How Does Your Garden Grow

by April Hill

  "It started simply, the way such things often do. A blind date with a wealthy, handsome stranger. A momentary, madly romantic infatuation. Too much liquor combined with too little understanding of the way things really work in the cruel new world she's seeing for the first time." She paused to take a breath, and when he noticed a discreet tear at the corner of her eye, McCann pulled out his handkerchief and offered it to her.

  "Thank you, Lieutenant," she sniffled. "You’re very kind. Anyway, after that one beautiful night together, he never called again, and a few weeks later, I read in the paper that there had been a terrible accident. Brad—that was his name—had run his Lamborghini into a tree. He'd been drinking heavily, and there was a beautiful woman in the car with him. They both died instantly. I collapsed with grief, and while I was recovering at the hospital, a nurse told me that the woman in the car with the man I loved was a famous European heiress. They were to be married the following week. I learned that I was pregnant on the day of his funeral. Seduced, vilely betrayed, and carrying a dead man's child. Not a pretty story, is it?"

  McCann hesitated, not knowing exactly what to say after such a heartrending drama—or frankly overheated melodrama. He finally gave Miss Walker the benefit of the doubt and murmured the usual platitudes. "I'm sorry for your loss, Miss Walker, but I'm sure things will look better, with time."

  She stood up abruptly, and patted her stomach. "Thanks, but there's one thing for sure. If this kid's a boy, he's going to be a real knockout—with a drop dead gorgeous guy like old Brad the Cad for a dad." And then she giggled.

  McCann tried not to stare. Beth Walker's reactions was peculiar, to say the least, and his inclination was to call her story highly exaggerated, but it wouldn't be the first time he'd seen irrational and inappropriate behavior in a victim of tragedy. "I'd say that's a given, boy or girl," he said quietly. "Considering how lovely the baby's mother is."

  She flushed. "Thank you. It must be the Cookie Monster robe." And for just a moment, Beth Walker seemed embarrassed, and even apologetic—about something.

  McCann was already in the car, preparing to go home when he realized what he'd done, and he groaned at the memory. Not only had he been enjoying erotic and fairly bizarre fantasies about a possible material witness, he'd been enjoying them about an ex-nun and a tragic unwed mother-to-be.

  He was about to make the right turn toward his apartment when a light in Felix Kruger's rear window changed his mind. Almost two in the morning, and the guy was still up—maybe doing a little spying of his own. The curtains were parted just a crack, which suggested that Mr. Kruger was concerned about what all the cops were doing in his neighbor's back yard at that time of night. McCann turned left, instead. Maybe the old guy would appreciate a friendly visit from the police—to calm his nerves.

  CHAPTER THREE

  After McCann drove away, Beth sat in the wreckage of her tiny hallway and assessed her situation. She was exhausted, the house was a shambles, and the police still hadn't believed her. In addition to everything else that had gone wrong, she'd behaved like an idiotic brat tonight, and probably made every cop in town detest her. Especially McCann. And after tonight's three-ring circus, Kruger had to know that something was up. She could already see the banner headline in tomorrow's paper, screaming out the lurid story: "Nosy Neighbor Accuses Mild-Mannered College Prof of Being Homicidal Maniac." She'd be lucky if Kruger didn’t come after her again—and do a good job of it, this time. If nothing else, he'd probably sue her for every penny she had—or didn't have.

  Still, she thought hopefully, McCann had seemed interested. Not convinced, exactly, but at least he hadn't left the house snickering behind her back the way the others had. Even when she was insulting him, he'd listened and hadn't treated her like a total nutcase. That had to mean something, right?

  She got up wearily and went to the hall closet for a broom and dustpan. The police department's crack investigation team had tracked bits of shattered glass from her demolished china cabinet into the kitchen and living room. She rarely wore shoes inside the house, and if she didn't pick the glass up tonight, she knew she'd be finding it the hard way for days. She bent to sweep up a large shard of Gramma Erwin's crystal water pitcher, and when she glanced up for a moment, there was a face at the back door.

  Beth tried to scream, but what started as a scream caught in her throat and came out a sort of strangled mewling sound. Maybe you can only scream so much in a twenty-four hour period, she thought, insanely. Maybe your voice just gives out, from stress and fear, and…

  "Miss Walker?" a voice said, "are you all right?"

  McCann! What the hell was he doing back?

  More angry than frightened now, Beth flung the door open so hard it crashed into the kitchen wall. "Are you out of your mind?" she shrieked. "You scared the…"

  "I came back to tell you something," he said. "Is everything all right? You sound a little nervous."

  "Nervous?" she cried. "You sneak up and stare in my damned window like an escaped lunatic or a peeping Tom and then ask me if I'm nervous? What kind of policeman are you, anyway? Don't you ever ring a doorbell, or just knock?"

  "I did both," he said irritably. "And the reason I could look in your damned window in the first place was because you don't have a damned curtain on it. Does your damned doorbell work?"

  She flushed. "Okay, so I forgot. The doorbell's broken."

  "I knocked twice. Is your damned hearing aid broken, too?"

  "Stop swearing at me," she said. "I simply didn’t hear you knock. I was in the hall. Did you come back just to yell at me again?"

  "No, and I'm sorry about that, but you scared me," he said quietly. "I thought something had…"

  "Aha!" Beth cried, already gloating. "So, you do believe me. About what I said about Kruger being in the house. I knew it!"

  He shook his head. "I don’t believe anything yet. Not you—or him."

  Her eyes widened. "You talked to him?"

  "That's what I was about to tell you. I paid a call on Mr. Kruger—to ask if he'd noticed anything—or anyone—suspicious in the neighborhood tonight."

  She made a face. "At this hour?"

  He shrugged. "He was up. Reading, he said."

  "Well, that was a stupid thing to do. Blow your cover like that. Now he probably knows we're on to him."

  McCann grinned at the TV cop terminology. "Blow my cover? On to him?"

  "You know what I mean. So, what did you find out?"

  "Not a lot. He claims he'd heard something moving around in the back yard. His back yard—at around midnight, he estimated. He said he was up with his sick cat. She's fourteen years old and diabetic. The cat's name is Fluffy, by the way."

  "I'll just bet he heard something," she said, with a sneer. "He's smart, though, covering his tracks by making up a believable story to fit the timeline…in case anyone starts asking where he was at exactly eight minutes after midnight. And then he introduces the possibility of a mysterious prowler in his own yard. Who names a cat Fluffy, anyway? Did you ask him to produce the alleged cat?"

  McCann looked at her for a moment and shook his head. "Has anyone ever told you that you watch too much TV?" he asked amiably.

  "And has anyone told you that you have a genius for missing the facts, even when they're right in front of you?"

  "What facts?" he asked, not too politely.

  "The fact that there's a maniac living almost in my backyard, Detective McCann," she said coldly. "The fact that women have been disappearing from that house, and nobody's done a thing about it. The fact that I've done everything in my power to help the police, and I've gotten nothing but ridicule and disinterest for my trouble. Am I supposed to be happy about that?"

  "Okay, what about this?" he countered. "Maybe this guy Kruger is just what he seems to be. Maybe you've just got your facts one hundred percent wrong. Maybe you’re upset and imagining things.

  Beth narrowed her eyes. "I am not imagining things, and I'm going to slash the tires of the v
ery next chauvinistic, misogynistic, half-witted cop who shows up here and says that I am."

  "Watch it," he said, grinning. "Words with more than three syllables tend to confuse all us half-witted chauvinists. And I didn’t say you were wrong. All I'm trying to explain is that until there's something to back up what you say, we have to give everyone involved the courtesy of not making wild accusations."

  "Wild accusations," she repeated. "Is that what you think, Lieutenant?" she asked acidly. "You can give me an honest opinion. Have you already decided that I'm a nutcase, like your friends have?"

  McCann shook his head again, and this time his face looked deadly serious. "No, in my honest opinion, I think you may be a lady with something to be concerned about."

  "Kruger?" she breathed.

  "It’s nothing official, and if you repeat anything I say here, I'll deny it. I'm already breaking about a dozen department regulations by talking to you like this. I can't put my finger on anything definite yet, but yes, in my honest opinion, there's something going on. Something I don't like the feel of. My gut tells me that this guy may not be what he seems to be."

  "I knew it!" she cried. "I just knew it! Now, what do we do next?"

  "We do nothing. It's just a hunch, and unlike on TV, hunches are usually off base more often than on." He grinned. "Even my hunches, and I'm 'one of the top-notch forensics investigators down at the precinct', to quote someone whose name I can't seem to recall, just now. Anyway I want to check around and see what I can find out. In the meantime, just to be on the safe side, you need to be careful. Keep your doors and windows locked, your eyes open, and your mouth shut."

  She made a face. "That's it?"

  "That's it. I'll call you tomorrow if I find out anything new."

  "Fat chance. You' re not going to find out anything until you or one of your police pals gets off his butt and does some real, hard work—official detective work."

  McCann's tone toughened. "Okay, let me put this another way. If you put yourself in any more danger than you already have, I'm going to get off my butt, grab the biggest, heaviest wooden ruler I can find and come over here and paddle your stubborn, uncooperative butt up one side and down the other. Very hard, very real, but strictly unofficial." He picked up a plastic spatula from the top of the stove and pretended to study it carefully. "On the other hand, this looks like it could leave a nice welt or two. What do you think?"

  "I think you should take your macho threats and your new toy and go home, Lieutenant, since you're being of no help. I have to go to work in the morning—in about four hours. And you needn't worry. I won't bother calling again, even if Mr. Kruger comes back to finish what he started. I don't want to waste any more of the police department's precious time. I'll do my own investigating and take care of protecting myself."

  He tossed the spatula in the sink. "Yeah," he said. "I saw how well you handled all that, tonight. By the way, did they ticket you for that unlicensed handgun they confiscated? The one you used to blow away your grandmother's china cabinet?"

  She flushed. "No, of course not. That was just an accident."

  He reached in his hip pocket and produced a worn summons book, then scribbled something on two separate pages, handed her both originals, and slipped the book back into his pocket. "The top one's for illegal possession of an unregistered firearm. The second one's for discharging a weapon in a residential area in violation of city ordinance. Your hearing dates are listed on the back."

  "You can't do that!" she wailed.

  "Sure I can. And I'll be sure to take your advice and pick up a couple of goldfish on the way back to the stationhouse. Goodnight, Miss Walker, and please don't hesitate to call us if we can be of any further help."

  When he opened the door and stepped out onto the front stoop, Beth followed him outside, fuming with anger.

  "If they'd wanted to ticket me, they would have," she said smugly. "I'll bet homicide detectives don't even have the authority to hand out tickets."

  "You’d lose that bet," he replied. "A cop's a cop. If you don't believe me, don't show up in court and see what happens."

  "You’re bluffing. I may just tear these up. Both of them."

  McCann smiled. "Now who’s bluffing?"

  Beth glared at him for a moment, then stomped down the steps, walked across to where his car was parked and yanked up the windshield wiper. While McCann watched with open amusement, she tore both tickets in half and slapped the ripped pieces down on the windshield. "Overtime parking in a one-hour zone and blocking access to a private walkway," she said coolly, smacking the wiper down to hold the torn tickets where she'd put them. Unluckily for Beth, the wiper promptly broke off in her hand.

  McCann was leaning against the porch railing, with his arms crossed. "Nice," he remarked pleasantly. "Now, would you like to know the penalty for wanton destruction of police property?"

  "Being drawn and quartered?" she asked with a small smirk.

  "Nope. That's only when it’s the Chief's car. All a lowly detective can do is turn the lady perpetrator over his knee and spank her bare backside so hard she can't sit down for a week without leaving fingerprints. Unless she says she's sorry, of course—and means it."

  Beth blushed, but she wasn't about to apologize. "Another macho threat?"

  "No, more like a promise, but I'm going to be a good guy and give you a walk on this one. I'll just tack it onto my bloated expense account and let the overburdened taxpayers foot the bill. Goodnight, now. You’d better go inside and lock up. I've heard reports about a prowler in the neighborhood.

  * * * * *

  The next morning, after three hours' sleep, Adam McCann drove over to 316 Morning Glory Drive, to the petite, two-story brick bungalow belonging to Felix Kruger. Since their conversation the night before had been brief, he was planning to ask a couple of innocuous questions as a pretext for the visit. Had Mr. Kruger seen any suspicious persons since last night? How could the police department help make the neighborhood more secure? As a cover, McCann stopped first at two other homes on the block, and when no one was home at either place, he left his card in the door, asking the residents to call the station at their convenience. With that done, he sat in the car for a few moments, studying Kruger's place.

  Felix Kruger's front yard was bordered by carefully rounded shrubs and narrow flowerbeds full of dazzling white gravel. Close to two-dozen large concrete planters painted the same stark white squatted among the shrubbery, and two even-larger planters flanked the front door, leaving little room for a visitor to stand while ringing the bell. But the most astonishing thing about the property was the area inside the border shrubbery. Virtually every inch of it had been sculpted into a series of curved terraces that sloped gradually downward to the street. Each terrace was crammed with a variety of exotic and spiny vegetation that looked to McCann's untrained eye like cactus. The total effect was overwhelming and vaguely bizarre, and reminded McCann of the hillside rice paddies he'd seen in photos of China. The elaborate landscaping left no room for a recognizable lawn, other than a manicured square of grass under the concrete birdbath. One thing was for sure, though: unlike most homeowners, Felix Kruger sure as hell wasn't spending his weekends trudging along behind a lawnmower.

  The exterior of the house itself was almost a mirror image of Beth Walker's—or had been, until Kruger or an earlier tenant had added a large room at the back. The room addition had left only a patch of a rear yard and a small, well-tended garden. Felix needed to move or to find a different hobby. He was about to run out of space.

  McCann had made the trip here without telling anyone in either the burglary or homicide division and without really knowing what he would do—or ask—once he arrived. The fact was, that if Kruger took it into his head to call and inquire about Detective McCann's unannounced visit, there would be some serious explaining to do. Even Adam recognized that his interest in Beth Walker's neighbor had a lot to do with his growing interest in the lady, herself—and with her safety.

>   He found Kruger at a wooden workbench in the tiny backyard, tending to a wilted yellow plant that looked as if it had seen better days. McCann asked his questions, and when they had chatted for a moment or two about the weather, he made a point of complimenting the garden.

  "How fair is a garden amidst the trials and passion of existence," Kruger responded, tamping down the dirt in an enormous pot that held a flowering plant McCann recognized, but didn't know by name. "Disraeli said that of his own garden, and I find that as I grow older, gardening is my only real passion. Oh, my work at the university is pleasant enough, but I'm only truly happy when I'm out here in my little garden."

  "What is you teach, Mr. Kruger? Or is it Professor Kruger?"

  "I teach medieval literature, and Mister will do quite nicely, thank you. I'm afraid I'm only an assistant professor, even after all these years. Universities are notoriously political, you know. It's all about whom you know and what inconsequential paper you've managed to have published, of course. It doesn't matter, though. Not a bit. Titles are all so fleeting, don't you think? In any case, I'm planning to retire soon and travel for the time I have left. One never knows how many years of good health one can look forward to, does one? I shall miss my flowers, though. They've sustained me through my worst times. Flowers have always been my truest and most loyal friends, especially since I lost my dear mother. I enjoy keeping them around me. It’s a good deal of work, of course, but well worth the effort, and I've indulged myself in at least a few creature comforts, as you can see. My potting shed was originally meant as a single garage, but it keeps me warm and cozy in the winter and cool in the summer, and the overheard door is a great help with the larger pots. Tell me, Lieutenant, do you enjoy gardening?"

  McCann shook his head. "No. I keep forgetting to water everything. I work odd hours, sometimes, so I'm not home a lot."