Murder Crops Up (3 page)

“Yeah, yeah.” Bridget went back to digging. “I don’t know how people keep this stuff out of their gardens without digging full time, you know?” She pointed her shovel at the next-door garden before stomping it into the dirt again. “Like Webster Powell, for instance.” She took another breather, glancing around the garden area. “Did he come to the work day? I notice he doesn’t need to tidy his plot.”

The resentment in her voice made me smile. Bridget is so easygoing, it’s unusual when she lets loose with a complaint. “He can get on your nerves, for sure,” I agreed, looking over the bender boards that divided Bridget’s plot from Webster’s. “He’s probably the one complaining about your Bermuda grass. Not a speck to be seen in his garden.”

“I see.” Bridget leaned on her shovel, taking deep breaths. “Moira, don’t put that in your mouth. Yes, he’s even gotten rid of it outside the fence. Does that guy have a life?”

“I don’t think so,” I said, after due consideration. “He’s here a lot, even on weekdays.” I reached over and removed the tasty-looking grub from Moira’s grasp, handing her a rounded pebble as a substitute. “Dirty. Don’t eat it.” Moira wanted the grub back, but I managed to squash it underfoot before she could figure out where it went. “Isn’t he a software engineer? He has that nerd look.”

“He’s a consultant.” Bridget abandoned her shovel and came to squat beside me, combing the long roots from the soil. “He’s done some work for Emery, that’s how I know about him. But he’s not married, hardly dates or anything. I guess he must spend all his spare time here.”

“Too bad he has to be next to you.” I couldn’t help but notice the contrast between the two plots.

Bridget’s was still a haphazard mass of dead cornstalks, expiring tomato plants, and mildewed vines punctuated with bloated, yellow cucumbers. Webster had already cleared his raised beds; fava beans were a foot high in precise geometric formation on several of them, with one bed given over to winter greens. He had installed a big, lidded compost container, and had a large, shiny, new wheelbarrow padlocked to the fence post—a good precaution, since even my rusty, garage-sale wheelbarrow had recently rolled mysteriously away.

Not a blade of Bermuda grass, not an overlooked cluster of purslane or sow thistle, marred the perfection of Webster’s garden. All the paths between his raised beds, as well as the one in front of his plot, were thickly mulched with wood chips from the mountain of them that the city had piled outside the garden fence.

We were silent for a moment, raking our gloved fingers through the soil and putting the endless supply of roots into the bucket. Bridget’s soil was very nice, actually; she wasn’t a tidy gardener, but she did throw in a lot of chicken manure and compost and rock dust whenever she planted, and the result was a dark, crumbly loam that contained many happy worms, to Moira’s delight.

“I read somewhere that leaving the cornstalks and bean stalks up over the winter is good,” Bridget said, rising and dusting the dirt off her knees. “I was going to try it, but I guess I’ll just haul everything down and make everybody happy.”

“Okay.” I started pulling up the bean carcasses. “We could break them up with our hands and dig them in, you know. That would be good, too.”

“Let’s.” Bridget cheered up at this iconoclastic view. “So what if it doesn’t make perfect beds.” She cast a disparaging glance at Webster’s garden. “His beds look like graves, anyway.”

“Maybe he’s got a few enemies buried there.” The moment I said it, I wished it unsaid. Given recent events, I was afraid to make even a mild joke about death.

Bridget’s thoughts, too, were driven in that direction. “Did you know that Melanie and Hugh are in counseling now?”

“No, I didn’t.” Melanie Dixon, along with birthday girl Claudia, was a member of a local writers’ group that Bridget and I belonged to. The body that had been found recently under a sidewalk had ended up affecting Melanie’s life; evidently her marriage was feeling the strain.

“At least they’re working it out.” Bridget took some rusty shears from her gardening basket and attacked a cornstalk. Moira, attracted by destruction, started pulling the withered leaves off the cornstalk and tossing them into the wind, laughing with delight, her little white pearls of teeth gleaming in her rosy mouth. Bridget smiled indulgently, her bad mood lightening. “I’m sure they’ll get it together. I hate to think of families being torn apart by divorce.”

“At least you know that won’t happen to you.” Bridget and Emery had a pretty solid marriage, it seemed to me. Of course, I don’t know much about achieving success as a couple. My one experience with marriage had not been good, and I was shy of making another attempt at intimacy.

Once again, Bridget’s thoughts paralleled mine. “So, are you missing Paul?”

“Not really.” I stabbed a few bean stalks, getting my expression in order. “He’s only been gone a couple of days.”

“Have you heard from him? How’s his dad?”

“He called last night.”

“And you just happened to be there in his house?”

I could feel the color washing my face. “We arranged before he left that he would call at eight each night if he could. I go over and water his houseplants and stuff anyway.’’

“So just tell me, why don’t you get a phone?” Bridget moved on to a second cornstalk. “I could understand your not wanting one while that slimy ex-husband was around. But now—”

“It’s an expense.” I couldn’t really explain to anyone in affluent Palo Alto how I felt about expenses. My income was so marginal. The house payment Paul Drake made to me on his house was the first steady income I’d had in a long time. At the age of thirty-five, I felt the necessity of saving for the uncertain future—there was no pension fund in my life. I was currently without a writing assignment and losing a bit of sleep over that. I earned a little by teaching a writers’ workshop at the senior center, and another dribble of income from selling the gourmet salad greens I grew in my yard to upscale restaurants in the area. That income would literally die when the first hard frost killed the lettuce and arugula in the raised beds I’d built at home. Then any sudden need for money would necessitate a jump into the temporary workers’ pool, which is not a pleasant experience for me.

All in all, I made a point of not spending more than I had to. Perhaps it was an obsession. But I could do without a phone—it’s intrusive, and it puts you at the beck and call of solicitors. While waiting for Drake to call the previous evening—all right, I had been sitting in his living room, reading his magazines, listening to his stereo, and waiting for him to call with an uneasy combination of anticipation and impatience—I had dealt with two rival telephone companies wanting to pitch their wares to Drake. That would drive me crazy if it were happening in my house. One of the solicitors asked me if I was Mrs. Paul Drake. All in all, it had been annoying.

“We haven’t discussed Claudia’s birthday yet.” My feeble effort to change the subject failed.

“So what did Drake say when he called? Is his dad okay? Will he be back soon?”

“His dad is still in the ICU. Drake gave blood yesterday and they transfused his dad. As of last night, he was stabilized, but they want Drake to stick around in case they need more blood or bone marrow. He and his dad are compatible.”

“That’s not what I heard.” Bridget shook her head. “I thought he never forgave them for naming him what they did.”

“He’s a grown-up. He’s learned to live with that. Illness changes things.” I thought about how Drake had looked when he’d gotten the call from his mother that his father, a retired Seattle policeman, had collapsed and been taken to the hospital. He’d been stunned by the possibility that his dad was at risk of dying. “He might be away through Thanksgiving if his dad doesn’t respond to treatment quickly. His mom is devastated, evidently. He’s gotten a leave from the police department until the first of December.”

“That’s hard.” Bridget was quiet for a moment, hacking up another cornstalk. Moira grabbed more leaves and tossed them up. The breeze obliged her, seizing the leaves and swirling them off.

“Hey!” Webster Powell stopped on the path, his hands on his hips. “Stop that! Those leaves are littering up my garden!”

Bridget and I exchanged exasperated glances, before she pasted on a smile and turned to Webster.

“Hi, Webster. Nothing could litter up your garden—it’s impossibly neat. How do you do it?”

“I don’t let little brats scatter mildew-laden junk all over everything.” Webster was a tall, spare man, perhaps a couple of years younger than me. Even in garden clothes he was fastidious; the knees of his corduroy trousers were protected by pads, the gloves he slapped on one palm were immaculate, and his Dilbert T-shirt, proclaiming that technology was no place for wimps, was unstained by dirt. Only his boots, tall, green Wellingtons emblazoned with the Smith and Hawken logo, showed dark earth clinging to them.

His loud voice drew in Tamiko Frazier, who had the garden plot on the other side of his, across the path from mine. Her round face and graying hair, coupled with a vague look, were misleading; she knew more than anyone I’d ever met about garden lore. Her plot wasn’t as tidy as Webster’s, but it was fantastically productive. I owed her a lot; she often traded me her leftover fish meal or other soil amendments for the seedlings I had in abundance.

“Hello, Liz. Bridget.” Tamiko nodded at us, then said, “Webster,” her voice cooling. “This can’t be that tiny baby, can it?” She smiled at Moira. “She’s gotten so big.”

Moira looked from her to Webster. Her little face was worried. She knew there was trouble.

“We aren’t supposed to bring children who aren’t old enough to help,” Webster said, moderating his voice. “And this isn’t helpful!" He gestured to the yellowing shreds of corn leaves scattered over his perfectly mounded garden beds.

Tamiko narrowed her eyes. “Nonsense,” she said, her soft voice turning steely. “It’s all mulch, isn’t it? And certainly better for the garden as a whole than Roundup, wouldn’t you say?”

Webster stared at her, his mouth pressed tight, and then turned away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He strode up the path into his garden and unlocked his wheelbarrow, whirling the combination with quick, angry gestures. “But I won’t tolerate people dumping their debris in my garden.” Now he was glaring at me. “You put that Bermuda grass in my garden. I know you did. And if I ever catch you doing it again—”

Bridget looked at me, puzzled. “Liz doesn’t have Bermuda grass in her garden. Why would she put it in yours?”

“I don’t know.” He pushed the wheelbarrow back to the main path. “But I’ll find out. And when I do, you’ll be out of the garden for good.”

He marched away down the path, pushing the wheelbarrow in front of him.

Chapter 4

Tamiko looked after Webster as he trundled his wheelbarrow down the path. “Boy, he’s got it in for you, doesn’t he, Liz? I wonder why.”

“I don’t know.” The sick feeling I’d been fighting all morning was back. “I didn’t put any Bermuda grass in his garden. I have no idea why he thinks I did.”

“Somebody’s been rumor-mongering,” Tamiko said.

She was still staring after Webster. “This used to be such a nice group of people. Now everyone’s always fighting. I don’t understand what went wrong.”

“Well, a good part of it is Lois.” Bridget picked up Moira. “She’s appointed herself garden cop, and the result is everyone’s nitpicking everything to death. Before, we didn’t mind a few weeds here and there. Now if everything’s not perfect, she threatens to take your garden away.”

“Let her try that on me.” Tamiko straightened her dumpy form. She’s a bit taller than I am, but then, I’m pretty short. “I believe in live-and-let-live, but I’m not going to keep my mouth shut if she’s going around spreading rumors.”

She marched back to her own plot. Bridget stared after her.

“Now, what was that all about? And why that crack about Roundup? Nobody here can use it, right? It’s a pesticide, and we’re organic.”

“Nobody is supposed to, but rumor has it that Webster sprayed his Bermuda grass with it.” I picked up the spade Bridget had discarded and began turning the cornstalks and beans into the ground. “I thought it was just a rumor, but his reaction makes me wonder.”

“So that’s how he gets rid of Bermuda grass.” Bridget frowned. “And he has the gall to accuse me of wrongdoing.”

“It’s just a rumor.” I regretted having repeated it. I know to my cost how often rumor and innuendo are wrong. “He’s innocent until proven guilty.”

“I’m going home, anyway.” Bridget wore an unaccustomed expression of ire. “Nobody wants Moira here, and I’ve got a lot to do. If my garden isn’t tidy enough, let Webster have it. I know that’s what he wants.”

“Could he have more than one? I didn’t think that was allowed.”

“Some people do. In fact, I heard that Lois has about six scattered around.” Bridget dusted off Moira’s dirty hands and looked around for her garden basket.

“Leave the shovel,” I suggested. “I’ll drop it off at your house later.”

“Okay.” Bridget picked up her basket, balancing Moira on one arm. “In fact, come by around two—I should be home for a while. And stay and have tea. We’ll talk about Claudia’s party then.”

She left, using the south gate beside Tamiko’s garden. I dug for a few more minutes, getting the cornstalks and beans well incorporated, and pulling up a bit more Bermuda grass. I pulled up the tomatoes, too, stacking the cages neatly at the back of Bridget’s garden, and cramming the withered vines into my bucket. Her garden plot looked much better when I finished. I picked up the bucket to carry over to the Dumpster, planning to fill it with wood chips on my way back and scatter them on her path. Then Lois wouldn’t have any more reason to complain about Bridget.

Tamiko joined me as I went out the gate and turned right, walking on the perimeter path outside the garden fence. She glanced at my bucket of weeds and dead tomato vines. “You really made some progress today,” she remarked. She, too, carried debris bundled in a tarp with handles. “These work days are a good idea for getting us moving with the fall cleanup.”