How Does Your Garden Grow

by April Hill

  Kruger motioned toward the wall and Beth Walker's back yard. "Like the young woman who lives there," he said with obvious distaste. "She once had a splendid garden, but she allowed it to perish. It's a shame, really. So few young people today care about flowers—or about the other beautiful things in this world. I see it all the time in my classes." He smiled a wan little smile. "Sometimes I feel that my students don't deserve the pearls of wisdom I'm offering them."

  He turned back to the plant he'd been working upon and caressed the sparse yellow blooms lovingly. "This pretty lady is an excellent example. Most people would simply pull her out by her roots if they found her growing in their gardens. Her scientific name is Solidago virgaurea, but she's more commonly called Goldenrod. I think of her as Goldie because of her lovely golden hair and her cheerful nature. She always seems to be smiling." He sighed. "I just hope she'll be able to survive the ordeal she's been through. I've just repotted her. It's shocking, really, how inconsiderate people can be. They allow their dogs to run wild, and this is what happens. Dogs are such clumsy creatures, not at all like cats. Still, Goldie is a very hardy lady, and with a bit of love and care, I think she'll recover very nicely."

  "I thought Goldenrod was a weed," Adam commented lamely. "The allergenic kind—that gives people hay fever."

  "A weed, indeed!" Kruger exclaimed, smiling with delight at his inadvertent little poem. "Actually, certain parts of her make a very agreeable tea, and other parts can be cooked and eaten. Wildflower or weed, she's still lovely, don't you agree?"

  McCann thought the damned weed looked like a weed, but he kept his opinion to himself.

  "Do you know what the French writer, Colette, said about gardening, Lieutenant?" Kruger asked, attempting to lift the enormous concrete pot into a waiting wheelbarrow.

  "I don't think so," McCann answered, certain that he was about to hear more about Colette than he wanted to. "Here, let me help you with that." He reached across the workbench and took the gigantic pot from Kruger and set it carefully in the wheelbarrow.

  "Thank you, Lieutenant. You’re very kind. If you don't mind getting your hands a bit soiled, I'd appreciate your assistance with that large bag of potting soil, as well. It's just over there." He pointed to a spot near the wall—the wall he shared with Beth. "Colette once asked, 'How can one help shivering with delight when one's hot fingers close around the stem of a live flower, cool from the shade and stiff with newborn vigor?' That's it exactly, isn't it?"

  McCann took off his jacket and tie and laid them on a lawn chair then rolled up his shirtsleeves and picked up the bag of planting mix. "That sack weighs more than eighty pounds," he observed, setting the bag on the table. "Maybe more. You must keep in pretty good shape, doing this kind of heavy work on a regular basis."

  Kruger laughed. "Good shape for an old man, you mean. Yes, I do try to keep in shape, as you put it, and working in my garden is the best exercise I can imagine." He handed McCann a trowel. "You see, Lieutenant, I'll make a gardener of you, yet. As in most worthwhile pursuits, patience and persistence are the keys to success. Now, if you'll just poke about in that fresh soil to loosen it a bit, then pat it down firmly, I'm sure Goldie will be grateful. Be sure not to dig too deeply, though. She has a very sensitive root system, and it mustn't be disturbed again."

  While Adam tried to do as he was told, Kruger droned on. McCann's first impression had been that Kruger was lonely and grateful for any sort of company, but the conversation wasn't really friendly. It was more like a lecture. One-sided, pedantic, and oddly cold.

  "Tell me, Lieutenant," Kruger asked, watching carefully to see that Adam was following his instructions. "Are you familiar with the legend of Blodeuwedd?"

  McCann groaned inwardly. Another lecture. "No, sir, I don’t believe I know that one," he said, wiping his hands on his pant legs.

  "In Welsh mythology, Blodeuwedd is the goddess of spring, of the blooming Earth, and of wisdom. She was the wife of Lleu Llau Gyffe, nephew of King Math. Lleu Llau's mother, Aranrhod, you see, had tynged him at birth by placing three curses on him, instead of the normal three blessings, and the worst of these terrible curses decreed that Lleu would never marry a woman of human birth. Lleu's three uncles, though, took pity on him and got around the curse by creating a bride for him—a bride made entirely of flowers."

  "Really?" McCann asked, wondering if he could end the tedium by asking for a glass of water.

  "Oh, yes. They used oak and meadowsweet, hawthorne, primrose—all nine of the sacred flowers. She was exquisite, of course, as you would expect. More beautiful than the loveliest of mortal women. Alas, it was poor Blodeuwedd's destiny to fall in love with the hunter Gronw Pebr, Lord of Penllyn, and with him she conspired to murder her husband. For his part in the crime, Gronw was put to death, and when the faithless goddess fled for her life, the enraged uncles pursued her across the sky. The legend says that the Milky Was created during the chase. In their terrible vengeance, the uncles changed poor Blodeuwedd into an owl, doomed to fly the night sky through all eternity, alone. If you'd care to read the legend, you'll find it in the Fourth Branch of the Mabinogion. It was written around 1060 to 1200 A.D., but I would imagine they have it in some form at the larger public libraries."

  "Sounds like a terrific book," McCann said, awkwardly. "I think maybe I'll wait for the movie, though." Kruger smiled painfully at the Lieutenant's clumsy joke and handed him back his wrinkled jacket.

  "I suppose you'd like to come inside and freshen up a bit…" Kruger began, apparently noticing the clotted dirt on McCann's hands and arms. The invitation wasn't an especially enthusiastic one, but since McCann wanted very much to get a look inside Felix Kruger's own fairy-tale cottage, he accepted quickly, before Felix had second thoughts.

  "Thanks. I'd appreciate that," he said. "I don’t really want to go back to work looking like this."

  The interior of the tiny house was what he'd expected. Immaculate and overheated. Every surface and tabletop and every available inch of wall space was covered with knick-knacks, ornately framed photographs, and cheap travel souvenirs. The same tall, thin woman appeared in many of the photos, alongside a young man McCann assumed was Kruger.

  "My mother," Kruger explained, apparently noticing McCann's interest in the photos. "She was such a dear soul. I can't believe she's gone. We traveled everywhere together, you know. She passed to her reward over two years ago, while we were on our final trip to Europe. I still miss her every day and remember some sweet little thing she said or did."

  "That's a good-sized room you've added on," McCann commented, pointing to the back of the house. "Did you build it yourself? Your neighbor Fred Lawrence mentioned that you're quite a carpenter."

  McCann could see Kruger vacillating. There wasn't much question that he was eager for the detective to leave, but it was also obvious that he was extremely proud of his handiwork. "Mr. Lawrence exaggerates," he said modestly. "I did most of the work myself, but I dislike painting and had that professionally done."

  Without waiting for an invitation or for permission, McCann strolled through the French doors into the added room and glanced around. The walls were lined with tall bookcases filled with what looked to his untrained eye as expensive volumes. A large, hand-carved table sat in the exact center of the spacious room. The tabletop was strewn with sketches and documents, many of which seemed to be architectural drawings. "You planning on building yourself another place, Mr. Kruger?" McCann asked, turning one of the drawings so that he could see it better.

  Kruger stepped in front of him and quickly gathered up the papers. "Just a foolish daydream," he said, "of something I thought I might build, someday." He sighed. "Not that I expect to ever accomplish such an extensive project at my age, of course. One has to be realistic about one's abilities, doesn't one?"

  He sighed and motioned toward the stairwell. "I believe you wished to use the washroom," he said, pointedly. "You'll find it at the top of the stairs."

  McCann went upstairs and was
hed his hands quickly, eager to leave Kruger's stifling house. He was about to leave when he noticed a comb and brush on a small shelf above the toilet. Less than thirty seconds later, he was back downstairs, with several strands of thinning gray hair in his pocket—wrapped in a cocoon of toilet paper.

  "I hope I've finally answered all of your questions, Lieutenant," Kruger said. "I'm sure Miss Walker was terribly frightened—an attractive young woman living all alone the way she is. It surprises me that she hasn't married, at her age. Shakespeare once said—Oh, dear! I seem to have forgotten the verse I was thinking of."

  McCann moved to the door, hoping to make good his exit before Felix's memory returned.

  "Oh, yes," Kruger said, with one hand on the doorknob. "I remember, now. It goes something like this: 'Fair flowers not gathered in their prime, rot and consume themselves in little time'. So true, don't you agree?"

  Adam stepped out the door and walked back to the car, aware at every step of Felix Kruger's cold, curious eyes on his back.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  "What do you want?" Beth growled when she opened the door a few minutes later. "And what the hell happened to you?" She pointed to McCann's pant leg, which was splattered with dried mud.

  He came inside without being invited and walked over to the sink. "I've been over at Kruger's place," he explained, as he turned on the faucet and began scraping the dirt from his pants. "While I played in the mud, he taught me a whole lot more than I've ever wanted to know about flowers and weeds and murderous Welsh goddesses. The good news is that I got a souvenir of my visit." He wiped his damp pants leg with a paper towel then pulled the wad of toilet paper from his pocket and showed to it her. "Plucked directly from what I hope is his hairbrush."

  "What is it?"

  "A sample of Felix Kruger's DNA, if we're lucky."

  Beth stared again at the wad of toilet paper. "I don't believe it!"

  "You’d better believe it. I could get my ass fired for doing it."

  "What are you going to do with it now?" she whispered, as if there might be an eavesdropper lurking somewhere within earshot.

  He sighed. "What else? I'm going back to my office to falsify a shitload of documents, forge a couple of signatures, and send it out to the state police lab. It won't be like it is on TV, though. These tests can take weeks, and since I don't have the guts to put it in as a rush, this one might take even longer."

  "But then you’ll know something definite," she said. "You can go to the district attorney or somebody with it."

  "With what? The fact that you nailed your neighbor with an outdated can of beef stew? So what? Kruger can say he was in your yard looking for his damned cat, or that he just dropped by to borrow a neighborly cup of sugar. And let's not forget that I stole this—which makes it inadmissible as evidence and grounds for my getting canned, I might add. No, all this is going to do is give me somewhere to start looking—on my own time."

  "And here I was thinking that you already believed me," she said sullenly.

  "What I believe is that you hit somebody, and since Kruger is ready to swear on a stack of his precious seed catalogues that he was at home all night nursing Fluffy, a DNA test will at least prove that he's lying. But I still don't know what he's got to lie about and neither do you."

  "Yes, I do," she said stubbornly. "And if you think I'm going to wait for weeks for some stupid test—a test that you now tell me won't actually prove anything, you can just…"

  McCann groaned. "Don't finish that sentence," he said. "I've had a rotten day, and I'm not above lowering my stress levels by paddling the closest annoying butt."

  "Stop trying to bully me," she hissed. "You can't scare me, and besides, it would be worth very swat. I swear to you, the very next time that sonuvabitch goes out, I'm going to crawl over the wall and get a look inside the house."

  "No, you're not," he said.

  "And why shouldn't I? If I'm careful?"

  "Because I said so."

  "That's the dumbest reason ever invented. It's what my mother always said."

  "Same here. I was raised by my grandmother, and she used to give me the same reason when I wanted to do something dumb and dangerous—like you want to do now."

  "And did you listen to your dear old grandmother?" she asked smugly.

  "Nope. Not the first time. The second time, though, she backed up her reasons with this really big wooden spoon, and that turned me around to her point of view real fast." He held up his hands to indicate the size of the spoon. "I'll bet you've got one just like it, right here in this kitchen." He crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter. "You want me to look around for it?"

  "No. If you're not going to help me, I want you to go home."

  "I thought we were in this together."

  "So did I, but I was obviously wrong. You’re chickening out on me. You're a fucking chicken, McCann."

  He grinned. "You've got some mouth on you for an ex-nun. I'll bet you could even say that in Latin, if you put your mind to it. That's one thing you and Kruger have in common—the Latin, not the cussing. Felix is a real gentleman, but he really knows his dead languages."

  "Go home, Lieutenant," Beth said haughtily. "Since you're not willing to help me catch Kruger, I'll figure out how to do it by myself and track down my own psychopaths. Your presence is not needed here."

  "I'm not so sure about that," McCann replied wearily. "Someone needs to stop you from going off half-cocked and getting yourself in trouble." He pulled open a drawer and then another. In the third drawer, he found what he was looking for. "You see what I mean about this spoon? Every kitchen has one. This monster's a hell of a lot bigger than my grandmother's, though, and it looks like it's never been used."

  "That's because it's not for cooking," she said smugly. "I bought the stupid thing at IKEA. It's from Sweden, and it's purely decorative. You may as well put it back where you found it. Your smarmy little threats don't impress me, either. Besides, we both know you're too chicken. I know a bluff when I hear it—or see it."

  With a sigh, McCann laid the spoon down on the counter. "Okay, you're right. I may be a half-witted male chauvinist, but I'm not enough of a lout to paddle a nun—or a pregnant woman, either, especially one who's been through what you have."

  For a moment, Beth didn't seem to understand what he meant. And then she began to laugh. "Oh, for heaven's sake, McCann, grow up! There was no Brad, and there's no baby!"

  He stared. "What do you mean, no baby?"

  "Just what I said. I can't believe you're gullible enough to believe that ridiculous soap opera I made up. You know what, though? I have heard rumors about a very attractive bridge for sale in Brooklyn, if you’re interested."

  Now it was McCann's turn to stare. "You made it up? The whole thing? The baby, the rich guy? The damned Lamborghini?"

  She rolled her eyes heavenward, as if that explained everything.

  McCann shook his head. "Why in the name of God would you lie about something like that?" he asked.

  "I didn't lie," she said smugly. "Not at first, anyway. Not until you went snooping around in my bedroom—where you shouldn't have been in the first place—and then inferred from what you saw that I was some kind of pitiful, needy spinster who'd gotten herself 'in trouble', as my mother likes to put it. I thought maybe it would teach you a lesson, that maybe you wouldn't be so quick to jump to stupid conclusions the next time. All those books you found are reference materials for a book I've been trying to write. A sappy romance novel, if you must know. I need the damned money."

  "So, you were never really a nun?"

  She shook her head. "No, that part's true. And I do regret the parts I made up. It's just that I was so damned mad when no one believed me."

  "And you thought telling a lot of lies to the police was going to help?"

  "Not really," she said glumly. "Besides, I didn't lie to all the police. Just to you, and you’re the one who kept insisting that this wasn't your case. I didn't really mean to lie, th
ough, even to you. The plot was already swimming around in my head, and it just sort of popped out—with a few alterations, of course. I never really thought you’d take it seriously. Why is it nobody ever listens when I'm telling the truth, but they're perfectly happy to swallow some ridiculous lie?"

  "We'll talk about that later," he said. "I just want to be sure of one thing now. You’re definitely not pregnant, right?"

  Beth nodded. "I'm not pregnant. If I were pregnant, I'd be on the phone to the New York Times science editor."

  "And what does that mean? Another novel begins?"

  "Never mind," she said, quickly.

  McCann picked up the big wooden spoon and smiled. "So I guess that paddling I mentioned is back on," he said, reaching for her arm.

  "Don't even think about it, McCann!" she cried, trying to back away. "I'll call someone and get you fired. I swear it!"

  "Not unless you can get it on tape," he said, cheerfully. "It'll be one of those 'he said, she said' things, and all the misogynist halfwits down at the station will be more than happy to get off their butts and testify that you're a well-known nutcase."

  By now, he already had a firm grip on Beth's arm, and it took little more than a forceful nudge to push her face-down over her kitchen sink, which was currently full of unwashed dishes and every pot and pan she owned.

  Bent ignominiously over the sink, with her nose perilously close to the overflowing dishpan and her feet dangling three inches from the kitchen floor, Beth was beginning to have serious regrets about having called the Lieutenant a chicken. She was also debating whether he really intended to follow through with his silly threat to spank her, or if the entire thing was just an elaborate bluff. And then, in answer to her question, he landed the first swat on the seat of her jeans—a hard, openhanded whap that stung like blazes and echoed around the small kitchen like a gunshot. Damn! she thought, if this guy is bluffing, he's really good at it! With a sinking heart, Beth began to face the fact that in taking on Adam McCann, she just might have met her match.