Murder in the Secret Garden (15 page)

“Impress them? I understand,” Jane said, softening her voice. “Is the druid your father, Tom?”

Tom didn't reply.

“For years, you've supplied the village and our resort with beautiful plants and flowers. But you've procured other products for our neighbors as well, haven't you? Like drugs.
Illegal
drugs.” Jane shook her head. “How could you put people at risk like that?”

“I didn't!” Tom protested heatedly. “You've got it all wrong. You see, some of the villagers are barely squeaking by. They can't afford health care or the high prices of certain traditional medications. That's how this whole enterprise got started. During the last recession, I asked my dad to help these folks. He was once a board-certified physician. He also knew his way around lab equipment from when he worked at a teaching hospital before entering private practice. I was pretty sure he could create some of the medicines people needed, and he did. It's not against the law to make and sell herbal medicines, and he's able to reproduce the same medicines you or I might find at Storyton Pharmacy.”

Jane had learned two significant facts from Tom's speech. She now knew that the druid was Tom's father and that he'd been a doctor. “What's your dad's name?” she asked.

“Andrew.” Tom released a heavy sigh. “Please don't tell anyone. He's already mad at me for bringing The Medieval Herbalists to his home.”

Jane spread her hands. “I can understand why he wouldn't welcome visitors.
I
certainly wouldn't want people poking around my place if I were growing and selling cannabis.”

“What are you talking about?” Tom jumped out of his chair. “He's growing wild hemp!
You're
thinking of
Cannabis sativa.
That plant is bred for its potent glands. It has
the trichomes, which allow people to get high.
That's
marijuana. What my dad grows only contains trace amounts of THC. It's actually called ditchweed and is an established crop in nearly every industrial country except ours. A useful plant for its oils and fiber, but because it's marijuana's cousin, it's eradicated everywhere.”

“So it's also illegal.”

“Only because our government is obtuse.” Tom dropped back into his seat with a frustrated sigh. “Wild hemp can be used to produce environmentally friendly fuel, paper, fabric, and food. My dad uses the seeds to make flour. It would be a great alterative to plastic. Items made from wild hemp wouldn't clog up our landfills!” Tom's face became flushed with indignation. “Until the late 1930s, lots of American farmers grew this crop. Guess the gurus in charge of agriculture were smarter back then. Now the DEA wastes tons of money running around the country killing ditchweed because it looks like the ‘bad' cannabis plant. And even though the ‘bad' plant is legal in some states, government agencies continue to destroy thousands of useful wild hemp plants. Which is why I call them obtuse.”

Jane realized that she'd leapt to a conclusion about what she'd seen. Feeling abashed, she wondered what other erroneous assumptions she'd made about Tom's father.

She looked down at her hands and tried to find the words to broach the subject of the druid's death. After storming into Tom's shop and demanding that he answer her questions, it seemed cruel to now tell him that his father had been poisoned. Cruel and harshly abrupt. And yet she had no choice. One of her guests was a murderer and Jane had to learn that person's identity. Two people had been killed within a matter of days, and as much as Jane wanted to show Tom compassion, she didn't have time to be delicate.

In search of encouragement, Jane met Edwin's eyes. He responded with a slight nod. He understood that the moment
had come for her to ask Tom the more important question of all.

“Forgive me,” Jane said to Tom. “I obviously can't tell the difference between the two varieties, and I should have asked for clarification before jumping to a conclusion. You know more about plants than anyone I've ever met.”

“Until your recent guests arrived,” Tom muttered unhappily.

Jane shook her head. “No. They might be more knowledgeable about which herbs were used during medieval times, but you know about our indigenous plants
and
the symbolism behind hundreds of plants and flowers. Most of all, you have a gift when it comes to matching flowers to people. You have a good sense of people, Tom Green. And that's why I'm asking you to help me find out what happened to Kira Grace.”

Tom's anger drained away. He dropped his gaze, but not before Jane caught the haunted look in his eyes. “That poor woman,” he whispered. “I wish I could help, but I don't know anything.”

“I don't believe you.” Jane's voice was low and gentle. “I think you're trying to protect your father, which I understand. But Tom, you kept mentioning Kira's name at the wedding. The other herbalists noticed. Your remorse over Kira's loss makes no sense unless you played a part in her death. Or you know someone else who did.”

“I didn't hurt her!” Tom was obviously horrified by the idea. “I could never hurt someone. I'm . . . I don't have that in me.”

“Does your father?” Jane waited a long moment for Tom to respond. When he didn't, she said, “He owns syringes. He has access to dozens of lethal plants. Kira didn't drown, Tom. Someone injected poison into her neck. Right here.” Pivoting, Jane swept her strawberry blond braid to the side and put her fingertips on the hair at the base of her skull.
Without turning around, she said, “Kira's attacker couldn't face her. He needed to get rid of her, but he didn't want to watch her die.”

Jane stayed very still, her hand pressed to her head. Finally, she spun around and studied Tom's face. It was twisted in anguish, and in that moment, Jane saw flashes of how Tom's father had looked as the poison he'd ingested assaulted him with wave after wave of unbearable pain.

“Tell me, Tom,” she whispered. “What happened between Kira and your dad?”

Tom said nothing for a full minute and Jane feared that he wouldn't speak, but then, he drew in a shuddering breath and said, “I think she went to see him. She must have followed me. I was listening to music—sometimes I do that on the trip up the mountain—so I didn't hear her walking behind me. I never see anyone else on the trails when I'm out. I'm out and about way too early for most people, but I'd overslept the day of the duck race.”

Jane waited. When Tom didn't continue, she scooted her chair closer to his. She gave him an encouraging smile. “You're doing great. Go on.”

“One second.” Tom stood up and shuffled into the adjacent room. He maintained his hunched posture, keeping his arms close to his chest as though he wished he were a turtle and could withdraw into a protective shell.

Edwin stopped leaning against the wall and moved to the doorway to watch Tom. Jane stayed put. She sensed that Tom would only resume his narrative if she remained composed.

He reentered the room clutching a handful of herbs in his right hand. “Thyme,” he said as he sat back down. “For courage and strength.”

“I could use some of that,” Jane said.

Tom immediately offered her a sprig, and she inhaled the pleasant fragrance.

“I don't know why my dad chose to become a hermit,”
Tom continued, his eyes locked on the cluster of thyme in his hand. “My mom left without so much as a note when I was a baby and my dad sent me to live with his mother in Harrisonburg. Soon after, he took off too. My granny was a wonderful woman. She taught me just about everything I know about plants. I never heard from my dad the whole time I lived with her.”

Jane thought of her sons growing up without knowing the love of either parent and felt tears prick her eyes. Tom didn't notice. His own eyes had gone glassy as he became lost in his memories. “My dad contacted me right after Granny died. She'd left me everything. Her house, her car, and some money. Dad called from a pay phone and recommended I move to Storyton. He said he was living nearby and would come see me once I was settled. I was really lonely without Granny and I'd always dreamed of reuniting with one of my parents, so I moved.” Tom smiled nostalgically. “I loved Storyton from the first. Everyone I met was welcoming. I noticed that there wasn't a place for people to buy flowers and plants, so I opened The Potter's Shed. The night after my Grand Opening, my dad knocked on my kitchen door.”

“And you finally got to know him.” Jane said, her heart aching for Tom. How would he cope when he learned that his father was dead? That he'd been murdered? She couldn't stop a single tear from escaping, but she hurriedly wiped it away and waited for Tom to continue.

Tom responded to Jane's comment with a shrug. “I got to know him as much as he'd let me. He would never tell me why he bolted when I was a kid or why he lived like a hermit up in the hills. He'd only say that he left me with Granny for my own protection. I asked him if he'd committed a crime. I thought it might be tax evasion or something like that, but he refused to answer. Granny told me that he'd been a doctor. That's why I was willing to sell his medicines. And they
do
help people. I've seen how they help.”

“I'm sure you have,” Jane said soothingly.

“He also works on developing new medicines,” Tom added with a hint of pride. “I don't know who pays him to do the research. Over the years, I've stopped asking because he won't tell me. I tried searching for clues about him on the Internet, but I don't think Green is his real surname. It might not be my name either, but it's the only one I have.” Tom gave Jane a hapless shrug. “Eventually, I stopped searching. I figured he'd tell me in his own time. I'm content knowing he's close by. We share meals several times a month. We talk about plants and my customers. We have a good relationship.”

“Or at least you did until Kira came along,” Jane said quietly.

The brightness that had illuminated Tom's face when he'd spoken of his father disappeared. He nodded in misery. “My dad
never
comes to Storyton, but I think he came down from his cabin to borrow my truck. Years ago, I gave him a set of keys to my house—just in case he needed a place to stay during bad weather or in an emergency. I keep the keys to both my delivery van and my pickup on a hook by the kitchen door. I hardly ever drive the truck. It's pretty old and I only use it for trips over the mountain. I park it out behind the greenhouse.” He looked at Jane. “The day of the duck race, I noticed that it wasn't parked exactly where I'd left it. It had been moved.”

“So after that, and after you heard about Kira's being found in Storyton River, did you ask your father about her?”

“Why would I?” Tom asked. His caustic tone was so out of character that Jane flinched. “What could he possibly have to do with the death of a Storyton Hall guest?”

Jane didn't reply. She simply waited while Tom brought the thyme to his nose and breathed in. Eventually, he sighed and resumed his narrative. “Lately, my dad has been acting stranger than ever. Super paranoid. I don't know what compelled me,
but I mentioned the herbalists to him. And Kira. All he would say was that he borrowed my truck to pick up supplies that wouldn't fit in his ATV. I wanted to believe him. I would never have sprung the whole group on him this morning if I did, but I
needed
to see for myself if there was something tying him to the herbalists.”

At last, they'd come to the heart of the matter. “Was there?”

Tom shrugged again. “I don't know. He flew off the handle when I arrived with them. He vowed to lock himself in his cabin until we were gone. He said that . . .” Tom swallowed hard. “He'd never trust me again. That I'd betrayed the one thing he valued most. His privacy.”

Jane reached for the small man's hand and discovered that it was shaking. “No one could blame you, Tom. There have been holes in your family history for your entire life. Anyone would want to fill those gaps.”

“My dad says the past is irrelevant. Only the present matters,” Tom mumbled. “He'll never forgive me for what I did, and it was all for nothing.” He looked at Jane. “I didn't discover any connection between my dad and The Medieval Herbalists. All I did was alienate him. So like I said, I can't help you.”

Jane squeezed his hand. “You've been very helpful. I only have one more question, and it's important.” She kept her eyes locked on his. “Who brought the piece of wedding cake to your father?”

Tom frowned in confusion. “The cake? Why does that matter?”

“Please.” Jane's voice was a soft plea. “It matters very much.”

After casting a brief glance at Edwin, as though searching his face for clues, Tom turned back to Jane. “It was Hannah,” he said simply. “She gave him the cake.”

“Hannah?” Jane couldn't help repeating the name. “Are you sure she wasn't carrying it for someone else in the group since she was on horseback?”

Tom shook his head. “When I spoke to her the night before, we talked about lots of things, including the arrangements I'd made for her to travel to my dad's. When I told her that the druid had a sweet tooth, Hannah said that she wanted to bring him a piece of wedding cake. She asked me to acquire a saddlebag big enough to hold the take-out box. I agreed. I knew my dad would appreciate the gesture—even if he was furious with me for leading the herbalists to his doorstep.”

Though Jane believed Tom, she still struggled to accept the truth that Hannah had poisoned the druid.

No, not the druid. The man had a name. Andrew. And a son
, she silently berated herself. And it was time for Jane to tell the son what had happened to his father.

She glanced down at Tom's hand and thought of the many floral arrangements he'd put together for the people of
Storyton. Of all the times had he'd used flowers to help his neighbors celebrate. And grieve.

Recognizing that she was about to break this quiet and humble man's heart, Jane placed her free hand over his. “I'm so sorry to tell you this.” Jane looked directly into Tom's eyes. “But that piece of cake was poisoned. Lachlan and I found your father suffering the effects of its poison. We tried our best to save him.” She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “We failed. I'm really sorry, Tom, but your father is dead.”

The news didn't register right away. Tom stared at Jane for several long seconds. The air in the room felt heavy with his numb silence.

Finally, his gaze slid to the window. It seemed as though seeing the blue-green hills on the other side of the glass allowed him to process the news. He slowly pulled his hand from Jane's grasp and, after dropping what remained of the crushed clump of thyme to the floor, he rose and shuffled over to the window.

The shock of what he'd just heard reverberated through his body. His legs seemed unwilling to carry the weight of his body, and when he managed to reach the windowsill, he clung to it as though he might fall should he let go.

“Poisoned,” he whispered.

Jane could think of nothing that would bring Tom solace, but she desperately searched for the right words to soften the terrible blow she'd just delivered. For it was more than a blow. It was a wound. And it was so deep that it would never completely heal.

“Your father isn't alone,” Jane said softly. “I want you to know that. Butterworth and Sinclair are with him. Lachlan too. They've called for help.”

Tom turned away from the window. Without looking at Jane, he headed for the doorway. “I need to be with him.”

“I have an off-road motorbike,” Edwin said. “I can take you there.”

Tom was out the door within seconds. Jane had only the chance to yell a hasty “Thank you” to Edwin before he too was gone.

The noise of Edwin's motorcycle had not yet faded when Tom's assistant returned from her break. She entered the shop humming dreamily, her hand closed around a frozen yogurt container.

“Excuse my humming, but I just had the most luscious snack at the Canvas Creamery. Ms. Doyle has a new flavor today. Peach Raspberry Cobbler. It has fresh fruit and real pieces of cobbler. It is
heavenly
!” She gave a little shudder of delight. “Are you here to see Mr. Green?”

“Actually, he had to step out.” Jane tried to remember the woman's name, but failed. Tom handled the Storyton Hall deliveries, so Jane had only spoken with his assistant over the phone. She was a fairly recent hire from over the mountain, but Jane had a good feeling about her. “I doubt he'll be back before closing,” she went on to say. “Do you have keys to the shop? Can you lock up when your shift is over?”

The woman studied Jane with a mixture of surprise and curiosity. “Yes, I can handle the closing duties. But please—is Mr. Green okay?”

Jane smiled. It was a testament to the woman's character that she asked after Tom's welfare instead of trying to satisfy her own curiosity. Because of this, Jane decided to be as forthright as possible. “Someone he cared about very much passed away. It was very sudden and Mr. Green is extremely upset. I don't think he'll be able to work for a few days. Can you cover for him?”

“Of course,” the woman said. “I'm Gladys, by the way. You must be Ms. Steward. I never forget a voice.”

“It'll be such a comfort to Tom knowing that The Potter's
Shed is in your capable hands,” Jane said. “I must be going now too.”

Jane headed for Run for Cover. She was also in need of comfort. She needed her best friend.

As she walked through the village, mechanically waving at familiar faces, Hannah's name kept echoing in her mind. Passing by a mother pushing a double stroller, Jane's gaze was drawn to the matching set of pink sunbonnets covering the heads of two baby girls.

For some reason, the sight of the infants reminded Jane of how Hannah's green dress had matched the green sash on Victoria's wedding gown. The sisters had seemed to be in sync from the moment they'd arrived at Storyton Hall. Was Hannah so broken up by Victoria's marriage and the idea of being separated from her that she'd become unhinged and decided to commit murder?

That's ridiculous
, Jane thought.
There must be a reason Hannah chose the druid.

Jane pulled out her phone and called Sinclair. Her call went straight to voice mail, and she assumed that he and the other Fins were still too high in the hills to get reception. She left a detailed message saying that Hannah had killed Tom's father and that she needed to be watched until the police from over the mountain took her into custody.

“Hannah's arrest will destroy Victoria,” Jane muttered as she placed her foot on the first stone on a path of word stones winding through Eloise's front garden. The word protruding from beneath her hiking boot was “promise.” Hadn't Victoria made Hannah promise that she would make more of an effort to come out of her shell following her wedding to Carson? Skipping over “friendship” and “honesty,” Jane paused on “hope,” before hurrying into the bookshop.

Eloise, who was rearranging a display of gardening books near the front counter, stopped what she was doing the moment she saw Jane.

“What it is?” she asked, reaching out with both arms.

Jane stepped into her friend's embrace and was instantly soothed by her touch and the familiar scent of her lavender soap.

“Come on. Let's go back to the kitchen.” Eloise preceded Jane through the store. She immediately went to the cupboard and retrieved a bottle of whiskey and a pair of coffee mugs. “The bells hanging from my door will ring if a customer enters, so I'm all yours until they do. I stock this brand of whiskey for Edwin. Judging by the price, it must be decent stuff.” She poured a finger's worth into one of the mugs. “Drink this down. I'm going to brew a pot of strong coffee. You look totally done in.”

Jane swallowed the whiskey without argument. It burned her mouth and throat, but did much to chase the hollow feeling from the pit of her stomach. Eloise poured another splash into the mug.

“I don't need any more,” Jane protested.

“This is for your coffee. Trust me, you need it. And a heaping spoonful of sugar too.” Eloise pushed a tin of shortbread cookies next to Jane's mug and turned to make the coffee. When the machine began gurgling, she sat across from Jane and waited.

“I shouldn't even be here,” Jane said. “One of my guests is a murderer. I should have gone straight to Sheriff Evans, but I need a few minutes. I just need to sit for a minute and”—she looked at her friend—“I don't know how I'll be able to close my eyes tonight, Eloise. I've never watched someone die before. And in such agony. It was horrible.”

Eloise pointed at her mug. “Drink that.”

Jane complied. This time, the whiskey's warmth spread through the rest of her body and helped her focus. “Can you dial the sheriff's office for me?” she asked Eloise, indicating the phone on the counter next to the coffeemaker.

Eloise got up, punched in the numbers, and told the
person at the other end that she needed to speak to Sheriff Evans. There was a pause, and then Eloise went on to say that she had urgent information regarding the Kira Grace. After passing the phone to Jane, she filled their mugs with coffee and grabbed a pitcher of cream from the fridge.

“Sheriff, this is Jane Steward,” Jane said when Evans came on the line. “I've just come from an isolated cabin in the hills to the southeast of Storyton. The cabin is actually located in the next county and belongs to Tom Green's father. He was known to some of the locals as the druid, but his first name was Andrew. He was once a physician—of what specialty I couldn't say.” She watched Eloise pour cream into her coffee. The tiny eddies of white in the dark brown liquid swirled violently until Eloise blended them with a spoon. “I'm calling because I followed The Medieval Herbalists to the druid's cabin this morning. It was supposed to be a covert venture, so I stayed hidden. After the group left, I heard screams coming from inside the cabin. I rushed in to find the druid writhing in pain. He indicated that he'd been poisoned and signaled for me to administer a dose of activated charcoal. I tried to get the charcoal into him, but his throat swelled and he . . .” Suddenly, Jane was back in the cabin. Her shirt was covered with black spittle, and panic threatened to overwhelm her.

Eloise squeezed her arm, and Jane returned to the moment.

“Ms. Steward?” Evans asked. “Are you there?”

“I couldn't save him, Sheriff. The druid is dead,” Jane finally managed to say. “Mr. Sterling called the police and is waiting at the crime scene. I wanted you to know two things straightaway. First, it's possible that Hannah Billingsley poisoned the druid. She brought him a piece of her sister's wedding cake, and minutes after eating it, he died. When I was with him, he was able to speak the word ‘arsenic.'”

There was a pause as the sheriff took all of this in. “Where is Ms. Billingsley now?”

“I would guess she's resting in her room at Storyton Hall,” Jane said. “She rode a horse to the druid's place, and it clearly caused her discomfort. Her face was etched with pain.”

“I'll head over to Storyton Hall and wait for the police with you. What was the second thing you wanted to tell me?” Evans asked.

Jane, who'd just taken a sip of Eloise's wonderful coffee, lowered her mug to the table. “I found Kira's camera in the druid's cabin, and I have it with me now. I am well aware that the camera belongs to a crime scene, but Kira's death is still unresolved. I have to see what's on that camera. So do you, Sheriff. The battery needs to be recharged, and the charger is in Kira's guest room. As soon as we see what images Kira was taking, the police can have her camera. I didn't leave fingerprints either, because I used a rag to handle it,” she lied.

“Ms. Steward, I cannot condone—”

“I know, but what's done is done,” Jane interrupted. “If you don't mind picking me up at Run for Cover, I'll tell you why I believe Andrew Green murdered Kira Grace.”

The sheriff grunted. “I'll be out front in five minutes.”

Eloise poured Jane's coffee into a take-out cup and then started turning out lights inside the bookshop.

“What are you doing?” Jane asked.

“Closing early,” Eloise said. “You've been through hell already, and I'm not about to let you go through another second of misery alone. You need someone to lean on and that person is me!”

With a flourish, Eloise flipped the sign in her display window from
OPEN
to
CLOSED
. Pressing the take-out cup into Jane's hand, she shooed her friend outside and shut the front door. The bells dangling from the hinges let out a merry tinkle.

Jane and Eloise walked through her garden to the sidewalk to wait for the sheriff.

While Eloise craned her neck, searching for the brown cruiser among the other car traffic, Jane took her hand. “Virginia Woolf knew just how I feel when she said, ‘Some people go to priests; others to poetry; I to my friends.' I should have gone straight to the sheriff's office, but after these last few days, I needed to see a friendly face. Your face.”

“You should have asked for help long before this,” Eloise chided.

“Believe it or not, I asked Edwin.” Jane lifted her eyes to the hills. “He gave me a ride on that off-road bike of his.”

Eloise started. “Good Lord, I knew you were brave, but I had no idea you were
that
brave! I've seen him zoom off on that thing. He's totally reckless.”

“He wasn't this time,” Jane said. “He did his best by me, Eloise. I think . . . he's trying.”

Eloise smiled. “If anyone can bring him around, it's you. Oh! Here's the sheriff. If he asks, tell him I'm coming along for moral support.”

Sheriff Evans had dozens of questions for Jane, none of which involved Eloise. Jane answered robotically, her body pressed against the cool leather of the cruiser's backseat, her thoughts turned toward home. Toward Hannah.

In the passenger seat, Deputy Emory's head was bent over her notebook. She didn't contribute to the conversation, but Jane was secretly pleased that Evans had chosen her to accompany him over his other deputies.

“Please pull around to the loading dock,” Jane directed the sheriff as Storyton Hall's massive iron gates came into view. “It won't be long before scandal descends on the resort, but there's no need to alarm the guests prematurely. I intend to plug in Kira's camera first. Next, I'll locate Hannah, though I'm fairly confident she'll be in her room. The herbalists are supposed to host a medieval fair in two hours' time. I bet they're all resting from this morning's hike and wondering how they'll ever drum up the energy to decorate
tables in the Great Gatsby Ballroom and hock wares to a crowd of villagers and fellow guests.”