“Harold?” Gum looked surprised. “I was with him earlier.”
“When earlier?” Tretheway asked.
“Oh, nine o’clock. Maybe even before that. We judged the kids pretty fast because of the weather.”
“Where, Bartholomew?” Jake asked.
“The Children’s Garden. In the clubhouse.” Gum thought for a moment. “Harold was there when I left. Cleaning up.” He pointed across the street to the dim outline of the clubhouse, partially obscured by the trees in the park. “As a matter of fact, I think there’s still a light on over there.”
“Is there a phone?”
“No. It’s just a roughed-in workroom, really. And a storage area.”
“You have your flashlight, Jake?”
Jake patted his pocket and nodded.
“Let’s take a look,” Tretheway said.
They crossed the street, three shadows huddled together.
The moon shone through a hole in the clouds to show them a pathway through the maze of oddly shaped, exotic trees. Tretheway, Jake and Gum dodged around Scheidecker Crabs, Weeping Nootkas, Crimson King Norway Maples, Hinoki Fals Cypresses and other angular Oriental specimens. All had been neatly labelled—unpronounceable Latin names engraved on metal tags and attached to the proper trees—by the Fort York Royal Botanical Garden Society.
Tretheway, leading the way, reached the actual garden first. About an acre in size, it was bordered on three sides by a six-foot cedar hedge. The low, ivy-covered clubhouse, topped by a louvered cupola with an ornate weather vane, edged the fourth side. By this time of year, only four or five large pumpkins had escaped the children’s harvest. A few late annuals still bloomed, but these would go with the first frost—maybe tonight.
The moon ducked behind a cloud. Tretheway bumped into something solid.
“Damn!” He stepped back. “What the hell’s that?”
A sturdy post set into the ground supported an old suit of clothes stuffed with straw. Its arms, a two-by-two wooden cross-piece, stood out perpendicularly from the body. Old cowboy gauntlets were sewn on the cuffs for hands. In deference to the war, a dishpan-like steel helmet was strapped onto the ball of straw that served as a head.
“It’s the scarecrow,” Gum said unnecessarily. “I don’t know if it works, but the kids enjoy it.”
Tretheway rubbed his forehead. “Well, watch out for it.” He continued to the clubhouse. Jake and Gum followed. Tretheway tried the door.
“It’s not locked.” Tretheway barged in, too carelessly, Jake thought. Jake entered warily, but Gum hung back.
“Ammerman!” Tretheway shouted. “You in here?”
There was no answer. The interior of the workroom smelled of damp earth. A single light bulb hanging from the ceiling glowed weakly. Most of the floor space was taken up with long potting tables covered with small hand tools, plant containers, a hot plate, a dented kettle, an old mantel radio, variously sized tuberous roots and boxes of planting records. One wall was covered with botanical charts. Another held a rack for the storage of long tools such as rakes, hoes, cultivators, shovels and pruning shears. There were bushel baskets stacked in two corners.
“C’mon in, Bartholomew,” Jake said. “Ammerman’s not here.”
Gum came in slowly, looking around. “He was here. Did you check everywhere?”
Tretheway poked his head into the storage area. He turned back. “Nothing there.” A reflection caught his eye. “What’s that?”
“Where?” Jake said.
“There.” Tretheway pointed to the floor.
Jake picked up a shiny metallic object about three inches long and pointed at one end.
“Looks like … an arrowhead. Or spear tip.” Jake handed it to Tretheway. He turned it around in his thick fingers and examined the end that wasn’t pointed.
“Clean break,” Tretheway said. “It broke away from something. Looks important, doesn’t it?”
Jake nodded. “Part of a costume?”
“It’s no garden tool.” Tretheway looked at Gum. “Do you remember anything like this?”
“Not offhand,” Gum said. “There were some Indians. But they had little arrows. An African native. He had a spear. Could’ve been him.”
Tretheway nodded. “Anything else?”
Gum thought for a moment and then snapped his fingers. “A Roman soldier! I’ll bet that’s it. I know the kid, too.”
“Could you find out for sure?” Tretheway asked.
“Sure,” Gum said.
“Is it important?” Jake asked.
“Probably not.” Tretheway pushed his hand under his cape and stuffed the alleged spearhead into his pocket. “Just something else to file.”
“And we still haven’t found Ammerman,” Jake said.
“Where can we look now?” Gum asked.
“The woods,” Tretheway said.
“The woods?” Gum repeated.
“At night?” Jake said.
“If Ammerman did make a wrong turn, an absent-minded mistake, he’s still wandering around out there.” Tretheway flung his arm in the direction of the street. “Somewhere. In no danger. If someone wanted to hurt him, they’d do it here. Which they haven’t. Or they’d take him away.” He flung his arm in the opposite direction. “Down the woods.”
“Could we wait until morning?” Gum said.
“We could call for help,” Jake suggested.
“What’s the time?” Tretheway snapped.
“Eleven-twenty,” Jake said.
“We have forty minutes.” Tretheway went to the tool rack and picked up a long-handled shovel. “Gentlemen, choose your weapons.”
They decided by a two-to-one vote to stick together. Tretheway, not usually given to democratic procedure, went along in this case because of the short time left and because half of his force was civilian. Besides, he reasoned, if they split up, they might attack each other in the darkness. Tretheway marched at the head of the procession brandishing his garden shovel. Jake was next, a wicked three-pronged cultivator held across his chest like a hockey stick in the cross-check position; Gum, a little slower and slightly behind, guarded the rear. Gum had chosen a lawn rake for his defense or attack. At one point when they closed up and crossed a rise in the ground, with the moon a white, shimmering globe behind them, they looked as though they had been cut out of black construction paper and pasted on a third grade classroom window for the holiday.
Tretheway struck west immediately. Grass gave way to dirt at the top of the first trail.
“I thought you guys carried guns,” Gum said to the backs of the other two.
“Mine’s at the office,” Jake said.
“Keep it down,” Tretheway ordered.
Coote’s Paradise was kept as close as possible to nature with very little housekeeping. Dead trees rotted where they fell. Leaves, at this time of year, covered the floor of the ravine and creeks ran without the aid of concrete spillways or dams. The only obvious marks of civilization, other than the discreetly placed, camouflaged litter barrels, were the trail markers. Neat, dark-stained posts and matching crosspieces, branded with the names of the trails, marked the way for neophyte hikers. They were unnecessary for Tretheway. He was familiar with the woods because of his Sunday walks. Jake and Gum, of course, had roamed the ravine as children before there was any need for signposts or litter barrels.
They entered the woods and slipped out of sight down Caleb’s Walk. By alternately jogging and walking, or keeping what Gum called Scout’s pace, they were able to cover an amazing amount of ground. The trail crossed Westdale Brook, then forked left to the University grounds. From there, they followed yet another trail called Pinery, back into the woods to the edge of the marsh, then along a tortuous, up-and-down path labelled Arnott’s Walk. Tretheway stopped. Jake and Gum stopped also and tried to see around Tretheway. From behind a larger than usual hump in the trail ahead, they heard quiet voices and saw a reflection of flickering light.
“What’s over the hill?” Tretheway whispere
d.
“Kingfisher Point,” Jake whispered back nervously.
“It’s a landing,” Gum whispered, as nervously as Jake.
“When I say go, yell like hell and follow me over the hill,” Tretheway said.
“Eh?” Gum said.
“But what if …” Jake started.
“Go!” Tretheway charged over the rise. His yell scared Jake and Gum but they followed. Their charge had a predictable effect on the four FYU first year students, two boys, two girls, enjoying a private party around a warming fire. They had also been drinking dark Jamaican rum to ward off the cold, which exaggerated the improbable sight made by Tretheway’s group.
Both girls screamed immediately. The four of them jumped to their feet, and after a frozen second, turned and ran. Tretheway realized almost at once that these unfortunates were not the quarry. He stopped in his tracks. Jake and Gum bumped behind him. Before Tretheway could do anything, the student quartet had climbed back up the ravine—not on a trail but through the trees—and could be followed easily for the next five minutes by the sounds of crashing underbrush.
“Damn!” Tretheway said.
“Maybe we should follow them and explain,” Jake said.
“They looked awfully scared,” Gum said.
“Take too long,” Tretheway replied. “They shouldn’t’ve been here anyway.”
“My God.” A smile showed through Jake’s words. “I wonder what they thought?” Tretheway chuckled.
“I wonder what they’ll tell their friends?” Gum said.
They mused on and imagined the start of a legend about ghostly gardeners that would be handed down over the years.
“Shouldn’t we be moving on?” Jake finally suggested.
“I suppose so,” Tretheway said. “But we’ve probably scared off anybody within miles. Let’s go.”
They took the South Shore Trail to Sassafras Point, checked Cockpit Island, doubled back to Ginger Valley and Princess Point, all without success.
“Let’s check the road,” Tretheway said.
They followed the Ravine Road all the way back to where it joined Caleb’s Walk. Tretheway took a huge handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the rain from his face.
“Where to now?” Gum asked.
“What’s the time?” Tretheway said.
“Twelve-ten,” Jake said.
Tretheway sighed. “Might as well go home.” He led the way back over Caleb’s Walk. Their pace was much slower than it had been fifty minutes before. By the time they left the woods proper, the rain had stopped and the moon showed itself once again.
“Looks like it might clear,” Gum said.
Neither Tretheway nor Jake answered. The wind still blew cold as they passed the Children’s Garden on their way to Gum’s house.
Tretheway stopped. “Jake.” He sniffed the air.
“Hm?”
“What’s that smell?”
Jake raised his head and imitated Tretheway. Gum joined in to further test the air.
“Sassafras,” they said together.
“Around here?” Tretheway said.
“No,” Jake said. “At least a mile away.”
“Sassafras Point,” Gum confirmed.
“It’s coming from over there.” Tretheway looked at the clubhouse suspiciously. “Look at the scarecrow.”
“What about it?” Jake stopped beside Tretheway.
The scarecrow was plainly visible, silhouetted against the moon-white stucco of the clubhouse.
“Doesn’t it look different?” Tretheway said.
The three of them stared intently across the dark grey field.
“How?” Gum asked.
“The head,” Tretheway said.
“The helmet’s gone,” Jake said.
“And it looks … bigger,” Gum said.
“Gimme your light,” Tretheway said.
They approached the scarecrow cautiously. Tretheway kicked something.
“What’s that?” He shone the flashlight on the ground.
“It’s the scarecrow,” Jake said. “At least, the old one.”
“Then what…” Gum started.
The flashlight’s beam travelled over the ground the few remaining feet to the post. Several loose sassafras leaves lay crushed around its base. Then, steady in Tretheway’s hand, the revealing light rose upwards to show a figure, presumably a man’s, tied grotesquely to the post in the same position as the old scarecrow. He was dressed in a baggy tweed suit and sodden trench coat. A small sassafras branch was caught in the coat’s buckle. Where his ball of hay, or head, should be, was a large Hallowe’en pumpkin.
“That’s the pumpkin we had for the kids,” Gum said.
Tretheway shone the flashlight into the triangular eyeholes of the large Jack-O-Lantern. The wide-open, glassy eyes of Harold Ammerman reflected the beam as spectacularly as a cat’s eyes reflect the headlights of a passing car.
“Jezuz.” Tretheway flicked off the light.
The moon returned to the privacy of the clouds. It started to spit rain again.
NOVEMBER
Alderman Harold Ammerman was buried on Friday, November 1, before the sun went down, according to Jewish custom. Dr Nooner had discovered in a hurried but efficient medical examination that the cause of death was heart failure. And the horrified facial expression, plus the macabre situation in which Ammerman was discovered, forced all those involved, including Zulp, to agree upon one conclusion. Simply, Harold Ammerman had been scared to death.
On other theories, however, there were divergent thoughts.
“The sassafras leaves,” Zulp said. “They’re the key.”
“Eh?” Tretheway blinked. Wan Ho was also taken aback. So were Jake and Gum, who were sitting beside each other near the door. It was Monday and they had all been called into Zulp’s office for an impromptu review of the latest murder; Wan Ho in his official capacity and the others because they had found the body. “You’re just too much involved,” Zulp had said to Tretheway. “You’re always … ah … there.” Zulp had been shocked at Ammerman’s death but also angry at Tretheway for once again being first on the scene. He had softened his stand somewhat when he had learned that Tretheway had been dragged by Mrs Ammerman into the discovery of yet another body.
Over the weekend, the investigation had run into its customary cul-de-sac. It seemed that Hallowe’en was the perfect night for a murder. Everyone is in disguise; beings sneak about in the darkness with impunity; the bizarre becomes the norm, and strange, inexplicable things traditionally happen. There were no official suspects. Theories, on the other hand, were not scarce.
“It’s an aphrodisiac, you know,” Zulp continued.
“Eh?” Tretheway repeated.
“You boil it up. Brew it. Preferably over an open fire. At night. Then give it to someone you want to … you know.”
“That’s sassafras tea,” Gum said. “My mother drinks sassafras tea.”
“That’s none of our business, Gum,” Zulp said.
“But it’s a medicine,” Gum protested.
“Like a tonic, I thought,” Tretheway said.
“That’s right,” Jake confirmed. “It’s medicinal. Also used in the manufacture of cosmetics, I think.”
“Root beer, too,” Wan Ho offered. “You make it with the roots.”
“I didn’t know that,” Jake said.
“We have here an affaire d’amour!” Zulp shouted to regain the group’s lost attention. He succeeded. No one answered.
“A tryst,” Zulp whispered. “A secret rendezvous.”
“Sir.” Wan Ho recovered first. “I don’t understand.”
Tretheway looked over his shoulder and saw by the expressions on Jake’s and Gum’s faces that they didn’t understand either. He turned back to Zulp. “I’m lost too, Sir.”
Zulp entwined his pudgy fingers over his chest just below his WWI ribbons, and stared at the ceiling. A full minute passed. Tretheway and Wan Ho both glanced upward in search of a possible c
lue.
“Alderman Ammerman was brewing, or going to brew sassafras tea,” Zulp began, “for a lady friend. He was alone. Children gone home. Dark rainy night. Cozy clubhouse. Probably candles. Maybe some music. Sandwiches. Harold readying the feast with a twinkle in his eye.”
“But we didn’t see him,” Tretheway said.
“He didn’t want you to see him. Hid somewhere.” Zulp smiled. “Probably watched you three go on your dumb hike.”
“But …”
“Let me finish the picture for you, Tretheway. The other woman didn’t turn up. But her husband did. Confrontation. J’accuse! Ammerman protests. A tussle. More shouting. A final struggle. Ammerman clutches his chest.” Zulp made a noise like a child gargling. “The husband silences forever the invader of his wife’s honour.”
“Ammerman?” Tretheway said.
“Still waters.”
“He’s over seventy,” Gum protested.
“Never too old.”
“But who?” Wan Ho said.
“Dammit, Sergeant. I can’t do everything. Do a little digging. Leg work. This man’s dangerous.”
A thoughtful silence followed Zulp’s conjecture. Tretheway waited.
“You know what I think?” he asked finally.
“Tretheway,” Zulp interrupted. “Remember one thing. You’re here because you’re a witness. Along with those other two.” He pointed over Tretheway’s head at Jake and Gum. “You’re not here in an official capacity.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to hear any suggestions,” Wan Ho said.
“Well,” Zulp said.
“I need all the help I can get,” Wan Ho persisted.
“I suppose. Open mind and all that.”
“To start with,” Tretheway jumped in. “I think the sassafras leaves show only one thing. That they—I mean Ammerman and captors—had been to Sassafras Point. Nothing more.” Tretheway stood up bringing the chair with him. He pushed it off his buttocks. “What makes me mad is that I think they were down the woods at the same time we were.” He indicated Jake and Gum. “Sheer dumb luck we didn’t see them. Probably crossed trails. But anyway, they probably ran old Harold around the woods. Up and down the hills. That’d be pretty gruelling for a man his age. Poor old bugger.” Tretheway put his hands behind his back. He stared out the window. A light snow was falling. “It was murder.”
Good Year For Murder Page 13