by India Ink
Apartment 522A was at end of the hall. I stood at the door with Barbara behind me, wondering just what I was going to say. Finding no doorbell, I knocked firmly on the door. No answer. I knocked again. Nothing. With a sigh, I turned to Barbara.
“Nada. He’s probably out looking for work. I’m going to leave a message and my number.” I hunted in my purse for a notepad and pen, scribbled my name and number along with a request that he call me when he got the chance, then slid the paper under the door.
“I guess that’s all I can do about him for now. Let’s get the hell out of here, this place gives me the creeps.”
Barb nodded and we raced out of the building. I glanced back and thought I saw someone watching us from one of the windows, but it was probably my imagination and I shook it off as we headed for my car.
Chapter Ten
I dropped Barb back at the bakery, stopped at Wendy’s for a burger and shake, and headed home. It was eleven-thirty and I’d promised Sarah that I’d be there by noon to help out. As I pulled into the driveway the clouds were waging war with the sunlight, but rain was still a few hours away. I hurried into the house, pulled on a pair of black jeans and a forest green tee, then headed out to the gardens.
Moss Rose Cottage sat at the front of the thirty acres. In the backyard a fence divided the gardens from the lawn. I passed through the trellis onto the trail that led past the gazebo, to the acreage where we grew our flowers. As I headed toward the lilac grove, I could hear Sarah cursing. I rounded the curve in the path and saw that she was on her knees, stabbing at the dirt. A blackberry had taken root beneath one of the trees. Her voice rose as she struggled to dislodge it.
“Out, damned root! Out!”
Blackberry roots delved deep, plunging far below the soil to take hold and spread out, cropping up yards away as new shoots. “Hey, Sarah, having some trouble with MacBlackberry? I hope you haven’t seen the ghost of those morning glories we weeded out last month.”
She jerked around, blushing. “Hey there, Persia. These things are so stubborn. Honestly, they’re such tenacious plants.”
“Well, let me help. I’m yours for the afternoon.” I slid on a pair of leather gloves and fell in beside her.
She stretched, leaning back. Sarah had a farmwoman’s body—sturdy, not too tall, not too short, child-bearing hips. She was tanned from the constant wind and sun but her eyes twinkled bright blue, and she had an infectious good humor that seemed to affect everyone who came into contact with her.
With a glance in my direction, she said, “Can you dig over there while I take this side? I don’t think it’s created suckers yet, but by the size of this thing, it won’t be long. Once it takes hold, it will be almost impossible to eradicate without using an herbicide.”
We worked steadily until we came to the root. The blackberry was firmly entrenched, but we managed to yank most of it out and dug a few more trowels of dirt for good measure, hoping to get all the root hairs. Once we were finished, we sat back and stared at the gaping hole.
“People could take lessons from them,” she said. “Blackberries never give up. They go after what they want and they usually get it.” She wiped her forehead, leaving a streak of dirt behind. “Kind of like my llamas. Those critters are a trial in patience, I’ll tell you that. But I guess they’re worth it.”
At first, I had thought Sarah was some spacey new-age hippie wannabe, but I’d soon discovered that she was practical, grounded, yet deeply spiritual in a way that defied categorization. Her work was a prayer, and everything she did was done with deliberation and a sense of sacred duty.
“Persia, can I ask you a question?” She pushed herself off the ground and produced a couple of buckets from the little motorized cart my aunt had bought for the gardeners to save wear and tear on the back muscles while carting their gear around.
“Sure, what is it?” I accepted one of the buckets and a pair of shears as she set up the stepladders by one of the trees. We ascended and began clipping the flower stems from one of the lilac trees. The flowerets were at the perfect stage for drying for sachets and potpourri, and we’d have to work fast over the next few days in order to preserve the blooms at the optimum stage.
“What’s going on with Trevor? You don’t really think he killed that girl, do you? I work with him every day and I can tell you, he’s not a murderer.” She set down her clippers and leaned against her ladder, frowning.
I sucked on my lip. “You know, Sarah, I don’t think he did, either. Neither does Aunt Florence and that’s why she hired her lawyer to look out for Trev. But the truth is that evidence points to him being guilty and isn’t easy to overlook. The chief’s just doing his job.” I paused, and it occurred to me that Sarah had said a mouthful when she’d said they worked together every day. Maybe she knew something we didn’t. Maybe he’d mentioned something to her that could be helpful. “Have the police questioned you yet?”
She shook her head. “No, nobody’s said anything to me about it except you and your aunt. And my boys are devastated. Trevor sometimes comes over and helps out around my house. I give him a little extra cash, and the boys think he’s super cool.”
I stared at the tree limb that stretched out in front of me. The tree—or bush, as lilacs were properly called—stood a good eight feet tall. My aunt had asked Trev and Sarah to keep the bottoms of the shrubs clear of foliage, and the grove looked like so many purple puffs. Heavy, drooping flowers scented the air with an intoxicating wash of perfume. Almost overpowered, I found myself getting swept under by the fragrance. With a shake of my head I snapped out of it and selected another stem to clip, dropping it gently in the bucket.
“Sarah, did Trevor ever talk about Lydia to you? Did he ever say anything about his relationship with her?”
Sarah scrunched up her nose. “You know, now that I think about it, he did. A little over a month ago, before they broke up. He said she was the most gorgeous girl he’d ever laid eyes on and that he couldn’t believe she was actually going out with him. He seemed totally obsessed by the fact that she’d agreed to date him, so much so that I was a little worried. It seemed like she didn’t matter as a person.” She leaned against the ladder, squinting as a ray of sunshine broke through the overcast skies and illuminated the grove.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s hard to say. Almost . . . like she was a symbol of something to him. Maybe success? Anyway, I tried to warn him to be careful, that looks can be deceiving, but he wouldn’t listen.”
I wasn’t surprised. It was clear to me that Trevor had conveniently overlooked the girl’s personality, like so many young men in the thrall of their hormones. He’d seen her as a prize, and whether the prize was bitter or tainted wasn’t relevant—all that mattered was that he won.
“What did he say when you warned him?” My guess was that he’d shrugged her off politely and ignored her advice.
She hoisted herself up another rung on the ladder. “That was the strangest thing. He said that he didn’t have to worry. He said that he was sure she loved him, even if she wasn’t good about showing it. I mentioned the trip to New York, because she’d won the contest and I knew she was supposed to leave soon, but he said ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got it under control.’ ”
“What did he mean by that?” A tingle in the back of my neck told me that whatever Trev had planned had back-fired, but I shrugged it away. Right now, any information we could use would be helpful.
Sarah screwed up her face. “That’s what’s so odd, and out of character.”
Uh oh. “Odd? Odd as in how?”
She sighed, shaking her head. “Persia, he told me that she wasn’t going to go. He was absolutely convinced that he could persuade her to stay, that they were meant to be together. I pressured him a little. He finally said, ‘Well, if she was going to get married and have a baby, that would stop her from going, wouldn’t it?’ Then he took off for the house and that was the last time the subject came up. A week later Lydia dumped hi
m and he clammed up. Now she’s dead. Do you think I ought to tell the police what I just told you?”
I groaned. Kyle would want to know, that was for sure. As far as I was concerned, it was just one more nail in Trevor’s coffin. The stupid kid! What if he’d tried to persuade her to have a baby? Or what if he sabotaged his birth control? But surely she’d been on the pill? She’d been too smart of a girl to leave her protection up to the man.
Whatever went down between them, Lydia had walked out on him. Even I was beginning to believe that her rejection had hurt his ego so bad that he sought revenge, and that wasn’t a good thing. If I didn’t believe him, how could Kyle? I didn’t want to think badly of Trevor, but the way things were headed, he’d be in that cell a long, long time.
“What should I do?” Sarah asked again.
I sighed. She had to tell Kyle, but this could sink Trevor for good and, as it was, the poor kid was already treading water.
“I don’t know, Sarah. I just don’t know. Let me talk to Winthrop and my aunt.” I went back to my lilacs, wishing fervently that I’d kept my mouth shut and not asked so many questions.
When I wandered back to the house around five, I found my aunt on the floor, her briefcase dumped out in front of her, with Buttercup wandering over the stacks of paperwork. Buttercup was a classic silver tabby with beautiful emerald eyes whose personality fit that of her namesake from The Powerpuff Girls—in other words: hiss first and ask questions later. Auntie was already in a mood and I dreaded adding to it, but I’d decided that Sarah had to tell Kyle what she knew.
“What’s going on? It looks like a whirlwind hit your briefcase.”
She glanced up at me, her face a study in “I-am-peeved.” “The judge will be arraigning Trevor on Monday for Lydia’s murder. Winthrop is trying to stall for more time but Kyle’s pushing hard. I think that Charles Wang is getting to him. I’m looking for my address book so I can call a few of my friends and ask them to put the pressure on Chas to back off a little.”
As worried as I was about Trevor, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the Wang family. I knelt down beside her and laid one hand on her arm. “Auntie,” I said softly, “you can’t blame him. His daughter’s been murdered. She may have been a first-class bitch to everybody else but the fact remains that she’s dead, and she was his little girl. Do you really think you’d do any different?”
A pained expression crossed her face as she tossed the file back on the stack and rubbed the bridge of her temples. “Child, sometimes I wish you weren’t so fair-minded, but you’re right.”
I helped her pick up all the files and carried everything to the table where she could sort it all out. “Auntie, they’ve got a lot of evidence. Kyle is doing what he has to. And now Sarah has to talk to him.” As quickly as I could, I told her what Sarah had told me.
She groaned. “That stupid, stupid boy. Oh, how did he ever get himself involved in this mess? Kyle will use this as an excuse to bulldoze the case along, but you’re right. As much as I hate to admit it, we can’t keep something like that under wraps.” She forced a smile and gave me a tired shake of the head.
I gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I’m going to run and get the mail while you organize your papers and tuck them back in your briefcase.”
I ran on out and yanked open the mailbox, glancing at the sky. The sight of the clouds crowding in off the inlet stopped me in my tracks. Picture perfect against the dusky fading patches of blue, they billowed, cruising slowly toward shore. Streaked with long fingers of tangerine that splashed against the sky from a muted sunset, the sky had reached that juncture that signified the perfect hush before night, the moment when birdsong echoed through the air as dusk faded into twilight.
And then, in the space of an instant, what there was left of the sunlight disappeared. Dusk hit full force, bringing with it the chill that always accompanies the Pacific Northwest forests during the night. A peculiar scent of moss and mildew, blended with the smell of moving water, spelled home to western Washingtonians, and it was a smell like nowhere else in the world.
I shivered and pulled open the mailbox, reaching in to grab the handful of letters. As I walked back to the house, one of the envelopes caught my eye. It was addressed to me but by name only, and had no stamp. Someone had shoved it into the mailbox during the day.
As I lightly tripped up the stairs, I opened the letter and withdrew a single page. On it, in letters cut out from a magazine and pasted to the paper, was the message: “Trevor is innocent. Please help him.”
I stared at the page. What the hell? Was it the same person who had left that message on our machine? I raced inside and, holding the page by the edges to avoid destroying any further evidence, I showed my aunt. “Somebody really believes he’s innocent,” I said.
Aunt Florence peeked around my shoulder. “Good heavens! Well, I wish whoever’s doing this had the guts to step forward. I wonder if they know anything about the murder? Maybe they’re afraid?”
She had a point. Of all the reasons to remain anonymous, fear seemed the likeliest motivator. Perhaps the person had seen something that night—maybe witnessed the murder itself? If so, it was feasible that they might be afraid that the killer would come after them if they stepped forward.
“You might be on to something, Auntie.” I picked up the phone. “I guess I’d better call Kyle.”
“No dear, just put the letter back in the envelope and tuck it in a paper bag. I’ve got my aqua aerobics class tonight, so I’ll stop at the station and talk to Kyle on my way. I’ll tell him to talk to Sarah, too.” My aunt had been taking water aerobics for a year now and had stabilized her blood pressure, increased her mobility, and lessened the pain that her arthritis caused her.
“That sounds like a plan. I think I’ll hit the pillows early tonight. I’m tired and just want a long bath and a good night’s sleep.”
While Aunt Florence took off to her bedroom to get her suit, I nipped into the pantry and slid the envelope in a lunch sack. I left it on the table and headed for my room, passing my aunt as she was coming down the stairs. “The bag’s on the table. Lock the door on the way out, would you? I’m going to be upstairs most of the evening.”
“Before you run off, I just remembered—you got a phone call earlier. Someone called for you shortly after noon. I left a message.”
I peeked at the board. Andy Andrews had called, and he left his number. “Oh, good! I was hoping he’d call.”
“A date?” Ever optimistic, my aunt wanted me to find the right man, even though she knew perfectly well that I wasn’t interested in settling down.
“No, not a date. Information that might help Trevor, I hope. Andy was on duty at the aquarium when our mysterious caller left that message for us on the answering machine at the shop.”
I picked up the phone. My aunt sat down at the table, waiting to see what I could find out. As I punched in the number, I held my breath, but the phone rang five times before an answering machine picked up.
“I’m outta here. Leave a message, dude. You know the drill.”
Oh boy, skateboard city here. I left my name and number again, and hung up. “Looks like we’re playing phone tag. I doubt if he knows anything, but maybe I can think of something the police didn’t ask.”
Aunt Florence waved and headed out to the Gull Harbor Aquatic Center. The residents had fondly nicknamed the center GHAC, pronounced “gak” for short. I glanced at the clock. Too early for bed but I was beat. I decided to watch TV and wandered into the living room, where I found Delilah and Buttercup curled up asleep together in the middle of the sofa. I knelt down and scooped them up in my arms, buried my face in their fur, and playfully chased them out of the room. A trail of startled “purps” and meows drifted in their wake.
“Ha! That will teach you two to interrupt my sleep!”
The remote was sitting on the end table and I grabbed it and fell into the rocking chair, propping my feet on the matching embroidered footstool. With a wide yawn,
I flipped on the TV and began to channel surf. There wasn’t much on, and I finally settled for watching a special on Discovery about a group of climbers who got stuck up on Everest. Halfway through, I rested my head against the back of the chair and closed my eyes, drifting into that indefinable state between waking and sleeping.
I’d been dozing about ten minutes when the doorbell rang. Who on earth could that be? Barbara always called before she came over. Stifling another yawn, I pushed myself out of the chair and headed toward the door, flipped on the porch light, and took a look through the peephole.
