“Something wrong?” Patty asked us.
“No, we’re fine. Where should we start?”
Patty pointed to the artists and photographers set up near the fence that separated the park from Aldo’s Café. “Why don’t you begin over there? You can work your way around the green.”
“Will do,” I said, and we headed in that direction. “I hope Harold and Maggie aren’t over there,” I said to Simon.
“I thought you were going to investigate,” he replied. “Maybe they know something.”
“You might be right,” I admitted. “Both of them knew Dr. White and wanted the land as much as he did. Talking to them might be a good idea.”
“See, I’m being helpful already.”
Simon needed constant reassurance and praise to be productive, so I said, “Right. Thanks, Simon.”
We made our way down the first row of booths. Every artist had three “walls” of plywood with mesh on top to display their work. Unfortunately, most of them had painted or photographed local boats, lighthouses, beaches, and fish, but without much imagination or sophistication. I gave most of the entries fours or fives.
“This stuff is awful,” Simon said, writing down his scores. “I’m giving them all a two, and that’s being generous.” One of the artists turned to give him a sour look.
“Shhh,” I said. “We have to be diplomatic.” I pointed to the row of artists whose booths were set up next to the water. “Let’s head over there next.” It was becoming hotter, and I wanted to cool off with the sea breeze. I noticed that Joe Larson seemed very interested in a painting in the last booth on the right, so we started at the opposite end.
When we came out of the first booth, I saw several pirate ships heading into the harbor. “Look they’re going to do their pirate show.” I pointed out the ships to Simon.
“What kind of show is it?”
“They do live reenactments with sword fights. They’re even doing a treasure hunt for the kids.”
“What a kick! Let’s check it out. It might inspire me. I’m thinking of writing and producing a movie about pirates. Kind of like Pirates of the Caribbean, but more of a historical piece, with a real pirate like Captain Kidd.”
“Chill, Johnny Depp.” I tapped my pen on the clipboard. “We need to do our judging.”
“Just a few minutes, okay?”
I said yes, because I really wanted to see it, too. We went over to the dock by Claudio’s where they were landing. The place was packed. Pirates dressed in colorful garb docked the boats and then reenacted a fight, complete with swordplay and men overboard.
Meanwhile, the Thieves Market in the parking lot was doing a brisk business selling everything from pirate T-shirts to hats and plastic cutlasses.
My phone pinged and I looked at the text I’d received. It was from Jackson:
K & C still in garden. Nothing else new here. XO J.
I put the phone away and we continued watching the pirate show.
The fight now over, they descended onto the docks and began mingling with the crowd and giving away “pirate’s booty”—aka candy—to the kids.
I nudged Simon, “We’d better get back. Patty might be looking for us.”
We headed back to the park, where I immediately noticed that Joe Larson was still planted in front of the same painting.
“Joe Larson is here,” I told Simon. “He’s been looking at that painting for the past twenty minutes.”
“Good,” Simon said. “I have a few things I want to say to him.”
I grabbed his arm. “No, let’s keep our distance.” I pointed to the booth farthest from Joe. “Let’s go back over there. We need to stay focused.”
While we continued judging, I kept an eye on Joe Larson. He was still studying the painting, but when we were a few feet away, he spotted us, gave me an annoyed look, and moved off.
I couldn’t wait to see the painting that Larson had been so interested in. But when I finally stepped in front of it, I couldn’t figure out why Joe had been so riveted. The painting was unremarkable. The subject matter was a modest shop in a two-story green building. I recognized it at once. It was a store on Main Street, in Greenport, that sold cigars. Rumor had it that an apartment on the second floor was used as a men’s club. The building was sandwiched between a cupcake store and a tea shop, and located a block from Claudio’s restaurant, at the foot of Main Street overlooking Greenport Harbor.
The painting Joe was so fascinated by wasn’t particularly good or interesting. But there had to be some reason for his interest. I pulled my phone out of my purse and whispered to Simon, “Cover me.”
He looked at the painting. “You found a clue already? Great! What do you want me to do?”
“Just stand in front of me so no one can see, especially Joe Larson.”
Simon stepped around me and played lookout. “Okay, go for it.”
I took a few quick photos with my phone, sent them to Jackson, and slipped the phone back into my pocket just as the artist, a large burly guy with a beard, finished his conversation with a customer and came out of the booth. “You like that one, huh?” He pointed to the painting of the cigar store.
“Yes, it’s . . . nice,” I said. “Does it have some personal significance for you?”
“Nah, I just like cigars. I’ve been going to that place forever. Actually, I painted it on commission for the owner, but after I finished, he said he didn’t want it.”
I couldn’t blame him. It was pretty dull for handmade art. Why was Joe Larson so fascinated by it? I thanked the artist, gave him a score of six, which was generous, and moved on to the next set of booths. On the way, Jackson texted me back:
Got pix, what is JL up to? K & C still here. J.
We spent the next hour judging the rest of the entries in the competition. Once we got into the groove, it became easier and, thankfully, the work got better. The photographers that I enjoyed the most captured the essence of the town and the area, like the one who had created a set of images of the wetlands near Jackson’s house in East Marion, or the one who focused on close-ups of local flora and fauna in the nature preserve.
I pointed to a photograph of a single conch shell lying on the beach, the sun setting on the water beyond. “I like this one. It’s simple but it works.”
“I like the local landmarks best, maybe because I took the walking tour last week.” Simon pointed to a painting of the Floyd Memorial Library on North Street. “This was built in 1917 by Grace Floyd in memory of her father, Charles Gelston Floyd, the grandson of General William Floyd, and a signer of the Declaration of Independence. There’s a lot of history in this town.”
“I guess I take it for granted.”
“That’s natural. You’re from here. It’s my adopted hometown. Besides I like architecture and history.” He moved on to a painting of the Greenport jail in the historic commercial district, where he had been held last fall, and which featured barred windows and a brick exterior. “This I don’t like. Too many bad memories, but you see this?” He pointed to the green light beside the front door. “It used to be called the Green Light Hotel because in the early days when someone was locked up, that light was turned on.”
“Maybe that’s where they got the idea for the Green Light Tour of Greenport.”
“What’s that?”
“Every Saturday in the summer and fall merchants put a green lantern out front if they’ll be open after hours for customers. It’s a way to increase business.”
We walked over to the next booth where the paintings had a strong impressionist influence. One, a painting of the local farmer’s market, was really good, and I stepped closer to examine it. As I did, I heard a cheerful voice saying, “See anything you like?”
It was Kylie Ramsey of the farmer’s market, another one of my competitors for the garden lot. Kylie was in her early thirtie
s and attractive, with long brown hair and green eyes. She was very tan from working in the sun. She gave me a look like she’d just sucked on a lemon. “What are you doing here? I heard about Dr. White. Don’t the police want to talk to you?”
“We’ve talked to them. Simon and I are judges for the event.”
Kylie shook her head. “Judging others might not be the best thing for you to be doing right now, Willow.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“I mean, a lot of people in this town are unhappy about the way you got the land. You really don’t want to make any more enemies.”
“Is that a threat?” Simon asked.
Kylie shrugged. “More like . . . a warning. I just think Willow should know how people feel about her.”
“That’s becoming very clear,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean I understand it. Kylie, I offered to share the space with you.”
“That wouldn’t have worked.” She straightened the painting on its easel and wiped an imaginary spot of dust from the frame.
“Fine,” I said. “You don’t like me, you don’t think I deserved the lot. I don’t know what I can do to change your mind. But do you have any idea about who would want Dr. White dead?”
Kylie’s eyes narrowed as she studied me. “I’m not talking to you. I know what happened last year at the Bixby estate. You’re a snoop who causes trouble.”
“What happened last year was that she solved the murder,” Simon said. “She saved my life.”
Kylie gave a Simon an overly bright smile. “Good for you.”
Simon’s eyes narrowed as he studied Kylie’s artwork. “This is the painting that you’re entering in the competition? It’s pretty pathetic, isn’t it Willow?”
“No, Simon. Actually, it’s good,” I said honestly. “And we need to score it appropriately.”
“Well, I won’t hold my breath,” Kylie replied, as she turned on her heel, and headed over to a potential customer.
• • •
We jotted down our scores and headed for the last row of exhibitors. That’s where we found our fellow judges, Harold Spitz and Maggie Stone. Both of them had wanted the lot as much as Kylie had. I braced myself for yet another confrontation.
“Enjoying the judging?” I said.
Harold mumbled something, and Maggie said, “Yes, we are. Everyone is so talented here.”
“Obviously they didn’t see the stuff we saw,” Simon whispered in my ear.
“Hush, Simon,” I said, and leaned in to look at a painting of the Bug Light lighthouse. It was very realistic, so much so that it almost looked like a photograph. “I like this one.”
Harold mumbled something else. “We don’t,” Maggie said. “It’s too realistic, and so pedantic, a bore, really.” She wrote something down on her scoring sheet.
“Oh,” I said. “I hadn’t realized that realism was a negative thing.”
She gave me a look. “If you don’t mind me asking, what are you doing here? We heard about the trouble in the garden.”
“We made a commitment to Patty.”
“So that’s why we’re here,” Simon added. “Is that a problem?”
Maggie shivered in the hot afternoon sun. “Not at all, but murder is, well, so unsavory, and it does seem to follow you around, Willow. That’s what I told them.”
“Told who, Maggie?” I asked.
“Mayor Hobson and the Village Board, of course. I simply told them that you weren’t a good risk when it came to the lot because of all the murders you find yourself involved in. Unfortunately, they didn’t listen to me. Maybe they will now.”
“All the murders?” Simon echoed. “Before Dr. White, there were two. Exactly two.”
Actually, there had been three, but I didn’t say so.
Maggie shrugged. “And now Dr. White makes three. That’s a lot of murders to come your way in what—a little over a year?”
The way she put it made me uneasy. It was a lot of murders. But I knew they didn’t have anything to do with me. “Look,” I said, “I just try to help out where and when I can, especially when it comes to my family and friends. Right now, I’m wondering who wanted Dr. White dead. Do you or Harold have any ideas?”
“Not a clue,” Maggie said.
Harold mumbled something to Maggie.
“What did he say?” Simon asked.
Harold said something else to Maggie.
She turned to us. “Harold says that there was no shortage of people in the village who wanted that man dead.”
chapter six
Willow McQuade’s
Favorite Medicinal Plants
BORAGE
Botanical name: Borago officinalis
Medicinal uses: Borage leaves, flowers, and seed oil can help you feel happier and can even inspire courage. In 1597 herbalist John Gerard quoted in his writings an old saying: “Ego borago gaudia semper ago,” meaning “I, borage, always bring courage.” In fact, the flowers have long been used to bolster courage; perhaps the fact that they nourish the adrenal glands explains why. In medieval times the flowers were even embroidered on the mantles of knights and jousters to give them courage. Borage was also snuck into the drinks of prospective husbands to give them the courage to propose!
Borage leaves and flowers have also been used in treatments for anxiety, mild depression, grief, heartbreak, and worry. As a flower essence, borage is used to lighten mild depression and ease discouragement. Borage helps bring joy, optimism, enthusiasm, and good cheer, improves confidence, and dispels sadness.
“Like who?” I asked Harold. “Who wanted Dr. White dead? Did that include you?”
But Harold just shrugged and moved on to the next booth.
“Leave him alone,” Maggie said. “He didn’t get along with the man, but he certainly didn’t want him dead.”
“Who do you think had it out for Dr. White?” I asked. “I find it hard to believe that you have no opinion.”
“Me, too,” Simon said.
Maggie blew out a sigh and gave me a look that suggested that we were both incredibly tiresome. “Dr. White wasn’t well liked, not by his wife, not by his patients. God knows what kind of people he got involved with when it came to those real estate deals. Joe Larson, for one, is no saint. The two of them together made sure that none of us had a chance for that lot. But they couldn’t figure out how to stop you.” She checked her watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. As you know, we need to finish up by 4 p.m.”
She walked over to Harold. She said something to him, and he seemed to get angry. Suddenly, his face became as red as a raspberry. She tried to placate him, but he stormed off.
“What’s going on over there?” I wondered aloud. “He seems really upset.”
“And she’s buzzed,” Simon said. “Her breath smells like vodka.”
“I thought you couldn’t smell vodka on someone’s breath.”
“Most people can’t, I can. My mother and father drink vodka martinis every day at five o’clock.” Simon’s parents were retired, wealthy, and lived on the Gold Coast of Long Island. His father had been a thoracic surgeon to New York’s elite.
“If what they said is true, then we have a pretty large suspect pool. Harold might even have had a reason to want White dead. This is going to be a difficult puzzle to piece together.”
“Yeah, but you’re up to the challenge,” Simon said breezily. He studied a truly awful painting of a tall ship on an easel. “Now, what do you want to give this masterpiece—a one or a two?”
• • •
We finished judging by four o’clock and helped Patty tally the scores. Within an hour, we had our winner, second and third place, and three honorable mentions. Patty asked the entrants and the public to gather around the stage behind the merry-go-round for the results and subsequent auction.
The first-place winner was Kylie Ramsey. Even though Simon had given her a low score, the rest of us had agreed that her painting was the best. Patty handed her the award, a sculpture of a seagull on a boat pier.
The crowd applauded. Kylie threw me a strange look that I couldn’t decipher.
Second place went to the photograph of the seashell on the beach that I liked, while third place went to the guy who painted the cigar store. He placed because of the generous scores given by Maggie and Harold. I wondered why they were helping him.
After the Suffolk Times photographer took photos and everyone had been congratulated by friends and family, Kylie walked over to me, holding her trophy. “Thanks for being fair about judging me. This means a lot.”
“You’re lucky that Willow is nice and fair,” Simon said.
“Thank you,” Kylie said.
“You’re welcome.”
She turned to go, but stopped herself. “I’m sorry for what I said about you and your snooping. I’m just upset about losing the chance to give the farmer’s market a permanent home in the village.”
“I meant what I said about sharing. You’re welcome to use the outdoor teahouse space anytime. Or you can set it up in the parking lot behind Nature’s Way.”
“Thanks, but I think we’ll stay put at the church annex parking lot for now. They’ve been nice and don’t mind us being there on a Saturday morning. I think it was just my ego that made me want the lot. You know, I wanted to make the farmer’s market bigger and better.”
She looked at the trophy but seemed to be deciding whether to say something else. “You were asking about Dr. White. I didn’t know him well, but I wouldn’t have chosen him if I needed surgery, that’s for sure. Too many of his patients are suing him for botched surgeries, including a friend of mine. She’s still in pain and it’s been five years since her surgery. Doctors like that shouldn’t be allowed to practice medicine.”
“Well, if it’s the surgery that caused the pain, I agree,” I said. But I knew that pain was complex and surgery couldn’t always cure it. “Can I ask who your friend is?”
Garden of Death Page 5
