Nipped in the Bud

by Susan Sleeman

  Adam, on the other hand, leaned back, crossed perfectly pressed khaki-clad legs, and moved into a meditative trance. Worried or not, I didn’t miss the chance to look him over in the daylight. As we’d walked here, the women we passed gave him a second look—a deserving look from what I could see. The sunlight filtering through the clouds and glinting off the window brought out hints of red in his dusty-brown hair. He’d gelled it up again, giving himself a GQ appearance with which I could find little fault.

  In fact, when the receptionist told us we could go in, I was reluctant to take my eyes off him and make the move. He stood first, brushing imaginary fuzz from his vest and shouldering his case. With a warm hand, he helped me to my feet. His fingers pressed on my back, gently guiding me down the hall.

  “Remember,” he whispered in my ear as we walked into the conference room, “watch me. I’ll tell you which questions you should respond to. And keep your answers to the point. Don’t ramble. Don’t explain. It’s up to the chief to prove your guilt. Don’t give him the ammunition he needs.”

  Much like Adam had done when he stood, I pulled back my shoulders and marched into the room. I’d expected the TV version of a small airless cell with hot lights, two-way mirrors, and table with chair. Instead, Mitch waited for us in a small conference room with rich walnut furniture, a pitcher of water and glasses in the center of a long table, and ten plush chairs. A window filled the far wall, letting in plenty of sunlight for the ficus sitting in the corner. The poor little baby was dropping leaves much the same way Mitch would be dropping this case if I had my way. I made a mental note to check on the neglected darling if the meeting ended amicably.

  “Sit,” Mitch commanded. The room might be nice, but Mitch was the same old grump.

  I chose a chair and took a good look at my adversary. The gray in his hair was more obvious in this lighting as were the crinkle lines that had formed around his eyes. He must have gotten those from laughing. So where were the jokes when he was with me?

  I’d barely sat when Mitch reached across the table and slid a microphone in front of me. “We’ll be recording this. Speak clearly. Okay, let’s get started.” He leaned forward and rattled off my name, the date, and other statistics then glared at me. “Yesterday, you told me you went to The Garden Gate after your fight with Picklemann.”

  “Alleged fight,” Adam said.

  “Fine, alleged fight. Walk me through your morning, step-by-step.”

  I looked at Adam for permission to speak, and he gave me a clipped nod. I slowly and purposefully revealed the details of my morning so Mitch wouldn’t have to ask any additional questions. Except I couldn’t get out the part about changing clothes.

  Mitch leaned forward, his eyes never leaving my face. “Is it usual for you to go home in the middle of the day?”

  Great. He didn’t miss a thing. “Sometimes. For lunch.”

  “And is that why you went home yesterday?”

  I cut my gaze to Adam, who gave me a nod of encouragement. “I did get lunch there, but mostly I went home because I got a stain on my shirt from picking up those soggy scrapbook papers. My work shirts are expensive, and I didn’t want the stain to set in.”

  “Are you saying you went home to wash your shirt?”

  I nodded.

  “So you lied to me yesterday.” His eyes drilled into me. “Or are you lying today?”

  Adam held his hand in front of me and said to Mitch, “Care to rephrase that last question, or should I take my client and go?”

  Mitch glared at Adam then locked gazes with me again. “Fine. You omitted this piece of information yesterday. How do you explain that?”

  “I didn’t even think about how washing my shirt would look.”

  His mouth dropped open. “You expect me to believe you didn’t think I’d need to know about this? Even after I asked for your clothes?”

  “Honestly, Mitch, I was so in shock over finding Bud that until Adam brought it up late last night, I didn’t think about it.”

  Adam leaned forward. “She’s being straight with you, Lawson. If you could’ve seen her reaction last night, you would know she hadn’t made the connection.”

  “Spoken like a true lawyer.” Mitch scowled and sat back.

  And so it went. Mitch pelted out questions like hail on a garden, trampling everything under his fury. He met each of my answers with skepticism or downright disbelief, even when I told him about seeing something white moving in the park and seeing Rachel there, too. Now, after nearly an hour of questioning, Mitch transitioned to the same ground for a third time.

  Adam pushed his notes away in frustration. “All due respect, Chief, but you seem to have something against my client. She has been forthright with you. You’ve tried to trip her up by asking the same question multiple times. She continues to give you the same answer because she’s telling the truth. It’s time you cut her some slack.”

  Mitch sneered. “No one cut Bud Picklemann any slack.”

  “Then maybe you should focus your effort on finding the real killer.” Adam shot to his feet and packed his things into his briefcase. “Paige had no motive to kill Picklemann. Sure, he presented her with a problem, but she solved it, and with no detriment to her company. If you’d stop and look at the case with an open mind you’d see the details don’t add up. If Paige killed Picklemann, why would she find the body and call 911? Why would she hide the body on her work site? And for that matter, why hide him at all if she was just going to turn around and find him? Then there’s the murder weapon. Supposing the forensics report does state that her shovel was used to kill Picklemann. Why leave it in the park with her fingerprints all over it?”

  “I don’t think—” Mitch said.

  “Maybe you should start thinking.” Adam turned and urged me to my feet. “Unless you have any charges to bring, we’ll be going.”

  Mitch’s furious gaze locked on my face. “You’re free to go for now, but you can be sure once the forensic team is finished and the autopsy is completed, we’ll be revisiting all of this. So don’t leave town.”

  I gave the ficus one last look before Adam escorted me out of the room, down the hall, and into the lobby. Jubilant over the outcome of the meeting, I turned and threw my arms around his neck. He was tall, and I stood on tiptoes to reach around his broad shoulders. He smelled of minty soap and a light musk aftershave. Like a lawyer should, I suppose. He also felt solid, firm, muscular, as if he worked out. Very unlawyerly.

  Umm, nice. I was merely thanking him, but now. Now, what? What was I doing as I clung to him? The boyfriend sweater from last night popped into my mind. A strong urge to snuggle followed.

  Adam awkwardly fumbled with his briefcase and finally clasped my arms to set me away. His eyes were far from excited over my unbridled display of affection.

  “Sorry.” I reluctantly moved a step back and looked into his eyes. I’d felt a connection, strong and solid. Not like a lightning bolt, nothing earthshaking or stomach turning, just a solid sense of his goodness. He cleared his throat, and I leaned back. “I guess a client shouldn’t fawn over her attorney like that.”

  He smiled, and from where I stood, I could see a tiny scar on his chin that winked when his lips turned up. “Don’t get me wrong, Paige, I’m not at all opposed to the hugging. I just don’t want you to get so excited over this little victory. We have a long way to go until you’re in the clear.”

  “Don’t worry. I know I’m still the prime suspect without an alibi.” Smiling over my connection with Adam, I slipped my hand through his arm and tugged him toward the exit. “It just felt so good to see the thunderous look on Mitch’s face, I wanted to celebrate for a minute.”

  He pulled open the door and waited for me to step outside. “Okay, as long as you realize we still have a lot of work to do.”

  “Umm, yes, work. Lots of work.” My thoughts still on the hug, my voice sounded more dreamy than businesslike. “How about we tackle some of it over lunch?”

  He glanced
at the tall clock tower on the corner. “It’s a little early for lunch.”

  Eleven thirty, early? Maybe in the civilized world. In the boonies people often ate at this time of day. “Well, maybe it’s a tad early.” I batted my eyelashes. “So how about you hang around until it’s time to eat?” Flirting. Not very well, but flirting? My future freedom was in jeopardy, and I was flirting. I had to stop. This was crazy. I needed to remember why he was here. “I’m not asking you on a date or anything. We have to plan a strategy, and we both have to eat.” Trying to control my behavior, I kept my wayward lashes still and peered at him.

  “Aww, really, no date?” His eyes turned mischievous, giving him a little boy look that was extremely enticing.

  I was in trouble. “Nope, strictly business.”

  “A business lunch would be good.” His eyes said he knew what I was up to. His voice was all professional and controlled. “Give me a computer and phone to use for the next hour to get a little work done, and I’m all yours.”

  “Deal,” I said before he changed his mind.

  Relieved to have that settled, I kept my arm from darting out and linking with his again and resumed our stroll toward The Garden Gate. Before I blurted out some other stupid comment, I focused on the success of the meeting and my lifted spirits.

  We strolled side by side down Main and across Oak. I not only enjoyed my small victory but the spectacular May morning as well. Still in the sixties, it was cool enough to warrant the sweater I’d brought along. By the time we sat down to lunch, we should have a perfect shirtsleeve day.

  I raised my face to the warmth of the sun. “I love it when summer finally gets here. I never get enough sun.”

  He snorted. “Tell me about it. I moved here in the summer during the dry season. If someone told me most every day for the rest of the year I’d be ducking raindrops, I might not have made the move.”

  I laughed at his dismay over our gloomy winters. “Guess that means you’re not a native Oregonian.”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Californian born and raised.”

  “That’s right, you and Perry went to law school at Stanford,” I said then turned and nodded at Mrs. Beneford, who was sweeping the sidewalk across the street in front of the movie theater. She nodded back and stared with the same kind of interest I had in finding out about Adam’s past. “So how did a big shot lawyer like you end up in McMinnville?”

  He laughed. “Not sure the big shot fits, but I did work in a large law firm in San Francisco. A couple who worked with me there came up here on a winery tour one weekend and never went back to California. Literally, never. They liked Oregon so much, they bought a business on the coast and had their things packed and shipped. I took care of selling their house. As a thank you, they invited me up for a week. I guess I caught the bug and here I am.” He grinned, the little boy back in charge. “So how about you?”

  “Lived with all of this through high school.” I spread my arms to encompass the final steps of Poplar Street before we arrived at The Garden Gate. “Then I moved to Portland. Got a degree in landscape design and went to work for Ten Trees Landscaping. About a year ago, I’d finally saved enough money to move here and start my own business.”

  “So you’re one of the natives then?”

  “Uh-huh, and proud of it.”

  The impish glint in his eyes intensified. “Then you won’t mind if I ask you to clear something up for me.”

  “Sure, why not.”

  At the end of the alley, he tugged me to a stop. “I’ve been told—mind you it might just be a rumor—that native Oregonians are born with webbed toes so they can survive all the rain.”

  I’d heard this silly Oregon joke lots of times, but I played along, mocking offense by crossing my arms. “Now, Adam Hayes, I don’t think you know me well enough to ask to see my toes.”

  “Guess we’ll have to fix that then, won’t we?” He smiled, wide and dazzling. “I’m dying to know the truth.”

  “Paige, there you are,” Velma Meyers yelled from the back stoop of her Scrapbook Emporium. “I really need to talk to you.” She shot a fawning smile at Adam. “If you’re not too busy.”

  Before Velma asked for an introduction, I nudged Adam toward the door, where I entered my code into the automatic lock. “My office is the second door on the left. Make yourself at home while I talk to Velma.”

  I pushed him through the door. “I’ll be there in a few.”

  Velma had hobbled halfway across the alley by the time I got to her. Her right hand, gnarled from arthritis, peeked from a berry-flowered cuff and grasped a cane made from driftwood she’d picked up at the coast.

  “Is it true, Paige?” she asked, her usually warm eyes filled with worry. “Do they really think you killed Bud?”

  “For now. But it’ll be okay. They’ll find the real killer.” In thanks for her concern, I patted her slumped shoulder. “So how about you? Any idea who might have wanted to kill him?”

  Before she could answer, Gus Reinke drove his battered truck down the alley, forcing us to move to the other side. She looked around furtively, as if checking to see if anyone might overhear us. “Pretty much everyone in town had a reason to do Bud in.”

  Everyone? I knew about Bud’s reputation as a brutal city manager, and I’d experienced his tyrannical behavior first hand, but everyone wanting to do him in? Seemed a bit of an exaggeration. “Could you narrow that down, Velma? Maybe think of someone Bud was extra mean to?”

  She tilted her head to the left. A slip of white hair dangled from her tight bun and swung like a silver lace vine in a strong breeze. While I waited for her to run the possible suspects through her mind, I looked at my garden beds sprinkled with the dying greens from stately yellow and white daffodils and the smaller, more delicate grape hyacinths.

  Still waiting, I silently hummed the final Jeopardy melody.

  Halfway through the song a second time, she straightened as much as her curved spine would allow, and her eyes lit up. “I’ve got it. There was a group of homeowners that Bud really did wrong a few years back. Know the pickle factory?”

  I nodded. Anyone who drove into town could figure out there was a pickle factory in Serendipity. If the pickle trash cans dotting the park and a Pickle Fest banner strung over Main Street weren’t enough clues, there were the cucumber-filled semis that frequented the streets. Still, I wondered how a pickle factory had anything to do with the death of a Picklemann other than in the name.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “Bud got the entire city to change zoning laws so that factory could locate on the outskirts of town. He said it would be good for our economy. That kids would stay here after graduation because they had jobs. People who lived by the site fought hard to keep the factory out, but Bud lied to get us to vote for the change. He said the company would make sure the factory didn’t affect the quality of life for local homeowners. The factory owners never did what Bud promised. The noise and activity dropped the value of the homes to next to nothing. Even though their property was worthless and they couldn’t sell the houses, most folks near the factory moved away.”

  Yes! Finally, suspects. Real suspects. Even though I was elated, I forced the excitement out of my tone. Velma would mistake my happiness and think I didn’t care about others’ misfortune. “How many people were there, and did you know any of them?”

  “Just a handful. Didn’t know most of them. One of the ladies, Ida Carlson, used to visit the shop. She stopped coming in a long time ago. Now that I think about it, I don’t know what happened to her.”

  “Any idea how I could find more information about this?”

  “I would imagine you could get it from the library. City council minutes are published every month. The Times should have the details.”

  I thanked Velma and raced back to the shop to tell Adam about my good news—maybe to gloat a little over the fact that I, without the aid of a private investigator, had my first clue in very little time. With this kind of resul
t, I’d know the identity of the killer by nightfall.

  Chapter Nine

  “And now, enjoy the best of Through the Garden Gate with your beloved host, Paige Turner.”

  “Hi, Paige, this is Banned in Sisters. About six months ago you did a show about researching plant properties.”

  “Right you are, Banned. When planning a garden, research, research, research. To be successful you must discover, at a minimum, a plant’s water and sunlight needs and the heat and cold extremes it can survive. I believe I suggested a trip to the library to consult the American Horticultural Society’s A-Z Encyclopedia of Garden Plants.”

  “Yes, you did, and that’s where our problem started. Our librarian has banned us from the library.”

  “Now why would she do something so drastic?”

  “She said we were destroying the book.”

  “I don’t understand. Was she worried that you were using it too often?”

  “Not exactly. We might have gotten a little bit of dirt on the pages.”

  “Dirt?”

  “Yeah, we needed to identify a few of our plants so we dug them up and laid them by the pictures in the book. We tried to clean it up. Honest.”

  Outside my office door, I stopped and peered into the small space. Adam was seated behind my monster of a desk, and his long tapered fingers clicked away on my keyboard while he talked into the phone wedged between his ear and shoulder. He glanced at me and smiled. My face warmed over the memory of our earlier hug. How nice it would be to snuggle in that spot again.

  As much as I wanted to talk to him, he had to finish up before we could go to lunch and discuss this new development. Reluctantly, oh so reluctantly, I pushed off the doorjamb and went in search of Hazel.

  Lisa, eyes drooping and chin resting on her fist, delayed my search. Her index finger rested on the same magazine as earlier.

  “You’re back,” I said approaching the table.

  She raised her head as if it weighed hundreds of pounds. Please, say it isn’t so. My daisy was wilting as her morning caffeine wore off. A tired Lisa meant a contentious Lisa. She needed eight hours of sleep or she was cranky. Until her twins slept through the night, she’d been almost unbearable .