Deader Homes and Gardens Part 11

"Go for it," my darling daughter said. "You can do it."

I drew away to smile at her. "Now you're my number-one fan? My ratings must have shot sky-high to warrant this pretense of loyalty."

"So I want the house-okay?" She pursed her lips to emphasize her displeasure at my lack of gullibility. I longed for the days when she'd merely stuck out her lower lip and rolled her eyes.

I found myself mimicking her expression. It was as if I'd been whacked on the head by a sense of deja vu, but I couldn't put my finger on the deja or the vu. Caron gave me a perplexed look as I struggled to s.n.a.t.c.h a vague memory from my mind. "Loretta," I said slowly. "It has to do with Loretta. Why does it have to do with Loretta?"

"Hold that thought," Caron said. She went back into the living room to consult with Inez.

I couldn't hold a thought I didn't have, but I remained on the balcony, oblivious to whoever might be walking across the campus lawn. I finally decided that my only hope was a jolt of caffeine and went inside.

Inez cleared her throat. "Loretta is the woman that made the mushroom quiche for Terry the night before he died. You said that it didn't have anything to do with his death. Her housemate's name is Nicole. You rode with-"

I cut her off. "I'm going to have another cup of coffee and then pay her a visit. I don't know why, but I'll come up with something." The phone rang before I could do anything. I picked it up with reluctance. "h.e.l.lo?"

"I love you, Claire Malloy," Peter said. "You are the most alluring woman since Helen of Troy, and she pales in your charm."

I let him continue for a minute and then inquired in my most sultry voice about the purpose of the call.

"I'm in Atlanta. My flight to Nashville is delayed, so I may miss my connection. The next flight will get me there at midnight. I'll take a cab from the airport, but you'd better be waiting up for me. I'm going to arouse you with the details of every meeting, then overwhelm you with the latest policies concerning the regulation of gun show sales. You'll melt when I outline the procedures for coordination between the feds and regional law enforcement officers. I will write the outlines in whipped cream on your writhing body and slowly lick them-"

"I get the idea," I said, "and I'll pick up a carton of cream. I'll see you at the midnight hour." A moment later my goofy grin was replaced with a steely stare. Peter's call was more catalytic than a random bolt of lightning. I had approximately twelve hours to a.s.sist the police before Sherlock shut me down.

I decided to forgo the coffee, gave Caron enough money for bagels, and went to my car. I was energized, but I was still baffled. I had no clue why I was determined to talk to Loretta, which meant I had no clue what to say to her. I was driving on automatic and operating on raw instinct. It was just as well there were no pedestrians strolling across the street, cell phones glued to their ears.

Loretta opened the door. Her eyes were red, and she clutched a damp tissue in her hand. "You again. Am I going to be arrested for misidentification of local fungi? You'd better read me my rights before you slap on the handcuffs."

"I came to apologize," I said with a rueful smile. "I have a bad habit of thinking out loud under stress. Have you heard about Terry?"

Her face slackened, and she gestured for me to come inside. "Yes, and I feel like c.r.a.p. I cried half the night. I have one of Winston's paintings in the bedroom. As soon as I looked at it this morning, I lost it. Winston and Terry were so dear to me. I can't believe what happened. Please tell me that I didn't..."

"Terry's death had nothing to do with mushrooms," I said. "The police think it was caused by food poisoning."

"Let's go to the kitchen," she said, her voice unsteady. "I baked oatmeal bread this morning, and we have organic honey. Tea or coffee?"

I opted for coffee and did not protest when she set down a plate of bread slices, b.u.t.ter, and honey. "I don't quite know how to say this, but there's something about you that puzzles me. It has nothing to do with your reaction Friday night. That was understandable, and I apologize again. Can you help me, Loretta?"

"You don't suspect me of anything?"

I slathered b.u.t.ter on a slice of bread, took a bite, and studied her face as I ate. "Why would I? You don't have any connections to the Hollow family. You liked Winston and Terry, so you wouldn't have a motive to hurt either of them." The twenty-watt bulb in my head finally clicked on, but the illumination was poor. "Do you have any connections to the Hollow family, Loretta?"

"Not anymore."

"Now I see it. You and your mother have the same mouth. When she's annoyed, she puckers her lips just like you did the other afternoon. You have the same chin, too."

"None of the mousiness, though. Yes, I used to be a simpering, pathetic little wimp who was too afraid to make eye contact with normal people. I'm over it."

"When you ran away from home, you didn't go very far."

"Yes I did." She stirred a spoonful of honey into her tea. "After Winston was shipped off, he wrote me letters. He sent them to a friend of his, who pa.s.sed them to me at school. When I got fed up with my father's abuse and my mother's timidity, I took a bus to New York City and stayed in a shelter until Winston had an opportunity to come get me. He arranged for me to live with a family until he started college. His parents thought they were paying for him to live in a dorm, but he used the money for an apartment. After he graduated, we moved to the city and lived in c.r.a.ppy apartments until he started making big bucks as a set designer. At first, I thought we could live happily ever after, but I got tired of the traffic and the incessant noise and the frantic pace. I knew my parents didn't care where I was as long as I didn't disrupt their facade of respectability. I make a point not to shop on the other side of town, or get plowed and stagger into their holier-than-thou church. I've been back nearly eight years."

"I thought that you were dead, and they'd buried you in their backyard," I admitted. "I was going to demand that the police take cadaver dogs and scour the entire valley until they found your decomposed body. It's comforting to learn that I was misguided."

Loretta shivered. "My father's not that evil. I'd throw boiling water on him if he showed up here, of course, but I don't sit around all day trying to find a way to make his life as miserable as he made mine. When he was a child, he probably planned to be a senator or a governor. Instead, he squeaked through college with borderline grades and ended up working in the family business. Some people crave respect like junkies crave crack. The only two places he could get any were at home and at that awful church. My father had the most expensive car and the loudest voice, so he got to be on the board. He used to strut around the house on Sunday afternoon, condemning members of the congregation for their lapses. If I defended anyone, he'd slap me or grip my arms until I cried." She looked out the window for a long moment. "Maybe I should be thinking up ways to make him miserable. Any suggestions?"

"I didn't come here to stir up latent anger," I said. "Let's talk about Winston. Why did he go back to Hollow Valley? Surely he wasn't nostalgic for the good old days."

"He told me that he needed to come to grips with his childhood, that his psychiatrist had urged him to face his family and show them that he was no longer a victim. He wanted to make them understand that they'd never had the right to demean him. On another level, I think he wanted to p.i.s.s them off. The best way to accomplish that was to establish his legitimacy in Hollow Valley by building a house and living there in flagrante delicto."

"Was this aimed at your parents in particular?"

She snickered. "My father was the commander of the gulag, but the rest of them mindlessly obeyed his orders. He encouraged the other boys to hara.s.s Winston. They did ghastly things to him whenever they caught him alone in the woods. Aunt Margaret Louise, Nattie, my mother, Aunt Joanne and Uncle Sheldon, Aunt Misty and Uncle Syd sat in silence while my father vented his outrage at family meetings. n.o.body said a word in Winston's defense, not even his parents." She noticed my confused expression. "Aunt Joanne and Uncle Sheldon are Jordan's parents. They moved to Pennsylvania when she was a toddler. Aunt Misty and Uncle Syd were Ethan's parents."

I made no effort to add their names to my list of suspects, since they no longer resided in the "gulag." "Was it worth it to Winston? From what Terry told me, they had a great life in Manhattan. Couldn't he have confronted them for a long weekend?"

Loretta refilled my coffee cup and sat back down. "He wanted them to know that he had a right to live in Hollow Valley as a direct descendant of the old fart. They didn't intend to live in the house for more than a year, but Winston discovered that he had a talent for landscapes. His paintings were a contemporary version of French impressionism. He wanted to put a lily pond out in back and cover the meadow with sunflowers. Terry flew to his poker tournaments. They had a lot of close friends. The last time I talked to Winston was the weekend before his death. He wanted me to take samba lessons with him. I said no."

"And when you heard about his purported accident...?"

"I cried all night."

"Then moped for a month," said a woman in the doorway. She was tall and lean, dressed in sweats. "I'm Nicole. Loretta, we promised Samuel that we'd go to Joplin with him in an hour. I need to jump in the shower. Have you fixed food for the picnic basket yet? He's counting on chicken salad, crudites, marinated mushrooms, Camembert and tomato sandwiches, and blueberry tarts. Billy bought the champagne yesterday."

Loretta shrugged at me. "I guess I'd better get to work, Claire. For reasons known only to himself, Samuel demands a well-equipped entourage when he makes a dash across the border to buy cheap cigarettes. Because of the grueling one-hour drive, we have to spend the entire afternoon singing show tunes in the van and picnicking at a particular rest stop that has a splendid view of cows. Winston used to bring his pastels and do wicked caricatures of us." Her lips were pursed, but her eyes were filled with tears. "Can you come back tomorrow? There is one thing he said that may mean something."

"What?"

"I'm not sure. Let me think about it. The tarts need forty minutes in the oven, and I have to get started on the pastry right now. Samuel throws a fit when everything's not exactly as he commands. I ought to make peanut b.u.t.ter and jelly sandwiches one of these days." She stood up and turned on the oven and then opened the refrigerator. "Tomorrow, okay?"

"Thanks for talking to me," I said. "I'll be back in the morning." I gave her a brief hug and went out to my car. I'd solved one crime, or noncrime, anyway. In a perverse way, I was a little disappointed that I couldn't point my finger at Charles Finnelly and accuse him of murder most foul. Maritodespotism was not a crime in the eagle eyes of the law, and the statute of limitations for child abuse had long since expired. I made a note to myself to ask Caron to come up with tips for Loretta to punish him someday in the future.

When I reached the bottom of the hill, I pulled into the stadium parking lot to think. One motive could be dismissed. Charles had not killed Winston because of a shallow grave in the woods, and it was hard to imagine that he had killed him because of his own religious fanaticism. Winston had not communicated a grisly secret to Terry. Therefore, Charles had no motive to kill Terry.

I moved on to the revelation of Pandora b.u.t.terfly's secret life as a drug dealer (and other things). There was not one leaf of proof that she was selling marijuana grown in a greenhouse in Hollow Valley. I'd been dragged over every d.a.m.n inch of the place, and I knew what marijuana plants looked like. I wouldn't have missed acres of poppies or a coca plantation surrounded by tropical trees. Still if Jimmie John had been truthful, she was selling something illegal. It was Sunday, and the bar was closed. I felt Peter's breath on my neck. I had less than twelve hours, and the clock was ticking. What I didn't have was a clear-cut course of action. The idea of going back to Hollow Valley made me queasy. There was no reason to drive all the way to Maxwell County to talk to the sheriff. Angela's car had been found there; Angela hadn't. The sheriff would not take kindly to being interrupted during Sunday dinner, and I couldn't so much as hint that his deputies were incompetent or I'd find myself in jail for impudence.

A skateboarder swooped by my car and cut a wide circle in the bottom of the lot. Seconds later, a veritable horde of them were skimming by my car so closely that I could see their acned faces and orthodontia. Their message was easy to comprehend. I was an invader and would be targeted until I removed myself from their sacred ground. I waved as I exited the lot and drove toward the campus-and toward Hollow Valley. I'd intended to search the desk in the library, but Pandora's presence had distracted me. I doubted that I'd find anything to justify my effort, but I was down to ten hours and fifty-two minutes.

I hate deadlines.

I parked in what had become my personal parking s.p.a.ce. There was no indication that anyone was present. That meant nothing, I told myself as I went around to the doors in the back. If the G.o.ddesses were on my side, Moses was sitting down to roast beef and mashed potatoes at the Old Tavern. I went to the library and paused to soak in the aroma of furniture polish and leather-bound books. There were empty s.p.a.ces where Terry must have taken his treasured books to Key West. I found a complete set of Jane Austen and another of d.i.c.kens. An entire shelf was filled with biographies and histories. The collection of poetry included all of my favorites. First editions were shelved with battered cla.s.sics from my childhood. I sneezed with delight as I thumbed through a worn edition of nursery rhymes. I would have died on the spot as long as someone was there to turn the pages.

It was not my time to rest in this blissful bed of literature, alas. I replaced the book and sat down to search the desk. The top drawer contained standard paraphernalia. There were enough paper clips to make a chain to encircle the house. Rubber bands nestled in profusion. Sc.r.a.ps of paper had illegible notations, e-mail addresses, and telephone numbers. The stapler lacked staples. When I p.r.i.c.ked my finger on a thumbtack, I closed the drawer and moved on. Terry had overlooked a manila folder crammed with receipts for art supplies; oil paint was pricier than I thought. Another was dedicated to travel vouchers, creased boarding pa.s.ses, and hotel bills. It hadn't occurred to me that artists and professional poker players took deductions for business expenses. I smiled to myself as I pictured Winston tossing such trivial things on the desk for Terry to sort and file. A successful couple requires a word person and a number person. The poetry books most likely belonged to Winston, and the mathematical theory books to Terry. The odds were good that they'd been happy together.

The bottom drawer held a carton of cigarettes, minus one pack. I was dumbfounded, a reaction that I experience very rarely. When I'd first toured the house, I hadn't seen any ashtrays inside or on the tables on the terrace. I hadn't noticed any lingering odor of stale smoke in the drapes or rugs. I attributed the missing pack to Pandora. The carton might have been hers as well. I examined a pack, but there was no stamp advising that it was best used by such-and-so date. Cigarettes didn't expire, but their users often did. Not that I was an authority, I thought as I replaced the carton and closed the drawer. Ethan could have found the deed among personal items that Terry subsequently removed. Winston had owned a current pa.s.sport. Most people have copies of their birth certificates, car t.i.tles, piles of old bank statements, records of credit card purchases, and other things required to avoid the wrath of the IRS should they descend to audit. I didn't, to Peter's oft-vocalized distress. Some of us value poetry over mundane concerns.

I rocked in the chair, waiting for inspiration. When none came, I made sure that everything was back in its place and went out to the terrace. As I looked at the stream, I remembered what Moses had said about Inez and Jordan's trek in the distant field. I found it hard to believe that Jordan would volunteer to lead a search party in pursuit of medicinal berries, or volunteer to do anything that required exertion. I could be wrong, I told myself, however improbable that was. Jordan might have been so desperate for a friend that she would have climbed a mountain. Inez was older, which mattered in the contorted teenage world, and she wouldn't have hidden her disdain for Jordan's hair and piercings. Or she'd hypnotized Jordan with an elaborate a.n.a.lysis of entomological metamorphosis.

I didn't know if I was stewing over details of no consequence. Inez and Jordan had taken a walk, and Pandora had hidden her cigarettes in a safe place. I couldn't pin down the correlation between Winston's death in March and Terry's death the previous day, but there had to be one. Charles and Felicia Finnelly weren't going to offer me further information. Nattie had already told me what she knew. Unless a squirrel pegged Moses in the head with a two-ton acorn, his babbles would remain enigmatic, and I didn't have time to dissect them. I couldn't bear the thought of another round with Aunt Margaret Louise, who'd savor the opportunity to tell me how she was a Grateful Dead backup singer and slept with Eric Clapton every other weekend and six weeks in the summer. That left Ethan, and Pandora if she'd come home to braid daisies in her hair.

My only recourse required exertion. I drank a gla.s.s of water in the kitchen, looked sadly at the island over which I would never reign, and contemplated the best route to the greenhouses. When in doubt, snoop.

I made it across the blacktop road and into the woods that lay between the Old Tavern and Ethan's house. I encountered no lions, tigers, or bears, but I had to fight through thorns, fallen branches, stumps, and holes concealed by leaves. I definitely preferred the Nature Channel to nature. By the time I emerged into neat rows of saplings, I'd acc.u.mulated an a.s.sortment of scratches on my bare arms and face, and dried leaves in my hair. My ankles were itchy. Worst of all, I was sweaty.

No one seemed to be working. I stayed in the minimal protection of the baby trees until I had a better view of the greenhouses and outbuildings. One delivery truck was parked nearby. Painted on its side was a depiction of the arched sign in an oval of flowering vines. Beneath that were an e-mail address and a claim that Hollow Valley Nursery had been established in nineteen sixty-four. Their fiftieth anniversary was approaching. I wondered if they'd give each other a dozen rosebushes to commemorate the occasion. Champagne would not be served within range of Charles's sanctimonious nose, but blueberry tarts might be on the menu.

I sat down on a concrete block to pick the leaves out of my hair and to examine the red b.u.mps on my ankles. Caron had blundered into a patch of chiggers when she and Inez had taken a shortcut home from school, and she'd spent the weekend with her feet in a bucket of hot water and Epsom salts. My maternal impulses had been sorely tested. Peter's amorous intentions for our midnight a.s.signation would require imagination (and agility) if I ended up in the same situation. I was grinning at the idea when I heard a delivery truck rumble up the hill from the bridge. I slipped behind the back of a greenhouse and peered around the corner. The cab door opened, and the driver grunted as his feet hit the ground. He glanced around and then flicked a cigarette in my direction. I did not take it personally, since I was operating on the theory that he couldn't see me.

A minute later, Ethan called, "About d.a.m.n time, Rudy. What happened?"

I resisted an urge to dive into the weeds and put my arms over my head. I wasn't breaking the law, I rea.s.sured myself. I hadn't scaled a fence or blatantly disregarded warnings not to trespa.s.s.

"Had to wait on Coop," Rudy said. "I wasn't gonna load the stuff by myself, was I? He said he overslept, but he looked worse than something the dog dragged in. He stank to high heavens and was real ornery."

"You don't smell all that good yourself," Ethan responded. "If you get stopped for a DUI, you'd better be across the border before I hear about it. Grab the nursery receipts and come in the office." He disappeared into a building that I'd been inside during my grand tour. It housed a desk, a filing cabinet, a squeaky ceiling fan, a wall calendar sporting the HVN logo, and a coffeepot so filthy that Mr. Coffee himself would have wept in shame.

"Neither do you, boss," Rudy muttered as he stomped to the cab of the truck. He retrieved the doc.u.ments and went inside the building.

I risked standing up, a move greatly appreciated by my knees. I wasn't interested in the truck, so I had no reason to make any furtive attempts to gain access. However, I wasn't sure why I was there or what I'd hoped to discover. I was feeling rather foolish when I was tapped on the shoulder.

My response shall remain unrecorded for posterity.

10.

"Are you here to talk to Aunt Margaret Louise?" asked Jordan.

Justifiably startled, I reeled around, then gaped at her. "What have you done?"

Her hair was no longer purple, nor was it aligned in a rigid row across the top of her head. It resembled a s.h.a.ggy brown pelt, but it was an improvement. The bling had been removed, exposing small holes that she'd attempted to cover with makeup. The rest of her face was clean. "Better?"

"Good grief," I said, "did Uncle Charles convert you?"

Jordan blushed. "Not likely. I just decided I was too old for the goth c.r.a.p. It took a lot of time to pull off, and after the initial horror, n.o.body seemed to care. Why are you looking for Aunt Margaret Louise here? She's at the mill, getting ready to go play bridge with her cronies. We need to catch her before she leaves." She tugged on my arm. "Please, Mrs. Malloy. You promised."

"I'll take care of it, Jordan. If your aunt has gone, I can clear it with Nattie. Wait for me by the statue." I took a peek around the corner of the building.

Her voice dropped. "What are you doing? If you want to steal ornamental trees, you ought to wait until dark. The root b.a.l.l.s are heavier than you think. Do you want azaleas or anything like that? I can grab a couple and carry them to your car for you."

She was clearly in the throes of mall withdrawal and cell phone deprivation, both potentially fatal to teenagers. I shook my head. "Thanks for your offer of a.s.sistance, but I'm not here to steal anything." I would have elaborated, but nothing came to mind. To distract her from asking the obvious question, I said, "Have you seen Pandora b.u.t.terfly this morning?"

"No, and I'd better not!"

"You have a problem with her?" I did, but I wasn't going to proffer it as a topic of conversation. As much as I appreciated Jordan's efforts to join civilized society, I didn't trust her.

"No, it's nothing," she replied hastily. "We're fine. It's just that, uh, her kids made off with a book I left outside. It's probably in shreds."

"Oh," I said. I wasn't a poker player, but I could read the mendacity in her eyes. I chose not to pursue it. Pandora's fan base was small, and I wasn't surprised that Jordan was not a member. Since Ethan was otherwise occupied, it seemed logical that Pandora was at home with her wee beasties. "Jordan, if you want me to arrange for you to come home with me, you need to wait for me at the statue. I'll be there in no more than half an hour. Got it?"

Her upper lip started to curl into a sneer, but she caught herself. "Okay."

Once she'd trudged away, I wound my way through the saplings and stayed at the edge of the field until I found a well-beaten path that I a.s.sumed led to Ethan and Pandora's house. The path was littered with sodden piles of discarded clothes and muddy shoes. A headless doll had been nailed to a tree. I did not allow myself to conjure up horrific images of pagan rituals.

The beasties were not in sight when I reached the yard. Pandora was seated on a railroad tie, her head lowered. When I stepped on a particularly crunchy leaf, she looked up. "Are you stalking me? Go play with Dearg Due. He's got a thing for scrawny, meddlesome redheads."

I politely overlooked her lack of appreciation for the difference between scrawny and svelte, as well as between meddlesome and inquisitive. In sunlight, my hair has red highlights, so I couldn't accuse her of total ignorance. "You look dreadful, dear. Do you have a hangover?"

"From one gla.s.s of wine?" Her laugh was nasty. "You must be a cheap date."

"Zeppo took you to a church revival? Charles will be tickled pink."

She nearly lost her balance as she stood up. "What are you talking about? The guy on the motorcycle owed me some money. I got off at the highway and came home, if it's any of your business. I don't even know his name, and I've never heard of anybody named Zeppo. That's stupid."

"I don't guess he took you to the Devil's Roost," I continued, refusing to flinch as she glowered at me. "Jimmie John said you're not welcome there anymore."

I had her full attention. Her fists tightened as she turned away, and I could hear her cursing in a low voice. "My cell phone," she said abruptly.

"It begged me to hit the redial b.u.t.ton, and I didn't want to hurt its feelings. Jimmie John had quite a lot to say about you, Pandy."

"That's a violation of my privacy! It's like reading somebody's diary or opening their personal mail."

"Equally enlightening, too. Does Ethan know about these little jaunts with Zeppo? For the record, I do agree that it's a stupid name. He should consider changing it to Harpo or Chico."

"What do you want from me?" she asked with a groan.

"An explanation would be a good start." I sat down on a splintery railroad tie and waited for her to fabricate a remotely plausible story.

The hangover was too much for her. She sat cross-legged in the gra.s.s and sighed. "You cannot believe how boring it is out here. Yeah, Jordan whines all the time, but she's only been here a month. I've been here for ten tedious years. All Ethan talks about is the nursery, and he's up there all day and half the night. Am I supposed to have intelligent conversations with Rainbow and Weevil? All they do is snuffle and snort like filthy little pigs. What am I supposed to do? If I didn't get a break, I'd lose it."

"What happened to the free-spirited lily of the valley? Can't you commune with the G.o.ddesses, or have they cut you off? They may not approve of your partic.i.p.ation in the drug business."

"Jimmie John's full of it. He's a runty old alcoholic who runs a bar for losers. I may have been there once, but I didn't stay. I dance and flutter and act like an idiot because it keeps the rest of the family away. The last things I want to do are drink tea with Nattie and listen to her talk on and on about poor, confused Winston. It gets old. There were times I wished that I could drown her out with a mantra."

"What were you doing at an ashram?"

"There was a warrant out on me, and it was a safe place. Then Ethan showed up in his tree-hugger sandals, all eager to meditate and starve himself on brown rice and seaweed. He was so squishy and sincere that I wanted to puke. Then he started talking about his inheritance and the nursery, and he looked a h.e.l.luva lot more attractive." She shoved her hair back and closed her eyes. "We had this wonderful scheme how we'd take over one of the greenhouses and get serious about growing pot. He wove my wedding ring out of slivers of bamboo. We mumbled a lot of nonsense out in a pasture, with goats nibbling on the hem of my dress and a monk in a purple robe." She held out her hand to allow me to swoon over an emerald ring surrounded by diamonds. "I replaced the bamboo thingie with this. I can always sell it if I need to. It's worth eighteen thousand."

"Your grand scheme didn't work out so well. There's no marijuana in the greenhouses."

"Once we got here, Ethan got all excited about growing trees and flowers. He said we couldn't put the nursery at risk. It has to comply with state regulations and be inspected at least once a year. Then there's dear old Uncle Charles. Ethan didn't tell me about him until we got here. He does his own inspection several times a week. Felicia trots behind him with a notebook, a.s.siduously writing down his grumbles and complaints. One of these days I'll bake him a batch of brownies that will make his toenails tingle!"

"How are you planning to do that without marijuana? As fond as I am of Duncan Hines, he doesn't seem like the sort to arouse tingles." I paused for a moment. "You're growing it out in the woods, aren't you? Did Ethan give you any suggestions for an irrigation system, or is he unaware of your horticultural endeavor?"