The Body in the Backyard

by Hollis Shiloh

  Gregory harrumphed. "That jerk. What does he know about anything?" He pushed his way into the house as if he belonged there.

  "Is he gone?" asked Abe anxiously. "I keep thinking he's going to show up to critique what's left of me. I'm sure I won't be able to show my face for weeks round here."

  "I haven't seen him," said Gregory. "He'd better be gone. But that's where you're wrong. Nobody looks down on you for what he said. He misjudged his audience. Everyone was sick to death of him by that time. Now, it's going all round town that he was cruel to 'that nice Mr. Arnett, who never hurt a fly.' If he was mean to Mary, that would be the icing on the cake. Everyone is saying they never liked him in the first place, and that his show really isn't very good."

  Abe laughed awkwardly, feeling lighter inside than he'd thought he could after this morning. "They really stuck up for me?"

  "He was mean to everyone. It was just easier to see it when it was towards you, I think. Nobody dislikes you, Abe." He said it in such a kind way, Abe grew rather choked up. "Well, the Lockwoods do," he said lightly.

  "I don't think so. Not anymore. Mrs. Lockwood was saying that certain so-called experts clearly didn't know anything about flowers and should not pick on nice young bachelors."

  Abe laughed. "Young!" he said bitterly. "Oh, I wish I was young!" He thought wistfully of the days when a pretty face and slim build meant he was quite in demand for dating, for drinks with friends, for laughing and toasting one another at premiers of one sort of another, for being asked by hungry young artists if he'd pose for them. He'd been quite the thing, in his day. And now...

  "You're young enough, in my book," said Gregory. "You wouldn't want to be Dorian Grey, getting younger and creepier as the years go along."

  "Is that how it worked? I'm sure he didn't actually get any younger, he just looked the same."

  "Who knows? Here, make me something to eat. I'm starving!"

  "Is that all I'm good for, slaving over a hot stove for you?" Abe batted his lashes at Gregory, half teasing, half flirting.

  Gregory raised one speculative eyebrow and grinned in a roguish sort of way that made him particularly handsome. "You'll never know unless you try. I'm thinking...your lawn could use with a good digging-up. Perhaps some raspberry bushes and a plum tree."

  "Oh, no," said Abe despairingly. "Not the lawn! He only wants me for my lawn!"

  Gregory laughed.

  Between one thing and another, Abe was nearly over the garden judging debacle by the time they were sitting down to share a meal. This time he added chicken to the stir-fry, and some of his fancier sauces. "I like a complex flavor," he explained. "But I haven't made it too hot, don't worry."

  "I don't mind a bit of heat, but I've never gotten a taste for the really spicy stuff." Gregory took a big bite, and his eyes widened. Then, quickly, he gave Abe two thumbs up and dug in with a will.

  Abe smiled, feeling rather shy. He didn't often have such an appreciative audience for his culinary dabbling. It made him feel worldly and clever.

  They didn't talk much while they were eating, but it was a peaceful silence. After the meal, Gregory offered to help with the cleanup, and, when he was refused, reluctantly bid Abe a good evening.

  He lingered in the doorway, hesitating. "Tomorrow will be better. You'll see."

  "I'm sure it will." Abe smiled at him. "Thank you for sharing your fresh produce. You must grow some more variety, so we can try different dishes." Then he wondered if he'd said too much.

  But Gregory smiled. "Of course. I'll get right on that. Of course, if I could have the use of your lawn..."

  Abe laughed and pushed him playfully out the door. He felt much better for the visit. And, after a bit more work, he dared to look out at the zinnias, just as it was getting dark. They weren't so bad, were they? Surely not. He shouldn't be disloyal just because an unpleasant "expert" had had a few words for him. After all, Abe had never claimed to be a master gardener. Perhaps the zinnias were a bit stilted and regimented, but that didn't mean he should tear them out, did it?

  Perhaps he could expand the garden a bit, get Mary to teach him something about growing herbs. They looked nice and smelled nice, and might even be useful for his cooking. Fresh herbs were nearly always better than dried. Why hadn't he thought of that before?

  He had a glass of wine, then went to bed and read for a while before dropping to sleep. He would have to remember to thank Fiona for the zucchini tomorrow.

  Chapter three

  The next morning, Abe wandered to the kitchen with the idea of coffee, and, as had become his habit, pulled back the curtain to look out at the zinnias before he did anything else. And then he woke up in a hurry, because the zinnias were currently in ruin—with something large, dark, and human-shaped sprawled over top of them.

  "Oh, dear," said Abe, and dropped the curtain. He put his back to the sink, holding on to it to keep from keeling over in shock, as his mind raced. Someone out there was dead, and he was very much afraid he knew who it was. The one person that nobody in town liked very much right now—and who might not have left last night after all. But why should he be dead on the zinnias? That was completely unfair, really!

  Still, he'd watched enough mysteries to know what must be done. He dialed 911 and reported seeing what looked like a body out of his window. He was still quite shaken when he got off the phone, and began making coffee before realizing he hadn't added any grounds. He began again. Then he began to wonder if it was a dead body after all—perhaps someone had fainted. Anything could happen, after all. Maybe he'd watched too many murder mysteries. Perhaps he should have checked for a pulse first? The idea of touching a probably dead person's wrist made him shudder. Today was going to require a lot of coffee, and probably a lot of wine.

  Will I be a suspect, if it is him, and he's dead? Oh, dear...

  It occurred to him that it wouldn't hurt to tell Gregory what was going on. Gregory might go with him to check the body.

  As the coffee gurgled and hissed, he pulled on a bathrobe and walked over quickly to the neighboring house and tapped lightly at the door. Then it occurred to him that Gregory might still be asleep. It was rather early, after all. He was just heading around to tap at the bedroom window when the door opened, and he jumped high in fright.

  "Yes? What is it?" said Gregory, his voice rough from sleep.

  Abe faced him, heart pounding like mad. There were sheet wrinkle line marks on Gregory's cheeks, and his eyes looked bleary. His hair was sticking up at funny angles. He was not at all the handsome figure just now, which was oddly endearing.

  "Something wrong?" croaked Gregory, focusing on him with effort.

  "Yes, I'm afraid—I think there's a body in my backyard. Oh, dear." He put his hands to his head and didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

  Gregory looked at him sharply, his eyes opening. "Who?"

  "I don't know. I haven't looked. I called the police." As if to vouch for him, a siren sounded in the distance.

  Abe realized vaguely that his hands were shaking quite hard. "You'd best come in," said Gregory. "Sit down, before you fall down."

  "Oh, dear," said Abe again. He knew he likely sounded fussy and old-fashioned, but he was too distraught to think of something reasonable to say instead.

  Gregory moved about the kitchen with smooth precision for a man who couldn't cook. After a moment, he pressed a mug of hot coffee into Abe's hands. It was very strong and very hot. Abe began to calm down and compose himself.

  "What if it's that horrible man off the television?" Abe shuddered. "We'll all be suspects, and you know it!"

  "Not necessarily." Gregory sat down at the kitchen table opposite Abe with his own mug. He looked strong and calm and sturdy this morning, and it was soothing just to be in his presence. "There may be a perfectly innocent explanation—if it is him—or a real smoking gun, if it was murder. We might not be suspects at all."

  "Oh, dear," said Abe, and shook himself. "I mustn't panic. The police will think I look guilty.
And it's my zinnias, and everyone heard what he said to me and saw that I didn't take it well."

  Gregory smiled at him kindly. "You wouldn't hurt a fly. Everyone knows that."

  "Oh, but that's always who's guilty in the—the mysteries!"

  "I don't think that's how the cops work, finding the most unlikely suspect because of course they'll be the guilty party. Anyway, we don't know if it's actually a body, or a murder, or anything yet, do we?"

  "No, I suppose not. I'd best go over to see the police and let them in." He shuddered.

  "I'll come join you as soon as I'm dressed," said Gregory, and Abe was very glad of the offer.

  He headed back reluctantly and changed into something respectable—a suit, he decided, was the best way to meet the police before they dragged him off to the choky. Was it still called the choky? He pondered that and other intangibles as he poured himself a cup of coffee. What was the etiquette of offering refreshments during one's questioning by the police? I suppose if I'm seriously a suspect, they'll haul me off, he thought despondently. I had better call my lawyer now, just in case. Of course his lawyer wasn't a criminal attorney, but he would know whom to contact if there was a question of being charged. It was all very well to say innocent people did not need a lawyer—but he'd watched too many true crime shows to believe that!

  He was just getting off the phone with his lawyer when there was a knock at the door. Steeling himself for hard-booted lawmen, he opened the door slowly.

  Gregory smiled at him. "Don't look so tragic." He pushed his way in past Abe, looking around. "Anything to eat?"

  "Oh, how can you think of food at a time like this?"

  "Easily. Don't be tragic. They'll think you're faking."

  "You wouldn't be taking it so lightly if there was a dead body in your—your mud patch! Oh, dear. I shouldn't have said that, should I? I'm sorry. Here." He thrust a loaf of bread into Gregory's hands guiltily, and avoided meeting his eyes.

  Gregory, one brow raised, accepted it. "No, I probably wouldn't," he admitted in a serious voice, "but that's still no reason for you to have a panic attack just as the police get here."

  There was a loud knock at the door.

  Oh, dear, oh, dear, thought Abe, and went to answer it. He hoped he wouldn't hyperventilate and fall over in a dead faint. It would certainly be dramatic. It would also be the sort of thing a small, wretched failure of a man would do.

  THE BACKYARD, ABE REFLECTED miserably, really did not look very good with yellow crime scene tape around it.

  Just as he had suspected, the body was a dead man, and the dead man was the late and not terribly lamented Clarence Collin, local celebrity made good with his recent HGTV deal. He had, everyone knew, been Going Places, and now the only place he was going would be the morgue, then the cemetery.

  It was a dreadful thing to happen in Abe's backyard. The place was swarming, absolutely swarming, with various officers of the law, and they'd parked their vehicles all over the driveway, the front lawn, and the side street.

  It was a horrible scene, and he wished it would go away and just leave him in peace. Instead, he was forced to sit and answer questions from a police officer, Detective Jeffries, a man with careful eyes in his tired face as he made notes and asked the sorts of questions that people were asked in murder mysteries. And so many of them seemed to be asked more than once, too...

  And when Abe said something to that effect, trying to lighten the mood, the policeman asked him, "Do you watch a lot of murder mysteries, sir?" making it sound quite incriminating.

  "Oh, no, not particularly," said Abe quickly, and he went on that he didn't think murder was entertaining—not in the least. Then he spent the next ten minutes worrying that they would check his Netflix queue and use it as evidence against him.

  All right, so he watched some murder mysteries and true crime shows. That shouldn't be so terrible, should it? Perhaps he should have just admitted it: Yes, quite a lot, actually, but it's because I'm bored and lonely. I'm divorced, have I mentioned that? He cheated on me and got to keep the house and all our friends.

  Oh, dear. No, I definitely shouldn't say that, either...

  Between one thing and another, he was an absolute wreck by the time his lawyer arrived, looking flustered and official, and asked if Abe was being charged with anything.

  "You called your lawyer?" asked the officer of the law, arching his brow in a very you seem guilty manner.

  He swallowed. "Yes, I thought I'd better. Since it happened on my property." He kept his voice even with effort, but felt positively guilty with those eyes boring into his. He held the man's gaze as long as he dared, then looked away.

  Detective Jeffries closed his notebook with an ominous finality. "And no one can corroborate your whereabouts after you shared supper with your neighbor?"

  "No," said Abe, in a small, suffocated voice. This was where they would slap the handcuffs on and drag him away. "But I didn't do it. Just because he...he was rather rude to me. I've never killed anyone yet for that, and I—I certainly wouldn't have killed him over the zinnias, anyway! They don't deserve that. Spilled blood in the backyard. How horrible!" He shuddered.

  The cop gave him another long moment of the stink eye, then rose. "That will be all for now. We'll be in touch."

  Of course you will, and since it happened here and he was unkind to me yesterday, you'll probably try to twist this around on me, the pathetic gay man whose mind snapped. 'He was divorced, you know, and devoted to growing his stupid little flowers...'

  Abe very much hoped he wasn't going to burst into tears. Not in front of his lawyer!

  "Oh, and if you think of anything else." The man handed him a card with a number on it and his name.

  Abe composed himself eventually and told his lawyer everything as soon as the police officers had left the house. The body was gone by now, and he felt as if he'd spent approximately twenty-seven years in purgatory since waking up this morning, but it was only three in the afternoon.

  "It seems as though you're not being charged with anything, and you handled things just right by calling the cops and not touching the body. No chance of contaminating any evidence that way."

  "Do you think they think I did it?"

  "I doubt it. They'll have pulled up any records they have on you, and since you've always been an honest citizen, not prone to attacks in anger, and called them right away, I doubt you'll be high on any list. Keep me up to date, certainly. But I should say you're in the clear. You've cooperated and not done anything stupid, and the police are highly unlikely to put a garden critique high as a motive for murder."

  "I'm very much afraid it is, though. Why else would he be killed here? He was really horrible to everyone yesterday, making people feel like fools. He really lit into me. Nothing has hurt quite so much in a while—and he's a complete stranger! He seemed to know just what buttons to push for everyone. I reacted by hiding out and licking my wounds, but someone seems to have reacted in rage and—and killed him. In my backyard!"

  "We don't know he was killed there," said the lawyer reasonably. "Maybe the killer dragged him there to throw off suspicion. The police will know that, though. Forensics," he said wisely.

  "Yes," said Abe, calming down a bit. "That's probably what happened. Why would both he and a stranger be in my backyard in the middle of the night? He had no reason to come here, and even if he had, nobody would have known ahead of time. And if there had been an argument of some sort, I'd have heard it and woken up. I'm a light sleeper, you know."

  The lawyer said he needed to be going, but to call him if there was more trouble.

  "Of course. Thank you. Do we know what killed him yet?"

  "I'm sure they'll release that when they're ready. It's best you don't know, anyway, remember? You stayed away from the body, and that was the correct thing to do."

  Abe wondered. He hoped so—but he had a feeling he would be having a lot of doubt and fear until this thing was cleared up. Had he done the right thing?
And who had murdered that nasty man?

  WHEN THERE WAS A KNOCK at the door, Abe found himself desperately hoping that it would be Gregory. He should never have said that about the mud patch. The last thing he wanted to do was make Gregory into an enemy (again) or remind him of the words of that awful man. He didn't know why he'd said it; it had just slipped out. Gregory had been so calm in the face of calamity—it hadn't seemed as if he took it seriously! Still, Abe wished he'd held his tongue.

  He answered the door, trying to look repentant and friendly.

  It was a bevy of neighbors—Mary Mink, Henrietta Heaton, and Lorraine Lockwood. His heart sank. They were holding a fruit basket between them, and from the eager and sympathetic looks on their faces, they expected to be allowed inside and regaled with all the police proceedings. After all, this had to be better than a repeat of Midsomer Murders.

  Still, he expected at least two of them really did mean the visit kindly, and he let them in and made coffee. He hadn't done any baking for a while, but there were some grocery store cookies that weren't expired yet. He brought them out and offered the ladies refreshments. They all accepted and settled in for the duration, listening with relish to the details he let slip.

  Since they were here anyway, he figured he'd better get the rumor mill starting in his favor, keeping him up to date rather than just feeding into it. With some careful questions and a lot of listening, he got as much information as he gave.

  The gardening club had broken up after the disastrous zinnia critique. A couple of people had gone straight home—Hannibal, Winnie—but most had gathered in small groups and discussed what had happened, how it had all gone so wrong. The growing consensus had been that Mr. Collin was quite above himself, and had not been a very nice or particularly competent judge. He'd made fun of nearly everyone's garden, and then seemed to pick one at random to crown the winner.