by CeeCee James
Maybe I could just get a little closer and see who the driver was.
I parked my car and, after glancing both ways to see if anyone was watching, climbed out. Feeling about as stealthy as Velma, I tiptoed over to the very healthy and very green hedges. Cautiously, I parted two prickly branches to peek through to the house.
The house was cute and quiet. But no one was in sight.
I was considering my next move when I felt a tickle on my head. Annoyed, I swatted at it. I swear it moved down my neck.
Now I’m a squirrelly kind of gal when it comes to bugs. You get me around a spider, and I’m more dangerous than any ninja. The problem is that I’ve freaked out too many times over nothing, so I knew exactly how my imagination worked. It even happened at the surprise party when I had sweat trickling while hiding behind the couch. My brain starts exaggerating little tickle sensations—see, there it goes again, it feels like it’s down my shirt. Right now, I was on a serious stake-out. I definitely couldn’t afford to let my imagination run away from me this time.
Besides, this was getting ridiculous. My brain was imagining that it had gone down my pants. And everyone knows that bugs do not crawl down pants.
I stood there, feeling the tickle argue back with my logic. Finally, I gave in and hurried back to my car. I was going to look like an idiot in the please-don’t-let-there-be-a cop-drive-by-and-arrest-me-for-indecent exposure kind of way, but I had to check. I climbed into the back seat where at least there were tinted windows and lowered my pants.
A big, fat beetle waved one crawfish leg at me. I screamed so loudly, I’m positive the windows rattled.
“Ew! Ew! Ew!” But how to get rid of him? I couldn’t very well flick him free in my car, and I couldn’t open the door until my pants were in their proper place.
First things first. I grabbed a napkin and whisked him onto the floor and then shimmied back into my pants, mentally cursing myself for ever second-guessing a creepy crawly feeling.
Then I carefully lay down the napkin and hoped the beetle will crawl on it.
He was not having it. Not after being swept away from his warm home so rudely. No, his beetly little brain seemed to decide that he was going to strike out on his own. He started to lurch under the driver’s seat.
“Oh, no you don’t,” I said, thwarting his march with an old fast food bag. I heard whistling up ahead and glanced up.
Coming around the hedge towards the black truck was the guy in the suit that I’d seen at the funeral. The one who had chased me down when I was carrying the garbage.
My jaw dropped open as I stared.
Today, he was dressed more casually, but still wore a sports jacket. He opened the truck door and stepped up onto the silver running board. Then, for some reason, he paused and glanced back in my direction. Nightmare of all nightmares! I ducked, hoping I wasn’t noticeable in the back seat.
I froze, waiting for the sound of the truck door closing, my breath hot against my knees. The beetle waved a leg at me from the floor as if warding me off from getting too close.
What was he doing here? Why at the Valentines’ house?
The whistling stopped. Now my heart speeded up. What was he doing? Was he coming closer? Did he recognize the vehicle? I hyperventilated, afraid to move, held hostage by a bug.
Finally, the truck door slammed. I heard the engine turn over and then the gravely sound of tires grabbing the road. I chanced a peek just in time to see him speed away.
I sat up and watched him disappear around the corner, my mouth feeling as dry as an abandoned corn husk. I realized I was going to have to risk Ms. Valentine calling the cops because I had to know who he was. And the only way to find out was to go ring their doorbell.
But first, it was time to say goodbye to my little friend. Between the bag and the napkin, I managed to scoot him onto the paper and then shake him outside on the sidewalk.
“Sorry, buddy,” I whispered as he waddled rather indignantly into the grass.
Feeling like a hot mess, I smoothed back my hair and took a deep breath. I’ve got this. Shoulders back, I walked up the driveway of the cute, Bavarian-inspired cottage.
It was easy to see the ladies’ attraction to this home, with its old charm construction, sweeping overhead trees, and fragrant rose hedges.
At the porch steps, I took a few more breaths, like I was the quarterback about to run the football through a defensive line. Then I marched up the stairs and knocked on the front door.
There was a patter of footsteps, a clatter of a lock being turned, and then it swung open to reveal Charity. I caught a glimpse in the window of my face set in a grim, determined line and reminded myself to smile.
“Why, Stella! You found us!” The tiny woman clapped her hands. She’d always been eager to have a reason to celebrate.
Thumps echoing through the dark interior heralded the approach of her tall sister. Soon, Ms. Valentine was at the door. She didn’t say anything, just arched a brow suspiciously at me.
“Look, Sister, it’s Stella!”
“I see that,” she sniffed. “What can we do for you? Do you want to try and get another Valentine arrested?”
Oh, boy. This was not going well, and every sense in my body was telling me to get off that porch and fast. Instead, I pushed through.
It was at that startling moment that I realized I needed to come up with an explanation of why I was standing there, like a student peddling cookies for summer camp. My brained whirred, flashing different lies in my head, each one I promptly rejected. A lost puppy— no. Car broken down—no. Lost—good grief, Stella. No.
Finally, a suitable one popped up. “I was driving through when I noticed that gentlemen leave in a black truck. I used to know someone who had a truck like that and wondered if it could be him. I happened to see he left this house, and much to my surprise, it’s you guys.”
“Guys? We’re not guys,” Ms. Valentine dragged out the last word, staring down her nose.
“Ladies,” I apologetically amended.
“Oh, that was Jeffry,” Charity offered, oblivious to the nudge her sister gave her. “He’s our gardener.”
That was the gardener? The shock must have shown on my face because Charity continued. “Jeffry owns the business. He does all of our yards. He dropped by to say that he was retiring soon, and would be hiring someone to take over our place.” She sighed and batted her eyes. “I’m going to miss him.”
“What about your boyfriend at the nursing home?” Ms. Valentine asked, dryly. “Love is fickle, as they say.”
“I can look, just not touch,” Charity pouted. “Anyway, I hope he finds someone who will take care of our lovely Sunsprites and Lincolns as well as he does. He does have such an eye for roses. Since we hired him, he’s really had a vision of bringing this garden back to life. He’s even saved some heritage roses I haven’t seen since my childhood!”
“Fancy they’re still around, Charity. You would have thought they’d died out with the dinosaurs.”
“Oh, pooh,” Charity said. “You’re older than me, you know.”
Ms. Valentine said nothing but rolled those pale eyes. I smiled, loving the more relaxed nature of their relationship now that the burden of the old Valentine manor no longer rested on their shoulders.
“How did you find him?” I asked. “Your gardener.”
“He came highly recommended. The whole neighborhood uses him. He’s famous for using natural things to fight fungus, mildew, and bugs. It’s quite amazing.”
“We’re all green around here,” Ms. Valentine commented, slightly ironic.
“Really? Like what?” Charity’s zeal was reminding me of something. I struggled to remember it.
“Oh, different things. Once it was soap bubbles. Beautiful smelling, it was.”
I thanked the sisters for their time and then headed back to my car. As I passed the hedge, I couldn’t help whispering goodbye to the black beetle, wherever he was.
Back in the car, I pulled out
my phone. It was time to figure out who Jeffry was.
22
It’s a funny thing. It seems you can’t type in “Jeffry the gardener” and expect any serious links on a search engine. I clicked on a few—and click out just as fast on one that made my jaw drop—before I realized that wasn’t going to work.
All right. I’ll bite the bullet and put a call in to Officer Carlson. Of course, he wasn’t there. I asked to be patched into his voicemail.
His request to leave a message was as dry and grumpy as I imagined it would be. Finally, it beeped, and I said, “Officer Carlson, I found out that the jewelry is a piece of a roller ball for an oil vial. It’s probably from Heritage Dispensary. I’ll check later and let you know. And I forgot to tell you, but I had a weird thing happen with a truck that I thought was following me. Well, guess who owns the truck? The guy that had that note at the funeral. Well, I’ll talk to you later so….”
I hung up. Most awkward goodbye ever.
Shaking my head at my suaveness, I searched up the address for Heritage Dispensary and started the car. Carefully, I turned around in the Valentines’ drive and backed out onto the road, then started back to town. So Jeffry, huh. He was the gardener that spread the rumors about the Stubers. What was this all about?
I was still deep in thought when a white Hummer flew out of a driveway. I screamed and slammed on the brakes. The car narrowly avoided t-boning me and, without slowing down, sharply turned onto the road.
I gasped for air, trembling like ice-water flooded my veins as the Hummer sped away. What had just happened? I turned to look. The vehicle had come from the Stubers’ house. I tried to swallow, realizing Jasmine almost killed me.
I was trembling too much to drive. I had to calm down. I pulled into the Stubers’ driveway, sending up a few thanks for still being safe and sound.
It was ironic, sitting in Jasmine’s driveway after nearly being run over by her. I took a few cleansing breaths and stared down the driveway. This house was the start of it all. Something Ian wanted to get away from, and a place where Jasmine wanted to start a family.
But how much did she really want to start a family when she suggested that he leave without her? That doesn’t make it sound like a very happy home. I studied the meticulous landscaping, the arched doorway and the enormous window perfect for displaying a Christmas tree. This house looked like it should be full of love. Instead, it was full of … what? And yet, Ian’s death made Jasmine happy because now she was able to stay. Marla Springfield’s words rang in my head. Some places aren’t right. Home strange home.
As I was sitting there, the front door opened. I straightened in the seat. A feather could have knocked me over when I saw Jasmine step out onto the porch. She stared in my direction, her eyes squinting to see. Her brow lifted and she smiled, waving a hand.
“Stella! What are you doing here?”
If words were Scrabble pieces, I was left with a box of vowels with no consonants. I was so gobsmacked, all I could think of were sounds of, “Ahhh, eeeeh, uhhh.”
She continued down the pathway, and I saw she was in her slippers. I hurried to get out. There was a moment of panic when I couldn’t unfasten my seatbelt—it had locked when I slammed on my brakes— which added even further to my conundrum.
“H-hi, Jasmine,” I said when I was finally free and standing outside the car.
“Was there something I forgot to sign?” She smiled pleasantly up at me.
“Uh, no.” I rubbed the back of my neck, not sure if I should tell her that one of her guests nearly ran me over like a Mac truck. Her eyebrows lifted questioningly, and I realized I wasn’t in the frame of mind to form an acceptable excuse. I was forced to tell the truth.
“Who drives the Hummer? Because they flew out of here like a bullet and nearly took me out. I actually pulled in here to try and calm myself down.” I held out my hand, which was still trembling from the final effects of the adrenaline burst.
“Oh, my gosh! Are you okay?”
I reassured her I was.
“That was Celeste,” Jasmine answered. “She’s always been a crazy driver. Come in. Let me get you something to calm you down.”
I followed her inside, not at all certain about what she was going to offer me. It turned out to be a glass of water. “I’m sorry, I don’t have anything else. I’m even out of coffee!”
I sipped the water. “How about you, Jasmine. How are you doing? I know yesterday must have been rough.”
“I’m doing okay, actually. Your uncle did an amazing job at the memorial. And Celeste is staying here to keep an eye on me. She normally travels a bit, but she dropped everything to make sure I was okay. I’ll get through this.” She smiled then. It was a tough smile, and for a moment, I caught a glint of a waitress who had the fortitude to fight off her manager.
“I’m glad Celeste is able to stay with you.”
“She’s amazing. She’d do anything for me.” Jasmine glanced around her house. “You know, this was my dream house. As horrible as everything is, I’m glad I get to stay here.”
Her comment weirded me out a bit. Still, I knew grief affects people in strange ways. “It’s probably a comfort to be at home at a time like this.”
“It is. This place is my life. I never wanted to move. That was all Ian. Still, I would have. Kicking and screaming, I would have. He’s done a lot for me, so I owed him. It’s amazing how sometimes situations feel like a prison sentence.”
I caught on to something there. Now, my intuition normally was about fifty-fifty. But this was so obvious no one could miss it.
Something had been very wrong in their marriage. It was too much to piece together, and to be in this house, where he died—where he was murdered—it felt too icky to try and sort through.
“Well, just take it easy on yourself while you figure things out. It’s a strange time,” I said.
She held up her water glass as though it had wine. “Cheers to that.”
I left her house a few minutes later, buckled myself in, and headed back to my second goal on my agenda. The Heritage Dispensary.
On my way there, I thought about the conversation the Clarks had said that they’d overheard. It was then that Jasmine had first mentioned serving a life-sentence. She’d also mentioned she thought she was pregnant. And Ian had denied it, saying he’d had a vasectomy.
I narrowed my eyes. If she’d meant that marriage was a life sentence, then it had dissolved pretty quick with an actual end of a life.
And how was the gardener involved? Jeffry. The Valentine’s said that he gardened for the Stubers as well. That he was there a lot. Charity said everyone loved him. He didn’t seem all that lovable when I met him.
Still puzzling over all of this, I drove through town in search of the address I’d found.
A few moments later, I located it. Sunday was a quiet day in town so parking was plentiful. I parked the car and walked over.
Immediately, disappointment hit me. The lights in the business were off and, as I walked closer, I saw a closed sign in the window. I sighed and started to turn back to the car when it occurred to me the sign was swinging. Just a tiny bit, but it made me hopeful that maybe the person was still in there.
I knocked on the door and then peered in the window. There was no one visible. I was about to give up when something prompted me to try the door handle.
It clicked under my hand, and the door swung open.
“Hello?” I called.
No answer.
There was music going.
“Anyone here?” I asked again.
The place inside was set up almost like a book store, and the scents… wow. Although it was dark inside, I smiled to see a shelf filled with books up on the support beam overhead. There was a sign that said, “Books for tall people.”
That was refreshing. It was nice to see a place that was professional but still maintained its sense of humor.
That was it… that’s what struck me about how Charity was describi
ng the gardener’s natural alternatives, her voice was filled with devoted zeal.
I heard a small crash like someone had dropped a book onto a table. “Is someone here?”
It was then that I saw it. A foot. Someone was lying down behind the counter. “Are you okay?” I yelled, running over.
What I found made me cover my mouth in horror. There was a woman on the floor. She stared up with frightened eyes, tape over her mouth and her hands tied. She shook her head, her words muffled behind the tape. I leaned over and tried to ease a corner off.
“I’m here to help. I’m calling the police right now.”
“Run,” she whispered.
At that moment, the front door slammed behind me.
23
My head jerked up at the sound as I held my breath to listen. The dark room only had a bit of light filtering in around the crowded displays in the windows. Below me, the woman’s eyes were wide, and she started to struggle. I waved my hand to try and silence her muffled cries.
Could it have been a draft that caused the door to shut? I didn’t hear anything more, but I was too scared to peek over the top of the counter. I tipped my ear.
Nothing.
And then a tap. Tap. Tap. Silence again.
The music played loudly. I mentally cursed at the person who had left it on. I couldn’t hear anything more.
I scurried to the end of the counter. Cautiously, I peeked around the corner, searching for feet. Specifically, high heels.
That was the clinking noise I’d heard, I was sure. The tap of a heel on the floor, its sound only made by a very thin stiletto.
There was nobody there.
I eyed the front door which seemed a galaxy away. I needed to get over there, but how? Was it safe? Had she left?
Slowly, I eased my way back past the poor woman on the floor. With my hands, I indicated that I was going to call for help. I crept down the length of the counter and peeked around the other end.
