I assumed this was our subject, Nancy Kimble. Nervously, I rushed ahead. “Hi, Nancy. I’m Paige Turner, and this is my friend Lisa Winkle. Thanks for seeing us on such short notice.”
She didn’t move. Was she going to refuse to let us in? Not if I could help it. Searching for an icebreaker, I looked at her gardens. That’s it. Compliment her. No gardener could resist praise for their hard work.
I poked my index finger toward the nearest bed. “Man, you have one talented gardener. Looks like that bed’ll be a stunner once the weather warms up.”
Nancy’s brow arched ever so slightly. “I’m the only gardener around here.”
As she took the bait and seemed to savor it, I smiled. “No gardener, huh? I’m a professional landscaper and take it from me, you garden like a pro.”
Nancy’s face cracked in a minuscule smile that widened ever so slowly. “So how can I help you?”
“Like I mentioned on the phone, Bud Picklemann was killed, and I found his body. The police think I did it. I have to clear my name and hoped you’d be able to help me.”
“Not sure what I can do,” she stepped back, “but come on in. No sense us all standing out here in the rain.” She pushed the door closed and gave us another smile. “Thought we were gonna have a nice day so I was putting out my dahlias. You’d think I would’ve lived here long enough to know it’s still too early in the year for the rain to quit.”
Pleased at her sudden chatty behavior, I followed her through a short hallway that led to a large family room with coved ceilings and french doors overlooking a backyard. Lisa clomped behind, halting at the camelback sofa while I went straight to the doors to admire the garden.
Nancy’s small lot was typical of the area and backed up to another home. Garden tools rested neatly against a shed under an overhang to keep them dry. As soon as the rain abated, if she was like any other gardening buff, she’d return to her dahlias. I was sorely tempted to talk with her about her choice and layout of bulbs, but my questions held priority.
I strolled toward Nancy standing in front of the sofa and gazing down on Lisa like she was a slug in her garden. At the sound of my footfalls, she pivoted and watched me cross the room. “Can I get you anything to drink?” she asked in a pleasant enough tone but with a scowling face that said please don’t ask.
“Not for me,” I said and sat on the red velvet sofa next to Lisa.
“Nothing for me.” Lisa’s gaze darted around as she answered, then she clasped her hands so tightly they turned white.
Nancy chose a flowered chair in the corner and lowered her body onto the seat. She sat back as if at ease but returned her focus on Lisa’s fidgeting and began tapping her fingertips on the rolled arm of the chair. If I didn’t draw her attention away from Lisa, Nancy would know we suspected her of killing Bud and clam up.
I donned a superficially pleasant tone and said, “Thank you for your kind hospitality, but we don’t want to take up too much of your time.”
“So you’re interested in hearing about that awful Bud Picklemann.” She lurched forward as if even saying Bud’s name was painful. “Can’t say as I’m sorry he was killed. I’m only sorry I didn’t have the courage to do it myself.”
Lisa gasped and leaned back as if trying to get away from Nancy. I was thankful I sat between Lisa and the door so she couldn’t make a run for it. I slid forward and concentrated on making my muscles relax and my face and body open and sympathetic. “Would you tell us what Bud did to make you feel that way?”
Nancy calmed a bit and settled against the overstuffed cushions. “A few years ago our son got involved with a gang in LA. To get him away from their influence we moved here. Mother didn’t want to live near a big city, so we hunted for a town that might make her feel at home, but still be close enough for visits. One weekend we found Serendipity. Mother bought a cute house on the edge of town. Very private. A few neighbors to her right, but miles of empty fields behind. We settled in here, she settled in there. Life was good until Picklemann got greedy and brought in that factory.”
She planted her hands on the arms of the chair and clutched the edges. She took several deep breaths, letting the air hiss out through puckered lips. Her gaze wandered the room as if searching for a way out. Was it too painful for her to tell her story? Was she going to change her mind? Throw Lisa and me out?
I had to keep her going. “I can see how hard this is for you. I would really appreciate it if you could go on.”
She stood and went to the french doors. Her back to us, she continued, “Picklemann said the factory execs promised to erect a sound wall behind the houses and place the compressors and parking areas on the north side of the lot, away from the homeowners.” She spun around, her eyes ablaze with hatred. “They lied. All of them. They put several large compressors that hummed nonstop right outside Mother’s bedroom window. If that wasn’t enough, the factory was lit up like a Christmas tree all night every night, keeping Mother’s house lit as well. She couldn’t sleep, couldn’t concentrate. Wasn’t long before she started to lose it. We begged her to come live with us, but she was stubborn. Said she wouldn’t let that man run her out of her own home.” Breathing hard, Nancy returned to her chair and dropped onto it as if too weary to go on.
I waited for her breathing to even out before I said, “You don’t strike me as the kind of person who would sit back and accept this kind of treatment.”
“You’re right, I didn’t. I kept after it. That’s when I found out.” Her lips turned up in a sneer. “It was Picklemann’s land, you know.”
“What was his land?” I asked.
“Where the factory sits. That’s why the factory was built in that location, even though there were far more suitable places.”
“I didn’t know that,” Lisa said. “No one in town did. I’m sure of it. We would have done something about it if we had known.”
I smiled at Lisa in thanks for her courage to speak up when she was scared then turned back to Nancy. “If you knew this, why didn’t you try to stop the construction?”
“I was too late. No one, including me, found out what Picklemann was doing until after the factory was built. It took me that long to discover that Picklemann hid his ownership in a corporation named Fulcrum.”
Fulcrum? I knew that name from somewhere. Was it today at the library? The newspapers? Maybe this was Bud’s secret that Charlie threatened to reveal in the park. “Okay, so the factory was built, but you could still have told about Bud’s role in all of this.”
“Believe you me, I did.” She bounced her knee, and her foot slapped against the wood floor in a rapid beat. “By the time I got the city council to listen to me, the factory was open and folks were happy about the new jobs in town. The only people really hurt by it had moved away. Still, I brought it up at a council meeting. The chairman took me aside and said if I went public with this information, I’d regret it. The man was so convincing, I figured he’d follow through on the threat.”
This was getting very interesting. “Do you remember the chairman’s name and when this meeting took place?”
“Remember, hah! How could I forget? His name was Gus Reinke and the meeting was in December of 2000. Worst Christmas we ever had.”
I made a mental note to check the council minutes again, this time to confirm the chairman’s name and to see if there was any mention of this meeting. “Any idea how much Bud made on the deal?”
“About a quarter million. That jerk sold out my mother for a quarter million bucks.” Disgust at a level I’d never known poured from her. Disgust that said she could have easily killed Bud.
Lisa reached out and clutched my leg. I didn’t want to stop the interrogation to comfort her, so I ignored the fingers bruising my flesh and went on. “I’d want to go after him, if it was me.”
“Hah! You have no idea. Picklemann as good as killed my mother.” She took deep breaths and fixed her gaze on me for a disquieting moment. “S’pose that was some sort of code to ask if I
killed him.” She shrugged, as if Bud losing his life was of no consequence to her. “Like I said, I didn’t, but I’d be happy to shake the hand of the person who did.”
I wanted to believe her, but this was too important to give in so easily. I needed to keep pushing. “You have to admit it’s an awfully big coincidence that he was killed right after your mother died.”
“Yes, and that’s all it is. You’re barking up the wrong tree if you think it was me. I was at work the day he died. My boss can confirm that.”
Even though she had great motive and anger, her offer of an alibi did sway me toward believing in her innocence. Still, we were talking about murder here. I had to be sure. “So you wouldn’t mind writing down your boss’s name and phone number for me, then?”
“You’ve got some nerve, you know that?” She stared at me for a few seconds. “I agree to help you out, then you accuse me of doing him in.”
Oops, pushed too hard. “I’m sorry. Really, I am. I’m just desperate to clear my name.” I tried to telegraph my desperation in my gaze.
She sighed and grabbed a notepad and pen off the table. “I don’t like your tactics, but I can understand your position.” She scribbled on the pad then ripped off the page. “You’re wasting your time, but here’s his name and number.”
“Thank you. You don’t know how much I appreciate this.” I took the paper and tried to relax and regain her trust. “Do you think Bud’s murder had something to do with the money from the factory deal?”
“Possible, I suppose.” She glanced past us, then her eyes cleared as if coming to some resolution. “That’s all I have to say to you ladies.” She tipped her head toward the french doors and stood. “As you can see, the sun is out. I need to get back to my garden.”
The sun had indeed peeked out, sending a warm ray dancing across the patterned area rug. A ray that seemed to force the bitter Nancy out of the room with its cheery glow. I wanted to keep pumping her for information, but the set of her face before she stood confirmed the futility of such a plan.
Lisa and I rose then followed Nancy down the hall. Lisa stayed close to me like a fearful child. I stuffed the paper in my pocket and dug my business card from the other.
Nancy yanked open the door. “Good day, ladies.”
I handed her my card. “You might know something else that is important in solving this murder. If you think of anything, will you call me?”
Eyes cold again, she stepped aside so we could exit. “I’m done thinking about this. As far as I’m concerned, the killer did us all a favor and deserves to be free.” She flicked the card my way and slammed the door.
I turned to Lisa. “That went pretty well.”
“At least we’re alive.” She sighed then gave a nervous giggle. “Do you believe her?”
“Enough to look through the papers again.” I clicked the remote lock for my truck. “I’m sure I saw Fulcrum listed in the meeting minutes, but I don’t remember reading anything about Nancy coming to a meeting. Which means a trip back to the library.” I checked my watch. “If we hurry we can still get there before they close.”
“There’s no ‘we’ here, Kemo Sabe,” Lisa said as she trotted to keep up with my longer strides. “I need to go home to my kids. You’ll have to settle for being the Lone Ranger.”
Hmm, the Lone Ranger. Not a bad thing to be, I guess. The Lone Ranger righted every wrong he set out to fix. He had a fabulous horse, and with my dark coloring, I did look good in white.
I climbed into my truck and fired up the engine.
Yes, Tonto by my side or not, I’d keep going. Hi-ho, Silver, and away.
Chapter Twelve
“And now, enjoy the best of Through the Garden Gate with your beloved host, Paige Turner.”
“Paige, this is Fit To Be Tied. Could you explain again about espaliering trees?”
“Thanks for calling, Fit To Be Tied. This is a perfect topic to touch on again for those city dwellers out there with ugly fences to hide. Now before you turn off the radio over a strange term like espalier, in the garden, it simply means to train a tree to grow flat on a trellis or structure that you provide.”
“Yeah, Paige I got all that part. I want to know how to do the actual training. I’ve tried everything I can think of. And before you think I’m a novice at this, I’m not. I train dogs for a living, but my tree just doesn’t seem to listen like the dogs do.”
After dropping Lisa at her mother’s to pick up the twins, I drove into town. The library had closed by the time I arrived, so I headed to The Garden Gate. I’d taken advantage of Hazel’s kindness and loyalty, and the least I could do was close up shop. I pulled the truck under the front portico that covered the old fueling area. I’d left the antique red and yellow pumps out front and hung huge baskets of annuals from the posts above. My plan was purely decorative. Turned out, I sold more hanging baskets from this spot than anywhere else in the shop.
Through the windows, I could see Hazel talking to sweet old Emma Gherkin. Emma was dressed in a floral shirtwaist, with thick stockings, white gloves, and old-fashioned shoes that laced up the front. I’d dubbed her a hollyhock—an old-fashioned cottage garden staple that had an unsurpassed nostalgic charm. Mrs. Gherkin always dressed from a bygone era and was as crinkly as a hollyhock flower. Still, she was fun loving and had a gentle spirit that drew people to her. Since I’d moved back to Serendipity she’d tried to convince me to call her Emma, but I couldn’t.
“Who’s Paige Turner?” Mr. T announced my entrance in his favored Jeopardy format.
“Oh, Paige, sweetie.” Mrs. Gherkin threw open her arms. “I am so sorry to hear you found Bud Picklemann that way. If he’d only come to our meeting, he might still be alive today.”
“Meeting?” I stepped into her embrace for a quick hug. “What meeting?”
Hazel’s face was alight with excitement. “Go ahead, Emma. Tell Paige what you told me.”
Mrs. Gherkin released me from her gardenia-scented embrace and rested a gloved hand on my arm. “When I heard about Ida—you know she and I used to crochet together until her faculties got confused—I called her daughter, Nancy. Do you know Nancy?”
I nodded and climbed onto a stool next to Hazel. “Just came from her house as a matter of fact.”
“Then most likely she told you about the underhanded way Bud hurt poor Ida. The nerve of him hiding his company like that just so he could make a few dollars.”
I snorted at the mention of a few dollars. “Nancy didn’t say she talked to you about it.”
“That’s my fault, dear. I asked her not to mention our conversation to anyone. I wanted to work on Bud Picklemann’s conscience—if the man had one—and get him to do the right thing by Ida’s family.”
“This is where it starts getting good,” Hazel said, saliva fairly dripping from her mouth.
Emma opened her mouth to speak, but her face was less excited and more weary than Hazel’s, as if she’d been tormented by this problem. “On Monday morning, I was going to Bud’s office to demand he compensate Ida’s family. If he didn’t, I would make sure he lost his job. Before I reached his office, I ran into him on Main Street.” Usually soft spoken, Mrs. Gherkin’s voice blazed like a fire-and-brimstone preacher. “He said I must have misunderstood what happened. He wanted a chance to explain, but he had something to take care of at the moment. So he asked me to meet him at his office later in the morning.”
“Bet he was on his way to find you in the park,” Hazel blurted out.
Mrs. Gherkin gave a serious nod of her silvery-purple hair. “From what I’ve heard, I think so, too.”
I sat up. “So what happened?”
“I went to the Bakery and had one of Donna’s lovely fritters then walked to city hall. Bud never arrived. He might have been dead already.” She took a pressed linen hankie from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. “And there I was, sitting in the vestibule, waiting to take him down a notch.”
I patted her bony shoulder. “That’s okay,
Mrs. Gherkin. You couldn’t have known.”
She sniffled. “Well, I’m not going to let my compassion for his wife and family sidetrack me from my mission.” She dabbed her eyes again. “Are you familiar with Gus Reinke’s wife, Winnie?”
I nodded, and Hazel grinned as if she couldn’t wait for Mrs. Gherkin to get her story out.
“About ten years ago, Gus gave Winnie five hundred dollars in cash. Out of the blue. He came home for lunch, plopped it on the table, and told her to spend it on anything she wanted. Can you imagine?” She clutched her chest.
I nodded again, though I couldn’t imagine a frugal man like Gus giving his wife a quarter much less five hundred dollars. Even if she did work full-time in their hardware store.
“I’ve never talked to anyone about this as I hate to spread gossip, but Winnie was so shocked, she told anyone who would listen, so I guess it’s okay if we discuss it.” Mrs. Gherkin paused as if seeking confirmation that she could share the news without gossiping.
I squeezed her arm.
“Well, as if getting that money once wasn’t enough to make a body shake with surprise, he’s been doing the same thing on the third Monday of every month since then. Every month!”
“That’s an interesting story, Mrs. Gherkin, but I can’t see how it’s related to Bud.”
“Go on, Emma. Tell her. Tell her.” Hazel hopped from her stool and danced like a child that’s waited too long to go to the bathroom, sending Mr. T into a circling tizzy.
“Gus has given Winnie five hundred dollars every third Monday for ten years, but. . .he didn’t give her anything this past Monday.”
Hazel clasped my arms. “Isn’t this great?”
“Whatchoo talkin’ ’bout, Willis?” Mr. T squawked then flapped his wings and danced a frantic jig.
“And?” I was as confused as Mr. T.
Hazel slapped her palms on the counter. “Bud was killed the Monday Winnie’s money dried up. What if Bud was paying Gus to keep quiet about the factory? He could even have been on the way to give Gus his monthly payment.”
Nipped in the Bud Page 11