Susannah's Garden

by Debbie Macomber

  At least every other year, and sometimes more often, he’d made these withdrawals, some large and some not. She also discovered that her father had taken frequent trips out of town. Not once had her mother mentioned these trips. They generally weren’t more than a day or two. Business trips, noted in an odd sort of journal her father kept. All he’d written down was the name of a city and a cash amount. In checking the bank statements against the journal entries, she saw that the money withdrawn was the same amount as listed in this pocket-size journal. The largest ones she made special note of.

  August 23, 1973—Dallas, Texas—$13,000

  March 2, 1978—San Francisco, California—$15,000

  October 22, 1980—Boise, Idaho—$10,000

  April 19, 1993—Portland, Oregon—$12,000

  If these were investments, as both Joe and Carolyn had suggested, she couldn’t understand why the withdrawals were made in cash. Two possibilities occurred to her, and they seemed to take clearer shape with every day. Besides Carolyn, the only person she dared discuss them with was her husband. Her biggest fear was that, like Carolyn’s father, he’d had a mistress and was traveling with her. That night at the bar, she’d told Carolyn it didn’t matter to her if he’d had a lover or not. But it did matter. For her mother’s sake, she told herself.

  Wednesday morning, Susannah woke to learn that Chrissie had already left the house. A quickly scrawled note was propped up against the coffeepot announcing that—surprise, surprise—she was with Troy. In less than a week, her daughter and that shiftless bum had become practically inseparable.

  Susannah had a lot on her mind and wanted to talk to Joe about it. She reached him at home, having breakfast. After a brief greeting she launched into her concerns.

  “The more I study my father’s bank accounts, the more convinced I am that he was either being blackmailed or that he had a mistress.”

  “Susannah, you don’t honestly believe your father would put up with a blackmailer, do you?”

  It seemed incomprehensible to her. As far as she knew, her father hadn’t backed away from anything in his life. He didn’t tolerate weakness in anyone, especially himself. He was a hard man, difficult to live with, difficult to know.

  “I can’t really picture him being blackmailed,” she agreed. “Then maybe he had a mistress.” That idea seemed the more likely of the two.

  “What about gambling?” Joe suggested.

  “In Boise, Idaho?”

  She’d thought of that, too. If her father had made cash withdrawals and flown to Vegas, it would add up, but he hadn’t. Instead, he’d listed areas not known for that particular form of entertainment.

  “It had to be another woman,” she insisted now.

  “I don’t see it,” Joe said. “Your father wasn’t the kind of man who’d cheat on his wife.”

  “I would never have thought Carolyn’s father was the type, either.” While the two men weren’t good friends, they were associates through the service clubs in town. And they were well enough acquainted for George to get the information he needed to send Susannah to the same French boarding school as Carolyn.

  “You’re far too willing to find fault with him,” Joe stated.

  “I am not. I have the evidence right here.”

  “Cash withdrawals and cryptic notes about cities. That isn’t evidence.”

  “He was hiding something,” she argued.

  “I agree with you there. But you might never learn what it was. Why is it so important? Don’t you have enough to do?”

  “Yes. In fact, I have far too much.”

  “You’re not getting much help from Chrissie, are you?”

  She rested one shoulder against the kitchen wall. Her father had been too cheap to buy a portable phone but he could waste ten thousand dollars on God knows what. “She’s spending the day with Troy again.”

  “Send her home,” Joe said. “If she isn’t helping you, which is the reason she claimed she was going to Colville, then send her back here.”

  “I probably should,” Susannah said.

  “Then why don’t you?”

  She sighed. “The thing is, Chrissie’s good with Mom.” No matter how much time she spent with Troy, her daughter made a point of visiting her grandmother every day. Vivian thrived on Chrissie’s visits, and proudly introduced her to the other residents. Chrissie’s presence at Altamira relaxed Vivian and gave her something to look forward to. Her mother was beginning to adjust and even to socialize, and Chrissie was, in part, responsible for that.

  “Susannah…”

  “Sorry,” she murmured into the phone. “I was just thinking about Chrissie. I don’t like Troy or the fact that she’s spending so much time with him. But I think she’ll come to see for herself what he is.” Chrissie was immature, but Susannah still had hope that her daughter would recognize the truth about this new boyfriend of hers.

  “You’re all right?” Joe asked.

  “I’m fine,” she assured him.

  “No recurrence of someone mysteriously breaking into the house?”

  “None.” Against her better judgment, she’d mentioned the incidents to Joe a few days earlier.

  “You’d tell me if there were?”

  “Yes, of course!”

  “There seems to be a lot going on in Colville. Maybe I should cancel Friday’s appointments and visit.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Susannah said. “I really am fine. Chrissie is, too.” They spoke for a few more minutes and then hung up with Joe promising to call that night.

  Still feeling troubled, Susannah walked outside and into the garden her mother had loved. Even with the burden of packing, she tried to spend a little while tending it every day. Being in this lovely, quiet space usually calmed her, in the same way it had her mother. She wandered between the rows of blooming allium, which resembled giant purple dandelions with the heads growing four to five inches in diameter. The gladioli were in bloom, too, and the lilies, their scent perfuming the air. She sat on the stone bench near the small rose arbor and closed her eyes, raising her face to the sun.

  When she got up to go inside, she noticed Rachel Henderson in her backyard with her cat in her arms. The tabby, named Mr. Bojangles, had free rein of Rachel’s yard and those adjacent to it. Even though Vivian had frequently complained about her neighbor, she’d never said a word against Mr. Bojangles. Mrs. Henderson waved from the other side of the fence and, smiling, Susannah waved back, but didn’t stop for conversation. She wasn’t in the mood to chat.

  The sun was glorious and the sky a pure, bright shade of blue. She hadn’t seen her mother since yesterday and before she resumed packing, Susannah decided to visit. Maybe they could take a stroll around Altamira’s beautifully tended gardens.

  Perhaps it was her frame of mind, but instead of driving straight to the assisted-living complex Susannah went to the cemetery. On her last visit, she’d been so angry with her father—and at the time, she hadn’t known half of what she knew now. For reasons she couldn’t explain, she walked over to her brother’s grave.

  The first thing she saw as she crossed the lawn was the display of flowers that marked the site—a display that was similar to the one she’d seen earlier, with roses again and peonies instead of lilacs. The roses had bloomed now. She couldn’t imagine who’d brought flowers to Doug’s grave.

  She missed her brother terribly—more in these last seven months than in all the years he’d been dead. Glancing at the flowers, she realized she wasn’t the only one who missed him. She wondered if the person who’d come to visit had also broken into the house and taken his track ribbons. A long-lost love, perhaps. He’d been dating a local girl when he was killed. She tried to remember the girl’s name. Pauline? Peggy?

  Patricia! Her name was Patricia Carney. Susannah couldn’t help wondering if Patricia still carried a torch for him after all this time. That was a distinct possibility, Susannah mused, bending down to run her fingers over his grave marker.

  An ho
ur later, after visiting her mother, who’d been tired and unresponsive and uninterested in a walk, Susannah was back at the house. She continued packing, concentrating on the kitchen and dining room. When she’d taken two carloads to the storage unit, she stopped for lunch, although she wasn’t really hungry. She hadn’t had much of an appetite for days.

  And she knew it was because of Jake.

  As she sat at the kitchen table, nibbling at a cheese sandwich, she returned to the half-formed idea she’d had yesterday, when she’d visited Carolyn at the mill. Hire a detective. With her limited resources and experience, plus her lack of computer skills, she needed professional help if Jake Presley was ever to be found.

  Fortunately, she hadn’t packed up or thrown out the Spokane telephone directory. She dug it out of the drawer and flipped through the Yellow Pages until she came to the listing for Private Investigators.

  A quarter-page advertisement with a giant magnifying glass caught her attention. The name on the advertisement was Dirk Knight.

  She had to bolster her courage to make the call. All the while she was punching out the number, Susannah prayed she was doing the right thing.

  “Dirk Knight.” The detective himself answered on the first ring. Susannah was afraid this might not be a promising sign. Either he was sitting at his desk with nothing to do, which wasn’t a high recommendation. Or he couldn’t afford office staff. Or both. His quick response flustered Susannah.

  “Hello?” the gruff voice continued.

  Drawing in a deep breath, she forged ahead. “Hello, my name is Susannah Nelson and I’m calling to inquire about the possibility of locating someone.”

  “A missing person?”

  “Not exactly missing. This is an old friend I knew over thirty years ago.”

  “A high school boyfriend?”

  “Well…”

  “A relative?”

  “No—no, it isn’t anything like that. This is someone from my hometown that I knew as a teenager.” Susannah added a few of the pertinent details.

  “I’ll need a thousand-dollar retainer.”

  “A thousand dollars?” Susannah swallowed a gasp. That was out of the question. “Thanks, but no thanks.” She replaced the receiver and went down the list alphabetically, calling each P.I. listed.

  Twenty minutes later, Susannah had an appointment with a woman named Shirl Remington for three o’clock that same afternoon. This woman, too, required a retainer—in fact, every one of them did. From the detective novels Susannah had read, she should’ve expected that.

  Even with the appointment scheduled, she had some doubts, but she refused to let this go. Making an inquiry didn’t cost a dime, so she could at least look into the possibility, see what she’d get for her money.

  At ten to three, Susannah located the Spokane address and discovered the agency was in a residential neighborhood. She parked at the curb, rechecked the address, then strode up to the house.

  A woman answered. She was tall, willowy and very young. Susannah suspected she wasn’t a day over thirty. “You must be Susannah,” she said, stepping aside to invite her in.

  “Yes.” Susannah nodded for emphasis, nervous and unable to hide it.

  “Sit down.” The woman gestured toward the French doors leading to an office off the living room.

  Susannah sat on the edge of a chair and fidgeted with the zipper on her purse as she waited for the other woman to walk behind the desk, sit down and reach for a pad and pen.

  “How exactly can I help you?” Shirl asked.

  Heaving a giant sigh to ease her nervousness, Susannah explained the situation as straightforwardly and honestly as she could. As she spoke, the private detective took notes. Her long brown hair repeatedly fell forward and she repeatedly pushed it back, looping it around her ear. Susannah tried not to be irritated by that. Why didn’t the woman just wear it in a ponytail?

  “You wouldn’t happen to know Jake’s social security number, would you?” Shirl asked hopefully, flinging back her hair as she looked up.

  “No.” Unzipping her purse, Susannah withdrew two sheets of paper. She unfolded them and slid them across the desk. “These are all the Jake Presleys my friend and I found on the Internet. I’ve talked to each one personally and can verify they aren’t the Jake I knew.”

  Shirl nodded. “Good. No need to go over ground that’s already been covered.”

  Susannah began to relax. Despite Shirl’s distracting gestures with her hair, she liked the no-nonsense manner in which the woman conducted business. After a few more questions, Shirl laid down her pen.

  “Is there anything else you can tell me that might help me locate your friend?”

  Susannah couldn’t think of a single thing. Then she remembered something she hadn’t thought about in years. “Yes,” she cried. “Jake had a benign tumor as a kid. He had to have it surgically removed and has a thin scar on his left side about two inches below his waist. In front,” she added.

  Her face turned twenty shades of red as she realized the other woman would guess how and when Susannah had viewed Jake’s scar.

  Thankfully the private detective didn’t comment but merely noted this latest bit of information. Then she looked up again. “As I said over the phone, I’ll need a thousand-dollar retainer.”

  Susannah swallowed and opened her purse. No one would consider the job for anything less than a thousand up front. If she was going to get the answers she needed, she had no choice but to spend the money.

  “You take credit cards, don’t you?” she asked in a suddenly hoarse voice.

  “Yes, I do,” Shirl said, smiling across the desk at her.

  With shaking fingers, Susannah withdrew her credit card and handed it to the private investigator.

  Now all she had to do was find a way to tell her husband.

  CHAPTER 22

  Carolyn stayed late at the mill. Production had closed down for the day and the crew had left the yard. The work site was uncharacteristically quiet. During the day, the office, too, was filled with constant activity; everything changed the minute the whistle blew, signalling the end of the working day.

  By late afternoon, she was alone with her thoughts. Alone, period, and that was how it would stay.

  Coward that she was, Carolyn had contacted Kettle Falls Landscaping and left a message canceling the additional work she’d ordered for her front yard. She’d be foolish to pursue a relationship with Dave Langevin. This attraction she felt unnerved her. She wasn’t good at relationships; her failed marriage proved it. Her father hadn’t done well in choosing his life partner and she hadn’t, either. But unlike him, she wasn’t willing to have an affair. Besides, how would it look for the owner of the mill to be seen with a yard man? That was a snobbish reaction, she knew, but it was what many townspeople would say and she couldn’t ignore that. She had a duty to her family name. A duty to the community. Getting involved with Dave would only lead to unnecessary complications. Complications she could live without.

  Carolyn had accepted this responsibility long ago. Rather than dwell on how structured her life was, she tackled the paperwork piled on her desk. Because she was constantly interrupted during the day, she generally stayed late two or three nights a week to deal with memos, requests and other paperwork that demanded concentrated effort. Some of this she could have handed off to her personal assistant, but she didn’t and wouldn’t. Here, in these quiet moments, she gained needed perspective on the business. She tracked orders, kept an eye on inventory, became aware of any staff problems and more.

  The still of the late afternoon slipped away. She worked steadily until eight. Then, sitting back in her chair, she turned off her computer and collected her purse, ready to call it a day.

  After locking the office, Carolyn waved a friendly goodbye to Nolan, the security guard, and headed toward her vehicle, enjoying the warm evening air. Summer was her favorite season. Here it was, the end of June and it was still light. Maybe that was why she resisted the idea of
going home. She decided to visit Susannah, instead, and was driving in that direction when she passed He’s Not Here.

  The local tavern was a regular hangout for many of the mill workers. A few cars were scattered across the parking lot now, but by this time most of the work crew had gone home to their families.

  Then she saw it. The battered truck that belonged to Dave Langevin. Her heart started to beat erratically. By now he would’ve gotten word that she’d cancelled the extra work. He’d know what that meant. She couldn’t help wondering if he was disappointed.

  Almost without volition, Carolyn found herself turning into the lot. She sat in her truck for at least five minutes trying to figure out what to do. Her hands were clammy, her stomach was jumping with nerves, and her heart raced. It felt as if a simple decision—whether or not to go inside—was one of the biggest of her life. Swallowing hard, she climbed out of her truck and walked toward the tavern.

  The darkened windows barred the sunlight, and it took Carolyn’s eyes a moment to adjust. She stood inside the entry and glanced around, looking for Dave.

  The place was less than half-full and she saw him right away. He sat at a corner table, his back to the wall, nursing a beer. He glanced up and for the most fleeting of seconds, their eyes met.

  Slowly, Carolyn stepped farther inside. The jukebox played a Reba McEntire ballad, and the scent of beer hung in the air. A few men sat at the bar and on the opposite side three or four others were involved in a noisy darts game. One couple, well past sobriety, clung to each other on the tiny dance floor.

  Carolyn slipped into a booth that looked directly toward the table where Dave sat. The aching way he made her feel seemed to intensify. It was as if everything female within her sprang to life whenever she was near him. She’d assumed those feelings had disappeared years ago, after her divorce. But Dave Langevin’s mere presence had revived them.