Backyard (22 page)

“I can't believe I went to all that effort, and then you don't even insert me in the story . . . not at all!”

“You told me not to.”

“Yes, but I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it! Couldn't you tell that was just a gambit, and I didn't mean it?”

“No, I couldn't tell.”

“And those Fremonts. Ha-ha. What a blunder to focus on them! Why . . . why, did you know they pretend to talk to their plants?
Talk
to their plants. . . .”

“Hmmm.”

“They also grow psychedelic plants.”

“What?”

“Psychedelic plants. You know, plants that make you crazy if you eat or smoke them. That's probably why they talk to their plants.”

“Hmmm.”

“Don't you ‘hmmm' me, Mr. Stupid Reporter. You just gave free publicity to a couple of people who are not only drunks but certifiably insane. Didn't you realize that? Didn't you do any fact-checking on this? Furthermore, if I lose this contest, I will threaten to sue you. I will threaten to sue over the loss.”

“Thanks for your time, but I am very busy,” said Roland.

He hung up with Dr. Sproot's voice still crackling over the receiver and turned his attention to his next assignment: a triple homicide that looked like a love triangle gone bad just reported in from the sleepy bedroom community of Triace.

22

A Watering

R
ain was finally on the way!

A vigorous cold front charged down from the north and collided with the moist, slovenly soup-air that had been loafing over Livia. The prospect of atmospheric combat lured the Fremonts into the front yard. It was distasteful to them, but what could they do; the front yard, with its panorama of Bluegill Pond and open sky that stretched for miles, was the only place on their property where they could take in the full measure of weather in the making. On this morning, it was still sultry (“Dew point in the mid-seventies,” George reported), and clouds were piling up overhead and to the west, into ungainly stratospheric columns. Some were tumbling outward and darkening at the base.

“Pretty impressive buildup,” George said. “We should get something good out of this.”

Nan nodded.

“Let's water anyway, just in case.... I hope we don't get any hail or worse.”

Little dust-settling showers came and went throughout the morning and into the afternoon. By three, the mercury stood at 94, and it appeared that the rain was going to be a no-show. Either the moisture in the air was insufficient or the temperature aloft wasn't cold enough to spark the thunderstorms they had anticipated for the past three days, when the weather forecasters had first predicted them.

That evening, things changed. Their backyard was unusually animated. Either the Fremont flora were anxious about something or joyfully anticipating it; George and Nan couldn't tell which. Their queries around the backyard went unanswered, even by their favorite backyard informants, the spirea.

“They're not telling me jack,” George said.

“Me neither,” said Nan. “It's like they're keeping a big secret. Maybe they want to surprise us.”

“They must know the rain is coming,” George said. “Somehow they can feel it and they just can't stand the anticipation.”

“Either that or they're afraid. They sense the big wind, the downpours that wash away before they can get a decent drink, or the hail that could slice them into bits.”

Pondering the ineffable vagaries of the plant world, George and Nan ended their work day by uncorking a bottle of Sagelands and toasting their successes in the backyard over the past week and a half.

They were imbued with a new confidence that victory, and, with that, financial solvency, was within their grasp. It was less than two weeks now before the judging began. It would start with seven judges doing three days' worth of quick inspections, winnowing the entries down to seven finalists. On the third day, reserved for a Saturday, all the judges would tour the gardens of the finalists, consult with one another, and announce the winner at the new Livia Arts and Culture Center that evening.

As George and Nan refilled their glasses, and waved to the Boozers passing by at an unusually brisk pace, they settled into a peaceful euphoria brought on by alcohol and a wonderful premonition that what had started as a mere hobby and a way to keep busy, and which had morphed into this magnificent obsession, would now truly become their life. A distant growl startled them out of their reverie.

“Thunder?” Nan said.

“Too far away to tell. Might just be traffic.”

The stillness was absolute. Not a leaf or a petal stirred. A second growl, this time closer, got them up out of their chairs, ambling slowly toward the front yard. Far off to the north, there was milky sky punctuated by cloud pillars and few gray masses with cauliflower tops. Directly above them and off to the south haze gauzed over the sky, giving it a coppery tint. In the west, the sun shone thinly through a screen of ice clouds.

Farther west, just above the horizon, was the source of the noise: a dark, distant smear brightened with intermittent flashes. It was moving fast. Five more minutes and the cloud blotted out the sun. Then, the oppressive stillness was gone, whisked away by the fresh breeze that preceded the storm. The thunder was doing its impersonation of field artillery now. Nan and George stood there, entranced, as the flashes turned into ragged white lines ripping across the clouds, and the sky erupted in the crash of flying electrical charges. The sky to the west turned a purple-black, and the first fat raindrops of the storm came splattering down.

“Good rain for sure,” George said. “We're right in the bull's-eye of this one.”

“Anything besides rain, Mr. Meteorology?”

“Don't think so,” said George, taking a long, slow sip of merlot as the rain spattered against him. “Sky's not that black. No straight-line winds. We would have had them by now. Looks like a nice light show and a garden-variety thunderstorm. Just what the doctor ordered. Let's just hope it's more of a steady rain than a deluge.”

A couple of cyclists zipped by on Sumac. Then came a jogger with a dog straining at its leash. The elderly Smiths were walking along the sidewalk and paused to stare at the purple sky descending on them, and the ripples and puckers covering Bluegill Pond. They turned to wave at the Fremonts.

“You can shelter here if you need to,” yelled George, knowing that the Smiths had two blocks to go.

They smiled and shook their heads, then continued walking. That was when the apparition came hurtling down the sidewalk, a block away. It was a bicycle, a racing bike from the look of it, and bearing down fast on the Smiths. The rider had a freakishly tall and pointed head and was wearing metallic-looking robes sparkling with multicolored glitter that billowed out behind her.

“Eeeehh! A conehead!” cried Nan. “And it's going to run right into the Smiths!”

The Smiths were moving in the slow, deliberate, hunched-over way of the elderly, oblivious to the bicycle kamikaze heading full-tilt directly for them.

“She'll veer off or slow down before she hits them,” said George. “Won't she? What the hell is a conehead doing on Sumac? And on a racing bike? What the—?”

“Hey!” Nan yelled. “Look out!”

Lightning shot through the sky like flashbulbs, followed almost instantly by ear-splitting peals of thunder that bounced around the clouds for the next ten seconds. The Smiths pushed on faster as the downpour started. Right behind them, the conehead hunched down low over the handlebars for the final approach toward what could only be a terrible collision with one or both of the Smiths.

Suddenly, the bike veered to the left and jumped the curb, sending it rattling into the street, and its rider sprawling on top of the curb, just above the storm sewer, into which rivulets of rain were already beginning to drain.

“Whoa!” went Nan and George.

The Smiths, scurrying for all their creaky old appendages were worth, had already disappeared around the curve. The conehead got up, apparently unhurt, and leaned over with some effort to pick up the bike and what proved to be a flesh-tone, foot-and-a-half- long rubber cone, which had been jarred off her head, and lay crumpled up on the sidewalk. Now, a bedraggled, stringy-haired woman, her silvery robe pasted onto her ample body by the rain, gazed up at them.

“Good Lord!” Nan gasped. “It's Pat Veattle!”

George guffawed, and, after a second, Nan laughed, too. Through the curtain of pouring rain, Pat stared at them. Then, she raised an arm and an index finger in their direction. She held that pose for an entire minute. At first, George and Nan thought she was flashing them a V for victory sign or signaling for help. Then, it dawned on them.

“She's giving us the finger!” Nan cried. “Why, the nerve of that woman!”

Pat Veattle put her prosthetic head back on, then tried to get on her bike. The wind and the rain pushed her down before she could straddle the seat. She tried again with the same result, then gave up. Walking her bike down Sumac, she was eventually swallowed up in the rain. Nan and George dumped the water out of their wineglasses and ran for the front porch.

“What the hell was she doing in that conehead thing?” said George, as they took one last look at the blur of Pat Veattle and her bicycle disappearing around the curve.

“I still want to see her dressed up like an elk, or whatever it was Steve saw her dressed up as when he almost hit her,” Nan said. “The poor woman must be mad.”

The storm quickly lost its intensity, and the purple sky lightened into a steel gray. The rain continued, but at a steady and moderate rate. It finally stopped in the middle of the night.

When the Fremonts woke up the next morning, the sun shone down, and there were one-and-three-quarters inches of water in the rain gauge. The backyard luxuriated in the deep breath of moisture that remained after the rain. Even the front yard was showing signs of life.

“Million-dollar rain,” George said as he and Nan inspected their happy gardens. “No watering necessary for at least three more days.”

23

When Garden Spells Go Bad

“S
arah says the spell isn't working,” said Marta. She accepted a mug of steaming coffee, as they sat on Dr. Sproot's patio, their Adirondack chairs positioned to take in the full glory of the coreopsis-salvia-hollyhock blend. “She wanted me to come over and tell you in person.”

“Is that so, Marta? Is that really so? I can tell that with my own eyes. I've known for an entire week and a half that her stupid spell isn't working!”

“Well, at least she undid the spell on your gardens. I'm so glad to see it. They're glorious!”

“Of course they're glorious!” barked Dr. Sproot. “But that's only half the job. The other half isn't happening, and I demand my money back. Otherwise, I'll have to expose Edith Merton as the witch she is.”

Marta lifted the mug gingerly to her lips, puckered them, and set the mug back down on the glass-topped patio table.

“What? Too hot for your liking, Marta?”

“Yes, just a touch too hot, thanks, Dr. Sproot. I'll let it cool off a little.”

Dr. Sproot sneered.

“Gee whiz, Marta, I made it especially hot for you, knowing how much you like scalding drinks. C'mon, don't be a fraidy cat. Take a big swig out of that mug.”

“No, thank you,” said Marta, noticing once again that Dr. Sproot was apparently able to drink hot coffee without any adverse effect.

“I see you are able to drink hot beverages again.”

“Eh?” said Dr. Sproot between slurps.

“I take it your throat is healed and you are able to drink your hot coffee again.”

“Yes, isn't it lovely,” Dr. Sproot cooed. “It is the best coffee ever grown, and I have to special order it. Apart from gardening it is my only vice. I mean, I mean . . . no . . . no! My throat is not healed. Not healed at all. I still have to make an appointment with a specialist. Yikes! Now that you mention it, this coffee is a little hot.”

Dr. Sproot set her mug back on the patio table, and made a big show of waving at the steam curling up from its contents.

“Wow! I really shouldn't be drinking this with my throat condition, should I? It's not nearly as hot as your wretched tea, anyway. Listen, Marta, what are you implying here? I took a big glug of your tea, which was hotter 'n blazes. I'm just sipping this coffee, which is nowhere near as hot anyway. It's too hot for
you,
isn't it?”

“Not really,” said Marta. She picked up her mug, pointing her rigid pinkie straight toward the sky, and downed a long, noisy draft. “It's just that I wanted to see your reaction when I said it was.”

“How dare you, you . . . you . . . you little shrimp! You accuse me of trying to scald you with my coffee because of the damage you inflicted on me? Is that it?”

“Yes, Dr. Sproot.”

“And then . . . and then . . . and then . . .” Dr. Sproot was screaming now. Marta discreetly formed her hand into a canopy over her coffee mug in case the spittle started to fly. “And then you accuse me of faking an injury after I scalded my poor throat and can no longer sing, and must see a specialist? Huh! And why would I do that, Marta? Why?”

“Easy. So you could scare me into thinking you could sue me for damages. I am somewhat gullible and a little timid, Dr. Sproot. You know that and take advantage of me. And we used to be friends. For a long time. It's hard to let that go, even when your good friend is treating you like freshly turned topsoil and stomping all over you. And you did help me
so
much to learn our wonderful craft.”

“But you ignored me! You ignored my best advice, and now look at what you've got. It's nothing but a nuthouse, plant cuckoo-land, an anarchy. It's like you wanted to create a little United Nations of gardens. You'll never win anything, Marta Poppendauber! Nothing! I can't believe you had the temerity to enter that contest! Why, the very nerve! I know the judges. They'll either burst out laughing or vomit when they get a good, hard look at your place.”

“I'll take my chances, Dr. Sproot.”

Dr. Sproot was standing now, sputtering grunts and various vowel and consonant sounds. Her face was contorted and aged in hatred and disdain and self-righteousness. Her shirttails had gotten yanked out of her shorts and were fluttering in the breeze, revealing an occasional flash of bare, pale midriff. Marta noted that that somehow made her seem laughably pathetic. Dr. Sproot collapsed back into her chair, throwing her elbows across the patio table and cradling her head in her hands. Marta found whatever residue of pity she had left for her now mingled with scorn. She was exhilarated to discover that, for the first time in years, she could deal with Dr. Sproot without fear.

“Let's get back to Sarah,” she said. “Sarah said the Fremonts' gardens must be strong because they are resisting the spell. The only option left is a much stronger spell, which will create havoc and destruction. Stronger even than the spell she cast on your gardens. To do that, she will have to take additional steps, which will include a personal nighttime visit to the Fremonts', without their knowing it, of course. This will cost much more—$1,200—and, as before, there are no guarantees. I strongly advise that you not do this, Dr. Sproot.”

Dr. Sproot downed a slug of coffee, which revived her, and sat bolt upright.

“And why not?”

“Because it is evil. It is bad. It contradicts every standard of morality.”

“It does not!” said Dr. Sproot, to whom another long draw from the coffee mug had returned the old dominating, offensive assertiveness. “You tell that stupid old witch that I will pay her $700 and no more for this . . . this . . . super-spell. You tell her that. Do you think she'll do it?”

“Yes, I know she will. I was authorized by Sarah to go down to precisely that amount if necessary. It's her returning customer discount. You will be assessed additional dry cleaning costs should her uniform get all messed up. That's a distinct possibility when doing fieldwork. Now, if you will give me the cash, I will deliver it to Sarah. Another thing: from now on I'm having nothing to do with either you or Sarah.”

“What? Why, I'll destroy you, you little mouse.”

“I don't think so, Doc Phil.”

Dr. Sproot shook with rage. “I told you never to call me that! I'm telling you again! Don't call me that horrid little nickname! D'ya hear me!”

“Just give me the money, Doc Phil, and I'll be on my way. If you need to contact Sarah anymore, then you'll have to figure it out on your own. I will also be letting her know that I'm no longer making myself available as an intermediary between you two.

“As for you, I'm no longer going to be spying for you, or taking notes, or committing your ‘death-by-a-thousand-cuts' by sneaking over there way past my bedtime—Thank God Ham is such a sound sleeper—and trespassing on private property like some thief, and snipping off blossoms, three or four at a time. That really was the low point, Dr. Sproot. That's destroying life. But no more.”

“I always knew you were a fraidy cat,” Dr. Sproot said. “You cut off how many little monarda stems on your two or three little nocturnal visits to the Fremonts' before chickening out, and you call that work! Why, that's nothing. ‘Death-by-a-thousand-cuts' requires numerous trips over time. It requires dedication, which you obviously don't have. It is the slow, subtle torture of a garden that is hard to spot, and almost impossible to resolve, unless you're the most observant of gardeners.”

“I'm sure the Fremonts noticed.”

“Those drunkards! Of course they didn't.”

“They know exactly what's going on, Doc Phil.”

Dr. Sproot trembled in the presence of this new, more assertive Marta. “And my camera and cowl?”

“I've recovered them. I'll have them cleaned and ready to return to you by Thursday.”

“Just put it on the doorstep. And guess what, you bumbling bumpkin: I don't have the cash on hand right now to pay that demented chucklehead of a sorceress. I'll have to bring it by your house. Don't worry, you won't have to sully yourself by dealing directly with me. I'll just put it in an envelope in your mailbox. And, by the way, don't count on any more advice from me about your wretched gardens. And . . . and . . . don't you dare come whining for help when you don't even get an honorable mention.”

Marta got up and left without saying anything. She secretly pledged to do everything in her power to ensure that the Fremonts and their gardens came to no harm. That meant using her newly improved intelligence-gathering skills to keep careful tabs on both Dr. Sproot and Edith Merton. When they were on the move—and that would have to be soon—then she would have to be right there with them.

Dr. Sproot felt a sense of triumph as she watched Marta go, flipping her the bird when her back was turned. How does someone like that make any friends at all? she wondered. Freed of Marta's squeamishness and overdeveloped sense of fair play, she could now take her campaign to a new level of ruthlessness. Depending on that quack of a witch, Edith Merton, wouldn't be enough. She would have to act on her own. She would hold back nothing and give no quarter! Destroy! Destroy! Destroy!

But first, something a bit more subtle. After all, Marta Poppendauber wasn't the only person in town who had sources.