‘Cool. I’ll put some sage and butternut squash risotto on the menu this coming week. That will help me gauge how many I’ll need.’
‘Sounds delicious. I’ll have to give it a try.’
‘I’ll save you a portion – on the house. I’ll give you a call when it’s ready.’
‘Really? That would be amazing.’
‘Of course. There wouldn’t be risotto on the menu if you hadn’t brought me the squash.’
‘Thanks.’ Opal hopped back on her bike. ‘Now if only this heat would break so you can make some butternut squash soup. Ninety degrees in September when it’s typically only eighty? Mother Nature must be off her meds.’
‘I know, even the leaves on my plants are turning yellow.’ Tish gestured to the robust pink-and-white blooms that grew in a round concrete planter just outside the door of the café.
‘Funny you should mention that. I noticed them yesterday while chatting with Celestine over a chai soy latte, so I came out here and gave them a little check. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all. You have a far greener thumb than I do.’
‘The soil felt adequately moist and they appear to be getting the proper amount of sunlight, so I was at something of a loss until it hit me. I think they’re suffering from lime poisoning.’
‘Lime poisoning?’
‘Those are Mona Lisa lilies, cousins to the larger and more deeply colored Stargazers you find in wedding bouquets and flower arrangements. All lilies need acidic soil to thrive, but the concrete in that planter is highly alkaline. As the concrete is exposed to water and the elements, the calcium carbonate, or lime, in the concrete seeps into the roots of the plants. I had something similar happen to a rhododendron of mine after I replaced a brick walkway with concrete. I dug up the rhododendron, moved it to another spot in the garden and the yellow leaves disappeared.’
‘Hmm, so if I transplant those lilies to a different container, they should improve?’
‘They’ll be right as rain.’
‘I’ll look for a new planter and move them over this week.’
‘Let me know if you need a hand. Until then, I’ll let you lovers get back to it. Have a good night and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’ She punctuated the statement with a throaty laugh before disappearing into the enfolding darkness.
‘Are we finally alone?’ Schuyler half joked.
‘I don’t know. What’s the population of Hobson Glen? Because I’m pretty sure there’s still some folks out there we haven’t seen.’
Schuyler took a sip of wine and placed his hand on Tish’s knee. ‘I hope you don’t think this premature, or that I’m pressuring you in any way, but would you like to, um, maybe go to my place? It’s quieter there.’
‘It’s not premature and you’re not pressuring me at all.’ Tish placed her hand on top of his. ‘It’s been wonderful, and if this were any other evening, I’d say yes. But, in addition to having to load my car for a bright and early start tomorrow, I’m not certain Mary Jo and her family are quite ready to be left alone just yet.’
‘I can help you load your car, but you’re probably right about Mary Jo and the kids. What with the Coleton Creek luncheon, you haven’t been able to spend as much time with them as you should. And I, following the same logic, should probably save my energy for basketball with Gregory in the morning. A forty-one-year-old challenging a seventeen-year-old to a game of one-on-one. What was I thinking?’
‘You weren’t. You were using your heart, not your brain.’
‘Yeah, and now my body is about to pay the price.’ Schuyler slumped back in his seat as if the game in question had already taken place. ‘Agghhhhh.’
‘On second thought, maybe I should stay at your place tonight. It might be our last chance for a while. You could be in traction until Christmas,’ she teased.
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence. Although you may have a point …’ He snapped back to life and moved in for a kiss.
Tish happily obliged him with one and then put on the brakes. ‘We’d better stop.’
Schuyler nodded. ‘When the luncheon is over and Mary Jo and the kids are in a better place, we’ll make a night of it. Dinner at the Roosevelt and maybe a cruise along the James?’
‘It’s a date.’ She snuggled close to him and put her head on his shoulder, and the pair watched as the sun disappeared below the horizon before bidding each other farewell.
FIFTEEN
Tish waved and watched as Schuyler pulled his BMW out of the café parking lot and turned left on to the main road toward the center of town. When he was out of view, she turned on one heel and went back into the café kitchen where she collected the random pieces of equipment needed for the luncheon and then packed them in the trunk of her car.
With that task complete, she locked the car and went back inside. It was just going on ten o’clock.
Knowing that Gregory and Anthony would probably take full advantage of their final thirty minutes, Tish left the lights on in the café but latched the screen door and made her way upstairs to brush her teeth and change into her pajamas. If the boys did return early, Tish reasoned, they could either bang on the door or dial her cell phone.
On her way to the back staircase, Tish stopped at the thermostat and switched the café air conditioning to off and, figuring in the heat given off by six human bodies and one canine body in repose, lowered the apartment temperature to sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit before continuing upstairs.
In the darkened living room, Tish could see that the sofa mattress had been pulled from its hiding place and made into a bed, replete with sheets, pillows, and blanket. She smiled as she recalled her college days with Mary Jo. How many times had MJ, already engaged to marry Glen, turned down Tish’s bed and waited for her to arrive home safely after what was deemed to be a sketchy date?
No matter how disastrous the evening, Tish always knew MJ was waiting with a listening ear and either a pint of Häagen-Dazs chocolate ice cream or a bar of pepper jack cheese and crackers to hear her tale of woe. Very often Jules would hop into the game as well and the three of them would wind up laughing until dawn.
Funny how life works out, Tish reflected. Back then Glen was a catch – the guy who’d always be honest and true.
Today, he’d run off with his new girlfriend and refused to meet his children for dinner.
Tish breathed a heavy sigh and turned around to see a light glowing from beneath the door to the spare bedroom, accompanied by the sound of a man singing along with a full orchestra. She approached and gave the door a gentle tap, but there was no reply. Swinging the door slowly inward, she spied Mary Jo lying in the center of the bed, flanked on either side by Charlotte and Kayla. All three were dressed in their pajamas and fast asleep.
Biscuit, curled into a ball, rested atop the unused sleeping bag on the floor beside the bed. As Tish leaned down and stopped the movie playing on Mary Jo’s laptop, the dog woke up and approached her, wagging his tail. Fearful that the sound of Biscuit’s jingling tags might wake someone – and even more fearful that, if left in the room, Biscuit might have an accident on either the bed or the sleeping bag – Tish picked up the dog with one hand and the laptop with the other and deposited both in the living room before turning off the bedroom light and quietly shutting the door behind her.
Switching on the living-room lamp, she looked at Biscuit. ‘Well, looks like it’s just you and me.’
Biscuit looked up with a yawn.
‘You might at least pretend to be excited,’ she quipped before wandering off to the bedroom. Biscuit, tail still wagging, followed close behind. Under normal circumstances, Tish would have indulged in a long hot shower to wash away the grit of the day. However, as she’d already arranged to shower in the morning and she was uncertain when she might be called upon to unlock the front door, she stripped down to her underwear and threw on a pair of boxer shorts, a matching tank top, a pair of terrycloth slippers, and covered up with a lightweight cotton
pique robe.
From there, she moved into the bathroom where Biscuit stood guard from atop the laundry hamper and watched as Tish scrubbed her face clean and rinsed the back of her neck with cool water.
With her preliminary ablutions completed, Tish went downstairs and took Biscuit outside one last time before bed. As he had done previously, Biscuit led Tish to a corner of the gravel-lined parking lot and did his business. Not once did he attempt to relieve himself on the grassy outdoor eating area to the left of the café, nor was he even remotely interested in the contents of the café’s planters or flowerbeds.
When Biscuit had finished, he wandered to the lawn, took several quick rolls on to his back, and led Tish back to the café door. Tish let Biscuit inside, where she removed his lead and patted him on the head. ‘Good boy,’ she praised, at which Biscuit licked her hand.
Perhaps, she pondered as she locked the front door, kindness was the answer to Biscuit’s little problem. She had been with the dog for just eight hours, but in that time he seemed a far different creature than the one Orson Baggett described. If, as Baggett alleged, Shackleford had trained Biscuit to desecrate his neighbors’ lawns and gardens, then why wasn’t the dog doing it now? Indeed, rather than seeking to dig or defile Tish’s garden area, Biscuit appeared to revel in its greenness, rolling around like a puppy on the cool, damp grass.
There was, of course, the possibility that Shackleford’s ‘training’ was more akin to abuse. Given what Tish had learned about the man, it wasn’t difficult to imagine him using violence to coerce Biscuit into doing his bidding.
The only problem with that theory was that Biscuit didn’t exhibit any outward signs of having been mistreated. Not only was the dog well groomed, energetic, and seemingly healthy, but he had adjusted well to life at the café. Tish wasn’t an animal psychologist but she could only imagine that had he met any harm at the hands of Sloane Shackleford, Biscuit might have either cowered in fear or lashed out aggressively whenever Schuyler, Jules, or any other man came near. Likewise, bathroom breaks might have proven a source of anxiety for Biscuit, but thus far he’d let his handlers know when nature called and quickly and happily carried out the task at hand.
Tish went to the kitchen to put the kettle on and give Biscuit a few of the organic chicken and salmon dog treats Schuyler had purchased. She watched as the dog chomped down on the crunchy cookies, feverishly licking up any crumbs that fell to the floor. If Biscuit possessed any information about his owner’s death, he was reluctant to reveal it. Likewise, if he felt any grief over the sudden loss of his owner, he was keeping it well hidden.
The kettle came to a boil. Tish rushed to remove it from the burner before it could pierce the silence of the evening with a whistle. Pouring the water into a mug bearing a bag of chocolate Rooibos tea, she looked up at the clock. It was going on eleven.
Oh, Gregory, she thought to herself. Where are you and what are you doing?
Tish was concerned about her godson’s welfare, but she felt slightly better knowing that at least he had a good friend with him – even if it was a good friend who should have had enough sense to call if they were going to be late.
Godson. The word triggered the memory of the photo on Zadie Morris’s bedside table. The boy depicted in the photo had passed away when he was just one year younger than Gregory. How old would that boy be today? Fifty? Sixty? How did he die? A freak accident, prolonged illness, a genetic defect?
Most of all, Tish wondered why Zadie was still haunted by the boy in the photo all these years later. Tish knew of people who had photos of godchildren, nieces, and nephews on their refrigerators, desks, or sitting-room mantles. Indeed, prior to her move to Hobson Glen, Tish’s ancient Frigidaire boasted photo Christmas cards, school portraits, and random snapshots of both friends and their children. Keeping a photo by one’s bed, however, suggested a relationship of great closeness and devotion between the owner of the bed and the subject of the photo.
In Zadie’s case, that closeness and devotion had lasted some forty to fifty years. In all that time, had the cosmetics icon not encountered anyone else – lover, friend, mentor – who’d held a tremendous influence over her life? Someone whose photo better deserved a spot on her nightstand? Tish didn’t wish to diminish Zadie’s feelings for her godson, but why did she need to be reminded of this particular boy who had passed away so long ago? What was it about his life, and possibly his death, that still preoccupied her thoughts?
Tish’s ruminations were cut short by the sound of two young men outside, talking and laughing. She placed her mug of tea on the counter, unlatched the café door, and ran out on to the porch. By the light of a streetlamp, she could spy Gregory, his arm draped over Anthony’s shoulders, walking along the side of the road, ambling in the direction of the café.
Tish hurried off to meet them. ‘Shh. Do you want to wake the entire house?’
‘No, ma’am,’ Anthony obediently answered.
‘Everyone’s asleep? But it’s early,’ Gregory slurred.
Tish placed her hands on her hips and growled, ‘It’s not early. It’s eleven o’clock, meaning you’re a full thirty minutes late. And if you hadn’t been drinking, Gregory Thomas Okensholt, you’d know that.’
Tish’s tone, combined with the use of all three of his names, gave Gregory pause. ‘Whoa, you’re not gonna tell Mom, are you?’
‘I’m not telling her right this minute, no. But she will find out. Right now, I’m going to let her sleep. We’re all going to let her sleep. So, you, sir, are going to tiptoe into that café, get yourself upstairs, and tuck your scrawny butt into bed without making so much as a peep. Do you hear?’
Gregory fell sullen. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And I really wish the two of you had called me instead of walking home. Lord knows what might have happened to you.’
‘Don’t worry, ma’am, I had him,’ Anthony assured.
‘I know you think you had him, but what if, while carrying two skateboards’ – Tish indicated the wheeled items tucked beneath Anthony’s arm – ‘and helping your drunk friend home, you staggered a little too far into the road and a car hit you because the driver didn’t see you?’
Anthony shrugged.
‘I know neither of you wanted to get into trouble by asking for a ride, but I’d rather be angry with you both than mourning you. And, Gregory, I know things are tough for you right now, but getting wasted on beer, or whatever you were drinking, isn’t the answer. Use your heads.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ they replied in unison.
‘All right, now go on and get to bed,’ she ordered.
Tish watched as the boys slunk off toward the café.
Schuyler was right. There were times when she too regretted she had never been a parent.
This, however, was not one of them.
The apartment above the café had been silent for hours, but still Tish couldn’t sleep. Pulling up the covers, then throwing them off, turning on to her left side, her right side, and then on to her back, she could not seem to get comfortable. Her body felt tired and her eyes were heavy, but her brain simply wouldn’t disengage.
Finally giving in to her insomnia, Tish shuffled downstairs to the kitchen to make herself some tea and an open-faced peanut butter sandwich. It was what her mother fixed when Tish experienced sleepless nights as a child, and even now the combination never failed to comfort, albeit not as quickly as it had in the past.
She walked to the cupboard to retrieve the bread and peanut butter, nearly tripping over the canine visitor who’d followed her downstairs. ‘What are you doing here? You have a big beautiful Sherpa-lined dog bed with your name on it. Literally. Schuyler had it personalized.’
Suspecting the water Biscuit drank before bed might have traveled in a southerly direction, she walked to the door of the café. ‘Outside?’
Rather than accepting the invitation with a wag of his tail, as was his wont, Biscuit’s eyes grew large and he scurried to the rear of the café where
he crouched beside the counter.
‘What?’ Tish asked the dog. Her question was answered by the sound of breaking glass emanating from the parking lot.
Tish looked out of the jalousied café windows and saw a figure, silhouetted by the moonlight, standing outside the Matrix. He or she held a long, thin striking object, which they proceeded to bring down on the car with great force.
Smash, came the sound of more glass shattering.
Tish’s first instinct was to call the police, but by the time they arrived, her car might be trashed beyond repair. Running to the kitchen, she snatched a ten-inch cast-iron skillet from its spot on the stove, switched on the parking-lot light, and dashed out on to the porch.
The dark figure dropped the object in his or her hands and jumped slightly, as if startled by the light and her presence, before running away.
Without a word, Tish took off after them, brandishing the frying pan like a tennis racquet. Her eyes ill-adjusted to the darkness, she had difficulty seeing exactly where the individual went, but she was reasonably certain they were just a few paces ahead.
It therefore came as a tremendous shock when she felt a pair of hands at her back, pushing her to the ground. She fell, face forward, hitting her chin and right elbow on the gravel of the parking lot, sending the skillet sailing out of her hand. Her left hand reached out to soften the impact, only to land in a patch of glass.
Nearly a minute elapsed before Tish managed to catch her breath and pick herself up off the ground. Still trembling from shock, she stumbled back into the café to find only Biscuit awaiting her. The combination of closed windows, the hum of the air-conditioning system, and sheer exhaustion (and, in Gregory’s case, alcohol) had rendered Tish’s houseguests completely, and thankfully, oblivious to the melee just outside the café doors.
Tish collected her cell phone from the kitchen counter and dialed Sheriff Reade directly.
The Garden Club Murder Page 16
