by Jill Amadio
“Listen. Do you hear that?”
“Music.” Thatch shrugged.
“Not just music, keresik. It’s ‘Greensleeves’ and being played on a spinet, no less, the instrument it was originally written for.”
She looked up and down the street.
“Is that significant?” said Thatch, following her as she began to walk toward the sound. “It’s a beautiful composition, by the way, but not one of your operas, I’d bet.”
“Then you’d be wrong,” she retorted. “It’s from Ferrucio Busoni’s short opera Turandot. He incorporated into it a ballad called ‘Greensleeves.’ The piece was originally a medieval folk song in England, and the rumor is that Henry VIII composed it, but it was written several years after he died, so it’s Elizabethan, not Tudor. Even so, can’t you just see the king in his velvet doublet and breeches and the women in their sumptuous embroidered gowns, dancing on the green at Hampton Court?”
“Nope. But I’d forgotten your family were opera singers, honey. I’m impressed with the depth of your knowledge, but I’m going to catch you out sometime, mark my words.”
They both laughed and held hands as they rounded the corner that led to the seafront walkway. The tinny notes became louder. Thatch and Tosca followed the music to its source and stopped in front of a dock where a large sport fishing boat was tied up. A ladder led up to an open fly bridge, and the rear deck was equipped with a large fish box and padded bench seating.
“Very nice,” said Thatch.
“Ah, so you are beginning to appreciate classical music.”
“No, I mean the boat. It’s a Riviera. Built in Australia. Looks to be a forty-three footer. Luxury everywhere. Bet this boat cost close to three-quarters of a million.”
The sliding glass door leading into the salon was open, and they could hear the lilting music coming from inside.
“Sounds like a piano but kind of brassy. How could anyone fit it into a boat, even one of this size?” said Thatch.
“Actually, it’s a spinet. It has keys like a piano, but you can tell by its tone that the one we’re hearing now is really small. It could even be a portable one, which means it’s basically just a short piano keyboard in a box. They’re perfect for cramped spaces like a boat.”
“Last thing I’d want on a boat,” said Thatch.
They sat on the seawall to listen to the pianist play the final notes of the melody in a slow, drawn-out riff. When they heard no more, the couple walked back to the house, where Thatch kissed Tosca goodnight, quoting, “‘To music and the drowsy chimes.’”
“Keats’ poetry sounds a lot better,” she said, “than ‘dug with love.’ I appreciate the thought. Sleep well, keresik.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The following morning Tosca lowered herself gently into the vintage Austin-Healey that had been her husband’s car as if into a bathtub of boiling oil, trying to avoid the part of the split leather seat that pinched her bottom if she sat on it. She started the car and drove erratically and noisily to Karma’s Garden Center. I really must get something else to drive, she told herself. Aside from being such a small car I can’t stand these old, dry leather seats, although I do love the drop-top. It’s so California.
Before Tosca had left England everyone in London had told her that as soon as she got to the sunshine state, she must drive a convertible.
Struggling to fold down the Healey’s worn canvas fabric top, torn in several places, was more than Tosca wanted to handle. J.J. never garaged the Healey without first raising its top, which meant that it had to be rolled back down each time the car was driven. Even though her friends in the UK would have no way of seeing her driving around with the top up, she felt she owed it to them to drive with it down.
“You see,” she explained later to Thatch, “I can’t send photos home if I’m not in a convertible. Everyone is supposed to drive one here, right?”
Thatch had chuckled. “Only tourists and surfers who need one for their boards. Otherwise we find it too hot to drive around with the top down.”
Tosca parked in front of the garden center’s office and went in. No one. She went outside and scanned the tables that held ceramic pots and planters, then looked across to the wood structure where hanging baskets swung in the slight breeze and farther out where the fields began. Strange way to run a business, she thought. What if a customer came in to place a huge order? I could easily help myself to a pot of flowers, too.
She saw Sam walking toward her. Of course. She’d forgotten there was a handyman.
“Hello. I wonder if you’d be so kind as to tell me if Karma is around.”
“Nope. Doin’ the bushes at City Hall. Can I help you?” He scratched at the bandage on his arm.
“Will she be back soon?” said Tosca.
“Cain’t never tell with her,” said Sam. He scratched harder at his arm. “Damn plants really got me this time. Gotta rash big as a billbug.”
Tosca decided she didn’t really need to know what a billbug was. Instead, she offered a few soothing words and suggested he use chamomile lotion on his arms.
‘”Nah, useless stuff, that. Good for baby skin, maybe, but not for the white stuff on those plants that Karma tole me about. She said the sap bleeds out when you cut the stems or the leaves. Said they’re real toxic. I nicked one by mistake when I was cutting the weeds. Them Monarch cadeepillers and ayphids we get here are supposed to be the enemies of giant milkweeds, but they don’t do nothin’.”
“Goodness. Maybe you should burn the plants.”
“No, they’re okay unless you drink that stuff.” He cackled loudly. “Who’d do that? I’m betting Karma tole those people whose gardens she put ‘em in all about it and said not to mix it in their fresh orange juice!”
“Why would she buy the milkweeds in the first place?” said Tosca.
“Cheap, that’s why. They was a real bargain. In some countries they’re considered weeds. ‘Course, they have a high drought tolerance so they work well here with this bone dry weather we suffer from, damn drought.”
“Yes, the drought. I sympathize more than you can possibly know. Would you mind showing me what a giant milkweed looks like?”
“Sure.”
Sam led the way past several wooden tables holding plastic pots of seedlings in the gazebo area. He stopped at a small, untidy plot of land that held two shrubs. Both had whitish, cork-like stems, thick branches, leathery pale green leaves and small, five-star flowers.
“There they are,” Sam said, pointing. “They bear pods with seeds inside along with silk-like fibers. These two are not for sale, and a damn good thing, too, after that there woman died, and we learned about the poisonous sap that bleeds out.”
“These look like they’re going to grow into trees,” said Tosca.
“That’s ‘cause we’ve had them quite a while. Karma ordered these two to see if they’d be suitable for her customers, since they were such a bargain. She liked ‘em, but I bet she didn’t tell them people they could grow this big.”
“They’re kind of ugly. Are they evergreens?”
“Yep, and they need hardly any maintenance. Guess Karma liked that, too. Less work for her.”
Tosca left the garden center in deep thought. It appeared as though Karma had unintentionally sold poisonous giant milkweed to her clients. Did that mean any of those six people, and Karma made it seven, could have poisoned Sally at the party? Had all of them attended that evening? And what motive could they have anyway? The answer had to be closer to Karma’s inner circle, certainly anyone with a Fuller Sanderson connection, and yet there must have been plenty of party guests who lived on Isabel Island and knew her family.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Back on the island Tosca parked in the garage without raising the convertible top, the devil with J.J., and ran upstairs. She was anxious to start her investigation of the six homeowners and their plants before that copper beat her to the punch.
Now that she had a description of th
e plants, she could begin a hunt for them in the neighbors’ gardens. All I have to do, she figured, is find the yards where Karma placed the giant milkweed and see if their stems have been cut.
Sam said there wasn’t much sap on the ones at the garden center because Kama had sold the best ones to her customers, and the sap on the plants he touched was only enough to cause a rash on one arm, not both. Had Karma already collected enough sap to put in Sally’s cocktail and murder her? Who else would want the publisher dead?
Making sure she had her iPhone with her, she began walking down the street, peering into each front yard to look for the plants Sam had shown her.
“Hi, there, Tosca, checking up on our hollyhocks?” said a woman coming out of her front door and locking it. She chuckled and added, “I don’t have any, as you can see, but the weeds could use your help.”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Latham, just admiring your beautiful lobelia border, one of my favorites. I was wondering if your gardener has added any giant milkweed to your flower beds, but I don’t see any.”
“I’m not sure exactly what has been planted,” the woman replied. “I leave that up to the landscaper. Got to run, I’m off to the mall. See you later.”
Tosca continued on the other side of the street, then up and down other streets, not bothering to stop at houses where the yards were paved over or those whose planters and flower beds held only cactus. At one of the houses that bordered the canal, she found a giant milkweed with a deep gash on its stem. She took a photo of it with her phone, then knocked on the door.
An old man, stooped, gaunt and dressed in a plaid shirt and khaki pants that hung loosely on his thin frame, opened the door.
“Yes?”
“Terribly sorry to bother you. I do hope you weren’t taking a nap, but I wondered if you knew that your giant milkweed has been damaged.”
“It has?” The man hobbled out. Tosca preceded him to the side fence where they both regarded the plant.
“Well, it doesn’t look dead,” the man said, “but that’s a large cut. Wonder how that happened? Who’d do such a thing?”
“Your wife or grandchildren, perhaps?”
“No, ma’am, I live alone, and my grandkids are in Florida. Hmm. Nothing to be done, I suppose, until the gardener comes tomorrow.”
“You mean Karma?” said Tosca.
“Yes. She’ll know what to do. She sure has a green thumb.”
And maybe a white one, thought Tosca.
“I took a photo of your plant, and I’d like to take a few more. Is that all right?” she asked.
“Sure, it’s fine.”
Tosca used her cell phone camera to take several additional pictures of the long, vertical cut on the giant milkweed stem before bidding the man goodbye and continuing on her way. After three hours of walking up and down every street on the island, she’d found five more of the plants, all with gouges to their stems. One yard contained two pots of giant milkweed. Such deadly beauty, she thought, touching the dainty purple flowers gently at the last yard she stopped at.
None of the other homeowners answered her knock or bell ring. Realizing it was the middle of the afternoon, she assumed they were at work. She took photos of all the slashed plants and wrote down the addresses. Deciding she had located all of the murderous, albeit innocent, weapons, Tosca walked to Main Street and bought a cup of strawberry ice cream topped with hot chocolate sauce. Before leaving the store she also bought a carton to take home.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
After six o’clock, when she assumed the absent homeowners would now be home, Tosca called at Arlene’s house, hoping to catch her in. She took the carton of strawberry ice cream with her, knowing how much Arlene liked it.
Her friend, swathed in an outsized black and white striped butcher’s apron, opened the door with kitchen mittens on her hands. An aroma of cookies baking wafted out.
“Hi, you’re just in time to try my new recipe,” said Arlene. Tosca handed her the carton. “Oh, no,” said Arlene. “Ice cream? Wish I could have some, but the doctor says I eat too much sugar. Tom will appreciate it, though.”
“Aren’t those cookies you’re baking full of sugar?”
“No, I’m using honey instead. It seems to have changed the consistency, though, and they’ve spread all over the baking sheet into one huge cookie. Come on in. I need to cut them into squares before they cool.”
She stood aside to let Tosca walk by and go into the kitchen.
“Arlene, are you doing anything this evening?”
“No, not really. Tom’s got his poker night next door, and I was going to watch a TV movie. Why?”
“Would you mind taking a walk with me to a few neighbors’ homes here on the island?”
“Tosca, you’ve got that look in your eye. What’s going on?”
“You’ve lived here a long time. I’d like you to tell me if you know the people at the houses where I took some photos today.”
“Why did you do that?”
“We know Sally was poisoned by a plant with stems that ooze toxic sap. I found quite a few yards around here that have them. They’re called giant milkweeds.”
“Wow, are you sleuthing again? How exciting. You mean, go out after midnight and prowl around?”
Tosca laughed. “No, no, nothing as dramatic. I mean now, while it’s still light, if you can.”
Arlene opened a drawer, removed a knife and turned to the baking sheet. “Okay. Let me cut these apart, and we can go.”
She stacked the cookie squares onto a tray, removed the apron and took a jacket from the hall coat stand as they left the house. They walked several blocks to the nearest address Tosca had written down and stood across the street from it.
“Do you know the people who live there?” said Tosca.
“No, never met them.”
“Let’s see if anyone’s home.”
There was no bell or door knocker, so they rapped on the door. The house was a one-story cottage with a small front yard of grass. Two trees supported a hammock slung between them, and beneath the front window were three stone slabs on which sat pots of flowers. A milkweed plant was among them.
The door opened to reveal a young child. She was holding a spoon, her mouth surrounded by gobs of what appeared to be blueberry ice cream.
“Hello, pet,” said Tosca. “Is your mummy home?”
At that moment an elderly woman appeared behind the girl.
“Marci, go back into the kitchen.” The girl turned and left, and the woman looked inquiringly at Arlene and Tosca.
“Sorry to bother you. Are you the homeowner?” said Arlene.
“I’m Marci’s grandma.” She crossed her arms. “There’s a sign right there on the window that says ‘No Soliciting.’”
“No, no. I’m one of your neighbors, Arlene Mindel. I live down the street, and this is Tosca Trevant, visiting from London. We’re not selling anything. We just want to ask about those two big plants over there.”
“What about them?”
“Did you see who might have cut the stems?”
The woman walked over to the pots and peered at the slashes.
“Well, upon my soul. Students again, I suppose. They’re always playing around in the hammock. I don’t know why Patty leaves it out here. Maybe they cut the stems of these plants for what they think is fun.”
“So you don’t know who may have damaged them?” said Tosca.
“No, sorry, no idea.”
Tosca thanked the woman, and she and Arlene left, deciding there was no further information coming from the household.
“How about here?” said Tosca, indicating the next address on her list. In the front yard a giant milkweed was planted in a waist-high clay pot.
“Yes, this is Cynthia and George Stanowski’s house. They’ve lived here for many years. They’re an elderly couple with no children. Do you want to meet them?”
At Tosca’s nod, Arlene rang the front doorbell. A large woman with short, white hair opened t
he door and peered at the visitors.
“Oh, it’s you, Arlene, didn’t recognize you at first.” Her voice was scratchy but soft. “Would you like to come in? Excuse the mess. We just got back an hour ago from staying with friends in Carmel.”
“Thank you, Cynthia. This is my friend, Tosca. She’s staying with her daughter here on the island.”
Tosca closed the screen door behind her as they entered straight into a living room. The television was on, and a man whom Tosca assumed was George sat in a recliner, his feet on the raised footrest.
“Don’t get up,” Arlene said quickly. “We can’t stay long, but Tosca has a question or two, if you don’t mind.”
George picked up the remote from a side table and turned the television sound off, looking at the visitors curiously.
“Questions?”
“Yes,” said Tosca, “about the new plant in your garden, the giant milkweed.”
“Oh? Karma brought it over a couple of weeks ago. She does our landscaping, such as it is. Nice flowers, aren’t they? We’d never seen one before. She told us it was from India. Why?”
“Have you noticed that the stem has a gash in it?”
“No, we’ve been away. I haven’t taken a good look at the yard yet since we got back.”
“Then you must have missed Karma’s party last week.’
“Yes, we were sorry we couldn’t attend, but we’re going to donate to the Sanderson library. Sounds like a worthwhile project. My parents were friends with Fuller and Abigail, but after they died we didn’t keep in touch with his son, nor with Destiny.”
“Wasn’t it sad about that woman’s death at the party?” said Cynthia. “My neighbor told me about it when we called in to see if everything was all right at our house. She’s been keeping an eye on it for us. Was it a stroke?”
“No,” said Arlene. “We’re told she was poisoned.”
George swung his legs off the footrest, and Cynthia put her hand over her mouth.
“Poisoned? That’s shocking,” said her husband.
