Garden of Death (21 page)

“If he believes us. He didn't before.” A thumping sound came from outside, and Jackson glanced out the window. “I think Bob's here. I told him about the break-in. I hope there aren't any more problems. It's not even 8 a.m.”

The door opened and Bob stepped inside. He took off his raincoat and came over to us and sat down.

“Would you like some breakfast, Bob?”

“No, I'm good. I just wanted to check in about the weather. I've been out there for an hour and if it stays this way, I just don't think I'm needed today. Do you want me to stay?”

Jackson shook his head. “Go home. It's too wet for intruders or to get any work done in the garden. We need to clean up in here anyway.”

“They made a mess of things, huh?” He gestured to the counter, which still needed to be reorganized.

“There's that, and the office, plus my practitioners' offices on the third floor,” I said.

“Can I help?”

“I think we're okay,” Jackson said. “But we'll really need you over the weekend. I'd like to finish up the patio for the teahouse, and Willow would like to lead tours if she can.”

I looked at him. “Should we really be giving tours with all of this going on?”

“During the day you'll be fine with Bob around. What do you think, Bob?”

“No problem. Tony will watch the garden from 7 p.m. until I come back on shift in the morning.” He got up and prepared to leave, but then he turned back to us. “You should know that as good a guy as Tony is, he's also a gossip and there's a very good chance that he's talked all about your break-in to cop friends of ours. You may want to get ahead of this with Detectives Koren and Coyle.”

chapter twenty-five

Willow McQuade's
Favorite Medicinal Plants

LICORICE

Botanical name:
Glycyrrhiza glabra
(European licorice),
G. lepidota
(American licorice),
G. inflata, G. uralensis
(Chinese licorice)

Medicinal uses: Known as the “great harmonizer,” licorice is one of the most commonly used herbs in traditional Chinese medicine, and is often added to herbal formulas I sell at Nature's Way. Licorice contains glycyrrhizic, which cools the inflammation of a sore throat, strengthens the vocal cords, and eases stomach irritation.

I've found that licorice tea and tinctures also do a great job of supporting the work of the adrenal glands to produce and eliminate hormones from the kidney and liver. In addition, licorice helps induce feelings of calmness, peace, and harmony. Some of my customers tell me that it enables them to deal with
stress more easily and rebound faster from stress-
related fatigue. Peeled licorice root is available in dried and powdered forms. Licorice root is also available as capsules, tablets, and liquid extracts.

But before we could call the police for the third time—no one had ever shown up the night before—Detectives Koren and Coyle walked in, dripping puddles of rainwater all over the floor. Bob said hello and excused himself, while the two men hung up their overcoats and came over to the table.

“We were just going to call you,” I said as the sky darkened and rain poured onto the porch.

“Is that so?” Detective Koren gave me a neutral look, giving away nothing.

“Yes, can I get you two some coffee?” Maybe if I was gracious they'd be nicer.

Koren looked at his partner. “Sure, why not? Two cream, no sugar.”

I went into the kitchen and poured two cups of freshly brewed coffee, added cream, put a few banana muffins on the tray, and returned to find Koren and Coyle still standing. “Would you like to sit down?”

“We have something to tell you,” Jackson said.

Koren sat down and threw his police notebook onto the table. “Save it, Spade. We already know about the break-in.” He looked at the ransacked counter. “Was anything stolen?”

“Not that we can tell,” I said. “But the only room we've cleaned up is the bedroom.”

Koren gave me an annoyed look. “Didn't anyone
ever tell you that you're not supposed to touch a crime scene?”

“There's plenty of crime scene for you to examine,” Jackson said. “That counter, for instance, and Willow's office. And before we cleaned up the bedroom, we took photos, documenting everything.”

“We'll have a look at the office,” Koren said. “And we'll take those photos.”

“I'll get you the memory cards,” Jackson said, and left the room.

“We tried to get in touch with you,” I explained. “I called 911 twice last night. The operator told me she didn't have anyone to send out on a nonemergency call. You were all at a fight—or something.”

The two detectives exchanged glances. Then Coyle took a bite of his muffin. “What is this? It doesn't taste like a real muffin, but it's still pretty good.”

“It's gluten-free, Detective,” I said. “I thought you might enjoy it.”

“Whatever.” He took another bite.

“A fight broke out by the brewery last night,” Koren told me. “It started with some high school kids getting rowdy and then it escalated. Things got out of hand fast—and yeah, we were all on the scene until late, and then we were all down at the station house taking statements from the property owners, witnesses, and the guys we arrested.” Greenport was a small town with a small police department. It didn't take much to tie up the entire staff. “It was a long night,” Koren finished. “So why don't you just tell us what happened here?”

Jackson returned, handed Koren the memory cards
from the cameras, then walked them through the timeline of the break-in, from when we arrived to the intruder in the garden and the mess left behind.

“What do you think they were looking for?” Detective Coyle said, taking out his notebook and preparing to write.

“Pirate treasure,” I said.

Detective Coyle put his pen down. “You've got to be kidding”

“We tried to tell you that we found things in the garden, and you didn't want to hear it,” I reminded him. “You didn't believe us.”

“So about our trip to East Hampton on Tuesday,” Jackson said. “We weren't exactly forthcoming.”

“Really,” Koren said. “You, withholding? What a concept.”

I ignored that and said, “We went to a lecture Monday night at the Maritime Museum given by Professor Russell, who is an expert on pirates who frequented the East End.”

Coyle groaned. “C'mon. What does this have to do with Dr. White's murder?”

“We don't know yet,” Jackson said. “But the next day, Dr. Russell called Willow and told her he had an expert who could appraise the artifacts, someone who knew even more than he did.”

“So that's why we went over to East Hampton,” I said. “We went to see Dr. Travis Gillian, from the East Hampton Historical Society. When we showed him what we'd found—”

“Which was what?” Koren said, interrupting.

“We found an earring, a goblet, and a sword,” Jackson said.

“A sword?” Koren echoed.

“Yes, and Dr. Gillian thought it might be pirate treasure, Captain Kidd's in fact—a sword that was stolen from an exhibition at the East Hampton Historical Society in 1999. He's evaluating it now.” The rain made a
rat-a-tat
sound on the windows, and the wind pushed against the branches of the rose of Sharon bushes in front of the porch.

“What's this expert's name again?” Coyle asked. I told him and he wrote it down. “We'll need to talk to him.”

“Go ahead,” Jackson said. “As of yesterday, Professor Russell said there's no word on whether the sword is authentic or not.”

“What about the goblet and the bracelet?” Coyle asked.

“It was a single earring, and both Russell and Gillian think it's Victorian, not pirate treasure. And they didn't seem all that excited about the goblet either,” I said, for the first time wondering why not. “The earring and the goblet are in a bank safe-deposit box.”

Koren ran his hand through his hair, looking exasperated. “So what does this have to do with the murder of Dr. White, and why shouldn't you, Spade, be our prime suspect?”

“Because we think that Dr. White was murdered because of what was buried in the garden,” I said. “We also think that Professor Albert Russell, Harold Spitz, Maggie Stone, Ramona Meadows, and Rhonda Rhodes may be involved, and maybe Joe Larson, too.”

“So you're saying that this Professor Russell, who was helping you, as well as four local business owners and a Village Board member, may have been involved in Dr. White's murder?” Detective Koren was looking at me as if I'd just told him that it was sunny out.

I shrugged. “Except for Joe, we've heard that they may all be working together to find the treasure, but he may also be after it.”

“So basically, they've all lost their minds,” Coyle said.

Koren's eyes narrowed as he regarded Jackson. “If you ask me, Spade, that's a stretch. For all we know, you still have the sword yourself.”

“I don't, and it's not a stretch. At least, it's no more of a stretch than you thinking I killed White because he wasn't nice to Willow at the Land and Sea Ball,” Jackson said.

“You don't get to decide that, Spade,” Detective Koren said, getting up. “We do.”

•   •   •

We followed the two detectives
upstairs and then back downstairs and into my office to examine the mess the perpetrator had left behind. Koren immediately called for a tech to try to lift prints, and then told us to stay out until their guys were done with it.

“That didn't go particularly well,” I said to Jackson when Koren and Coyle finally left. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” Jackson said. “I have faith that you and I can solve this before they do. We'll just have to focus.”

“Let's get more coffee and go back to the bedroom,” I suggested. “We can brainstorm up there.”

We had finished pouring more coffee when I got a text. “It's from Merrily. She isn't coming in today either.”

“She's probably still taking care of Nate.”

“I can understand that, but we need her here, too,” I said.

The front door opened and Wallace came in. He stared wide-eyed at the counter. “What happened here?”

“We had a break-in last night,” I said. “Nothing seems to be missing, but everything is a mess.”

“But why? Is this about Dr. White's murder?”

“We think so,” Jackson said.

“How can I help?”

“I just heard from Merrily and she isn't coming in. Can Lily fill in this afternoon?”

“I'll call her right now. But I thought you needed to see this, too.” He pulled the latest issue of the
Suffolk Times
from under his arm and handed it to me. “Go to letters to the editor. I'm really sorry, Willow.”

He went to hang up his raincoat and I flipped to the editorial section. I skimmed the page, my eyes coming to rest on a headline that read “Shut Down the Garden of Death!” and the letter below it, and quickly skimmed it. As I did, I reminded myself to breathe.

“Who wrote it?” Jackson asked. “Wait let me guess—was it Greenport Merchants United?”

I nodded.

“What does it say?”

“Basically, it repeats the information on that petition they tried to circulate—that Dr. White's death proves that the village made a mistake in granting the
lot to me, how the publicity from the incident will hurt business in the village now and in the future and threaten the livelihoods of every Greenport merchant, etcetera.”

“They want concerned citizens to write to the mayor if they agree, and the letters will be presented at the next board meeting in July.” I put the newspaper down and shook my head. “They're not going to give up.”

“Neither are we,” Jackson said. “It's all the more reason to solve this thing and clear my name and yours. You said you wanted to brainstorm, so what's next?”

“First, I'm going to call Kylie Ramsey. Maybe she can tell us what Harold and his gang are up to.” I looked up her number on the farmer's market Web site and called her, but she didn't answer, so I left a message asking her to call me.

“And your next move?”

“I don't know yet.”

We went upstairs, played with the dogs and cats, and brainstormed ideas back and forth, but each one was more impractical than the next. After an hour, we took a break and went back downstairs to watch the police techs dust my office for prints.

The techs didn't seem too optimistic. But when they left, they told us we were free to clean up in there, which was the first good news I'd had that day.

An hour and a half later, when we were almost finished, Simon walked in and flopped onto the couch that Jackson had just put back together. At least he'd taken off his raincoat.

“You look awful,” I said.

“Thank you, I feel awful.”

Jackson shoved the last cushion into place behind Simon's back. “What's the matter? Writer's block again?”

“Exactly. I went home last night, thinking I could get something done on the screenplay, but I'm dry. I didn't sleep much either.”

“That's not good, but we've got bigger problems,” I said, tossing him the paper. “Go to letters to the editor.”

He found the letter and said, “This is total BS.”

“It gets worse. Someone broke in here last night. We think they were looking for the artifacts. Detectives Koren and Coyle were here this morning. We told them about the artifacts in the garden, the trip to East Hampton, and our suspicions about Harold and company—all to try to change their mind about Jackson.”

“Did it work?”

“I doubt it,” Jackson said. “Koren's going to call Dr. Gillian and circle back to me, I'm sure. You know what's interesting?” he mused. “The fact that neither Russell nor Gillian were interested in the goblet or the earring.”

“They said the earring was Victorian,” I reminded him.

“Exactly. It was made long after the pirates' era, yet someone buried that in the garden, too. It was in a box wrapped in cloth; clearly, it didn't end up in the garden by accident.”

“Exactly,” Simon said, “So who buried it?”

“I don't know,” Jackson said. “But whoever buried the earring—and the goblet, which also postdates Kidd by at least a hundred years—wasn't a pirate. I'm not
sure what that means exactly, but I do think we need to contact Dr. Travis Gillian, too, to try and get ahead of this thing.” Jackson began to put the last few books back on the bookshelf across from my desk.

“Okay,” I agreed, “but I'll need that receipt with his number on it, and I think it's with the goblet and the earring in the safe-deposit box.”

“Google him,” Simon said.

I got on my computer and looked up Travis Gillian, PhD. “I found the Web site for the historical society. Now I just need his e-mail or phone number.” I went to the page where staff was listed and scrolled down to his name, which took me to a separate page. “Okay, here's his bio and his photo.” I sucked in a breath. “Guys, we've got a problem. Look at this.”

Jackson and Simon came over and looked at the monitor. “This is supposed to be a photo of Dr. Gillian,” I said, pointing to a black-and-white photo of a genial-looking, white-haired man in his seventies, wearing a cardigan and a bow tie.

“That's not the man we met at the Pollock museum,” Jackson said.

“And gave what could be Captain Kidd's sword.”

“This is not good,” Simon said, stating the obvious.