Death in the Garden City

by Jeanne M. Dams

  Judith’s Uncle John met us at the airport and understood completely. ‘You’re still running on English time, aren’t you? I’m going to take you home, feed you a very light meal with a small glass of wine, and settle you down for a brief nap. Brief, mind you! Then we’ll go for a walk, as the weather’s so nice, have a bite of supper, and then bed. You’ll sleep well, and in the morning you should be nicely adjusted to life eight time zones away from home.’

  I had to exercise my best manners to avoid nodding off on the ride into Victoria, but Alan, for some reason more alert than I, kept pointing out something of special beauty or interest along the way, and I managed to stay conscious. The salad and wine, though, did it. I think I was asleep even before my head hit the pillow in our pleasant and comfortable room.

  Waking was torture, of course, but I admitted I felt somewhat refreshed, especially after a cool shower and a change of clothes. ‘Among the living, my dear?’ asked Alan as we went downstairs to join our host.

  ‘More or less. I could easily have slept right through till morning, though.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t have. You’d have waked in the middle of the night and been disoriented and out-of-synch for a week. Buck up, old thing. You’re not in Kansas anymore.’

  ‘Nor in Oz,’ I snapped.

  But really, when we set out on our walk, there did seem to be some Oz-like features. If our long journey had seemed to be largely grey, at least in spirit, Victoria was certainly in Technicolor.

  John McKenzie lived in a pleasant neighbourhood of family homes, not elaborate, but well maintained. The houses gleamed with fresh paint, mostly white, but with pastels mixed in. And every house – every house – had its front garden. Some were simple plots of annuals, in the vivid colours of June. Some were much more elaborate, with incredible roses and flowering shrubs. I became frustrated because I couldn’t see any of the back gardens for the high fences surrounding them.

  John explained. ‘You see, we have a deer problem. When we walk down near the gorge, we’ll probably see one or two. They have almost no fear of humans, and they are very fond of many garden plants. So we build fences, and try to avoid planting some of their favourites. The trouble is, their favourites are often ours, as well. When we visit Butchart Gardens, you’ll see some of the elaborate defences they’ve devised. Of course, they also have a huge staff of gardeners who can replant anything that gets devastated.’

  I wondered if the deer ever ate oleander or monkshood, and if so, whether they died, but decided this wasn’t the time to bring it up.

  ‘We’ve heard a good deal about the Butchart Gardens,’ said Alan blandly. ‘We’re going to see them?’

  ‘Yes, and other gardens as well. I’m giving you the grand tour.’

  We had, by that time, wandered into a small park. John gestured toward an inviting bench. ‘You’re probably ready for a respite, all things considered. And we need to talk.’

  I was glad to sit. Parts of our walk had been uphill, and I’m not as young as I used to be. Not to mention befuddled by too much travel too fast.

  ‘Judith says she’s told you about my worries?’ John said, making it a question.

  ‘Some of them, at least,’ I replied. ‘The plants that have been stolen, the letter bombs, the vandalism.’

  ‘Yes. There’s been all that, and more. I daresay, Alan, that as a policeman you understand the petty nature of all the incidents.’

  ‘Petty, yes, as individual episodes. As a group, I can see that they could be worrisome.’

  ‘And more than worrisome.’ He paused, looking out to a body of water visible through the trees. River? Inlet? I couldn’t tell.

  He sighed. ‘This is a peaceable place. I need you to understand that, so that you will understand how its peace is being steadily undermined by these events. I believe you’re planning to stay on the island for a couple of weeks?’

  ‘Our plans are flexible,’ said Alan. ‘Judith and Edwin kindly booked our tickets with an open return date. It was hard, from so far away, to know how long we might need to ferret out any answers to your problem. If indeed we are able to do that at all, when you, here on the spot, haven’t found satisfactory answers. Of course we don’t expect to trespass on your hospitality. I’m sure there are hotels—’

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ said John firmly. ‘I want you to have the freedom of living on your own, but certainly not the expense of a hotel.’

  ‘Judith and Edwin—’ I began.

  ‘I know they’ve volunteered to underwrite your expenses, which is kind of them, but even they don’t have unlimited funds. I’ve made other arrangements, subject to your approval, of course. I have a good friend, Amy Hartford, whose daughter Sue is off studying in Brazil just now. Her condo – the daughter’s, I mean – is sitting unoccupied, and Amy has offered it to you for as long as you want. There’s also a car, if you care to use it. Are you comfortable driving on the right?’

  I smiled. ‘Far more comfortable, to tell the truth, than on the left. Judith will have told you I’m American by birth, so most of my driving life was spent on the right. But really, does your friend’s daughter want to trust both her home and her car to total strangers?’

  ‘You won’t be strangers to Amy for very long. She’s coming to dinner with us tomorrow night. In any case,’ he paused and cleared his throat, ‘she and I hope to be married soon. So it’s all in the family, so to speak.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Alan, glancing at me, ‘we accept gratefully. You’re right; freedom of movement will make things much easier for us.’

  ‘Can we drive here legally, though? I mean, we only have English driving licenses.’

  ‘That’ll work. I’ve bought some maps for you, and the car has GPS, so you shouldn’t get lost. And for the first few days I’ll be driving you, so you can get a feel for the area.’

  ‘Except I never pay attention when I’m being driven anywhere. But Alan has a pretty good bump of direction.’ I was interrupted by a yawn that nearly cracked my jaw. ‘Oh, I’m sorry! I’m not bored, truly.’

  ‘You’re exhausted, and no wonder. And it’s getting chilly, so let’s head for home and supper.’

  And after that, a comfortable bed and blessed oblivion.

  We woke very early, as was to be expected. Our bodies were still pretty much operating on English time. But five thirty in June in British Columbia is full daylight. Birds in John’s garden were twittering madly, and I thought I could smell …

  ‘Coffee? Or am I imagining things?’

  ‘If you are, I am, too.’ Alan yawned, stretched, and looked around the room. ‘What did we do with our dressing gowns last night, do you remember?’

  ‘No. I don’t think I even unpacked anything except pyjamas and toothbrushes.’ I sat up, spotted our suitcases sitting open on chairs in the corner, and padded over to Alan’s. ‘Here.’ I tossed him his robe, then found mine and shrugged into it. ‘Brrr! I didn’t bother with slippers; socks will have to do.’

  ‘You don’t think we need to dress properly?’

  ‘To go down for coffee at the crack of dawn? Unless I’ve read him all wrong, John isn’t that formal. Anyway, we’ll find out. If he’s wearing actual clothes, tomorrow we can do the same.’

  John was sitting at the kitchen table in his robe and slippers, reading the paper with a mug of coffee in front of him. ‘Good morning! I hope I didn’t wake you. I always get up early, but I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Jet lag,’ I replied. ‘And the birds. We couldn’t sleep any longer. And when I smelled coffee, nothing could have kept me away.’

  John grinned and got up to pour us some. ‘Wonderful stuff, caffeine.’

  ‘My drug of choice,’ I said, adding cream and sugar. ‘I’m forever grateful that it’s legal.’

  ‘Mmm.’ John buried his face in his cup.

  We imbibed our morning wake-up in silence for a few minutes, John offering a second cup when our mugs were empty. Then he stood and said, ‘Breakfast. Eg
gs, bacon, toast? Cereal, porridge?’

  ‘Ordinarily just toast and coffee,’ said Alan, ‘or cereal. We splurge occasionally with eggs and bacon, but not as a general rule.’

  ‘Cholesterol worries, I suppose,’ said John with another grin. ‘Me, too. But we’ve rather a full day ahead of us, with a good deal of exercise – if you like, of course – so let’s throw caution to the winds for once. How do you like your eggs?’

  I’m afraid I made a pig of myself that morning. Not only did John make perfect scrambled eggs, soft and fluffy, but the bacon was American-style, thin, crisp, and smelling like heaven. When John offered me more, my protest was a token one.

  ‘I haven’t had that kind of bacon in years,’ I said when I finally pushed my plate away. ‘I’d expected the English kind, more like ham.’

  ‘We have that, too. We call it back bacon, or Canadian bacon.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I remember that from when I lived in Indiana. Now, can I help you clean up?’

  ‘Nothing much to do, just bung everything into the dishwasher. But let me tell you what I’ve planned for today.’ He moved about the kitchen with the smooth efficiency of long practice. ‘The most important thing is a visit to Butchart Gardens. They’re easily the most famous site on Vancouver Island; they get visitors from all over the world, and if you like plants and flowers at all, you’ll love them. They are extensive, though, which is why I mentioned exercise. Do you both like to walk?’

  I sighed. ‘I’m not as good for distance as I used to be. But yes, we’re both reasonably good walkers, considering that we’re no spring chickens anymore.’

  ‘There are lots of benches for taking breaks. And a coffee shop for a longer break.’

  ‘And,’ said Alan in his down-to-business voice, ‘a place to investigate a theft.’

  John stopped smiling. ‘Yes. And that of course is one reason I’m taking you there. But only one. Yes, it’s important that you see where the aconites were stolen. But it’s also important that you absorb the atmosphere of the gardens, because in a way it’s a pattern for the whole of the Victoria area. It’s the ambience that is so precious to us, and that we stand to lose if the trouble doesn’t stop. We must stop it!’

  We went soberly to dress for the day.

  THREE

  ‘They don’t open till eight forty-five.’ John was back to his cheerful self. ‘And it won’t take us much more than half an hour to get there. So I propose to drive you around, to get a feel of Victoria and the surrounding area – and point out some traffic regulations that will probably be unfamiliar. Here’s a map to help you get oriented. Ready to go?

  ‘The first thing you need to know,’ he said as he drove us down a busy street, ‘is that greater Victoria, that is, the city and surrounding area, is divided into several municipalities. You’ll see them on your map. We’re in Esquimalt now, headed into Victoria proper.’ He pronounced the unfamiliar word ‘Es-kwai-malt’.

  I looked at the map. ‘Looks a lot like the French word for Eskimo, Esquimau, only that’s pronounced the same as in English.’

  ‘It is a First Nations word, a transliteration of course. The Esquimalt peoples lived here long before the white settlers came. British Columbia has a high population of indigenous people, and we latecomers are becoming more and more aware of their importance, and their rights. Look.’

  John slowed the car and pointed to the right, and Alan and I craned our necks at an impressive totem pole in a little park.

  ‘That one’s a copy, though the original was where this one is now. They’re carved from cedar trees to resist weathering, but they do eventually rot. You’ll see a good many of them as you travel around the area, and the Royal BC Museum has a great First Peoples exhibit that tells the history. It’s not always pretty. White settlers did all they could to wipe out indigenous culture in the early days. It’s only within the past sixty or seventy years that attitudes have changed. Now we’re crossing the famous Blue Bridge into the city.’

  ‘I see,’ said Alan in his driest tone.

  ‘You see that it isn’t blue.’ John chuckled. ‘I forget why they decided not to paint it blue when they rebuilt it, not long ago. But they shine blue lights on it at night to preserve the tradition. On your left is the Upper Harbour, on your right the Inner Harbour. There’s quite a bit of boat travel between, so the bridge opens. It’s quite a sight, as the entire roadway tilts up, in one piece. Now we’re officially in Victoria. We’ve turned the wrong direction to get to Butchart, but you had to see the city, and early morning is a good time, before it gets too crowded.’

  We drove along the harbour. John pointed out the Visitor Centre, the ferry terminal and then, when we were about to turn inland, the British Columbia Legislature.

  ‘Victoria is the capital of BC,’ John said. ‘Most people, Canadians as well as Americans, don’t realize that. Vancouver is very much bigger, but Victoria was settled first, and has remained the capital. There’s the Royal BC Museum and the Empress Hotel, which you’d enjoy if money were no object. I won’t say you have to be Bill Gates to stay there, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a healthy bank balance.’

  I shrugged. ‘One hotel room is very much like another. And all you do is sleep there. If money were no object, I can think of things I’d rather spend it on.’

  ‘You’d like their afternoon tea, though.’

  Alan laughed. ‘You’ve hit upon my wife’s weakness. She’d do almost anything for a truly magnificent afternoon tea.’

  ‘I admit it. But having had tea at the Ritz, can life hold any more?’

  John glanced at his watch. ‘Tomorrow, if you’re up to it, we’ll take a guided walking tour of the city. There are several every day, leaving from the Visitor Centre, and the guides are knowledgeable and interesting. I want you to see Chinatown, what’s left of it, and Beacon Hill Park, and any number of other high points. For now, though, we’d best head for the gardens.’

  There is no point in trying to describe the Butchart Gardens. If you surf the net, there is an excellent website which, for once, doesn’t exaggerate. Actually the real thing is far more incredible than anything you can imagine just from seeing pictures. Perhaps the most amazing fact is that this magnificent beauty spot arose from a played-out limestone quarry, through the vision of one woman, over a hundred years ago. We were told that, at one point near the beginning of the project, Jennie Butchart herself swung from a bosun’s chair, planting ferns in the crevices of the sheer rock wall.

  We walked for miles, sitting frequently to rest, to take in yet another gorgeous view, to talk. We oohed and aahed over the heritage roses, the exuberant summer annuals, the serene Japanese garden, the amazing fountain that changed from one pattern to another in seemingly unending variation.

  It wasn’t until we were settled in the café for coffee and a scone that I reluctantly brought up the unpleasant subject. ‘John, I hate to talk about it, but when were the aconites stolen from the garden? And where were they? I didn’t see any, though of course among thousands of plants, I might have missed them. Or haven’t they been replanted?’

  ‘They have, shortly after their loss was discovered last October. You wouldn’t have noticed them today, as they’re not in bloom yet. They grow in several spots; the ones that were stolen were close to one of the gazebos. Our theory, insofar as we have one, is that the thief came in close to closing time, which in October is four o’clock, and then hid until he, or she of course, could get out without being seen.’

  ‘But … isn’t security pretty good? Even on a day like today, when there aren’t a lot of visitors, there were employees all over the place.’

  ‘Yes, of course security is good. But we’re not talking about a military installation or a defence plant. One person wearing dark clothing and carrying a small parcel could defeat them. Obviously did, in fact.’

  ‘And Dorothy, my dear, the “how” in this case interests me much less than the “why”.’ Alan finished his coffee. ‘I can imagine no reason why
someone would go to all that trouble to steal plants that could be bought at any nursery garden.’

  ‘Precisely.’ John grimaced as he put down his cup. ‘Now, then, would you like to go on, or have you had it for this morning?’

  We took a different way back to John’s house, passing on the way the site of one of the ‘tent cities’ housing the homeless. ‘No tents left. The city keeps coming up with plans for better housing, but it’s a very complicated problem. Many of the residents had addiction or mental health issues, and/or were transients, and not easy to house.’

  ‘So,’ said Alan as we speeded up and left the compound behind, ‘there might have been some motive for the damage to the tents.’

  ‘Yes. The people who find the homeless contemptible and dangerous could well have done it. But the park where it happened was, and is, very well patrolled at night, which is when it happened, and nobody saw anyone or anything.’

  ‘Which might imply that one of the residents was to blame,’ said Alan, frowning.

  John sighed. ‘Of course that was the obvious answer. Except, again – why? Why would they do something to hurt their own?’

  ‘Tempers could run high in a place like that,’ I said. ‘No, I don’t mean to imply that the people are – what did you say? – contemptible and dangerous, but they’re living in a miserable situation and being kicked from pillar to post. I can’t imagine they’re feeling any too kindly toward the world, and those feelings could extend to a fellow-camper who happened to annoy them. As neighbours often do.’

  ‘You’re quite right. And the neighbours were questioned. Very, very tactfully, to avoid rousing even more anger and unrest. Everyone in the community, and I mean everyone, insisted that it couldn’t have been one of them. I believed them. They were incensed over the vandalism, and bitter about the failure to catch the culprit. They would have ratted on the one who did it if they’d known.’