• • •
Roxy and I both woke up to somebody pounding on the kitchen door. I dragged myself out, not a bit eager to learn who was making the racket, let alone why.
Baxter, clad in unadorned royal blue Hanes sweats, looked more awake than I must have but not one iota happier. “What the hell were you doing at the Garden Center tonight?”
I went for the sleepily confused sound. “The Garden Center?”
“It’s well past midnight. I am not Prince Charming and you are not Cinderella. You don’t need to try on the damn glove—I saw you wearing it Friday night.”
“Do you want to come in? The moths are congregating.”
He strode past me into the dining room. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“It’s booby-trapped.”
“Look, we can continue this discussion down at my office.”
I stifled the “Fine with me!” He did have a right to be pissed, along with good enough reason to drag me to a building that, in addition to assorted offices, contained several holding cells. “I went there for two reasons,” I said, spacing the words to calm myself. “One, to gather information about their finances and two, to try and jog that out-of-focus memory I had about Ryan. You did imply earlier this evening you needed all the help I could provide?”
He pulled out a chair and sat down. “I was not suggesting breaking and entering.”
I sat too. “Since when is using your keys breaking in?”
“How about when you’re no longer authorized to have them? I can call the Etlingers and get their take on that. They’re probably still awake.”
“All right. I went there on my own initiative. Nobody pushed me, and I knew the Etlingers would not approve. This was the most promising, lowest-risk way I could think of to maybe find out why Ryan was killed, which I am convinced has to do with money. Does that satisfy you?”
“It’s a beginning. What financial information are you talking about? Since I wouldn’t let you look at the books, you decided to reconstruct them on your own?”
“Not exactly. I stopped by to see Skip Boyles on my way home from Speculator. He knows a lot about the Garden Center’s financial history. If I could fill in some of the blanks, he thought he could come up with a pretty good idea of how things should look now. To compare to the official books. He did not in any way suggest that I do something illegal.”
“Were you able to find what he needs?”
“I don’t think I’d better answer that.”
“What my deputy said, when he woke me up, was he thought he saw a light inside the Garden Center. So he stopped and checked the two front doors, went around to the side door, which was unlocked, and entered. He look a quick look around, but didn’t see anybody or anything that seemed wrong. Given that an employee had recently been murdered, though, he thought he’d better call me over. I told him to notify the senior Etlingers, too. As far as the four of us could tell, the only thing that happened in there was somebody or something had attacked a potted plant.”
“Something?”
“Cats do that, though they usually aren’t very good with locked doors. There are several cats around the place, and once in a while one of them gets shut in the building overnight. And maybe an employee forgot to lock the door— Eleanor said that’s happened occasionally. The two of them looked around a little to see if anything was missing. Everything appeared to be okay. Maybe tomorrow, when they have time to look more closely?”
“I think that’ll be all right.”
“Then I’d have to say that if Skip wants to work up an assessment of how the Garden Center finances should read, I’ll be happy to hand it to our auditor and let him make comparisons.”
“Thanks.”
“But I do want whatever you found in that pot.”
I fetched the packet from the kitchen drawer where I’d stashed it; the key I left where it was. He hesitated briefly before picking up the packet, probably concluding that the surface was hopelessly corrupted already for fingerprinting. Like me, he leafed through the papers first, then opened the journal. “Would you like a synopsis?” I offered.
“Why not.”
“Some people use words to record their lives—Ryan apparently went with figures. His journal reminds me of the records I used to keep back when I was starting out on my property rehabs. It’s very detailed, very easy to follow. Literally down to the penny he entered what he earned, what he spent, what he saved, what he transferred from one type of savings to another. At the end of each month he did totals and comparison charts; end of each year, the same thing.” I took the journal from him and opened it at random. “In 1995, to give you an example—”
“Didn’t you say synopsis?”
“I was just establishing my credentials. Okay. With his first paycheck he started putting aside $100; when it got to $500 he opened the first of two brokerage accounts. As his salary increased, so did the monthly investment portion; at the Garden Center it was $400. By July 1 of this year he had close to $60,000 in those accounts.”
“I’m not much into stocks. Was he doing well, would you say? Maybe too well?”
“Reasonably well. He was pretty conservative. I have accounts that did better for the period but not immensely better. When he left his last job in Watertown there was a $20,000 payout. This could have been profit-sharing, severance, pension contribution, who knows? What’s unusual is that Ryan didn’t identify it, nor did he indicate where it went. This is the only oddity I could find anywhere in those figures.”
Baxter thumbed slowly through the journal till he reached the last page. He put his index finger at the bottom and looked up at me. “Are you ready to bring me the continuation?”
“I wish I could.”
“Val—”
“Tell me something. Did Ryan keep plants in his apartment?”
“I don’t remember any. What’s that—?”
“Ryan had no interest in plants. That was my memory: him kneeling beside that ugly rubber tree in his office. Reaching in. So I did the same. I found the packet, pulled it out. Contents, what you’ve got there and only that. I was pawing through the rest of the walled-off area in the pot to see if whoever had been there before me missed anything when your guy started banging on the front door. There was no time to tidy up.”
“Do you want to tell me why I should believe that?”
I was suddenly tired. Tired of him, tired of the whole thing, tired period. “Beats the hell out of me.”
“It’s a tough question, all right.” He scrunched forward in the chair to reach into his front pants pocket. Extracting my glove, he tossed it on the table. “You’d better put it with the other one.”
“I’ll do that.” I got up and headed for the kitchen drawer. “Meantime, I do have one other little thing for you.”
CHAPTER 11
Monday morning I uncharacteristically slept in—it was almost eight-thirty when I dragged myself out of bed. Having cooked bacon and eggs to commemorate something or other, I was in the living room getting ready to hit the road when the kitchen doorbell sounded—three harsh stabs’ worth. It didn’t sound friendly to Roxy either; she had planted herself three feet back from the door and was barking authoritatively.
“Kate,” I said, opening up. She was carrying a good-sized cardboard box, with a partially full black plastic garbage bag threatening to slip off the top. Years ago she had mastered the Etlinger effortless grooming effect. Her straight black hair fell in just the right slanted line. I couldn’t begin to guess what cosmetic components had gone into her facial presentation, but they worked well. Motherless from an early age, she’d been a scruffy tomboy child, Willem and Denny both had told me. Wedding pictures showed an image in the making; it was well made now. Besides running the store, Kate was seriously into parenting, rather more seriously than Willem, who enjoyed the girls but didn’t do much in the way of directing them. She also belonged to all the right clubs and was a top local competitor in both golf and tenni
s. “I’m sure you were in a hurry when you stopped by the office. You left some things in your cubicle we don’t need or want. If you don’t want them either, fine, but I didn’t see why we should be stuck with the disposal costs.”
All two or three dollars’ worth? “Just set the stuff down—right there’s fine—and I’ll take a look.”
“I’d also like your keys, since you obviously won’t be needing them again.”
“Of course. Want to come in? I don’t know just where—”
“I’m sure it won’t take you long to put your hands on them. I’ll wait here.”
On form, I made her cool her heels a while. Which of my office visits was this a response to, I wondered—the scene with Rodney, or the theoretical cat marauder? Unable to think of a way to trick her into telling me, I reluctantly came out and handed her the keys. Barking a thank-you, she strode off to her car.
Leaving the office detritus where it was, I drove over to Mariah’s to mark off one segment of a path, which took barely half an hour. She wasn’t up and stirring yet, at least not visibly. Normally, we were on the phone at least once a day, but by then several had gone by without either of us making contact. The next time Ryan’s murder came up—and how could it not?— we’d almost have to get into specific people, which meant those around Willem. Apparently neither of us was in a rush to do that.
Before leaving my house I had put the papers I’d lifted for Skip in one of those indestructible white-and-green envelopes. After the stop at Mariah’s I drove out to his place and left it between the two front doors, with a note. This completed my shedding of the materials from last night’s raid. Baxter had taken the packet contents with him; I doubted they’d be of any further use. Even if I’d made a clean getaway from the Garden Center, I’d have found a way to give him that key. It would be so much easier for him to track it down. Would he share his results? Last night he’d offered neither thanks nor promises, only a tight-lipped “No more stunts.”
The rest of the day I dedicated to the garden design I’d need the following morning. Thank God the preliminary site plan was already on my computer. I’d been playing with it on and off since June. It looked adequate for a sure-to-be modified document, but I did a little retooling anyhow, printed it, and got out my watercolors to add tinting—it’s a nicer effect than going with the colors the computer shapes come in. Since I religiously keep up my database, the program could also provide lists of reasonably accurate cost estimates on the materials. So, two-thirds of the package with minimal effort.
The remainder I’d barely started on. Willem is artistically gifted; his sketches of how a planting will look from an upright human being’s perspective are nice enough to frame. Mine are at best workmanlike, so a couple of years ago I sprang for a computer imaging program. You take pictures of a property, scan them in, and have the computer add, remove, or change different elements. It’s fun to play around with and lets people see their actual property in reasonable approximations of how it might look if various changes are made. I found myself getting fussier about the sizes, shapes, and colors of the added elements than I would usually be. By late afternoon I felt distinctly enervated but still couldn’t bring myself to say okay, that’s good enough.
What finally did it was Mariah calling, around a quarter to seven, to invite me over to join her and Willem in the spa. The pictures were more than adequate, and I really didn’t need to hang around the house till nine to make the call we’d set up to the camp store at Speculator. I could just as well call the boys from Mariah’s, and what was there to report, anyhow? Surely I deserved some downtime.
There were no two people I’d rather spend it with. Eleanor had come to regard us, in trio form, as the friendship from hell. That’s a secondhand direct quote. I doubt Kate or Rodney put it more favorably. For years we’d been fueling speculations in that social set. Gave them something to slobber over, was Mariah’s dismissal. People are a lot easier to deal with when you don’t want anything from them.
Which is not to say both Willem and Mariah didn’t value their privileges of association. Correctly, they did not perceive them as threatened. I, also correctly, perceived mine as nonexistent.
It might be fun, though, to hear what people supposed went on when we got together. Both us gals were rumored to sleep with Willem every now and then—how about all three of us at once, with exotic variations?
About as far as we got along that line was not wearing bathing suits in the spa. What drew us together initially was the realization that this tripartite formulation somehow freed us up to say whatever we pleased, try out whatever ideas popped into our heads. It had become intoxicating, this liberation from self-censorship. I wondered if it would still be in working order, given Ryan’s murder and Mariah’s and my uneasy speculations about who might have been involved.
Willem was already there when I arrived, glass of merlot in hand. Given the hour, Mariah’s vodka martini was at least her second. My Molson’s, which she insisted on housing in what looked to me like a large wineglass, was waiting on the table.
Mariah’s spa patio was her equivalent of a drawing room. It was where she received people. Afternoons between four and six you could count on her being there and expect a warm welcome if you dropped by for a soak and a drink or two. After six, you waited for an invitation, or at least called first. Friday on through the weekend, she’d probably be off somewhere at a party.
I stripped, picked up my beer, and joined them in the spa. Top of the line in terms of quality, and generously accommodating four people, it dominated the huge patio, which had, in fact, been built around it. Overhead was a domed roof, paneled with sun-darkening screens in summer, glass panes in winter. That evening the three sides were open, except for the two fixed end sections closest to the house, from which huge screens and glass panels could be tracked out as needed.
The patio furniture was oversized and sinfully comfortable. There was an oval teak table for dining and a four-stool bar of matching wood. Cabinets next to the house wall hid a refrigerator, a complex cooking unit, and an entertainment center. The lighting could be programmed for any mood and there were backup heating and cooling systems with myriad options. I’d told Mariah once that all she really needed besides was a less exposed place to sleep. If times ever got tough, she could rent out her other sixteen rooms.
“Tonight,” she announced as I settled onto one of the spa seats, “I declare a theme party.”
“You’re declaring the theme, or do we get to make suggestions?”
“You do not. This, my dears, is a celebration of the four years of your lovely and rewarding professional relationship.”
“Ah, my farewell party,” I said.
“Who’s moving away? I shan’t name names, but what we’re saying goodbye to is all those irritations and limitations and false expectations that came to be imposed from without. A celebration, definitely.” She raised her martini glass.
Willem smiled at me. “Provided you’re still available for consultation.”
“I don’t figure on changing my phone number.”
“Very well, I agree it is appropriate to celebrate four-year highlights; there have been many. I can accept, though hardly celebrate, that our Valerie is ready to be her own boss. And Mariah, dear as you are to me, I shall not for one moment mind explaining that no, Mariah Hansen’s garden is not an example of Etlingers’ style. From oddity to oddity it’s been entirely her idea, aided and abetted by a former colleague who usually knows better. Cheers.”
“I may deduct something from my final payment for that.”
“Double it,” I told her.
“Have mercy. Mother’s already spitting tacks about your notion of how to settle accounts. And then there was this weird thing that happened last night. Oops. Maybe we’d better make another type of deduction, in the interest of not dampening our festive spirit.”
“Such as prohibiting all discussion of current local happenings?” Mariah asked.
&nbs
p; “That sounds marvelous to me,” he concurred.
“Let’s also throw in a ban on unkind comments about people some of us like and some of us don’t,” I suggested.
“That’ll only apply to you ladies: I like everybody.”
“One of your problems: a galloping lack of discernment.” He splashed me. “So. This clears us to contemplate love, beauty, and the meaning of the universe.”
“Balls,” Mariah protested. “What we are contemplating is four-year highlights. This is a theme party, remember? There was, for starters, that afternoon you brought Val over here for the first time. And as we walked the grounds the two of us kept up this steady stream of biting insults: my execrable tastes, your disgusting fixation on oversized, overripe flowers. She’s looking from the one to the other of us, wondering if we’re actually going to come to blows.”
“I came to suspect you guys staged that.”
“We may have enhanced a trifle.”
“We wanted you to develop a sense of mission. It wasn’t a deception, really.”
“There’s nothing wrong with deception,” I declared, “when the cause is noble. Remember Mrs. Ballantine?”
Willem grinned. “How could one forget? Mariah, this is a woman who’d lived in a paved world much too long. Her husband got transferred to Albany and they bought the Beckers’ place on Mile Hill Road. Decent yard, but overgrown—it needed work. Val got the assignment, one of her first for us.”
“Lucky Val?”
“Hey, I enjoy challenges. Mrs. Ballantine would’ve been happier pouring concrete over the whole yard than having to contend with all those messy living things growing out there. Or God forbid crawling or flying through the air.”
Willem took a long sip from his merlot. “It was hilarious. You know how Val always tries to make a garden the extension of its owner.”
“We were managing to communicate, sort of, until we got to this area where there was a huge, marvelous red oak, must’ve been around for a hundred and fifty years at least, fantastic branch lines. She wanted to cut it down and make a goddamn kiddy playground for her grandchildren. Paved, of course.”
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