Garden of Evil

by Edna Buchanan

  She was difficult, probably paranoid. I had half a mind not to answer when she called minutes later. But I did.

  “It is you. Please forgive me, Ms. Montero, but I have good reason to be cautious.’

  “I understand. Why do you think somebody—”

  “Please! We mustn’t discuss it over the telephone.”

  Here we go, I thought. I knew it. “Why not?”

  “The only way to know a conversation is private is to conduct it face-to-face, alone in the same room.”

  “Yes, but Ms. Moran, this isn’t the sort of thing you want to keep private. If what you say is true, the more people who know, the safer you are. Doesn’t that make sense?”

  Another pause. “Call me Althea.” Her voice sounded softer and more vulnerable. “I’m not crazy.”

  “I never said you were. What’s going on, Althea?”

  “They’ve tried to kill me,” she whispered. “Twice.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why would someone try to kill you?”

  Ryan stopped tapping his keyboard behind me. He was eavesdropping.

  “I don’t have a clue. That’s what keeps me awake at night, driving me…wild. I can’t think of any reason, any motive.”

  “Ms.—Althea. In my experience, when somebody wants to kill you, you usually know why.” People often deny it, but they know. Like the driver found in a bullet-riddled car, alive because of his bulletproof vest. He insisted to police that he had no idea why anyone would try to kill him. He had no explanation for why he was wearing body armor either.

  “I am no fly-by-night,” Althea Moran was saying defensively. “I am a solid citizen, a native Miamian.” Her voice shook slightly. “I was bom here. I am not a person with enemies. You can check your files, my picture appeared in your newspaper—oh, at least a dozen times.”

  I lifted an eyebrow.

  “I was Althea Albury then,” she said, as though reading my mind. “I was Orange Bowl queen in 1973.”

  “Orange Bowl queen?”

  “Yes. In 1973 I rode the biggest, most beautiful float in the parade. Earnie Seiler outdid himself that year. Our float was breathtaking, a huge golden sunburst, waterfalls, and swaying palm trees that lit up. I wore glittery silver and white—and the crown, of course; the four princesses, my court, wore pink. You probably weren’t bom yet.”

  “Oh, I was there,” I said, wondering if she was. “I was the little girl sitting on the curb in front of the Everglades Hotel.”

  My grandmother took me to the parade every New Year’s Eve. We fought huge crowds, thousands of people. The best always came last: the queen and her court atop the final float, regal and glamorous, wearing long white gloves, smiling, and waving no matter what the weather.

  “That was the year we had the cold snap,” she said. “It was the first parade nationally telecast in full color. The mayor and the Chamber of Commerce sent somebody to shut down the power to that bank building along the parade route that displayed the time and temperature. They blacked it out so people around the country wouldn’t see how cold it was in Miami. They told us to think warm and keep smiling. We almost froze our you-know-whats off—but we never stopped smiling.

  “I caught a terrible cold, but it was the most wonderful week. When it was over—the luncheons, the ball, the regatta, and the big game—and we got rid of the chaperone, Richard proposed and we got engaged. It was an incredible year.”

  Her letter had said she was alone.

  “Are you a widow?”

  “No. Divorced.”

  Aha, I thought. When somebody wants you dead, it’s most likely a loved one, or an ex-loved one. “Is he local? Still in town?”

  “Oh, yes, his practice is here….”

  “You think he’s behind your problem?”

  “Richard?” Taken aback, she gave a little half laugh. “Up till now he’s been responsible for nearly all my problems. He might make me wish I was dead, but he wouldn’t try to kill me.”

  “You’ve reported everything to the police?”

  “Oh, yes. I have the police reports.”

  “Excuse me.” I covered the mouthpiece for a few moments. “Uh-oh, my editor is calling me to a meeting. I’ll get back to you.”

  I lied. No meeting. No editor. Cynic that I am, I wanted to confirm what she’d said before investing more time. It defies common sense when people lie to reporters about easily checked facts, but they do, all the time. Probably the same people who lie on resumes, rent applications, and their income tax. They lie about their police records, credit ratings, and marital status. Sometimes they lie for no reason. Trust no one, not even the president. Our competition recently fell for a tale told by a Cuban physician who swore she had treated Fidel Castro for a potentially fatal brain ailment. Not until after publishing the exclusive did they learn she was no doctor, not even a nurse, and hadn’t even been in Cuba when she said the “treatment” took place.

  Even poor Ryan had been burned. Badly. He interviewed a World War II combat vet, winner of the Congressional Medal of Honor. The aging hero, now elderly and homeless on the mean streets, had been denied treatment at Miami’s VA hospital because he had no paperwork. He said he had pawned the medal to eat long ago, but he still recounted with patriotic zeal his colorful tales of heart-stopping wartime experiences. Despite it all, he still loved his country. Editors planned to front-page it on Memorial Day. From hero to homeless, this hell of a story would have wounded the national consciousness, torpedoed heartless VA bureaucrats, and won our forgotten hero the gratitude and support he deserved. He was a reporter’s dream—except for one minor flaw. Not a word he said was true. The man had won no medals and had never served his country—though he had served time, mostly in jails and drunk tanks.

  He was so damn believable that Ryan failed to place the routine call to Washington to confirm the man’s Medal of Honor until the day before the piece was to run. Lottie had spent hours shooting our hero, humble and misty-eyed, as he saluted Old Glory at the Bayfront Park war memorial.

  The photos were dramatic and touching. Too bad they were seen only on the bulletin board down at security, along with mug shots of other scam artists, crooks, and undesirables banned from the building. Lottie was still barely speaking to Ryan.

  I grabbed a quick cup of coffee and trotted down the hall. What used to be the newspaper morgue is called the library now. Stories published before 1982, when it went on-line, were still in the hard copy archives. I browsed the dusty, poorly lit shelves for the name files beginning with A. Sure enough, Althea Albury had a folder of her own. Then I scaled the ladder to O and plucked the fat Orange Bowl file for 1973. I sat at a librarian’s desk and flipped them open, the first time anyone had touched them in years.

  Orange Bowl Queen Althea Albury smiled up at me, her regal brow serene. A fairy-tale beauty, a University of Miami student, blonde, blue-eyed, and sweet-faced, with a Scarlett O’Hara waistline, she looked demure and pure, wearing the crown and crinolines of a more innocent time, the symbol of old Miami, the Magic City, the tourist mecca, the fun-and-sun capital of the world, before riots, Mariel, and murder made headlines. News photographers long dead or retired had captured the crowds and the floats from dozens of angles as the parade progressed. Scanning the faces, I searched for myself, the little girl seated on the sidelines along Biscayne Boulevard, wishing my dad was there to lift me up higher for a better look at the queen floating by in all her magnificence.

  Her engagement announcement appeared at a time when no one had to pay for its publication. My waves of nostalgia crashed on the rocks of reality. Newspapers not so long ago truly chronicled the three times in life when most people got their names in the paper. Birth announcements, wedding notices, and obituaries are all paid ads today. Only celebrities count, along with those who can afford to pay. Landmarks in the lives of those who cannot afford to pay do not exist for the newspaper.

  Althea Albury definitely existed.

/>   Richard Moran was a cardiologist, a fact not lost on the society-page writer, who reported that the handsome young doctor who mended hearts had lost his own to the Orange Bowl queen. Where, I wondered, did this story-book romance go wrong? Did anybody ever live happily ever after?

  “Hey, whatcha digging for back here?”

  Lottie had a stack of photos in her hand. She peered over my shoulder.

  “Purty woman. What year was that?”

  “’Seventy-three,” I said.

  “Probably a grandma by now, or wanting to be. Didya know that Dean Martin’s first wife was an Orange Bowl queen way back when? Saw her on the float, it was love at first sight, and off to Hollywood. What’d this one do?”

  “Claims somebody’s trying to kill her. Don’t know if it’s true yet. Hear anymore from your ex?”

  Lottie sighed. “Quit taking his calls. No point in picking up. He’d only sweet-talk me into something I’d regret. They catch the woman who shot the sheriff yet?”

  “Nope. But wait till you hear the latest. She might surface with an abuse excuse. The sheriff may have a history of coercing sex from women, including prisoners.”

  “Think she got scared, managed to git his gun, and shot ’im?”

  “It’s a theory. If it’s true, she’s probably terrified. She’s in a whole lot of trouble no matter how it happened. Even if it was self-defense, chances are no jury up there would believe her. Somebody might even shoot her before she can tell it. Smartest thing she could do now is surrender on neutral turf where she can tell her story and try to get public sentiment and some feminist groups behind her. She needs the best damn lawyer she can find and a definite change of venue.”

  “Wouldn’t mind covering the story; sounds like you wouldn’t either. Maybe she’ll come down here.”

  “We can only hope.” I closed Althea Albury’s folder. “I’ve had a real dry spell between big stories lately. I don’t know how the justice team deals with it,” I told her. Four reporters are assigned to the team that works only on sensitive investigative projects. I secretly suspected them of being lazy, taking advantage of the unlimited time they are given, without deadline pressures, to produce a story. “They’ve been working on something for weeks now,” I said. “I like to see my work in the newspaper every day. It’s been so long since I’ve had a solo front-page byline that I expect my mother to call any minute now to ask if I still work here. I’d love to know what really happened up in Shelby County. Let’s look up the sheriff.”

  The wires had moved a head shot after the shooting and we found older photos, taken at Florida Association of Chiefs of Police conventions and at dedication ceremonies at the Florida Sheriffs’ Boys Ranch.

  We spread them out on the desk, images of the murdered lawman at various stages of his lengthy career. Heavyset and stern-looking, T. Rupert Brascom was square-jawed, jowly, and thick across the middle. His wedding ring was clearly visible in several.

  “Some people in power get away with abuse for so long they think they’re entitled, that they’re above the law.”

  “Looks like the type,” Lottie said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well.” She sniffed and pointed a number-three pencil at one of the photos. “See here, that thin upper lip? My daddy always called that a sure sign of meanness.”

  “Oh, that’s certainly scientific.”

  “Never fails. And looky here, see the whites of his eyes beneath his pupils in this one? An indication of criminal behavior. Ya see it in mug shots all the time. Ever notice?”

  “It’s only the camera angle, the tilt of his head,” I argued, trying to remember the eyes in the hundreds of mug shots I’d seen. “You’d sure be a fair and impartial juror.”

  “I’d acquit in a minute,” she said. “Probably give her a medal for marksmanship.”

  “She didn’t need to be much of a marksman, they were contact wounds,” I said. “You just have a mad on for men at the moment. Wonder what really happened? Hope she doesn’t get killed or commit suicide before she tells.”

  I grew restless back at my computer terminal. The newsroom was too cold and too dangerous. Frigid air cascaded across my desk from an air-conditioning duct overhead, and Gretchen, the assistant city editor from hell, might glance up at any moment, decide I did not look busy, and shoot some cockamamie assignment at me like a bullet with my name on it. I watched her, one hand on her hip, leaning on the city desk, head tilted, as she spoke on the telephone, showing off her perfectly coiffed hair and crisp designer suit. How did she manage to arrive here untouched by heat and humidity? Did she tunnel her way into the building? Did she sleep sitting up? As the editors filed into their afternoon news meeting, I called Althea, left word with the city desk clerk that I would be out following up a story lead, and made my getaway.

  Her address was on Alhambra. The city of Coral Gables has several: a drive, a circle, a way—and no street signs. Names like Alcantarra, Algaringo, Almeria, and Alhambra are carved into low dusky-colored coral rock curbstones, difficult to read in daylight, invisible at night, the attitude being that if you are lost you don’t belong in the city beautiful.

  The house, an architectural gem from the twenties, was a two-story DeGarmo, painted white with green shutters and a coral-rock facade. The look was charming old South, with a slight air of neglect. Dead fronds dangled from the stately royal palms lining the driveway. Oak trees shading the east and west sides of the house needed trimming, as did bamboo clumps along the property line. An aging Cadillac sat in the shady driveway. Rust bubbled its cream-color finish and had begun to erode its way around the windows.

  I rang the doorbell but heard only distant strains of classical music. Rang again. Listened. Nothing. Paint was peeling and some of the screens needed to be repaired. I knocked, rapping my keys on metal.

  Was she lurking inside, watching? Wondering if it was really me?

  “Ms. Moran?” I wondered if she might be in the backyard.

  “Who is it?” the voice, startlingly close, came from just inside the foyer.

  She opened the door after I identified myself and slid my business card inside. “Hope you weren’t out here too long. The doorbell stopped working. I have no idea what’s wrong with it.”

  She was the woman in the photos, fighting time and Mother Nature: the clear blue eyes a bit faded now, hair still blonde but poorly cut, figure still good, though heavier. In her casual slacks and matching blouse, Althea Moran could have passed for the mother of the young beauty with the crown and scepter.

  Smiling graciously, she offered iced tea, and bustled off to the kitchen.

  The house smelled slightly musty, hinting at roof leaks temporarily stayed by the drought. A twelve-foot brick fireplace dominated the great room. Hanging over it was a large framed portrait of Orange Bowl Queen Althea Albury, expression expectant, as though anticipating a regal future.

  I was studying it when she returned. “Richard took the best artwork with him,” she said good-naturedly. We both gazed up at her youthful image. “That’s when I reigned over the parade. Now somebody’s raining on my parade.”

  We talked in an enclosed porch at the rear of the house. She called it the reading room. A ceiling fan, a floor fan, and shady landscaping made it tolerable. The classical music came from a radio on a small corner table. I settled on a wicker love seat, notebook in my lap, and she sat in an armchair across from me, a smoke-colored cat with a red leather collar rubbing against her ankles.

  “Okay, what’s happening?” I asked cheerfully. “What makes you think you’re a target, that somebody wants to kill you?”

  She looked self-conscious for a moment, then spoke softly. “In the light of day, in this sunny place, listening to Vivaldi, the birds singing outside, my cat purring in my lap, sometimes I can almost make myself believe it’s not happening.”

  I nearly spit up my iced tea. Was she saying she imagined it? That it was all a bad dream? That I came out here for nothing? Maybe she shoul
d meet Ryan’s war hero. They could stroll into the sunset trying to top each other’s stories.

  “But that’s denial, wishful thinking,” she went on. “The sort of attitude that could prove fatal.” She looked directly at me, hands folded properly in her lap. “The first incident was nearly two months ago. Here, in this house. But it’s odd, I think it actually began sooner. I had a peculiar feeling for several days, as if something was about to happen or that I was being watched. Sort of an instinct that something was wrong. I’m no psychic, but I’ve been right about such things over the years. Call it woman’s intuition. I knew at once when Richard was unfaithful—and they say the wife is always the last to know….

  “There is only one night a week that I arrive home after dark. I volunteer at the county hospital several days a week, helping to feed and nurture the AIDS babies. They’re short-staffed and those babies need attention, cuddling, and holding. Many are abandoned at birth, just left by their mothers. The nurses are too busy, and the work is fulfilling. I enjoyed being a mother. It’s been a long time. On Wednesdays, we go out to dinner afterward, several of us volunteers, nothing elaborate. We go to a diner nearby or grab a pizza.”

  She leaned forward, her expression serious. “I would have come into the house alone as always, but that night, as I pulled up, the Adlers, my neighbors down the street, were out walking their dog: Emma, her husband, Arthur, and their son, Kenneth. He was visiting from New York. I hadn’t seen the boy for years. He and my daughter Jamie grew up together. I wanted him to see pictures of her baby, so I invited them in for a glass of wine.

  “The house was quiet. We were talking and laughing. When I arrive home, I always come directly to this enclosed porch to feed the cat. Instead, I went to the kitchen, got out the wine and the good glasses, then dashed out here for a decanter on that shelf.” She indicated a shelf that held several decorative platters and a pot of flowing ivy. “I wanted to decant the wine,” she said, lowering her voice, “because what I had in the house was not exactly a prizewinning vintage. I haven’t entertained in some time.