Deader Homes and Gardens Part 19

I drove past the Hollow Valley sign and parked where Caron had hidden her car. It required a long slog across an abandoned pasture with waist-high stalks and gra.s.shoppers that whirred into my face. Creatures with wings buzzed me. To make the trek truly intolerable, I began to sweat. My armpits and back were wet and sticky. I was obliged to wipe my eyes. Sneezing did not lighten my mood. I stayed on the far side of the stream from the houses and nursery and finally stumbled into the family plot. I sank down to catch my breath.

As I recovered, I saw that I was sitting on Ethiopia and Lloyd. I wasn't sure if I should have begged their pardon, since I was not a member of the family. I opted for a smile of appreciation for their hospitality. The bridge to the back road was twenty yards away, behind a stand of oak trees and undergrowth. Boards clattered as a truck rolled across it. When the sound died, I made my way to the road, looked around, and then dashed across the bridge. I could hear voices as I crawled up the incline. I felt utterly ridiculous, but I did not want to be spotted by a worker taking a break outside the closest outbuilding. I pulled aside weeds and studied the grounds of the nursery.

Most of the employees were headed for the cars and trucks parked at the back of the graveled lot. They chattered as they crammed themselves inside. Carpooling seemed to be the norm. Ethan went into the office. A few workmen were squatting in the dirt, taking furtive puffs from their cigarettes and pa.s.sing a bottle in a brown paper bag. Two of the delivery trucks were idle; the other two were on the road with their cargo of plants from the nursery. I had a fairly good theory about what else might be stashed inside.

There was no way to run across the open expanse without being seen. I needed a diversion, but I lacked the contacts to order an air strike. I lay in the p.r.i.c.kly weeds, sweat oozing down my back, my teeth clenched. I berated myself for my bravado in a.s.suming I could gain access to a truck. I tried to think of someone else to blame, but I was too distracted by my itchy ankles. I was nearly ready to admit defeat when I heard a tootling melody of sorts. Pandora b.u.t.terfly, dressed only in scarves, came capering into the far side of the field, a recorder held to her lips. Her hair was woven with red and yellow flowers. Rainbow and Weevil dragged behind her. I was startled to see that the latter held a hatchet in his grubby little hand. His expression suggested that he was stalking the Pied Piper of Hollow Valley.

Ethan emerged from the office, conferred with the workmen, and walked hurriedly in the direction of his family. The men climbed into their pickup trucks and drove toward me. I put my arms over my head and did my best to look like a fallen tree trunk with auburn leaves.

The trucks rumbled by and went down the slope to the bridge. I raised my head and scanned the grounds. Ethan, Pandora, and the children were gone. The delivery trucks appeared to be miles away, parked near a greenhouse. I waited for five minutes, then brushed unimaginable things off my clothes and stayed by the perimeter as I approached. The open padlocks on the back doors of the trucks dangled invitingly. I reminded myself that I wasn't going to steal anything, which could be used in my defense should I end up in a courtroom. Trespa.s.sing was no more than a minor breach of etiquette. When I could think of no reason to stall further, I trotted to the nearer truck, eased a door open, and climbed inside. I felt as if I'd escaped from Alcatraz, but no sirens erupted and no shots were fired. The interior of the van was smaller than its exterior suggested, as I'd noted earlier. In a matter of seconds, I'd slid open a panel in the back to reveal a three-foot s.p.a.ce. Jordan would have been cramped, but there was room for her to sit and swill water until her bladder betrayed her.

In mystery fiction and movies, someone would have slammed the doors and engaged the padlock. I would have been driven to a remote locale and ordered to climb out of the truck. The men would have evil grins and large semiautomatic weapons. Depending on the genre, I would have been either gunned down or rescued by a rogue hero armed with a dimple. As it was, I slid out of the back of the truck and ran to a narrow stretch between two of the greenhouses. I found an overturned clay flowerpot and sat down. There was no legitimate explanation for the concealed s.p.a.ces, only an illegitimate one. Hollow Valley Nursery was importing and exporting goods that were regulated by dear Peter's ATF colleagues. If I hadn't dismissed Moses as a flake, I might have caught on earlier. My brilliant deduction, confirmed in my mind, was inadequate to bring Jorgeson and his troops rus.h.i.+ng in with search warrants. If HVN was currently in export mode, the warrants were futile. My next step required finesse. As the council of mice had opined in the medieval cautionary tale, belling the cat was not a simple task. The best approach, I finally decided, was to try to have a private conversation with Nattie. Like Winston, she might have had a hunch that all was not as it seemed in the family business.

When I reached the edge of the green, I paused to a.s.sess the situation. The Mercedes and the Mustang were parked under a tree. I could hear loud music in the distance. Margaret Louise was paying homage to Jefferson Airplane. Perhaps the c.o.c.ktail hour had arrived early. I wondered if Jordan was cowering in her bedroom, appalled by her aunt's taste in a hopelessly dated genre. There was a good chance that Nattie was alone. I looked in the backyard, where I saw her on her knees in front of a flower bed. I cleared my throat and, when she looked back, said, "Do you mind if I sit down?"

"Help yourself," she said. "I'm digging up daffodil bulbs. They were splendid this year. I have a special vase for them that I put on the kitchen table all spring. Do you know anything about them?"

"I can recognize them," I admitted.

"Daffodils belong to the narcissus group. They originated in the countries around the Mediterranean Sea, from Spain and Portugal to the Middle East. Romans brought them to Britain. Now there are twenty-five thousand registered cultivars. Isn't that remarkable?"

"Yes," I said with what enthusiasm I could muster.

Nattie put down her trowel and took off her straw hat to wipe her forehead with the cuff of her s.h.i.+rt. "You'll have to forgive me," she said as she sat down near me. "I'm a card-carrying member of the American Daffodil Society."

"Will you be offended if I ask you about the family?"

"I hope you're not going to bring up Great-Great-Uncle Alvin Shanks Hollow. He traveled in a buggy and sold bottles of unguent that he claimed cured erectile dysfunction. I believe it contained daffodil sap, which is what made me think of him. It caused a rash that kept the men out of their wives' bedrooms for a week. Alvin utilized the opportunity to make sure that the prettier wives produced babies nine months later. He was hanged in Maxwell County in eighteen ninety-four."

"With a smile on his face?"

"So the story goes," Nattie said, chuckling. "Would you like some iced tea? I have fresh mint, and I made some gingersnaps this morning. I need a break."

She went through the kitchen door. I wandered over to the flower bed. Nattie's daffodil bulbs were in a burlap bag, and small marigolds and petunias had been planted in some of the holes. A dozen more plants waited their turn. Red poppies swayed in the breeze while snapdragons bobbled behind them. I pictured myself in cotton gloves and a broad-brimmed hat, wielding a trowel to dig little holes and plant a variety of flowers. I would not be sweating, or even perspiring. I would have the healthy glow of an accomplished horticulturist, responsible for the expanse of exquisite beauty. Peter would choke back tears as he swept me into his manly arms.

"Here we are," Nattie said as she emerged from the Old Tavern. "The cookies are not my best. I was thinking about Moses and almost subst.i.tuted curry powder for cinnamon, and I couldn't recall if I'd already added the baking soda." She put the gla.s.ses and the plate of cookies on a side table. "I feel twenty years older today. Now that Moses is gone, I don't know if I want to live here much longer. My only role was to take care of him." She seemed dazed as she handed me a gla.s.s of iced tea. "How pathetic."

"Maybe you can get involved in the nursery," I said. "You have a remarkable talent for growing things. You can expand the variety of stock and offer yourself as a landscape consultant."

"I could, but I'm not sure that's what I want to do. The Old Tavern already feels empty. I used to think that the creaks were from Moses creeping around at night. Last night I couldn't sleep, and I found myself considering the possibility that the place is haunted. I don't want to share the house with Colonel Moses Ambrose Hollow and his deceased offspring." Her smile was forced. "No, I don't believe in that nonsense, but the last slice of strawberry pie was gone this morning. I am not going to bake for a bunch of dead people."

"Ask Jordan before you spend all your money on a ghostbuster." I could think of no way to rely on tact to elicit the information I wanted. "Nattie, there's something going on at the nursery-something illegal."

She put down her gla.s.s with an unsteady hand. "What do you mean? Is Ethan growing marijuana? I don't see how he could get away with it. There are forty employees in and out of the greenhouses all day-and don't forget Charles. He would never allow such a thing." She continued to stare at me. "Or maybe those cacti that have hallucinogenic b.u.t.tons? Mescaline, I think."

"Not something he cultivates. He's transporting stolen property across state lines. That's a felony that will bring down the feds on him-and anyone else who has knowledge of it."

"I don't believe it. Ethan loves the nursery more than anything. He would never do anything to put it in jeopardy."

I told her about the secret compartments in the delivery trucks. "That's where the contraband is stashed, and where Jordan hid when she tried to run away. Ethan was lucky that she didn't demand to know the purpose of the compartment. There's no other explanation."

"I don't believe it," she repeated. "Ethan's not a criminal. He's infatuated with organic pest control and plant food. When he finds a frog in a greenhouse, he takes it to the stream to set it free. He scoops up spiders and carries them outside. If that's not enough to dissuade you, he puts up with Pandora b.u.t.terfly. It's easier to believe he might strangle her than deal in contraband. You're wrong, Claire."

"Winston suspected that something was going on. He told ... a friend that everyone out here was afraid of him."

"Afraid of Winston? That's rubbish. I loved Winston. I grant that there were mixed emotions when he and Terry moved into their house. Charles and Felicia were aghast, of course. Ethan made several attempts to be friendly. Margaret Louise never said much about them, and Pandora may not have even noticed. Why would any of us be afraid of Winston?"

"Because there is something going on," I said flatly. "Think about it, Nattie. I saw delivery trucks come and go late at night, when only a couple of workmen were around."

"I a.s.sume it's so the produce can be delivered in the morning. Some of the buyers are hours away. If a driver starts his route at night, he can be in Texarkana by the end of the next day."

"What about the secret compartments?"

"I don't have a clue," she said with a shrug. "Why don't you ask Ethan?"

"I don't-" I searched for a word, but it eluded me. I tried again. "I don't want him to-" To what? My mind was blank. The mountains across the valley were s.h.i.+mmering with an unnatural light. I looked at Nattie, who nodded at me. The last thing I remembered was my face in the cool gra.s.s.

I awoke in a dimly lit room. Dark wood beams traversed the ceiling. Sunlight cut through a slit in the heavy drapes. I had no idea where I was, but I did know that my head was reverberating like a gong. My eyes were gritty; my mouth was dry. I licked my lips while I pondered my current dilemma. I was lying on a bed, which meant I was in a bedroom. I congratulated myself for establis.h.i.+ng one fact. My mind was sluggish, but I persevered. The beams suggested that I was in the Old Tavern. I clung to the thought as I dozed off.

When I opened my eyes the second time, the beams were still holding up the ceiling but the sunlight was gone. My headache had eased into a dull pain. I forced myself to sit up before I relapsed into sleep. I was pleased to note that my hands and feet were not restrained. The light now emanated from a lamp on a small table across the room. The floor was covered with a braided rug of many colors. I was studying the pattern when Nattie came into the room.

"Thank goodness you're awake," she said as she gave me a damp washcloth. "You must have been exhausted. We were talking, and then you got a peculiar look on your face and toppled out of the chair. I nearly had a heart attack. When I knelt down, you kept saying that you were sleepy. I wanted to call for an ambulance, but you insisted that all you needed to do was rest. Your eyes were open and your breathing was normal. I helped you up, and we staggered inside and up the stairs. I've been looking in on you every ten minutes." She clasped my hand. "I'm so glad that you're okay, Claire. There have been too many tragedies in Hollow Valley."

"I didn't pa.s.s out?"

"Only for a few seconds. On our way upstairs, you told me all about your handsome husband and your daughter. Some of your stories are really funny." She gave my hand a squeeze and stood up. "I'll go downstairs and make you a cup of hot tea, unless you'd prefer something else."

I had no memory of telling her stories, although I must have. I hoped whatever else I'd told her was worthy of my wit. "What time is it?"

"A bit after eight. Do you like honey in your tea?"

"Merde! My husband will be frantic if he gets home and I'm not there. I'd better call him. Did you bring my purse up here?"

"It was the least of my worries. You need to make sure you're okay before you try to get up. I'll be back with your tea in a few minutes." Nattie gave me a worried look, then left on her mission.

My body felt heavy, and it was an effort to swing my legs over the side of the bed. The walls seemed to be trembling, as if there were an earthquake of minor magnitude. The side of my face was sore from the impact, but there was no dried blood or hint of a b.u.mp. The flawlessness of my complexion did little to mitigate my embarra.s.sment. I considered the possibility that my blood sugar or blood pressure had plummeted for an unknown reason. I'd sweated like a waterlogged sponge during the hike. Dehydration could have caused the light-headedness.

I decided to find a bathroom and slurp water from the faucet. I rose, waited for my knees to a.s.sume their duty, and walked to the door. The k.n.o.b turned, but the door would not open. Telling myself that it was stuck, I yanked as hard as I could. It failed to yield more than a centimeter. I realized that Nattie had hooked it on the other side. She might have worried that I might stagger out and take a dive down the stairs, I told myself as I sat down on the bed. The dehydration theory seemed less and less probable as I thought over the previous events. I hadn't faltered during the sprint to the delivery truck, nor had I felt any discomfort afterward. I'd almost finished the gla.s.s of iced tea, which should have revived me. Au contraire, I thought darkly.

There was no point in pounding on the door of what had been Moses's bedroom. Presumably Nattie was aware of my predicament, having caused it from the moment she doped my iced tea. I seemed to have recovered with only a headache. I refused to allow myself to think about Terry Kennedy, who hadn't. I scolded myself for being duped by Nattie, with her wide grin and cinnamon rolls.

I crossed the room and raised the window. I leaned out as far as I dared. No rogue heroes with dimples were waiting in the shadows. Within twenty minutes, it would be dark. I searched the room for a makes.h.i.+ft weapon. The lamp was too c.u.mbersome to a.s.sure accuracy. I found galoshes in the closet, along with Moses's scant wardrobe, but no golf clubs or lacrosse sticks. Clutching a rolled-up newspaper from nineteen forty-five that trumpeted the bombing of Hiros.h.i.+ma, I put my ear to the door. I heard low voices. In that no one was shouting, I ruled out Charles. Felicia would not be there, either, unless she'd stabbed her husband and rolled his body down to the stream. I was ready to eliminate Pandora b.u.t.terfly for obvious reasons but caught myself. Dancing naked in the field could have been a ruse to convince everyone that she was harmless. I'd seen her harder side. It had not been an act.

I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. I weighed my chances of overwhelming Nattie with a brittle newspaper and then hurriedly got into the bed and feigned sleep. Peter had once accused me of snoring, which was absurd. I opted to snuffle just a bit. "Claire?" whispered Nattie. "I brought you a cup of tea."

I breathed slowly and deeply, as if I were entangled in the arms of Hypnos while Morpheus perched on the end of the bed, cheering. Nattie may have missed the aesthetics, but she closed and hooked the door. I waited for a few minutes and then resumed my position at the door. The discussion continued. I had a very bad feeling that I was at the top of the agenda. It did not seem prudent to linger until they arrived at a decision.

The drop from the window was not a viable choice unless I was willing to risk broken ankles. I yanked the sheets off the bed and began to twist them. It was the standard escape technique in fiction, and often successful. I tied the sheets together, tied more knots for my feet to slow me down, and then tossed my makes.h.i.+ft rope out the window. It landed in a jumbled puddle on the gra.s.s. "Oops," I said under my breath. There was clearly more to the scheme than I'd remembered. I was leery of pacing, since the floorboards would creak. I wondered if I'd end up like Angela. My car was not camouflaged with branches, and the car keys were in my purse. My car would be found in some deserted clearing in a nearby county. I hoped my body would not be found in the same area. Being buried in Maxwell County was an insult. Nattie might not believe in ghosts, but I would make her life intolerable. Stealing a piece of pie was child's play. She would never drink a gla.s.s of tea without looking over her shoulder.

I stopped myself from edging into hysteria. I was glib, I was intelligent, and I was much wilier than they could ever expect. Ethan, who had to be one of the perpetrators, had muscles, but he was mellow. Nattie could outbake me, but I was quicker. Whoever else was downstairs would not antic.i.p.ate my artful feints. I would make it outside and then run like a bat out of h.e.l.l.

My adrenaline was pumping when the door opened. I grabbed the newspaper and lunged at the door. Jordan neatly stepped out of the way and caught my arm before I crashed into the wall. She closed the door and pushed me back to the bed. "You'd better sit down, Ms. Malloy. You look pretty awful."

"What are you doing here?" I asked between gulps.

"Letting you out."

"That's not what I mean." I rubbed my face until I felt calmer. "Why are you here?"

She shrugged. "Inez called me and said I should watch out for you. I saw what happened in the backyard. I couldn't use the front door or the kitchen door, so I opened the window in the storage closet and wiggled inside. I had to wait forever before I had a chance to come upstairs. Why did you throw the sheets on the ground? Was that a signal?"

"Of course," I said firmly. "It's a distress signal used by the armed forces. How do we get out of here?"

"Can I spend the night at your house?"

Her bargaining chip was much larger than mine. Once I'd nodded, she said, "There's a back staircase. Once we get to the ground floor, we can go out the same window." She a.s.sessed my body. "It may be a tight squeeze."

"I can a.s.sure you that it will not be any sort of squeeze," I said, offended. "Who's downstairs?"

Jordan shook her head. "I just heard voices. Do you want me to go eavesdrop?"

"Let's just get out of here, okay?" I gave her a nudge. The back staircase was next to a linen closet. The boards groaned like haunting Hollows as we picked our way cautiously to the bottom. Jordan led the way to a cramped closet and stepped on an upturned bucket. Her body sailed out the window before I could blink. I eyed the bucket. It was plastic and had cracked over the years. The room reeked of ammonia. Unable to take a deep breath, I stepped on the bucket, offered a prayer to Greg Louganis, and propelled myself out the window. My landing was not flawless. Jordan pulled me to my feet and grabbed my hand. I limped as quickly as I could to the edge of the woods.

Once we were safe, I examined my body for protruding bones and copious bleeding. My knee was raw, and my ankle throbbed ominously. I felt more clearheaded, however. "Inez called you?"

"Yeah, she was stoned out of her mind on pain meds. I thought she was joking, but she convinced me that you were here and liable to get yourself in trouble."

Being rescued by a fourteen-year-old was barely palatable. "You did a good job, and I thank you. I need to stay here for a few more minutes. We can meet at Winston's house. Don't turn on any lights."

"Miss out on the fun? I don't think so." Her smile was angelic as she gazed at me, but we both knew that she wasn't waiting for my permission.

"Will you at least stay right here?" I asked.

She ran across the yard and disappeared into the bushy plants alongside the house. I said something that was unseemly and then limped until I caught up with her. We crawled under the foliage until we reached the kitchen window. Jordan peered inside and then sank down. "Aunt Margaret Louise is drinking whiskey from a flask. Charles and Felicia look like they've been stuffed. The taxidermist used yellow gla.s.s marbles for their eyes. It's really funny, Ms. Malloy. Look for yourself."

I ignored her invitation. "What about Ethan and Nattie?"

"Ethan's sitting at the table, looking p.i.s.sed. I didn't see Nattie."

She started to rise, but I caught her wrist. "Nattie must be upstairs, wondering what happened to me. I engaged the hook on the door, so she'll a.s.sume I went out the window."

"Right up until she notices that you're not sprawled facedown in the gra.s.s, whimpering in pain." Jordan started to giggle, but I clamped my hand across her mouth.

"That's enough, young lady. This is serious. Go to Winston's house and call Inez. Tell her that I said to contact Lieutenant Jorgeson immediately. If you don't, you'll be sleeping in the mill until the geese migrate for the winter."

"What about you? I rescued you once. What if they catch you again?"

I poked her chest. "Go, Jordan. I'm going to wait twenty minutes, then go inside for a chat with those people. I'm counting on you." I gave her a hug and a push. "Stay at Winston's house."

Her lower lip was out, but she ran across the gra.s.s and into the woods. I leaned against the stone wall and watched my wrist.w.a.tch. I heard Nattie asking if anyone wanted more tea. If she'd mentioned my absence, I didn't hear it. Ethan said something that made Charles sputter. His obedient wife said nothing. It was a family council meeting, minus Pandora, who was likely to be twirling in the moonlight or careening down a highway on the back of a motorcycle. I was forced to admit I'd made an egregious error about the power structure-as well as about Danny Delmond. My nearly perfect record was tainted, if not besmeared. I idled away ten minutes trying to come up with bona fide excuses for my minute lapses in detective prowess. The next ten minutes were devoted to putting together the puzzle pieces.

When twenty minutes were up, I crawled out from under the bushes, ran my fingers through my hair, and walked through the kitchen doorway. It was definitely a showstopper. Nattie turned pale and grabbed the counter to steady herself. Charles shot me his customary glare of contempt. Felicia looked down at the floor. Ethan sloshed tea from his cup, splattering his overalls.

Margaret Louise was the only one who seemed delighted to see me. "Oh, h.e.l.lo, my dear," she trilled. "Back again so soon? You must join our little party. Nattie's gingersnaps are divine." She fluttered her fingers at me. "What have you been up to lately, you naughty thing? Nattie told us that you broke into one of the delivery trucks. We're debating about calling the police. What do you think?"

"I've already called the police," I said.

"Let me fix you some tea," Nattie said hastily. "You seem very agitated. Tea is so soothing, don't you think?"

"Especially when it's laced with an herbal concoction," I said. "You should have used something lethal, like you did with Terry."

She approached me. "Claire, you're not making any sense. It's possible that you had a stroke earlier this afternoon. I insist on calling an ambulance. Sit right here and try to stay calm."

"Terry?" said Felicia, startling all of us. "Nattie did something to Terry?"

"To Terry, and to Winston," I continued. "He was a threat to the family business-or should I say the family plot? You all were afraid that he'd realize what was going on and call the feds on you. His family ties were shredded when he was growing up here."

"Balderdas.h.!.+" Charles thundered. His face turned red, and bubbles acc.u.mulated at the corners of his mouth. "Winston Martinson was a sinner in the eyes of an angry G.o.d! He had no business coming back here to taunt us with his-his so-called friend. Terry was nothing more than a prost.i.tute!"

Felicia dumped her tea on his head. "Why don't you just shut up for once in your life? Everybody's sick of listening to your bigoted tirades."

"Quiet!" he said, trembling so violently that I had hopes he might levitate.

Her response was terse yet colorful and does not bear repeating. It was adequate to reduce him to rumbling, thus ruining my pipe dream.

Margaret Louise poured a dollop from a flask into her teacup. "Can you back up those accusations, dear?"

"I have all the proof I need," I said levelly. "I thought all of you needed to hear the truth."

Nattie laughed. "My herbs have gone to your head, Claire. I would never harm Winston or Terry. Exactly what proof do you have?"

"Yeah," Ethan said, "tell us."

The s.p.a.cious kitchen was getting smaller. The air was laden with unspoken threats. It occurred to me that I might be making my third egregious error of the day. I studied their faces for any hint that I had an ally. Felicia, possibly, I thought, although I couldn't count on her to grab a skillet and defend me. I was getting increasingly uncomfortable, but I willed myself not to blink as they watched me. Whatever might happen, I vowed, I would not sweat.

17.

I crossed my arms. "How long have you been smuggling cigarettes from Missouri? Years, I suppose. The state taxes there are much lower than the ones in Arkansas. The markup is more than eighteen dollars a carton. I don't know how many cartons are in a case, but there would be a nice profit for you as well as for the vendors. If you happen to come across a truck with a load of untaxed cigarettes, somewhere in the vicinity of Cuba, the profit's higher. I don't believe that loud thumping noise comes from a was.h.i.+ng machine or dryer. You have some sort of machine in the bas.e.m.e.nt that puts on counterfeit tax stamps."