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Authors: Janis Harrison

BOOK: Bindweed
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“Agnes had a host of regulations that she expected Toby to abide by. In my opinion, he went astray from Hawthorn Street. Someone influenced him in a bad way, and our beloved Toby has paid the price.”
I stared down at the paper. Perhaps the reason I liked Yvonne's writing best was because she didn't point fingers. She simply laid out the facts as she knew them, and all could easily be verified by asking around. I didn't think that would be necessary because I couldn't see any reason for Yvonne to lie. I also found it interesting that she thought someone outside of Hawthorn Street had influenced him.
“Bretta? Am I interrupting you?”
Since I thought Charlotte and I were the only ones in the garden, I jumped at the sound of the voice. I looked around and saw Abigail standing off to my left.
She said, “I heard you speaking and followed the sound. I hope you don't think I was eavesdropping.”
I picked up the notes and folded them together before I stuffed them back into my pocket. I didn't feel particularly welcoming, but I wasn't going to be out-and-out rude. However, I wanted to make a point. Raising an eyebrow in feigned bewilderment,
I said, “I'm amazed. I could have sworn this was Sunday, but here you are. It must be the first of the week.”
My sarcasm would have made a weaker woman cower. Abigail only shrugged. “It's still Sunday,” she said, “and I'm not here for your decision about hiring me. As it happens, I love gardens, and I hate my apartment. I thought about going to the park, but didn't want to be surrounded by people chasing balls or Frisbees. I decided to take a drive, and my car brought me here. I didn't even ring the front doorbell. I slipped around the house, like the trespasser I am, hoping to find a bench where I could soak up a few rays.”
I moved over. “It's not very sunny under this arbor, but the view is restful.”
Abigail sat down next to me. We didn't talk, but stared at the garden. After a while, she put out a foot and pushed against the ground. The glider moved gently. Glancing at me, she pushed again and again. The peaceful rocking accelerated to a faster pace. I grabbed the armrest and added my own foot action. Soon we were swinging so high the chains that attached the glider to the crosspiece overhead squeaked in protest.
Whoosh. Whoosh.
Whoosh!
I laughed out loud, delighted by the wild rush of air in my face. We kept up this madcap pace until we were both breathless. We stopped pushing and gradually the swing slowed to a more gentle rhythm. Abigail leaned back and caught sight of the spider.
“Wow!” she said. “That's one beautiful orb weaver.”
I followed her gaze and smiled. “That's Charlotte. She and I met for the first time this afternoon. What did you call her?”
“She's an orb weaver. Better known as a common yellow garden spider. They like to build their webs in grassy areas near
houses. She's harmless except for the insects that get too close to her web. When that happens, she shrouds them in a silk-wrapped cocoon.”
“What else do you know about her?”
Abigail's smooth brow wrinkled. “Gosh, Bretta, you're asking me about things I learned back in high school.”
“You're closer in age to that source of information than me. It's been way too long since I studied anything in school.”
Abigail pursed her lips thoughtfully. “If I remember right, she has eight legs, two body parts, an outside skeleton, and eight eyes. She's very patient. She will wait all day for her next meal.”
“That's when it becomes tangled in her web?”
“Not so much tangled as stuck.” She turned sidewise so she could stare at me. “Are you really interested in this stuff? Or are you trying to keep me from discussing my decorating ideas?”
I smiled. “Probably a little of both, but Charlotte does intrigue me. What do you mean ‘stuck'? Like glue?”
“I don't remember all the technical terms, but normally a spider has three pairs of spinners. The small tubes inside the spinnerets, as they're called, are connected to glands that are located at the back end of their abdomens. From these tubes the spider spins a watery fluid into a thread that we can't see unless sunlight is reflected on it.”
I looked up at Charlotte. “She's even more impressive than I thought.” I turned and contemplated Abigail. “So are you,” I said, paying the compliment easily.
She seemed pleased. Today she'd twisted her long hair into a bun at the nape of her neck. It was a sedate style, but with her adolescent features, she looked like a teenager playing at being an adult. While this fountain-of-youth attribute would serve
her well when she hit fifty, I wondered if she had a hard time convincing clients that she was capable of the job. She had mature ideas regarding the redecorating of my home. My father had recommended her, but what did I really know about Ms. Abigail Dupree?
I didn't realize I'd been staring until Abigail asked, “Is something wrong?”
I shook my head, then started my interrogation into her personal life with what I considered to be the gentle approach. I'd learned that if I wanted information, I had to give before I received. So I said, “I don't know how much my father has told you about our history. I've had a difficult time accepting him back into my life. I understand why he left all those years ago, but those same years have changed him. He's more aggressive, more outspoken, and more opinionated. He's different from what I remember.”
Abigail clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “But your memories are those of a child.”
“That's true. But the father I knew led, he never pushed. He patiently taught me to swim, to ride a bike, to make a whistle from the hollow stem of a squash plant.” I smiled up at Charlotte. “He even taught me the itsy, bitsy spider song.” I turned to Abigail. “What are your parents like?”
Abigail tried to pass off my question with an indifferent shrug, but I kept quiet, waiting for an answer. Finally, she said rather lamely, “Average, I guess.”
After my personal disclosure, her reply was sadly lacking. I persisted, “Are they both still alive?”
“Yes, but they're divorced.”
Common ground. I jumped on it, putting a sympathetic note in my voice. “Were you very old when they split up?”
“I was twenty.”
I waited for her to elaborate, but she pressed her lips together. It was obvious that she was perturbed. She sat woodenly at my side, staring down at her hands. Seeing no need to upset her further by pursuing the issue, I switched topics, talking instead about the work Eddie had done on the garden.
A few minutes later my father appeared on the path. When Abigail saw him she leaped up from the glider like she'd been waiting for an excuse to get away. I followed more slowly, wondering about this woman I was about to hire.
I'd looked over Abigail's prospectus for the bedrooms. I liked everything she'd outlined concerning the decorating, but the businesswoman in me was uneasy. Abigail hadn't included any professional information. No references or referrals that would confirm the fact that she was capable of completing the job. And yet I was going to give Abigail this chance, if for no other reason than to get to know her better. I was curious—a trait of mine that usually got me into trouble.
When I joined Abigail and my father on the path, my father was saying, “—been calling and calling your cell phone. Don't you have it with you?”
“I left it in my car, Albert.”
My father frowned. “You had me worried. I didn't know where you were.”
This conversation baffled me. “Dad,” I said, “Abigail has a life outside of her job. Besides, it's Sunday. She deserves a day of rest.”
My father quickly nodded. “Of course. You're right, Bretta, but there's been a—uh—development.”
I asked, “Development concerning what?”
My father shuffled his feet and switched his cane from one hand to the other. He glanced at Abigail, but fastened his uneasy gaze on me. “I don't want to upset you, since nothing has been decided, but I—uh—took a piece of furniture from the attic to have a watermark removed and the finish restored.”
“Oh really,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “Is this piece of furniture for you personally, or do you have plans to use it somewhere else?”
“It's a writing desk, and we thought it would fit into the Golden Dawn room, especially if the oak finish has been successfully
restored. I can pick it up today, and I thought Abigail might like to ride along.”
I asked, “Who did the work?”
“Phillip Pritchard. He has a workshop behind his sister's antiques store.”
“I know Yvonne,” I said, touching my pocket where I'd put the notes. I wanted to talk with her, and today would give me more time than tomorrow when I'd be busy at the flower shop. “If you both don't mind, I'd like to tag along. If Phillip is going to do the furniture restoration for the bedrooms, I'd like to see the first sample of his work.”
Abigail's head swiveled toward me. I nodded. “That's right. You have the job.”
At the very least, I expected a joyous whoop. Her smile was almost sad, which confused me. “I'll try to live up to your expectations,” she said solemnly.
My father was more exuberant. He grabbed me in a bear hug, squeezing the breath out of me. In my ear, he whispered, “I knew you'd make the right decision, daughter. This is wonderful. Just wonderful.”
He released me and stood back to smile at us. “We've got plenty of work ahead of us, ladies, but I'm sure this experience will form an enduring friendship.”
Abigail answered his presumptuous statement by saying, “I'll meet you at Phillip's.”
Determined to have his way, my father overrode Abigail's objection to riding with him. She wanted to drive her own vehicle back to River City. He informed us that we would ride together in his truck so we could get to know each other better. He further stated that once we had picked up the writing desk, we would bring it home so we could see how it fit under the window in the Golden Dawn room.
Under my breath I muttered, “Push, push.” I was referring to my earlier conversation with Abigail about how my father had changed. She was so quiet, so downbeat, I was hoping to reestablish the amicable link we'd shared while making the glider soar through the air. But Abigail ignored me. To my father she said, “Whatever you want, Albert.”
My father took her simple words as law. On the ride into town, he outlined plans and made assessments as to the amount of time involved in the redecorating project. I kept waiting for Abigail to add her professional opinion, but she was quiet, letting my father ramble.
I was bewildered. Didn't she want the job? Had she changed her mind? Her entire attitude had undergone a transformation. When she'd arrived in the garden, she'd been open and friendly. Now she seemed standoffish, withdrawn from me. I tried to think of what I might have said that would have brought about this aloofness. Was it the criticism of my father or my questions about her parents? I thought about asking her, but if I broached the subject in front of my father, he would only assure me that everything was “wonderful”—a word I was beginning to despise.
So for reasons of our own, Abigail and I rode in silence, allowing my father control over the conversation. “The Treasure Trove is closed this afternoon,” he explained as we arrived at our destination. “But Phillip told me he'd be out in the barn.”
The Pritchard property rested within the city limits. Back in the midfifties, the farm had been a thriving dairy operation. The white clapboard farmhouse was Yvonne's antiques showroom. Each room held pieces that pertained to that particular living space. I'd taken DeeDee with me one time when I was looking for a dining-room chair to match the three I'd already
found. I hadn't been able to get her away from the kitchen. She'd been fascinated by the utensils used in bygone days.
The porch had red geraniums blooming in old crocks, dented buckets, and other unique containers. A trellis made from an iron bedstead supported a yellow climbing rose. Iron wagon wheels attached to posts formed a boundary that marked the business end of the property.
Yvonne and Phillip lived in a double-wide modular home that had been squeezed in next to the store. Sharing the rest of the land was an old barn with an attached silo, and a chicken house complete with a flock of laying hens. Scratching in the dirt behind a wire fence were some ducks, a couple of geese, a few sheep, and a goat.
Following Phillip's instructions, my father took the driveway that divided the business from the Pritchard's home. I'd never been down this hedge-lined road. Once we passed their residence, a tall woven-wire fence with an iron gate barred our way. A sign directed us to “HONK.” My father tapped the truck horn. After a few minutes, the gates opened electronically, and we entered the barnyard.
The barn was a Dutch design with a gambrel roofline. The huge sliding door was open. Yvonne sat in a pool of sunlight working a spinning wheel. The setting was picturesque and tranquil with a herd of sheep grazing in a nearby pasture, and the silo casting its elongated shadow across the grass.
We got out and Abigail turned to me. “Do you like horses?” she asked.
“From a distance. I don't ride, but I think they're beautiful.”
Abigail smiled. “Watch this. Yvonne showed me this trick the last time I was here.” She whistled a couple of high to low notes. A white horse ambled around the corner of the barn. Under her breath Abigail said, “This is the neat part.” Raising
her voice, she called out, “Come, Sugar Cube.” She pointed her finger at the horse.
The horse pricked up its ears. Abigail lowered her arm, then raised it again to point at the horse. “Come, Sugar Cube.”
“Are you offering it a treat or is that the horse's name?”
“It's his name.” A wide smile stretched across her face.
I looked at the horse. With his head held high, he clip-clopped across the barnyard straight to Abigail. She stroked his nose and tugged gently at his ears. “Isn't he a sweetheart? I so miss being around a horse.”
“You have horses where you used to live?”
Before she could answer, Phillip came to greet us. The smile he turned on me was welcoming, his handshake firm. “I didn't know you were bringing guests, Albert,” he said. “We've just brewed a pot of tea. I'll have Yvonne hunt up more cups.”
I demurred, saying we didn't want to cause them any trouble, but Phillip was already striding back to the barn with a purposeful step. He spoke to Yvonne, who got up slowly from her seat at the spinning wheel. She waved to us before disappearing from view.
As we entered the barn, Abigail and my father showed no particular interest in their surroundings. They took off to the back of the building where Phillip was waiting. I lingered, trying to see everything at once. I was standing on smooth concrete. High overhead, oak beams formed the skeletal structure. The floor of the hayloft provided a portion of the ceiling. Milking stanchions ran the length of the building, with wooden troughs facing the main alleyway of the barn.
Dishes clattered off to my right. I called, “Yvonne, I hope it's all right that I came along with my father and Abigail.”
She came out of the room pushing a tea cart. “Bretta, you're always welcome.” She gestured to the cart. “Here in the barn I
don't use my good china, so we'll have to make do with mismatched cups and saucers, but I do have homemade oatmeal cookies.”
“You really don't need to do this. We aren't staying long.”
She parked the cart and offered me the tin of cookies. I chose one and took a bite. After swallowing, I said, “These are delicious. I like them soft and moist.”
Yvonne waved away the compliment. She had more on her mind than cookies. “I heard Abner was arrested for Toby's murder. From what I hear, Abner had a scam going. For a mere pittance, he was buying back the groceries he'd already billed to Agnes's estate.”
I nodded. “That's what I heard, too.”
She groaned as she sat back down at the spinning wheel. Rubbing her knees, she said, “I suspect we'll soon learn that he was also padding the original grocery bill.”
“That's possible,” I agreed. “I read the notes you gave me about Toby.”
“Were they helpful?”
“You did a very good job. I was particularly interested in the duck-hunting episode.”
Yvonne shook her head. “Poor Toby. He was crushed when he came back. He didn't take to the idea of killing any critter. It was a—what do you call it?” She stopped and thought. “Traumatic experience,” she said with a nod. “Phillip and I both tried to tell Harmon that Toby wouldn't like hunting, but he had it in his head that Toby needed a man's influence in his life.”
“You wrote that in your notes. What exactly was Harmon talking about?”
“Since Agnes worked for Harmon at the drugstore, he had a front-row seat when it came to Toby. Harmon thought that
Agnes babied her son. Harmon even tried to get Agnes to send Toby away to a state school, but she wouldn't hear of that.”
“What business was it of Harmon's? Just because Agnes was an employee didn't mean he had any say in Toby's welfare.”
Yvonne eyed me. “I figured you knew that Harmon loved Agnes, especially with you being right down the street from the pharmacy. It was common knowledge. But Harmon wouldn't take on Toby as part of the marriage package. When he made this clear to Agnes, she turned him down. Before Harmon could get Agnes to change her mind, she found out the cancer was back and that this time it was terminal.”
“Did Agnes love Harmon?”
Yvonne held out her plump hands. “I'm just guessing that she did. She never said as much, but she loved someone. There was a man in her life, and if it wasn't Harmon, then I don't know who it was.”
I was curious. “Why do you think Agnes had a man in her life?”
“Because she sparkled. There was a light in her eyes that even the cancer couldn't dim.”
I ate the last of my cookie as I pondered this information. I wasn't sure how it fit into Toby's death. If Agnes loved this man—whoever he was—she surely would have trusted him to look after Toby once she was gone. But that didn't work with my theory that Agnes feared someone in Toby's life would have a negative influence on him—unless it was Harmon.
I dropped the topic of Agnes's love life, and asked, “Do you think Abner is the one who put the hornet's nest in Toby's bedroom?”
“My instincts tell me no. Melba thinks Abner did it, but she doesn't like him.”
“Do you know if there's a specific reason?”
“Abner put in a line of candles and potpourri at his grocery store. Melba was furious. As she said to me, ‘I don't plan on selling milk, bread, or cheese. Why should he infringe on my territory?'”
“She has a point. I know that Abner sells blooming plants, which are usually priced lower than what I'm selling. I don't like it, and I don't particularly like Abner, but I can't see him messing with a hornet's nest.”
“Then who did it?”

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