by Lora Roberts
“Hey!” Webster Powell stopped on the path, his hands on his hips. “Stop that! Those leaves are littering up my garden!”
Bridget and I exchanged exasperated glances, before she pasted on a smile and turned to Webster.
“Hi, Webster. Nothing could litter up your garden—it’s impossibly neat. How do you do it?”
“I don’t let little brats scatter mildew-laden junk all over everything.” Webster was a tall, spare man, perhaps a couple of years younger than me. Even in garden clothes he was fastidious; the knees of his corduroy trousers were protected by pads, the gloves he slapped on one palm were immaculate, and his Dilbert T-shirt, proclaiming that technology was no place for wimps, was unstained by dirt. Only his boots, tall, green Wellingtons emblazoned with the Smith and Hawken logo, showed dark earth clinging to them.
His loud voice drew in Tamiko Frazier, who had the garden plot on the other side of his, across the path from mine. Her round face and graying hair, coupled with a vague look, were misleading; she knew more than anyone I’d ever met about garden lore. Her plot wasn’t as tidy as Webster’s, but it was fantastically productive. I owed her a lot; she often traded me her leftover fish meal or other soil amendments for the seedlings I had in abundance.
“Hello, Liz. Bridget.” Tamiko nodded at us, then said, “Webster,” her voice cooling. “This can’t be that tiny baby, can it?” She smiled at Moira. “She’s gotten so big.”
Moira looked from her to Webster. Her little face was worried. She knew there was trouble.
“We aren’t supposed to bring children who aren’t old enough to help,” Webster said, moderating his voice. “And this isn’t helpful!” He gestured to the yellowing shreds of corn leaves scattered over his perfectly mounded garden beds.
Tamiko narrowed her eyes. “Nonsense,” she said, her soft voice turning steely. “It’s all mulch, isn’t it? And certainly better for the garden as a whole than Roundup, wouldn’t you say?”
Webster stared at her, his mouth pressed tight, and then turned away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He strode up the path into his garden and unlocked his wheelbarrow, whirling the combination with quick, angry gestures. “But I won’t tolerate people dumping their debris in my garden.” Now he was glaring at me. “You put that Bermuda grass in my garden. I know you did. And if I ever catch you doing it again—”
Bridget looked at me, puzzled. “Liz doesn’t have Bermuda grass in her garden. Why would she put it in yours?”
“I don’t know.” He pushed the wheelbarrow back to the main path. “But I’ll find out. And when I do, you’ll be out of the garden for good.”
He marched away down the path, pushing the wheelbarrow in front of him.
Chapter 4
Tamiko looked after Webster as he trundled his wheelbarrow down the path. “Boy, he’s got it in for you, doesn’t he, Liz? I wonder why.”
“I don’t know.” The sick feeling I’d been fighting all morning was back. “I didn’t put any Bermuda grass in his garden. I have no idea why he thinks I did.”
“Somebody’s been rumor-mongering,” Tamiko said.
She was still staring after Webster. “This used to be such a nice group of people. Now everyone’s always fighting. I don’t understand what went wrong.”
“Well, a good part of it is Lois.” Bridget picked up Moira. “She’s appointed herself garden cop, and the result is everyone’s nitpicking everything to death. Before, we didn’t mind a few weeds here and there. Now if everything’s not perfect, she threatens to take your garden away.”
“Let her try that on me.” Tamiko straightened her dumpy form. She’s a bit taller than I am, but then, I’m pretty short. “I believe in live-and-let-live, but I’m not going to keep my mouth shut if she’s going around spreading rumors.”
She marched back to her own plot. Bridget stared after her.
“Now, what was that all about? And why that crack about Roundup? Nobody here can use it, right? It’s a pesticide, and we’re organic.”
“Nobody is supposed to, but rumor has it that Webster sprayed his Bermuda grass with it.” I picked up the spade Bridget had discarded and began turning the cornstalks and beans into the ground. “I thought it was just a rumor, but his reaction makes me wonder.”
“So that’s how he gets rid of Bermuda grass.” Bridget frowned. “And he has the gall to accuse me of wrongdoing.”
“It’s just a rumor.” I regretted having repeated it. I know to my cost how often rumor and innuendo are wrong. “He’s innocent until proven guilty.”
“I’m going home, anyway.” Bridget wore an unaccustomed expression of ire. “Nobody wants Moira here, and I’ve got a lot to do. If my garden isn’t tidy enough, let Webster have it. I know that’s what he wants.”
“Could he have more than one? I didn’t think that was allowed.”
“Some people do. In fact, I heard that Lois has about six scattered around.” Bridget dusted off Moira’s dirty hands and looked around for her garden basket.
“Leave the shovel,” I suggested. “I’ll drop it off at your house later.”
“Okay.” Bridget picked up her basket, balancing Moira on one arm. “In fact, come by around two—I should be home for a while. And stay and have tea. We’ll talk about Claudia’s party then.”
She left, using the south gate beside Tamiko’s garden. I dug for a few more minutes, getting the cornstalks and beans well incorporated, and pulling up a bit more Bermuda grass. I pulled up the tomatoes, too, stacking the cages neatly at the back of Bridget’s garden, and cramming the withered vines into my bucket. Her garden plot looked much better when I finished. I picked up the bucket to carry over to the Dumpster, planning to fill it with wood chips on my way back and scatter them on her path. Then Lois wouldn’t have any more reason to complain about Bridget.
Tamiko joined me as I went out the gate and turned right, walking on the perimeter path outside the garden fence. She glanced at my bucket of weeds and dead tomato vines. “You really made some progress today,” she remarked. She, too, carried debris bundled in a tarp with handles. “These work days are a good idea for getting us moving with the fall cleanup.”
“I still haven’t gotten to my own plot, though.” We rounded the corner and approached the area of fence that Lois was rebuilding to suit herself. She had gotten a couple of other people to put up the fence posts. They were pouring in concrete around the pressure-treated lumber as we went by. Lois gave me a baleful look, probably because I’d stopped doing her bidding.
“I saw Lois had you digging postholes.” Tamiko glanced at me. “I didn’t realize she was putting up a real fence there.”
“Neither did Rita.” I nodded at the garden manager, who stood by the Dumpster, making sure no one left their debris on the ground. She gave us her usual wide smile as we came up.
“The Dumpster is getting full,” she announced.
“I’ll pack it down, then.” I swung myself up, not without effort, and stomped down on the tangle of weeds and other debris. Tamiko handed up her tarp and my bucket, and I stomped them in.
“Well, that was a good thought,” Rita said. “I don’t know if anyone else can get anything in there, though.”
“What about this?” I turned around at the new voice. Carlotta Houseman stood beside the Dumpster, clutching a handful of Bermuda grass. I knew Carlotta from the senior writing workshop I led, although she was not a particularly welcome member.
“I can’t reach, Liz.” Her nasal whine grated on my ears just as it did in class. She smiled demurely. With her fluffy white hair and rounded body, she looked like everyone’s dream grandmother. But I could see the malice in her expression.
Carlotta and I had tangled when I’d inherited my house from one of her neighbors. Carlotta had wanted me to join her in selling to a developer who planned to build townhouses. I had refused, and Carlotta had never forgiven me. Despite eventually realizing a tidy sum on her house, she still believed she could have gotten a
better price if I had cooperated. And she seemed determined to make me sorry I hadn’t followed her wishes.
“I didn’t know you were a gardener, Carlotta.”
“Oh, I’m just helping out a friend,” Carlotta said sweetly. “Could you put this up there for me?” She batted her eyelashes helplessly at me.
“I guess.” I took the Bermuda grass and chinned myself on the Dumpster again, getting it all in. Or so I thought.
“You dropped some,” Carlotta observed, her faded eyes glinting. “But then, you’re so careless with Bermuda grass. Aren’t you, Liz?”
She turned and walked away, leaving me staring after her. Tamiko glanced from me to her.
“She’s the one,” she said under her breath.
“Excuse me?” Rita thrust herself between us. “What was that all about?”
“That woman, whoever she is, was going around this morning saying that Liz put Bermuda grass in Webster’s garden, and maybe in a couple more. And some other nasty rumors, too.” Tamiko regarded me thoughtfully. “Now, why would she want to do that? You know her, don’t you, Liz?”
“I know her.” I thought about the disruptions Carlotta had been causing in the writing workshop, the insinuations she kept making about my lack of morals and untrustworthiness. Evidently her whispering had fallen on fertile ground at the community garden. I watched her pause beside Lois and say something to her. They both turned to look at me. I regarded them steadily, and after a moment Lois looked away, her cheeks wearing bright spots of color. Carlotta continued to watch me, her small mouth pursed in a smile.
“Well, she’s no friend of yours, believe me.” Tamiko began to scoop some of the wood chips from a nearby pile onto her tarp. I helped her, wrinkling up my nose at the moldy dust that rose from the pile.
Rita tossed her ponytail. “Looks like Lois is making more trouble. I may have to do something about her.”
“What could you do? She’s got a lot of adherents in the garden.” Tamiko asked the question as if it were all academic, and as far as I knew it was.
“I have some aces up my sleeve,” Rita replied, looking smug. “And it’s about time to play my cards. If you ladies will excuse me?”
She stalked purposefully toward Lois. I filled my bucket with wood chips and accompanied Tamiko back around the garden. Lois was in conversation with Rita when we passed, but we walked by quickly, motivated by a desire to put the whole thing behind us.
I finished tidying Bridget’s garden and went over to my own. It looked pretty good; I grew things for my own table in it, since we weren’t allowed to use anything we grew there for commercial purposes. It was handy to have a place for big stuff that took room—corn, pole beans, melons, squash. I filled a bucket with winter squash to take home, and defiantly left my own cornstalks up. I had already planted fava beans where the tomatoes and melons had been; those heavy feeders had left their beds depleted of nitrogen, and fava beans would help re-fix it. My path was free of weeds, my compost pile as tidy as it could be.
I felt very satisfied with it until I turned around and saw the small delegation blocking the end of my path. My good feelings shriveled up fast.
Lois stood with her mouth pinched up, staring at me. Beside her, Carlotta still wore the sly smile that denoted mischief-making. Webster lingered behind the two women, and several other gardeners whose names I didn’t know crowded the path. All of them were looking at me with cold, accusing stares.
“So.” Lois broke the silence. “Will you get a good price for those?” She pointed at the winter squash in my bucket.
“I don’t sell the produce I grow here. You know that’s not allowed.” I tried to keep my voice even, not revealing that I felt trapped, put on trial.
“You were at the farmers’ market last Saturday,” Lois persisted. Carlotta crossed her arms over her chest, her smile broadening. I had seen her at the market the weekend before. Now I realized that this was a carefully orchestrated attack by her.
“I sold salad mix and winter greens from my home garden,” I said. “Anyone who sells at the market has to have their home garden evaluated. Mine passed.”
“You’re growing salad mix here,” Carlotta pointed out, unable to resist taunting me in person. “How do we know what you’re selling didn’t come from here?”
“Is this a trial?” I glanced around at the onlookers. A couple of them looked away. “If so, let’s get all the facts out. Carlotta, why don’t you tell all these people where you live?”
She stopped smiling. “What does that have to do with you breaking your agreement here?”
“Carlotta lives in Cupertino. You might ask her why she’s using a garden designated for Palo Alto residents only.”
“I’m not—” Carlotta began, then started over. “I’m just helping my friend.” She glanced at Lois.
“And if you’re not a gardener here, how would you know whether I spread Bermuda grass around other people’s gardens or not?” A couple of the onlookers appeared struck by this. Webster’s brows drew together. I saw that Tamiko had come over to stand by me, literally and, I hoped, figuratively.
“I didn’t—”
“You did spread that rumor. I want to know why.” I was angry, and I decided that my usual tactic of being meek and inoffensive and ducking trouble wouldn’t get me anywhere. “You’re doing the same thing at the senior center—another place you hang out that’s for Palo Alto residents. If you have a problem with me, speak up. Don’t make up these lies and expect to get away with it.”
“It’s slander, you know.” Tamiko contributed this. “You could be sued.” She glanced at me. “My daughter is an attorney. She could advise you about legal steps to take, Liz.”
Carlotta’s face mottled. “You can’t prove anything,” she hissed.
“She did say you threw the Bermuda grass on my garden.” Webster looked confused. “Why would she say it if it wasn’t true? And someone put it there.”
“Why would you, Carlotta? Are you still blaming me for not selling my house when you sold yours? Do you still think you could have made more money if I’d done what you wanted?”
A couple of people moved away from Carlotta. Lois looked at her, too.
“You didn’t tell me that when you talked about her,” Lois said slowly. “You just said she was mixed up in that murder case last year. You made it sound like she’d gotten away with it.”
Tamiko shook her head. “That is very serious. My daughter—”
“You’re nuts, all of you.” Carlotta’s voice turned shrill. “I’m not the one who should be sued. She is!” She pointed at me. “She’s breaking your rules. You should just kick her out!”
“That’s not up to you, Carlotta. It’s not even up to Lois or any of you.” I looked at the hangers-on again. The ones who liked a scene were riveted, but several people had already drifted away. “If anyone is going to throw me out, it’s Rita. And I think she has a better idea of what constitutes evidence than you do.”
“Where is Rita?” Tamiko glanced around the garden. “She should be here to put a stop to this kind of thing. I don’t like mean-spirited attacks in a place that should be devoted to peaceful horticulture.”
“I’m going to go get her.” Lois wheeled around. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise you.”
“In the meantime,” I said, picking up my bucket and pushing past Carlotta, “I’m putting my squash away. And I’m sure not inviting you over for a harvest dinner.”
It was a mean crack, but I hadn’t been so angry in a while. I try to avoid anger—it’s a dangerous emotion that takes a person out of control, and control is very important to me.
I carried the bucket out to the parking lot and slid open the side door on my ‘69 VW microbus, nicknamed (because of its blue color and ox-like disposition) Babe. Barker greeted me enthusiastically. He’d been curled up on the backseat of the bus, which is the camper version (although without a pop-top).
Though I no longer had to live in Babe, bo
th Barker and I regarded it as our traveling living room. When he saw I wasn’t going to let him out, he hopped back up on the seat and assumed a long-suffering look. He took up a lot of room there.
I talked to him for a few minutes, and made sure his water dish was accessible. The sun had warmed the inside of the bus since I’d parked, so I cranked the side windows wider and opened the roof vent.
Leaving Barker with the squash, I went back to the garden for my tools. Tamiko was no longer working in her plot beside the gate; Webster, too, was not in sight. A low murmur swept through the garden on the wind, coming from the side near Lois’s plot. I could see a group of people congregated there. For a minute I hesitated, not willing to run the gauntlet of yet more suspicion and malice. Finally I walked along the path past other plots, some well-tended and some overgrown, past the tall stalks and empty heads of sunflowers, the various composting methods people had devised, the thick hedges of raspberries and the twining stems of grapevines.
The path grew crowded, blocked by people, who glanced at me and moved away until I could see into the center of it. The noise of busy whispering filled the air like a swarm of bees.
Straight ahead, Lois knelt in the dirt of her garden plot beside a trench she’d been working on as part of a course of double-digging, her hands pressed to her chest. The trench so carefully emptied of dirt was instead full of a tumble of pale flesh and spandex and brassy blond hair.
Rita. It took only a cursory look to see that, with her head twisted so uncomfortably away from her body, she couldn’t still be alive. Even though her bright blue eyes were open, staring sightlessly at the sky.
Chapter 5
At least no one was looking at me, for the simple reason that they couldn’t take their eyes off Rita’s body. I could feel the speculation, the sense of being branded. It would seem very pat to the gardeners. Carlotta whispers it around that I have gotten away with murder, and—presto—a suspicious death crops up.
