Murder in the Secret Garden (14 page)

And a powerful generator or two
, Jane thought. Recalling what Lachlan had said about the druid's vehicles, the question of the druid's income now rose to the forefront of her mind.

She continued to scan the room, keeping her gaze off the dead man, until a white clamshell take-out box on the kitchen table caught her attention. Sleeves of identical boxes could be found in both the kitchens of Storyton Hall and in the Rudyard Kipling Café.

“Please, no,” Jane whispered, opening the lid.

A fork sat in the middle of the box. There were several crumbs stuck to the fork and to the bottom of the box, but that was all. Jane raised the box to her nose and sniffed. She smelled honey. And more faintly, almonds.

“No, no,” Jane repeated, lowering the box to the table again. She had little doubt that she'd just inhaled the sweet aroma of Victoria and Carson's wedding cake.

The take-out box was the only sign that the druid had recently eaten. Aside from an empty water glass next to the box, the rest of the kitchen was neat as a pin.

Jane turned from the table to the dead man. She studied him for a long moment, wondering who carried a piece of poisoned cake all the way from Storyton Hall. And why. She considered the common thread linking all of them: Tom, the druid, and The Medieval Herbalists, and could only come up with a single word.

“Plants,” she murmured to the room. Her voice sounded too loud in the dead man's presence, and she regretted having spoken.

Suddenly, she wanted a name to attach to the body on
the floor, so she returned to her search by opening the large cabinet on the back wall. This was filled with homeopathic medicines, which were carefully labeled and arranged alphabetically. To Jane, they looked innocuous enough and seemed to focus on minor injuries or the relief of aches and pains. Next, she moved to a small desk and rifled through the drawers. The druid's house was oddly free of personal effects. There were no photographs, letters, bills, or the kind of minutiae that usually ended up in a desk drawer. Jane couldn't find a driver's license or a single identifying document. She paused, wondering if it was possible to drop off the grid in their modern world. Could this man truly not have a post office box or bank account?

Maybe his safe is filled with cash
, she thought.
If so, how is he earning it?

She was convinced the answer also involved plants.

Leaving the cabin, Jane made her way to the row of sheds. Lachlan had left the door to the first open wide, and Jane saw the ATV he'd mentioned, along with a workbench, a pegboard loaded with tools, an assortment of gardening supplies, and a row of red gasoline jugs. The space could have belonged to any number of men.

The contents of the next shed gave weight to Jane's theory that the druid did more with his plants than create homeopathic medicines. The entire space was devoted to the growing of seedlings, the grinding of plants into powder, and the packing of powder into airtight plastic tubs.

“Illegal drugs?” Jane wondered aloud.

Picking up one of the tubs—which she estimated held about thirty ounces—she unscrewed the lid and discovered a coarse green powder mixed with clumps of green- and yellow-hued seeds. At that moment, she remembered Lachlan saying that the druid had chosen an ideal place to grow crops.

What if that crop is marijuana?

Replacing the tub, Jane decided to investigate the secret
garden. She had to know if the secret had nothing to do with rare and poisonous herbs and everything to do with the cultivation of illegal plants.

She headed for the path Tom had taken to fetch the herbalists. For the first time, she felt as though she were trespassing. There was something especially intimate about the narrow trail leading downhill. In other circumstances, Jane might have noticed how the tall grass flanking the path was dotted with Queen Anne's lace and thistles, or seen the bee boxes at the edge of the clearing, but her gaze was fixed on the high, ivy-covered brick wall waiting at the end of the trail. And on the wooden door in the middle of the wall.

Jane paused in front of the door, thinking of how often she'd envied the little girl in the Francis Hodgson Burnett novel. Of how often she'd wished that she'd had a secret garden of her own to play in. The druid's door reminded her of the entryway to that storybook garden. Its polished wood looked thick and sturdy and it boasted a large keyhole. Luckily, Jane didn't need the key to enter. It had already been unlocked to allow entry to Tom and the herbalists.

Now it's my turn to see what mysteries are hidden on the other side of this door
, Jane thought.

She pushed it open and nervously peered around its edge.

What she saw was an ordinary garden. At least, that's what it appeared to be to Jane. The garden was laid out in a large square with shade-loving plants around the perimeter and plants in need of full sun in the center. These central beds were divided into four additional squares of equal size, and at the heart of the garden, perched on a low stone pedestal, was the statue of a monk or a saint. Jane studied the sculpture. It was well weathered and she couldn't tell what the bearded man held in his right hand—a leaf or a bowl perhaps—but he carried a bouquet of flowers in his left.

“
You
don't seem threatening at any rate,” Jane said to the monk. Though his face was solemn, it wasn't unkind. It was
as though the sculptor had caught him during a moment of deep contemplation.

There were no places to sit and contemplate in this garden. Other than the dirt paths, plants occupied every available inch. The druid clearly had a green thumb. Every plant looked robust and the air was perfumed by a host of unfamiliar smells. Jane was accustomed to the scents floating around Storyton Hall—honeysuckle, roses, Confederate jasmine, boxwood, magnolia, gardenia, and lilies. Not only were the scents in the druid's garden unfamiliar, but most of the plants were also.

Jane recognized a few. She picked out rhododendron nestled against the western wall as well as foxglove, catmint, and jimsonweed. The sight of the jimsonweed was surprising. Though it produced a lovely white flower, Jane couldn't imagine why anyone would deliberately grow such a poisonous plant.

That's why the Poison Princess was so keen on coming, though
, she reminded herself.
She couldn't wait to see his collection of poisonous plants.

“You're all deadly, aren't you?” Jane spun in a circle and tried to count how many different species the druid was growing.

She stopped counting after the second bed. It was obvious that the man had planted anything he could grow in the western Virginia climate.

And what he can't grow outdoors is undoubtedly inside the last shed
, she thought wryly.

The existence of the poisonous plants, as fascinating and unnerving as they might be, still didn't explain how the druid earned a living. He grew much of his own food and probably hunted for game, but there were plenty of other items in his cabin that had been purchased using currency other than herbal medicine. Jane didn't care how good the druid's
remedies were supposed to be. No one had given him an off-road vehicle or a flat-screen television as payment.

Jane continued walking through the garden until she came to the door on the opposite side. She grabbed the handle and pushed, but this door was locked.

“Damn.”

Turning to face the garden, Jane wondered what the druid had on the other side of that door. What secret had he been unwilling to share with the herbalists?

And is Tom Green a party to this secret?

Jane trudged back to the druid's cabin. Her feet felt heavy. Now that the shock of the druid's death had worn off, hunger, thirst, and fatigue set in. Along with these were the bevy of unanswered questions concerning the druid, Tom, and the herbalists. Jane had been searching for well over an hour and she was no closer to knowing why one of them had poisoned the reclusive healer.

In the doorway of the cabin, she stared at the druid's body. She was reticent to enter the room again, even though the fresh mountain air had dispelled the worst of the noxious odors.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered, tiptoeing toward the corpse.

No matter what this man was guilty of, Jane didn't like leaving him exposed. She wished she could take the blanket from his bed and cover him with it, but this was a crime scene and she'd already marred it enough by searching the druid's possessions.

She wasn't finished with her search either. She hadn't found a skeleton key while examining his things, which meant that it was probably on his person.

“Sorry,” Jane repeated as she patted the man's front pockets. Feeling despicable, she slid her hands under his buttocks in order to check his back pockets. They, too, were empty.

Jane touched the chain around her neck. The chain was so long that the locket containing the key to Storyton's secret
library hung between her breasts. Steeling herself, Jane slipped her fingers under the druid's collar. His shirt was damp with sweat and saliva, but she refused to pull back. And when she touched a length of leather cord, she felt a surge of hope. She tugged at the cord until she'd exposed a brass skeleton key.

After pulling the key and its leather cord over the druid's head, she ran out of the cabin. She was eager to be back in the fresh air, so she kept running all the way to the locked door in the druid's garden.

The key was a perfect fit. On the other side of the door, she found a path leading to the stream. There was some fishing equipment, including a bucket and a net, but that was all. Across the stream, however, Jane saw a large expanse of cleared land. And growing on that land was a plant Jane instantly recognized.

“Cannabis,” she declared triumphantly.

Finally, something made sense. The druid was involved in the cultivation and sale of marijuana. Surely that explained both his income and his desire for privacy.

But it did not readily explain why one of The Medieval Herbalists had killed him.

Hearing the distant whine of an engine, Jane shoved the key in her pocket. She backtracked through the garden and crouched behind a bush near the cabin. As soon as she recognized Lachlan on the druid's motorcycle, she relaxed. She'd barely stepped out into the open before a second off-road motorbike pulled alongside Lachlan's.

Edwin Alcott removed his black helmet and quickly dismounted. Taking Jane by the elbows, he glanced at her soiled shirt. He then searched her face, his dark eyes full of concern. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” She smiled. She was undeniably glad to see him.

He returned the smile. “We brought you water, food, and a clean shirt.”

Jane thanked him before gesturing at the cabin. “I hope
you can get into this safe. I think I've solved part of the riddle, but the biggest piece of the puzzle is still missing.”

Edwin removed a bag from the back of his bike and followed Jane and Lachlan inside. He paused in the main room, taking in the pungent odor, the charcoal-spattered rug, and the sorry state of the dead man's corpse. “No one should die like that. No one.”

Jane nodded solemnly and then showed him to the safe. He immediately set to work cracking it. She watched him while she drank water and ate the sandwich Mrs. Hubbard had packed for her. Standing in the druid's bedroom, she didn't have much of an appetite, but she made herself eat so she'd have the energy to handle what promised to be a stressful afternoon.

She'd just finished her lunch when Edwin whispered, “Gotcha,” and the safe lock disengaged with a loud click.

Edwin moved aside to allow Jane to examine the contents. There were stacks of cash—mostly fifties and hundreds—a file folder stuffed with papers, and sitting on top of all these, a camera. A camera with a strap featuring a unicorn and floral design reminiscent of a famous medieval tapestry.

Kira's camera.

“This is Kira's.” Jane reached for the camera. “I recognize the strap.”

Edwin followed her gaze. “The design looks like a sample of the medieval unicorn tapestries.”

Jane was too intent on their discovery to confirm Edwin's theory. “Did the druid kill Kira?” she asked instead. “Did he catch her photographing his special crop on the other side of the river? He clearly has dozens of poisonous plants at his disposal. And he owns the second half of the murder weapon too. I saw a box of syringes in the same cabinet where he keeps his homeopathic medicines.”

“Ms. Grace attached her zoom lens,” Edwin said. “She must have hoped to take photos without being noticed, but failed. Are there any images on there?”

Jane examined the Canon camera. It had more bells and whistles than the digital camera she used, but she was able to locate the power button. She pressed it, and though the LCD screen came to life, there was only a brief flash of light before the screen went dark again.

“It needs to be charged,” Lachlan said. “The cable is still in Ms. Grace's room.”

“Then we're taking this with us.” Jane put the camera aside and returned her attention to the safe's interior. After removing the file folder, she swiveled to allow Lachlan and Edwin to view its contents.

Opening to the first document, she frowned in puzzlement. The paper appeared to have been written in code. The only thing Jane understood was that she was looking at a detailed list of items and quantities.

“Is this an inventory of his medicines?” she asked the two men.

Edwin motioned for Jane to proceed, and she flipped to the next document. “It's nearly identical,” he said. “Maybe they're order forms.”

“These codes could represent customers, I guess.” Jane continued to study the sheet. “How could a backwoods farmer fulfill these orders on a regular basis? I know you two haven't seen the size of his current crop yet, but it doesn't seem possible.”

The folder contained half a dozen such sheets.

Jane couldn't decipher a single line. “Unless Sterling or Sinclair can decode one of these before we leave, we'll have to take a sample with us along with the camera. I can't wait for the cops from over the mountain to process the evidence. We need to catch the killer now. Today!”

As if echoing the rumble in her voice, the sound of multiple engines floated through the open window.

Jane leafed through the rest of the documents. Under the coded lists, there was an assortment of recipes for creating herbal medicines. Though the instructions for preparing each medicine and its recommended dosage had been written out in layman's terms, the ingredients were once again in code.

“Wait.” Edwin stopped Jane from turning to the next
page. “The code in this headache remedy also appears on the order forms. I believe it's an ingredient.”

Jane pulled out a random list and laid it next to the headache remedy. “You're right. A. Bell is written on both sheets. So if A. Bell isn't a person, it must be a plant.”

“
Atropa belladonna
,” said Sinclair from the doorway. “Otherwise known as deadly nightshade.” He brandished a book called
The Poison Garden
and smiled at Jane. “We needn't always have a satellite signal to find the answers to our questions. Thankfully, the information in some books never goes out of date.”

Sinclair looked so prim and proper in his white Oxford shirt and blue and yellow bow tie that Jane found herself smiling back at him. “I'm glad that you've come.”

Nodding deferentially at Edwin, Sinclair said, “I see that your efforts were successful, Mr. Alcott. Well done.” His gaze then landed on the camera near Jane's hip. “Ms. Grace found her way to this place? I wonder how she accomplished such a feat.”

“I don't know how she heard about the druid, and I can't imagine anyone finding his house on their own, but somehow, she and the druid interacted,” Jane said sadly.

“How did any of The Medieval Herbalists learn of his existence? The man was clearly off the grid,” Sinclair said. “We'll pay Mr. Green a visit as soon as we're finished. He must be hiding something.” He gestured at the folder. “May I?”

“Of course,” Jane said.

Sinclair spread out the lists and recipes on the druid's bed. “He wrote the instructions for mixing the herbal medicines a long time ago,” said the observant librarian. “See how the paper has yellowed. The lists are newer. They were written on lined notebook paper.”

Jane joined Sinclair by the bed. “What are Sterling and Butterworth doing?”

“After Mr. Sterling compares the ATV tires to the tracks
found near Storyton River, he'll photograph the contents of each shed. Mr. Butterworth is examining the druid's body. When he's done, he'll search the yard and gardens.”

“I'm going to check out the marijuana plants,” Lachlan said.

Sinclair watched Lachlan leave before turning back to Jane. “The druid was cultivating cannabis?”

“That and more,” Jane replied darkly. “Look at all these codes. But I don't get how his operation worked. Who places regular orders for deadly nightshade? Or this?” She pointed at a recipe for curing migraines and menstrual cramping. “What's C. Mac?”

Sinclair paged through the glossary of his book. “
Conium maculatum
. Water hemlock.”

“Hemlock? Do all of the druid's remedies include poison?” Jane asked incredulously.

“Maybe he only used trace amounts,” Edwin said, showing Sinclair a prescription for treating gout and arthritis pain. “What about this one?”

Sinclair consulted the glossary again. “That code stands for sassafras.”

“Even though the druid used a poisonous plant to create an ointment, it doesn't necessarily mean his medicines were harmful,” Edwin said. “They weren't FDA-approved, but it's possible they were still efficacious.”

Jane glared at him. “He was hardly practicing the Hippocratic oath when he killed Kira! He's been hiding up here for years growing deadly plants and mixing concoctions, which he sells to our neighbors. He was a drug dealer. I don't care if the marijuana growing across the river was meant for medicinal purposes. I don't care if he successfully treated hundreds of people. He had Kira's camera locked in a safe along with stacks of cash. He was
not
some mystical hermit healer or saint.” She looked away from Edwin. She wasn't really angry with him. She was more frustrated by
the fact that the mystery of Kira's death kept growing more complex. “Where does Tom fit into this? What terrible secrets is he hiding?”

“I think it's time we found out why Mr. Green was so troubled during last night's wedding reception,” Sinclair said gravely.

Edwin looked at Sinclair. “Were you able to recover the missing herbal?”

“I'm afraid not. We searched the guest rooms belonging to Ms. Kota and Ms. Billingsley, but found nothing suspicious.”

“I don't want Captain Phil to be the thief.” Jane waved her arm to indicate the adjacent room. “It's hard enough to learn that Tom Green worked as middleman to a drug dealer.
Tom!
He's been delivering flowers to Storyton Hall since before I became manager. I'm very fond of him . . .”

Edwin touched her hand. “There are multiple layers to every person's story. Unexpected plot twists. Sudden tragedies. People don't always make the right choice. We're all flawed. Tom included. We should give him a chance to explain himself.”

“Should we?” Jane snapped. Kira's death, the stolen herbal, and the druid's poisoning had taken their toll. Despite the weight of her burdens, she felt hollow.

In the middle of this tense moment, Sterling appeared in the doorway. “The tire tracks don't match. Mr. Butterworth and I have concluded that the druid had been testing combinations of innocuous and poisonous plants. There's a chemistry lab in the largest shed, and we found several notebooks detailing his experiments. Multiple entries ended with a notation of ‘Delivered to E.P.' followed by a date. It's always E.P., and the oldest entry dates back fifteen years.”

“I feel like we're in an episode of
Breaking Bad
,” Jane muttered. “Did you take a notebook? I may have to show one to Tom.”

Sterling produced a spiral notebook with a green cover from the messenger bag slung over his shoulder. “We left everything else in place. There's nothing more to learn here and we shouldn't delay reporting the druid's death any longer.” His gaze shifted from Jane to Lachlan.

“I'll wait for the authorities,” Lachlan volunteered.

Jane knew it would be very stressful for Lachlan to deal with the police from over the mountain. He'd be forced to answer a barrage of questions and would spend hours in an interview room. The scenario was bound to trigger his anxieties.

“No,” she said decisively. “You need to get me to The Potter's Shed. Quickly. Sterling can handle things at this end.”

“I'll take you to Tom's on my bike,” Edwin said. “It's the fastest way.”

Sinclair nodded. “Mr. Alcott is correct. Because we drove Storyton Hall Gators, we took the trail leading over the mountain and must return the same way.”

“I'm going with Edwin,” Jane said. “I'll meet the rest of you back at Storyton Hall after I speak with Tom.”

Outside, Edwin gave Jane a spare helmet. He mounted the bike and gestured for her to get on. Without hesitating, she straddled the seat and pressed her body against Edwin's.

“Wrap your arms around my waist!” he yelled over the engine. “It's going to be a bouncy ride. Lean when I lean. If you get scared, tap my shoulder and I'll slow down.”

“Not going to happen,” Jane shouted back. “I'm too angry to be scared.”

Edwin pushed his visor down, put the bike into gear, and accelerated. Startled, Jane gasped. From that point onward, she was too focused on the terrain and on echoing the movements of Edwin's body to make a sound. She kept waiting for the bike to skid out from under them, but Edwin skillfully forged a trail back toward Storyton.

Jane was grateful for Edwin's helmet, as its face shield
provided her with complete protection. She was also glad that she still wore Lachlan's bandanna around her neck. More than once, the thin fabric had kept her skin from being scratched by brambles or tall blades of wild grass. Unfortunately, there was nothing to save her bare arms from being marked by whip-thin branches or prickly plants.

By the time they reached the walking trail leading to Storyton Village, Jane felt as though every vertebra in her spine had been jostled loose. She hadn't even realized how tightly she'd been clinging to Edwin until he pulled the motorcycle in front of The Potter's Shed. When Jane dropped her arms, they were trembling from exertion.

Edwin removed his helmet and dismounted. He then offered Jane his hand and helped her off the bike. “Have you ridden many motorcycles?”

“That was my first,” Jane said. “And I feel like my brain is still rattling around inside my skull.”

“You did really well.” Edwin smiled at her. “I liked your holding on to me like that. I almost wish we had farther to go.”

Jane looked at him for a long moment. Finally, she said, “That was the only part of the ride I enjoyed. Maybe, when we're done here, you could take me home.”

“It would be my honor.”

Reclaiming her hand, Jane took in the flowerbeds surrounding Tom Green's garden shop. The blooms made her think of the floral design on Kira's camera, and her anger flared. She marched up the front walk with the straight-backed, purposeful stride of a soldier heading into battle.

Inside the shop, which was blissfully cool, Tom was wrapping a bouquet of gerbera daisies for a female customer. He smiled at the lady and thanked her for her patronage, but the moment she turned away, his smile vanished. He looked exhausted. By the time Tom saw Jane, it was too late to hide his weariness.

“Are you alone or is your assistant here?” Jane demanded without preamble.

Tom was clearly surprised by her brusque tone. She'd never spoken to him like that before. He cast an anxious glance at Edwin and then said, “She's on break. I think she went to The Pickled Pig to do a little shopping.”

“Good,” Jane said. “Is there someplace we can talk without being disturbed?”

“What's this about?” Tom asked.

Ignoring his question, Jane pointed at the doorway behind Tom. “How about your office? That way, you'll know if a customer comes in.”

“All right,” Tom said after a brief hesitation. Beckoning for Jane and Edwin to follow, he stepped into the next room. “Please excuse the mess.” He hurried to shift cardboard boxes and papers from the surface of a chair to the top of his desk.

Jane sank into the metal folding chair without waiting for an invitation. Edwin declined the desk chair. Instead, he leaned against the wall, his arms folded over his chest. His posture was both relaxed and intimidating, and Tom shot another nervous glance in his direction before settling across the desk from Jane.

“I followed your little group this morning,” Jane said, gazing steadily at Tom. “To the druid's cabin.”

Tom grew pale. “You did?”

“Who is he, Tom? A relative of yours, obviously.” Jane deliberately spoke of the druid in the present tense. “I could see the resemblance. Is he your father?”

Tom's eyes swept around the room, as though in search of an escape route. “I don't see—”

“You led a group of my guests to the druid,” Jane cut it sharply. “I know it was by their request, but I saw his secret garden. I also saw the crop across the river and what he keeps inside his sheds.”

Hearing this, Tom cringed. He pulled his hands close to his chest and hunched inward. It was a protective gesture that made the small man appear even smaller. “I only wanted to—”