Green Thumb (12 page)

“When I go into a house I always notice the plants, of course. A good portion of them are lethal. Poisonous effects are a plant's way of protecting itself.”

“Teleologically?”

“Of course. Don't believe all the nonsense you hear about science. A purely mechanical explanation of a plant suggests that its mature state is a happy accident, happily repeated. Nonsense. The plant is present in the seed because the seed has come from another plant. The point and purpose of seeds is to perpetuate a species. If that is teleology, let my enemies make the most of it.”

Roger laughed. “Surely you have no enemies.”

“Other than poisonous plants? No. But talk to me about Milton.”

Thus it was that Roger, having been assured that the species of plants provided a veritable cornucopia of poisons to one who knew their properties, found himself discussing Milton with Climacus, who proved to be remarkably knowledgeable.

“My interest was inspired by the line in
Lycidas
: ‘To sport with Amaryllis in the shade.'”

“A lovely line.”

“The amaryllis is a lovely plant.”

“I think the poet meant a girl.”

When Roger eventually rose to go, he had made another friend. He and Climacus had agreed that the professor of plant biology must come to the Knight apartment for dinner at his earliest convenience.

“I should tell you that I am not a vegetarian,” Climacus said.

“I should hope not.”

26

Later that day, Phil told Roger of Jimmy Stewart's reaction to learning that Maureen O'Kelly was a renowned gardener. A phone call to Minneapolis, requesting discreet inquiries, had turned up the fact that Maureen had several deadly nightshade plants in a special fenced garden in her yard devoted to herbs. Motive and means being established, the question became one of opportunity. How could Maureen, or anyone else, for that matter, have put the bottle of poisoned water in Mort Sadler's golf bag?

“The answer is, easily. He had dropped off his bag at the first hole of Burke the night before his fatally interrupted practice round.”

“But how would she have known?”

Phil shrugged. “That is the question.”

Roger could not help but think how this affected Francie. “It all sounds pretty speculative, Phil.”

“Oh, Jimmy isn't likely to make any accusations on what he has now. Of course, he will be pursuing it.”

“Will you go with him?”

“Yes.”

“Keep me posted, won't you?”

“You don't seem to like the possibility.”

“All your theories are based on the assumption that the water bottles were put into the bags here.”

Phil just stared at Roger, who went on. “They brought their golf bags here, didn't they?”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Only what I'm saying.”

“Bah.”

After Phil went off to meet Jimmy Stewart, Roger did the dishes and tried not to think of what his brother had told him. The only way to counter Maureen as a possible suspect was to produce an alternative. The suggestion that the victims had brought the poisoned water with them to Notre Dame was a logical possibility. But so many things are. And then, after he had turned on the dishwasher and shuffled off to his computer, he remembered Paul Sadler's interest in botany. The boy had been in the hothouse, confirming that interest. This suggested a possibility hardly more welcome than Maureen O'Kelly. To wonder about Paul was also to affect Francie, who obviously liked the lad. But an additional factor was Francie's account of Paul's dislike of his uncle Mort as they sat in the lobby of the inn.

“Why?”

“Oh, it's a family thing. And he blames Mort for the trouble my parents are having.”

Then she had told him of the episode when Jack O'Kelly had angrily struck Mort to the ground for some insinuation about his wife.

The married state was a mystery to Roger and never more so than when there was a falling out of spouses. His memories of his own parents were doubtless affected by his sense of melancholy loss, but in his recollection they had been entirely devoted to one another. He could sympathize entirely with Francie's sense of desolation when she spoke of her parents' separation.

“I said a rosary at the Grotto, praying that everything will be all right again between them.”

And now Jimmy Stewart was actively pursuing the possibility that Francie's mother was responsible for the death of Mortimer Sadler.

Five minutes later, Roger called Francie at the Morris Inn.

“Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said.

“I enjoyed our conversation.” But even as he said it, it seemed to Roger that, apart from her confiding about Paul, he had done most of the talking. When he mentioned d'Aurevilley's novel
Le prêtre marié,
she had wanted to hear all about it and he had obliged.

“I can't wait to take that course.”

“I can't wait to give it.”

Roger had already checked the summer course schedule, remembering that Francie had said Paul Sadler was enrolled in a course in botany. There was only one, and it ran for most of the morning, doubtless involving a lab.

“Are you free now?”

“What's the plan?” she asked with a lilt in her voice.

“I thought I would come by for you in my golf cart and we could just roll around campus and talk.”

“Wonderful.”

“In half an hour?”

“Perfect!”

It was a glorious day, with the late morning sun filtering through the trees and squirrels scampering about. In the Lobund Laboratory generations of germ-free mice had been raised for experimental purposes, while on campus, unmonitored and uncontrolled, squirrels had over the generations become fearless of humans and were always on the qui vive for offerings of food. Roger detoured by the Grotto and smiled at the visitors who were feeding ducks near the lake. These ducks, too, were almost domesticated, their food supply in large part coming from people who brought sacks of bread which they scattered among the feathered beasts. The Canada geese, nobody's favorites, did not receive the benefits of this preferential option but eventually they would enter with awkward strutting into the ceremony and chase the ducks away.

On the road, Roger followed the great circular road up and past the Rockne Memorial and maintenance shed and then turned off toward the Morris Inn, driving past the row of new residences, one of which was Sadler Hall. The building had indeed become a memorial now, sooner than its donor must have expected.

Francie was waiting under the canopy at the entrance of the Morris Inn and hopped in when Roger pulled up in his golf cart.

“Where are we going?”

“The campus is at its most beautiful. It's a shame so few students get to see it as its best.”

He crossed the road, got onto the sidewalk, and they went past the law school into the main mall. As he drove, Francie went on about what he had said of the campus in summer.

“It was one of my motives for coming with my mother.”

Her mention of Maureen O'Kelly strengthened Roger in his resolve. “Your friend Paul is one of the lucky ones.”

She laughed. “You remembered his name.”

“Perhaps because of his family name. How is he taking his uncle's death?”

“I think I told you that he was not a great fan of Mortimer Sadler.”

“You did.”

“Families are complicated things.”

“He lives in Morrissey, doesn't he?”

“I didn't tell you that.”

“I looked it up.”

“You did!”

“Francie, I want you to humor me. I want to take a look at his room.”

“Whatever for?”

“I asked you to humor me.”

“All right.” But her expression was a puzzled one.

At the hall, they went inside, and Roger drew her attention to the portrait of Joseph Evans, the first director of the Maritain Center. He tapped on the rector's door. A rumpled, barefoot young man in a sweatshirt and suntans answered.

“Hello, Father.”

The priest stepped back. “You're Professor Knight.”

“And you are Father Green.”

“No, he's away. I'm sitting in for him this week. No heavy duty with nothing going on.”

“This residence isn't used for summer programs?”

“Not this week, thank God.”

“What is your name, Father?”

“Casperson.”

“C.S.C.?”

“Yes.”

“This is Francie O'Kelly. We have an unusual request. Paul Sadler is living here, right?”

“He is.”

“We have been deputized to get something from his room and neglected to ask him for the key. Could you let us in? It would only take a minute.”

“Of course.”

“How did you know who I am?”

“You're a legend.”

“Am I? I had no idea.”

“I'm stationed in Portland and stories about you reach us even there.”

“Well, well.”

Father Casperson took some keys with him, led them to the elevator, and punched the button. Soon they were rising to the third floor. The priest stepped out and they followed him down the hall, where he unlocked a door, opened it, and looked in. When he stepped aside, Roger remained in the open door and looked around. What he had guessed was a window box on an earlier reconnoiter past the residence proved to be just that.

“Father, could you see if there is a copy of Plato's
Republic
on the desk?”

The priest entered the room and searched for a minute, then turned with disappointment. He shook his head. “I'll check the shelves.”

“No, that won't be necessary. I can't thank you enough.”

So down they went again, Roger satisfied with the expedition, his two companions clearly mystified. Having thanked the temporary rector, Roger and Francie returned to the golf cart.

“What was that all about?”

“You will probably think that I lied to Father Casperson.”

“Did Paul send you for a book?”

“If you think of it, you'll see I never quite said that.”

“Just implied it?”

“A venial sin at most.”

“What was the point of that?”

“I wanted to see what a typical student's room looked like.”

“Are you lying again?”

“Not at all.”

“But there's something you're not telling me.”

“That's right. Let's continue our tour.”

A glance had sufficed to verify the suspicion that had brought Roger to Morrissey. The window box had contained two types of plant, each easily identifiable. One was marijuana. The other was deadly nightshade.

27

Roger was in an agony of doubt. When his hunch about Paul Sadler had proved right—seeing the window box in the third floor window of Morrissey had led to his visiting the residence with Francie—he found himself reluctant to act on the discovery. The kind of investigation in which he engaged with Phil was easier when the problem was abstract, almost algebraic, with the actors like variables in geometry, A and B and C. But the death of Mortimer Sadler had taken place on this campus he had come to love, and it involved persons who were more or less known to him, some well known, like Francie O'Kelly.

It had been the desire to divert suspicion from her mother Maureen that had set Roger's mind on a search for an alternative. Francie's mention of the hatred Paul felt for his uncle had been put forward as just a family thing, but that did not prevent Roger from wondering if the nephew had been the cause of his uncle's death. His intention, the first time he drove his golf cart past Morrissey, had been to visit Paul, but the glimpse of the window box had kept him moving along the walk toward Lyons Hall. The later visit, exploiting Father Casperson and confusing Francie, had confirmed his worse fears. But what must he do now?

The obvious answer was to give the information to Phil and let the chips fall where they may. But before he did that, he confided what he had found to Greg Whelan.

“Marijuana?”

“It is the deadly nightshade that is relevant.”

“Perhaps.”

“You think it just a coincidence?” There was a little leap of hope in Roger's ample breast.

“If it is and the marijuana is found, he is in big trouble.”

“There is only a plant or two. Luxuriant plants.”

“One would be enough to cause him trouble.”

“Then you don't think I should tell Phil?”

“I wouldn't say that. At least that doesn't bring the police into it right away.”

“I'm afraid you don't understand the obligations of a private investigator.”

“But you're a private investigator.”

That, of course, was the rub. In one sense, he had no choice as to what he should do. What he had discovered in Paul's room could scarcely be considered irrelevant to the investigation into Mortimer Sadler's death. Roger was trying to take refuge in a technicality: It was Phil who had been engaged by the university, not he. But that wouldn't wash. However informal his cooperation in the case might seem, Roger was his brother's partner, privy to what had already been found. There was no need to imagine Phil's indignation if he sought to conceal what he found in Paul Sadler's room. Indignation would not adequately express what Jimmy Stewart would feel.

“I guess I am just putting off the evil day.”

“Why don't you talk to the boy?”

Of course. Roger beamed. How right he had been to come to Greg. If there was a connection between Paul Sadler's window box and his uncle's death, let the boy come forward on his own. Prompted, of course, by the realization that the nature of his gardening was known.

“Good man!”

Going down in the library elevator, which he shared with a library minion and a cart of books to be reshelved, Roger found himself checking the titles on the cart. The employee had on a headset and was listening to who knew what on the CD player hooked to her jeans. How could one do such a job without wanting to look into each book before returning it to the shelf? The girl smiled vaguely, whether at Roger or at what she was listening to was difficult to say. The door opened and Roger indicated that she should go first. She shook her head.