Garden of Death

by Chrystle Fiedler

  Simon peered at it more closely. “I don’t think that’s a piece of glass,” he said, with something close to awe in his voice. “You’d have to get it appraised, but I’m guessing you just found a sword set with an unusually large ruby. If I’m right, the stone alone will be worth a small fortune.”

  I couldn’t believe it. “Come on, Simon. The whole thing is probably a fake.”

  Holding it by the hilt, Jackson turned away from us and swung the sword experimentally. “It’s got an awfully nice weight and balance for a fake,” he said. “I think this thing was meant to be used.”

  “That’s why you need an appraiser to look at it,” Simon said.

  “Fake or not, how did it wind up in your garden?” Jackson asked. “It looks ancient. Where do you think it came from?”

  Simon shrugged. “Maybe it’s pirate treasure. In the 1600s pirates frequented the East End.”

  Jackson looked at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Martin leaned in to stare at the sword.

  “No, not at all,” Simon continued. “When Captain Kidd found out that the British government had declared him a pirate, he sailed to New York on his boat, the Adventure Prize, in June 1699, and buried some of his treasure on Gardiner’s Island. The authorities recovered a portion of it, but not all. To this day, people are still searching for it. What you found could be pirate’s booty from Kidd or someone else. Stranger things have happened.”

  “Isn’t that a little far-fetched?” Martin asked, raising an eyebrow. “I mean, it’s more likely that this thing is a reproduction or—”

  “There’s a way to find out,” Simon said. “An expert is giving a lecture about Captain Kidd at the Maritime Museum tomorrow night, as part of the festival. I was planning on going since I want to develop a project about pirates, maybe even Captain Kidd himself—a more realistic version than the Depp movies. We could check it out and show the expert this sword. He should at least have an idea of whether or not it’s authentic to that time.”

  “If what you say is true, this could be Captain Kidd’s sword,” Sandra said, sounding excited. “Wouldn’t that be something?”

  “Except how did it get here?” Jackson said, still clearly bothered by its appearance in the garden.

  Martin checked his watch. “We’d better go back to the booth,” he said to Sandra. “It’s getting busy again.” He gestured out to the street, where crowds were starting to gather.

  “Right,” she said. “But let us know what you find out, okay? This is better than true crime.”

  “Stop by the store and I’ll help you with those supplements, too, if you like,” I offered.

  “I’ll do that. Thanks.”

  After they left, Jackson went over to the tool shed, found a clean towel, and wrapped up the sword again. “I kind of wish Sandra and Martin weren’t here when we found this,” he admitted. “I have a feeling that the fewer people who know about it, the better. We should probably ask them not to mention it to anyone—at least not before we know whether we’re dealing with a real artifact or a reproduction.”

  “I’ll tell them,” Simon said. “I want to talk to Sandra again anyway. She seemed unusually interested in Dr. White’s death.”

  “She said she’s a true-crime junkie,” I reminded him.

  “Or maybe she’s the patient who sued White,” Simon suggested.

  “What do you mean?” Jackson asked.

  Simon told Jackson what she said earlier about White. “To top it off, I saw her with Kylie at the farmer’s market. Sandra could be that friend that Kylie was talking about yesterday.”

  “And you’re thinking that she killed White and was returning to the scene of the crime?” Jackson said. “Those things don’t always happen in real life, Simon.”

  “I know, but I still think it’s worth checking out.”

  “Me, too,” I said. “We need to find out more about her—and about what else might be buried in this garden. Do you think that’s why everyone wanted this lot? Not for their businesses but to find treasure?”

  “If there was a rumor about this as a site, yes,” Simon said. “People do strange things when it comes to money. All those merchants could even be working together to get whatever’s buried here.”

  “That’s an unsettling thought,” I said. “But, if it’s true, then their determination to take the garden away from me suddenly makes an awful kind of sense . . . I think we need to go to that wake later on this afternoon. We could go after the garden closes and before the sea shanty concert tonight.”

  Jackson shook his head. “I’ll skip the wake. I saw enough death when I was a policeman. Besides, I want to work on the patio and the teahouse, make sure it’s open by next weekend before the festival is over. Why don’t you go, Simon? Keep an eye on Willow. We can go to the concert when you come back.”

  “Will do,” Simon said. “I doubt I’ll be able to write today after all of this.”

  Jackson grinned. “Does that mean you want to be a waiter again?”

  “Uh . . . let me think about it.”

  “You do that,” I said. “Shall I take the sword inside?”

  Jackson handed the towel-wrapped sword to me. “Put it in a safe place until later.”

  • • •

  I put the sword on the top shelf of my closet under some sweaters next to Aunt Claire’s diaries, papers, and books. But before I did, I unwrapped the towel and took a closer look at the sword. The metal blade was tarnished, and I couldn’t tell what the metal was—some kind of steel? Beneath the eroded leather wrappings, the hilt seemed to be carved of wood. And the pommel, it, too, was made of a tarnished metal. I grabbed a washcloth from the bathroom and ran it under the tap, then dabbed at the dark red stone, cleaning dirt off all of its facets, making it shine.

  The result was an impressive blood-red jewel. But it was still difficult to believe that it was a genuine ruby as Simon had said. After all, rhinestones made of glass had plenty of glitter. But somehow, it didn’t seem like a rhinestone. It seemed like the real thing. “You didn’t actually belong to Captain Kidd, did you?” I asked. The blood-red stone seemed to wink back at me. “We’ll find out,” I told it. “Soon enough.”

  chapter eleven

  Willow McQuade’s

  Favorite Medicinal Plants

  ECHINACEA

  Botanical name: Echinacea purpurea

  Medicinal uses: The echinacea plants that line the walkway in front of Nature’s Way are some of my favorite flowers. Not just because they come in a variety of dazzling colors, or because they make me smile, but because of echinacea’s many health benefits. Purple cornflower, the most commonly used and the most potent, has traditionally been used to shorten the duration of colds and the flu and to ease symptoms like fever, cough, and a sore throat.

  A study in the Journal of Clinical Pharmalogical Therapy in 2004 showed that taking echinacea at the first sign of a cold can ease symptoms and shorten sick time. University of Alberta researchers found that volunteers who took echinacea experienced 23 percent lower symptom scores than those who did not. Echinacea works by increasing the levels of a naturally occurring chemical in the body known as properdin, improving immunity. The aboveground parts of the plant and roots of echinacea are used fresh or dried to make teas, juice, and extracts for medicinal use.

  For the first garden tour that afternoon, the group was small, just eight people, but thankfully they were interested in medicinal plants, not Dr. White’s murder, and I finally felt as if I was fulfilling my mission in creating the garden.

  I gave the tours on the hour and things continued to go well until Harold Spitz and Maggie Stone showed up, just before my 4 p.m. tour. I braced myself for more conflict. This was quickly becoming exhausting.

  “We know what you’ve done,” Maggie said, sounding angry. “You’re not going to get away with it.”
>
  “What have I done?” I asked, reminding myself to breathe and remain calm no matter what.

  “We’ve already had calls from Simon Lewis’s high-priced lawyer,” Maggie said furiously.

  I shrugged. “I saw that lovely little petition you started to take the garden away from me. Did you really think I was going to just give it up?”

  “If you want a fight, you’ll get one,” Harold vowed, his voice rising.

  “Lower your voice,” I said, and motioned them farther away from the queue forming at the garden gate. “I’m not looking for a fight. I’m worried about keeping the teaching garden open for the community, and I’m going to do everything I can to make that happen.”

  “You can’t stop us,” Harold said. “It’s the will of the people.”

  “Oh, please,” Simon said, walking up to us. “It’s the will of some jealous merchants who can’t stand the fact that they lost and someone else won and is doing a great job and giving back to the community.”

  I blinked. “Where did you come from?”

  “I told you I was meeting you back here to go to the wake.” Simon glanced at his watch and smiled at me. “I’m early.”

  “I wanted that lot for a dog park,” Maggie went on, as if Simon had never spoken. “That’s giving back to the village, too.”

  Simon pointed to Mitchell Park across the street. “There’s a whole park right there that you can use.”

  “It’s not the same thing,” Maggie snapped. “You wouldn’t understand anyway. You’re an out-of-towner.”

  “Excuse me, but I own property in Greenport and I’ve been living here part-time for the past couple of years.”

  An African American woman in her seventies wearing a flowered shirt and shorts and a sun hat stepped out of the queue and came over to us. I quickly recognized her as one of Claire’s animal rescue friends, Alicia Carter. “Harold and Maggie, you two should be ashamed of yourself, circulating that hateful petition and hassling this dear, sweet girl who is just trying to carry on Claire’s legacy and help the community.”

  “Stay out of this, Alicia,” Harold snapped. “This is not your business.”

  “It’s everyone’s business—everyone who loves Greenport and wants to support Willow’s efforts to make it a better place.” She took my hands. “The good people in this community don’t agree with what they are doing, Willow. You can count on us.”

  “Thank you, Alicia,” I said. “I really do appreciate it.” It felt good to have her and the rest of Claire’s friends on my side. I gave her a quick hug and she rejoined the line again.

  Harold and Maggie were whispering to each other; probably figuring out their next move. But I had had enough. It was almost four and I needed to start the tour. “Are you two done? I have people waiting.”

  “Little old ladies won’t save you,” Harold said, giving me a nasty smile. “Enjoy it while you can.”

  “You, too,” Simon said cheerfully.

  Maggie couldn’t resist taking the bait. “Enjoy what?”

  “Your last day of freedom. As of tomorrow, my lawyer is going to keep you so wrapped up in red tape that you won’t be able to breathe without filling out notarized forms. I do hope you enjoy being deposed—and that you both have excellent lawyers of your own. Because for you, this is going to get very expensive, very fast,” Simon promised. “If I were you, I’d save myself a lot of time, money, and frustration and just give up now.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Maggie said. “Let’s go, Harold.”

  We watched them cross the street and stomp into the park. I could almost see steam coming out of Harold’s ears. “Thanks, Simon,” I said.

  He gave me a rueful grin. “I know, I know. It’s obnoxious to use my money to push people around. But sometimes . . . it’s just fun. Now, when are you going to be done so we can scope out that wake?”

  “It usually takes me about forty-five minutes to do a tour, and then I’ll need to change. Why don’t you walk around and play tourist? I’ll meet you inside at five.”

  “A-okay,” Simon said. “Go get ’em, girl.”

  • • •

  We arrived at the funeral home in Southold at five fifteen. The parking lot was packed with mourners’ cars. As Martin had predicted, the fact that White had not been well liked didn’t seem to matter. Everyone wanted to make an appearance, for whatever reason.

  I managed to squeeze my mint-green Prius into a tight spot in the back by the garage. The car had been a gift from Green Focus, the company that made Claire’s Fresh Face cream, a thank-you for finding the formula after she had died.

  I’d changed into a plain black shift dress and flats. Simon wore khakis and a navy blue blazer over a white button-down, no tie. We entered through the back door and found a long line snaking down the hallway. I was suddenly feeling jittery, as if I’d had several cups of espresso. I tried to concentrate on my breathing to calm my nerves as we headed to the front of the room, what would have been the living room, in this converted house.

  While Simon skipped paying his respects and made small talk with some of the attendees, in particular a good-looking brunette, I walked up to the coffin. Dr. White looked plastic and very dead. I quickly moved on to look at the wreaths and arrangements of flowers and the collages of family photos.

  Arlene, his widow, sat in the front row next to a young man, whom I guessed was her son. On her other side was Joe Larson, and beside him, the man we had seen at the Cheese Emporium.

  Larson handed tissues to Arlene as she cried and at one point pulled her into a hug. I wondered what their relationship was—family, friends, or something more?

  Arlene was wearing an elegant black jacket and skirt. From what I knew of them, she and her husband had always been among Greenport’s wealthiest. But it occurred to me that she now had plenty of money that was hers to spend any way she wished. Of course, this would have occurred to the police, too. I knew that they were probably checking the Whites’ finances, making sure that Charles White had not been killed for his insurance.

  Arlene finally stopped sobbing, and Joe Larson left her sitting there with her son. He circulated around the room and ended up talking to members of the Village Board and the mayor. But when Maggie and Harold entered, he quickly excused himself and went over to them. I wondered if he was working with the merchants to shut my garden down as well—and whether he, too, had heard from Simon’s lawyer.

  Maggie spotted me and said something to Joe, who shot me an angry look, said something else to her and Harold, then headed over to me. Fortunately, Simon chose that moment to reappear at my side.

  “I think we’d better leave,” I said. “I don’t want trouble.”

  “It’s your call,” Simon said.

  I braced myself as Joe Larson strode up to me. “You have no right to be here,” he began. “You were never a friend to Charles or Arlene. I think you’d better leave.” He grabbed my arm and tried to pull me toward the door.

  “Don’t touch me.” I tried to yank my arm away, but he was strong and gripped me tightly.

  Simon put a hand on Larson’s arm. “Let go of her now,” he said in a quiet voice, “or my lawyer will sue you for assault . . . Willow, is that a bruise I see on your arm?”

  Larson released me at once. “This is a private wake. I think you two should leave now. You’ll only upset Arlene.” He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. It was hot in here.

  I glanced over at Maggie and Harold, who both had smug looks on their faces. Obviously, they thought they’d won this round of the battle.

  “Are you working with them to close the garden down?” I asked Larson.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do. I think you want that lot and will do anything to get it, and—”

  “That’s over,” Larson broke in. “I’ve
moved on to other things.”

  “Like Arlene?” Simon asked.

  “That’s preposterous. Charles was my business partner and my best friend. Now, you two need to leave.”

  The truth is, I would have been happy to get out of that stifling room. But I also wanted to find out more about the grieving widow, and I knew this was probably my best chance to talk to her.

  “Okay, we’ll go,” I said. “But first, I just want to express my condolences to Arlene.”

  “Not going to happen, lady. If you want me to call the police and have them escort you—”

  But before he could finish, Arlene spotted us and scurried over, with the man from the meeting and her son, close behind. “You have a lot of nerve showing up here,” she began in a furious undertone. “My husband was killed in your garden.”

  “I know, and I just came to tell you how sorry—”

  “If you’re really sorry,” she said in a much louder voice, “then you’ll shut down the Garden of Death.”

  I stared at her, suddenly understanding. “You’re the one who started that petition, aren’t you?”

  “She’s not discussing that,” the man said. Up close his face looked like a weasel, with a narrow jaw and beady, dark brown eyes.

  “I certainly was, and I’m not afraid to admit it,” Arlene said. “And if you have a problem with that, this is my new lawyer, Michael Yard. He’s overseeing everything now.”

  “Well, he’s not going to succeed,” Simon said. “My lawyer will see to that.”

  “You may find that high-powered, out-of-town lawyers aren’t welcome in this community,” Yard said. “We have a different way of doing things on the East End.”

  “You mean skirting the law and slandering good, hardworking people, like Willow?” Simon countered.

  Arlene’s son spoke up. “Mother, let’s go back and sit down.” He steered her back to her seat, with Yard following.