Murder Crops Up (12 page)

Bridget stepped through the crowd, brushing past Webster, to add the candles she’d brought, lighting them from the other flames. I handed my flowers to her, and she placed them with those already there.

Then she rejoined me at the back of the crowd, letting others add their contributions. “Boy,” she whispered. “Candles can really put out the heat. You can feel it all the way out here.”

“They make a surprising amount of light.” The candles gave a soft glow to that whole area of the garden. Behind the fence, the caution tape fluttering around Lois’s plot was clearly visible. Also visible was Lois herself, frowning as she stood in the path next to the tape. She clutched something to her chest; at first I thought it was her ubiquitous clipboard, but the shape was different, more like a box.

“I guess the police investigation isn’t over yet,” Bridget said. “That’s why they’ve set this up outside the fence. I thought it was going to be where Rita was found.”

The woman in front of us turned around, revealing herself as Tamiko, her round face impassive. “Lois didn’t want it in her plot. Said it would be a desecration.”

We exchanged looks, our faces made dark and mysterious by the flickering light.

“Why did she say that?” The voice behind me made me jump.

“Oh, hi, Bruno.” Bridget looked past me. I turned to see Bruno Morales standing in the path. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“As you say, we are still investigating. Why is Mrs. Humphries so angry at the dead woman?”

“I don’t think she’s angry, Detective Morales.” Tamiko’s voice was level. “She just didn’t want a shrine constructed on her garden plot.”

“I can understand that.” Bruno moved closer. “But why is she concerned with desecration?”

“She’s kind of nutty.” Bridget glanced around before imparting this in a low voice. “Obsessive.”

Tamiko looked at Bridget, then at Bruno. “It’s more than that. Her husband’s ashes are kept there. In effect, it’s already a shrine.”

Bridget took a moment to absorb that.

“It’s true,” I said. “She told me yesterday afternoon.”

Bruno took out a pocket notebook and a tiny penlight, and made a note. Bridget nudged me.

“Webster sure doesn’t look heartbroken.”

Webster was talking with another gardener, and judging from his smile, he didn’t have a care in the world.

Bruno jumped on Bridget’s remark. “Why should he be heartbroken?”

“We heard some gossip on the way from the parking lot,” Bridget told him. “These women were saying that Rita dated her stepbrother, Tom Dancey, and one of them said she dated anything that moved, including some of the men gardeners. I remembered then that she and Webster went out for a while.” She looked at Tamiko. “You know, Tamiko. It was when he planted raspberries between your plot and his, and you asked Rita to make him get rid of them because it was against the rules to plant anything invasive, including raspberries. And she didn’t. You told me then that they were involved and that’s why she let him get away with it.”

“I really don’t remember,” Tamiko said deliberately, and moved away.

“Why would she say that? She was really upset about it at the time,” Bridget said, staring after Tamiko.

Bruno made another note. “I would like to ask a favor of both of you,” he began. Then a tall man standing next to the altar began to speak to the crowd. The authority in his voice quieted everyone, even Bruno.

“Thank you all for coming tonight. I’m Tom Dancey, Rita’s brother. Rita would have appreciated your concern. She loved her work in the garden, and looked forward to a long and happy association here. This senseless accident had been difficult for her family to accept.” He paused and shaded his eyes.

“He must be the brother who was romantically involved with her,” Bridget whispered. When Tom Dancey didn’t speak for a few minutes, other people in the crowd began whispering, too. I saw the two ladies we had followed from the parking lot exchange significant glances.

“Someone from the police department would like to say a few words,” Tom Dancey went on, mastering his emotion. “Once more, thank you for this beautiful display of affection. Rita would have been proud. Maybe she is proud, somewhere.”

There was a sympathetic murmur from the crowd. I waited for Bruno to go forward, but it was Officer Rhea who stood in front.

“We deeply regret that we are not quite finished with our investigation,” she said. “As Mr. Dancey said, all the evidence points to accident. But in case it was not an accident, we are doing a very thorough check of the scene. And we’d like to ask all of you to let us know if you remember anything suspicious, or if anything in the least bit out of the way catches your eye in the next few days. I would be glad to give my card to anyone who wants it, or you can reach us through the police dispatcher. Please don’t hesitate to call or to come and talk to me if you have any concerns.”

The crowd began to break up. A few people went to talk to Tom Dancey; a few more headed for Officer Rhea.

Bruno cleared his throat, looking from Bridget to me. “As I said, I have a favor to ask.”

“That depends,” Bridget said warily. “I’ve told you everything I know, and a lot more besides. What else do you need?”

“I need you to go around the garden with me and tell me about the gardeners.” Bruno smiled easily. “Nothing for the record, just to let me get acquainted with them. I feel that the personalities of the people involved are important.”

“So you are sure it wasn’t an accident.” Bridget sounded distressed.

“No, I am not sure. That is why I need more information. The case is obscure right now. And the more time that goes by, the less likely we are to find out what really happened. Will you help me?”

“Does it have to be tonight?” I wanted to get back—to check on Amy, I told myself, though I knew it was more to do with Drake’s phone call.

“Tomorrow morning would be okay.” Bruno whipped out another little book, this one an agenda of some kind. “If you could meet me here?”

“I have to do snacks at preschool,” Bridget said. “It would have to be after ten—eleven would be better.”

“And I’m probably taking Amy to the doctor first thing in the morning. Eleven would work better for me, too.”

“Good.” Bruno made a note. “Thank you both. I feel sure that with your excellent skills of observation, you will help me understand all this better.”

“Well, guess I’d better get home now.” Bridget started back along the perimeter path, and I followed her.

Bruno came along with us. “Have you heard from Paolo lately?” He looked at me, his dark eyes liquid in the faint moonlight.

“He’s left a couple of messages on his answering machine,” I said cautiously. Everyone persisted in treating me as if I were Drake’s special friend. Maybe that was true. But I didn’t like my personal life being known by so many people.

“I had e-mail from him today.” Bruno smiled. “He instructs me to refrain from upsetting you at the same time he says not to drag you into it. I am not trying to drag you in, Liz. But I must ask questions, and I believe both you and Bridget can help me with background.”

Bridget looked uncertain. We had reached her car, and she stood by the driver’s door, keys in hand. “So can other gardeners, who’ve been here a lot longer.”

He spoke patiently. “Those other gardeners might not be such careful observers. Be assured I plan to talk to many of them, especially any who feel they have something to tell me. But I ask you and Liz for your points of view because I respect your abilities. If Paolo were here, I’d let him handle this. But he may not be back for a long time. Maybe not ever.”

The last words were spoken low. As soon as they were out of his mouth, Bruno looked as if he would like to call them back.

I could say nothing. I felt a great hollowness in my chest, and the lump in my throat would have kept any words from getting out.

Bridget was not so handicapped. “What do you mean by that, Bruno Morales?” She planted both hands on her hips and gave him a glare. “Paul is so coming back.” Her glance flicked to me. “He would never leave Palo Alto.”

“Forgive me.” Bruno ran a hand over his head. “I am making a mess of this. It is nothing Paolo has said to me, you understand.”

“Just what gave you the idea he was going to bail?” Bridget sounded as indignant as if she had some right to grill Bruno on my behalf. Still speechless, I felt grateful to her.

“I heard from a colleague in Seattle that they want Paolo to interview for some new position they’ve created that coordinates investigations between different branches.” Bruno sighed. “Such a position would be a step up, besides allowing him to stay with his family in this uncertain time. I know nothing of Paolo’s feelings in the matter. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Drake wouldn’t take that position. He loves his work, his house.” Bridget shot me a glance. “His neighbors.”

I finally managed to produce my voice. “But his family is in Seattle.”

“This is true.” Bruno, I could tell, was worried. “And they have all that coffee. Paolo worked so hard to cut down on his coffee consumption. I am afraid that he will come back more addicted than ever."

“If he comes back.” That funny sensation in my chest wouldn’t go away. It felt like a giant grapefruit spoon had scooped out my heart.

“He’ll be back.” Bridget spoke up stoutly, and gave me a brief hug. I felt better.

“You are correct, I’m sure.” Bruno opened the passenger door of Bridget’s car and gestured me in. “Please, forget I said anything. I feel foolish for alluding to something so remote in possibility.” He shut the door carefully, and walked away.

Bridget looked at me, her face worried. “He’s right, it’s so remote as to be mythical. You know Paul will be back.”

“Right.” I managed a smile. “I know that.”

I asked Bridget about her Christmas shopping process, and she dove into the topic with gusto. It kept her occupied all the way back to my house. And that was a good thing, because I had a hard enough time forcing breath past that empty place in my chest, let alone words.

Chapter 15

It was not quite eight when I got in. Amy was drowsing on the couch, headphones on, book open. The book, I was interested to note, was
The Investor’s Guide to the Stock Market,
although she had Bridget’s book on the couch next to her. She sat up straighter when I came in, and asked around a yawn, “Is it late? How was your service?”

“It was fine. I was thinking about going over to Drake’s place to check the messages and see if he’s called. Is that okay?”

“You’re getting a lot of mileage out of his house while he’s gone, aren’t you?” Amy yawned again. “God, I’m so sleepy. I haven’t slept this much since I can remember.”

“Sleep as much as you want.” I turned with one hand on the doorknob. “Will you be okay? Should I hang around?”

“Heck, no, don’t stay on my account.” She smiled at me and flopped back onto the couch. “I don’t want to get in your way. Just pretend I’m not here.”

As if I could.

I let myself into Paul’s house and looked at the blinking light on his answering machine. I hoped I hadn’t missed his call. Then I caught myself. Was this me, getting so hung up on the importance of telephone calls?

I played back the messages on the answering machine, wanting to hear some reassurance from Drake about his future plans, dreading that he might have just left a message saying, the movers are coming, give them the keys. Of course, he wouldn’t do that. But having so much emotional dependence on one person was infuriating. I preferred to slip through my life, hindering no one, finding no impediment myself. This policy, though it had served me well for many years, was no longer working. The thought of never seeing Paul again, of living without him, was not just an impediment, it was a total roadblock.

The first message was someone from the city, reminding Drake about a deadline for filing some kind of paperwork. I made a careful note of caller, subject, and phone number in Drake’s phone log. The second message was a hang-up. The third was a woman with a cool, authoritative voice and a tone of casual intimacy I found shocking.

“Paul, it’s silly to call long-distance to leave you a message, but in case I can’t reach you at the hospital, you might pick up your messages from home. Daphne says your dad is better, so I assume we’re on for dinner after all. Please give me a call.” She didn’t give her name or phone number.

I switched off the answering machine. Though I hadn’t written anything down, every word of the last message was engraved in my recollection.

My hand holding the pen trembled too much to form letters. I set the pen down on the notebook and found myself standing by the living room window with no thought of how I’d gotten there. Staring blindly into the night, I took deep breaths until the panicky beating of my heart slowed.

It’s always painful to face the evidence of your own folly. I had been devastated by a man once before, and it had been life-threatening and horrible and had made me so wary of human contact that I had thought I’d never recover. In the past year, my feelings had changed, due in no small part to Paul Drake. I had resented his pushing and prodding me out of my safely frozen emotions, but I had found myself warming up to relationships with those around me—especially him.

Now that I was thawing nicely, perhaps he’d grown tired of waiting for the rest of the ice to melt.

I leaned my forehead against the cool window glass and tried to control the chaos that swirled through me. Because the living room was dark, I could see clearly through the front window.

Carlotta’s car was parked there again. She was actually blocking the end of the driveway, no doubt to see better down it to my cottage in the back.

All those swirling emotions coalesced into one pure feeling: rage. I straightened, my hands tightening into fists. Bad enough that I should have to cope with the fear that I had blown any chance of creating a strong bond with a man I cared for. Bad enough that I had only myself to blame for being so reluctant to, so to speak, go to the mat with Drake. Did I have to be continually hounded for being an outsider, for having no one in my corner, for simply wishing to be left alone?