How Does Your Garden Grow

by April Hill

  So, he lied. "Nothing much, just a copy of the new duty roster. Markowitz is on vacation, so I'll be alternating night and days for a while."

  The "Bull's Head Steakhouse" was accurately named. The booth where they sat featured the massive stuffed head of a Hereford bull that looked down on them as they dined. A small brass plaque gave the deceased animal's name as "Lucky."

  "Bad choice for a name," Adam observed. "And technically incorrect on both points. Poor old Lucky wasn't lucky, and according to that plaque, he wasn't even a bull. He was a steer—another bit of bad luck."

  "It's absolutely gruesome!" Beth whispered. "We ought to complain."

  Adam chuckled. "I don't like the idea of hunting, either, but until I turn vegetarian, I've always figured it was kind of hypocritical to go around whining about it. But I still don't like eating a cut of prime rib with the original owner watching. You want to move?"

  "No," she said. "It's all right, but I'm really glad I ordered a salad. Why do you think people like things like that?"

  He shrugged. "Search me. As a trophy, I guess. To prove your prowess or show off your conquests. Not just to everyone else, but to yourself. I've known guys who keep trophies like that in their dens so they can sit and look at them, even when they’re all alone."

  "Okay, a cow like poor Lucky is one thing. But what do trophy hunters do with the rest of the animal? Nobody eats bears and lions and tigers. What do they do with the…remains?"

  McCann grimaced and pushed his plate away. "Remind me never to take you to dinner again. I wish I’d ordered the shrimp salad. I've never seen a shrimp made into a trophy. Anyway, in answer to your question, to some people the trophy is everything. The rest of the animal becomes just a disposal problem. Like industrial waste."

  Suddenly, Beth stopped eating. "What if that's it, Adam? What if Kruger just wants trophies?"

  Adam had just taken a sip of water, and promptly choked on it. "For God's sake, Beth! You think he's got them mounted on a wall somewhere?"

  "No," she conceded. "It was just a thought. But he did build on that big room back there, you know."

  "And I saw it," Adam said. "For just a minute, but it was nothing but a room—like a library, full of books and papers and pictures."

  "With a basement underneath, "Beth said grimly. "A big basement."

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER NINE

  They left the restaurant and drove back to the condo, and while Beth went to the bedroom to change, Adam lit a small fire in the fireplace and poured two glasses of wine. But despite his best efforts to change the subject and have a pleasant, romantic evening, the after-dinner conversation kept coming back to Felix Kruger.

  "What I hate about all of this," Adam said, finally giving in to Beth's pestering, "is that I know in my gut that you're probably right about Kruger and that if we could just connect the dots we've already got, I'd have enough to get a warrant. We could go in there and search his house, his yard, that damned potting shed, everything. But right now, we've got nothing but a lot of oddball loose ends that don't fit together.

  "You know how when you’re working on a puzzle, it seems like you'll never finish? Then you find one random piece—the key piece—that fits into another random piece. And from there, all the other pieces start falling into place, showing you the complete picture. Cases are like that—the easier ones, anyway. But in other cases, cases where that one key piece doesn't show up, you never get the pieces into any kind of sensible order. That's how the cold cases you read about are finally solved, even years later. Some cop has worked the case 'til he comes to what feels like a dead end, so he gives up, dumps everything he does have in a box and goes on to the next case. But over the years, other people keep finding a piece here and there, and they toss those pieces in the box. Then somewhere down the line, some other cop gets curious enough to sit down and open the box, lay all the pieces on the table, and take a fresh look. But if the key piece is missing, the way it may be here, the puzzle can sit in the box 'til doomsday, and no one will ever put it together."

  "Okay, then," Beth said. "Let's start all over and put together the pieces we do have. And just for the sake of argument, let's agree that Kruger is responsible for the disappearance of several women—maybe a lot of them. So, the first missing piece has to be motive. And the second missing piece is how he's doing it, right?"

  Adam shook his head. "Motive is good to know, but you'd be surprised to learn how often we never find a motive. The key question is did it happen at all. The second question is how."

  "But we already agreed…" she began.

  "No, we didn't. You assumed. Again."

  "What the hell do you need to convince you?" she asked irritably.

  He chuckled. "A body would be a good place to start. And we don't even know where to start looking for that."

  "Sure we do," she said, firmly. "The shed's too small, so it's obvious where we need to look first: in his yard—and in his basement."

  "Or anywhere else in several surrounding counties," Adam said, wearily. "We've got nothing, and if you don't stop using that pronoun, we, this evening's going to end the same way it started. Maybe bent over the bathtub this time, for the sake of variety, but your charming ass will still be on fire, kiddo." He stood up and stretched, then leaned down to kiss her goodnight. "I'm on at midnight tonight. Go on to bed. This will keep 'til tomorrow."

  Beth went to bed, but when Adam left for work a half-hour later, she still wasn't asleep. There was something she needed to look at—in Adam's "office."

  The closet door was a bigger challenge than expected, and getting it open eventually required the use of a hammer, a rusted chisel, and several screwdrivers, all of which—from Beth's point of view—bent much too easily to be called quality tools. When the burglary was complete, she was standing in a pile of splintered wood and twisted bits of metal and breathing hard, but the effort had been worth it. As she read down the grim list of missing women—with the flower names circled in red—she knew that she'd been right about where to start looking for that first, all-important puzzle piece.

  * * * * *

  There was no moon, which Beth took as a good omen, since her mission required speed, stealth and darkness. She parked in front of her own house, slipped across the back yard and entered Kruger's property the way she had before—by crawling over the wall. This time, though, her interest lay in his front yard. She'd brought along the best tools she'd been able to find at Adam's, but they were far from ideal. On the assumption that at least a few of them would break during the delicate operation, she'd taken all of the long white rods from the condo's mini-blinds. Her other tools consisted of a yardstick, two wooden handles she'd removed from the mop and broom in Adam's kitchen, and a folding Boy Scout shovel she'd found in the garage. She'd also taken the precaution of removing the compact police flashlight from Adam's belt, and she carried with her a box of plastic freezer bags—for evidence.

  The work was slow, and the ground harder than she'd expected, and most of the mini-blind rods broke in half the minute she tried shoving them deep into the soil of the first terrace. The yardstick failed almost as quickly, and she was unable to recover the broken piece. The broom handles worked perfectly, but neither one was quite long enough.

  She finished probing one side of the yard, and was starting the second when an upstairs light went on in Kruger's house. Seconds after that, a light in the hallway told her that she was in trouble. Clutching the muddy tools to her breast, she darted around the side of the house, sprinted the short distance to the wall and scrambled over—just as the back porch light came on. She huddled against the wall, chilled to the bone, and praying that Kruger wouldn't come out into the yard.

  The back door opened, and Beth stuffed her fist in her mouth, afraid she was about to throw up. Moments later, though, the door closed again, and the light on the back porch went out. Beth crouched in the darkness and wet her pants.

  * * * * *

  The mission had b
een a failure, but at least she'd made a safe getaway, Beth told herself as she drove back to the beach. She was sure Kruger hadn’t seen her. Well, almost sure. By the time she parked the car in the garage, stuffed the broken min-blind rods in the bottom of the trash bin under a lot of crushed milk cartons, and washed and reassembled the broom and mop handles, her foot was throbbing, and she was totally exhausted. She showered, washed her hair, fell into bed and went instantly to sleep—completely forgetting the mess she'd made in the hallway.

  She remembered the mess the moment she opened her eyes, and leapt out of bed in a panic, wondering if carpenters and locksmiths worked by the job or by the hour, and if there was enough in her checking account to pay at least one of them for a single hour. A search finally turned up her purse, which she'd dropped in the hallway the night before. She was rummaging through, looking for her checkbook when she glanced into the living room—where Adam was lying on the couch. Asleep?

  "I don't want to know," he said, without opening his eyes. "Just tell me if you’re going to need a lawyer."

  Beth's shoulders sagged, and she wandered into the living room and dropped into a chair.

  "I don’t think so. Nobody saw me—probably."

  "Why the mini-blinds?" he asked. He sounded very tired, though, and not really interested in the mini-blinds.

  "Probes," she replied. "But they didn't work as well as I thought they would. They broke."

  He sat up. "You're lucky you took all of the damned things," he said. "I've been lying here thinking of another use for them."

  She sighed. "Take my word for it," she said glumly, "they wouldn't hold up under what you've got in mind. Very poor workmanship."

  The phone rang, and Beth let him answer it. The conversation was brief, and he kept saying things like: "I know." "Yeah, right." "I'll handle it."

  "Kruger called the department," Adam explained, after he hung up. "He told Ed to tell me that he won't sue or file charges if you sign a paper saying you'll never set foot on his property again."

  "He'll never be able to prove it was me," she said, smugly. "Not in a million years. He didn't got a good look at me."

  "Don't go there," Adam said, grimly. "I think there may be a couple of spare mini-blind rods in the kitchen drawer. Can you answer one question for me, though?"

  She nodded. "Shoot—and try not to take that literally."

  "Are you crazy?"

  Beth jumped up from her chair, flushed with righteous indignation. "Of course I'm not crazy! Is that what's going on? You finally agree with your idiot colleagues—that I'm—what is it they called me? A 'nutcase'? Well, maybe I am, but I'm a nutcase who's not going to sign any damned paper. Let the bastard sue me!"

  "You don't get it, do you?" Adam fired back. "If you don't sign what he wants, he could have you arrested for trespass, and get a restraining order against you. Ed went over and got a look at his yard. He says it looks like a damned prairie dog village!"

  "I did what I could to fix the holes," she grumbled. "But then the lights went on, and I was screwed. Anyway, let him do what he wants. Arrest me, file charges, whatever. Then, they'll have to investigate, and…"

  "Do you live under a rock or something?"

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You watch Judge Judy all the time. You should know this stuff. You trespass on his property; he files a complaint. He's the injured party. You get slapped with an order to appear. Don't show up, and they issue a warrant. Ignore the warrant and you go to jail. That's all there is to it. Case closed."

  "I go to jail? "she wailed. "That's not fair!"

  "Welcome to the justice system. You broke the law by trespassing, then made it worse by digging a lot of damned holes on private property and leaving incriminating evidence—my old Boy Scout shovel—with my name carved on it—among other things. If he wants to go for major damages, he's got one hell of a case."

  "He's the murderer, and I go to jail for digging a few stupid little holes. That's some terrific justice system," she grumbled.

  "The best one in the world," Adam said, wearily. "With a glitch here and there."

  * * * * *

  Until now, Beth had never been spanked long and hard over Adam's knee. Not in the old-fashioned manner she'd read about or seen in those charming old movies. The position had always seemed faintly silly, and the carefully applied swats hardly a threat to an adult woman of average size. To Beth, all of Maureen O'Hara's frantic struggling and shrieks of anguish while being vigorously paddled over John Wayne's manly knee had always looked staged. Of course, motion picture censorship being what it was back then, Maureen O'Hara had never been spanked absolutely bare, and her ample rear end had enjoyed the protection of a set of frilly white bloomers and eight inches of petticoats.

  And John Wayne had never used what felt like every damned ounce of his upper arm strength or a heart-shaped plastic bath brush the size of a salad plate.

  * * * * *

  The mood at the condo was on the awkward side for the rest of the day. Adam spent most of it repairing and repainting the closet door and installing a stronger lock. Beth stayed in the bedroom and made a show of sulking, but gave up by dinnertime when Adam gave no indication that he was planning to apologize. When she finally joined him in the living room, after a brief detour into the kitchen, he was watching the news.

  "I figured you might want these, "she said quietly, handing him the two spare mini-blind rods she'd found in the kitchen. "There's probably a couple of spots you missed."

  He took one of the plastic rods and slapped it in his palm. "Well, the punishment would certainly fit the crime." He tossed the rods down on the coffee table. "What with one thing and another, we never really talked about what you found at Kruger's. You want to fill me in?"

  She groaned. "You really want your pound of flesh, don't you, McCann? I'd rather you just used the damned mini-blind rods. You know perfectly well what I found. Nothing. Zip! A total waste of time."

  "Well, Sherlock, your search wasn't as thorough as it could have been, but you’re wrong about it being a waste of time."

  Beth stared at him. "Okay, what am I missing here?"

  "You eliminated one possibility, and that's progress—in a way. Ed said there were probably hundreds of holes poked in that yard, and so far, according to the guy we've got watching the house, Kruger's not out there trying to move anything."

  "There's someone watching his house?" she exclaimed.

  "Twenty-four hours a day, and you can thank Ed for that. He went to bat for us with the department by showing them what we have. It's not much, but it turns out that Kruger's not on anybody's list for Citizen of the Year, either. Two of your neighbors are convinced he poisoned their dogs, and a female student in one of his classes filed a complaint against him last week with the security office at the university. Says he's been following her around campus. Her name is Heather."

  Beth sat down on the couch with her mouth open, and as her tender bottom touched the fabric, she let out a loud yelp.

  "I've been sitting here thinking about something else," Adam continued.

  "About what?" she asked, eagerly.

  "About how mad I was when I had to fix the door and clean up the mess you made in the hall. If someone had done the kind of damage to my yard that you did to Kruger's, I wouldn’t be asking you to sign some kind of half-baked promise not to do it again. I'd be at the courthouse first thing the next morning, lawyered up, mad as a hornet and ready to sue your ass. Which makes me wonder why Felix isn't doing the same thing."

  "Maybe he's bluffing."

  "Maybe. And maybe he's just hoping it’ll all quiet down and go away if he lays low for a while."

  Beth's eyes widened. "Does that mean you think there is something awful buried in his front yard?"

  Adam shook his head. "No, Kruger's not stupid. He'd be on a plane to Brazil if anyone had been sniffing around and getting that close. He's hoping that's all we've got—suspicions."

  "What about th
e basement—as a possibility, I mean?"

  He grinned. "If I say yes, are you going to go over there in the middle of the night with a jackhammer and a backhoe?"

  "But why would he take that kind of chance?" she asked, ignoring the question.

  Adam shrugged. "He's got a lot invested in that place. Not just financially, but emotionally, I guess you'd call it. While I was inside the house, I saw a lot of sketches he'd drawn, apparently of his dream home. It looked like he was planning to expand."

  "On that dinky little lot? I’d like to know how."

  "I don't suppose you know where Kruger goes on his Sunday outings, do you? Adam asked.

  "Not really. I tried following him a couple of times. The first time, I lost him in traffic, and the second time, he spent most of the day at a cemetery around thirty miles from here, in Millberg. He just sat there on a concrete bench in front of a grave—his mother's, from the name on the headstone. For like three hours. Even ate his lunch there. After that, he stopped at a church for a while, then came back out and drove home."

  "Well, now I know that I won't be sleeping in this coming Sunday. How'd you like to take a ride with me out to Millberg?"

  * * * * *

  The following day was a busy one at the precinct, but McCann managed to work in enough time for a few unofficial phone calls. His first call was to the Student Safety Office at the university, where a pleasant-sounding older woman finally agreed to disobey university policy and tell him that the stalking complaint against Professor Kruger had been thoroughly investigated and dropped when the professor provided an explanation for his admittedly-inappropriate behavior. He explained remorsefully that he had followed Miss Heather Simpson to and from the library after he noticed during class that she bore a startling resemblance to his deceased mother and several other female members of his family. It occurred to him, he said, that they might possibly be distantly related, and he simply wanted a closer look, since Miss Simpson seemed shy and customarily sat in the last row with her head down. Professor Kruger's record at the university was without blemish, and when he apologized for frightening her, Miss Simpson had graciously accepted his apology and withdrawn her complaint. The matter had been resolved to everyone's satisfaction.