The Body in the Backyard

by Hollis Shiloh

  Anyone could see Mary should have had a high ranking, and, although Abe's zinnias were a beginner's efforts, beginners should be encouraged, not made fun of. The consensus had spread; people declared they had never cared for his show, anyway. He would certainly not be invited back to next year's garden competition, and as for the bake sale, well, if he showed his face, he would be quite snubbed.

  Mary was unusually subdued today, and Abe thought that she really had seen Collin before the final judging, and he'd managed to hurt her feelings. Why he would want to—why he would take such pleasure in knocking everyone down—Abe didn't know, but there was little doubt he'd have been as unkind to her as to anyone.

  He wondered—but, no. Mary was not the sort of person to murder, and if she had been, surely she'd have given someone a poisoned baked good? Her friend Fiona, however... Inwardly, he went cold at the thought. Fiona seemed like the sort of person to have a violent temper, especially if someone had hurt Mary on purpose. And those powerful hands of hers... He shuddered. She'd easily be able to hit someone over the head (or whatever had been done to Clarence to kill him) and then drag him into the zinnia patch. Yes, even at her age: she was powerfully built and quite strong.

  He determined to tell no one of this suspicion. Best he eliminate it himself and not go spreading rumors that would surely ruin Fiona's already unhappy life if they were believed.

  Poor Fiona! She cared about Mary so much. She wouldn't really murder for her, though, would she? In a frustrated moment of lovesick defensiveness for poor Mary...an act of passion...but an act of passion wouldn't involve dragging him into someone else's backyard. No, that was premeditated. He didn't think Fiona would do anything of the sort.

  On the other hand, someone he clearly knew was violent, and suspected could premeditate quite easily, was Mr. Lockwood. The man had anger issues and regularly got into trouble for using his fists. And he didn't like Abe, so he wouldn't mind landing him in the soup with a dead body in the zinnias. But Larry Lockwood hadn't even been there during the judging. Would hearing of his wife's humiliation secondhand really inspire him to track down and kill the guest judge? It seemed unlikely. For one thing, he'd never shown such defensive zeal towards her that Abe had seen or heard, and it wasn't as though she'd been singled out for special humiliation. They'd all been treated much the same.

  But who would take it the hardest—or the most violently? Perhaps it wouldn't take much to make Larry snap. And perhaps, to Lorraine, having her roses compared to Walmart specials, or plastic flowers, really would be humiliating enough that she would go crying to her husband, and he'd be angry enough to kill.

  Or perhaps she'd done it herself. Would she be strong enough? Then again, he still didn't know how the man had been killed, and if he'd been surprised, with a blow from behind, perhaps, couldn't any of them be a suspect, even the more fragile older women? They probably couldn't have dragged him, but with help...an accomplice...

  He studied their faces as they all conversed around his kitchen table. It seemed like such an ordinary meeting. Was he really thinking of who could have murdered Clarence Collin from among them?

  "We should solve the murder ourselves!" said Henrietta, her eyes gleaming. "We'd be just like a group of Miss Marples!"

  "And a Poirot," said Abe gently. It made him uncomfortable to be lumped in with all the ladies too often, as if just because he was gay, he didn't really count as male.

  "Oh, yes, and a Poirot!" said Mary. "And what of you and that muscular neighbor of yours?" She giggled, looking shy and teasing, holding a hand over her mouth as she did so.

  Abe stared at her. Could she really be trying to play matchmaker for Abe...with Gregory? He hadn't even thought she knew he was gay. And what had she heard about Gregory? Just because he was single didn't mean he was gay. But maybe she had heard something?

  He stared at her, trying to sort through the possibilities, while Henrietta said, "Nonsense, Mary. Hush!"

  "Oh, I just meant a—a couple of Poirots," said Mary. She was blushing.

  Lorraine screwed up her face in distaste and looked away quickly. It was no surprise she was uncomfortable with gay people. Abe was more surprised she'd visited him than not. But that awful man had generated a community feeling in his wake, and she probably hadn't wanted to miss anything important.

  Mary was more of a surprise. If Mary was aware that gay people existed, and Abe was one of them, could she also be aware of Fiona's pretty obvious feelings for her? Everyone else seemed to be. Maybe Mary was a bit more savvy than he'd given her credit for, at least about more than lemon cake. She couldn't be the murderer, though. He was pretty sure she wasn't strong enough to hurt a fly. And even as crushed as she'd been, he didn't think it would occur to her to want someone dead for hurting her. She'd probably cry a bit and do some baking.

  No, she really wasn't a highly likely suspect.

  Suspect...listen to me! As if any of them could really kill him.

  And yet the fact remained...someone had.

  After the ladies had left, Winnie came over. She was carrying a store-bought apple pie, still in its packaging. "I wanted to bring you something, but you know I don't cook or bake." She grimaced a little at the thought, as though preparing food was something akin to torture and brought back very bad memories.

  "You must be feeling ghastly," she said after he accepted the doughy-looking pie with a thank you. Her face held sympathy and curiosity. "How are you holding up?"

  "Fairly well, I think." He'd been hoping to go over and apologize to Gregory, but it was getting later and later, and what energy he'd had was quickly going down the drain. He didn't think he could even find the right words for it.

  "I was surprised when the police came round to talk to me, but I couldn't tell them anything. It must be so much worse for you!"

  "Yes. What a disaster!" He shuddered. She wanted to know more, of course, but she really did care how he was doing. "Why don't we have some of this and talk about it?"

  Spending some time with his friend and talking things over with her would help him calm down enough to sleep tonight. He could apologize to Gregory tomorrow.

  GARDEN PLOT MURDER! screamed a local headline. Abe shuddered and turned to the next paper.

  He was feeling a bit better this morning, but he wasn't about to pretend the murder hadn't happened. At the very least, he needed to find out what the papers could tell him.

  Local Celebrity Murdered, said a more restrained rag. The third screamed without mercy, SHEAR MURDER! The final one: Gardener Pops His Clogs. Abe groaned aloud.

  But he had to read them, had to. He didn't have any other source of information about the murder. Not for the first time, he wished he'd been brave enough to approach the corpse. But he'd been so afraid he'd get blamed for it if he even got near the body, he hadn't. Of course, what could one really tell from just looking at a dead body, anyway?

  There were all sorts of obvious causes of death he might be able to recognize (and probably not get out of his head for years afterwards), but there were often complicated causes of death that couldn't be diagnosed by a civilian at a glance. Sometimes a murder was made to look like it had been done one way, rather than how it was actually accomplished. So even if he'd looked and seen something obvious (and no doubt gruesome), it didn't mean he'd have really known what happened.

  The important thing was that the police had found out, and quickly, and that everyone in the neighborhood didn't have to go on suspecting one another for long. He might be the only one doing so, but he doubted it. And the fact was, the corpse had been found in his backyard. That would have to mean, for the gossip channels at least, that he was a prime suspect.

  Of course it was rather too obvious to leave the dead body in his own yard, but really, they would say, he could have left it there thinking it would fool people into thinking he was innocent! And he's not really strong enough to move a dead body by himself, anyway, is he?

  And then there was the motive. Abe was not exact
ly a fighter. He might have been hurt, but he wasn't passionate enough about his flowers to punch someone over them, much less kill. Still, there was no telling what anyone believed. He could see the story being concocted now, enriched with detail after detail. Clarence, returning to the scene of the verbal massacre, smirking over the zinnias, and an enraged Abe, pushed past all endurance by that wretch, striking him with something—a shovel, perhaps, or some other helpful gardening implement (not that Abe had anything more than a few small hand tools: a trowel, a small gardening fork, and a tiny clipper for trimming things, but that wouldn't matter for the story), and then, seeing he'd killed him, he'd run back to his house, washed his hands obsessively a few times (because of course he was neurotic in this story; of course he was), perhaps scrubbed himself relentlessly like Lady Macbeth, and then, in the morning, called the police—but lost the nerve to confess, thinking he could tough it out, that no one would believe him capable of murder.

  Really, he was going to have to play Poirot in self-defense. He sighed. Was there anyone that Clarence Collin had angered yesterday who might resort to murder? And how could one tell?

  The police could go for the obvious suspect, and they had forensics on their side to show whether it was true or not, but Abe really didn't want to. To him, the only obvious suspect so far was Fiona, and, though he didn't particularly consider her a friend, he really didn't want her to be guilty. Or to have tried to frame him by dragging the body to his backyard.

  He definitely wasn't going to tell anyone his suspicions. He would set about to prove them wrong, rather than spread them.

  He thought again of Winnie. Hadn't he been thinking just the other day that local gossip had branded her a possible husband murderer? He hadn't believed it then, but he'd still been cautious about telling her anything that might make her angry with her gardener love interest.

  Did that mean he believed it, really? That he thought she was capable of murder?

  But even if she was, why kill Clarence? Certainly, he'd been nasty about her dahlias, but no more than he'd been to anyone else about their gardens, and far less than to some people. Even assuming she was as murderous as the day was long, she wouldn't be foolish about it. She wouldn't go for the crime of passion with the chance of being caught! No, not Winnie. If she'd killed her husband (not that he thought she had), it had been untraceable and unprovable. She wouldn't be so foolish as to do something sloppy with her next victim.

  He didn't think his friend could be a murderer. She just wasn't cold enough. It was a coincidence that her husband had died so soon after being caught cheating on her. Sometimes, he thought, karma really did catch up with cheaters...

  Now, there was a thought. Suppose someone else had been angry with Clarence, angry enough to kill him? Suppose they'd planned it carefully, followed him down here, and waited till they'd realized the entire town was ticked off at him. It would be difficult not to know when that point was reached, the way this town operated with gossip. Killing him here, and splaying him out on top of the flowers of someone he'd been very rude to, was bound to turn attention elsewhere.

  Didn't the statistics prove it was usually a spouse? That they should be the first suspect?

  Was Clarence even married? Abe realized he had no idea. Still, a man like that was bound to have upset any number of people in his regular life, romantic interests or not. No doubt somebody wanted him dead.

  Perhaps someone he worked with? But since his star was rising, one would think no one would wish to murder the meal ticket to fame and better things than local television.

  Still, someone had murdered him, and had taken an awful risk. Anyone could have seen them dragging him into the garden, and perhaps even killing him, depending on where that had been accomplished.

  If it truly was one of the garden club contestants, then they were quite mad. One didn't kill someone over an insult to one's garden, no matter how rude or personal it became.

  Then he thought of how the man had made him feel: like he was nothing, and it was not just his flowers that were foolish and worthless, but every single thing about himself. Fortunately, Gregory had come round and talked him out of that, and he'd gone to bed feeling more or less like himself. He couldn't remember the man being quite so horrible to anyone else, but who was to tell how someone had taken an insult? Clarence could strike clear to bone with just a few words. He'd called Gregory's garden an ecological disaster, hadn't he?

  Gregory. Guilt made Abe bite his lip. He really should go and apologize properly to Gregory. He'd been so kind, and then Abe had been nasty to him.

  I really hope he's not the murderer!

  He tried not to think too hard about why he hoped that. It was really terribly foolish to get crushes on straight people.

  Chapter four

  Papers in hands as a sort of peace offering, he headed over and knocked timidly at the door. Gregory was not, for once, out in the garden.

  He opened the door, his expression wary. Then it cleared when he saw Abe. "Oh, it's you. I thought it would be the police again."

  They'd wanted to talk to him, too, apparently, although there had been no going down to the station, and as far as Abe knew, they'd finished talking to him long before they'd finished with Abe.

  "Yes, it's me. I'm sorry about yesterday. May I come in? I come bearing papers." He held up his peace offering. "So we can read all about the murder, if you like." He smiled a touch nervously.

  "Oh—all right. I was looking it up online." Gregory grinned suddenly. "Don't you feel a touch ghoulish? I do. But I want to know what happened."

  "Everyone does." Abe stepped inside gingerly and looked around cautiously. The house was as he'd last seen it, but this time, when he wasn't distracted and trembling, it was easier to take in details and appreciate it.

  The kitchen wasn't set up. Gregory had a couple of hot plates and a coffee maker scattered around, but no stove, and there weren't any curtains. Yet there were a couple of interesting touches that Abe could not help but appreciate. A watercolor of a barn hung on one wall, and ancient garden and kitchen tools had been hung artistically around the place.

  Gregory clearly had a knack for choosing well, since even the more ancient and rusted things looked particularly pleasing to the eye. They added a sense of history and rustic charm. An old rag rug on the floor made it feel homey, the sort of place a cat or dog would stretch out.

  The kitchen table and chairs were battered wood, old-fashioned-looking, and had clearly seen a lot of service. The place had an unfinished feel to it, yet it seemed useful, lovely, and like a home. Someday, there might be a creature on that rug; someday, there would be a working stove and good things to eat cooking on it. And the history of the chairs and table felt very real, somehow, as though they had been much-loved.

  "I like your kitchen. It's pleasant."

  "Really? Thanks. It would be more pleasant if someone would teach me to cook." He gave Abe a teasing look. "Hint, hint."

  "Of course I'll try, even though you've made yourself sound like a hopeless student." Abe sat down at the kitchen table and began spreading out the newspapers. "Really, I think we'd best get to the bottom of that before we do anything else."

  "Do you think we can?" Gregory sat down opposite Abe, looking interested. "I don't know about you, but I'm no sleuth."

  "Well, I'm quite motivated, you know. A certain body was found on my zinnias, and I'm sure I'll be a main suspect if they don't find the real culprit quickly!"

  "The real culprit? Does anyone actually say 'culprit'?"

  "I do," said Abe firmly. "And I've watched and read quite a few murder mysteries. I feel as qualified as any civilian to look into the matter."

  He spoke a little more firmly than he really felt. Abe was not at all sure he had any ability whatsoever to uncover a thing, but he was worried about being blamed, and about his friends being blamed.

  Lowering his voice, he added, "You know what he said about me will get back to the police, if they don't already h
ave it down, word for word. He called me all sorts of things, including neurotic. They're going to wonder if there's some truth to that, if I'm the sort of person who would kill someone over zinnias." He snorted. "I don't think I'd kill anyone over anything."

  "I'm sure some of us wanted to kill him yesterday," said Gregory in a conversational tone. "It's hard to believe anyone actually did, though."

  "I was wondering if it was someone from his life who saw an opportunity and followed him here to kill him and put the blame on gardeners he'd annoyed. Here. I'll take Garden Plot Murder, you can start with Local Celebrity, and then we'll switch."

  Gregory held up the other two papers and made a goofy face. "What, you don't want to start with the pun headlines?"

  Abe shuddered. "I try to stick up for the press, I really do, but sometimes they make it so difficult!" He bent his head and began to read.

  Slowly, they worked their way through all four papers, trading back and forth as needed. There was a great deal of sensationalism and few details. Some of the details contradicted one another, possibly because there had been a rush to get into print and the reporters hadn't been able to double-check everything. But among the four of them, the papers painted a pretty clear picture of how the man had died.

  After the competition, he'd had a restaurant meal and then gone to his hotel. He'd checked out around ten o'clock. He'd had one bag with him. The clerk at the hotel had said he clearly wasn't planning to come back, since he'd paid up and returned the keycard.

  His car, however, hadn't left the lot, so wherever he went after that, it wasn't back home. Had someone approached him outside the hotel and offered him a lift somewhere? If so, why had he taken it, knowing he'd have to go back and get his car later on?

  At any rate, his last known location was there in the hotel lobby, leaving, at ten o'clock. The next time he was seen (aside from by the murderer, of course), it was dawn, and he was dead in a man's garden.