“How dare you, you . . . you . . . you little shrimp! You accuse me of trying to scald you with my coffee because of the damage you inflicted on me? Is that it?”
“Yes, Dr. Sproot.”
“And then . . . and then . . . and then . . .” Dr. Sproot was screaming now. Marta discreetly formed her hand into a canopy over her coffee mug in case the spittle started to fly. “And then you accuse me of faking an injury after I scalded my poor throat and can no longer sing, and must see a specialist? Huh! And why would I do that, Marta? Why?”
“Easy. So you could scare me into thinking you could sue me for damages. I am somewhat gullible and a little timid, Dr. Sproot. You know that and take advantage of me. And we used to be friends. For a long time. It’s hard to let that go, even when your good friend is treating you like freshly turned topsoil and stomping all over you. And you did help me so much to learn our wonderful craft.”
“But you ignored me! You ignored my best advice, and now look at what you’ve got. It’s nothing but a nuthouse, plant cuckoo-land, an anarchy. It’s like you wanted to create a little United Nations of gardens. You’ll never win anything, Marta Poppendauber! Nothing! I can’t believe you had the temerity to enter that contest! Why, the very nerve! I know the judges. They’ll either burst out laughing or vomit when they get a good, hard look at your place.”
“I’ll take my chances, Dr. Sproot.”
Dr. Sproot was standing now, sputtering grunts and various vowel and consonant sounds. Her face was contorted and aged in hatred and disdain and self-righteousness. Her shirttails had gotten yanked out of her shorts and were fluttering in the breeze, revealing an occasional flash of bare, pale midriff. Marta noted that that somehow made her seem laughably pathetic. Dr. Sproot collapsed back into her chair, throwing her elbows across the patio table and cradling her head in her hands. Marta found whatever residue of pity she had left for her now mingled with scorn. She was exhilarated to discover that, for the first time in years, she could deal with Dr. Sproot without fear.
“Let’s get back to Sarah,” she said. “Sarah said the Fremonts’ gardens must be strong because they are resisting the spell. The only option left is a much stronger spell, which will create havoc and destruction. Stronger even than the spell she cast on your gardens. To do that, she will have to take additional steps, which will include a personal nighttime visit to the Fremonts’, without their knowing it, of course. This will cost much more—$1,200—and, as before, there are no guarantees. I strongly advise that you not do this, Dr. Sproot.”
Dr. Sproot downed a slug of coffee, which revived her, and sat bolt upright.
“And why not?”
“Because it is evil. It is bad. It contradicts every standard of morality.”
“It does not!” said Dr. Sproot, to whom another long draw from the coffee mug had returned the old dominating, offensive assertiveness. “You tell that stupid old witch that I will pay her $700 and no more for this . . . this . . . super-spell. You tell her that. Do you think she’ll do it?”
“Yes, I know she will. I was authorized by Sarah to go down to precisely that amount if necessary. It’s her returning customer discount. You will be assessed additional dry cleaning costs should her uniform get all messed up. That’s a distinct possibility when doing fieldwork. Now, if you will give me the cash, I will deliver it to Sarah. Another thing: from now on I’m having nothing to do with either you or Sarah.”
“What? Why, I’ll destroy you, you little mouse.”
“I don’t think so, Doc Phil.”
Dr. Sproot shook with rage. “I told you never to call me that! I’m telling you again! Don’t call me that horrid little nickname! D’ya hear me!”
“Just give me the money, Doc Phil, and I’ll be on my way. If you need to contact Sarah anymore, then you’ll have to figure it out on your own. I will also be letting her know that I’m no longer making myself available as an intermediary between you two.
“As for you, I’m no longer going to be spying for you, or taking notes, or committing your ‘death-by-a-thousand-cuts’ by sneaking over there way past my bedtime—Thank God Ham is such a sound sleeper—and trespassing on private property like some thief, and snipping off blossoms, three or four at a time. That really was the low point, Dr. Sproot. That’s destroying life. But no more.”
“I always knew you were a fraidy cat,” Dr. Sproot said. “You cut off how many little monarda stems on your two or three little nocturnal visits to the Fremonts’ before chickening out, and you call that work! Why, that’s nothing. ‘Death-by-a-thousand-cuts’ requires numerous trips over time. It requires dedication, which you obviously don’t have. It is the slow, subtle torture of a garden that is hard to spot, and almost impossible to resolve, unless you’re the most observant of gardeners.”
“I’m sure the Fremonts noticed.”
“Those drunkards! Of course they didn’t.”
“They know exactly what’s going on, Doc Phil.”
Dr. Sproot trembled in the presence of this new, more assertive Marta. “And my camera and cowl?”
“I’ve recovered them. I’ll have them cleaned and ready to return to you by Thursday.”
“Just put it on the doorstep. And guess what, you bumbling bumpkin: I don’t have the cash on hand right now to pay that demented chucklehead of a sorceress. I’ll have to bring it by your house. Don’t worry, you won’t have to sully yourself by dealing directly with me. I’ll just put it in an envelope in your mailbox. And, by the way, don’t count on any more advice from me about your wretched gardens. And . . . and . . . don’t you dare come whining for help when you don’t even get an honorable mention.”
Marta got up and left without saying anything. She secretly pledged to do everything in her power to ensure that the Fremonts and their gardens came to no harm. That meant using her newly improved intelligence-gathering skills to keep careful tabs on both Dr. Sproot and Edith Merton. When they were on the move—and that would have to be soon—then she would have to be right there with them.
Dr. Sproot felt a sense of triumph as she watched Marta go, flipping her the bird when her back was turned. How does someone like that make any friends at all? she wondered. Freed of Marta’s squeamishness and overdeveloped sense of fair play, she could now take her campaign to a new level of ruthlessness. Depending on that quack of a witch, Edith Merton, wouldn’t be enough. She would have to act on her own. She would hold back nothing and give no quarter! Destroy! Destroy! Destroy!
But first, something a bit more subtle. After all, Marta Poppendauber wasn’t the only person in town who had sources.
24
A Proposition
A man George and Nan didn’t know, and dressed for business besides, parked his shiny new Honda on Payne Avenue behind Cullen’s Camaro. He spotted them lounging in the backyard and walked up the steps leading to the patio with a smile and a casual wave. He was carrying a satchel, which appeared to be made out of fancy leather. It gleamed a rich, unblemished brown and had a gold clasp that shot reflected flashes of sunlight right at them.
“Turn off those brights,” said George, shielding his eyes. The upscale briefcase struck George and Nan as strange, as the religious proselytizers they had entertained from time to time never seemed to carry such an accoutrement. Neither did they wear sport coats. Come to think of it, the mirror-lensed aviator sunglasses, blue Oxford-cloth shirt, and striped tie looked kind of out of place, too. They wondered whether this might be some high muckety-muck associated with Burdick’s Best Yard Contest, or maybe a salesman of encyclopedias or laxatives.
“Greetings!” said the man as he stepped onto the patio purposefully. “Great day to be lounging around. Taking the day off, I see. Vacation?”
“We’re not taking the day off,” said George, who took an instant dislike to the man and his patently disdainful attitude toward sloth. “This is our work. We sit and watch our gardens, and drink a little wine. Besides, it’s almost noon. Aren’t most self-respecting e
picureans relaxing around this time of day?”
The man chuckled self-consciously.
“Sure,” he said, reflecting uneasily that he had somehow insulted the Fremonts. “Sure. After this, I’m gonna go play golf, for instance. I know a guy who sits around and drinks during the day. He got laid off work and just went through a divorce, though. Ha-ha. Ha-ha.”
George and Nan grimaced.
“We never drink to excess if we can help it,” Nan said firmly. “At least not too much to excess. We have not been fired by anyone and we are not contemplating divorce. Are we, George?”
“No, unless you make me do the laundry today.”
“Ha-ha, ha-ha,” went the man. “Brother, do I know how that goes.”
“Can we help you, Mister . . . Mister?”
“Abelard. John Abelard.” John Abelard laid his briefcase on one of the patio chairs, and plucked a business card out of his billfold to present to George.
“Schwall’s Dry Cleaning? I didn’t know dry cleaners made house calls.”
“We don’t have anything that needs dry cleaning now anyway,” Nan said. “Usually, we take it to Jocelyn’s Dry Cleaners right here in Livia.”
Mr. Abelard slapped the heel of his hand against his forehead.
“A thousand pardons,” he said, holding his hand out for George to return the card to him. “Wrong card.” He put the card back in his billfold, wondering if the trick, which veteran colleagues told him was a great ice-breaker for cold-call visits, would work. He pulled another one out and handed it to George.
“This is the genuine article. Well, gee, at least that helped me remember I’ve got something to pick up on the way home. Ha-ha, ha-ha.”
George inspected the card and raised his eyebrows.
“Hmm, a realtor, huh?”
“That’s right,” said Mr. Abelard, straightening up and smiling proudly as he removed his sunglasses to reveal sunken, beady, darting eyes that reminded Nan of whatever animal it was that had sunken, beady, darting eyes. She could understand now why he might want to wear sunglasses, even in the dark. “One of the best around, and specializing in Livia properties. I made the $1,350,000 club last year. Not too many in my business do that well.”
“How nice,” said Nan.
“What brings you to us?” said George. “Glass of merlot?”
Mr. Abelard paused, his eyes shifting furiously, and tilted his head as if in careful reflection, pretending to consider the offer.
“Gee, I’d love to but I can’t,” he said. “Not while I’m working. But thanks so very much for the offer. How ’bout a rain check? I’ll take you up on that someday when none of us is working. Ha-ha.”
George and Nan nodded stiffly, hoping that he would never return to take them up on that offer.
“Well, I’ll get right down to brass tacks.” With that he opened up his satchel and removed a sheaf of papers, then pulled back one of the patio chairs. “May I?”
“Certainly,” said George.
Mr. Abelard sat down and leafed through his papers for a moment. He put on a pair of reading glasses, not because he needed them, but to impress prospective clients with his supposed erudition.
“The old vision’s not what it used to be,” he said. “Ha-ha, ha-ha.”
Mr. Abelard went through the papers again, then laid them on the table. In doing so, he allowed his coat sleeve to pull back, revealing a very expensive Rolex watch gleaming in silvery splendor from his wrist. Such a tactic, he had learned, impressed and intimidated possible clients. Intimidation, he had been told by those in the know, was the fifth of the seven keys to success in business. But it couldn’t be carried too far. A little pushing, a little feigned surprise when someone turned him down, and a fast-paced, let’s-get-’er-done approach when someone showed the slightest inclination to sign on with him was how you hooked a prospective seller.
“A client of mine who lives right here in Balsam—”
“Livia.”
“What?”
“You’re in Livia now, Mr. Abelard. Balsam is twenty miles away.”
“Ah, certainly. So sorry. I have an appointment in Balsam tomorrow. You know us busy realtors. No time to think! Uh, as I say, my client, who lives right here in Livia, is interested in your property and would like to buy it . . . or, at least, use it for a few days. What do you say?”
George shifted uneasily in his chair. Nan quickly drained the rest of her wineglass, and just as quickly filled it back up again.
“My client is willing to pay you more than the market value for your house—within reason, of course. Or, if you prefer, keep your house, and allow her use of the grounds for, oh, three to four days. She, of course, would pay for that use. We call that an easement.”
“How much more than market value?” said George.
“I don’t have an exact figure at this point. Within reason, as I said. Hmmm, you could be looking at ten to fifteen percent over market value.”
“How much for using it?”
“Two thousand dollars a day.”
George cleared his throat.
“Should you sell, a condition would also be that she have immediate access to the property. Not the house. You can continue to live there until you find a new place. She would just need access to your backyard for three to four hours a day.”
“Why?” said Nan.
“Why?” said Mr. Abelard as he pulled out a sheet of paper from his sheaf and laid it on the table in front of George and Nan. “She is an archaeologist who is interested in this property for historical reasons. You see, my client is convinced that your house rests on an old Indian burial ground. Hundreds of years old, but with skeletons still moldering away not more than ten to twenty feet under your backyard. If she owned this property, she would be able to study this Indian graveyard without the constraints of time or having to seek permission to dig it up.”
“Burial ground!” George and Nan cried.
“Certainly. The Indians in the vicinity may well have buried their dead right beneath your property.”
“Hmmm,” said George, as laconically as if he had just been told something mildly interesting about the digestive tract of a manatee. Nan figured he must have suddenly sampled semi-somnolent ennui from his rather limited emotional palette.
“You should know that Indian spirits are renowned for looking after their old stomping grounds . . . and protecting them by whatever means necessary.”
Nan shivered.
“My client, a member of our august state archaeologist’s office, has asked me to urge you to do nothing to disturb the grounds. Otherwise, the spirits might take offense.”
“Don’t disturb the grounds!” Nan cried. “Why, we’ve been doing nothing but disturb the grounds for the past six years! What about the house? Somebody built the house on the burial grounds and there it stands, as sturdy and safe as ever.”
“My client informs me that the probable burial site is not under the house itself, but under the yard; indeed, under where many of your remarkable gardens are now located.”
“But what about all the work we’ve done on our gardens?” said Nan. “Isn’t it possible that the dead approve of what we’re doing and have been blessing them in whatever way dead Indians bless things?”
“My client said the spirits are probably really mad now and will get even madder if you so much as lay a hoe edge to any of your gardens. She asks you to please refrain from any future improvements that will disturb the souls underneath. Don’t even water the grounds. Let nature take care of it, is what my client counsels. Sell or rent the property to a trained archaeologist, of course, and she will know exactly how to placate these restless spirits.”
“Who is this client of yours anyway?” said George.
“You’ve probably heard of her,” Mr. Abelard said. “Dr. Phyllis Sproot?”
“Yes, that name does sound familiar,” Nan said.
“Wait a second,” said George. “Isn’t she one of those gardening nuts I over
heard Earlene McGillicuddy telling you about?”
“Why, yes, George, I believe it was . . . the trespasser!”
“And she’s an archaeologist, too?”
“Yes, indeed,” Mr. Abelard said. “My client is a woman of many interests, gardening being second only to archaeology. But she would never stoop to trespassing. Never! I would stake my professional reputation on that. Just so you know everything is on the up-and-up, I’ve got an official document here attesting to the probable archaeological value of the property signed by Dr. Sproot herself.”
Mr. Abelard pushed the paper he had separated from his pile toward George and Nan. It bore the letterhead of the state’s “Department of Archaeological Research,” and, at the bottom, the signature of one “Dr. Phyllis Sproot, Assistant Director in Charge of Indian Artifacts and Burial Grounds.”
“Looks official enough,” said Nan, pushing the document back to Mr. Abelard after she and George perused it. “But I wonder if this is that same woman running around in a monk’s cowl or whatever it was she was wearing?”
“And who supposedly will do whatever it takes to win the Burdick’s contest. Or, hey, maybe that woman who’s been poking around in the yard and won’t even come over to make a little polite conversation.”
“That’s right, George! That’s right!”
“I can assure you that is just some libelous rumor being passed around the neighborhood,” said Mr. Abelard as he leafed through his pile of papers and retrieved another document. “My client does not run around masquerading as a monk and trespassing on people’s private property, though I suppose she might have taken a gander at your backyard at some point. I mean, after all, she wouldn’t be doing her job as an archaeologist if she didn’t do a little site inspecting . . . hee-hee. Now, we can get this done in a jiffy.” He pointed his pen at the bottom lines on the document.
“All you need to do is sign right there, and that will get the process rolling. Or, if you prefer a rental arrangement, I have that document right here, too. There will be more to sign and get notarized later, but this will do for now. Need a pen?”
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