Death of a Gardener (Book 3 Molly Masters Mysteries)

by Leslie O'Kane

  “That’d be great. Jim and I are joining the ‘Fond of Flora’ lunch group today. I want to see if any of them have seen anything suspicious around our end of the woods.”

  “Suspicious? Such as a guy wearing camouflage clothing and carrying a smoking rifle?”

  “Yeah. That’ d be perfect.”

  By the time the noon hour rolled around, I was dressed in my best notion of what a flora fan a should wear: sneakers, full-length jeans—in case any of the flora had spear-like projectiles—and a green T-shirt, so that my fellow FFs would think that was my favorite color and hence the affinity for foliage. I slung the strap of a pair of high-powered binoculars around my neck. My hope was that the tour group would think I was a combination birder/flora-er. The binoculars were actually to scope out how far away from my property the killer could have been to still spot Helen near my house.

  To my surprise, Jim arrived right on time. This was something of a miracle, as tardiness is to Jim as joke telling is to me. My mother had packed us sack lunches. That was sweet of her, but I began to worry that if we stayed here much longer, she’d be laying out my clothes for the morning.

  As we headed to the park, I told Jim to pull over on the shoulder of Kings Way so we could look for evidence to support my theory. I raced out and noted, to my disappointment, that the farmhouse directly across the road had large, dense trees that blocked the view of our car. The killer could have parked right in this spot, and the car would have been seen only by someone driving down this dead-end to reach the park. I checked the shoulder for telltale tire tracks. There were tread marks all over the place.

  We drove the rest of the way to our meeting place, parked, and walked up to the only other people there. They were indeed the Fond of Floras. Except for one couple who looked to be in their forties, the six additional members were all white-haired folks: four women and two men.

  A thin-haired, to put it kindly, elderly woman introduced herself as “Judy, our tour leader” and, as new members, asked Jim and me to introduce ourselves and state the reason we were here today.

  Jim and I exchanged looks. The introduction, part was easy, but we could hardly admit we were here to look for murderers, rather than wildflowers.

  Jim then piped up with, “I’m Jim Masters and this is my wife, Molly.” Then he held out his hand to me as if he’d done his half of the talking, now it was my turn.

  “Yes. We...have always felt a kinship for plants. And we’re hoping to...see some new ones today.”

  Jim furrowed his brow, an expression that meant, “That was really stupid,” and I raised my eyebrows back at him in response: a silent, “Well? You could’ve jumped in there anytime.” To which Jim raised one corner of his lips, which meant, “You got us into this, not me!” and turned his back on me. One of the joys of long-term marriages. Now we were utterly ticked off at each other, having argued without exchanging a single word.

  Our tour leader, Judy, then said, “Welcome to the Fond of Flora club. Remember, Mr. and Mrs. Masters, we don’t pick anything.”

  I’ll be sure to keep my fingers away from my nose, I thought sourly. If nothing else, maybe this outing would inspire a cartoon gag—a mother, presented with a handful of wildflowers, admonishing her children to “Put those back where you found them!” Or maybe not.

  Judy turned and started to walk along the branch of the main footpath that led directly away from the Sherwood Forest subdivision.

  “Could we possibly head this way instead?” I suggested, gesturing in the general direction where I was pretty sure my house was located.

  “Oh, sorry, Molly,” our tour leader said in a happy voice. “We’ve gone that way for the last three weeks. Today we’re heading this way.”

  My heart sank. “You’re sure you don’t want to make it four weeks in a row? I’m sure there’s just tons of flora back there. Maybe even a fauna or two.”

  “Too bad you didn’t join our group last month. This way, everybody.” She gave a sweeping gesture of her arm and led us the wrong way.

  I followed glumly, but quickly reminded myself that the major purpose of this outing was to ask other FFs if they had seen anyone prowling around near my property. During a three-week tour of that vicinity, the chances of one of them having seen someone were somewhat reasonable.

  Jim was conversing with a man who, I soon overheard, was the spouse of our fearless leader. Unlike his wife, he had a full head of hair. The two launched into a discussion of radio shows. To my knowledge, Jim had no interest in radio programs unless it was a sports broadcast, yet he did have a wonderful knack for making whomever he’s conversing with feel that they’re utterly fascinating. Unwilling to feign interest in radio shows myself, I quickened my step and caught up with Judy.

  “Look at the lovely trillium!” she announced. We paused to appreciate the little reddish, triangular-shaped flowers.

  “Yes. They’re great,” I responded automatically. I sincerely like wildflowers in general and trilliums in particular. It’s just that I had my own agenda today. “So, Judy. How often does this group meet out here in the woods?”

  With another sweep of her arm, we left the trillium and sallied forth. She didn’t answer. Assuming she was hard of hearing, I started to repeat my question, when she said, “Monday through Friday my husband and I come out here, as do Bob and Betsy Fender.” She glanced back and indicated whom she was referring to. I followed her gaze, curious to see what the Fenders looked like. They were the relatively young couple. We exchanged smiles. Judy continued, “Unfortunately, the others can only join us on Wednesdays.”

  “We have bridge club every other weekday,” a particularly ancient-sounding voice chimed in from behind us.

  The path led us down a hill and into an area that, with another two or three inches of rain, would qualify as a pond. Grassy lumps that resembled miniature haystacks provided us a tentative path through the standing water. I knew from childhood experience that you had to be careful to step on the exact center of each lump or you’d scion be wringing out your socks. “Watch where you step, everyone,” Judy said, pointing. “Skunk cabbage.”

  Those dull green, fleshy plants brought back fond memories for me. As children, Lauren and I used to kick them intentionally, releasing their odor full force. Even with the plants left intact, a skunk-like smell permeated the already marshy-smelling air.

  As soon as we reached terra firma I told Judy, “I live right back that-a-way, in Sherwood Forest. We’ve had some...trespassers who seem to come from the woods and cut through our lawn. Have you seen anyone hanging around the woods the last couple of weeks?”

  “No, I don’t think I’ve seen anyone at all.” She stopped and pointed. “Look, everyone. Jack-in-the-pulpit.” She lowered her voice and whispered to me, “But you might try asking the Fenders.”

  I wondered why she whispered this. Perhaps it was out of reverence to the nearby jack-in-the-pulpit. Or maybe, for some reason, she didn’t want the Fenders to overhear her suggest that I speak to them.

  I waited until they caught up to me. Betsy Fender was short and chunky with dull brown hair in frizzy curls that reached to the nape of her sturdy neck. Her husband, Bob, was tall and thin except for a potbelly. He had a receding hairline, horn-rimmed glasses, and a dark, bristly mustache in such severe need of a trim that it reached past his bottom lip. They both wore high-top sneakers and khaki-colored hiking shorts and tops. We made small talk. He was some sort of computer consultant; she made sleeping bags on an industrial sewing machine in her basement.

  In the meantime, we learned about several more wild flowers, which Judy had her husband log into her notebook. At what I hoped was an appropriate point in my tedious conversation with the Fenders, I asked if they’d spotted any possible prowlers in the area, especially near the westernmost cul-de-sac. They said no, except for some teenagers, “truant from high school, no doubt.”

  “So. You live on Nottingham Court. Which house is yours?” Bob spoke with such intensity that
I automatically stepped back from him. “The solid white one? Tan with white trim? Surely not the gray with maroon trim!”

  “That’s the one,” I answered slowly, all sorts of warning flags going up at Bob’s having identified my house as if to say it was haunted. Bob and Betsy exchanged a look of alarm. “Did you know Helen Raleigh, by any chance? She’s the woman who used to own the house before us.”

  “Oh, yes,” Bob answered, his features tight with anger. “We knew her all right. She had an enormous vegetable garden. We spoke to her about it, but our words fell on deaf ears.”

  “Another ignorant plant killer,” Betsy replied, clicking her tongue.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The woman was a plant killer, like so many others in our society,” Bob said.

  Plant killer?

  “Lunchtime!” Judy trilled. The other FFs promptly set about readying picnic blankets and such. Betsy asked, me if I’d join them, which I accepted, despite my common sense, which was shouting at me, “Run fast! These people are maniacs!”

  I helped her spread a wool blanket in the requisite large red-and-white picnic plaid. “I don’t understand what you mean by calling Helen a ‘plant killer.’ Are you vegetable-rights activists, or something?”

  “We’re fruitatarians.” She and Bob pulled plastic-wrapped sandwiches from their backpacks.

  “We only eat dairy products, nuts, fruits, grains. Those things that don’t involve killing purely for the sake of our sustaining our own bodies.” Bob held out his lunch for me to inspect. His voice and demeanor hid reverted to the earnestness he’d portrayed when we first met. “These, for example, are cheese and tomato sandwiches.”

  “I see. So you’re opposed to—”

  “The consumption of carrots. Potatoes. Lettuce, as it’s commonly harvested.” Bob plopped down onto the blanket and Betsy followed suit.

  “There’s no reason the whole plant has to be killed.” Betsy’s voice was confident and animated.

  Uh-oh. Vegetable vigilantes.

  She looked up at me and patted a spot on her blanket, indicating I should sit. “You’re welcome to share our lunch if you forgot your own.”

  Just then, Jim handed me my brown paper bag containing my lunch. He was obviously preparing to introduce himself to the Fenders and join us, but I was so perplexed by their philosophy I ignored him. “But ...you don’t consider taking all of the tomatoes off of a tomato plant maiming?”

  Jim did a double take at me as I said this, then changed course and headed off to sit with Judy and her husband. The coward. I sat down as far away from the Fenders as possible without revealing my uneasiness. I had no idea what Mom had packed for me, but I doubted. it would pass the fruitatarian standards, and I had no idea what kind of a reaction that would cause on the part of the Fenders. If he showed as much hostility toward me and my lunch as he had at the mere mention of Helen Raleigh and her gardens, I could be in trouble.

  “We do our best to respect the rights of the tomato plant. We always leave some tomatoes intact.” I watched him take a bite of his sandwich, curious as to how he could avoid a mouthful of mustache. He parted his mustache, using his fingers like windshield wipers for mustache hair. Grossed out, I turned my vision toward Judy.

  “After all, one does have to eat something. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes. Sure,” Bob and Betsy gave me a smile as if they had converted me to fruitatarianism, but of course, I only meant that people had to eat food to survive, which was a no-brainer.

  I grabbed my sandwich out of my bag. What luck! Peanut butter and jelly! I bit into it proudly.

  “The lumber industry kills trees.” Bob jerked his chin in my direction. “You should rethink your use of paper bags.”

  So much for my juice box. I pulled it out, stabbed the straw through its designated foil dot, and took a drink. “You must live in a brick house. Is all your furniture plastic?”

  “We had our home custom-made. Our house is brick, as a matter of fact, and we hired a contractor with the special instructions that all of our trim was to be recycled wood or cut from branches.”

  “You met Helen Raleigh to discuss her garden?”

  “Absolutely,” Bob answered, setting his jaw. “At least most people have corn, peas, green beans. Those aren’t so bad.”

  “The basic plant isn’t killed, you see,” Betsy continued on her husband’s behalf.

  “Yes, I understand your point.”

  “Exactly.” Bob grinned at his wife and said, “She understands. Helen Raleigh, however, treated us like raving lunatics. We were using our guaranteed right to free speech. We have a different opinion from the majority. But that doesn’t mean you have to abuse us.”

  I felt a sharp prick on my forearm and swatted a mosquito. As I wiped the tiny carcass off of my palm, I realized what I’d done. Indeed, both Fenders were staring at me in horror, as if I’d just killed a tiny puppy. According to their philosophy, I should have just broken off the mosquito’s nose.

  “Helen abused you?” I heard footsteps and glanced back. Jim was approaching. I tried to catch his eye to ‘signal that this wasn’t the best time to interrupt my conversation, but Jim was looking down.

  Betsy scoffed. “Mrs. Raleigh was the most abusive gardener we’ve ever met. Wouldn’t you say so, dear?”

  “Absolutely. Definitely.”

  “So you knew her well?”

  “Hi. I’m Jim Masters. Molly’s husband.”

  “Bob and Betsy Fender,” said Bob, shaking Jim’s hand. “They’re fruitatarians,” I warned quickly before Jim made himself too comfortable in their midst. “They don’t believe in the killing of either vegetables or animals for human consumption.”

  Jim grinned and said, “Are you—”

  He was about to blurt about this being a joke, which would completely foil my attempts to learn more about the Fenders’ relationship with Helen Raleigh, so I cut him off. “I think they have some very good points,” I said, sending nonverbal signals to Jim that he was not to thwart my interview with these nut-eating nuts. “I, for one, plan to give up weeding my garden. After all, you can’t decide that it’s morally wrong to uproot and destroy vegetables, all the while content to lead to the wanton destruction of their weed brethren.”

  Jim was having a hard time fighting back a smile. He cleared his throat. “So, let me get this straight. It’s fine to eat dairy products, fruit, wheat products, and so on.”

  “There have been very accurate, scientifically researched studies that show how distressed plants are. And by the way, Betsy and I like to refer to them as plants, not vegetables, that—”

  “Right,” Betsy interrupted. “You wouldn’t refer to a calf as a veal cutlet, after all. Referring to plants as vegetables implies their only function in this world is as food.”

  Bob shot a look at his wife, which seemed to telegraph “shut up.”

  “As I was saying, studies have shown that plants actually send out pain signals when—”

  “Broccoli screams when its head is cut off,” Betsy interjected.

  Bob harrumphed, and she gave him it wan smile.

  “Sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “The sap flows, just like blood from a severed head.” His eyes, already enlarged by his thick lenses, widened as he spoke. I fought an involuntary shudder. “So our point is that we have to be kinder, gentler to our plants. That a plant life is every bit as valuable to that plant as an animal life is to that animal, or a human life is to a person.”

  “If, as you say,” Jim said, “vegetables feel pain, despite having no nerve endings, isn’t it—”

  “Just because the composition of their bodies is different from ours,” Bob interrupted, his voice once again betraying a fierce and unexpected burst of anger, “is no reason to conclude that they don’t feel pain! An alien who lands on this planet may not have nerve endings either, but can you guarantee that he won’t feel pain if you hit him with a baseball bat?”

 
Jim merely furrowed his brow and gave no answer. At length, he continued, “Still, isn’t it kinder to put a vegeta—a plant to a swift, painless death than to keep...plucking its nuts and fruit off?” Jim grinned. “You’ve got to admit, Bob, it would hurt if someone were to pull off your—”

  “Jim!” I admonished. He stopped abruptly and lifted his eyebrows at me, but I ignored him and focused my attention on Bob. “I’d like to hear more about your confrontation with Helen Raleigh.”

  “That woman has the mouth of a trucker!” Bob growled.

  Betsy widened her eyes and edged toward me as if she were about to relate her favorite anecdote. “We were merely walking along the edge of the woods when she happened to be digging in her garden. We called hello, and she was a little startled, I guess. We must have surprised her, coming out of the woods behind her house like that.”

  They must have emerged from right where the shots had been fired, I thought, as Betsy continued, “Bob was just trying to inform her of the callousness of her gardening ways. Most times, people just don’t stop to realize that plants have the right to life, too.”

  “She threw a cantaloupe at me!”

  “At least it was a fruit,” Jim muttered.

  “We were so glad to see she’d sold that property,” Betsy continued. “We remarked to each other just last week how nice it was that the new owners weren’t into vegetable gardening.”

  “You’d probably like our kids,” Jim said. “We can’t get them to eat vegetables to save their lives.”

  “Good for them,” Bob said.

  “Okay, team,” Judy called out, rising. “Time to go.” Jim hopped to his feet and held out his hand to help me up. As I took it and got up, he gave my hand a firm squeeze and said, “Let’s not monopolize Bob and Betsy’s time, okay, dear?” As he spoke, he gave me a look that meant: These people are insane! Let’s get out of here!

  Though I shared Jim’s assessment, I needed to know more about their relationship with Helen before I felt justified in calling Tommy Newton to turn them in as possible suspects.