The Garden Club Murder

by Amy Patricia Meade

  Sundays spent at her grandparents’ house were the days Tish loved best. Waking to the smell of coffee, Tish would get dressed, pad downstairs, and meet her grandfather in the kitchen, where they’d both enjoy a ‘cup of joe’ – his milk and no sugar, hers all milk and a tablespoon of sweetened brewed coffee. Upon drinking their respective beverages, grandfather and granddaughter would gather the week’s stale, leftover bread pieces into a paper bag, buckle themselves into the cream-colored 1978 Buick LeSabre sedan parked in front of the house, and drive to the local duck pond. Once the bread was gone and the avian population of the pond was carb-filled and content, Tish and her grandfather would then travel to their favorite bakery for rolls and pastries for breakfast.

  Post-breakfast meant the dull routine of church, followed by Sunday lunch. Years later, after her grandfather had passed away, Tish’s grandmother, her faith in God and will to live eroded, would do away with church entirely. But Sunday lunch, invariably in the form of a stringy old roasting hen and overcooked vegetables, always prevailed.

  Then, when the lunch dishes had been washed and put away, came the highlight of the weekend – the Sunday drive. For Tish’s grandfather, who had been raised in a cold-water flat in New York City during the Great Depression, the Sunday drive was an opportunity to show the world that the grimy kid from the Bowery had achieved the American dream. For Tish’s grandmother, who for the rest of the week stayed home and tended to household chores and yard work, the Sunday drive was a chance to switch her housecoat for a colorful dress, apply a few pats of Emeraude dusting powder, and swipe on her favorite shell-pink Zadie lipstick.

  For Tish, those halcyon afternoons were the only part of the week when her nuclear family and her extended family combined. There, in the giant backseat of the LeSabre, she’d start sing-alongs, enjoy the scenery outside the open windows, play ‘I Spy,’ and laugh.

  A car drove past, snapping Tish back into the present day. She had lost so much since those untroubled, sun-dappled days. A grandfather. A grandmother. A mother. A marriage. A home.

  Tish blinked back her tears and drew a deep breath. There was no use in dwelling on the past. It was the present and future that mattered, and Tish’s future looked very bright, indeed, unless she failed to meet the Coleton Creek Garden Club’s expectations.

  And there was a growing chance she might. There were still chickens to poach and shred, sandwich fillings to prepare, and several hot beverage dispensers to wash and sterilize. The workload awaiting Tish bordered on daunting, yet Sloane Shackleford’s murder was making it increasingly difficult to concentrate on catering, recipes, and mundane kitchen tasks.

  Was someone at Coleton Creek responsible for Shackleford’s death? As Tish learned of motive after motive on the part of Coleton Creek’s residents, it seemed exceedingly likely. She recalled Susannah Hilton’s account of Shackleford’s harassment and both Pepper Aviero’s and Callie Collingsworth’s final, vulgar assessment of the man as a bastard. Had Shackleford been taken down by a vengeful woman? Or maybe even two? The scenario Zadie Morris suggested was not outside the realm of possibility.

  Or had Shackleford met his fate at the hands of one of the gardeners from whom he had snatched victory? Both Orson Baggett and Wren Harper seemed confident that Shackleford’s presence was the only thing standing between them and the trophy for best garden.

  And then there was the suspicious screaming match between Shackleford and the Knoblochs. Why did Shackleford bring a bag of construction materials to the meeting? Did he know something scandalous about the Knoblochs? And what, if anything, did the Knoblochs know about Shackleford?

  Tish closed her eyes in an effort to clear her mind. Such questions only served to divert her from her true purpose. She needed to focus on the luncheon, get through the weekend, and then get back to the café, she determined as her pace quickened and her fists clenched. As Zadie Morris would agree, Tish’s livelihood depended upon it.

  Having decided to ignore the murder case for the rest of the afternoon, it was with great apprehension that Tish encountered Violet Abercrombie pacing in the lifestyle-center parking lot.

  She was wearing a bright magenta cotton-knit sheath-cut dress with a floral-printed hem and a coordinating bolero jacket for modesty. On her feet, Violet Abercrombie chose a pair of comfortable canvas sandals in the same shade of pale pink as the flower she had tucked into the tightly fastened blond bun at the back of her neck. ‘Ms Tarragon,’ she greeted, her voice anxious and her face pinched with worry.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Abercrombie.’ Tish continued walking toward the lifestyle center in hopes the older woman might take the hint. ‘Is garden judging over?’

  ‘Not hardly. The judges are at our place right now, but I can’t watch. I’ve never been able to bear the suspense, so I let Tucker show them around. I have too much invested in those little blooms to listen to any criticism of them.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ Tish sympathized before speeding the conversation to its conclusion. ‘Well, good luck in the competition. I’ll see you at the luncheon tomorrow.’

  ‘Ms Tarragon, please.’ Violet Abercrombie sounded panicked. ‘I need to talk to you.’

  Tish pulled a face and stopped walking. She wanted desperately to get back into the kitchen, but she couldn’t turn Violet Abercrombie away without feeling as though she was completely heartless. ‘What about?’

  ‘Sloane Shackleford’s murder, of course.’

  ‘Sure, but for the record, I’m not on the case, Mrs Abercrombie.’

  ‘But you were seen talking to the police at Sloane Shackleford’s house just a short while ago,’ Mrs Abercrombie argued.

  Tish was stunned by how quickly the news of her meeting with Sheriff Reade had traveled. ‘Yes, I did, but that was just to—’ She stopped mid-sentence. She couldn’t stomach the thought of telling another lie. ‘OK, what is it?’

  Violet Abercrombie glanced over each shoulder. ‘I’d rather not speak about it out in the open.’

  Tish nodded. ‘Go into the courtyard. It’s set up for tomorrow’s luncheon so it’s closed to through traffic. I have to put some chickens on to cook. I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.’

  With a nod of her head, Violet Abercrombie followed Tish into the lifestyle center and proceeded to the courtyard.

  After apprising Schuyler and Jules of her meeting with Violet and assigning them their next tasks, Tish placed her chickens into the poaching liquid and set the alarm on her phone for the anticipated cooking time. With things humming along in the kitchen, she dashed to the courtyard where she found a nervous Violet Abercrombie pacing between banquet tables.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, but I’m a bit under the gun, what with tomorrow’s festivities,’ a breathless Tish explained.

  ‘I’ll try not to keep you very long, Ms Tarragon. Jim Ainsley told me about the wonderful job you did solving that murder in Hobson Glen a few weeks back.’

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Ainsley may have overstated my importance in the case.’ Tish pulled a chair away from the table closest to the buffet and took a seat.

  Violet Abercrombie took the chair beside Tish. ‘Regardless of what you did and didn’t do to find the murderer, I come to you seeking help.’

  ‘OK. I’m not sure what I can do, but tell me about your problem.’

  Violet leaned forward in her chair and stared, unblinkingly, into Tish’s eyes. ‘I want you to know that Tucker, Jim Ainsley, and I are innocent of having murdered Sloane Shackleford.’

  Tish leaned back in her chair, eager for some – any – breathing space away from the intensity of Mrs Abercrombie’s gaze. ‘Um, OK. Why do I need to know that?’

  ‘Just in case you may have heard otherwise.’

  Ah, so Violet Abercrombie is using me to get an inside track on the police investigation. ‘Why would the three of you be on the suspect list in the first place?’ Tish shrugged.

  ‘Because eight years ago I was diagnosed with stage-two breast cancer.’

/>   ‘I’m so sorry. Are you OK now?’

  ‘Yes.’ The intensity in Violet’s eyes slackened. ‘I’m officially out of the woods, but I still need to remain vigilant. Which I do. Which I’ve always done. Which ultimately led to Tucker and me losing everything we own.’

  ‘Once again, I don’t understand.’

  ‘When I received my breast cancer diagnosis, I was terrified. Then the doctors explained that, with proper treatment, there was a better than fifty-fifty chance that I would live to see the next five years and beyond. I was still terrified, but I was optimistic and determined to be one of the survivors. Tucker and I readied ourselves for a fight and we got one. But two months into it, we were quite heartened when we heard that the radiation and chemotherapy I was receiving appeared to be working. We were cautious, but relieved. Until we received the bill.’ Violet’s eyes flashed in anger. ‘Because I had a benign cyst removed from my breast the year prior, the insurance company categorized my cancer as a pre-existing condition and refused to pay for treatment. Tucker and I visited the patient advocate at the hospital and told her our story. She put us in touch with some outside resources, but none of them could cover the nearly three hundred thousand dollars in debts we had accrued. We filed an appeal against the insurance company, but they held to their decision. Tucker and I had put both our son and daughter through college, so we didn’t have much in the way of savings. We wound up selling just about everything we owned and foreclosed on our home just to get out from under our financial burden.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Abercrombie. No one should have the experience you did, least of all when they’re trying to get well,’ Tish sympathized. ‘But what does this have to do with the murder case?’

  ‘The insurance company that stripped Tucker and me of our savings and home was owned by Sloane Shackleford,’ Violet stated, her voice trembling.

  ‘Wow!’ Tish pondered the odds that would bring the Abercrombies and Shackleford together in the same neighborhood. ‘Did you know he lived here?’

  ‘When Tucker and I first arrived, he didn’t. Coleton Creek was supposed to be a community of affordable townhouses and small, two-bedroom homes. When the developers got greedy, they decided to switch gears – that’s why the rest of the neighborhood contains larger, higher-end homes with porches, bigger yards, and special finishes in the kitchen and bathrooms. Some of those, like Sloane Shackleford’s and Callie Collingsworth’s, are custom builds.’

  That Mrs Collingsworth had sufficient funds to afford a custom-built home didn’t come as a surprise to Tish. ‘It must have been a shock to see Shackleford here.’

  ‘We had no idea he was moving in until he was actually here. Even then, we only learned he was in the neighborhood when we saw a note posted in the homeowners’ association newsletter welcoming Coleton Creek’s new residents, and there was his name in big, bold letters. Although we wished otherwise, what are the odds of there being two Sloane Shacklefords living in central Virginia?’

  ‘Given all I’ve learned about the man, let’s hope very slim.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ Violet Abercrombie seconded. ‘When we finally came face to face with him, our fears were confirmed. Back when my treatment claim had been denied, we had seen Sloane Shackleford’s photo on his company website. The man we met was older, grayer, and a bit heavier, but it was definitely the same person. Poor Tucker. For months, his stomach was a nervous mess.’

  ‘Did you consider moving out of Coleton Creek?’

  ‘We can’t afford to move. We’re lucky to be living where we are now. And even though Tucker finally retired, he’s still doing some consulting work – as much as allowed – while we live off our social security checks. No, our only choice in dealing with Shackleford was to stay where we were and try to limit our interaction with him. It worked for a time, until he decided to join – or should I say conquer? – the garden club.’

  ‘That must have been quite difficult,’ Tish commiserated.

  ‘We’ve spent the past couple of years avoiding garden club meetings, holiday parties, and community barbecues for fear of running into the man. Sometimes it feels as if we’re hostages in our own home,’ Violet Abercrombie cried.

  Tish fell silent. If Violet Abercrombie was trying to exculpate herself and Tucker of any wrongdoing, she was failing miserably. ‘So how does Jim Ainsley fit into all this?’

  Violet turned her gaze from Tish to one of the boxwood topiaries that lined the table. ‘Jim’s a good friend,’ she replied in a wooden tone.

  ‘That doesn’t quite explain why you think the police would suspect him of murdering Sloane Shackleford. If I were your friend, I’d be angry Shackleford caused you to lose your home and life savings, but I’d be talking the two of you out of seeking revenge. I wouldn’t be committing murder on your behalf.’

  Violet Abercrombie picked some invisible flecks of dust from the tablecloth and drew in her breath. ‘Since I’m in this deep, I suppose I might as well tell you everything. Jim Ainsley and my husband have been friends since they were in grade school. They’ve always been more like brothers than best friends. Jim was the best man at our wedding and is godfather to our son, Finn. He’s shared family holidays with us, sat at the head table with us at our daughter’s wedding. He’s always been there – for all of us.’

  The tone of Violet’s voice and her last-minute clarification – for all of us – was a clear sign to Tish that Jim Ainsley had likely been supportive to one member of the family above the rest. ‘It’s lovely that your husband and Mr Ainsley have such a close relationship. And I must compliment you for being so supportive of their friendship all these years. Many a spouse might have been jealous of all the time they spent together.’

  ‘Truth is, there wasn’t much to be jealous of, Ms Tarragon. In the early days of our marriage, Jim Ainsley probably spent more time with me and the kids than he did with Tucker.

  ‘The company Tucker’s worked for since the kids were young – the company from which he just retired – has clients all over the country,’ Violet explained. ‘These days, product information, specs, and product demonstration videos can be sent via email, but back then, when Tucker first started working for them, everything needed to be done by mail or in person, which meant Tucker spent half of his year traveling. Tucker hated leaving me alone with the kids, but it had to be done. I was working part-time as a kindergarten teacher and our children were small. Understanding that I was run ragged with laundry, grocery shopping, and jockeying my daughter, Lucy, to nursery school and my son, Finn, to elementary school and baseball practice, Tucker asked Jim to check in on me.’

  Violet smiled. ‘Having Jim around was a godsend. He’d come by with groceries or take-out meals. He’d toss the ball around with Finn and color and draw with Lucy. Thanks to him, I was able to get out and have my hair done or have lunch with a girlfriend on a Saturday afternoon.’

  ‘How very kind of him to help out,’ Tish remarked.

  ‘Yes, Jim is and always has been a gentleman of the first order. Which is what made what happened next so very difficult for both of us.’

  Tish raised an eyebrow as a prompt for Violet to continue.

  ‘We’d gone on for about three years with Tucker traveling and Jim coming over to help with the kids. At that point, Jim would stay for dinner some nights and help me get the kids changed and ready for bed, then we’d watch television together. One night, Tucker called to say he was returning home early. You’d have thought I’d be excited to have my husband back home, but I wasn’t. I felt disappointed. Like I was being cheated out of my time with Jim. When I told Jim, he confessed that he felt the same way. Never – and I mean never – had we kissed or touched each other inappropriately or even entertained the notion of pursuing a romantic relationship, but we had created a scenario where Jim was a surrogate husband. A surrogate husband who provided the things Tucker didn’t.

  ‘I went to bed that night and wondered how we might remedy the situation, but there was only one c
lear answer. I loved Tucker. I’d always loved Tucker. I always will. He was the father of my children and I needed to focus my energies on building our marriage. The next morning, I called Jim and told him he wasn’t to come around the house when Tucker wasn’t at home. I told him that he needed to go out and find a wife of his own with whom he could start a family.’

  ‘Did he listen to you?’

  ‘He did. He told Tucker that his work schedule – Jim was a police detective – was going to change and that he’d be working more night shifts. Jim also went out on a few dates and was engaged to be married for a time, but his fiancée eventually broke off the engagement. She said that Jim was emotionally distant. That his mind and heart were elsewhere.’

  ‘With you and your family?’

  A single tear trickled down Violet’s finely etched countenance. ‘Yes. Heaven knows my thoughts were with him on those lonely nights when Tucker was away, the kids had gone to bed, and I was by myself in front of the television, telling the dog about the highs and lows of my day. But I never broke down and called Jim. I knew if I did, it would put my marriage in jeopardy.’

  ‘So, how did you wind up living next door to each other?’ Tish inquired. ‘That’s obviously not in keeping with your need to keep your distance.’

  ‘When I was diagnosed with cancer, Jim was there to help Tucker pick up the pieces. The treatment required overnight hospital stays, and even when I wasn’t in the hospital, I wasn’t able to do much. I was tired, sick, and thin. The children had lives of their own already. They’d visit me when they could, but running the house and taking care of bills became Tucker’s responsibility. Just as he did for me, Jim would stop by the house with groceries and help with laundry. He’d also visit me in the hospital and watch over me at home so that Tucker could have an evening or afternoon off to play a round of golf or go fishing. When Tucker and I were forced to foreclose on our home, Jim was already living here at Coleton Creek and was searching for a tenant to rent the townhouse. He slashed the rent so that we could live here.’