Garden of Death (10 page)

“Where's your bodyguard with the high-powered lawyer?”

“Simon's a good friend, that's all.” I looked over at where Jackson had been sitting. He was on his feet now, searching the crowd for me. I needed to get back. The group began to sing the last chorus of the song.

Joe looked at the camera. “You ever been inside this thing?”

“Yes, a few times.”

“Our tax dollars at work. What an eyesore.”

The camera obscura was one of Greenport's quirkiest attractions. Basically, it's a darkened room into which light enters through a small opening, and is then reflected by a mirror through a lens onto a viewing table. So even though you're standing inside a dark room, you can see images of Greenport projected onto the viewing table. Rotating the camera allows you to see in all directions. I loved the camera obscura. Its images were vibrant and serene and always made me appreciate the scenic beauty of the area even more.

“Clearly, you're not an art lover,” I told Larson. “Leonardo da Vinci did experiments with the camera obscura. Vermeer used it as a drawing aid in the seventeenth century, and Canaletto used it for his paintings of Venice. There are only five of these cameras in the U.S. and about fifty in the world.”

“Fascinating. I gotta go.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Make it quick.”

“How do you benefit if the town shuts me down? Odds are, you won't be able to build anything else on the lot.”

“I've got my own reasons and they're none of your business.”

I thought about what Simon had said about the find in the garden. “Like pirate's treasure?” I suggested

Larson gave me a skeptical look. “You're nuts, lady. Stay away from me.” He walked off into the crowd.

The song ended, and the crowd called for an encore. But as I walked back over to Jackson, someone took me by the shoulders, spun me around, and shoved me inside of the camera obscura. I landed on my knees on the wooden floor as the door closed and made a decisive clicking sound.

There was no light seeping in now. I was in a totally black space, and I couldn't help the feeling of dread that was slicing through me. I keep a small flashlight on my key chain, but I didn't have my keys on me now. I got to my feet, brushed off my pants, and waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. But that didn't help. With almost zero light filtering in from the night sky, the darkness was thick and black.

This must be what it feels like to be blind
, I realized
.
Walking slowly with my arms outstretched in front of me, my fingertips finally found a wall. I felt around frantically for the seams of the door and then the doorknob. I turned and pulled. It was locked, of course. I ran my fingers over the lock but couldn't find any mechanism to unlock it. I pulled at the knob again and shouted for help but the noise of the concert, which I could hear faintly through the wooden walls, drowned me out.

Calm down!
I told myself, trying to beat back a rising wave of panic. I knew that Jackson would come looking for me, but when? And would he be able to hear me?

I felt around the walls for a light switch but there was none. Carefully, my hands outstretched, I moved back toward the center of the room until I touched the viewing table.

But the only things I could see were the lights from the docks and the inky black water in the marina. It wasn't light enough to make a difference inside and I continued to fumble around in the dark. I went back to the door and pounded on it. The crowd erupted in more applause. I waited to see if the band would play another song and when they didn't, I started yelling.

“Help!” I shouted. “I'm locked inside the camera! Someone please open the door!” I banged on the door and shouted until I was hoarse.

No one came.

chapter thirteen

Willow McQuade's
Favorite Medicinal Plants

EVENING PRIMROSE

Botanical name:
Oenothera biennis

Medicinal uses:
The evening primrose plant features shamrock-shaped yellow flowers on slender green stems. This delicate beauty hides the fact that evening primrose oil provides an important nutrient called gamma-linolenic acid (GLA), an essential fatty acid required by the body for growth and development. The oil is extracted from the seeds of the evening primrose and is usually put into capsules for use. Evening primrose oil has been used since the 1930s for eczema (a condition in which the skin becomes inflamed, itchy, or scaly because of allergies or other irritation). More recently it has been used for other conditions involving inflammation, such as rheumatoid arthritis. Studies show evening primrose oil can
be helpful for PMS and the breast pain associated with the menstrual cycle.

Moments later, the fireworks started. I stopped my shouting long enough to watch the images of the flashing colored lights play out on the viewing table before I went back to the door and yelled and pounded some more. What seemed a very long time later, the fireworks finally ended, but I kept at it. I was starting to feel claustrophobic, as if the room were getting smaller and I couldn't get enough air into my lungs.

Suddenly, I heard Jackson yelling for me. “Willow? Are you in there?”

“Yes,” I said, stifling a scream. “Get me out!”

He jiggled the lock. “This isn't opening. I'll be right back! Hold on!”

I took some deep breaths and tried to calm down. Jackson returned moments later and banged at the lock with something. It came loose after a few tries, and he threw the door open. “Are you okay?”

I ran into his arms. “I am now.”

Jackson held me close, as if he didn't want to let me go, and I was very happy to stay there, wrapped in his arms. “You're shaking,” he said at last. “Let's go home. I'll make you some hot tea, and you can tell me what happened.”

But I shook my head. “I need to be outside. Let's go to Aldo's and sit on the patio. I can have some tea there.”

We walked out of the park and took a quick right into the coffee shop. Because of the festival, the place
was busy and Jackson stood in line to get his decaf coffee and my tea while I went outside to the patio. I breathed in the night air and thankfully felt my panic subside.

Jackson came out a few minutes later with our order, and after I told him what had happened, we sat companionably side by side, not saying much, trying to reach equilibrium again. The one other couple on the patio got up and went inside and we had the place to ourselves. Jackson reached over and took my hand. “Feeling any better?”

I took another sip of my calming chamomile tea and nodded. “Much. Thanks for saving me, again.”

“I'm getting used to it.” He gazed out at the harbor. “But I don't like it. Seriously, I think you need to throttle back on this investigation.” He pointed to the camera obscura. “When things like this start happening, it means more trouble is on the way.”

“You're still a suspect and those merchants are still trying to shut me down. Like it or not, we really don't have a choice.”

Jackson took a sip of coffee. “Then we both need to be a lot more careful.”

“We will be.”

“Who do you think locked you in there?”

“Joe Larson is the most obvious suspect. He'd been right there minutes before, and our conversation wasn't exactly friendly. But Rhonda was there, too—they were talking together before he saw me—so either one of them could have done it.” I rubbed my arm where I'd been grabbed. “Whoever threw me in there was strong. I'm guessing it was Joe.”

“Or it could be someone else entirely,” Jackson pointed out.

“Well, the park was packed with people, so I guess anything is possible. But my gut tells me that it's someone from that little group that's made it very clear that they want to shut down the garden.”

•   •   •

We finished up and headed
back to Nature's Way. Most of the crowd from the concert had dispersed by this time, but people still lingered in the park and strolled along Front Street.

As we headed up the path to the door, I said, “Let's check out the garden before we go inside. I'm worried that someone has been in there again. After all, we've been gone all night.”

He pulled a penlight out of his pocket and we walked over to the gate. Jackson opened it but stopped me before I could go in. “I just saw a flash of light near the patio. I think someone might be inside. Stay here.”

He ran off down the path. Moments later he yelled, “Hey, you, stop, stay right there!”

I took off after Jackson and ran down the path through the darkness to find out what was going on. I found Jackson in the not-yet-completed outdoor teahouse. “There was someone in here,” he reported breathlessly. “He had on black jeans and a black hoodie and had a black backpack, but he went over the fence before I could grab him. He dropped this.” Jackson trained his flashlight on the ground, revealing a small shovel, covered in dirt, and a new hole in front of the patio.

“We need to show this shovel to the police,” I said. “Maybe there are fingerprints or they can figure out where he bought it.”

Jackson pulled a bandanna out of his pocket and picked up the shovel. “Fingerprints are doubtful. I think he was wearing gloves.” He checked out the label on the shovel. “It's from Home Depot, one of thousands, I'm sure. They'll never be able to trace it.”

By this time I had my keys out, the tiny flashlight on. I saw something else on the ground. “What's that?”

We both stared at another object wrapped in tattered cloth. I knelt and unwrapped it, careful to keep hold of the dirty cloth, so I wouldn't get my fingerprints on whatever was inside.

“A
goblet
?” Jackson asked a moment later.

“Seems to be,” I murmured. “It's some kind of metal, tarnished.” It was set with what looked like red coral and turquoise, and like the sword, looked seriously old. “This is bizarre,” I said. “Who buried all this stuff on this lot?”

“And what else is here?” Jackson wondered.

I looked up at him. “This is really starting to spook me. If all this stuff is real, and someone knows about it and wants it . . .” I turned and looked at the patio. “But I thought they were looking in the garden. What was he doing over here, in the teahouse?”

“Who knows? Maybe they're working a grid pattern.”

“At least he didn't touch the plants.”

Jackson gave a heavy sigh. “We've got to show this to the police as well. And we should probably show them the sword and earring, too.”

I nodded. “But it's not an emergency, and I'm ex­-
hausted. Let's call them in the morning.”

Jackson gave me a long look. “Hopefully we can convince them to let us hold on to these pieces for a day or so. I want to show all this stuff to the expert who's talking at the Maritime Museum tomorrow night.”

“Me, too. If we find out this really is pirate treasure, it could go a long way toward helping us figure out why Charles White was killed here—and maybe even by whom.”

“It might be a good idea to research the history of this plot of land as well. Maybe something significant did happen here.”

“Good point. In the meantime, we've got to keep this garden closed and protected after hours.”

“If you really want to keep everyone out, then you need to install a lock and put barbed wire on top of the fence.”

I winced. “That's not exactly in keeping with my idea of a community garden. What else can we do?”

“Install an alarm system, and put up surveillance cameras, but all that high-tech stuff costs money. You could use a guard at night, too.”

“I hate the idea of doing any of that, but I'll think it over. Maybe as a first step, we can put a lock on the gate. I'll call the locksmith in the morning, and then we'll see what happens.”

•   •   •

Early Monday morning, around
8 a.m., while Jackson went home to tend to his rescues at his farm with
his team, I returned to my daily routine of yoga and meditation in the yoga studio on the second floor. Nick, Aunt Claire's boyfriend, wouldn't hold his yoga class until eleven, so I thought I'd have the place all to myself.

But I'd just settled into my routine, starting with several sun salutations, when Allie came in with her tablet, an anxious look on her face. “Sorry to interrupt your practice, but I thought you should see this.” She handed the tablet to me.

The screen showed a Web site titled: Shut Down the Garden of Death. On the home page was a photo of the garden with the spot where Dr. White's body had been found circled in bright red. There was also a black-and-white photo of him when he was alive. The text chronicled what had happened and then urged visitors to sign the online petition, which so far had seventy-five signatures. Arlene White and her minions had been busy.

“I can't believe they're doing this, especially after Simon's lawyer contacted them.”

“It's probably not illegal,” Allie said.

“Probably not,” I agreed with a sigh. I clicked on the arrow that took me to the petition and found Arlene White's name in the number-one spot, followed by Harold Spitz, Maggie Stone, Kylie Ramsey, Ramona Meadows, Rhonda Rhodes, and Joe Larson. I recognized some of the other names from Greenport; others were new to me.

I clicked on the Comments button. “Ouch,” I said as I read a list of comments ranging from, “lot was
awarded unfairly” to “better off as a public park” to “we need a dog park, not a private garden” and “how about a memorial garden for Dr. White?”

“I didn't want to upset you, but you needed to know about this. I couldn't figure out who set it up. It just says Greenport Merchants United at the bottom. I guess that's the group of people you were talking about.”

“I'm sure it is.” I closed the site and handed the tablet back to her. “I need to call Simon.” I got up and went over to the stack of sticky mats where I'd left my cell phone and rang his number. When he answered I told him what had happened. We talked for a few minutes and I hung up. “He's going to call his lawyer again and ask him to shut down the site. If he can.”

Allie gave me a sympathetic look. “Well, if he can't, keep in mind that seventy-five signatures aren't any kind of official mandate.”

“I know. But if the petition goes viral . . .”

“Try not to think about that.” She gave me a quick hug. “I've got an early appointment or I'd stick around to talk. But we can talk later if you want. In the meantime, call Jackson. He'll make you feel better. Gotta go.” She threw me a wave and was out the door.

My yoga and meditation practice forgotten, I called Jackson and told him what had happened. “I looked at the seventy-five names, but only twenty or so were familiar. Who are all these other people who hate me so much?”

“They don't hate you. It's probably friends and relatives of the Whites and the merchants who wanted that lot. Don't let it get to you, okay? Focus on what
you need to do today, like running the store and giving tours of the garden. And don't forget to call a locksmith and remember we're going to see that pirate expert tonight. It's a good chance to get some real answers.”

“When are you coming back? We need to call Detective Koren about the intruder and that shovel you found, not to mention the goblet.”

“Already done. They're meeting me in the garden at 10 a.m. You don't have to be there.”

“Of course I'll be there.”

“Okay, I'll see you then. Love you.”

“Love you, too. Bye.”

I forced myself to focus, as Jackson had said, on the day ahead. The Maritime Festival was still in full swing, with foodie tours, events at local restaurants, lectures and readings at the museum and libraries, and more nighttime concerts. There would even be a two-day yard sale and antique show. All of this activity would lead up to the finale of the festival this coming weekend, with the arrival of more Tall Ships, boat races, more pirates, a chowder contest, and a production of
The Tempest.

But for now, I kept my attention on the present moment and on my yoga and meditation practice, knowing that it would restore balance and provide peace and serenity. Afterward, I showered, dressed, and headed downstairs, Qigong trailing behind me.

After I checked in with Wallace, who always arrived early and had opened Nature's Way at eight for breakfast customers, I made myself some organic buttermilk pancakes and tea, and went into my office.

The space felt like a hug, with cozy chairs and
couch. I loved the Peace sign above the door and the bookshelves containing vegetarian cookbooks as well as volumes on natural remedies and medicinal herbs. On the walls were hand-drawn pictures of healing herbs and various yoga positions, photographs of Aunt Claire's native Australia, and London, where she once worked as an editor for British
Vogue.

I sat down at my desk and ate my breakfast while I flipped through the latest issue of
Natural Health
. Qigong jumped onto the couch and quickly fell asleep again. I needed to take him for a walk.

I finished eating and put the plate aside but continued to sip my green tea while I checked my e-mail. Nothing out of the ordinary there, which was reassuring. Just the usual newsletters from natural product stores, confirmations of orders that Wallace had placed, and an e-mail from my mother, who was vacationing in Tuscany with my sister, Natasha, the doctor, and having a great time. My mother, sister, and I got along best when we saw each other infrequently, since neither of them really understood my passion for all things natural. I'd definitely taken after my Aunt Claire and I didn't regret it, even with the latest turn of events.