The Gardener

by Michelle DePaepe

  He found his anger receding as his mind drifted back to the way Georgia’s body had felt against his as they danced on the porch.

  He knew that he had her. He had begun to worm his way into her heart.

  But...there were those women, like Margaret, that seemed to swoon in his arms...only to rebel at the last, most important moment. It troubled him that Margaret’s blood flowed through Georgia’s veins. It would be a sad day if she turned on him.

  No, he told himself. It will never happen, because she will not have any reason to.

  He hopped off the rim and reached into his pocket, unfurling a wad of bills from his money clip—a collection stolen from his victims.

  It was time to start gathering the things for Georgia’s surprise.

  Because he had told her that he had sold his unreliable truck and planned to buy another in spring, he set off on foot.

  He whistled to himself as he walked towards town, knowing that tomorrow would be the beginning of the chain of events that would lead to Georgia becoming his bride...or her death and the death of everyone and everything that she loved.

  Chapter 66

  Later that week, Opal invited Karl to go out to dinner. Her mind was too frazzled to cook, so she suggested that they drive over to Hondelsburg to the local steakhouse.

  Leaving her favorite purple and black dresses and crystals in the closet, she dressed in a conservative navy blue suit and her best pearls. She was quiet on the way to the restaurant, rehearsing her speech in her mind over and over.

  Once their meals were served, she started with niceties about the weather, current events, and happenings around town. She waited until after they had finished their steaks and were digging into dessert before she began.

  “Karl, you know my line of work?”

  “Of course, Ma. You’re my tarot-reading, witchy mother who loves to do séances with the dead. Just like every other sixty-something small town lady around here, right?”

  “There’s no need to be catty,” she said as she reached across the table and pulled a fuzz ball off of his gray & maroon striped sweater. “How far back did you have to reach into the closet for that sweater, anyway? It looks like a relic from twenty years ago.”

  “Chastising my wardrobe won’t help your cause. Why don’t you go ahead with your spiel?”

  She pouted then began. “Well...as I was saying. Whether you believe it or not...I do contact the spirits of the dead.” She had to make him believe. “It’s a great comfort to folks who have lost a loved one to hear a message from them again.”

  “And when you contact one of these spirits...how do you know it’s the right person you’re talking to?”

  “It usually just feels right. That’s how I know I’ve dialed the right number. The setting and the living person across from me are usually enough to draw the right soul forth. But, as I told you before...a few months ago, something terrible happened.”

  “Let me guess...this time...you called up Elvis. He’s not dead. He’s been living somewhere in the Bahamas growing sugarcane and mangoes. Now, he’s here haunting someone in Calathia...”

  Opal reached across the table and punched him in the arm. “Will you be serious? Georgia’s life is in danger.”

  “Georgia? I don’t want you pestering her any more. She’s a nice lady and...”

  “A nice lady who might die soon if you don’t help me.”

  “All right. You’ve got my attention. But you’d better get it out while my mouth is full of pie. I’m less likely to make wisecracks that way.”

  Opal gave her most sincere rendition yet of the night in July when she did the séance for VirginiaBlake. “This spirit’s force was so strong. I did everything I could think of to push him back with my mind and chants...but he barreled through like some unstoppable monster.”

  “And where is he now?”

  “He’s still in the house...with Georgia.”

  “Then, why isn’t she afraid...if this ghost is haunting her?”

  “She doesn’t realize what he is. He looks as real as you or me and becomes more human every day.”

  “I thought ghosts were some sort of ethereal things that could hardly be seen.”

  “He started out that way, but as he fed off of Virginia’s energy and the energy of the others he’s killed...he began to regain his mortal flesh.”

  “Really? Does this ghoul have a name?”

  “AlphonsoGiovanni.” She relayed the rest of the tale...leaving nothing out. She told him how he attacked her, about the century-old box at the Calathia Inn, and the story about how WilliamCrawford shot Alphonso after he drowned Margaret in the fountain.

  "The MargaretCrawford?”

  “Yes...the one from the legend.”

  “I thought she drowned herself...committed suicide.”

  “It was a lie. Her family covered up the entire double murder to avoid further scandal.”

  “So, this is the family Georgia is descended from. I didn’t realize she had such a lurid past.”

  “I’m sure he’s the one behind all the murders around town.”

  “Now, that’s an interesting theory. I can’t imagine going to the Sheriff with it.”

  “I’ve already tried. That old sack of potatoes wouldn’t listen to me. What does he care? He’s retiring. Solving the murders will fall into the next Sheriff’s lap. Which might be yours, if you’re elected.”

  “Fine,” he said with an indulging grin. “How do I find this Alphonso fellow and check him out for myself?”

  “You’ve already met him.”

  He laid down his fork and stared at her as if paying attention for the very first time.

  “At the carnival. He introduced himself as DanielMoreno. He was the dead groom on Georgia’s arm.”

  Karl gasped as the color drained from his cheeks.

  “Karl...please...will you help me now?”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  Chapter 67

  Georgia paced from room to room, wondering how to work the paintings and sculptures from her contemporary art collection into the antique décor of her grandmother’s house.

  Daniel seemed to slither around behind her that day like a snake on an invisible leash. Each time she went into a different room, he shadowed her and lingered nearby. Despite liking his company, she found herself growing irritated.

  She confronted him in the parlor as the late afternoon light grew dim and caused long shadows to stretch across the room like thin bony fragments of their original shape. “Are you bored or something? You’ve been following me around all day like a lost puppy. Haven’t you got friends about town or something to do?”

  He turned and looked at her with an imploring expression. His eyes, at first, were kiwi green, but her words seemed to bruise them and turn them purple.

  “I’ll leave you be. Arrivederci.”

  She watched him stomp out the front door with no coat on. It was snowing outside. If he was headed for a walk, it was sure to be a miserably cold outing. She thought about running after him, but decided that he was a grown man and shouldn’t be scolded again like a child.

  She couldn’t figure him out. There were times when he seemed flirtatious, but she could never tell if he was toying with her. Sometimes he came up behind her in the kitchen and peered over her shoulder to see what she was cooking. Others, he stoked the fire and implored her to come sit next to him on the hearth, but then he merely sat and stared into her eyes or talked about some lighthearted subject like the weather.

  On occasion, he kissed her tenderly on the cheek or forehead. But, he always stopped just short of taking it any further.

  She found herself fantasizing about him. And there were nights that she dreamed he had been in her room during the night, watching her sleep and ravaging her in some ethereal way.

  It seemed like he was waiting for something. She knew that he was keeping something from her, even if it was just himself, because he wasn’t quite ready for her to get too close
.

  Sometimes, he was gone for long periods of time with no explanation. But, she didn’t question him. She figured that whatever he did with his free time was his business, and she wasn’t going to play the nosy landlord.

  As much as she enjoyed his company, she was also disappointed that she hadn’t run into KarlBauer since the carnival. She figured that he was busy working on the murder cases, but she sometimes caught herself speeding on purpose through downtown...hoping to get pulled over.

  But, it was Daniel that seemed to occupy her attention more and more as time went on. She enjoyed his little gifts and surprises that he seemed to conjure from the air. He often did things like fill up the house with dried bouquets of flowers and garlands of berries from the garden. One afternoon, he showed her plans that he had drawn up for the springtime garden. She gushed at the details of new flower borders, an herb addition to the vegetable garden, and a raised bed of perennials for the front yard.

  She was upstairs in the turret room when he came home that night. She heard the door and went downstairs to apologize, but he did not look angry or weary as she expected. There was a wide smile below his ruddy cheeks, and he was wearing a tan sheepskin coat that she’d never seen before. Before she could think of a polite way to ask him where he’d gotten it, he had fluffed the snow off his shoulders and produced a wooden box with a red silk bow tied around its middle from its pocket.

  “I have a gift for you,” he said as he held it out to her.

  “Daniel...” she complained as she descended the staircase. “You’ve been way too generous already. It’s really not—

  He pressed a finger to his lips. “Shh...just take it.”

  Feeling guilty from running him out of the house earlier, she indulged him and untied the bow. “Oil paints? Acrylics? Watercolors?”

  “There’s more,” he said as he pointed across the parlor.

  She gave him a curious look and walked across the room. In front of the sofa, there were two-dozen canvasses. Some were as small as a notebook, and others were as large as the kitchen table. “I don’t know what to say…”

  “Say nothing. It’s time for you to paint again and find the bliss that it used to give you.”

  She felt giddy...light headed. It had been so many years, since she even contemplated the idea of painting again. Her ex-husband had dissuaded her from wasting her time on something so trivial that was unlikely to ever bring them more wealth. She thrust her arms around his neck. “Thank you...a million thank you’s!”

  “Prego...” he whispered.

  She kissed his cold cheeks and noticed the musty earthy scent about him. It smelled like dead autumn leaves after a rain which was not unpleasant, but underneath that was a subtle rottenness that reminded her of the day that the garbage workers in New York had gone on strike, and the whole city had been permeated with stench. He must have been out walking for hours, sweating and—

  She pulled away from him, but he grabbed her back. His eyes. What was it about his eyes? They seemed to glow with some brilliant strobe light within. Like a computer monitor, flickering at a speed nearly imperceptible. But, something was there. Definitely there. Something strange.

  Her doubts vanished as his lips found hers. Whatever she had smelled, whatever she had seen...was gone. It was replaced by the sweetness of roses on his tongue and the warmth of his skin that was now flushed with passion.

  When the kiss was over, he held her to him, and she felt his heart beating against hers. For a couple of minutes, they said nothing. They didn’t have to.

  The spell remained when they finally separated, and she felt dizzy as he lifted up her chin and dazzled her again with his eyes.

  “Tonight, you paint.”

  She remembered nodding after that, but if she had replied, it surely had been something unintelligible.

  “I have to go out again for awhile, but I expect you to be busy here.”

  She told him that she would as she hugged the box of paints to her. But, when he left, she found herself floating on air, unable to concentrate enough to figure out a way to begin. Instead, she ran out to the store to buy some things to make him a special late dinner.

  He came home late, ate the meal with gusto then insisted that she go upstairs to play with her new gifts. It was around midnight when she took the paints and canvasses up to her grandmother’s old craft area in the turret room and began to set up a studio.

  In the days following, she opened tube after tube of glorious color...sometimes using a brush and other times finding it irresistible to stick her fingers into them like cake frosting, tracing through and blending colors into amorphous beautiful shapes.

  She played with the browns, painting flowing shapes of mud and chocolate. Then, she mixed in swirls of red...inspired by memories of summer roses. Tendrils of vibrant green snaked through the forms, connecting them and giving them life.

  Daniel left her alone with her re-found obsession. Hours passed, even entire days without her knowing it. She only became aware of the late hour each day when long shadows streaked across the floor.

  She hired an electrician to come to the house and work on the old faulty wiring and install better lighting in the room, so she could work better in the dark days of winter ahead.

  Then, she painted...and painted...and painted.

  Gradually, her play with colors and shapes became imaginary scenes of barns, country scenes, and migrating geese.

  Then, she took her easel outside, longing to recreate the autumn sky from the grays and blues in her palette and the river’s green waves punctured by smoky tree limbs and patches of ice.

  The days passed, and there were many times that she heard the phone rang or the doorbell, and willed the visitor away as she prepared the last brushstroke on a windmill or a field of flowers.

  Daniel indulged her without question, encouraging and praising her every step of the way.

  Annie stopped by one afternoon, scolding her with a wagging finger and tongue. “What have you been up to? We never see you.”

  “I’ve started painting again.”

  “Really? Well...let’s see some of those masterpieces.”

  “No...I’m so rusty. They’re not—”

  Daniel overheard them and walked into the foyer. “Show, her Georgia. They’re fantastico!”

  She led Annie upstairs. “They’re really just practice. I wouldn’t have sold anything so amateurish in my own gallery.”

  Annie picked up a canvass with a painting of a cornfield with a flock of crows resting on a scarecrow.

  “Nonsense! Daniel’s right. These are...what did he say? Fantastico! You should exhibit some of these in the county fair. I’d bet they’d fetch a fine penny and sell better than my best pies.”

  Georgia felt a little better after Annie’s comments, but Daniel and Annie were biased. Of course they would praise anything she did.

  On the rare instance that Marsha came over, she hid them behind the closed door, knowing that they would only encourage discouraging comments.

  Daniel remained her biggest fan. One day, she asked him, “What am I going to do with all of these? Calathia isn’t exactly a hotbed for art connoisseurs.”

  “Don’t worry, mia carmella. I have an idea…”

  Chapter 68

  In the restaurant, Karl had told Opal about what he had seen when he chased the spirit. He made her swear not to tell anyone else and agreed to help her in any way that he could, as long as it didn’t jeopardize his candidacy for Sheriff.

  Unfortunately, that ruled out just about everything that she could think of.

  Barring the idea of barging into the house, guns drawn, with some sort of fake search warrant, there didn’t seem to be any way to provide Georgia with a reason why they needed to dig under the fountain.

  There had been no other time, since the night of the Halloween Carnival that she could be sure the house was empty. She had pondered setting up camp in the field across the road with a pair of binoculars, but that
was ridiculous. She wasn’t a trained military commando. If she did something so foolish, she’d likely just come home empty-handed and covered with ticks. Or worse, the spirit would spot her, and she’d be the next bloody victim found...after the vultures were done with her carcass.

  She had begun to pray at night, hoping that God was truly a merciful being and would have pity on her plight. Just like in wartime, it seemed that every night, the evening news upped the tally of casualties. Soon, it seemed that no one would be left in Calathia. The spirit’s hunger for life was endless. No one was safe. Vagrants, especially near railroad tracks, were always at risk. But, now mothers and fathers kept their children close and even locked their pets inside at night, fearing that the serial killer might turn on them.

  She tried to approach Sheriff Cardale once more about what she knew, but the old curmudgeon’s ears were as locked as an alligator’s jaws when she mentioned any supernatural reference. She couldn’t blame him, really. If she were him, she’d have run herself out of the Sheriff’s office just as fast.

  But, something had to be done.

  What if the spirit continued to devour the life force of people until he had depleted the entire planet to feed his needs. If God did exist, would he allow it?

  She sat on her living room floor cross-legged and slimmer than she had been in the past thirty years due to her consistent worry and lack of appetite. If I created this disaster by myself...I must be able to undo it.

  She got up and paced, wringing her hands.

  After awhile, a new thought came to her. Every practical thing that she had imagined, including Aunt Grace’s advice, seemed impossible to perform without getting herself killed. What if she thought about the improbable instead?

  What could be the most ridiculous and dangerous thing that she could do to get rid of the spirit?

  It came to her as swiftly and as dramatically as a lightning bolt from the Almighty himself.

  “I have to be brave. I have to go to the Otherworld again for assistance!”