Bindweed

by Janis Harrison

  My father’s laughter sounded forced, and he seemed nervous. “Yes, well, we—uh—why don’t you tell Bretta what you think Phillip used to make that fabulous fabric.”

  Abigail cleared her throat. Her face was flushed with color, but her tone was positive. “Since I had my fingers on the material so briefly, I’ve had to rely on what Albert saw, too.”

  My father said, “It was exceptional, but then I’m not the authority Abby is. She’s shown me different fabric swatches but, while several had similarities to Phillip’s, none was what I’d consider a match.” He winked at me. “That is, until a friend sent her some new blends that are being explored.”

  Abigail took up the tale. “Deanna has been an interior decorator for many years. She’s older and more experienced. When I described what we’d seen, she said it sounded like a kenaf blend.”

  Kenaf? I’d never heard of it, and I wasn’t sure that it mattered. But to keep everyone happy, I said, “Really?,” in a tone I hoped conveyed the correct mixture of curiosity and interest.

  Abigail nodded. “It’s exciting that modern technology is giving a second life to old tradition. I’ve been doing some research on the textile industry and the information is amazing. In the 1580s, Spanish galleons took pineapple plants to the Philippines. The variety had larger leaves than the ones grown today. The natives stripped the leaves down to the fibers and spun the threads into a soft fabric that had more texture than silk and was much cheaper to produce.”

  Confused, I asked, “So Phillip’s cloth is made from pineapple leaves?”

  Abigail shook her head. “No, I’m just giving you some background. Piña cloth comes from pineapple leaves. Abaca is a fabric made from the fibers of a plant that’s related to the banana. Henequen is derived from the agave and is used to make rope and binder twine. Coir is the prepared fiber from the husk of the coconut.” She sighed. “Isn’t it fascinating? Wouldn’t you love to see these textiles manufactured?”

  I shrugged. “Since it takes a tropical climate to grow the plants you’ve mentioned, then yes, I’d like to go to some warm, stress-free island and have nothing better to do than watch plants become fabric.” I tapped the face of my wristwatch. “But right now the seconds are ticking away.”

  Abigail frowned. “Fine. Kenaf is native to Africa and yields beautiful fibers that are strong and resist mildew and rotting. Because it can be mass-produced here in the United States, it is economically competitive with cotton. The kenaf fibers by themselves yield a naturally strong fiber that is popular for making rope, but once it’s blended with another plant tissue, its commercial viability is endless. The plant is a relative of the okra plant.”

  “Okra?” I said. “Well, that’s fairly common and easy to grow.”

  Abigail nodded. “Exactly. Okra is part of the mallow family.”

  I’d been inching toward the door, but stopped. That piece of information struck a chord. “Mallow?” I said. My heart was beating faster. I knew enough botany to recognize that classification. “You said your friend sent you a swatch of this kenaf material. I’d like to see it.”

  Abigail turned and picked up a square of fabric that was about a foot across. “This isn’t exactly like Phillip’s work because I’m sure he used a different blend of fibers to achieve the shimmering quality we saw in his cloth. I won’t be able to isolate those blends until I see the material again.” Abigail chuckled softly. “Now that I have the background and can talk intelligently on the subject, I’m hoping to initiate a conversation and charm the information from him.”

  I ran my hand over the nubby fabric and tried to corral my excitement. Keeping my tone steady, I said, “The plants in the mallow family typically have large, showy blooms. If I remember right, the genus Malva includes the hollyhock, the rose mallow, the marsh mallow, cotton, and, as you mentioned, okra. But there’s one more plant that is fairly common and is a member of this same genus.”

  Abigail opened her mouth to supply the answer, but I wanted to be the first to say the word.

  “Hibiscus,” I blurted out. Then in a shaky voice I proceeded to piece the information together. “Kenaf is grown for its fiber. We don’t have kenaf plants in this area, but our climate will allow hibiscus, which is a cousin of the kenaf plant, to grow. It stands to reason that the hibiscus could produce fibers that, when processed, might be woven into a piece of cloth like the one we saw at Phillip’s workshop.”

  Abigail nodded. “I can’t be absolutely positive, but I’m sure beyond a reasonable doubt. I’m hoping that over the next few weeks, I can gain his trust. I’ll have to see him quite often as I pick up and drop off the pieces of furniture we want him to refinish. If I can convince him, I want to showcase his fabrics in several of the bedrooms upstairs.” Her eyes sparkled with excitement. “Wouldn’t that be fabulous?”

  Fabulous wasn’t the word I was thinking of. Murderous was more the case. But where was the motive for Toby’s murder? Why steal the hibiscus plants? Toby was more than willing to trade his time or his groceries for money. If Phillip wanted the hibiscus, why hadn’t he offered to buy them? The only thing I could figure out was that he didn’t want anyone, even Toby, to know that he was interested in the plants. But why? What was so important about Toby’s hibiscus plants?

  All these questions were driving me crazy. I needed answers. Toby’s funeral service was a formality—the final good-bye to a very special man. I needed to be there. I wanted to be there, but my final gift to Toby’s memory could be the apprehension of his killer.

  In the blink of an eye, my mind was made up. While all the suspects were attending Toby’s service, I had some serious investigating to do. Toby’s garden and the hibiscus topped my list.

  chapter Eighteen

  “This wasn’t my idea,” said Abigail from the passenger seat of my SUV. “But I’m looking forward to seeing the hibiscus.”

  My tone was cool. “I know whose idea it was, and it’s not necessary. Regardless of what my father thinks, I don’t need a companion.”

  Abigail chuckled. “Back home he’s known as the Missouri mule.”

  “Back home?”

  Abigail grew still. “Where Albert used to live. He’s told me stories about having to—uh—draw on his Missouri heritage when it came to getting his way, especially in business dealings.”

  “This really doesn’t concern him, or you, for that matter.” I glanced at Abigail. She was hardly dressed for a trek through Toby’s garden. Her thin cotton shirt and lightweight slacks would offer little protection against the cold rain and the wilderness of plants. I’d seen this even if she and my father had refused to face facts. With wasted minutes ticking by, I’d given in. I’d grabbed an old denim jacket from the closet and handed it to Abigail. My father had seen my gesture as more than capitulation. He’d acted as if I’d bestowed a priceless gift on Abigail. He’d patted my shoulder, telling me what a generous person I was. How kind and thoughtful I could be.

  My mouth drew down in a frown. I was feeling anything but kind and thoughtful. I said, “I’m surprised you have the time to make this trip. Don’t you have other clients?”

  Abigail’s hands had been busy plaiting her long hair into a loose braid. She stopped and looked at me, then quickly away. “As I’ve said before, I’ve cleared my schedule to do the work on your house.”

  “But you do have other clients here in town?”

  It took her a moment to answer. “My business is just getting started.”

  “I’m guessing that means I’m your one and only customer.”

  Reluctantly, Abigail admitted, “At present, but I’m working on a couple of ideas.”

  I shifted uneasily in my seat. “I never asked you for references concerning other jobs you’d done. You have done other jobs?” I glanced at Abigail, but she was staring out the window. When she didn’t answer, I said, “I should have had this conversation with you on Saturday when you gave your presentation, but I was distracted by other events going on in my life.”
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  She perked up and turned to me. “I’d like to hear more about Toby’s murder. Your father told me someone put a hornet’s nest in his bedroom.”

  Her need to change the subject was too obvious. “Abigail, you do have references, don’t you?”

  She licked her lips. “Not really, but I can call my friend Deanna if I run into a problem. She’s been a decorator for years.”

  “How did you meet my father? How did you convince him that you had the right qualifications for this project?”

  Abigail gave her finished braid a final pat. “Let me ask you this. Aren’t you pleased with my ideas so far?”

  Slowly I nodded. “Your ideas are very good, but they’re all on paper. Do you have the expertise to execute them? Can you carry through to the end?”

  “Yes. I know I can, especially with Albert helping me.”

  “But you hardly know him. Why all the confidence in him?”

  Her voice trembled. “He’s a nice man, and he was willing to give me this opportunity.” She squared her shoulders. “I know I can do it.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  She ducked her head. “I don’t really remember.”

  I kept pressing. “You don’t remember? That seems odd when he’s giving you the chance of a lifetime to show your talent.”

  Abigail twisted around on the seat so that she was facing me. “Do you think we could forget Albert, the decorating of the house, and just get to know each other? I think we have plenty in common to make for an interesting conversation.”

  I said nothing as I put on my left-turn signal.

  Abigail tapped a fingernail on her knee. “The majority of Albert’s concerns for you stem from your interest in solving mysteries. Back at the house, when he said he’d seen ‘that look in your eye,’ I’m assuming you had a flash of insight concerning Toby’s death. It must have been important for you to give up going to his funeral.”

  I navigated the left turn and stepped on the accelerator. Tight-lipped, I answered, “I’m hoping that will be the case.” For a few minutes we traveled in silence, then I said quietly, “I don’t know what’s going on between you and my father, but at some point I’m going to get answers.”

  I pulled into Toby’s driveway and shut off the engine. I zipped up my coat and opened the door. After I’d climbed out, I looked at Abigail. “It isn’t raining, but the garden will be wet and drippy. If you want to wait here—”

  She didn’t let me finish. She got out. After giving the door a solid slam, she stared at me over the SUV’s hood. “I’m not waiting here. Let’s go.”

  She stalked ahead of me as if she knew where she was headed, but paused at the corner of the house for me to lead the way. I thought she was about to say something, but she pressed her lips together. As I passed her, she stubbornly tilted her chin and fell into step behind me. I shook my head. This was ridiculous. We were bickering like siblings.

  I wanted my mind free of outside aggravations as I inspected the hibiscus plants. To do that I had to break the strain that existed between Abigail and myself. She hadn’t answered questions about her relationship with my father, but now wasn’t the time to press. So I broke the silence by talking about the reason for our jaunt to this garden.

  “Toby Sutton was a unique young man,” I said. “With some people, you have to make an effort to like them, but with Toby, it was easy to care about him.” I continued into the garden, spilling my thoughts if Abigail wanted to listen.

  “On the day Toby died, he came to my flower shop to wash the windows. Sometimes he carried out the trash. Other times he unpacked freight or swept the sidewalk. He was easy to be around. He didn’t make demands or ask personal questions. By the same token, my employees and I didn’t probe into his life. If Toby initiated a topic, that’s what we discussed.”

  I led the way into the tangle of bushes. “From the looks of the shrubs and the size of the weeds, Toby hasn’t worked in this area of the garden since his mother died. And yet, when we get to the hibiscus, you’ll see a marked difference in the upkeep.”

  Abigail asked, “Why only the hibiscus?”

  “I’m not sure. Toby said his mother taught him how to start seeds on the kitchen windowsill. He promised her he would plant six new rows each year.”

  “So the hibiscus were an ongoing project?”

  “I’m sure of it, but I don’t know why.”

  “Maybe Toby was growing the plants to please Phillip.”

  “But why didn’t Phillip grow them on his own land? Why would he cut the stalks on the sly? Why not tell Toby he was taking them?”

  Abigail didn’t have an answer, and neither did I.

  We followed the path around a curve of sunburned azaleas to be confronted by the wall of burgundy-colored leaves. I said, “Beyond this barrier of red barberry are the hibiscus.”

  Before I could stop her, Abigail reached out as if to brush the barberry branches aside. She yelped in pain and pulled her hand back. “Thorns,” she muttered, rubbing her pricked skin.

  “Sorry. I should have warned you. Barberry makes a perfect privacy fence. The dense foliage combined with the thorny branches is impenetrable.”

  I turned in a circle, waving an arm at our surroundings. “In fact, this entire garden is a deterrent. There’s no attraction, no design. Every shrub that grows well in Missouri can be found right here. Lilacs are planted next to pussy willow, which has wild, unruly, upright stems. I love the burning bush, but its vase-shaped growing habit is lost because it’s planted too close to the arching limbs of that forsythia, which in turn is being smothered by the Hall’s honeysuckle. I’m accustomed to seeing mugo pines sheared and well kept. These specimens are four-foot haystack-size monsters. Powdery mildew has all but covered the lilacs. The potentilla has spider mites. Aphids are living and reproducing like mad on the crepe myrtle.”

  Abigail pointed to a particularly thick tangle of leaves. “What is that horrible vine that’s covering everything?”

  “Bindweed. Its vigorous growth takes over an area, smothering everything in its path. The roots grow under the surface of the soil, and they’re next to impossible to destroy. If you leave a fragment of root behind when you pull up the vine, the cycle is reestablished, and you have to wage another war or use a strong herbicide. Not everyone wants to handle chemicals. This entire area is a gardener’s worst nightmare. Every negative thing I’ve learned, planning my garden at home, has been put into play here.”

  “Maybe it was intentional,” said Abigail.

  Slowly I nodded. “Maybe so. Leona told me Agnes joined a garden club to learn about plants because she knew nothing. Looking around us, it’s as if she ignored all the dos and concentrated on the don’ts. Don’t plant shrubs close together. Don’t prune at the appropriate time. Don’t water, fertilize, or spray for pests.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  I shrugged. “I didn’t know Agnes well when she was alive, but since Toby’s death, I’ve learned several things about her. And the one fact that stands out is that she never did anything without a purpose.” I looked around and sighed. “She programed everything about Toby’s life, so I have to assume this garden has taken on the look she had planned. Leona said Agnes liked the idea of shrubs. Maybe she set up this part of the garden to be something special.”

  Abigail snorted. “Well, I’m not seeing it. There’s nothing aesthetic about this plot of land. It’s a hodgepodge of sunburned, pest-infested, overgrown vegetation with nothing going for it except perhaps the reason we came. Bretta, my curiosity is running as rampant as these shrubs. How do we get beyond this thorny barricade so we can see the hibiscus?”

  “Follow me,” I said. “There’s a gap down this way.”

  We walked about twenty feet and came to the break in the enclosure. Using the sleeve of my jacket, I pushed a branch aside. Abigail slipped through. I ducked my head and followed her into the enclosure.

  “I haven’t walked the perimeter, but Sid told me a narr
ow path lies between the barberry hedge and the hibiscus. Over there are the stubs where the hibiscus was chopped down. Their growth habit is for a single plant to develop into a clump. With each passing season, that one plant can yield up to as many as eight stalks.”

  Abigail looked around her in disbelief. “There isn’t a weed anywhere.”

  “I didn’t see a water source in the other area of the garden, but there’s one right over there.” I pointed to a sloppily coiled hose. “Toby watered these plants when we had a long, dry spell this summer. He took his mother at her word—on this subject, at least.”

  Abigail looked at me. “That last comment makes me think that he didn’t follow her instructions on other matters.”

  I nodded. “He didn’t. Another time I’ll explain, but right now I want to examine these plants. The last time I was here, Sid hurried me away.”

  “Are we looking for something specific?”

  “I don’t have a clue. I hoped with the information you gave me about the kenaf, I’d have a new perspective.”

  Stepping carefully, I worked my way among the towering plants. My passing shook raindrops from the leaves. The water trickled into my hair and rolled down my cheek. I wiped my face as if I was wiping away tears.

  “Are you all right?” asked Abigail.

  Blinking away the moisture, I said, “Yes. I’m not crying, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not that desperate—yet.” Speaking quietly, I explained, “This is what I love about becoming involved in a mystery. The brain power. The collecting of facts and connecting them with my personal observations. It’s like that bindweed you pointed out earlier. Everything ties together: this garden to Agnes. Agnes to her son, Toby. Toby to his association with the people on Hawthorn Street.”

  Abigail added, “These hibiscus to Phillip.”

  I shook my head. “Sid would call that supposition. It hasn’t been proven.”

  Stubbornly, Abigail said, “It isn’t supposition in my mind. I’m sure that cloth was kenaf.”