Writ on Water (18 page)

Rory pulled up to the porte cochere and leaned over to open the passenger door. Chloe Smith was standing beside his father, watching him with obvious concern and puzzlement in those beautiful blueberry eyes.

Their bright little photographer was yet another unknown commodity. She was observant, curious and smart as paint. He wondered how long it would take her to put things together, and what she might do when she figured out at least part of what was going on. She'd try to salvage MacGregor, most likely. Try to make him see the error of his ways.

It was in their favor, he thought coolly, that she felt protective of MacGregor. As long as she believed silence to be in his best interest, she would not talk to the sheriff about anything she turned up.

Chloe was shocked at how much the vines that lined the road had grown in the space of a day. She knew that scientific study had shown that plants grew forty percent faster during a rain event. And in some cases, with heat and an aggressive species the numbers probably went up even higher. But in the space of just two days, the honeysuckle and creeper had grown out onto the road far enough that they were flattening it with the van's tires as they drove by. They might have been driving into an equatorial jungle rather than
a commercial nursery in Virginia. If this kept up, the Munsons would have to work full time shearing back the new growth in the cemetery so she could get her photos. Perhaps it was time to bring in some power tools—-if MacGregor would permit them in the silent sanctuary.

The two Patricks were quiet during the ride, and didn't make comment even when they arrived at Botanics and had a brief look at the small pane of glass that had been broken in the greenhouse door so someone could unfasten the bolt. Chloe didn't stop to examine the damage. She was more interested in getting out of the damp, enervating air, and into the gentle moving breeze of the climate-controlled greenhouse.

A small man with a birdlike gait came hopping over to greet them as they stepped inside the hot-house. He was in uniform and wore a star which proclaimed him sheriff. He was followed by a small cloud of gnats.

“Mornin', Mr. Patrick. Mornin', Rory.” The bright little eyes finally fastened on her. The man's ratlike face didn't go well with the beautiful strains of
La Traviata
that filled the room. “And you must be Miss Chloe.”

“How do you do?” she muttered conventionally, when MacGregor failed to answer and Rory wandered away to look at the damage to the yogurt-dipped terra-cotta.

The little man stuck his paw out. It was far from clean and the gesture seemed aggressive, a test of
some sort. She didn't want to accept his grimed digits, but good manners triumphed and she offered her own hand for a brief shake.

The sheriff clasped her fingers tight and wrung them like he was squeezing lemonade from a thick rind. Fortunately, he darted off after Rory before her joints cracked or she was called upon to make any further conversation. The gnats, fortunately, went with him.

“Officious bastard,” MacGregor muttered, his brows beetling in an alarming manner.

“That may be so, but for goodness's sake, be polite,” Chloe pleaded. “I want to get out of here as quickly as possible.”

MacGregor blinked as though only just recalling her presence.

“Of course, you do, girl.
Bell!
” MacGregor raised his voice. “Come get your prints from Miss Chloe and me. We haven't got all day.”

“Certainly. Ellis, James,” Bell shouted at the deputies across the room. He waved irritably at the gnats. “Come take some sample prints from Mister Patrick and Miss Chloe.”

Deputy Ellis was beanpole thin and a collection of jutting elbow and knee joints that flexed oddly when he walked, but he was efficient at taking their prints and didn't bother them with a lot of idle chatter. While the deputy went about his work, Chloe watched the sheriff talking with Rory. He reminded her of a yapping terrier, circling
around a larger animal and just looking for the right place to get in a nip.

The sheriff was as brown as a walnut, and after a few minutes of listening to his conversation, Chloe was convinced that he was about as dumb as one too. He did ask a number of questions of them, but they were largely unrelated to the break-in, and she could see why MacGregor called him a busybody. The creature was a gossip of the highest degree and obviously collecting material to share with the coffee-shop crowd. Under other circumstances—like, if this were happening to someone she disliked—she would find the lawman amusing. But she was too caught up with the Patricks and their precious cemetery to find the sheriff anything but annoying.

Chloe wondered which of Rory's employees had summoned the sheriff; ten minutes in the same room with Rory and Bell had her certain that most of Rory's staff would never have called the inquisitive oldster to investigate the trespass and minor vandalism without permission. A couple of pots had been knocked over. If there hadn't been a tiny bit of blood spattered on the broken glass of the door, there wouldn't be anything to investigate. She was convinced that the exercise of taking everyone's prints was just that—an exercise meant to annoy, and to demonstrate the sheriff's power. There wouldn't be any usable prints left on the rough, mossy pots.

“The Creator must love idiots,” MacGregor muttered at her side. “He makes so many of them.”

Chloe coughed into her hand. Then, seeing the ink stains on her fingertips, she dug in her bag for a sanitary wipe. It wasn't her favorite product packaging to flash in mixed company, but she knew from experience with bleeding pens in shirt pockets that it would get the ink off.

“Here.” She handed the smudgy towelette to MacGregor after hiding the wrapper.

She stepped closer to the deputies, attempting to overhear their conversation.

“So they had his pants down and his groin taped before you could say Hail Mary.” The one called James dug at his ear with his little finger.

“Poor Tom,” Ellis answered. Then he turned her way. Both men stared.

“Your friend plays football?” Chloe guessed, disappointed that they weren't talking about the break-in.

“Hell, no. He's an accountant,” James answered. He looked her up and down, his finger still in his ear. The look stopped just short of being offensive, but Chloe couldn't take it as a compliment. He wasn't looking at her as though sizing up a criminal but rather as if trying to decide if she would look good in a wet T-shirt contest or at a monster truck rally.

“An accountant? Well, it's a more dangerous field than I'd guess.”

Ellis answered: “He does sometimes play golf.”

MacGregor joined them.

“Let's go. Rory, are you through? Chloe and I are leaving.” MacGregor swiped at his hands in an ineffectual manner and then gave the used paper back to her. Chloe sighed and crumpled it up in her hand.

Rory looked up. Chloe could see him making some quick mental calculations. Guessing his cause for concern, she said: “I'll drive.”

“Thanks.” He came over and handed her the keys. He glanced at his father, then added: “I'll be back as soon as I can.”

She stared at him.

“Is there any great rush?” she asked, and watched a brief stain crawl over his cheeks. She thought this was anger and not embarrassment, and felt more baffled than ever. This situation was annoying, but not worth genuine rage.

“No, of course not. I was just thinking that you might need a hand with the equipment today if . . .” He trailed off as a particularly fearsome squall began pounding on the roof with watery fists. “Guess not. Okay, I'll stay here for a while then and get this sorted out. If this storm clears up, I'll come back and lend you a hand with the cameras.”

Chloe was aware of Sheriff Bell's busy eyes and pricking ears. She kept her face calm and blank and didn't ask any questions.

“The gardens will shoot better when the sun is
out and everything is dry,” she said pointedly. “I don't think I'll do any work today.”

Rory flushed again. The poor man was plainly more upset about the break-in than he was letting on, or he wouldn't have made a near slip about her real task in front of the sheriff.

“You're the boss. I leave the technical decisions to you.”

“Good plan,” she said, heading for the door. MacGregor was already in the van and twitching with impatience.

“Everything will be fine here, girl,” he muttered as she got in. “Damned nosy bastards. But Rory will get rid of them. He knows what he has to do. It's family first, last and always.”

The sun did come out that afternoon, evaporating the puddles left by the rain. Chloe waited for Rory for an hour or so, but neither he nor the Munson brothers came to the house. She began to be concerned that other vandalism had been discovered out at the nursery, and debated the wisdom of taking the van back to Botanics to find Rory.

Chloe went back and forth over the idea for another half hour, then the allure of the millions of little sparking water jewels glittering in the sun got the better of her. To hell with Botanics! It wasn't her problem and obviously she wasn't wanted.

It was too wet for the computer, but she grabbed
her 35mm and digital camera and headed outdoors to explore the gardens. She discovered almost immediately that the Patricks kept statues in their pleasure gardens. They weren't the works of art that graced the cemetery, but they had a certain charm. There was one particularly genial rendition of a Saint Francis up on a pedestal preaching to a variety of oversized stone critters. His crumbling robes were streaked with black, and he had a piece of dripping green moss hanging from the end of his beaky nose—a sight which surprised a giggle from her. She looked about guiltily to see if she was observed in her irreverence, then allowed herself the one vulgar shot of the cement saint before scrubbing the green booger away.

She wandered happily through the roses and late-blooming lilacs, but soon found her feet on the path to the family cemetery. On her own time and film, she wasn't even tempted by the slaves' sad graveyard, but wandered immediately toward the family vaults and the beautiful treasures there. It was an Eden for a student of the arts and she knew that she would never see so many treasures amassed in one place again.

As she had half expected, the gate was standing open beneath the honeysuckle shroud that had grown in during the storm. MacGregor was in there somewhere, communing with the dead. On a hunch, she headed for Nancy's grave, and found her employer sitting on the bench in the small granite library. His red shirt was as conspicuous
as a hot-air balloon among the graveyard's watery grays and greens.

He looked a little better than he had at breakfast, but he was still far from his usual chipper self.

“Hello, girl,” he greeted her. “Have you come to see my Nancy?”

“Among others. It's turned out to be a beautiful day, hasn't it?” She didn't make any comment about his choosing to sit on a damp bench under a dripping tree.

“That it has. Have you seen Roger about? The damned cat went off an hour ago and hasn't come back.”

“I'll look for him. I think I know where he is,” Chloe said, thinking of the cat's bizarre predilection for tomb forty-six. Cats were supposed to be able to see ghosts. Could there be one there?

“Usually I keep the gates locked,” MacGregor said, running a finger along a stony spine and then over the shelf as though checking for dust on the stone books. “Too many people coming and going annoy the dead, you know.”

“I'm sorry—,” she began stiffly.

“Not you, girl. They don't mind you at all. No, I was speaking of the others.”

“
Others?
You mean the Munsons. But you must have help keeping back the vines,” she said gently. “You and Rory couldn't do it alone. Not without power tools and those would be so smelly and noisy.”

“I don't know but what we shouldn't let the
whole place grow over. It would be safe then. In a few months, maybe a year, no one would ever be able to find it. Rory could open it back up when I die.” He added abruptly: “I been thinking about it, and I've decided that I would like to be here with my Nancy instead of in my own tomb.”

Chloe blinked at this announced change of heart. MacGregor was giving up his notion of a pyramid? He had to be feeling really low.

“You know why they invented mausoleums, girl? It was for the mourners who couldn't stand the thought of an earth burial for their loved ones. There is something very final—very cold—about the sound of dirt hitting a coffin lid. Who could do that to someone they loved? Or even their own family. You might want to put an enemy in the dirt, but your own blood?” MacGregor shook his head and added with a faint air of returning pride, “We don't have cenotaphs here either. We always bring our dead home. Always. Love 'em or hate 'em. If they're family. we bring 'em home.”

Chloe grew alarmed. MacGregor really was in a morbid mood. She hoped that he didn't binge real often. Remorse on the morning after could also bring on a heart attack.

“Nonsense.” Chloe took a seat beside MacGregor, wincing at the wet that immediately invaded her jeans. It was an impertinence, but she again took his hand into her own. “I know you're worried about someone discovering this place. But I don't think it will happen. The Munson boys are
trustworthy. You know Rory wouldn't have them here if they weren't. And I swear to you—by everything I hold dear—that I will never tell a soul about this place and how special it is.”

“I believe you, girl,” he said, reversing their grip and patting her hand. He looked unbelievably sad and weary. “And I know that Rory will always do what is needed to keep this place safe. He is my son, after all. I just wish that . . .”

“That?”

“That we agreed more. That I knew what was in his mind. That we were more alike. Sometimes I can't guess what it is in his head and it makes me a little bit afraid of him. Nancy knew him better. She was a lot younger than me and always wanted children. I think maybe I left it too late to marry and start a family. If we'd had more time, Rory would have siblings to share the burden with. Nancy wasn't supposed to die so soon, and . . . Well, I don't know my own son and there's no point in denying it.”