by Stephen John
“Good.”
“And Fortune . . .”
“Yes?”
“If you find she was murdered, please make sure her killer is brought to justice.”
I nodded and left.
I drove away, wondering what role the extra $5,000 played in this little drama. As I was thinking things through my phone rang. It was Ida Belle.
“The arrangements have been made. One hour. My place,” she said. “I’ve called Gertie already.”
“Now? Today?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t mess around, do you?”
“See you in an hour, Fortune,” she said. She hung up.
Chapter Sixteen
I got to Ida Belle’s house just after Gertie, praying that my quickly conceived plan worked. We spent fifteen minutes discussing all the what-if scenarios before the doorbell rang.
Ida Belle answered the door. She smiled. “Thank you for coming on such short notice, Mr. Proctor. Please come in.”
The man smiled, “Please, everyone calls me Gus.”
“Gus, it is. I want you to meet two of my dear friends,” she continued. “Gus, this gorgeous creature is Fortune.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said.
“A-hem,” Gertie cleared her throat.
“And this is Gertie,” Ida Belle continued.
Gertie smiled and shook his hand.
“Pleased to meet you as well, ma’am,” he said.
There was no question about it, Gus Proctor was a handsome, charming man. I could see right away how an older, lonely woman could be easily swept up by him. His smile was infectious and his voice was low, soft, and deep. I also noted, that of all the people in the room, I was clearly invisible to him—not an experience I was used to.
“Please, take a seat,” Ida Belle said. “Tea?”
“Thank you, yes,” he replied, sitting.
Ida Belle sat a saucer and cup in front of him. He watched her as she poured, never taking his eyes off her face. He smiled. Ida Belle smiled back.
“Tell me, Mr. Proctor . . .” Ida Belle began.
“Gus,” he corrected, softly, smiling with his eyes.
“Gus,” she repeated. “Tell me how you managed to work me into your schedule on such short notice. Your reputation would indicate you are quite busy, making lawns and gardens beautiful.”
“Well, as it turns out, I had a cancellation this morning,” he said. “How may I be of service to you?”
“Well, I recently had tea with Emma Peterson and she gave me a tour of her beautiful garden. Her loss was such a tragedy.”
The smile disappeared from Gus’ face and in its place appeared a solemn expression.
“You were a friend of Ms. Peterson?” he asked.
“A . . . casual friend,” Ida Belle replied. “She was quite the hermit, you know. She rarely left the house. To tell you the truth I was shocked she invited me for tea after so many years.”
He sighed heavily, “I’m sorry for your loss. Such a wonderful woman,” he said. “She was such a delight to be around. She will be missed.”
“I understand you were the one who actually found her body?” Ida Belle said. “You know . . . on the floor of her kitchen?”
“Yes,” he replied. He drew a breath and sighed again. “It’s true . . . it was so upsetting. I am still unable to really speak of it.”
He looked down with a dour expression; it made me want to gag.
“I understand,” Ida Belle said. “It must have been devastating.”
“Words cannot describe it,” he said, looking as though he was ready to break into tears.
I fought back the urge to break out in applause at his Oscar-caliber performance. Instead, I sighed and smiled conciliatorily, but underneath the smile I wanted nothing more than to leap across the table and rip out his Adam’s apple.
“Oh, you are so right, Gus,” Ida Belle said, playing her part swimmingly. “She was such a sweetheart.”
“She was,” he agreed.
“I so admired her garden. I’ve been so envious. I’ve always wanted a beautiful garden like hers, but up until now, I could never afford it. When my financial situation recently changed, I simply had to have the name of the person who put it all together for her.”
“Changed?” Gus asked.
“I’m sorry?” Ida Belle inquired.
“You said your financial situation . . . changed.”
“Oh, yes, my ex-husband passed away in New Orleans,” Ida Belle lied. “He left it all to me.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that?” Gus said, again with an Oscar-worthy expression of sympathy.
“We’d been divorced for years,” Ida Belle continued, her performance only slightly below Proctor’s. “I’m getting on in years, so I decided, what the hell. You can’t take the money with you—might as well enjoy it, right, Gus?”
Gus smiled. I could almost see the dollar signs forming on his eyeballs. I thought he was going to take the bait right away, but he held back a little—he was smarter than I thought.
“I couldn’t agree more. What do you have in mind?” he asked.
Ida Belle leaned over a little and softened her voice, as if telling a secret, “Can I be frank with you, Gus?”
He leaned over toward Ida Belle, mirroring her move, “Please, by all means.”
“Well,” she said in a loud whisper, “What if I told you that I wanted the most beautiful private garden within a hundred miles,” she said. “I want my garden to be the envy of every woman in southern Louisiana—to hell with false modesty. Would you be able to handle a job like that?”
Gus smiled involuntarily, exposing a full set of brilliant white teeth, which stood out like a beacon against his sexy scruff and golden skin. “If I could be so bold as to toot my own horn, I would tell you that if this is truly your goal, I would be the one person in this county who could accomplish that for you.”
Ida Belle flashed him a wicked grin. “That’s certainly your reputation, Gus.”
“And that’s what she wanted to hear,” Gertie chimed in.
Ida Belle turned toward us, “You see, girls. I told you that we came to the right man.”
This was the right man, all right, I thought.
“Of course,” Gus added, “such a task would require resources,” he said. “The costs would be . . . uh . . . substantial.”
Ida Belle gave Proctor a wry smile and said, “Give me a ballpark. I won’t hold you to final figure. Approximately, how much would it take to replicate a garden like Emma’s in my back yard?”
Gus pulled a pen and scratch pad from his pocket and wrote a number on the top sheet. He ripped it off, folded it, and passed it to Ida Belle. Ida Belle took the paper and opened it, reading the number. She looked back at Gus and smiled.
“What if I told you that I could spend even more for the right garden? What if I gave you a blank check to turn my garden into one worthy of the front cover of Louisiana Homes and Gardens magazine?”
His smile broadened. He was mentally salivating, I could tell.
“That would be a challenge I would love to accept,” he said.
“Of course, as you will see, I am starting from . . . uh . . . humble beginnings,” she said.
“That’s understandable,” he said.
“Ida Belle,” I interjected. “Perhaps you could show Gus around your property.”
“That’s a great idea,” Ida Belle said. “Come on, Gus. We’ll give you a tour.”
“Perhaps I could do the tour later,” Gus suggested. “I should really be getting back now.”
“Oh, nonsense,” Ida Belle insisted. “I’ll keep you no more than ten minutes, tops, I promise. I really want to hear your initial thoughts.”
He paused, making me wonder if he would agree to stay or not. After a few seconds, he smiled broadly, “Sure. Let’s go.”
“I have a couple of calls to make,” I said. “I think I’ll just stay here and finish my tea.”
“That’s fine, Fortune,�
� Ida Belle rejoined. “Ready for the tour, Gus?”
“Certainly,” he said, standing.
Gertie checked her watch and gave me the thumbs-up sign, out of Gus’s line of sight.
The three of them started in the front, per the plan, but quickly moved around to the back. I noted the time on my phone, knowing that Ida Belle and Gertie intended to keep him occupied and out of sight for at least ten minutes.
Once they moved to the back yard, I walked outside to the gardener’s truck, noting the windows were rolled down and the doors unlocked. I read this as a clear indication that he was not worried in the least. On the door of the truck was Gus’s business logo, along with his phone number, website and email address, which I noted as: [email protected].
The door was unlocked; my first break. I slipped into the driver’s side. Papers and files were piled high on the passenger’s seat. He was indeed using his truck as a makeshift office, exactly as I suspected. The back seat was littered with gloves, work boots, a hat, a lunch box, a large metal thermos and various other items one might expect to see in gardener’s back seat.
Sitting on top of the center console was an appointment book. I opened it and saw his upcoming appointments listed.
All of his appointments were with women, which was not really surprising. Although I didn’t have any statistics to bear it out, I believed it was fair to assume that most of the interest in creative landscaping and gardening came from women, or from couples, rather than single men.
I used my phone to take snapshots of his appointment book, which included the names and telephone numbers of his clients. The back of the appointment book had a master directory. I took pictures of each page with my cell camera.
I glanced at the clock on my phone. I was close to running out of time. I placed the appointment book back where I found it and was just about ready to leave when I noticed the corner of a magazine peeking out from among the stacked paper in the passenger’s seat. I pulled it out.
The name of the magazine was Witchcraft and Wicca. It was published in England. I’d never heard of it. The cover featured a pasty white-skinned middle-aged woman, with long silky black hair parted down the middle. She was dressed fully in black with black lipstick, dark gray rouge and eye shadow. Her two-inch fingernails were painted bright black. She was standing in the woods, amidst dried branches on the ground, formed in the shape of a pentagram.
It was an older issue, dated July, 2014. On the left side was a listing of the articles inside the issue: Witchcraft in the Wild; Weaving Magic; Dark Meditation and, most interestingly, Poisonous Potions.
I looked back and saw Gus’s head peeking out just above the fence line. They were nearly done. My ten minutes were up. In the truck’s rearview mirror, I saw Ida Belle’s gate opening—they were coming right toward me. If I didn’t move in the next few seconds, I would be caught. I decided to go for broke. I flipped the magazine pages, looking for the article, “Poisonous Potions.” I found it and took a photo of the cover page as well as the following page, which contained the body of the article.
I sat the magazine back in its place. It was then I heard voices. In the mirror I could see they had stopped. Ida Belle must have seen me and slowed him because his back was now to me. Good girl, Ida Belle. She stopped and asked him a question, forcing him to turn toward her and away from me. I started to leave when I noticed a slip of paper hanging out of the sun visor on the driver’s side. I pulled it out and looked at it. It was a bank deposit slip for $6,112.35.
Gus’s and Ida Belle’s voices were louder now. They were only twenty yards away. I held the deposit slip out and snapped a picture of it and replaced the slip over the visor.
I scampered out of the truck, and closed the door as quietly as possible. Ida Belle, Gertie, and Gus were drawing closer. There was now no way I could avoid being noticed but, fortunately, I didn’t think Gus had seen me . . . just yet.
I had to do something quickly. He was going to see me any second and would wonder what I was doing near his truck.
I ducked low and moved around to the front of the truck, pretty certain I’d avoided detection. I stood up, knowing I would be visible within seconds. I put my cell phone to my ear and pretended to be having a conversation. I turned my back to them and leaned against the front of the truck. I could hear Gus talking to Ida Belle as he walked toward the truck.
“So, I think I have all the information I need for now,” I could hear him saying. “Why don’t you give me a couple of days to draw up a preliminary sketch for the proposal and come up with a rough estimate.”
“That sounds great,” I heard Ida Belle say.
“Let me get my business card out of the truck so you can have my cell phone number and email address,” Gus said. That’s when he saw me, standing in front of his truck. His brow furrowed as soon as he noticed me near his truck.
Knowing that he was wondered what I was doing, I began my little one-woman show. I yelled into the phone, “Five hundred dollars? That’s highway robbery. I won’t pay it,” I barked loudly into dead air. I paused as if listening to a reply.
“Oh, yeah, is that so?” I barked, “You can shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.”
I paused and formed my best shocked look, as if I were listening to a rude response.
“Is that a threat? Well, I’m not giving you a dime!” I bellowed. “No, no, no. You kiss my butt! Don’t call me again. Goodbye.”
I gave a yell of frustration to punctuate my dramatic performance. Where was Steven Spielberg when you really needed him?
“Ahhhhhh!” I yelled out. “That jerk.”
I looked toward Gus. He, Ida Belle and Gertie all had shocked looks on their faces. I decided no explanation at all was better than anything I could have made up, so I stomped past them and headed to the house.
“Mom says hi,” I snarked as I walked by.
Chapter Seventeen
“How did it go?” I asked the ladies, once Gus had left.
“Better than we could have imagined,” Gertie said. “Ida Belle had him eating out of her hand.”
“It’s true,” Ida Belle admitted. “It was fortunate that I saw you were still in the truck before he noticed you. It was all I could do to get him turned away from you.”
“Did he buy my little performance?” I asked.
“Hook, line and sinker,” Gertie replied. “After you stomped off he turned to us, smiled and said, ‘Remind me to never piss her off.’”
I chuckled.
“Brilliant job all the way around,” Ida Belle said. “In the end, I thought the man was going to drool all over my shoes.”
“What’s the next step?” I asked.
“He’s going to call me in a day or two with a price quote,” Ida Belle said.
“Remember our guiding principle?”
In order for me to agree to Ida Belle’s plan, I wanted to make sure she would never be alone with Gus. Although we had no evidence that Gus would ever get physical with one of his marks, I wanted to take no chances.
“I remember,” Ida Belle said. “Did you learn anything from Gus’s truck?”
“I learned a few interesting things, yes,” I said. “What time is it?”
“7:05 p.m.,” Gertie said.
“Oh, rats. I have to go. I’m late for my meeting with Eddie at my house.”
“Who’s Eddie?” Gertie asked.
I nodded, “It’s a long story. I’ll share everything with you later. Bye, ladies.”
Eddie was parked in my drive waiting on me when I got home. I was ten minutes late.
“Sorry, Eddie,” I apologized, “it’s been a crazy day.”
“That’s okay,” he said, trying to mask his disappointment. I was pretty sure he felt stood up.
I could see a Manila folder tucked under his arm. We went inside and I invited him to sit at my dining room table.
“Do you want something to drink?” I asked. “Beer? Tea?”
“Oh, I thought
we were having dinner?” he said.
Dammit. I’d forgotten I used my wily feminine charms to convince him to dig up information for me, and those charms included the promise of dinner.
“Right,” I said, pointing at him. “TV dinner okay? I have chicken or Salisbury steak.”
He looked surprised and disappointed.
“I . . . I guess so,” he said.
“I’ll tell you what,” I replied. “Let’s get through this information and I’ll take you out. How about that?”
“Okay, then,” he said, still looking a little downtrodden. It was the look of a man expecting a home-cooked meal and who knows what else afterward. The latter was never going to happen but the former was probably a reasonable expectation based on the tone of my invitation. I felt bad.
He opened the file, “I have a list of websites Gus Proctor accessed while using the library work station,” he said. “Most of them are benign.”
“Such as?”
“Lots of sites about landscaping design, the latest in plant combinations, cross-pollinating, those types of things.”
“Can I see the list?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said, handing it to me.
I glanced at the list. There were more than three dozen websites listed. It would take some time sifting through them.
“What’s this one?” I asked, pointing to one of the lines.
“That’s his online banking access,” he said. “It doesn’t show his password.”
“What’s GProctorThibLou?” I asked.
“His username,” Eddie replied. “The ten asterisks are there to hide his password.”
“I don’t recognize this bank,” I said.
“The server for that site was actually blocked,” he said. “Our server blocks all offshore based sites.”
“So, he was trying to access an offshore bank account?” I asked.
Eddie nodded, “Probably.”
“Can you tell where the location was?”
“The Cayman Islands, it looks like.”
“So even though he tried to, he was unable to access an offshore account through our server?”
“Correct.”
I smiled.
