Deader Homes and Gardens Part 5

Terry wiggled his eyebrows at me. "Well, if Winston announced that we were going to build cabins in the meadow for a summer retreat for gays and lesbians..."

"He didn't, though."

He took a gulp of wine. "I don't know why they decided to murder him when they did. I just know that they did."

I waited for a moment, preparing myself to bring up the issue of a lease, when I realized he was asleep. I covered him with a quilt and tiptoed out the front door. I was disappointed, but tomorrow was another day.

5.

It took me much longer to drive home. Caron was not back, and it was too late to call Peter. Terry's belief that Winston had been murdered was worrisome, to put it mildly. I made a cup of tea while I mulled over his a.s.sertions. It was clear that he had loved Winston, and grief can addle one's mind. Although I'd claimed to believe him, I'd done so partly out of diplomacy. If he'd cast me as an adherent of the enemy's position, I would have no chance of cajoling him into a sale or lease. Nattie was convinced that Winston had been deeply depressed. Terry might have omitted mentioning a spousal spat before he left to go to Italy. He'd dismissed it as trivial, but Winston might have blown it into a major conflagration with the potential for divorce. Both Nattie and Terry had talked about Winston's sensitivity. Maybe he had taken a walk to escape the painful scene and then replayed it over and over again.

I could think of other reasons as well. Winston might have suspected infidelity; Terry had not been there to defend himself. Nattie had mentioned Winston's health. Since there had been no autopsy, there was no way to determine if he'd received devastating news about a medical condition. He might have wanted to spare Terry from the relentless drudgery of taking care of a spouse with a multisyllabic terminal disease. Or, I thought as I went out to the balcony, he was ravaged by the rift with the family, despite all the therapy. Suicide was more likely than murder.

Either way, there wasn't much I could do about it. Peter would not have cases reopened on unsubstantiated allegations. That I knew from experience, which was why I'd been obliged to investigate them on my own. The police, including my beloved husband, are not big on imagination. Luckily for them, I am, but in this particular case, I was more interested in obtaining the house than in ferreting out all the dirty little secrets to determine the truth.

Caron arrived an hour later. If I'd expected an attentive audience, I was in the throes of self-delusion. I repeated what I'd heard, including the two scenarios, and waited for her to offer insights and point out discrepancies. She yawned several times, a.s.sured me that I would sort it out, and wafted away to her room. I bit back the urge to call Peter, put my teacup in the sink, and went to bed.

I was making coffee the next morning when I heard a knock at the front door. As mentioned previously, my immeasurably rich imagination kicked in despite the lack of caffeine. Angela, with a souvenir from Vegas. Peter, home from the conference with nary a dueling scar. Terry, bearing a ninety-nine-year lease. Nattie, with fragrant cinnamon rolls and freshly churned b.u.t.ter.

It proved to be Joel, who looked at me with a leery expression. "Good morning, Ms. Malloy. Caron wants to go to the lake for the day. Am I too early? Do you want me to wait downstairs? I don't mind, really." He stuck out the newspaper he'd picked up on my porch before he could be accused of petty theft.

What he wanted to know was if Peter was looming behind the door, ready to interrogate him about his skill as a lifeguard, the amount of gas in his car, the precise time of arrival back home, etc. The fact that Joel made straight A's, was president of the honor society, and had been accepted to an Ivy League school had no bearing on his character, nor did his neat appearance and manners. Peter does not take his role of stepfather lightly.

"It's safe, Joel," I said as I gestured for him to come inside. "I'll tell Caron that you're here."

Said child was dressed and in the bathroom. I was impressed, since I'd heard her snoring when I got up. During my postp.u.b.escent years, I'd avoided the juvenile palpitations resulting from hormonal inundation, but I sympathized with her. I reported back to Joel, who had not moved since stepping inside, and offered him orange juice. He politely declined. At least Caron hadn't fallen for a football hulk who aspired to become a reality show celebrity. My sympathy extends only so far.

Caron emerged in white shorts (mine) and a yellow shirt (also mine), carrying a canvas gym bag (Peter's). They a.s.sured me that they had ample sunscreen, towels, hats, and bottled water and would be home before dark. I sent them along, then sat down with coffee and called Peter. His phone went to voice mail, which implied that he was already in a meeting and wasn't disposed to talk to me. I opened the newspaper to find out what twaddle had been spewed in Congress the previous day, as well as whatever dire news was crammed on the front page. I was grousing over the editorials when I heard another knock on the door. My imagination quickly added state troopers to the list of possible visitors.

I was relieved when it proved to be Inez. She was as mousy as ever, but now she looked like the sole survivor of a shipwreck. "Is Caron up? I thought we might go to the mall. There's a big sale on swimsuits."

I broke the news, which was harsher than anything in the newspaper. Inez's mouth drooped, and her hair seemed to lose what minimal curl it had. "That's okay," she said stoically. "I'll just go to the library and read. My little brother is messing around with his chemistry set, so the house reeks of rotten meat. I'm halfway through next year's AP World Lit reading list. I didn't have any trouble with The Brothers Karamazov, but Kafka's hard. Have you read The Metamorphosis, Ms. Malloy? It's way creepy. I mean, imagine if you woke up and you were an enormous, gruesome bug. Do you think there's something symbolic about him having six legs? With fewer legs, he had more freedom, but he couldn't adhere to the ceiling. Is that a.n.a.logous to the gla.s.s ceiling experienced by women executives?"

Half a cup of coffee had not armed me adequately for a discussion of anything involving symbols or a.n.a.logies. "Hey, Inez, if you want to skip the library, you can go out to Hollow Valley with me to see the house. While I talk to the owner, you can explore the orchard and the meadow."

Behind thick gla.s.ses, her eyes widened. "Are you sure I won't be in the way, Ms. Malloy? I was reading an article on the Internet about indigenous plants and herbal remedies. St. John's wort, black cohosh, evening primrose, and ginseng are good for menopausal symptoms."

"Do you think I'm experiencing menopausal symptoms?"

"Gosh, no, Ms. Malloy," she said, blinking earnestly. "They're also good for depression-not that you look depressed-and anxiety and all kinds of things. I never for a minute thought you're old enough to be going through-"

"Let me finish my coffee, and then we'll go."

Inez babbled about each and every Karamazov brother as I drove to Hollow Valley and turned onto the blacktop road. Pandora b.u.t.terfly was flitting elsewhere, thank goodness. Explaining her to Inez (or to anybody, for that matter) would be a waste of oxygen. I was annoyed that Terry's rental car was not parked out front. Inez, in contrast, was thrilled about every detail of the setting.

"Oh wow! It's fantastic!" she said. "It's cla.s.sy and unique, and it somehow fits right into all the gra.s.s and trees and everything. The shingles look like scallop sh.e.l.ls. My grandmother had a porch like that, with rocking chairs and a swing. I loved sitting out there on summer nights, watching the lightning bugs and listening to the cicadas." She scrambled out of the car and ran up to the porch. "This is so cool, Ms. Malloy. Way cool."

If Caron didn't physically resemble me, I'd have wondered if there might have been a mix-up in the hospital neonatal ward. I was eager to show Inez the interior as soon as the house was mine (and Peter's and Caron's, I amended grudgingly). "The owner must have gone to see his attorney, but surely he'll be back soon," I said. "Go have a look at the pool while I try to find out if he's spoken to any of the neighbors."

Inez zipped around the corner of the house as I got into the car. The only resident who might have information was Nattie, so I continued up the road and parked near the statue. I didn't notice Jordan until I walked up the path to the Old Tavern. She was hunkered under a shrub by the door, her arms wrapped around her knees.

"Hey," she said.

"Good morning," I responded with a polite smile. "Is Nattie here?"

"She went into town to buy groceries. I asked her to get me a pack of cigarettes, and she bawled me out for fifteen minutes. You'd think that I'd asked for a stick of dynamite and a box of matches."

"Do you smoke?"

She disengaged branches and crawled out onto the lawn. "No, but I was really, really bored. It's impossible to get a reaction from Aunt Margaret Louise. When I told her that back home I made money by stripping in the boys' locker room, she made this weird gurgly sound and put on the teakettle. I tried it on Aunt Felicia, but she just looked at me. Pandora wants me to go on some vegan cleansing regime and meditate in the moonlight. Like I'm going to subsist on gra.s.s and tofu!"

I looked at her for the first time. Under the piercings and Mohawk, I could see a fourteen-year-old girl with a lot of emotional problems. Her body had not yet begun to mature; she could easily pa.s.s as a prep.u.b.escent boy. I had a feeling that Jordan was not popular with peers of either gender. My pragmatic inclination was to dismiss her, but my maternal side b.u.t.ted in. "My daughter couldn't come with me today, but one of her friends volunteered. She's out behind Winston's house, hunting for herbs. You're welcome to join her."

Jordan sneered. "Like I want to hang out with some botany nerd? I can take care of myself."

"As you wish," I murmured. I was not surprised when she put her hands in her pockets and ambled ever so casually toward the mill, then faded into the woods in the direction of Winston's house. At the end of the day, Inez would have much more interesting stories to tell than who had the worst sunburn at the lake.

I was increasingly annoyed by people's inability to remain where I wanted them to be. First Angela, then Terry, and now Nattie had taken it upon themselves to complicate my agenda. All I wanted was the house. Once I succeeded, they were free to trek to Nepal or hole up in a resort. Or even go to interminable task force conferences in Atlanta. I sat down on the bench under Colonel Hollow's evil eye and called Peter. Voice mail. I brooded for a moment, then called the police department and asked to speak to my lone contact. Jorgeson had been Peter's minion since I'd first encountered them during a sticky situation involving the death of a local romance writer. Peter had behaved abominably, but Jorgeson had been detached and professional. Over the years, he had remained patient when dealing with me, albeit in a long-suffering manner emphasized by his drooping jowls and bulbous nose.

"Ms. Malloy," he said when he came on the line. "What can I do for you this beautiful morning?"

"A teeny-tiny favor, if you have a minute. Is there an update on Angela Delmond?"

"This came across my desk a few minutes ago. The sheriff's department is conducting a search of the area, but they haven't found anything. No body, blood, purse, shoe, anything like that. The dogs couldn't pick up a trail. The sheriff's going to find out who owns the aircraft that use the strip. It's their case, since her car was discovered in their jurisdiction."

"You don't sound as though you have much faith in the sheriff."

"It's not for me to comment, Ms. Malloy. Maybe they'll have something in a few days. The husband didn't file a missing persons report until yesterday afternoon."

I was impressed that Danny had gone to that much trouble. "As long as I have you on the line, Lieutenant Jorgeson, would you mind looking up an old case file for me?"

"You know I can't do that," he said with a martyred groan, as if he expected to be pelted with pleas and entreaties. I had no idea why.

"You're so clever that I'm sure you can steal a quick peek. Winston Hollow Martinson died in early March. It was ruled an accident."

"Then that's what will be in the case file, Ms. Malloy."

"Yes, but did the forensics people look for fingerprints on the wine bottles or the fishing equipment?"

"If they had cause, they would have done so. The case is closed. My wife says to tell you to come by and cut some flowers from the garden. We're being overrun by roses. Have a good day."

"Wait!" I yelped, but he'd already hung up. He'd been spending too much time around Peter, I thought with a sniff. All that pettiness about one skinny file containing a couple of sheets of paper. I hadn't asked for a list of the names of local businessmen who'd been picked up with prost.i.tutes-and the telephone numbers of their wives. I hadn't asked him to fix a speeding ticket, or even a parking ticket. I was stewing when Ethan came across the green.

"You must be Claire Malloy. I'm Ethan Hollow. Welcome to the valley." He had on jeans, a dingy T-shirt, muddy boots, and the bandanna headband. "I'd offer to shake hands," he continued with a broad smile, "but I've been mucking in the field. Is there something I can help you with?"

"I came to visit Nattie, but she's not here."

"I think she went to the market. Would you like to tour the nursery while you wait for her?"

"Yes," I said, hoping he had a golf cart available for dignitaries. It was already a bit too warm in the sunshine.

"It's this way." He gestured at the path. "You must be the outdoors type, since you want to live in the country. I love it, or I wouldn't be here. It's a great place to raise kids. These days parents are reluctant to let their kids walk home from school or play without adult supervision. The kids don't have any time to be creative and spontaneous, what with sports leagues, music lessons, gymnastics, tutoring sessions, and G.o.d knows what else. They end up stifled in identical cubicles, with identical spouses and identical children."

He needn't worry about his children blending in with the bourgeoisie. "I met your wife yesterday," I said. "She wasn't at all stifled."

"Wife? Oh, you mean Pandora b.u.t.terfly. She didn't tell me, but her short-term memory is unreliable. Some days she remembers the addresses and zip codes of old friends and writes them long letters. The next day she'll forget where she left the car keys and we all have to search the woods."

"She was dancing on the road. I thought she might have been smoking something other than tobacco."

Frowning, he pulled off the bandanna and used it to wipe his neck. "I don't like to tell people this, but she was in a motorcycle accident when she was in college. There was brain damage. Once she got out of rehab, she got a job at an animal shelter and mooched off friends. When we met at the ashram, we knew that our lives were destined to be interconnected. One of the five precepts is that we abstain from alcohol and drugs. Now, I've been known to stray off the path for a beer, but neither of us has used drugs in ten years. Pandora b.u.t.terfly gets her high from nature."

Marijuana was as much a product of nature as the scattered oak trees on one side of us and the unidentifiable shrubs in neat rows on the other side. I wasn't in the mood to pursue the topic, since I didn't really care how high Pandora chose to hover. I became more concerned about my own physical well-being as Ethan dragged me through four greenhouses filled with pots of flowers and trays of seedlings and his exotic plants, acres of flowering trees and shrubs, the field of aspiring Christmas trees, outbuildings that contained engines for the irrigation systems and a generator, storage sheds, and many other things in which I had not an iota of interest. The humidity inside the greenhouses was sufficient for a steam room, and while I was admiring the red maple saplings, we were blind-sided by a sprinkler.

I am very fond of flowers and tidy lawns, but I prefer them to settle in with no questions asked. They need not explain their origin, their genus and species, their petty requirements, their strengths or their frailties.

My face was damp when we returned to the stone circle in front of the Old Tavern. Ethan had talked steadily during the hour-long tour, preventing me from asking him about Winston's tenure and death. I sat down, acting as though I had no need to catch my breath, and vowed never again to show even an infinitesimal speck of curiosity about the Hollow Valley Nursery.

"Thanks for showing me around," I said to Ethan. He was still amiable, if a bit distracted. I wanted to get his opinion about Winston's death before he returned to harangue some employees who were sprawled in the shade. I'd seen two women working in the greenhouses. The rest of the forty employees were marginally kempt men of varied ages. I'd received a few impudent stares and leers during the tour, but I knew I could handle them by myself, if the occasion arose. Which it wouldn't, unless I was overpowered by a fern-fueled compulsion to steal hanging baskets for the porch.

"Nattie should be home any minute," Ethan said as he started to turn away.

"Ethan," I said in a charmingly innocent voice, "could I ask you something? I realize you're very busy, but if you could give me a minute or two..."

"I can spare a few minutes. What's your question, Ms. Malloy?"

"There appear to be different stories about Winston's death, none of them verifiable. Do you know what happened?"

He sat down on a nearby stone. "Nattie said you were interested in buying his house. Are you afraid it might be haunted?"

I gritted my teeth at his condescending tone but decided to play along. "Why would the house be haunted? He drowned in the stream. Did somebody die inside the house?"

"Somebody must have. What little remains of the original house is more than a hundred and twenty years old. It was a family home filled with grandparents, babies, children, parents, teenagers, and aunts and uncles and cousins, and until the road was paved, it must have taken a long time for a horse-drawn carriage to reach a hospital. You don't have to worry about Winston rattling his chains, though; you need to worry about the t.i.tle to the property. It's going to take several years before anyone can buy or sell the house."

"Terry mentioned a lease," I said, watching his pale blue eyes.

They narrowed, although his smile stayed firmly planted. "So you spoke to Terry. Where is he these days? He left town in such a rush that he didn't leave a forwarding address. Did you get hold of him through his lawyer?"

I was a paragon of proficiency in the field of evasion; even Peter had acknowledged as much. "I have no idea which lawyer in Farberville is handling his affairs. Do you?"

Ethan shook his head. "Our lawyer has that information, but I haven't had a reason to ask him. Terry was ... well, really upset when he got back from his trip and heard the sad news. He became so enraged that Nattie had to lock herself in the bathroom until he left. The legal business is best left to the lawyers until we go to court. I hope that she's able to testify with him sitting in the courtroom."

Nattie might not be capable of pinning Terry to the mat, but she had not implied that she was afraid of him. I put that aside and said to Ethan, "Do you believe that Winston committed suicide?"

"I don't know," he said as he tugged on his wispy beard. "When we were little kids, we hung around together. As he got older, he kept to himself. I'd see him sitting on the swing with a book, totally engrossed in it. The only cousin he really talked to was Nattie, and only because she followed him like a puppy. By the time he went off to boarding school, he was a vague n.o.body who came and went. When we heard that he was moving back to Hollow Valley, I was kind of excited to see him. I'd escaped to California, and he'd escaped to New York. We had that in common." He stood up and stared at the distant bridge, his arms crossed. I was about to prompt him when he said, "It was tense. Winston acted like he was pleased to see me again, but I could tell that he remembered some of the childish pranks we played on him. It was like his face was behind a pane of gla.s.s. Make that bulletproof gla.s.s, and installed by none other than Terry himself. Every time I tried to get Winston aside so I could apologize, Terry was there with a snarky remark about me, like I was nothing more than a grimy redneck. It was humiliating."

"Did you know that Winston was gay?"

Ethan relaxed but remained standing in case he needed to dodge my questions. "I figured it out before he was sent away. My parents never told me, but all of the adults had what they thought were private family councils. In the front room of the Old Tavern, with the windows open. Back then, I bought into their bigotry, but once I got to middle school, I started thinking for myself. By college, I'd shed all those malicious att.i.tudes and learned to love without boundaries. My first significant partner was a thirty-year-old Malaysian woman with three children. My parents cut me off financially, so I had to wait tables."

He may have been disappointed when I failed to applaud his act of defiance and the brutality of his parents' retribution. "College is an eye-opener," I said mildly. "The rest of the family must not share your tolerance for alternative lifestyles."

"You're talking about the party, aren't you? It may have been awkward, but it wasn't nearly as bad as Nattie remembers. Charles and Felicia-yeah, they were offended, but they're offended by the local weather reports. They tolerate Pandora b.u.t.terfly and me because I manage production. We don't socialize except for obligatory family meals on holidays, which are excruciatingly dull. They attend church without fail and then go out for Sunday dinner with their pet deacons. Charles told me that he never leaves a tip because the waiter's committing a sin by working on Sunday."

My face went from pink to red. "That's-that's repulsive! What a total hypocrite! I want to speak to him right this minute. How dare he stiff some working kid by-"

"He's not going to listen to you," Ethan said wryly. "You're a woman, so your opinion has no value."

"Go get him! I'll show him-"

Ethan put his hand on my shoulder and kept pressure on it until I sat down. "I feel the same way. The first time Nattie collided with one of his right-wing convictions, she kicked him in the shin. She said it was a reflex."

"My reflex might involve a fist," I muttered, then forced myself to cool off. "It sounds as though you had a problem with Terry, not Winston." When he shrugged, I added, "Did you think he was overly controlling?"

"From what I saw, yeah. Winston was always easy to manipulate, and Terry was a pro. I dropped by their house a couple of times with fresh vegetables, but Winston never came to the front door. It was always Terry, staring at me as if I were vermin. You'd think that after all the discrimination they'd encountered, they wouldn't be so quick to judge me. I guess I wasn't as well educated and as fond of the arts as their other friends. When Terry was away, Winston and I hung out sometimes, drinking beer on the terrace and talking. He remembered stuff from when we were kids. Once we hiked up the mountain to a cave that was our hideout during our train-robber days. Another time he wanted to go fishing. I found rods and a tackle box in the attic of the Old Tavern. We never caught anything, but it was nice. When Terry was around, I rarely saw them."

Ethan sounded very sincere, and wounded as well. I now had three versions of the relationship between Winston and the other Hollows. It was confusing, despite my talents in intuition and my keen sense of perception. I bluntly asked Ethan if he believed that Winston had been depressed and suicidal.

"I don't know. I do believe that Terry coerced Winston into signing the deed to the property. Winston was a Hollow by birthright, and he knew about the sanct.i.ty of his inheritance. My estate leaves my property to my children, just as all the past direct descendants made sure their estates went to their offspring. Other members of the family have always been welcome to live here, such as Nattie and that pain-in-the-b.u.t.t Jordan. Have you seen her today? She vanished before she finished cutting back the j.a.ponicas."

"Jordan was here earlier," I said. "She went in the direction of the mill."

He growled under his breath. "She acts as if she were in a gulag, subsisting on crusts of bread and turnip soup. Did she try to sell you that yesterday? I'll bet she didn't tell you why her parents sent her here. She was arrested in Philadelphia for loitering in a park known for drugs and underage drinking-for the third time. She barely showed her face at school all year and was in danger of expulsion in April. Her parents pulled her out of school before anything was official. Uncle Sheldon and Aunt Joanne were ready to give up on her, but they called Nattie and she came up with the idea. Not that I think anything short of boot camp can turn Jordan around. Charles and Felicia forced her to go to church with them, but she was so disruptive that they had to slink out in the middle of the sermon." His lips curled slightly. "They never suggested that again."

"I imagine not." I felt a small twinge of trepidation, having sent the miscreant off to meet Inez. Inez's parents would not be pleased if their daughter came home with a pierced navel and a Kafkaesque tattoo.

He gave me a final pat on the shoulder and then walked in the direction of the greenhouses et al. I had no particular reason to think Nattie would show up in the immediate future, so I drove back to my house to see if Terry had returned. His rental car was parked in front of the house. Feeling much better, I got out of my car and walked toward the porch. The sound of laughter from the back of the house caught my attention, so I detoured accordingly. Terry, Inez, and Jordan were sitting on the edge of the swimming pool, their bare feet in the water. Terry said something inaudible to them. They both responded with whoops of amus.e.m.e.nt. Even Jordan had forsaken her perpetual sneer, at least for the moment.

"h.e.l.lo," I called, delighted that Terry appeared to be in a jovial mood. The obvious reason would be good news from his lawyer, which meant good news for me.

"Ms. Malloy," Inez said, "did you know that there was an off-Broadway show called Abraham Lincoln's Big, Gay Dance Party?"

Jordan giggled. "That's the sort of thing we need to lighten up life around here. Ethan's already got the beard, so he can be at the front in the dance numbers. Can you see Uncle Charles and Aunt Felicia prancing onstage? Terry says we can stage the production on the front porch."

"Sounds divine," I said. "Terry, can we talk?"

Inez and Jordan found this hilarious. They clutched each other and brayed like possessed donkeys, making rude noises and in danger of falling into the pool. Terry stood up and grinned at me. "Of course, Claire. Shall we go inside?"

I sat on a stool in the kitchen and watched him make a pitcher of lemonade. He poured two gla.s.ses, then held a bottle of vodka over one and gave me a questioning look. I shook my head. He poured himself a rather stout shot. "So what shall we talk about? The latest flops on and off Broadway? The production of The Sound of Music in which all parts were played by drag queens?"