by A. J. Carton
They said goodbye just as Emma pulled into the driveway of her home. The two story wood frame house that once belonged to a legendary California mountain man sat under the shade of an enormous magnolia tree. It was surrounded by a garden behind the small Victorian cottage Julie used as the office for her PR firm. Julie and Piers had bought the property when they first moved north from San Francisco, hoping to convince Emma to move there, too. A few years later, when Emma’s best friend, Mary, died, they got their wish.
Now Emma rented the quaint yellow and white wood farmhouse from her daughter and son-in-law. Her daughter’s tenant! It was the last thing an independent single mom had expected. But the home had two bedrooms, a living room, a beautiful wainscoted dining room, a huge new kitchen, a redwood deck and an enormous yard backing onto a wildlife preserve. A few weeks after Emma moved, she realized she had never been happier.
She’d left the outdoor lights on. Up a short flight of stairs to the wrap-around porch, she opened her front door. And sighed. Home. She was home. And everything was just the way she liked it. The living room with its comfortable overstuffed furniture covered in hand woven Mexican fabrics. The dining room big enough for her grandmother’s walnut table and the painted cupboard she’d brought from her San Francisco condo.
Emma climbed the stairs to her cozy bedroom, went to bed and quickly fell asleep.
Three hours later, however, she was wide-awake. Her conversation with Piers played a loop in her head.
Why, in the middle of the night she wondered, did everything sound more ominous than it did by light of day? If Piers was right that Curt Randall had not killed Gomez, then a murderer was on the loose in Blissburg. And if not Randall, then who? A jealous husband? An angry heir?
Worst of all, in the middle of the night Emma wondered if she could have prevented the tragedy. If, perhaps, she could have convinced Steve to drop the lawsuit. And had she done so, whether Santiago Gomez would now be alive.
It seemed to Emma that she had not slept a wink when her alarm sounded at exactly 8:00 a.m. It was time for the Blissburg Sunday Stroll, a weekly event Emma hadn’t missed since the second weekend after she moved to Blissburg.
Emma had looked forward to this particular Sunday Stroll all week and was disappointed that Jack wouldn’t be there. He often knew more about the history of his newly adopted home than the tour leader himself.
Then again, Emma reminded herself, how could the ex Olympic hockey player resist a chance to take his grandson’s to the “Snoopy” rink? An ice hockey facility built by Snoopy’s creator, himself. The same rink where Jack still played, once a week, in what he called the “old guys league.”
Emma walked up Blissburg Avenue for a latte at Claud’s. The truth was, she admitted to herself, her life and Jack’s pulled them in different directions. It was hard to imagine how that might ever change.
By the time she arrived at the plaza, twelve or so of the usual suspects had already gathered at the Spanish style fountain that graced the center of the square. Most of the Strollers balanced coffee and still-warm sour cherry galettes from the Plaza Bakery in their hands.
The second she arrived, Tom Fitzpatrick waved at her. The eighty-something year old triple divorcé owned the Blissburg dump. He’d been trying to worm a dinner out of Emma since they’d met on a Sunday Stroll. Emma was starting to feel guilty about putting him off so long. But for some reason every word out of the old man’s mouth jarred her.
She quickly turned to greet four members of the Walkie-Talkies, the local women’s walking club. Dressed for the stroll in what Emma described as their uniform of black linen pants, long black T-shirts and pastel Wallaroo hats with brims so wide they reached half way to their elbows, the Walkie-Talkies reminded Emma of latter day nuns. An order dedicated to good gossip instead of good works.
“Hi honey. Where’s Jack?” Trish, the ubiquitous Sotheby realtor shouted across the gurgling fountain.
Emma thought she detected an overly arched eyebrow as well. Or perhaps Trish had simply been careless with her makeup that morning. In any event, there was something that annoyed Emma about Trish’s assumption that at 9:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning Emma would know exactly where Jack Russo was. And that if she didn’t, something might be deliciously wrong.
Of course, Emma did know exactly where Jack was. That very minute he was stick handling, or whatever he called it, with his grandsons at the Santa Rosa rink. In fact, he’d called her from there not ten minutes before to boast that eight year old Joshie was a “natural,” on the ice.
“I dunno,” Emma replied to Trish, unwilling to fuel more Sunday morning gossip by a detailed description of the man’s whereabouts. Half of Blissburg, including her own daughter, assumed that she and Jack were having an affair. How wrong they are, Emma mused. But since Jack was now her closest buddy, there was no one to whom she could protest her complete innocence with regard to that. No one who would believe her, that is.
When Trish registered Emma’s response, her eyebrow really did shoot up at least half an inch. She glanced at her companions. Emma couldn’t help noticing the sparkle of excitement in the woman’s eye. And wondered how many dinner invitations Jack was about to receive when three of the Walkie-Talkies immediately excused themselves for a quick pee before heading into the van.
“Don’t leave without us, Silas,” the Walkie-Talkies’ newest member, Jill, a transplant from Oakland who bought out Blossoms and Bulbs, called over her shoulder. Silas was the amateur local historian who’d organized that particular Sunday Stroll.
Meanwhile, Emma and the remaining Strollers boarded the minivan. It was Emma’s first Sunday Stroll that was not conducted entirely on foot. Emma was pleasantly surprised when Silas Bugbee, their slight, bespectacled thirty-something leader, grabbed the seat next to hers.
Emma did not know Silas well. Carter Olsen, the director of the Blissburg Historical Society, usually led the Sunday Stroll. But Emma had encountered Silas during the renovations to her farmhouse in his professional capacity as city architect and head of the Blissburg permit board.
Since the day she first saw him, and he lovingly presented Piers with a copy of the original site map of the legendary California mountain man’s farm, Silas Bugbee had reminded Emma of a nineteenth century New England zealot. A Walden Pond groupie, she had thought to herself.
Even his clothes signaled Thoreau wannabe – thin white billowy shirts tucked into slim, high-waisted beltless serge pants and high-topped leather shoes. The shoes didn’t have buttons, but Emma swore they could have. And while Silas didn’t really have a black silk ribbon tied around his neck in a loose bow, something about the lanyard he always wore on a shiny thick black ribbon reminded her of one. Where, Emma wondered, did one buy such clothes? Maybe there was a Louisa May Alcott website.
To make matters worse, Silas’s thin freckled face half hidden behind a lank curtain of stringy yellow hair, radiated so much zealous excitement that the poor man always seemed on the verge of tears. Indeed, the morning Emma and Piers showed him their architect’s plans, retaining the farmhouse kitchen’s footprint and preserving the original stone hearth, Silas was so appreciative that tears did form at the corners of his eyes and his nose began to drip. Forcing him to remove a really badly stained white cloth handkerchief from his hip pocket to blow his nose and wipe the tears away in that order.
Now, sitting next to him in the van, Emma noted a hand-hammered silver wedding band on Silas’s left ring finger and tried to imagine how Mrs. Bugbee might appear. Dressed, perhaps, in a long grey cotton dress, cinched in a tight v at the waist, with ham hock sleeves. Like the kind those cult people wear in Utah, Emma mused, imagining a pale blond woman with hair tucked under a white cotton bonnet. Then she remembered something. Was it Tom Fitzpatrick who mentioned that Tiffany had worked as a waitress at Hooters?
In any case, Silas was incredibly knowledgeable regarding Blissburg’s social and architectural history. Emma was eager to discuss it with him on that day’s sho
rt ride to the home of the famed local botanist, Luther Burbank.
Silas Bugbee, however, apparently had a different plan. As soon as the Walkie-Talkies returned from their pee ‘n text and the van hit the road, he turned to her.
“Emma,” he began, “today’s lecture is going to be a wee bit of a challenge for me. I may need to turn to you for moral support.”
Emma cocked her head. Am I imagining it? she wondered. Or are tears already sprouting at the corners of his eyes?
“How so?” was all she managed by way of reply.
“I know,” Silas nodded, withdrawing what looked like the same stained handkerchief Emma had seen before and wiping his eyes, “I’m a professional. It’s my job to remain impartial.” He blew his nose and appeared to regain his composure. “It’s about the plums. The plum trees,” he added. “I’m sure you’ve heard. If the Chinese purchase goes through over at the Randall Ranch, why, by next year all those historic trees will be gone. All gone.”
Another thin stream of water threatened to overflowed the rims of the young man’s eyes. Emma had to turn away.
“Will the sale go through, Silas?” Emma asked staring out the window. “After that murder on Friday,” she added with a shrug. “Well, I don’t know. With old man Randall in jail, I mean, can he even sell the place?”
“He’s out on bail,” Silas reminded her, curtly. His clenched jaw signaled that as far as Silas Bugbee was concerned, old Randall could rot in jail for the rest of his life. “Technically, I’ve been told he can consummate the sale. I’m sure his lawyer,” Silas emphasized the word in a not nice way, “has figured that out. I believe the question is whether Huang Ho, the Chinese developer who is buying the ranch, will now try to renegotiate the sale.”
“You mean because of the arrest?” Emma asked, glancing back at him.
Silas shook his head. “No. I’ve been providing the site maps for HoCo’s due diligence. You see, there’s a problem. Pollution has been detected in one of the water tanks. No one knows for sure how deep it goes. Into the wells? The water table? Of course, no one around here cares about historic trees. The question is whether the pollution of our water table might generate a little public outrage to block the sale.”
Emma stared back at Silas in surprise. “You mean, cause Mr. Ho to back out?” Piers hadn’t mentioned a thing about pollution of the Randall plum ranch water supply, but it certainly would explain his desire to close the deal quickly.
“Mr. Huang,” Silas corrected her. “They do it backwards in China.” He blushed and, for a second, Emma thought he was going to cry again. “I thought you might have heard something…”
A light suddenly went on in Emma’s head. Silas had seen Piers’ name on the purchase and sale documents and knew she was Curt Randall’s lawyer’s mother-in-law.
“HoCo won’t back out,” Silas continued, lowering his voice. “But surely the Chinese will ask to renegotiate the sale price. Randall’s lawyer will probably push to close the sale quickly. Before anything worse comes to light and the locals finally wake up. But face it, HoCo won’t do anything about pollution to our water table. The Chinese don’t care about pollution. Just look at Beijing. Of course, as far as I’m concerned destroying those historic plum trees is criminal. You may remember that I tried, unsuccessfully, to organize a protest about that.”
Silas glared at Emma when he spoke. As though she were personally to blame for his failure.
He rolled his eyes and gestured at the handful of people in the minivan, “But, of course, who cares about history these days.” He smirked, “Maybe poisoning our water supply will awaken these idiots to what’s happening to our land.”
Emma looked away again. She well remembered Silas’s attempts to rally support to save the plum trees. In fact, at the time, she’d felt guilty about not joining in the cause. Even more guilty because she knew the only reason she didn’t call the number on the flier she found in her mailbox was because her son-in-law was involved in the deal. Other people will help save the trees, she’d assured herself. But no one had.
Silas touched her lightly on the arm. When Emma glanced back at him, something about the intensity of his stare almost frightened her.
“Is there anyone you could talk to, I mean directly?” he said. “Someone, perhaps, who’s involved in the deal? Anything you could do, personally, to stop this…this slaughter of our trees?”
Emma felt her jaw clamp shut. “I can’t,” she whispered through clenched teeth, angry at being pulled further into the old man’s conflict.
Silas shifted his gaze over her shoulder and out the window. The van had pulled off the highway and was headed into downtown Santa Rosa. A few minutes later, it came to a stop across the street from City Hall.
Silas rose from his seat and turned to address the occupants of the van. “All right everyone…” He glanced around the bus. “We have reached our morning’s destination. The van will drop us at the main entrance to the Luther Burbank Home and Gardens. I will guide you on a tour of this extraordinary man’s home. Do not wander. Please stay with me throughout our tour of this registered national, state and city historic landmark.”
The van deposited its occupants at the front entrance of the white wood framed Victorian building. In many ways, Emma noted, the famed Luther Burbank’s home resembled her own little Blissburg farmhouse. Half the house was one story, its entrance off of a long covered front porch. The other half was two stories high, with two large downstairs windows and a single window in the middle of the second story under the peak of the roof. Indeed, many old houses in Santa Rosa resembled the modest, welcoming little cottage – a far cry from Burbank’s much larger brick Lancaster, Massachusetts birthplace pictured inside the Santa Rosa museum.
But that was Luther Burbank’s style, Silas informed the Sunday Strollers as they stood listening to his informative lecture, staring about the horticulturalist’s unpretentious living room. The inventor of the Russet potato, the freestone peach and the beloved Santa Rosa plum – to name just a few of the over 800 varieties of plants that the world famous horticulturist and botanist developed over his fifty-five year career – was, Silas explained, a kind and humble man. A man devoted to humanity and to nature in all its forms. His home, where he had hosted friends like the inventor Thomas Edison and the industrialist, Henry Ford, bore witness to his simple tastes.
As one friend and admirer, the Paramahansa Yogananda phrased it, in a quotation from his book, Autobiography of a Yogi that Emma found printed on a T-shirt in the Burbank Home and Garden gift shop:
“…he knew the worthlessness of luxury, the joy of few possessions.”
Later, in the garden, while extolling the special qualities of the famed Santa Rosa plum, Silas Bugbee broke down one more time:
“You see,” he explained, “the Santa Rosa plum was Mr. Burbank’s crown jewel.”
Silas had been speaking to the Strollers gathered in the middle of the lush Burbank gardens. As he spoke the words “crown jewel,” like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, the young man produced a perfect, golf ball sized plum out of the coarse leather saddlebag he always wore strapped across his chest. The effect was as dramatic as the gesture. Strollers gasped. He might as well have pulled out the Crown Jewels themselves.
“The full, sweet flavor,” Silas explained, biting into the taut, perfectly colored skin, “is balanced by just a hint of tartness. Note how the rich, purple hue on the outside hides juicy yellow flesh blushing along its perimeter as though embarrassed by its own sensuality. Finally,” he added inhaling deeply while sticky juice overflowed his glistening lips and dripped down his fingers, “experience the mouthiness, if you will. The compact size, pulsing with flavor.”
As he spoke, Emma experienced what felt like a hot flash. Trish, standing next to her, inhaled sharply and opened her fan. Then, just as he finished speaking, Silas pulled more flawless purple Santa Rosa plums out of his satchel, and passed them around.
There was a brief pause in th
e lecture while the Strollers sucked on their plums.
“On a personal note,” Silas continued, “unfortunately Luther Burbank, a transplant himself, from Massachusetts - the man who knew how to make anything and everything increase and multiply - ”
At this point Silas did choke up and was unable to continue. He pulled out his hanky and wiped his eyes.
“Except,” he finally resumed his lecture, “except for himself. Unfortunately, Luther Burbank died childless.”
Silas’ performance was so moving a few of the Walkie-Talkies embraced him in a group hug before breaking down in tears.
Silas waved them away so he could continue.
“This true servant of humanity,” he concluded, “gave generously to local schools, worked tirelessly to provide better and more abundant nourishment to mankind, and eventually, without heirs of his own, gave all this,” Silas gestured to the home and gardens, “to us. He died, here, on April 11, 1926 and is buried on these grounds near the greenhouse. We will now make our way to his last resting place. If you will please follow me.”
“Wow,” Emma remarked to Tom Fitzgerald as they walked to the famed horticulturalist’s grave. “Somebody sure had his priorities straight. I think I’ll bring my daughter here. And my grandson.”
“Too bad a man like that never had children,” Tom replied.
Emma was about to agree, but Silas had overheard Tom’s remark. Before Emma could speak, the young man shook his head.
“No,” he snapped. “You are wrong, Tom. If Luther Burbank had had children, he’d never have left all this to us.” He gestured around the property again, the gardens blooming with roses, the hothouses filled with endlessly new varieties of life. “These are his children.” He glared pointedly at Emma. “Too bad our children don’t understand the priceless nature of his gifts.”
Chapter 5: Sunday Night – The Devil’s Business
