Death of a Gardener (Book 3 Molly Masters Mysteries)

by Leslie O'Kane

  A dark sheet of plastic near Helen’s feet caught my eye. A garbage bag. Next to the bag was a sizable hole in my garden that Helen must have been digging. She’d brought a large shovel and a garbage bag to my home. Apparently, she had been trying to dig up something, right below the spot where I’d planted tulip bulbs, and had planned to haul whatever it was away in the bag.

  A distant police-car siren grew louder. I grabbed my pounding head. “What the hell is happening? What was Helen doing? Digging up buried treasure?”

  “Come on, Molly,” Lauren told me gently, putting her arm around my shoulders. “Let’s go out front and meet the police.”

  “Is Tommy coming?”

  “Probably. But they’ll send the nearest cruiser first.” Despite the muggy heat, I shivered uncontrollably. A cruiser, in the metallic blue of New York State police vehicles, pulled into the cul-de-sac and parked behind Helen’s Buick. The elderly officer who’d been driving stood beside the car, leaving his door open, and called to us over the car roof, “Lauren, what’s the situation?”

  “There’s been a shooting,” Lauren said, nodding in recognition of the officer.

  “The woman who used to own my property was shot,” I interjected. “Her body is over there, by the side of the house.”

  A young, possibly post-pubescent, officer in the passenger side remained seated and promptly began to use police-speak into his radio. His elderly partner asked us whether the shooter was still in the vicinity. When I answered, “I sure hope not,” he slid back into the car and, rather rudely, yanked the radio handset away from his young partner.

  In the meantime, my knees feeling a bit wobbly, I plopped down onto the grass. Lauren sat down beside me. Suddenly it seemed too hot to think, or to do anything other than breathe. I leaned back against the rough bark of the maple tree that shaded much of my front lawn.

  For no apparent reason, my thoughts swirled regarding Helen’s wig. “Lauren, if you had some sort of...hairless condition and had to wear a wig all the time, wouldn’t you get one that was flattering? Why buy one that’s too short? Do they price wigs according to hair length?”

  “What are you talking about, Molly?”

  “Nothing. Just rambling incoherently. I’m not used to having someone get shot to death a few feet away from me.” I closed my eyes, but was unable to shake the grotesque image. All that blood.

  “Do you think she was here to collect the plants you’d removed?”

  . I shook my head. “That hole was too deep for that.”

  . Lauren said nothing. I glanced over at her. She was chewing on her lip, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Did you ever meet her ex-husband?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Let’s hope he didn’t come with the property, six-feet down.”

  I felt a wave of nausea at that thought. Could I have been standing atop Mr. Raleigh’s grave while I gardened? Surely not. “Somehow I can’t see her trying to unearth an entire body with me still in the house. That’s too irrational, even for Helen.”

  The young officer emerged from his vehicle to keep watch over us, while his partner, using darting and crouching SWAT-team maneuvers, dashed to where Helen’s body lay. “Look at Officer Greg go,” Lauren whispered to me. She giggled. The sight of the elderly, portly police officer trying to sprint across the yard was slightly comical, and Lauren, to her considerable embarrassment, was prone to nervous giggles. I had to be careful not to catch them from her. That was all Sergeant Newton would need. A dead body in my yard, and Lauren and me laughing. “What do you suppose Officer Greg’d do if I suddenly shouted, ‘Look out!’?”

  “I don’t know,” I whispered back, “but I wouldn’t want to be sitting next to you when you did it.”

  Lauren elbowed me and put a hand over her mouth in an attempt to muffle her giggles. The baby-faced officer gave us a long look. “You’re Lauren Wilkins, right? We met at the station house picnic last month. I should be getting your statements now.” He shifted his gaze to me. His soft cheeks were bright pink. He looked so young and inexperienced, I was surprised he’d been on the force a whole month ago. “Plus, you two shouldn’t be together.”

  “Pardon?” No one had suggested that the two of us shouldn’t sit together since our school days.

  He shot a desperate look at his partner in the distance, then turned back toward me. “Er, let’s go back inside your house, Ms....”

  “Masters.”

  As we got to our feet, the older officer, who had holstered his gun and was now at Helen’s body, called to his partner, “I’m going to secure the area.” He pivoted and scanned the woods behind our house. Our home was at the very end of the cul-de-sac, and our property line backed against a densely wooded park. “I gotta warn you, Dave,” he called over his shoulder, “it’s not a pretty picture.”

  I winced, and Lauren let out another shrill giggle. Our baby-faced officer raised an eyebrow at her. She combed her hair back from her eyes, gasped for air, and said, “Sorry, Dave. You see, Molly creates cartoons for greeting cards, and she happened to do one the other day where this well-dressed couple is at an art gallery. They’re standing in front of this one painting of all these ugly, ghoulish faces, and the man looks at the woman and says, ‘That is not a pretty picture.’”

  The young officer, whose name, I’d gathered, was Dave, colored even further.

  Lauren finally gained control of herself. She cleared her throat and said, “You had to be there. I mean, you have to see the cartoon yourself to get the joke.” Then she leaned toward me till our shoulders were touching and muttered,” Well, I thought your cartoon was amusing.”

  “Let’s go inside,” Officer Dave said. “I’ll get each of your statements and—”

  He broke off at the sound of a siren. Sergeant Tommy Newton drove up. The moment he stepped out of the car and whipped his mirrored shades off, his eyes were locked on Lauren’s. He’d gotten a haircut since the last time I’d seen him. His red hair was almost as short as Helen’s, sans wig. The blue fabric of his uniform was now taut with the extra weight he’d recently put on. This was probably due in no small part to Lauren’s hobby: baking.

  Lauren took a small step toward him.

  “I haven’t taken their statements yet, Sergeant,” our young watchman said. “I’ve been with them the whole time and they haven’t been discussing the case. Greg’s checking the woods.”

  “Lauren has nothing to do with this,” I told Tommy. “I just happened to be—”

  “Molly had just called me,” Lauren interrupted, still gazing into Tommy’s eyes. “We’d chatted for maybe half a minute, when I heard a bang in the distance, and Molly said, ‘Did you hear that?’ and I started to say it was probably a cat engine backfiring. Then Molly screamed, and I knew something horrid had happened. She told me to call nine-one-one. I did, then I ran over here to see if Molly needed help.”

  “Okay. The paramedics’ll be here any minute.” Tommy’s voice and behavior toward Lauren were so gentle it made me feel as if I were intruding on a private moment. “Maybe I should walk you home.”

  “No, I’m fine. The bus will be here soon, and I need to take the kids over to my house.”

  No sooner had she said this than we could hear the air brakes and creaks of the bus nearing the entrance to my street.

  “Oh, shoot,” Lauren muttered. “Now I won’t have time to get Rachel off a stop early. I left the front door open, though, so she’ll be fine for a couple of minutes.” Rachel, who, like my daughter Karen, was nine, would be home alone until Lauren could get back. Lauren’s husband had died a couple of years ago. Her daughter Rachel and my Karen were best friends.

  “Okay, then. Gotta go,” Tommy said. He headed toward Officer Greg at the side of the house. The young officer glanced at him questioningly, then apparently decided he should stay with me.

  An instant later, Karen and Nathan came tearing down the sidewalk toward us. Seeing them so soon after my confrontation with mortality, I felt
such a surge of love and protectiveness my body ached.

  Though Karen was giving it her best effort, Nathan was faster. For the last six months or so, it was as if someone had been stretching Nathan on a rack. He ate all the time, but seemed to gain no weight, only height. He was now considerably taller than Karen, who was two years his elder. A band of brown freckles ran across Nathan’s nose from one cheek to the other. His sandy brown hair was naturally curly, which he detested, so he insisted on keeping it short.

  Karen spotted the officer and Lauren standing beside me, eyed the police cars, and slowed, her smile fading. She had her eight front permanent teeth, oversized for her dainty features. Her, wispy, light brown hair was cut to her jawline. Her eyes were so dark they were almost black. Though petite, she had a wonderful gift for always looking a person straight in the eye.

  “Something happened!” Nathan shouted with glee as he spotted the police vehicles. He grinned back at Karen triumphantly when he reached me first.

  Karen paid him no mind. Her eyes were riveted to mine. “What’s wrong, Mom?”

  “Don’t worry. I’m fine. So’s Daddy.” I held out my arms for a hug. Karen and Nathan merely gave me their backpacks. Mom: the hat tree.

  “What are they doing in our yard?” Nathan asked, pointing at Tommy and the elderly policeman. “Can I go watch?”

  “No, I want you both to go to Lauren’s house.”

  “So,” Lauren said, forcing a smile. “Karen, Nathan, we’re going to bake some cookies at my house.”

  “Can I bring Spots?” Nathan asked.

  Lauren immediately shook her head. “Our cat Missy wouldn’t get along with him.” Spots was Nathan’s guinea pig, who had gotten the name not because of his color, but because he had a weak bladder.

  “Then Karen doesn’t get to bring Tiger,” he asserted.

  Tiger was Karen’s guinea pig. We had purchased the two pets for the children’s birthdays this past spring. At the time, we’d been unaware of my mother’s birthday present to Karen: six frog eggs, now well on their way to full froghood.

  An ambulance pulled up beside Tommy’s cruiser. The children’s eyes widened.

  “You need to go with Lauren right away.”

  “Why?” Karen asked again. “What happened?”

  The paramedics got out, but remained near their vehicle and watched the officers. Tommy held up his index finger, and one of them headed toward Helen’s body while the other remained by the ambulance.

  I chucked the backpacks behind me and knelt to eye-level with my children, “Remember the former owner of our house?”

  “You mean that lady you hate?” Nathan asked.

  “I didn’t hate her. I just wasn’t terribly fond of her.” The baby-faced officer a few feet away raised an eyebrow and began scribbling in his notepad.

  “You said she drove you crazy,” Karen correctly recited tome.

  “Yes. She did. And now, well, she’s had an accident and she died. So I need to talk to the officers. I’ll explain more later. Just go over to Rachel’s house for now and I’ll—”

  “Can I tell Grandma and Grandpa about this?”

  I had to fight back a shiver of dread at that thought. My father was out of town, which left Mom with nothing to obsess about except me and my family. A murder in her daughter’s yard wouldn’t go over particularly well. “I’d rather you didn’t. Besides, Grandpa’s on his fishing trip. He won’t be back for a week.”

  I gave the kids good-bye hugs. Lauren grabbed each child gently by the hand, and they headed in the direction of her home. Tommy approached. He spoke quietly to the officer who’d been keeping watch over me all of this time. That officer, moved off toward his partner, and Tommy strode up to me on my front walkway. He gave me a small smile and shook his head to acknowledge what a sad ordeal all of this was. “So, Molly. Did you get a good look at the victim?”

  “I rolled her over. I know I probably shouldn’t have, but I hoped she might still be alive and in need of mouth-to-mouth.”

  “Notice anything unusual?”

  “You mean aside from the bizarre short haircut and the fact that she was dead?”

  He nodded.

  “No, that was about it. Why?”

  “Mind comin’ with me for a second look?”

  I shuddered at that thought, but he had piqued my curiosity too much for me to refuse. We walked side by side to the scene, ducking under the police tape.

  I took a deep breath, then stared. Helen Raleigh’s ample bosom had relocated itself. I leaned closer. “She’s got a receding hairline.” This was not unlike passing a particularly gruesome traffic accident. As much as I didn’t want to look, it was all but impossible not to. “She has male-pattern baldness.”

  “You sure this is the Helen Raleigh who used to own your house?” Tommy asked solemnly. “Not some man dressed up to look like her?”

  I studied the face. Those were the same deep-set eyes, sharp nose, full red-painted lips I’d seen so many times. A quarter-inch-round, black “beauty mark” was on her chin, right where it had always been. The mole, unlike her breasts, hadn’t shifted one iota.

  “That’s...that’s her,” I stammered. “I mean, that’s him. That’s Helen.”

  Chapter 3

  Which of These Women Is Dead?

  “You’re absolutely certain this was the person who’s been claiming to be Helen Raleigh all along?” Tommy asked me again.

  “Yes, I’m certain.”

  The gory scene made me dizzy. I took a deep breath of the steamy air and looked away; pretending to be interested in watching the policemen tromp into the woods behind me. The yellow plastic police-scene tape covered a huge distance, from the corners of my house clear back to the trees. The gunshot must have come from those dense woods. “Maybe you can get the killer’s blood type by checking for squished mosquitoes.”

  “Squished mosquitoes?” Tommy repeated.

  “The woods back there are teeming with mosquitoes. Anyone staying there for any length of time would probably have had to swat a few.”

  He rocked on his heels, looking thoughtful. “So we put out a search team to comb a square mile or two of woods, then we autopsy any dead bugs they find.” He chuckled and ran his fingers through his red hair. “And here I was, wasting my men’s time talking to your neighbors about whether they’d heard or seen anything. Sure ‘preciate your suggestion on how to run this here investigation. Gotta admit, that’s one I wouldn’t have come up with on my own.”

  To my considerable annoyance, although Tommy had never stepped foot in the South, he was using his patented good-ol’-boy sergeant’s drawl. “It was just a thought,” I said under my breath. “You don’t have to be sarcastic.”

  “Sorry. We’re shorthanded today so I’m working a double shift. It’s been a long day.”

  I glanced at him, surprised. He rarely apologized. We rounded the bushes that lined my front walk. Mr. Helen Raleigh could have told me precisely what those bushes were, but all I knew about them was that, at the moment, they were in my way.

  My mind raced to put an assortment of incongruous facts in order, “So,” I murmured, more to myself than to Tommy. “The ‘woman’ who’d sold me the house was a man. He had lived in drag in this house for two and a half years. He was a gardening fanatic, but apparently only because there was something important buried in my yard. He tried to dig up that something after selling me this house, then was shot in the process.”

  The screen door creaked as I opened it. Tommy held it for me and asked, “Back when you were first buyin’ this place, did you have any indications that Helen Raleigh was a man?”

  “No, though in retrospect, Helen had a man’s sense of interior decorating. Cinderblock bookshelves, mattresses on the floor, that sort of thing. When we first looked at the place, I’d wondered why someone so meticulous about the lawn and gardens had such cheap furniture.”

  “That hole in your garden. Did the victim dig that?”

  “Yes; she.
..I mean he brought the garbage bag here, too. And he seemed inordinately upset that I’d been planting bulbs. He told me not to dig up the gardens, and that he’d do it himself if I insisted on planting anything new.”

  “We’re going to have to dig deeper and see if we can locate what...Helen was looking for.”

  “Molly?” a very familiar voice warbled from down the street. I winced and stepped back onto the small cement front porch.

  My mother stood on the sidewalk where it intersected with my front walk. From her vantage point, she would be able to see some of the goings-on in the side yard, perhaps even Helen’s body. She brought a trembling hand to her lips as she eyed the commotion. As if mesmerized she said, “I heard all of the sirens, and I just knew something had to have happened at your house.”

  The thought pattern was Mom’s personality in a nut-shell: Sirens? Must be my daughter! Having the world’s most pessimistic mother only bothered me when she happened to be right.

  “Hello, Mrs. Peterson,” said Tommy, who strode toward her, perhaps, I hoped, to convince her to go back home. I followed.

  My mother was a thin, remarkably tall woman—nearly six feet. She kept her hair in a short, efficient hairdo that hadn’t changed in the last forty years, though its salt-and-pepper hue had gradually become mostly salt. With sojourns to their condo in Florida every winter, she maintained a perfect tan, which had somehow not destroyed her skin or her perfect health. The instant Tommy was within reach, she grabbed his elbow. “Tom, is anyone in my family dead? Or seriously injured?”

  “No.”

  “Thank God.”

  She turned her panicked eyes onto me. I managed a small smile and said, “I imagine you’d like to know what’s going on.”

  “Not if you think it’s none of my business,” she replied with a martyr-like droop to her voice.

  “Of course it’s your business, Mom I just—”

  “The coroner’s on his way,” some male voice called from the crowd at the side of my house.

  “Coroner? Oh, my God!” She stepped back for a better vantage point. “Is that a dead body in your yard? It’s not Jim, is it?”