Murder Crops Up

by Lora Roberts

  “I’m not going to bother you.” She sounded breathless. “I just wanted to tell you—you don’t have to worry about me anymore.”

  “I wasn’t worried about you in the first place.”

  “I have decided it’s the police’s job to keep tabs on you.” She sounded very prim and proper. “I shall just wait for them to deal with it.”

  “Much the best policy. And don’t bother coming to the writers’ workshop tomorrow or any day, Carlotta. You aren’t welcome.”

  “Hmph.” She scowled. “We’ll see about that.” She marched across the street and climbed into her big car.

  Barker and I went on home.

  Chapter 24

  Amy was still reading when I got back. We spent the evening quietly. I gave up on writing and got deeper into Shirley.

  I woke early the next morning with the thought of swimming foremost in my mind. It would be a busy day, teaching the writers’ workshop that afternoon at the senior center. I would need to get my exercise early. After eating a little cereal and working among the raised beds, I got my swimming stuff together.

  Amy was up by then, munching a piece of toast thickly spread with blackberry jam. “It’s winter, Aunt Liz.” She glanced out the window over the sink. “The sun’s not even shining. How can you swim outside in this weather?”

  “The water’s warm.”

  She didn’t look convinced. “I can’t imagine swimming outside in the winter. At home, we’ve had killing frosts since late September.” She munched a little more. “So I thought I’d clean the bathroom this morning, and then take Barker for that run. I’d like to get some exercise.”

  “Is it okay for you to run?”

  “I guess. All the books seem to say, just do what you’ve been doing, and I was on the track team at school.” She stretched. Her cropped sweatshirt and low-slung jeans revealed no signs of pregnancy that I could see. “And Barker would like to run, I bet.”

  “He certainly would.”

  She swallowed the last bite of toast. “So I’ll meet you at the garden. I’ll help you plant potatoes, if you can give me a ride back?” She looked a little sheepish. “I haven’t worked out for over a week. Don’t want to overdo.”

  While Amy rooted around under the sink for cleaning supplies, I loaded up the seed potatoes and my shovel and garden basket, and drove off to the pool.

  The water was warm. I swam freestyle, enjoying the smooth rotation of my body from side to side, following the stroke. The overachiever in the next lane had finished her kickboarding and gotten out, leaving the pool to me. It was still chilly and overcast, and people didn’t exactly flock to swim under those circumstances.

  Switching to sidestroke, I checked out the gloomy sky. It wouldn’t rain, I thought, but it probably wouldn’t lift anytime soon. I didn’t want it to rain before I was finished planting potatoes.

  I pictured Amy giving the old high-sided clawfoot tub a good scrubbing, and had to smile. It had surprised me when she’d volunteered, since I knew cleaning the bathroom wasn’t her favorite thing. But she was out to show me what a good roommate she’d make. It was touching. I knew the next seven months would be harder on her than on me. All I lost was my privacy. She was leaving her girlhood behind her for the difficult and painful choices of adulthood.

  The lifeguard came over to warn me that it was time to get out. I went into the locker room for one of the ferocious showers that didn’t just rinse away the chlorine but blasted it off the face of the planet. The kickboarding woman was pulling on panty hose when I went into the shower area; she was blow-drying her hair when I came out, and checking her look in the mirror. Her look was formidable, from smoothly arranged hair to aggressive black shoes.

  I put on jeans, turtleneck, and sweatshirt, all of which had been purchased at that emporium of the people, Goodwill. Probably my whole outfit, including sale-table walking shoes, had cost less than the other woman’s high heels. Toweling excess water out of my hair, I thanked my lucky stars for my good fortune in wearing warm, comfortable clothing with no holes in it. I wouldn’t trade my life for Ms. Power Suit’s, even if hers came complete with a whole closet full of shoes.

  I put my swim gear away in Babe and checked that there was water in the reservoir to fill Barker’s traveling water dish when he arrived panting at the garden later. Then I drove the short distance around the library to the parking lot.

  Carrying the bucket, the bag of seed potatoes, and the spade, I trudged through oak trees toward the garden’s south gate. With my head down, I didn’t see the man coming out until I nearly ran into him.

  “Watch out,” he said, trying to step around me and getting tangled in one of the rosebushes that lined the parking lot.

  “Sorry.” I shifted the spade so it didn’t stick out in front of me like a plebeian lance. It was the man Tamiko had mentioned, who’d been strolling around the garden the day before. His overcoat was open, showing the suit and tie beneath. He wore dark glasses, even on this sunless day. After pushing through the bushes, he walked rapidly away, giving me time to notice that he carried a briefcase and had a bald spot on the back of his scalp, the pathetic kind with long strands of hair combed across it. He slung his briefcase into the backseat of a white compact car with a Hertz bumper sticker, and drove away.

  I stared after him for a moment, wondering if I should go call Bruno. But the man was gone, and aside from being rude he hadn’t seemed dangerous.

  Juggling my load, I got everything through the gate. Amy’s jacket was draped over the frame of my homemade compost bin, where she’d left it the previous day. The bin was full of stuff I’d crammed in over the past week or so while doing fall cleanup. After moving Amy’s jacket, I spent a few minutes with the spade, stirring up the compost so it would cook faster. Of course, an open wire bin was not going to cook very fast at all, especially in the winter. I glanced enviously at Webster’s black plastic compost bin. He’d left his gloves on top again, but not neatly disposed as I’d seen them before; they were tumbled together, as if someone had lifted the bin’s top hatch to get inside without removing the gloves first.

  Staring at Webster’s compost bin, I tried to shrug off the mental image I’d gotten, of the man in the suit reaching across the fence, lifting the top hatch of Webster’s bin, reaching in— The man, I told my overactive imagination sternly, was nothing more than an office worker who liked to drive over and take a constitutional around the garden when he wanted to clear his head. But why walk around a garden with a briefcase? Why drive a rental car, come to that?

  A formation of geese flew eastward overhead, aiming for the Baylands. The wind blew through the dying leaves. No one else was around that I could see. I left the spade stuck in the potato bed and walked over to Webster’s plot.

  His compost bin, right by the perimeter fence, would be easy enough to access from outside the garden. I walked down the center path, past fava beans and broccoli plants, past the wheelbarrow loaded with bagged steer manure and soil conditioner. Putting the gloves aside, I lifted the top hatch of the composter.

  The thick smell of decomposing vegetation greeted me, wafted upward on a gust of warm air. Even without sun, the black plastic trapped the heat of decay. Just below the hatch, on the surface of the compost, reposed a metal tray. The tray held a folded piece of paper encased in a Ziploc bag.

  This bizarre scene was none of my business. That’s what I told myself while I stared at the paper. I didn’t make a conscious decision; my hand was reaching for it before I had convinced myself to butt out.

  The note was brief, typed or word-processed on a single sheet of white paper folded in half, then into thirds. “We paid. Where is the disk?”

  I refolded it and replaced it in the bag and returned it to the metal tray, precisely as it had been. I shut the lid of the compost bin and made sure the gloves were in the same crumpled position I had first seen.

  When I turned around, Webster was standing at the end of the path into his garden, watching me
.

  He didn’t say anything. I cleared my throat. “Someone’s sending you messages in your compost, Webster.”

  “Is that so?” He didn’t move, but an air of menace came off him, as palpable as the odor of rot from his compost bin.

  “Yes. I noticed that your gloves were all messed up, and took a peek inside. Looks like someone mistook your compost bin for a mailbox.”

  His smile was brief and cold. “Don’t bother, Liz. I’ve been watching you since you got here. I saw you read the note.”

  “My curiosity got the better of me. Sorry.”

  “I’m sure you are.” He strolled up the path. “I’m sure you will be. What did the note say?”

  I blinked, hoping I looked stupid. “It wasn’t interesting. Something about a disk.”

  He came closer, brushed past me. He was no longer blocking the path, so I edged down it toward the main path. If I ran over his beautiful raised beds, through the raspberry canes and Tamiko’s winter vegetables, I could get to the gate. But could I get through it? He was much taller than I, with long legs that would catch me in no time. And I still wasn’t sure that I needed to run.

  Webster didn’t just open the hatch of the compost bin—he took off the whole top, and set it on the ground against the fence. He looked into the bin, then at me. “I didn’t have you pegged for the busybody type, Liz. Thought Lois was the only one of those we had around here.”

  “I’m not a busybody. What you do in your compost bin is your business, not mine.”

  “So right.” He straightened, looking at me with a considering expression. “So you’ll keep quiet.”

  “Of course. It’s not like it’s fascinating, or anything.”

  He moved forward, edging me toward the main path. “Tell me, Liz, aren’t you just a little nervous about coming here alone after two women have had fatal accidents here?”

  “I’m not really alone,” I said, gaining the main path and stepping into my own garden. “I mean, I’m expecting Bruno Morales at any time. He wanted me to meet him here.”

  “Is that so?” Webster looked amused. “You know, I don’t believe that. The only person you’re likely to meet here is that nosy Bridget. She’s probably busy with her repellent offspring right now.”

  I stared at the unpleasant sneer on his face. If only Amy and Barker had been there earlier, I would never have succumbed to curiosity. And now she would turn up at the wrong time and get into trouble.

  “You’re right. No one’s coming.” I spoke fast, trying to keep his attention focused on me, so he might not notice if Amy rounded the corner of the equipment shed. “No one at all.”

  His face changed. “So your friend is coming. Or that young woman who was with you yesterday.” He watched my face while he said this, and I did my best to look blank, but it wasn’t good enough. “Damn.”

  I edged back, heading for the shovel I’d stuck in the ground. But Webster moved faster. He took one stride and grabbed my arm, dragging me back into the main path.

  “I’ll have to take care of you now.”

  “What the hell are you doing, Webster?” I twisted, trying to break his grip, but he was strong.

  “I’m going to have to dispose of you, Liz.” He sounded aggrieved. “Nothing is going like I planned it.”

  “You planned to kill Rita and Lois?”

  “No, of course not.” Great. Now he was offended. “It was all an accident. Rita was—she was out of control. Bleeding me for cash. She was so greedy.” He seemed incredulous. “Saying I’d better pay up or she’d see me in jail. She wanted me to give her the next payment that day, the work day. But I was tired of paying. It was my money. Why should she get it when I ran all the risk? I pushed her, and she stumbled back, and then I pushed her again, and she fell over that rake and hit her neck—” His grip on me slackened, and I managed to tear my arm away. But he reached out with his long arm and snagged me again.

  “And Lois? What happened to her?”

  “She figured out that I had something to do with Rita’s death. She told me that night that she knew what I was up to, that Rita had said something about it. I could see that she was bluffing, but if questions were asked, it would have been awkward.”

  “So you killed her?”

  “I didn’t kill her exactly,” he protested. “She was making too much noise. I put my hand over her mouth, and before I knew it she went limp. I didn’t know she had a bad heart. I just thought she was nuts, carrying her husband’s ashes around with her like that. She said Rita had told you all about it, so of course I had to watch you. And when I saw you take the note out of the compost pile, of course I knew she’d told the truth about that anyway, that you did know.”

  “I don’t know. I know nothing. I was admiring your compost maker and wanted to take a look at it. That’s all.”

  “You read the note. You know about the disks.” He shook me, hard. My head wobbled on my neck. “You’ll tell Emery, and he’ll tell the others. I’d go to jail. That’s not okay with me.” My vision cleared, and I saw that he was smiling. “I’d rather go to South America.”

  “Go ahead. I won’t stop you.”

  His smile broadened. “No, you won’t.”

  “Just leave, right now. I won’t say anything to anyone.”

  “Too risky.” He pulled me again, hauling me over to the fence. I looked around frantically, hoping to see Amy, Bruno, Tamiko, anyone who could help me. The garden was placid, unruffled by any other humans.

  With my head turned toward the library, I must have been in the perfect position for Webster’s fist to take me out. I didn’t really feel the blow then. All I knew was blackness.

  Chapter 25

  I came awake with pain radiating through my head from a sore place behind my left ear. I was fighting for breath while Webster stuffed my mouth with something rough and wadded-up—one of his leather gloves. He loomed over me, pushing me down as he worked to knot a bandanna—my own bandanna—around my head to hold the glove in place. I tried to bring my hands up to rip the bandanna off, but they had been tightly secured behind me with what felt like wire. The surface beneath me was mostly spongy, except for the hard, flat object directly under my hipbone. I kicked out and he forced my knees up to my chest and tied the sleeves of Amy’s jean jacket tight behind me, trapping my legs like a straitjacket. I feared that my vision had been affected by the clout on the head he’d given me, because he was framed in a dark circle as he bent over me, as if in an old-fashioned vignette.

  Then I noticed the richly smelly aroma that surrounded me. Webster had tossed me into his compost bin, trussed up like a grocery-store turkey waiting for Thanksgiving.

  He stepped back a pace, and more of the sky came into view behind his head. “Just lie still,” he said in a rough whisper. “You don’t want anything bad to happen to anyone else.”

  He clapped the lid of the bin on, and I was shut into warm, odoriferous darkness. The leaves and garden debris around my ears rustled with every movement, and even when I didn’t move, courtesy of roly-poly bugs and worms. Ventilation slits punctured the sides of the bin, making bars of brightness, but not allowing me to see out.

  I still felt stunned from the blow, dizzy and unable to think. But I could hear, if I held still to keep the rustling down. I heard Webster moving around his plot, the clink as he took out some tool. And in the distance, coming closer, I could hear running footsteps, which slowed as they reached the perimeter path.

  The footsteps were muted by the sound of Webster shoveling in a regular rhythm, accompanied by occasional grunts. I had the hysterical thought that the bed he was digging, no doubt in the well-mounded French Intensive method, would be my grave.

  The footsteps slowed more, walking past the compost bin on the perimeter path, not two feet away from my black plastic prison. I could hear Amy’s gasps for breath and Barker panting as if he planned to hyperventilate.

  “Do you see her, boy?” The footsteps stopped, then resumed a slow walk. “Babe is h
ere, but I don’t see Aunt Liz.”

  Barker didn’t reply. It sounded as if he’d flopped down on the dead grass beside the path. Amy must have looped his leash over one of the fence posts. The garden gate creaked. Her footsteps came down the main path, heading for my garden plot. Webster was still digging.

  “Hmm.” Straining my ears, I could hear the soft sound she made when she saw my spade stuck in the ground, the bag of potatoes and bucket of tools. Silence for a moment, except for Webster’s shovel and the soft thud of earth being rearranged. I hoped Amy was picking up on my thought waves, telling her to go immediately to the library and call Bruno.

  “Excuse me.” Her clear voice sounded closer, coming from the path at the end of Webster’s plot. “Have you seen Liz Sullivan? I know she was here. Did you see her leave?”

  “I got here a little while ago and no one has come or left since then, except you.” The undercurrent of amusement in Webster’s voice as he told her this polite, prevaricating truth made me seethe. “Maybe she went to the Dumpster.”

  “Maybe.” I could hear the uneasiness in Amy’s voice. I willed her to leave, to run away.

  Webster’s shovel ceased cuffing into the earth. His feet crunched through the mulch; his voice came from farther away. Closer to Amy.

  “Tell you what, why don’t we walk over and check it out? I can take my weed bucket and empty it.”

  “No, thanks.” Amy’s footsteps retreated. “I’ll just get started with the potatoes, and then when my aunt comes back, we’ll be closer to leaving.”

  “Suit yourself.” In an agony of anticipation, I waited for Webster to take his weed bucket and go. I was sure I could make enough noise to get Barker’s attention, and then I would get Amy’s.

  But Webster didn’t leave. He started digging again, in counterpoint to Amy’s work in my plot. The shovels bit into the dirt in out-of-sync tandem, thunkthunk, thunkthunk.

  The tight wire twisted around my wrists was cutting off circulation to my fingers, making them stiff and swollen, like bunches of balloons. I could hear Barker, still panting, probably less than ten feet from the bin. I reached as far behind me as I could. Not just my fingers were painful; every movement made my shoulders scream in agony. I was too close to the garden side of the bin to touch its fence side.