Bindweed (19 page)

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Authors: Janis Harrison

BOOK: Bindweed
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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.”
I tried to keep the amusement out of my voice. She was a persistent woman. And I liked that. It reminded me of myself. “I can appreciate your gut feeling. I've had it many times, but absolute certainty doesn't cut it unless you can back it with hard evidence.”
“We'll find it,” she said. “I don't know what I'm looking for, but we can cover more ground if we split up.”
I wasn't sure if that was a good idea, but she'd disappeared among the plants. “Abigail,” I called. “Don't wander far.”
“I'm not a child,” she said.
I shook my head and moved out of the plants and back to the barberry hedge. Using caution against the thorns, I sidled along the path. I counted thirty-six rows of plants in all stages of growth. The ones closest to the entrance were older, with more stalks to a clump. By concentrating on one row at a time, I saw there was a slight difference in the coloration of the foliage. The first twelve rows were a healthy shade of green, but row thirteen showed a marked difference that carried through the
next twelve rows. Here the plants were darker, thicker of stem, and the leaves had developed a slight crinkling pattern. At a glance, the difference wasn't discernible, but I wasn't glancing. I was examining each row, and finally each plant segment by segment.
I stepped back on the path and counted rows. Toby had said his mother wanted him to plant six new rows of hibiscus a year. Thirty-six rows and Agnes had been gone six years, so it looked like Toby had followed her instructions. The plants that had been chopped down started at row twenty-five and ended at row thirty. All six rows were gone, with just the green stubs of the stalks left to show that the plants had existed. The next six rows were intact. I assumed they were last year's seedlings. The plants were small, but showing healthy, vigorous growth. This year's plants were shriveled up on the windowsill in Toby's house.
I studied the six rows of whacked-off plants. Something wasn't adding up. I went back to the path and surveyed the area. The plants right before the ones that had been cut down had a supple difference in color and a crinkle in the leaves. But those plants hadn't been touched. Or had they?
I went back to rows nineteen through twenty-four. At random, I picked a row. Shuffling along, with my gaze on the base of the plant, I spotted something brown. Stooping, I scraped away the muddy soil and found a dried-up stub. When I pushed on the stub, it keeled over. I searched for more and found them. It looked to me as if several stalks had been cut, but they'd been taken here and there among the plants.
But why cut the entire hibiscus in the next section? What had made them more special than any of the others? Since they were gone, I didn't have a clue, but I knew the hibiscus in rows twenty-five through thirty were important—to someone.
I went to the path and called, “Abigail, where are you?”
“Over here,” she answered. Her voice had come from the far corner of the plot.
I said, “I'll meet you by the opening in the barberry hedge.”
“I'll be right there.”
While I waited for her, I pondered the situation. I'd been thinking about kenaf and hibiscus plants, but I hadn't allowed my thoughts to put those pieces of the puzzle into the framework that surrounded Toby's death. Was there a connection? The hibiscus was on Toby's land. If he'd kept quiet about the plants being cut, would he still be alive? Or were the hibiscus just the tip of a larger, more devious scheme?
If the hibiscus were valuable, why weren't they under lock and key? Why were they being grown in the open? I looked around me. They weren't in the open. No one would suspect that in this weed-infested jungle there was an immaculate piece of ground covered with well-tended plants. But what had Agnes told Toby to make him keep these plants flourishing? Why would he devote time to this area and not the rest of the garden?
“I'm a muddy mess,” said Abigail, coming up to me.
I turned and grinned. Mud was smeared across her cheek. A cluster of leaves and twigs was caught in her hair. “Are you okay?” I asked. “What happened?”
She made a face. “I'm annoyed, but fine. Back at the farthest corner, I saw something caught on the barberry hedge. It was a piece of yellow fuzz.” She pulled it out of her pocket and mashed it between her fingers. “Feels like wool, probably from a sweater or a scarf.”
This time I laughed out loud. “You got mud on your face and leaves in your hair from finding a piece of fuzz?”
Her eyebrows drew down. “No. I did more than that. I
found a place where the barberry hedge isn't as dense. By using my—your—jacket for protection against the thorns, I eased my way through to the other side. I was busy fighting the groping branches and didn't notice that the ground sloped.”
“So you fell?”
Her eyes flashed. “I caught myself, and I found a lovely place to have a picnic.”
Disappointed, I turned away and headed for the break in the hedge. “Swell,” I muttered under my breath. “That's just what we were looking for.”
Abigail said, “You don't think the fuzz is important?”
“I don't see how. We don't know when it was caught on the hedge. For that matter, we don't even know for sure what it is. It could have been dropped by a bird who was trying to feather its nest with something soft.”
“Or it could have come from the sweater Phillip was wearing when he trespassed to steal the hibiscus.”
I didn't verbally comment, but I rolled my eyes. Was this how Sid felt when I handed him my theories on a case? I didn't like the flash of guilt that weaseled its way into my consciousness.
Abigail was still talking. “—a willow tree by the stream. I had to look beyond hoofprints and piles of poop, but it was picturesque.”
I was ready for a change of subject. “I found evidence that some of the hibiscus was cut last season or even the season before. This was in the middle of the patch, so Toby might not have noticed. Something has been bugging me. I need to know how long it would take to turn a stalk of hibiscus into a piece of cloth.”
Abigail stopped and stared at me. “Gosh, Bretta,” she said, “I don't have any idea.”
I motioned for her to keep walking. “What about the technique?”
She was silent until we got back to the SUV. As we climbed in, she finally spoke. “Turning fibers, whether they're plant or protein, into fabric is a process. My thimbleful of knowledge says that the stalks are cut and the fibers separated. Generally speaking, the fibers have to be softened so they'll blend with one another. Wire teeth, like you'd find on a wool card, might work. It's like combing the tangles out of your hair. It brushes, and cleans, and separates the fibers so they're ready for spinning into yarn. Depending on the quality of the fibers, the yarn could be woven on a regular loom. But since our interest is kenaf, I'm not sure if a regular loom would work.”
I started up the SUV and put the lever into reverse. Craning my neck so I could see out my back window, I said, “It's just as I thought. There are numerous steps, which takes time.”
“That's right, but I don't know how much.”
“Longer than from Friday, when Toby noticed the plants had been chopped down, until Sunday, when we saw the cloth at Phillip's workshop?”
“Oh, yes, I'm sure it would take longer than a couple of days.” Her jaw dropped as realization struck. Shaking her head, Abigail said, “I see what you're getting at. There's no way the cloth we saw came from these missing hibiscus stalks.” She slumped back against the seat. “All of this has been for nothing. What a waste.”
I put the lever into drive and smiled. “Don't give up so quickly, Watson. Last year's stalks could have produced the cloth, and this year's harvest could be hidden away ready for spinning and weaving.”
I stepped on the accelerator. As my SUV gathered speed, my heartbeat picked up its rhythm, too. I couldn't suppress my excitement. “I'm basing our next action on conjecture, but what the hell. Sid isn't here. Who's it going to hurt to do a little snooping?”
“Why are we parking here?” asked Abigail. “Surely you aren't hungry?”
I'd pulled the SUV into a slot in front of a Mexican restaurant a block or so down the street from Yvonne's antiques store. “I'm always ready to eat,” I said, turning off the SUV's engine. “But not right now.” I darted a quick look at her. “I couldn't very well leave my vehicle parked in Phillip's driveway.”
Abigail's eyes widened. “That's what you meant when you said ‘snooping'?”
“Are you interested?” I asked.
Abigail stared at me. “This is crazy, but you don't have to ask me twice. I'm in.” She slipped off her seat belt.
So our hands would be free, I suggested we hide our purses under the seat. “If you have your cell phone, you might want to slip it into your pocket.”
Abigail grimaced. “I left it on your dining-room table to recharge.”
Wasn't that just the luck? The one point at which Abigail might prove helpful. Oh well. “Okay, let's go.”
“And let the chips fall where they may,” she muttered as we headed down the sidewalk.
I wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean. “Act naturally,” I said under my breath. “Don't pay any attention to the
street traffic. We don't want anyone to notice us. We're just two women out for a stroll.”
Abigail's approach to “act naturally” was just like my father's. She flapped her jaws, telling some story about a purple carpet in a peach bedroom. I pretended an interest, but hardly heard a word. Was this asinine? Phillip had told me he kept everything locked. What was I hoping to find? Even if he had woven a piece of cloth from the stolen hibiscus, what did that prove? How did it tie into Toby's death?
Free-word association has been a trick I've used in the past when nothing I've learned seems to connect. It's like gathering an assortment of flowers from the cooler and assembling them into a bouquet. I might have a general idea of where each flower might fit into the arrangement, but until everything is laid out on my worktable, I don't know which ones will take center stage.
I shut out Abigail's voice and let my mind wander. The first thing that popped into my mind was the comment she'd made as she got out of my SUV: “And let the chips fall where they may.” I pursed my lips and tried to relax.
The word
bindweed
was next. It all ties together.
Chips. Chips.
Was I hungry? I frowned. Buffalo chips. Hoofprints and piles of poop. Road apples.
Frustrated, I scowled. A mind is a terrible thing to waste.
We were almost to Yvonne's shop. Abruptly, I took Abigail's arm and pulled her to a stop at the display window of a hardware store. Pointing to a Coleman lantern, I said, “When the traffic light changes, we'll duck around the corner. Drivers should be watching the car in front of them, so maybe they won't notice what we're doing.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I checked the light. “It's green,”
I said. “Let's go, but keep your rhythm slow and easy. A quick movement will draw attention.”
Nonchalantly, we walked around the corner of the building and down the alley. Abigail wanted to hurry ahead, but I kept a tight rein on her.
Rein? Why not “hold” or “grip”? Why rein? Something was bugging me, but I couldn't tap into it.
Walking slowly, we crossed a patch of grass and slipped behind a couple of Dumpsters. Now that we were out of sight from the street, we picked up our pace. Skirting the antiques store, we moved around it to the woven-wire fence that enclosed the barnyard.
Quickly I sized up the situation. The coast was clear. No car was parked at the house. My body opted for the gate, which would have been an easier climb, but it was in full view of the street traffic. My brain said it would be prudent to use the store to shield our stealthy scaling of the fence.
“Up and over,” I said. Drawing on my country background, I looked for a sturdy post. I grabbed it for leverage and put the toe of my sneaker into woven wire. With a grunt, I heaved myself up. The wire wobbled, but I clung like a leech to the post while I swung my leg over the top of the fence.
Straddling the wire, I looked around for Abigail. To my amazement and chagrin, she was already on the barnyard side, waiting for me. Gritting my teeth, I lifted my leg over the top wire and made a scrambling descent.
Once I was safely on the ground, I stepped away from the fence. I gave my jeans a sharp tug to settle them back in place. “That wasn't so bad,” I said. But Abigail wasn't paying any attention to me. She'd spied Sugar Cube, standing near the side of the barn.
“Hey, guy,” she called. The horse turned toward the sound
of Abigail's voice. She pointed her index finger. With a happy nicker, the hulking brute ambled forward like a trained robot. “Aren't you a sweetie?” she said, rubbing the horse's ears.
The horse answered by lifting his tail and depositing a good-size pile.
“Yuk!” I said.
Abigail chuckled. “What goes in must come out.” She hugged the horse's neck. In a soft voice, she crooned, “I miss Rex and the roundups, and the bran—” She stopped abruptly.
Instantly, I was alert. Had she almost said “branding”? As in “branding cattle.” As in my father had gotten rich by inventing a gizmo that “branded cattle.” I swallowed and stared at her. “Who's Rex?” I asked.
“My horse,” she said hurriedly. “What do we do next?”
I narrowed my eyes. “What roundups?”
Abigail shook her head. “We're wasting time. Phillip and Yvonne should be back from the funeral before long.”
I barely glanced at my watch. “We've got maybe half an hour. They probably went with the cortege to the cemetery.” I waited a second, then said, “What aren't you telling me, Abigail?”
Her head jerked around, but she didn't meet my gaze. Her voice was shaky. “I'm not sure why we're here, Bretta. What exactly do you have in mind? What are we looking for?”
I stared at her until she turned away. The first time I'd met her, in the library, I'd been struck by how well she got along with my father. They'd seemed to be on the same wavelength, each anticipating the other's thoughts without any verbal communication. But it was more than that. It had bothered me from the get-go that my father was adamant that I hire Abigail. I'd let several things slide—like how uncomfortable she became when I discussed my relationship with my father. Or how worried he'd been when she hadn't answered her cell phone. Everything
about their association seemed to be a long time in the making. I'd never witnessed any of the awkwardness that comes from a newly established friendship.
My gaze intensified as I studied her profile. No resemblance that I could see, but my gut was telling me things I wasn't ready to acknowledge. I walked past Abigail and Sugar Cube, skirting the horse poop.
Suddenly I stopped. “When you went beyond the barberry hedge in Toby's garden, you said you found hoofprints and piles of poop.” I couldn't keep the sarcastic tone from my voice. “With your background of
roundups,
and I assume you were about to say
branding
, as in cattle, I'd like your most expert opinion. Did you see horse or cow poop under that tree?”
She gulped. “Without a doubt, it was from a horse. In fact, if I were to hazard a guess, I'd say a horse had been tied to the tree. There was a bunch of hoofprints in the dirt that the rain hadn't washed away.”
I started walking toward the barn. It seemed feasible to me that Phillip might have ridden Sugar Cube over to Toby's, bypassing roads and sticking to the pastures. He would have tied the horse to the tree, cut the hibiscus, and ridden back home with his bundle of stalks. He could have wrapped them up in a blanket or secured them with twine to his saddle and no one would have paid the least bit of attention to horse and rider.
I circled around the silo and stared across the open pasture to the boundary fence. Down by a line of trees was a gate. I reasoned that if I were to cut across the pasture in a diagonal line, I might not be far off the route Phillip could have taken if he'd brought the hibiscus back to the barn.
If, might, and could were wishy-washy, but I had nothing. Maybe Phillip had dropped a leaf or a branch. I needed some hard evidence to prove I was on the right track.
To get my bearings, I glanced back at the barn and moved to my left another fifteen feet so I was in a more direct line with the gate. Abigail hadn't followed me. She hadn't asked any more questions. At the moment, she and the horse were nosing around a junk heap. All farms had them. Trash collectors didn't take certain items, so the discarded pieces were piled in an out-of-the-way spot. From my vantage point, I could see an old cookstove tipped over on its side. There was part of a hay baler, and some other farming equipment, mixed in with weeds and brush. I figured there might even be a snake or two, but I'd let Abigail find those on her own. I glanced down the line of trees to the gate and started off in the direction I hoped might prove informative.
Suddenly Abigail called, “Bretta, I don't know what I've found. It's vegetation, only it looks as if it's been put through a grinder.”
At the word “vegetation,” I reversed my route, lengthening my stride so that I was at her side in a flash. “See?” she said, pointing. “It's a bunch of mashed stems.”
I looked where she'd indicated. My stomach leaped with excitement. Using a two-foot length of pipe, I probed the squashed stems, and unearthed a piece of vine with a shredded leaf attached. With the tip of the pipe, I smoothed the leaf as best I could. There was no doubt in my mind.
I tossed the pipe aside. “That's poison ivy,” I said. “Did you touch it?”
Abigail shook her head. “Nowhere close. Why was the vine ground up that way?”
“Actually, it's a method called cold pressing. The juice was put in a bottle of bubble bath.”
Abigail's eyes widened. “You've got to be kidding. Was it used?”
“Yes. She died from an allergic reaction to it.”
The color drained from Abigail's face. She leaned weakly against the silo. “How horrible.”
“We've gotten a portion of what we came for. Let's go.”
Abigail didn't move. In a musing tone, she said, “Phillip would never extract the juice from a poison-ivy vine in his house or at the antiques store. He gives his customers free run of the barn, letting them snoop around, looking at the furniture he's working on, but I've never seen inside the silo.”
Slowly she turned and touched the brick wall. “As you've said, we've gotten a portion of what we need, but we don't know everything.” She tapped a brick with a fingernail. “It's here, Bretta. I know it is. All the answers are on the other side of this wall.”
My gaze traveled up the thirty-foot tower. As I studied the brick exterior, I remembered Toby's aversion to the brick lighthouse that had been at the flower shop. I remembered Melba saying that Toby had said that “bad things happen in towers.”
I sighed. “I want answers, too, but they might as well be on the moon for all the good it will do us.”
Abigail moved around the structure. “There are steel rungs cemented into the bricks.”
I followed her. “I know, but the first one is ten feet off the ground. How do you propose we close the gap? I don't see a ladder lying conveniently around here, do you?”
Abigail grinned. “We don't need a ladder. We have Sugar Cube's broad back.”
When it dawned on me what she was suggesting, I shook my head. “Oh, no. I'm not getting up on that horse.”
“You don't have to. I'll make the climb. Once I'm inside I'll unlock a door and you can walk in.”
It was tempting, but I didn't like the idea of Abigail going
inside on her own. We'd found the cold-pressed poison-ivy vine. Surely Sid could use that as a toehold for getting a search warrant. I shook my head. “Let's go find a phone. I'll call Sid. He can deal with it.”

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