Nipped in the Bud (2 page)
I took a few deep breaths and thought. Not about Bud’s unique hairdo, as that took few brain waves. I was more interested in his notoriety for jumping to conclusions. And I wasn’t about to take the fall for something he couldn’t prove. “Are you sure whoever told you about the kids isn’t making it up?”
He ripped his hands from the fence and crossed spindly arms. “Don’t try to squirm out of this, Paige. You chose this flimsy fence instead of chain link. You’d best upgrade it if you hope to keep this job.”
I stared at him, his puckered lips,
his
closed stance. He wasn’t going to listen to me at all. I could say almost anything. He’d have the same comeback and we’d have the same result—I’d be shelling out big bucks for a chain link fence.
Bud came close and clapped his hands in front of my face. “Don’t just stand there staring at me. What’re you
gonna
do? If a kid got hurt on your job, the
liability’d
kill us.”
“You know, Bud,” I said, stepping back from his barbs and trying to infuse a level of calm into my tone that I didn’t feel, “I think you’re overreacting. I’d like some proof before making any changes.”
“I have pictures.”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
“Mind if I look at them?”
He yanked a photo from his back pocket and waved it like a decorative garden flag blowing in the breeze. “
Here.
See?
Kids inside the fence.”
“I’d like a closer look.”
He shook his head, settling the last of his wayward hair back into place. “You know all you need to know. Now, what are you
gonna
do about it?”
“
Picklemann
, you big old scammer,” a husky male voice called from behind us. “I want to talk to you.”
We both turned and watched pharmacist Charlie Sweeny stomp our way. He wore a white lab coat over black pants that looked as old and fashionable as men’s double knits of the eighties. His reading glasses hung around his neck on a frayed red cord, dangling below a crimson face and eyes filled with rage.
Bud, dense as usual, must not have noticed the threat I saw in Charlie’s eyes as he glared back. “I have nothing to say to you, old man. I’m busy. Take a hike.”
Charlie sneered. “Oh, you’ll talk to me all right, or I’ll blab your secret to everyone in town.”
I stood in the war zone, wondering if I should risk hanging around as they hurled bombs at each other just so I could learn Bud’s big secret. If a fight broke out, exposure to their fallout could be deadly. I saw Charlie as a foxglove, and that meant you didn’t cross him. The genus name for foxglove was
Digitalis
, the medicine still used today to treat heart problems. The plant was pretty, but deadly, and as the local pharmacist, Charlie could end someone’s life with one simple mistake.
Since I leased one of the few apartments in town from Charlie, I didn’t want to make him mad. I smiled at him with so much syrup dripping from the corners of my mouth that I had a sudden craving for pancakes. “We’re almost done here, Charlie,” I said, followed by a quick lick of my lips. “Do you mind if I finish with Bud, first?”
Charlie kept his heated gaze fixed on Bud. “I’ll be back,
Picklemann
, when a little bit of a girl isn’t protecting you.” He turned and marched away in a gimpy cadence.
I glanced at Bud to gauge his reaction to the turn of events. It seemed his full attention rested on Charlie’s animated departure.
What’s that saying about opportunity knocking? I inched toward Bud and snatched the photo.
“Hey, give that back,” he shouted.
I studied the picture on my way to the other side of the fence.
“You sly old dog.”
I flicked the picture back and forth. “These are your kids. You cut the zip ties and let them into the play area to get me in trouble.”
“Doesn’t matter whose kids they are. The council agreed with me. You’ve got to put up a more secure fence, or we’ll pull the contract.”
I resisted the urge to stomp my foot like Lisa’s preschoolers and decided to beg or maybe even whine. “Renting a chain link fence will take time I can’t afford to lose. Then I’ll have to hire laborers to do the work I planned to do by myself just to catch up and meet the deadline. I might get done on time, but I’m sure to lose money.”
“You should have built a contingency into your bid.”
I snorted. “Right, and come in as the highest bidder. Even as the lowest bidder, the council had to force you to give me the job.”
“You want to stand here all day arguing or get to work before time runs out?” His snide smile dissolved the last of my manners.
I picked the first thing that came to mind to use as a weapon. “This is about Rachel, isn’t it?”
“What? What could my sweet Rachel have to do with this?”
Sweet?
Hah!
“Seriously, Bud
Picklemann
, you were the densest boy I knew in school. If it’s possible, you’ve gotten worse. Your wife has you doing her dirty work. Man up and admit it.”
His mouth fell open and flapped about. I guess no one had ever confronted him with his puppet status before. I snapped my own mouth shut before more offending words flew out, and offered a quick prayer for guidance. I wasn’t known for my subtlety, and I was close to losing it. Only God could help me keep a lid on it when my inner child took over.
“C’mon, Paige,” I mumbled under my breath.
“Stop.
There will be other jobs.”
“You say something?” Bud snapped.
I had no other jobs lined up. Still, the wisdom of giving in before this became more personal seeped into my brain.
“Fine.
I’ll get the fence.”
“About time.
Remember, no more work until it’s up.” He turned and charged toward the parking lot.
His dismissal grated on me as if a real globe thistle had brushed against my skin, and the little bit of wisdom I had found took a hike. “You do anything else to interfere with this project, Bud
Picklemann
,” I yelled at his back, “and so help me, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
“
Ohh
, I’m shaking in my boots.” He laughed in a tone that fully released my wrath.
“I mean it, Bud. You do anything, and I mean
anything
else, and I’ll have
your.
. .your job. . .and your. . .your head on a plate.”
I cringed as the last words passed my lips. The morning had come full circle. If I had a spray bottle of pesticide with me, I’d be as tempted as Weed Whacker to douse the human weed in my life.
“And now, enjoy the best of Through the Garden Gate with your beloved host, Paige Turner.”
“Hi, Paige.
This is Edna in
Portland
. I heard Friday’s show when you shared the list of essential clothing to wear in the garden. I’ve ruined more clothes while gardening than I care to admit, so I took your advice and ran right out to the store. I bought a cute pair of green gardening clogs, a big white floppy hat, and even found a pair of the
SunGrips
gloves that you like so much.”
“Wonderful, Edna
.
I love it when I can be helpful. Would you care to share with our listeners how these items are working for you?”
“I have to say it took me a little while to get used to the feeling of freedom, but now—”
“Edna, being married to you is
gonna
kill me.”
“Sorry, just ignore my husband yelling in the background.”
“Edna, I mean it,
get
back in the house and put some clothes on. What are the neighbors
gonna
say if they see you like that?”
Hoping physical labor would help still my fuming soul and shut my big
mouth,
I turned my back on prickly old Bud and tossed equipment into the enclosure with a little more force than necessary. Normally when I left a job site, I took my tools with me, but after I located a fence, I’d need these tools when I came back to replace the plastic one.
Gate secured again with more zip ties, I set off for my shop on foot with the hope that exercise would calm my residual anger. At the far end of the park, I spotted Charlie Sweeny, red-faced and gesturing wildly, this time talking with
Uma
Heffner, the local beautician. I was too far away to hear their conversation, but
Uma’s
hands were clamped on her ample hips and her legs planted wide, radiating tension.
I picked up my pace, glancing back at the duo as I went. Charlie’s screaming was old news. Still, this argument seemed more intense than usual. Charlie argued with everyone after his son died in
Vietnam
. Most people had tried to understand the change in his personality and cut him some slack. A few thought he shouldn’t continue to take his grief out on others and gave back as good as they got.
Uma
was one of them. Although she claimed twin status with
Uma
Thurman, our
Uma
had little in common with the actress other than her name. Our
Uma
had a personality as big as the beehive hairdo she wore and was as likely to erupt as the thighs she had packed into her spandex pants. I’d dubbed her the showy shrub rose named “Betty
Boop
”. Enough said.
The sound of squealing brakes ripped through the streets. I whipped around. A city refuse truck screeched to an angled stop seconds before nailing Rachel
Picklemann
. She must have darted out of one of the stores and tried to cross Oak without looking.
“What are you trying to do, kill me?” she screamed at the driver. Her normally tidy blond hair hung in her face as she skirted the truck and ran into the park.
Her frantic behavior seemed odd for the usually cool and calculating Rachel. In fact, everyone was acting extra weird today. We locals had our share of quirks, and I wasn’t one to say anything, what with my habit of assigning plant names to people, but today their behavior was a little too bizarre. Maybe there was a full moon or something.
The truck took off. I remained locked in position, allowing my gaze to follow Rachel’s movements. My cell chirped in text message mode.
From Lisa, it said, “P. forgot lunch.
Taking it to him.
CUL8R.”
I turned my focus back to Rachel, who, sans
Uma’s
awful spandex pants, took over where
Uma
left off shouting at Charlie. She inched forward and stabbed her index finger at his chest. He backed up, but I could have told him it was useless to try to get away from Rachel
Picklemann
.
To me, Rachel was a petunia, pretty and innocent on the outside. When you got close and nipped off the dead flowers, your fingers came away sticky and hard to clean. When you came away from beautiful Rachel, no matter how hard you tried to get rid of the painful things she often said, they stuck to you for the rest of the day. As much as I wanted to find out what was going on, I didn’t want dirt from another
Picklemann
to wash off. Besides, the new fence was my priority. I turned left and headed down Poplar, a street with fewer distractions. As I entered the alley behind The Garden Gate, I saw torn black garbage bags, soggy paper scraps, Styrofoam coffee cups, and various other items I could no longer identify courtesy of last night’s rain.
“Yuk, yuk, yuk. Why’d I come this way?” I mumbled and picked my way down the alley.
Velma Meyer, owner of the Scrapbook Emporium, had done it again. Put her trash cans out for pickup and failed to set the lids on tight.
Argh
.
I so wanted to scream over the interruption when I needed to focus on getting a fence, but Velma needed my help. I called Velma an Oriental poppy for her similarity to the flower’s flamboyant color and messy self-sowing habit. Velma was one of the flashiest seventy-five–year-olds I knew, and messy? Well, look around.
She did the best she could with her arthritis. No way
she’d
be able to clean this up. I would have to do it, and do it now to keep from attracting varmints to my city gardens. The trash wasn’t scheduled to be picked up for several days.
“Why today, of all days?” I punched my code into the electronic lock of the rear entrance to The Garden Gate.
In the hallway, I listened to Hazel Grimes, my full-time employee, as she explained the difference between sun and shade gardening to a customer up front. I’d scheduled the staff to free up my time for a full day of work at the park, so I didn’t bother letting her know I’d come in but went straight to my office, flipping on the light as I entered.
“First name Mister, middle name Period, last name T,” Mr. T, my inherited Amazon parrot, squawked from his cage in the corner.
