One's missing, and it's about 'a fountain sealed.' What if the empty shelf isn't missing books? What if it's missing another framed needlepoint that was resting on the shelf? A needlepoint with a message someone didn't want seen? I'll call you back in ten minutes, but meet me here as soon as you can, okay?" I hung up.
I hurried outside to escape the suddenly claustrophobic atmosphere in the library. I went back to the maze to wait for Gerald. I checked my phone. Still no calls or messages. I picked up my loppers and kept working, more out of nervousness than anything else.
Deep inside the maze, farther than I had ever been, something dark green, like a lawn and leaf bag, caught my eye. "Jeez, I asked those guys not to leave garbage around," I said out loud. As I got closer, I saw it wasn't a trash bag. It was an oversized army surplus poncho draped over a twelve-speed bicycle with a bent rim.
"They won't be able to blame Chiaramonte for this, but I'm sure I'll think of something."
I froze. Stepping out from behind a wall of privet was Richard Stapley. "You killed Yoly?" I said, stepping back. "Why?"
"I had to," he said calmly. "Boring as she is, I could hardly give up an heiress for a penniless piece of fluff. When Yoly told me she was pregnant, I had no recourse. She interfered with my plans and had to be dealt with. Just like Guido.
"That son of a bitch was sneaking out of Dina Fi-field's bedroom when he accidentally saw Yoly and me in the Peacocks' garden. He's been holding it over my head ever since. It took some time, but I dealt with him."
I took another step back, bumping into the privet.
"And now you're interfering with my plans."
Stapley lunged at me, grabbing my shoulders. I pulled free and cracked him on the side of the head with my loppers. I heard a squishing sound, and Richard's silver hair turned pink as blood poured from the gash on his temple. I bayoneted him with the loppers and tore ass out of the unfamiliar maze, bouncing from side to side as I ran. He caught me by the sleeve as we exited near the stone wall, and he slammed me against it. He swung me around to the left, and it was just the windup I needed to land a powerful left hook to his kidneys.
He crumpled over. "Bitch," he spat.
I ran a few yards, hurdling over the first row of boxwoods, then I felt my legs give out from under me as he knocked me off my feet. I rolled over to my left and instinctively covered my right cheek so the punch he landed wasn't as bad as it might have been. I grabbed a handful of crushed oyster shells and threw them in Richard's eyes. It bought me just enough time to scramble to my feet and run to the steps of the terrace with Richard close behind.
"Dammit!" he yelled. I heard his big frame crash to the ground. He'd stepped on the wedge of wedding cake and slid on the thick buttercream, smacking his knees on the bricks.
I made the mistake of turning to look, and he grabbed my ankles, bringing me down again, my chin hitting the pavers. I tasted blood and let out a scream but kept kicking with all my strength at his hands, his chest, finally connecting with his face. His head snapped back and hit the long nose on one of the stone dogs I'd repositioned not an hour before. I crawled away on all fours, reflexively kicking, even as I moved farther away from him.
I climbed to my feet and ran to the edge of the terrace, still shaking. My mouth was filled with blood, and tears were streaming down my face. I watched Richard's motionless body for a few minutes. Blood was splattered everywhere—some his, some mine. I turned away, unable to look anymore. If I'd been wearing my heart-rate monitor, it would have been off the charts. I fumbled in my pants pocket for my cell and dialed 911, bloodying the phone.
Something moved behind me. I switched the phone to my right hand, twisted my torso, and landed a hard right—square in the face of Mike O'Malley.
CHAPTER 52
O'Malley and I sat opposite each other in the emergency room at the Springfield Hospital, holding ice packs to our faces. He massaged his jaw. "Not a bad punch."
"You're supposed to pivot that back foot and twist your hips," I said, my cheek full of cotton wadding. "Ellen's boxing class at the sports club."
A doctor approached us. "Mr. Stapley is in stable condition. It looked worse, because of all the blood," she said. "I told the other officers no questions, but he seems to be rambling on his own." Mike leaped up and jogged down the hall to Richard's room.
"How are you feeling?" She gently turned my face to the side to inspect my stitches. "You'll have a respectable shiner but no scars on the chin. I'm a good seamstress. He got the worst of the deal. Good for you."
The emergency room's swinging doors flew open.
"Would it be heartless of me to ask you for an exclusive?" Jon Chappell called, rushing toward me.
"I'm fine, thank you for asking," I said. "Go ahead, ask your questions. The public has a right to know."
He got out his pad and tape recorder. "Shoot."
"Richard Stapley killed Yoly Rivera."
Jon let out a long, low whistle.
"He killed Guido, too."
"He was the rich man with the accent that Yoly wrote to her mother about?" Jon asked.
"Yup."
When O'Malley returned, he helped me flesh out the story. "One night in the summer of 1974, after an athletic evening at Dina Fifield's, Guido was peeing in the hemlocks that separated the two properties and saw Stapley. Stapley claimed he was working on the stone wall, but Guido spotted Yoly's shoulder bag hanging on the nose of one of the stone dogs. Then he saw her feet, poking out from behind the stone wall."
"Richard told me Yoly was pregnant," I said, "just like her mother suspected."
Mike nodded. "He's claiming he panicked and Yoly's death was an accident."
"Yoly accidentally fell and hit her head on a heavy rectangular object . . . six times?" Jon asked, citing the autopsy report. "If that's true, why not just go to the cops?"
"A good citizen; just the thing we in law enforcement like to see. Guido wasn't. He helped him hide the body."
"Did Richard tell you how they met?" I asked, refolding my melting ice pack.
"Yoly was hired by the Fifields' regular house -keeper," Mike said, "to help at Win's graduation party. Dina Fifield probably didn't even know she was there, but Stapley certainly did."
Chappell was writing furiously.
"Care to continue, Ms. Holliday?"
"Richard thought he'd get away with murdering a poor Mexican no one knew and no one would miss. Guido must have convinced him a marble fountain was a better hiding place than a stacked stone wall. They buried her, and Guido has been blackmailing Richard ever since—not about Margery's baby, about Yoly's murder."
"I told you he was a bastard," Jon said.
"Once Richard became a pillar of the community, Guido began to really squeeze him," Mike said.
"Maybe that sewer deal was part of it, the one that tripled the value of Guido's property," Jon added.
"But that was two years ago," I said, "and only pays off when you sell. What if Guido wanted his money now?"
Mike continued, "Richard was desperate. He'd run out of his own money, and although Margery's was tantalizingly close, he couldn't touch it. Guido promised Richard he'd leave the country after he got one last payoff, but Stapley was broke."
"What about his art collection?" Jon asked. "I heard he had a Childe Hassam."
"Not him, her," I said. "Margery says she doesn't like the new frame, but I bet it's the painting she doesn't like, ten to one it's a fake. I bet Richard sold the original on that trip to Hartford." Things were coming together.
"So, Stapley tells Guido to be patient, he needs time to raise the money. Two or three weeks tops, then they can meet at their regular drop-off spo
t," Mike adds. "The recycling center. Another of Guido's little jokes.
"In the meantime, you and Neil accidentally tell Guido about the journal. Now he claims to have two things on Richard and gets even greedier. At the meeting they argue, Guido demanding more money and storming off until Richard promises to deliver. Now Richard knows that Guido will never leave him alone. There'll always be one last payoff. He knows there's only one way out."
"Guido interfered with his plans," I explained. "Richard parked the black Lincoln conspicuously in front of Halcyon so that I or anyone passing would assume he was there. Then he called the nursery, probably from a pay phone, to make sure the afternoon help had arrived and Guido would be alone in the trailer. That was Tanya's hang-up, right?" I asked Mike.
"Keep going, you're doing pretty good."
"Richard bicycled to the nursery, stabbed Guido, then rode back to Halcyon, stashing his bike and poncho in the maze. Somewhere along the way, maybe in the deep gravel at the nursery, he bent one of the rims, but that didn't matter. He'd be driving back in the car."
"The tracks at Guido's nursery we initially thought were made by a wheelbarrow were made by a specialized bike," Mike said. "Same make and model as Richard's.
"Why didn't he go back for the bike sooner?"
"He probably tried, but someone was always there. He told Margery it was in the shop anyway; and, given his track record, he probably thought he could leave it stashed in the garden for years and no one would notice. Sorry, Mike."
"What about the weapon?" Jon asked.
"Richard unwittingly returned one of Guido's own tools," Mike said. "He took the coa from Halcyon's green house and peeled off the orange tape Paula had used to identify the tools, assuming correctly that the handle would be covered with other people's fingerprints. Hugo's just happened to be a set we were able to identify. What Richard didn't count on was our criminalist's finding microscopic traces of cashmere stuck to the adhesive residue on the handle. Not too many garden workers wear cashmere gloves. All circumstantial until you forced his hand and he tried to kill you."
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