The Garden Tour Affair: A Gardening Mystery (29 page)

If a kitchen staffer like Teddy was involved
, thought Louise,
no one would consider him out of place
. She tried to recall the other thing about Teddy Horton that didn’t set right with her.

Janie, her blond hair straggling into her eyes, gave Chris a sideways glance and he blushed, bowing his head. Louise wondered if there was some crisis she had missed among
the three young people—for Chris, Janie, and Teddy had definitely become a triangle as the weekend progressed. Janie continued, “He did tell us one thing that has to do with Grace. But the police already know this, so it couldn’t mean much: Frank intercepted Grace and Bebe’s dinners when Teddy was about to deliver them. Frank delivered them instead.”

“Why?” asked Louise. “Did he say?”

“Frank said he was going up, so he was being his usual helpful self—or so Teddy said.” Louise remembered Grace’s untouched dinner sitting on a dresser in her bedroom. The woman had not eaten a bite of it. “Oh, my,” she said, “this is getting us nowhere.”

Bill said, “We’ve come up with nothing new on Grace except that her poetry teacher didn’t think she was suicidal. But so what? That was last week. Everyone since then has agreed she was a delicate vessel. And Bebe, the only one with opportunity, doesn’t add up as Grace’s killer. Now, on the matter of Jeffrey Freeling’s death: Mark Post may have had a reason to kill Jeffrey. Revenge—or there’s Louise’s far-out sexual intrigue scenario. Let’s see, I’ve lost track. Who else … oh, Gasparra. Not likely, I’d say—a blusterer, but not a murderer.”

“It’s not very substantial stuff,” said Louise quietly.

“Not a sound theory in the bunch of them,” said Bill. “We’ll pass these fragments on to Sergeant Drucker when he gets here. Meanwhile, let’s pack and get ready to go home. We’ve done our best. These two people were not killed. One fell, the other jumped. Right?”

Faintly, the others answered, “Right,” except Janie, who stubbornly retorted, “Wrong.”

Reluctantly, they adjourned their little meeting and dispersed to their separate rooms. Louise trudged up the winding front stairs, lost in thought. There was one ambiguous statement that had been dropped in a conversation this morning, or maybe even yesterday afternoon: something
offbeat—the kind of thing a murderer might say to throw her off the track. In the confusion of conversations with more than a dozen people, she couldn’t quite put her finger on the one that really disturbed her.

The phone call came when Louise returned to her bedroom to retrieve her suitcase. Paul Warren, listening to her long, detailed message, had done some legwork before calling her back. A practical man, the director of horticulture had gone right to the personnel at the front gates. “We have plenty of people there to eyeball the customers.”

Yes, they did remember the woman, he said. Louise’s description of a near-anorexic female, with rosy light brown hair, wide-set blue eyes, and poetic manner had rung a bell with more than one of the attendants. They remembered her as a studious note-taker. An alarm went off in Louise’s head: She had forgotten that Grace’s notebook was still missing—probably the most important clue of all. Drucker had said the evidence people hadn’t found it.

Warren told Louise that this frequent botanical garden visitor was often accompanied by a person who appeared to be her husband. “Does she
have
a proprietary husband—a tall guy with light hair?”

“Indeed, she does.”

“We might even have her on videotape.”

“You have surveillance cameras in the botanical garden?”

“No, but we’ve had some problems lately—you’d be surprised at the nerve of people, who think they’d like to take home a small bush or plant from the garden. A security guard goes out with a videocamera during crowded periods. I can’t guarantee anything, but if she’s a regular, we’ve probably photographed her. Why don’t you fax me a picture of the woman and I can verify her presence here, at least—and her husband’s. And then maybe I can fax you back a confirmation. The attendant said the reason she remembered
them was that they were followed recently. That makes it all the more likely that they were photographed.”

“Followed?”

“By a tall, dignified black man. Our security people noticed this and intervened with him—warned him about his behavior in the garden. At that point, he disappeared and hasn’t been seen since. I’m sure
he’s
on video.”

Frank Storm, tailing Grace and Jim? But why?

Louise was trying to control her excitement and organize her thoughts. She made a mental note to ask Sergeant Drucker to fax a photo of Grace to the botanical garden. Another fantastic plot, almost as crazy as the scenario she built with Mark Post and Jeffrey Freeling, was forming in her mind.

She hung up the phone just as Janie burst in, happy to be going home. “Ma, this was a great trip, but too many accidents, and too rainy. Pick a better spot next time.”

Louise sat on the bed and looked at the girl. Janie was one of the last people to see Jeffrey Freeling. There must have been something … “Janie, tell me one more time, because this is important: What did you and Jeffrey talk about on the way up the mountain?”

“He was cool, Ma. Told us about his genetic engineering. He was obsessed with plants and studying their molecular makeup, and how it resembles
human
molecular structure— as a plant person, don’t you love that? Super guy, the kind who could almost convince a reasonable person like Chris to switch from organic chemistry to biology.”

“Did he talk about anything personal—anything at all?”

“No.”

“Nothing. Not his house? Just his work?”

“Not his house—well, he did tell me he lives in Briarcliff, in Westchester County. And he mentioned his garden.”

Louise felt as if she had just reached Nirvana. “Tell me what he said about his garden.” She pulled in a long breath.

“He was embarrassed about it, actually. He had what he
called a’ romance’ garden. It had love-in-a-mist, love-lies-bleeding, Sacred Blood iris—natch—and, I can’t remember, rosemary, maybe. Stuff like that.”

Louise stared out the window. “Gotcha!” she said quietly to the air.

“Ma, are you all right?”

The phone rang then, Chris for Janie. “Something’s shaking, Ma,” her daughter said. “Gotta run.”

Louise didn’t have a chance to tell the girl about her startling new take on the deaths in Litchfield County. She didn’t even have time to tell her to be careful.

I
T WAS NOT SILLY TO DO THIS BY HERSELF
. Louise would be completely safe. After all, the yellow police tape outlined the crime scene where no one was supposed to tread. The worst that could happen was that she would meet the two patrolmen who were still scouting the grounds near the falls for evidence.

Passing the kitchen complex, she could not resist peeking in. For one, she was starved, and looking forward to a more substantial tea than the soggy one at Wild Flower Farm. She could imagine the scones served with clotted
cream and jam. Whirlybird sandwiches with green-and-pink filling. Anchovy-paste sandwiches, just like Fortnum and Mason’s in London. Pudgy cream puffs. Eclairs dripping with fresh chocolate frosting. Fruit tarts …

Her mouth was filled with saliva. Louise slipped into the kitchen only to find Barbara with Stephanie Landry, hovering beside her, helping to arrange tea snacks.

Barbara must have read her mind. She took a tart off the tray and proffered it to Louise.

“How did you know?”

“You looked hungry, my dear. And I wanted to thank you for the story in
The Litchfield Hills Sentinel:
That Tom Carrigan got it just right. The whole town’s read it. I’ve had lots of calls supporting my position.”

The lovely Stephanie looked only slightly abashed. “I guess the town didn’t want a new development here, either,” she said. “Neil and Jim and I were wrong.” Louise wondered if the young woman would decide Neil was wrong for her. She thought it was significant that she hadn’t laid eyes on Neil this morning.

“Altogether, I fear it’s been a dreadful weekend,” said Barbara, whose face was gaunt and gray.

Louise took a few steps toward them. “It must be particularly hard on you, Barbara,” she said. “Especially Grace’s death.”

“Yes.” The woman’s capable hands placed tarts on a tray with lightning speed, and Louise realized the proprietor knew every job in this place, backward and forward. “Of course, I’m not that surprised, Louise.” She looked up dreamily from her work, out the big kitchen window into the fog. “I knew somehow that we were going to lose her.”

“But—how did you know that?”

“I saw Jim and Grace in April, and, surprisingly, she seemed so much happier. Her eyes
shone
with excitement. And yet—I had this feeling that it wouldn’t last.” Barbara turned her blue-eyed gaze on Louise. “Wasn’t that a terrible
thing to think? She was so thin, so—emotional. And they were on another wavelength than she was …”

“You mean Jim, and Frank and Fiona?”

“Yes. Tougher than she, maybe too tough
on
her. They are all so competent that… it almost seems to destroy people. They showed Grace up for a weakling, or at least she thought so. ‘Dilettante,’ she once called herself. ‘I’m just a dilettante who hasn’t accomplished a thing in the eyes of my husband’.” Tears crowded Barbara’s eyes. “Isn’t that incredibly sad?”

Louise’s voice was hollow. “Yes, incredibly.” Sadder than Barbara knew, for the young woman
had
turned to something—something very dangerous—to make her feel better about herself.

Barbara, having finished one tray, moved it briskly to a side counter, dusted her hands on her apron, and turned to Louise again, businesslike now. “At least we’ll finish off the weekend with a lovely tea. We’ll be serving in half an hour.”

Stephanie watched her aunt with concern. Louise thought how ironic it all was: It was Stephanie’s husband, Neil Landry, who had probably made a crude attempt to disable her aunt. Stephanie had no doubt been convinced of this by Jim Cooley.
The righteous Jim Cooley always steps forward to make sure justice is done
, Louise thought.

Teddy stopped her as she circled around the kitchen garden. “Mrs. Eldridge—I wanted to say a personal word.”

“Yes, Teddy.”

With a beatific smile that would melt any maiden’s heart, and might already have melted her daughter Janie’s, he said, “You did good by Miss Seymour. But there’s something else.” His forehead wrinkled, giving him a puzzled, little-boy look beneath that distinguished cowlick. “These people dying … can you figure that out? I’ve tried, and so have Janie and Chris, but we’ve come up flat. You’re so smart
about these things—I bet you could get to the bottom of it.” There was a distinct echo here, she realized, of what Jim Cooley had said to her at Wild Flower Farm.

“Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, Teddy. I’m still hoping for something. In fact, I’ve got a new slant on the whole thing. But I need proof, so I’m going out on a little hunting expedition.”

He stood, arms akimbo, worried now. “You be careful, ma’am. There’s police out there, but I suppose nothin’ worse than that. And I hope Chris eventually forgives me.”