I took the scenic route home from the train station, stopping at Halcyon for one last look. Despite forty-eight hours of grumbling, Lucy had done a thorough job and even managed to weed most of the stone planters dotting the terrace. Hugo and Felix had raked, chipped, and sorted the debris into various piles, all of which would see active duty elsewhere in the garden, and near the maze a haphazard pile of rough-hewn flagstones had been turned into an informal stacked-stone retaining wall.
I hadn't given the green house much thought, but now that the path was cleared, I ventured inside. It smelled of damp and rotting vegetation but in a not entirely unpleasant way. The glass panels were filthy, a few were cracked, and the chains that lifted open the heavy glass ceiling were encrusted with gunk.
Potting tables were littered with pot shards and faded plant tags and seed packets, and everything was covered with cobwebs. A three-foot copper stand with spikes on the top looked like a gladiator's mace, but turned out to be nothing more sinister than an antique sprinkler.
In one corner stood a small cedar hutch. Instinctively I stuck out my hand to open it, then drew back— but what were the odds of finding another corpse?
Cautiously I turned the handle on the door, and pulled it open. Stillness, then a faint fluttering sound turned to Hitchcockian birdlike flapping. Hundreds of moths flew out of their resting place and into my face and hair. My scream caused one of the moths to be sucked into my mouth; I spit it out and flailed my arms spastically, falling on my butt, scattering pots and tools and knocking over a table, which hit the door and caused it to slam shut.
"Thank god there are no witnesses," I said out loud, feeling foolish and shaking off the few remaining moths. Most of them flew to the domed roof, out of my reach. I made a futile attempt to dislodge them with a broom but decided to deal with them the next day when I could borrow a ladder.
I had about forty-five minutes of daylight left. I swept the floors and the tables, organized the pots by size, inventoried the usable hand tools, and tried to ignore a family of mice I'd sent scurrying when I moved a large unfolded tarp. They'd elicited another involuntary yelp.
Around eight o'clock, in the fading light, I decided to pack it in. I was suddenly overcome by a wave of fatigue, and I was fantasizing about a nice hot bath and a glass of wine, not necessarily in that order.
I slung my backpack over my shoulder and reached for the door handle. It was stuck. And no amount of jiggling would unstick it. I looked for a tool or screwdriver to take the doorknob off—nothing. I searched the greenhouse from top to bottom. There were a few cracked glass panels, but none missing—nothing I could wriggle out of. And the foundation was solid stone.
Forty minutes later, it was pitch-black, getting colder, and I was running out of options. Despite my embarrassment, I decided to call Babe at the diner, to see if she or Chloe could rescue me. Dead battery. So much for that idea. One of the unintended consequences of rarely using your cell is that it will inevitably run out of juice without your noticing. Until you need it.
I didn't trust myself to break any of the glass panels without bringing the whole damn house crashing down around me. Besides, despite its condition, it was exquisite, so, bone tired, I did the only other thing I could think of. Using my backpack as a pillow, I crawled onto the potting table, pulled the dusty tarp over me, and succumbed to what someone once called "the divine stupidity of sleep."
CHAPTER 13
Something brushed my face, and I drowsily flicked it away. Then I remembered where I was and jumped up, throwing off the dirty tarp. My four-legged roommates fled, and I scrambled into an upright position.
"Who's there? Is someone there?" I worked hard to keep the fear out of my voice, only marginally succeeding.
"It is me . . . Felix." He playfully shone a flashlight under his chin, the way we did when we were kids and wanted to scare someone. "I was driving by and saw your car was still here."
"Thank goodness," I said, relieved. "I got locked in." I slid off the table and dusted myself off. "What time is it?"
"About eleven. Have you been here all this time?"
"Well, I did some work, then I couldn't get out. I didn't want to break any of the glass—probably cost a mint to replace." I tried to sound as if it was perfectly reasonable for me to be sleeping in the green house.
"Why didn't you call someone?"
"Phone's dead." I closed my eyes and rotated my head, working out the kinks that had set in from sleeping on the damp wooden table. I rubbed my hands up and down my arms to warm myself while I gave Felix a long look.
"I should go home," I said.
"I'll escort you."
"You'll escort me? You're not exactly who you appear to be, are you?" I said.
"Who do I appear to be?"
"Don't be cute. I'm a little cranky right now."
"You're probably hungry. I would suggest that we get something to eat, but you may want to freshen up first," he said tactfully.
A glimpse of my reflection in the green house glass told me I had what Lucy heartlessly referred to as stroke face. I fluffed out my flattened hair and tried to inconspicuously rub out the sleep wrinkles on my face. Felix reached over and plucked something out of my hair.
"What was that?"
"Nothing. A small passenger," he said.
Felix followed me home, where I'd clean up and we could have a bite and talk. Once there, I pointed him toward the bar and told him to help himself. After a quick shower, I joined him in the living room.
"I never realized your hair was so long. You look quite different."
"I usually wear it up in the garden or under a hat," I said awkwardly, feeling suddenly female. "It's just easier that way."
Felix showed me the bottle of wine he'd chosen. "I wasn't sure if I should open this one. I didn't know if you were saving it for a special occasion."
"Go ahead. I'm clueless when it comes to wine. After the first glass, they all taste the same to me. If that's a good one, someone must have brought it over."
Felix uncorked the bottle and explained in great detail what the wine was and how it was made, while I put water on for pasta. Ordinarily, I find oenophiles obnoxious, but Felix wasn't trying to impress me with his worldliness; he was simply giving information. I got out some bread and olive oil to munch on while we waited for the water to boil.
"So you're a famous Mexican restaurant critic, just up here reviewing dining options in Fairfield County?"
"Not exactly."
"I'm listening."
"Well, I am from Cuernavaca, near Temixco, Hugo's hometown. I did know him there, and our fathers did know each other."
"You're going to have to do better than that," I said, ripping off a hunk of bread and swishing it in the olive oil.
Felix and Hugo did meet when they were kids, that much had been true. Then he told me the rest. Hugo's father, Ruben, was, and still is, the driver and mechanic on the Ontivares estate.
Felix's dad, Oswaldo, sold sodas from a wagon as a kid. He grew up to become a successful soft-drink distributor; then he branched out into beer, wine, and groceries. Several years ago Oswaldo Ontivares died of a heart attack in the arms of his underage mistress, who had just shown him the 00, 00 she'd had tattooed on each of her butt cheeks in his honor. Mexico's president attended the funeral.
Grief-stricken, Felix's sister Maria Angela vowed to abandon her jet-set lifestyle to take over the family business, and, to everyone's surprise, she revealed not just a talent for food and beverage distribution but a broader business sense as well. She even managed to parlay her close personal friendship with a famous telenovela star into a controlling stake in one of Mexico's fast-growing media companies, nearly doubling the family fortune.
"And you kept busy and fit, not by mowing lawns and weeding, as I'd assumed, but by playing tennis and polo and swimming in your indoor Olympic-sized pool?"
"I wasn't a complete ne'er-do-well. I was pre-med at Rice for a year," he justified. "When Maria start
ed to do so well, my competitive side took over. I returned to school as a business major at the University of Texas at Austin. Got my MBA there," he added.
"I was visiting business associates in Greenwich. After a party that went pretty late or, I should say, early, I dropped some friends off at the train station in downtown Springfield. I stopped for coffee and saw a huge crowd of men milling about on the corner. Someone asked me if I wanted to work. I graciously declined, but the next morning I went back and looked up Hugo."
I wasn't sure I believed him. "Of course," I said, "it makes perfect sense for a handsome, wealthy Mexican MBA to be mowing lawns in Connecticut. I don't know why I didn't see it."
"Don't be too hard on yourself. You saw more than most. We are invisible to most people north of the border. We mow your lawns, clean your pools, wipe your kids' runny noses, and half the time you are mispronouncing our names or don't even know them. You don't know if we are from Mexico, Guatemala, or the Dominican Republic. We could disappear like a puff of smoke and never be missed because the next crop of workers would be there to replace us." He blew through his lips as if extinguishing a candle.
"Most people don't even bother to learn the most basic phrases in Spanish," he said, holding his glass carefully by the stem and taking a sip of wine. "That's why I find it so charming to hear you mangle the language of my ancestors."
I took a big swallow of my wine. I was prepared for some revelation but not a sociology lesson from a trustfund liberal with a string of polo ponies. "Look, we can have a nice long chat someday about the class system in both our countries. You're right, it sucks, but it doesn't seem to have hurt you any, and, uh, you haven't exactly answered my question. What am I missing here?"
"Do you know how many Mexicans come north for work every year?" he asked, not waiting for an answer. "There are six million in the States right now, and almost all of them left family members back home. It's an integral part of the Mexican experience. Everyone knows someone who's made the trip to el Norte. Since I accidentally got the opportunity, I thought I'd see it firsthand."
"You sound like you're running for office," I said, taking another swig. "Wait a minute—that's it, isn't it? You're planning to run for office in Mexico, so you wanted to see how the little people live? Who's in Upstairs, Downstairs territory now?"
"Would you prefer that I remain the poor but proud laborer?" he teased. "The noble savage?"
"I'd prefer you not be the spoiled playboy who's slumming. And to be totally selfish, I'd prefer you be someone I can count on. I have a job to do. I have commitments."
"Don't be angry with me. I never intended to deceive anyone. This whole thing was an accident. I came here for a bachelor party. But it's been a valuable learning experience for me; I'm glad I stayed," he said. "I give you my word I will stay to finish the garden. And I will get some of the other men to give us hours—I'll pay them from my campaign war chest," he joked. "Future constituents."
"Let's not get crazy." The water was bubbling over onto the stove, so I jumped up to turn down the heat.
"Can I help?" he asked.
"Sure."
Felix found dishes, napkins, and place mats while I finished cooking. When it was ready, he encrusted his pasta with red pepper.
"Sure that's hot enough?"
"It won't be. Now I will tell you two things that will make you angry all over again."
I looked up and waited for the other shoe to drop. He's married with five kids? "żCómo fue ahora?" I asked cautiously.
"Hugo speaks English better than I do. He taught me how to read it when we were kids."
"You're kidding?"
He shook his head. Then he reached into his pocket and took something out. A green plastic tie, about twelve inches long.
"I'm out of bread?"
"This was on the door handle. Your green house mishap? It was not an accident."
"Someone tried to kill me with a piece of twist tie?"
"Not kill you. Scare you. Or at least put you out of commission for a while. And it's not a twist tie."
It wasn't. It was a thick plastic tie, the kind used to secure electric cords on factory-packed appliances. The kind you can't pull apart.
"Don't be silly. It must have already been on the door handle and got caught when I fell down in the greenhouse," I said reasonably. "Besides, who'd want to scare me? A rival gardener? If one of them really wanted to scare me, he'd bring over a bucket of banana slugs. Have you ever seen them?"
"Okay. Here. Keep it as a souvenir." He finished his wine and pushed away from the table. "Now it's late, and I have a new, very demanding boss to answer to."
"You didn't eat much."
"Well, midnight is a little late for dinner, maybe not for Brazilians, but it is for humble Mexican laborers. I'd appreciate it if you don't tell anyone my little secret just yet."
He took his time walking downstairs. At the door, he brushed my still-damp hair away from my face and kissed me on the cheek. Then he bent down again, aiming for the lips this time. I tensed a bit, but let it happen.
"Buenas noches, maestra. Don't forget to charge your phone."
I closed the door behind me and let out a deep breath. I was dying to tell Lucy. I plugged in my phone, but it was too late to call without either worrying her or interrupting something, so I went online on the outside chance she'd be surfing. No luck. I deleted the daily messages from that pain-in-the-ass reporter from the Bulletin, and forty-seven junk e-mails. Although it's as risky as unprotected sex, sometimes I take a chance and check out the unsolicited gardening or fitness ones: Build a pond in two hours! Check your body mass index. I took a flyer and clicked on Free garden plans! and waited for the message to load. . . .
Framed by squiggly lines meant to look like electricity, it was a picture of a shovel inside a red circle with a slash through it. Here's a plan . . . be careful where you dig.
CHAPTER 14
The smell of French toast and frying bacon hung in the air like smog; it was warm and welcoming. I was getting to love it. After only two hours' sleep, I climbed on the counter stool slowly, carefully, like an old person afraid of breaking something. Without my asking, Babe brought me a mug of coffee and told Pete to fix me the morning-after special.
"What happened to you?"
"You want the long version or the short version?"
"Start with the short version."
Counting off on my fingers I said, "Worked like a dog yesterday, got trapped in the green house, got rescued by Felix, got kissed by Felix, got no sleep—except for a few hours on a moldy potting table. Oh, yeah, and I got another dozen messages from that jerk at the Bulletin and a weird e-mail."
"Does the 'no sleep' mean what I hope it means?"
"Dream on," I said, twisting my torso in a long stretch. I could hear the bones and muscles creak.
"I know a great massage therapist who can fix that."
We both waited for the caffeine to kick in.
"Since there doesn't seem to be anything juicier, tell me about the kiss," she said.
"It was friendly. Mostly." I guzzled the coffee like it was a drug.
"Tongue?"
"Have you ever had a friendly tongue kiss?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, but that's my story. I want to hear yours."
I told Babe about the previous night, leaving out Felix's family history. If it was true, it wasn't up to me to blow his cover, and if it wasn't, I'd feel like less of sap for having believed him. "He followed me home to make sure I was okay. We talked, had some wine, a little food, and then, as he was leaving"—I leaned in, and lowered my voice—"he kissed me."
"Bodies touch?" she asked.
"I didn't film it. It was fast. . . . They may have touched. A little. They touched a little."
"So, now that he's followed you home, are you going to keep him?"
"Hey, the only things I want to keep right now are my house, my business, and my sanity. The last thing I need is another complication. Ever
since the baby . . ." I sputtered. "Finding that body has been like having a baby." I looked around surreptitiously. "Last night Felix suggested I was locked in the green house intentionally. And I got a stupid crank e-mail from someone trying to scare me. That'll teach me to leave my business card just anywhere. Now I'll have to change my e-mail address, and that'll be another pain in the ass." Even I knew I was escalating into hysteria.
"I'm just as curious as the next person," I said, breathing deeply to calm myself, "but if Springfield's finest think there's no case here, there's no case, right? People around here are getting carried away."
"Settle down. Someone might think you're one of the people getting carried away."
Mercifully, the food came. Who knew cinnamon toast had such curative powers? It was no substitute for a hot tub and a good night's sleep, but it helped bring me back to center. And if my mouth was full, it reduced the chances that I'd have another meltdown.
Babe plucked something from the Paradise bulletin board and dropped it near my plate. "Despite the fact that you've maligned my bulletin board, I'm gonna give you this. Here's the name and number for that massage therapist. Make an appointment, honey. You need it." She patted my hand and went off to chat with other more rational customers.
I did need it. And I needed something else I didn't like to admit. Sex had never been all that great between Chris and me; there were more than a few nights I was left staring at the ceiling thinking clematis when I should have been thinking clitoris. Especially toward the end. Even so, when you don't have it, you damn well miss it.
Exercise helped, but recently working in the garden had taken the place of serious weight training, so I was also missing that endorphin high. I decided to go back home and pump some iron before heading to Halcyon.
"Babe, I don't know what Pete put on this bread, but I feel a lot better already."
"Who knows? He's been watching the Food Network for two solid days." She motioned to the business card near my toast. "You gonna call my pal or what?"
I looked at the card—tasteful aqua and cream—
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