Murder in the Secret Garden (23 page)

Jane shook her head in alarm. It was an automatic reaction. She never wanted to hear how a story ended. She always wanted to find out herself. “No, don't!”

Edwin touched the gift. “This is what he was seeking. It's my greatest treasure, and I want you to have it. Before you make a decision about us, would you open this first?”

The intensity in Edwin's dark eyes softened. Jane saw his desire to win her over. She saw a little fear there too. He always seemed so implacable that it was this glimmer of vulnerability that prompted her to say, “I will.”

As she slipped her finger under a fold in the gift wrap, she gave him a coy smile. “You need to stop giving me all these presents.”

“And why would I do that?” Edwin asked, tracing the line of her cheek. “I've been searching for you my entire life. I want to devote my days to bringing you flowers, surprising you with gifts, and telling you how smart, capable, and beautiful you are.”

“Wow. That'll take the wind out of the sails of my argument.” Jane laughed and then sobered. “I do feel a bit guilty because I've never given you a thing in return.”

Edwin slid his hand along Jane's throat before burying his fingertips in the loose bun of strawberry blond hair gathered at the nape of her neck. “Give me a chance,” he whispered.

“Kiss me,” she whispered back.

She thought Edwin might refuse, insisting she open the gift first, but he didn't. His other hand clamped around her waist, pushing her body into his. Their lips met, and Jane gave in to the hunger she'd been trying to ignore since Edwin's return.

When they finally pulled apart, it seemed to Jane that the
garden had become even more resplendent. The flowers looked like pale suns and moons, and a host of fireflies had been drawn by the lengthening shadows. They hovered among the plants like diminutive constellations.

“I really need to go,” Jane whispered. “So I'd better open this.”

Carefully, she tore the wrapping paper to reveal a letter-sized cardboard box. Inside, she found what appeared to be a sheet of old parchment paper enveloped in Plexiglas.

Jane couldn't read the writing on the paper. To her, the exotic letters looked like a form of Arabic.

“That's Persian,” Edwin said, pointing at the graceful calligraphy. “It's a Rumi poem. An original called ‘Buoyancy.' There are lines in this poem that kept replaying in my mind when I was a ‘guest' of the sheik's. Lines that kept me connected to you even though we were world's apart.”

Jane looked down at the elegant lines of script. “Which ones?”

Picking up her hand, Edwin uncurled her index finger. He moved it down the glass and then paused. With his mouth hovering near her ear, he whispered, “It says, ‘A mountain keeps an echo deep inside itself. That's how I hold your voice.'” He waited a heartbeat and then spoke again. “I hold you like an echo inside myself, Jane.”

Edwin's words moved through Jane like a warm wind. She felt the truth in them. No matter what difficulties they might face as they moved forward, this man loved her. And she loved him. Perhaps that was enough.

“In that case,” she whispered in reply, “I'm yours.”

After a long moment of contented silence, Jane stood and smiled. “Come on. It's time for supper. And we really need to get these flowers in water.”

Edwin gathered up the Rumi poem and the scraps of wrapping paper while Jane collected the wildflower bouquet.

Hand in hand, the couple left the herb garden and crossed the wide stretch of lawn toward Jane's house, walking below a large swarm of fireflies. The insects seemed to be lighting the way, beckoning the man and the woman to continue moving forward. Because even though darkness was falling, the vast expanse of sky over their heads was aglow with undiminished stars.

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Crime!

The flesh would shrink and go, the blood would dry, but no one believes in his mind of minds or heart of hearts that the pictures do stop.

—SAUL BELLOW

“All I think about is death,” said Laurel Hobbs. She pushed her empty mug closer to the edge of the table and glanced around Grumpy's Diner in search of Dixie. “I know I sound selfish and whiny, but death has become the theme of my life. Death and dying. It hangs in each room of our house like a light fixture or a pair of curtains. Steve and I whisper about the inevitable moment before we go to sleep at night. When will it happen? Will we be forewarned? Or will it be sudden? Will there be a phone call in those dead hours between midnight and dawn?” She reached behind her head and tightened her ponytail of honey-blond hair. “Even the twins are depressed. They can see their grandmother withering day by day.”

Olivia Limoges nodded in sympathy. “It sounds really hard. How's Steve doing?”

“He puts on a brave face,” Laurel said. “But I worry about him burying his feelings. This is his mother, and she's dying. Yet, he barely talks about it.” Seeing Dixie emerge from the kitchen carrying a glass coffee carafe, Laurel raised her arm and waved.

Dixie responded by holding up an index finger. She then skated over to the
Evita
booth to drop off a check. As she worked her way toward the front of the Andrew Lloyd Weber–themed diner, she paused at the
Cats
and the
Starlight Express
booth to top off her customers' mugs with fresh coffee.

“There won't be anything left by the time she gets here,” Laurel complained. “And I don't have time to sit around while she brews another pot.”

This grumbling wasn't like Laurel. Olivia studied her friend in concern. Laurel's face was puffy from lack of sleep and she hadn't bothered to put on makeup or earrings. Olivia couldn't remember seeing Laurel without either. Her friend also couldn't keep still. Her fingers moved from her empty coffee cup to her napkin to her wedding band, conveying a sense of anxiety that worried Olivia. Laurel was always full of energy, but it had been a controlled and positive energy—not this neurotic restlessness.

Seeing Dixie stop again to refill a mug at the
Tell Me on a Sunday
booth, Olivia tried to distract Laurel before she leapt up and grabbed the carafe right out of Dixie's hands. “You said that you and Steve talked about things before you went to sleep. Doesn't that count as him discussing his feelings?”

Laurel shrugged. “It's all details. Wills, funeral arrangements, what will happen to his dad—Steve hasn't once said that he's sad or scared. I feel like he's a million miles away these days. I'm trying to be patient and understanding, but I'm also taking care of the boys, my work, the house, the yard, the bills. I also visit his mom when I can and that's not much fun. You know she doesn't like me.”

Olivia covered Laurel's hand with her own. “Men don't communicate the way women do. I'm sure Steve is grateful for your support, but you need to take care of yourself too, Laurel. You're running yourself ragged.”

Laurel barked out a humorless laugh. “I don't have any other choice. A woman comes in once a week to help with the cleaning, and a landscape service is handling the lawn, but I have to keep up with everything else. Between Steve's work and his parents, he doesn't seem to have anything left to give to me or the boys.”

“Here I am!” Dixie exclaimed. She skidded to a halt in front of their table and performed an elaborate series of one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turns by balancing on the toe of her left skate. “Service with flair! You can't get
that
at The Boot Top Bistro, eh?” she teased, referring to Olivia's five-star restaurant.

“It really is shameful that we don't have a single tutu-wearing dwarf in our employ,” Olivia admitted with exaggerated embarrassment as Dixie refilled their mugs. “Do you know one who'd be interested in working for a demanding female owner and a moody French chef? My wait staff says the tips are great, but they have to deal with lots of persnickety customers. Being adept at smoothing ruffled feathers is a necessity.”

Dixie snorted. “Grumpy's feathers have been ruffled for the last three days over this fishin' trip he wanted to go on and couldn't because of family stuff. Instead of smoothing his feathers, I told him
exactly
where he could shove them! Sometimes that man takes me, and his whole beautiful life, for granted. When that happens, I need to remind him how much the two of us need each other for things to work. Not just around here, but at home too.” She stopped and drew her brows together in concern. “Laurel, honey, what's wrong?”

Laurel was silently weeping. “Sorry, Dixie. I'm just tired and stressed. We have a meeting with Rachel's palliative care team today and I'm dreading it.”

“Rachel? Is that Steve's mama?” Dixie asked, resting the coffee carafe on the edge of the table.

“Yes. Milton is his dad,” Laurel said. She wiped off her tears with her napkin. “Milton and Steve argue about Rachel's care at every meeting. It's just awful. The meetings are scheduled every two weeks, and the closer we get to . . . the end, the more Steve and his dad argue about her care. They've always gotten along so well, but lately, the friction between them comes out during these meetings.”

Dixie made a sympathetic noise. “It's hard to let go of the folks we love. But what about Rachel? Doesn't she get a vote on how she lives out the rest of her life?”

“Of course,” Laurel said, bristling. “She's stated more than once that her main objective is to avoid pain. She isn't interested in adding weeks or days to her life if it means suffering, but neither Milton nor Steve seem to be listening to her. I've never gotten along with Rachel, but I've been trying to make sure her wishes are being heard. Luckily, the palliative care doc and both of the hospice nurses are very focused on her goals.”

Dixie put a hand on Laurel's shoulder. “I can almost feel the weight on you, sweetie. How much time do they think she has?”

“Six weeks.” Laurel took a sip of her coffee and then glanced out the window. She watched the passersby for a moment before adding, “I think she'll go sooner. She's been trying to hang on until Christmas for Steve's sake, but whenever I visit, she talks about how tired she is.” Laurel sighed. “If Steve and his dad don't make peace with one another
before
she passes, things are going to be even worse once she's gone.”

Dixie gave Laurel's shoulder another squeeze and then swept her gaze around the diner. A customer was signaling her for the check, so she turned back to Laurel and said, “I'm gonna pack up some treats for you to take home. I know how much those darlin' boys like Grumpy's apple pie. You hang in there, honey. We're here if you need us.”

When Laurel nodded absently, Olivia felt a pang of guilt. Other than taking Laurel out for the occasional lunch or coffee, she hadn't been a very supportive friend. She knew that Laurel was stressed, and even though she and the other Bayside Book Writers had bemoaned her absence during their last two meetings, they'd all assumed that she'd bounce back and make it to the next meeting. Laurel always bounced back. That's the kind of woman she was.

“Have you been able to write at all?” Olivia asked softly. “Outside of pieces for the newspaper, I mean.”

Laurel was still staring out the window, but her eyes had a glassy, unfocused look. “No,” she whispered.

“That settles it. I'm coming with you to this meeting,” Olivia said. “Even if I sit outside in the hall, you'll know I'm close by. You need a friend, whether you realize it or not. And while I'm terrible at all the touchy-feely stuff, I
can
be present.” Olivia pulled some bills from her wallet and placed them on the table. “Haviland will be at the groomer's for another hour. He's getting the works today—shampoo, trim, massage—so I'm all yours.”

“Maybe I should trade places with Haviland,” Laurel said as she shouldered her purse. “I'd love a day of pampering.”

Dixie reemerged from the kitchen and skated to the front of the diner, blatantly ignoring the customer in the
Phantom of the
Opera booth who was waving what Olivia assumed was an empty syrup jug in the air in an attempt to flag down his diminutive waitress. However, Dixie wasn't going to miss her chance to show Laurel some love by thrusting a loaded take-out bag into her arms.

“I don't want to hear any thanks from you either,” Dixie warned when Laurel opened her mouth. “You've always been there for me and mine. It's our turn to repay the favor. Kiss those boys for me, ya hear?”

And then she skated off, her pink taffeta tutu billowing like an umbrella or the bell of a gelatinous sea creature.

Olivia held open the diner door and gestured for Laurel to precede her outside. “That poodle is shamefully spoiled. It's better not to compare our existence to his. It'll only make you feel glum. Besides, why shouldn't you have a spa day? If you need a fresh crop of helpers, I could ask Kim for the names of reliable babysitters and you, me, and Millay could spend a few hours in New Bern being treated like royalty.”

Laurel turned toward her minivan, which looked like it hadn't been washed in months, and sighed. “What if something happened while I was gone? I couldn't live with the guilt.”

Would you feel guilty or would your husband
make
you feel guilty?
Olivia wondered and then tried to erase the uncharitable thought. She wasn't a fan of Laurel's husband. None of the Bayside Book Writers were. They were friendly to him for Laurel's sake, but Steve never seemed to put as much effort into the marriage as Laurel did. Even after the couple had undergone over a year's worth of marital counseling, Olivia continued to doubt Steve's sincerity. It wasn't fair, she knew, to judge a man she didn't really know, but her gut told her not to trust him. And with her history, Olivia knew it could be foolish to ignore her baser instincts.

He's Laurel's husband. Not yours
, Olivia reminded herself.

Laurel, who'd been rooting around in her purse, proffered a business card. “Here's the address. The meeting starts in thirty minutes. I doubt Steve and Milton will be thrilled to see you, but if you're sure . . . well, I'd love to have you there.”

“I'm sure.” Olivia smiled. “See you in a few.”

*   *   *

The offices for KinderCare Hospice were located halfway between Oyster Bay and New Bern, and looked relatively new. Laurel was greeted warmly by a receptionist and told to proceed to the conference room.

“Everyone's in house. We're just waiting on your husband,” the woman called after them. “He said he was running late, but that he'd get here as soon as he could.”

Though Laurel's shoulders tensed, she smiled and thanked the woman as though Steve's tardiness was no big deal.

Steve's father was far more overt in expressing his annoyance.

“He's
late
?” Milton demanded angrily after Laurel repeated the receptionist's message to the group of people gathered in the small conference room. Laurel's father-in-law was bent over the water cooler in the corner. Now, he stood erect and glared at Laurel. “Are his patients more important than his dying mother? And who's this?” He gestured at Olivia with his paper cup, causing water to slosh over the rim and onto his shirt. “Goddamn it. Now, look at me.”

A woman in her late twenties with large breasts, wide hips, and dark brown hair pulled into a loose bun eased the cup from Milton's hand. “Why don't you sit down while I refill that for you?” She spoke in a soothing, almost maternal voice and gave Milton a winsome smile. “I'm sure your son will be here real soon. Dr. Mark had to grab some paperwork from his office, so the timing might work out just fine. Come on, sit down by me.”

Judging by the woman's purple scrubs, Olivia guessed that she was one of Rachel's nurses. The second nurse was taller, thinner, and older. She was in her mid-thirties and had luminescent, mocha-colored skin and hazel eyes. Beside her sat a clergyman, and next to him was a dour-faced matron in a wool cardigan. The chair at the head of the table remained empty, but a young woman with an athletic build occupied the chair directly next to it. She wore a white scrub top with pink piping and pink pants and was drawing leaping dolphins and bubbly hearts on a legal pad.

Is she a college student?
Olivia wondered.
High school? Maybe she's an intern or a volunteer.

“Dad, this is Olivia Limoges,” Laurel said. “She's just here for me. She won't say a word. I just needed a friend today. I hope that's okay.”

Milton was clearly taken aback. “
You
needed a friend? What does
any
of this have to do with you?”

Laurel's face reddened. “You and Rachel are my husband's parents, and I care about you both, so this does concern me. Rachel's illness also affects my family. My sons. My husband. And me. I want to do everything I can to help, and I don't appreciate being made to feel as if I don't matter.”

“Well, I don't see how . . .”

Milton's rudeness was interrupted by the arrival of the palliative care doctor.

“Good morning, everyone,” the doctor said in a tone of affable authority. He breezed into the room with an air of urgency common to most physicians. However, once he'd settled into his chair, he took a long moment to simply sit and be quiet. A calm came over him and the room. He glanced at each person at the table, greeting him or her with his eyes. Olivia liked him for taking the time to do this.

When his gaze fell on Olivia, Laurel spoke up. “This is a good friend of mine, Olivia Limoges. I invited her to be here today,” she added, and again, Olivia heard a note of defiance in her friend's voice.