Pushing Up Daisies db-1

by Rosemary Harris

  With all this rain, gardening was definitely out; tramping around in the muck isn't good for the soil, and anything planted in this goop probably wouldn't survive. Instead, I decided to tackle a less pleasant but necessary task.

  Guido Chiaramonte's heavy machinery—the chipper and the riding mower—had already been returned, but I still had a lot of smaller items that belonged to him. Hand tools mostly—dibbles, augers, coas—many more than I had reason to own in my one-woman operation. I dreaded it, but I'd bring them back myself.

  It was too early to leave for either Halcyon or Guido's, and I'd started to regret Anna's buttered roll, which was already settling on my hips, so I embarked on another less pleasant but necessary task—cardio. By my calculations and according to the heart-rate monitor Lucy had given me, I'd need fifty minutes on the rowing machine to work off that baby, and I dreaded it. Cardio was boring. The best experience I'd ever had on a rowing machine was the time I accidentally caught Ben-Hur on television and did my workout to the chant of ramming speed, but I didn't own the movie and thought it unlikely I'd get lucky twice.

  I bailed after thirty minutes and went a few rounds with the punching bag. The smack of leather hitting leather brought Anna out, armed with a heavy-duty stapler—God knows what damage she could inflict with that thing—but she quickly retreated when she saw it was just me and not a return visit from our prowler.

  She was still sequestered in my office by the time I was ready to leave. My anorak hung over the banister. I grabbed it and my keys and yelled to her that I'd be back after lunch. I rooted through the backpack to make sure I had the cell.

  "If Hugo or Felix calls they can reach me on the cell, okay?"

  "Sí, sí, sí, but I am leaving soon." Then more Spanish too fast for my gringo brain to decipher.

  The rain had eased from blinding to driving. At Halcyon, a black Lincoln I recognized as the Stapleys' was parked at the side of the house. I called out for Richard a few times, but was eager to get out of the rain, so I hustled over to the green house and started packing up Guido's tools. Early on, Hugo had cleverly suggested we put colored tape on the handles of anything we'd borrowed to make sure it was returned to its rightful own er. I picked through two large Rubbermaid containers for tools with orange tape on the handles, Guido's color. I peeled off the tape, and gave them each a swipe with an oiled rag before loading his into a single container.

  The rain had picked up again, and the sound of it on the green house roof was like artillery fire. Or what I imagined artillery fire was like. But I still had an hour to spare, and nothing more to do, so I ran from the greenhouse to the never-locked back door. Inside the mud-room I shook off the anorak and stamped the rain from my shoes, checking the time again. Not enough time to start a new project but too much time to spend with Guido Chiaramonte.

  Looking around the tiny room for a second time, I noticed the small framed needlepoints were bordered with roses. I made a mental note to look up the quotes; even without knowing their origin, the sentiments about sisterhood were moving.

  I went inside the house and up the stairs to Dorothy's library. As soon as I entered, I could sense something was different. The fine layer of dust that had covered everything when Neil and I were there was disturbed. Not cleaned, just . . . handled. The library table, the globe, the books themselves, everything was slightly askew. Then I noticed one of the needlepoints was missing. So were three or four books.

  I'd mentioned to someone there might be rare books here but couldn't remember to whom or whether I might have been overheard. I searched for The Temple of Flora. Right where I left it. Since that was arguably the most valuable book in the library, robbery didn't seem a likely motive. Was there really a journal as Neil seemed to recall? And was something in it someone wouldn't want found? I walked to the bookcase where the shelf had been cleared out, and hunkered down to see.

  "Looking for something?"

  I turned around quickly, slamming my shoulder into the solid oak bookcase.

  "Richard! You startled me. I didn't hear you."

  "Horrible weather. I'm surprised you're out in it." He shook out his hat and rolled down the cuffs of his pants. Standing there quite still, face dripping wet, he made me nervous. He seemed to be waiting for an explanation.

  "I was just getting in out of the rain," I said, rubbing my shoulder. "I'm on my way to Chiaramonte's, but I had some time." He stood motionless and said nothing.

  I worked my way around the library table to the side near the door. "Have you seen this?" I pointed to The Temple of Flora. "It's amazing. I understand there are only twenty or so in the world. The original plates were destroyed after an auction. To make the books more valuable," I babbled.

  "That's a clever investment strategy. Anything else of interest?"

  "No. I just happened to notice the book because a copy was on display at the New York Botanical Garden. I kept meaning to go see it. I thought maybe the Peacocks had a journal or diary—you know, like The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady," I joked.

  "You know, strictly speaking, we never discussed your needing to enter the house."

  I started to explain that I'd called SHS, then decided I didn't want to get Inez in trouble.

  "I hope it's not a problem." He didn't answer.

  "The insurance company isn't scheduled to come for another few weeks, but I've been downstairs all morning trying to inventory anything of value. China mostly. I just ran out for a coffee before starting on this room." He thumbed through the copy of The Temple of Flora. "Thank you for telling me about this, although it's likely just a reproduction," he said, turning the book over in his hands.

  Richard's cheery manner from the other day had vanished, and in its place was the clipped, supercilious tone I'd experienced that first day at SHS. Okay, maybe he was bipolar. Maybe he thought I'd stolen something. I thought of the book I'd borrowed and wondered when I could sneak back in to replace it without Richard's knowing.

  "Don't let me keep you," he said. "And give Chiara-monte my regards."

  CHAPTER 26

  Compared to other nurseries in southwestern Connecticut, Chiaramonte's had a decidedly retro style. He didn't carry five different types of basil, and he didn't sell resin Buddhas, Japanese stepping-stones, or tranquility chimes. Most of Guido's shrubs looked like they had set down roots right out of their nursery pots, and he eschewed all other bedding plants in favor of red and white impatiens. Not even New Guinea impatiens. How he stayed in business was baffling.

  I opened the door to Guido's shop, displacing two of the nursery's many cats, and the fresh-faced clerk behind the counter seemed stunned to see a customer on such a miserable day. She was chair-dancing to what ever pounding music was pumping through her headphones and hand-lettering one of the crude, self-promotional signs Guido wanted me to place at Halcyon. I'd have to nip that baby in the bud. I told her why I was there.

  "He must be in the back," she said, removing her headphones and wearing them as a necklace. "I just got here. I haven't seen him yet." She sifted through the clutter on the dirty counter—Bag Balm, watering worms, and sell sheets for deer fencing. "We have these walkietalkies. They're kind of lame, but would you like me to try him?"

  "Sure, give him a buzz."

  I lingered near the electric space heater while she fiddled with the buttons on the walkie-talkie, which she apparently rarely used, since her strategy was to push every button and yell hello. Hanging from the beams in Guido's shop were baskets of all shapes and sizes, and Styrofoam hearts, crosses, and wreaths. Maybe that was it. Guido catered to the cemetery crowd. As long as people kept dying, Guido would stay in business.

  "He's not answering, but he doesn't always carry his walkie-talkie with him. The car's here though, so he must be around."

  "No problem, I know where the office is. I'll drive around to the back. If he's not there, I'll just leave the tools and a note."

  That would be a break, not having to actually interact with His Oiliness. I p
ulled into the pergola-covered parking area that separated Guido's trailer from the rest of the nursery and crossed the wet gravel to Guido's office. The door to the trailer was open and I could hear the crackle of the walkie-talkie as the girl kept trying to reach him.

  I knocked on the door frame. "Guido? Mr. Chiara-monte? It's Paula. I've brought back the rest of your tools."

  I stepped into the trailer, trying to make as much noise as possible. With Guido's reputation, I didn't want to catch him in flagrante anything. Catalogs and plant labels were everywhere. On top of a gray metal file cabinet was a plaster model of the Fifields' grotesque fountain.

  "Guido?"

  I ventured farther inside and detected a subtle shift in the decor—from messy office to sloppy love nest. A saggy, stained couch conjured up images of Guido and his women. A boom box and a handful of audio -cassettes—Jerry Vale and Dean Martin, as I expected, and a generic opera compilation—sat on the plain pine coffee table.

  Ooooh-kaaay, I thought to myself, time to hit the road. It would be just like Guido to be standing behind me with a bottle of wine and a head full of crazy notions.

  I was about to leave when something on the floor caught my eye. White and fluffy, at first I thought it was another of Guido's cats. It didn't move, but something else did. A huge fly, feeding on the pool of blood the head was sitting in. Guido Chiaramonte was facedown on the floor of his trailer—a long-handled Mexican coa protruding from his back.

  CHAPTER 27

  EMS was there in six minutes. The girl and I sat in the shop, waiting for the cops. She was numb.

  "What's your name?" I asked, trying to pretend things were normal.

  "Tanya."

  "Tanya, do you want to call your parents? Or someone to pick you up?"

  "I don't have a cell. My folks won't let me have a cell yet. And Mr. C. doesn't let us use the phone for personal calls." She was shaking now, making noiseless sobs.

  "I think just this once it'll be okay."

  Tanya was in the pro cess of leaving someone a long-winded, disjointed message when Mike O'Malley and the other cops arrived. They told us to sit tight, then they headed for the trailer. Twenty minutes later, O'Malley came back to the shop. He questioned me first.

  "Why is it you're the only one to find bodies in this town?" he whispered, not wanting to frighten the girl.

  "Maybe you're not looking," I snapped. "Besides, he's not a body. He's still alive, right?"

  "Barely. It's a miracle with all the blood he lost. Good thing you came along when you did."

  I shuddered; if Richard hadn't interrupted me in the library, I might still be there, reading. And Guido might be dead. "I came here, saw Guido on the floor, and called the police. End of story. That's all I know."

  O'Malley turned his attention to the girl.

  "This is Tanya," I said.

  "Tanya—Richardson," she added. "I have to pick up my little brother from his piano lesson at four."

  "Don't worry. We'll be finished long before then," Mike said gently.

  "Mr. C. doesn't let us have the keys. I don't know how I'm supposed to lock up." She began to blubber again; I handed her a tissue. "Is—is he going to be all right?" she asked.

  "He's in good hands now. And don't worry about the shop; we'll take care of it. I just need you to tell me everything that happened this morning."

  "Nothing happened. Nothing. I can't believe I switched days with LaToya. I wasn't even supposed to be here." She shredded the tissue in her lap.

  I put my arm around her for support.

  "Just tell me everything from the minute you walked in the door," O'Malley said.

  "I got here at eleven. Mr. C. wasn't around, but that's not unusual. He gets here at the crack of dawn, so sometimes he's eating lunch and listening to music when 'his girls' come in. That's what he calls us," she sniffled, "me, and LaToya Kidd. LaToya doesn't like it, but I don't mind. He's a harmless old geezer." She blew her nose loudly. "I didn't have one customer all morning. Until this lady." When did I change from girl to lady?

  "Not even someone who didn't buy anything?" Mike asked.

  "Nobody."

  "No phone calls?"

  "None. Well, one, but it was a hang-up. I figured it was a telemarketer who didn't realize he'd dialed a business."

  "You remember what time it was?"

  "Maybe eleven fifteen, right after I got here. Honest, I didn't see or talk to Guido or anybody until this lady came."

  When O'Malley finished with Tanya, he asked if she'd like a ride home.

  "Are you kidding? If my neighbors see me coming home in a police car, my parents will ground me for life." She looked at him as if he were titanically stupid.

  "I can give Tanya a lift, if she wants."

  She nodded enthusiastically.

  "I may have a few more questions for you," O'Mal-ley said to me.

  "I'm not skipping town. You know where to find me."

  "That I do."

  I hadn't been in the diner for five minutes before O'Malley slipped into the booth opposite me.

  "Jeez. You don't waste any time."

  "I hadn't quite finished with you, but I didn't want to scare the kid any more than she already was," he said.

  "Me neither," I said. "That's why I drove her home. I tried to reassure her, I even suggested it might have been an accident—but she's a smart girl, I don't think she bought it."

  "You think she's okay?" he asked.

  "She's all right. What's that thing people always say about kids . . . they're resilient? I love that. She was more concerned about putting on a good face for her little brother. I called the hospital; Guido's still unconscious," I said.

  "Yes, I know."

  I'd intruded on his turf. "Sorry. Any suspects?"

  "Apart from you? How much time do you have? They're not exactly putting up any statues to Guido in Mexico or Guatemala or Colombia. Or here, for that matter. A lot of his workers have probably wanted to do the same over the years."

  "But actually doing it, that's something else."

  Mike looked down at the six dishes on the table. Babe and Pete saw the fuss at the police station and had heard about Guido. They'd been plying me with comfort foods since I walked in; dishes were lined up in formation from one end of the table to the other.

  "You should have the soup before it gets cold. Cold matzo ball soup is not a good thing," he said. "Will you be eating that muffin?"

  I slid the plate over to his side of the table.

  "No one in the neighborhood heard anything unusual," he said. "Someone saw an old rust bucket parked on the block that morning. No plates, no ID. There's no guarantee it's anything, but we're checking it out." He sliced the muffin into quarters, furthering my suspicion that we had nothing in common; I'd have picked off the top first.

  "The weather was not our friend," he went on. "The rain kept most people indoors, except you, so there aren't a lot of witnesses. You'd think the rain would help with tire tracks or footprints in the nursery, but what wasn't gravel or mulch was a swamp. Primordial ooze. As it is, we've only got yours and some wheelbarrow tracks. What's most telling, as you may have noticed, my budding sleuth, is that there was no sign of a struggle. Guido casually turned his back on his assailant, and was stabbed. We've got a few leads. Not many."

  Which he wasn't inclined to share with an amateur in a crowded public place. He poked through a bowl of condiments until he found a foil thimble of jelly that met with his approval.

  "You'd have to be pretty pissed off at someone to plunge a knife into his back, wouldn't you?" I said. "There isn't the anonymity of dispatching someone from a distance. I imagine shooting someone would be a lot easier than feeling a knife go through someone's flesh."

  "I guess that lets you off the hook. Personally, I'm glad to hear you say that," Mike said, reaching for my knife. "Have you given this much thought or is this all gleaned from repeat screenings of The Godfather?"

  "Guido may be a terrible boss. But fe
w people really kill their employers, even if they fantasize about it. Someone must have really hated him."

  "Maybe it was the last straw, one insult too many, one salacious remark too many," Mike said, meticulously layering jelly on his wedge of muffin. I knew he was leaning toward one of Guido's workers.

  I shook my head. "I know these guys. I can't believe any of them could do this. A lot of them don't even realize how objectionable Guido can be, because of the language difference."

  "You know them? Is that so? You mean like Hugo and Felix?"

  He had me there. How well did I really know any of them? They came, they pruned, they left. They could all be mass murderers or nuclear physicists in their own country for all I knew. I was starting to worry. I hadn't known about Hugo and Anna and I hadn't been able to tell that Felix wasn't a garden-variety leaf blower. And I hadn't seen either of them for days. Were they really working elsewhere and managing the family fortune in Mexico, or were they hiding out?

  "Speaking of which. Where are Hugo and Felix? You were joined at the hip a few weeks ago."

  Well, not quite, pal. Maybe O'Malley did know about that night in the green house. I mumbled something about the new office building, and steered him away from my missing workers.

  "I just don't see Guido enraging one of the workers this much. A good screw you maybe, but a knife in the back?"

  He brushed the crumbs from his fingers, and smiled at the simpleton sitting across from him. "As I said, we're following up on a few things."

  O'Malley got up to leave just as Babe returned with two portions of red Jell-O.

  "Off so soon?" she said, putting the plates down. "This is my speci-al-ity."

  "Thanks for the muffin. She's buying." He turned and left.

  Babe sat down and helped herself to one of the Jell-Os.

  "O'Malley thinks one of the workers did it," I whispered.