by Lora Roberts
“It’s the volunteer syndrome.” Emery sounded like this continued some previously fought skirmish with his wife. “Like I said when that site council thing broke out, volunteers always get bent out of shape about something at any given point. They get into turf battles.”
“Literally, in this case.” Bridget topped up my glass. “I mean, most of the time the gardeners cooperate with each other. If your neighbors plant something tall that shades your plot, you tell them about it, and they don’t do it the next season. But some people take sheer thoughtlessness as a hostile act and get themselves totally lathered up over it. The whole Bermuda grass thing—” She shrugged.
“But none of that is enough to kill over.”
“I’m sure it will turn out to be a freak accident,” Emery said in a soothing voice. “People who garden just aren’t the kind of people who kill.”
“All kinds of people garden,” I said. “They’re not all nice, by any means.” I thought of Carlotta’s round, sweet-looking face. She seemed so comfortable, until you noticed her mean little eyes.
“That’s true,” Emery said. “After all, Webster isn’t my idea of a gardener.” He drained his glass and leaned back in his chair. “He’s such a funny guy.”
“Funny-peculiar, Emery means.” Bridget went over to the sideboard to cut slices of a toothsome-looking apple pie that had been calling to me all during dinner.
“He’s a good worker,” Emery amended. “When I have to bring him on board because we’re slipping our deadlines, he really whips things out. But he wants us to jump through all these weird hoops—a dedicated phone line just for him, all kinds of security codes, have his check ready right there, not mailed to his P.O. box, et cetera. I don’t really know where he lives.”
“Maybe he’s homeless.” I knew the tricks to living without an address.
“Not with the rates he charges.”
“He’d have no reason to do anything to Rita, either. I think they were dating at one time, but they seemed perfectly friendly to each other whenever I saw them.” Bridget dealt us each a slice of pie. Its rich cinnamon aroma made my mouth water. “Tea?”
“Thank you.”
She poured me a cup of delicate green tea that somehow went perfectly with the apples. I savored my first bite, and said, “That’s two men we’ve heard of in the past few hours that Rita was dating. I wonder if one of her boyfriends could have come to have it out with her, pushed her, and run away when he realized she was dead.”
“It’s not even that complicated,” Emery insisted. “She must have tripped and fallen wrong. That rake across the path, maybe she didn’t see it in time to avoid it. A dive into a foot-deep trench could be unhealthy.”
Bridget’s expression lightened. “That sounds reasonable. At any rate, Bruno will get to the bottom of it. He’s very good at reading the crime scene.”
Emery looked at her askance. “You’re starting to sound like someone who spends hours watching TV cop shows.”
“You know I don’t,” Bridget said indignantly. “They’re too upsetting. I can’t even watch those Prime Suspect shows you like.”
“Children,” I said. “Remember you are modeling the correct behavior here.”
Emery smiled, but his voice was serious. “I don’t want you ladies thinking of yourselves as sleuthhounds. Let the police take care of it. They know what they’re doing.”
“That’s not what you said a couple of months ago when all that proprietary code was leaked to your competitor. You said the police were idiots because they didn’t find out who did it.”
“Well, industrial espionage isn’t really their bag.” Emery waved that away. “This kind of accidental death looks pretty straightforward.”
I had been thinking about it. “I’m not so sure it was an accident, Emery.”
“Why not?” He didn’t seem too happy to be contradicted, and I realized he didn’t want Bridget to worry about it. But she was bound to worry, no matter what.
“Well, she couldn’t have tripped on the rake. She fell backwards into the trench. If she’d fallen forward, she probably would have fallen on her head instead of her neck, and that might not have killed her.”
He frowned. “I see what you’re saying. But maybe she was backing up for some reason—to let someone by—”
“But anyone who was with her would have reported it right away,” Bridget said. “If someone was there, they didn’t speak up. That doesn’t sound like an accident.”
“Accident or not, let the police deal with it.” Emery looked at each of us in turn. “They have the resources to figure it out. You don’t.”
“They don’t know the garden, though,” Bridget pointed out. “They don’t know the gardeners. Not like we do.”
“I don’t know them so well, either.” Now I found myself on Emery’s side. “I’ve only been gardening there for four years, and you’ve been there less time than that, I believe. Tamiko has been there since it started in the seventies.”
“You see?” Emery pushed his chair back. From the living room we could hear the frenetic strains of Robin Williams singing about friendship. “I’m going to watch Aladdin with the kids. You coming?”
Bridget shook her head. “We still have to plan for Claudia’s birthday party.” The children in the living room shrieked with laughter, and she raised her voice.
“In fact, could you close the door?”
“Aren’t we finished with the party?” I wouldn’t have minded taking in a few minutes of Aladdin before I had to leave. My taste in movies is just about at the third-grade level.
Bridget watched the door swing shut behind Emery, then leaned forward, putting a hand on my wrist. “I don’t want Emery to hear this,” she murmured. “But I’m really afraid Rita’s death was not accidental.”
“What do you mean?” Her expression chilled me.
“Because I heard her arguing with someone just before I left this morning.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I thought about going over and intervening, they sounded so nasty.” She took a tissue from the box on the counter and blew her nose. “But I didn’t. Maybe if I had, Rita would still be alive.”
“It had nothing to do with you,” I said, covering Bridget’s hand with my own. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
“I called Bruno, of course. I just didn’t know if I should say anything about it to anyone else. You won’t gossip. And I just felt you should know.”
“Why? Who was arguing with Rita?”
“They were shouting at each other. Rita said that she had a right to do whatever she wanted. And she said—”
“She? Who?”
Bridget didn’t answer that right away. “She said, ‘Your rights may not last long, if you keep it up.’” Recounting this, Bridget shivered. “I’d never heard her sound mean like that. It gave me a chill.”
“Who? Who was mean?”
Bridget looked at me with unhappy eyes. “Tamiko.”
Chapter 10
Waiting for Drake to call that evening, I couldn’t settle down. I took his houseplants out onto the back porch for grooming, leaving the door open so I could hear the phone.
It was cold, with the damp, penetrating chill of winter nights in California. Some folks had their fireplaces going, adding the aroma of wood smoke to the air, along with the cold, fresh scent of redwood trees. The combination of wood smoke and redwood was nostalgic for me. Though I relished my comforts and my relative security, occasionally a longing for that other life, lived on more elemental terms with fewer complications, took me by surprise.
Finally the houseplants were ready for a bath in the kitchen sink. I carried them in, glancing at the clock. It was past Paul’s usual hour to call, but his freedom to phone no doubt depended on what was happening with his dad at any given moment.
The house was too empty and quiet. I put on a CD, Ry Cooder’s Bop Til You Drop. It was sufficiently raucous to fill the silence. While I was at it I straightened the couch, carrying the ne
wspapers out to the recycling bin on the front porch.
I wouldn’t even have noticed the car across the street if the streetlight hadn’t glinted on a fluffy white head in the driver’s seat, bent at an angle over the steering wheel.
Enough weird stuff had been happening to send me into panic mode. I ran across the street. When I got close enough, I saw that the person in the car was not unconscious or hurt, just reading, with the streetlight’s help. It was Carlotta.
I thought about turning around and going back inside. But the anger that had pushed me into confronting her in the garden was still alive inside me. I was tired of being a doormat for her Hush Puppy-shod feet.
I tapped on the car window next to her, and she jerked around to peer out.
“What are you doing here?” I didn’t waste time on the preliminaries.
She rolled the window part of the way down, treating me to a bland smile. “Why, Liz. What do you mean? This is my old neighborhood, after all. Surely I can come back and park on the street for a little while.”
“Considering the big deal you made about leaving because you felt unsafe, I’m surprised to see you sitting out here at night.”
She tossed her head. “I’m just keeping an eye on your house in case anything should happen.”
“Like what?” I noticed again how small her eyes really were beneath her makeup. And how cold.
“Like someone else dying,” she said. “It would help to have a witness, don’t you agree? I could help you out by giving you an alibi.”
“I won’t need an alibi. What I need is for you to leave me alone.”
Triumph glinted in those little eyes. “I have only your best interests at heart. Now that everyone’s talking about how you’re always around when people die—”
“You know, Carlotta, you are so brave.” I stooped to be closer to her face. She shrank back. “After all, if I’m a cold-blooded murderer, a person might think twice before annoying me.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Her hand rested uneasily on the ignition key.
“Well, if I’m so dangerous, you’re an idiot to be dogging me like this. And if you know I’m not dangerous, making it safe to go around whispering rumors, then you prove you don’t really think I have anything to do with the deaths.”
She puzzled that through for a moment. “You must have something to do with them. There never used to be so many murders in Palo Alto before you came around.”
“That’s a lie, too.” I had had my own fears on that score, settled by cruising through the archives at the main library. “I’ve checked the newspapers. There are homicides every few months, and every time, the paper says how unusual it is for people to be killed in Palo Alto.”
“There you have it,” she said, triumphant again. “Even the newspapers, who always look for the worst things, say it’s not usual.”
“Well, have it your way. I’m a bad person. Now, who should be my next victim?” I held a finger up to my chin, thinking visibly. “Someone who’s always bothering me. Who shoves herself in where she’s not wanted. Who can’t seem to mind her own business.” I looked down at her face, pale in the streetlight. “Do you know anyone who fits that description?”
She gave a little scream. “Don’t you dare threaten me!” But there was excitement in her voice, too. Her gaze slid sideways to the big handbag lying on the seat beside her.
As clearly as if she’d articulated it, I knew there was a tape recorder in that handbag. I, too, have carried a tape recorder around, and knowledge of its hidden mission has weighed heavily on me.
“And don’t bother showing that tape around anywhere. I imagine my lawyer will have a lot to say about you trying to trap me into an admission of guilt. I’ll have to remember to add that to the list of things I want to sue you for.”
“Sue me?” She reared back. “You couldn’t. You don’t have any money.”
“All the better reason to sue someone who does. For someone without money, a good name is even more valuable.”
“No attorney would even talk to you.”
“Tamiko’s daughter will.” I leaned closer. “Just leave me alone, Carlotta. Or it could cost you.”
“You won’t get away with this.” She started her car, speaking over the engine noise. “People like you should be locked up before they do something bad.”
“Now, is that slander? Or libel? I can never remember which. But I do know that it could be quite profitable—to me. Too bad I don’t have a tape recording of you saying that.”
Her hand rested possessively on the bag. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She rolled up her window and roared away in her big Buick.
I went back into Drake’s living room. The music met me, taking me by surprise, since I’d forgotten about putting it on. I thought about calling Bruno to fill him in on that surreal encounter. But I was expecting Drake’s call, so I made a few notes of what Carlotta had said and wondered if I should talk to Tamiko’s daughter after all.
After that was done I shelved a few books for Drake, and ended up sitting beside the telephone with his battered old copy of The Black Arrow. I was just getting into the War of the Roses when the phone rang.
“Sorry I’m late,” Drake said when I answered. “Mom and I and Daphne went out for dinner with some family friends. It was good to get away from the hospital.”
Daphne was his sister. I asked about his dad, and he told me a little about the situation. Medicine is, I suppose, very advanced and capable of saving us from untimely ends, but the procedures Frank Drake was going through sounded like high-tech torture. “They finished matching tissues,” he ended. “Probably do the bone-marrow thing in the next couple of days.”
“Will you be in the hospital, too, then?”
“God, I hope not.” He sounded depressed. “The place is a total bummer. But it’s weird to live at home again, too. My mom keeps asking me if I have any laundry for her to wash, and stuff like that. I feel a hundred years old at the hospital, and ten years old here.”
“Poor old Drake.” I hated hearing him so down. “Pretend I’m giving you a nice neck rub.”
“If I’m going to pretend, I can do better than that.” He paused. “So, about the death in the garden. I’ve gotten a few e-mails from Bruno.”
“Rita. Quite a shock for the gardeners.”
“You’re not mixing it up, are you? Just hang back, Liz. Let Bruno do his job.”
“I’m not hindering him. Actually, since I’m being stalked—”
“You’re what?” That woke him up.
“Carlotta Houseman. For some reason, she’s stalking me. Keeps showing up everywhere I go, whispering that I’m a murderer.”
“That’s actionable.” He was quiet a moment. “This is Carlotta, that old bag from your writing workshop?”
“Right. What’s that noise?”
The noise was Drake laughing. “Sorry, Liz. It must be unnerving. But I just can’t feature an elderly stalker, especially that fluffy-looking grandma. I mean, really. How can she stalk you?”
“When she finally drives me over the edge, then you’ll take it seriously, I suppose.” I could understand his laughter. I wanted to join it, but something held me back. “What if she’s so determined to make me look like a murderer that she starts killing people in my vicinity?”
“Hmm.” Drake wasn’t laughing anymore. “Not very likely, I’d say.”
“She was parked in front of your house tonight, and she had a tape recorder going while we talked.”
“Hmm.”
“Is that all you can say?”
“Well, what do you want? I’ll mention it to Bruno in my next e-mail. Just stay out of trouble, Liz. If that’s possible.”
“It’s not,” I said mournfully. “Amy’s coming to visit.”
“That’ll be nice,” he said, his voice cautious. “When? For Christmas break?”
“No. Tomorrow. Her school burned down or something, and she’s fighting with Renee.”<
br />
“She didn’t burn the school down, did she?” He was laughing again. “No, don’t get mad. I know she wouldn’t do anything like that—probably. Well, you two girls have a good time.”
“Maybe we’ll start by having a garage sale. You’ve got a lot of junk around here.”
Drake was quiet for a minute. “I miss you, Liz.”
“I miss you, too.”
He sighed. “I don’t know how much longer this will take. I just wish—”
“Me, too,” I said when he didn’t finish.
His voice was rough. “I know you can get along without me. I just don’t want you to enjoy it.”
“No danger of that.” My throat was clogging up with something. I knew I had to get off the line. “I’ll see you soon.”
“I’ll call again tomorrow.”
We hung up, and I had recourse to the box of tissues he kept in his bathroom before I went back to my own house, where the only love I got was from a large black and white dog who never told me to stay out of trouble. Maybe because Trouble was his middle name.
Chapter 11
Something was very wrong with Amy. I had expected her to be exuberant at having gotten away from her mother, and with Amy, exuberant was a very high gloss on her normal bouncy, cheerful self.
Waiting at the end of the cordoned-off area where passengers ran the gamut of greeters like me, I watched her plod up the ramp and into the airport lounge. No bounce. No shine. Even her hair looked dull, if anything that orange could be deemed dull. The dark brown roots, about the color of my hair, were at least an inch long, another indicator of trouble. Instead of the ragged jeans and skimpy T-shirt I’d expected, she wore a baggy linen pinafore dress, with a faded jean jacket shrugged on over it. Her ancient carpetbag, the kind with wooden handles, bulged alarmingly. The whole effect was saved from waifdom only by Amy’s extremely well-endowed bosom, undisguisable even in the pinafore.
“Aunt Liz.” She smiled when she saw me, but the smile wrung my heart, so beset with worries did it seem. She probably didn’t realize how much of what she felt showed—life hadn’t yet dealt her the poker face that keeps the world at bay.
