Garden of Death (17 page)

“Help you . . . with what? I thought that you just wanted to see me and get my number, you know, for later.” She reached out and touched his hand.

“That would be great, but for now we need some information about Dr. White.”

“Wait a minute,” she said, withdrawing her hand. “What is this?”

Despite what Simon had counseled, I decided to go
with honesty. “Dr. White was killed in my garden, which is in the lot next to my store, Nature's Way, in Greenport. My boyfriend, Jackson, is being blamed for his death, and he didn't do it. I'm trying to clear him.”

Juliette stood up. “I've heard about you and the Garden of Death. Mrs. White says you're a troublemaker.”

“Juliette, please sit down,” Simon said. “Willow is a good person, and she and Jackson are being treated unfairly, especially by Arlene White.”

She paused, thought about what he'd said, and finally sat down again. “I know what she's done. She asked me to help her but I said I was busy. So she got Mary to set up that Web site and the Facebook page.”

“Why didn't you want to help her?” I asked.

“Because I worked for her husband for over three years, and I knew how he could be. He was no saint, and he had a lot of enemies. I almost quit a half a dozen times, but I need the money.”

“Is it true that some of his enemies are former patients?”

“He didn't treat patients any better than he treated us. He was rude and dismissive. Worst of all, he was a bad doctor. The list of people who were suing him is a long one.”

“Was one of them Sandra Bennett?”

She nodded. “Yes, she was suing him. It still isn't settled. Those things take forever. I heard him talking to his lawyer once, and he instructed him to drag it out for as long as he could. He had no sympathy whatsoever for the patients who were suffering because of his incompetence. Even if they were friends, like Mr. Larson.”

“Joe Larson?” I glanced at Simon, who raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, they've been friends for years. Joe was helping him get that lot of yours. He used to come in here all the time. Dr. White kept patients waiting so he could talk to Joe. It was frustrating, for them and us, in terms of his schedule.”

“What was wrong with Joe Larson?”

“His knee. He hurt it skiing and Dr. White did a knee replacement, but Joe's still having a lot of problems. He still has to wear a brace.”

I realized that Joe Larson had more than one reason to want White dead. He may have coveted his wife, and now this.

“What about Mrs. Russell? Her son complained about Dr. White and the way he treated his mother.”

“Did he ever! Mr. Russell used to call or come by several times a week to try and speak to Dr. White, but he kept avoiding him. The last time Mr. Russell was here, he threatened to file suit. I was sorry to hear that his mother passed away last year.”

I nodded. “Yes, and he's still upset over how she was treated,” I said. “Do you think that either Professor Russell or Sandra were angry enough to murder Dr. White?”

Juliette thought a minute before answering. “They were angry, yes, but murder? It's hard to imagine either one of them committing murder. Then again, who really knows what someone else is capable of?”

•   •   •

Juliette had confirmed my suspicions
about both Sandra and Professor Russell, but the news about Joe
Larson was new and added to the mystery of who killed Dr. White. We arrived back in Greenport and went over to Mitchell Park to try and find answers.

The weather was sunny, with a slight breeze, and the park was filled with locals and visitors alike. A large banner that said: Annual Maritime and Nautical Yard Sale and Antique Show to Benefit the North Fork Animal Shelter framed the entrance, and the entire green was filled with tables and booths, selling all kinds of maritime and nautical antiques.

We started out at the east end of the park, by Aldo's Café and walked south toward the docks, checking out the wares and looking for suspects.

Simon picked up a brass diver's helmet and examined it. “This would look great on the shelf in my office in L.A.” He asked the seller a few questions and Googled it to find out what it was worth before handing over his credit card and paying for it. As we moved on, he said, “He said it's an antique, and my research on-line confirmed it. I was lucky to get it. Next, I need a ship's wheel, so keep on the lookout for that.”

“We're investigating, remember? Not shopping.”

“No reason we can't do both.” As we headed toward the docks, he zeroed in on a table displaying weathervanes, anchors, harpoons, and buoys. Simon examined one of the nautical charts and said, “I'm going to get this, too, and frame it for my office. It'll remind me of the East End while I'm away.”

“When are you going back to L.A. anyway?”

“In August, that's when we start production. Until then, I can communicate via cell, e-mail, and Skype with my writers who are working on
Vision
episodes.
Like I said, I'm making progress on the screenplay so I want to ride it as long as I can before I have other responsibilities.”

“That makes sense.”

“And also help you solve this case, of course. I don't want Jackson going down for Dr. White's murder. I know what it's like to be behind the eight ball, and thanks to you, I got out. I owe you, and him.”

While he paid for his purchase I checked my phone for any messages. I'd missed one text from Jackson that read:

Nate is here. Talking on phone, not working . . . JS

The JS, I figured, was for Jimmy Stewart. He hadn't lost his sense of humor.

At least Jackson was able to get up and walk around a bit. As for Nate, maybe he'd do some work when he finished that call. One could only hope. The teahouse was supposed to be finished by this weekend, for the closing of the festival, but that didn't look like it was going to happen.

I shoved the phone back into my pocket and glanced around. I noticed Harold Spitz talking to a vendor near the carousel.

“Let's try to talk to Harold,” I said. “He's over there, and Maggie isn't in sight. Maybe we can actually get him to say something useful.”

“What does this guy do anyway? Why did he say he wanted the lot?”

“He organizes yard sales. That's why he wanted the lot.”

“But in actuality, he may have wanted it so he could dig up pirate treasure.”

“Could be. If he runs yard sales, he's probably got an eye for antiques and knows what old things are worth. If he'd heard rumors about pirate treasure, that might seem like the ultimate get-rich-quick scheme.”

We walked toward the carousel and stopped at a table where Harold was talking to a vendor who sold nautical jewelry. Harold, dressed in an immaculate white suit with a vest and pocket watch, and a straw hat, looked the very picture of a country gentleman.

“Hi, Harold,” I said in my friendliest tone. “You did a really great job organizing this.”

He looked at me suspiciously for a moment before saying, “Thanks, but I had help from Maggie, Sandra, and Kylie. It takes a village.”

He turned to go, but Simon stepped in front of him and showed him the diver's helmet. “I just picked this up. What do you think? Since you're an expert at antiques, I mean.”

“I'm no expert on antiques. I organize yard sales,” he said, but despite this, he took the helmet and looked it over carefully. “This is a nice piece. In fact, I have a buyer who might be interested. I pick up things for him now and then. I could give you a good price for it.”

“Sorry, not interested,” Simon said.

“What is your buyer looking for?” I asked.

“He likes one-of-a-kind maritime and nautical items.”

“Like pirate treasure?” I said.

Harold tried to hide it, but the question caught him off-guard. “I wouldn't know anything about that. Please excuse me.” He pulled out his phone and dialed. Since he was next to me, I could see the name
“Ramona” come up on the screen. He was calling Ramona, of Ramona and Rhonda Heirloom Vegetables. “It's Harold.”

I wondered why he was calling her. Perhaps he needed some special veggies from their farm—or he was planning another attack with his team on my business.

But I wasn't done talking to him. “Interesting question that you posed at Professor Russell's lecture,” I said. “You know that rumor about pirate treasure on the East End? Is it true?”

He stopped and told Ramona to hold on, and turned to look at me. “I should be asking you that question, Ms. McQuade. From what I hear, if anyone knows about pirate treasure, it's you.”

chapter twenty

Willow McQuade's
Favorite Medicinal Plants

HOPS

Botanical name:
Humulus lupulus
(syn.
H. americanus
)

Medicinal uses: This unusual plant with pale green, cone-shaped flowers is best known for giving flavor to beer, but its medicinal properties go far beyond this, helping to improve health and well-being. Hops can help to calm the spirit, stabilize nerves, ease anxiety, and improve sleep thanks to a compound called lupulin, which is considered a strong but safe, reliable sedative. It's easy to make a sachet with this calming aroma to insert in your pillowcase. Just fill a five-by-five inch sachet with hops and tie tightly with a ribbon. Both King George II and Abraham Lincoln slept with hops pillows to aid sleep. Hops flower essence can help inspire you to follow and progress along a spiritual path in life.

Harold gave me a smirk, put the phone to his ear, and walked away before I could respond. Although there wasn't much I could say. He was right. I just wished that he didn't know.

“So Sandra told him,” Simon said.

“Or Martin. Or maybe he already knew about the treasure because he's the one who killed Dr. White and was digging up the garden.”

“But how did these people find out about the treasure in the lot in the first place?”

“Good question,” I said. “Jackson suggested that we research the history of Frank Fox's lot to try and find answers, and I think the best place to do that is in Village Hall. That's where we're going next.”

But as we headed out of Mitchell Park, Arlene White and Joe Larson were on their way in. Arlene spotted me and walked over. She wore a black short-sleeved dress with a gold belt, classy widow's weeds. Arlene looked as if she was spoiling for a fight.

“Arlene, don't do this,” Larson said as they approached us. “She's not worth it.”

“You,” she said, and poked her finger in my direction. “What were you doing at my husband's office?”

That didn't take long. Mary must have asked Juliette who we were and then passed the information along to Arlene. “Who told you that?”

“That's none of your business.”

“I'll bet it was Mary, your Web site and Facebook helper.”

“I have a right to express myself, especially now, in my hour of grief.”

“Your Web site and that Facebook page are not about expressing yourself,” Simon said. “The Facebook page was defamatory, and that's why it was taken down.”

“He's right,” I said. “It also wasn't very nice.”

“Nice! How dare you talk to me about nice? You're responsible for my husband's death, you and your boyfriend.”

“Lady, you're misinformed,” Simon said. “Keep spewing these invectives and I'll get my lawyer to sue you for libel.”

“It's not libel if it's true!” Then she began to cry. I watched her, unable to tell if the weeping was genuine or an act. I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt; after all, her husband had been murdered less than a week ago.

Joe put an arm around her and gave her a tissue. “Come on, Arlene,” he said gently. “You're just getting yourself upset again.” He led her away from us, and I noticed for the first time that Joe favored his right leg and walked with a slight limp. Juliette had been right about him.

I blew out a breath. “Let's get out of here.”

We began to thread our way out through the vendors' tables. When we reached Front Street, though, Sandra was there, clipboard in hand, monitoring the traffic going in and out. As opposed to Harold's carefully considered appearance, her hair was up in a messy bun, and she wore a T-shirt, shorts, and sneakers.

“I need to talk to you,” I said.

“Maybe later,” she said. “I'm busy now.”

But at that exact moment, the traffic through the
gate lagged. “Not right now you aren't,” Simon said. “Let's go.”

We stepped to the side, out of the earshot of any vendor or visitor, and I said, “We just talked to Harold, and I got the impression that he knows about what we found in the garden. Only a few people knew about that, besides Jackson, Simon, Nate, and me.”

“That would be you and your husband,” Simon said. “So did you tell him?”

Flustered, Sandra said, “No, I didn't, and neither did Martin.”

“Maybe you told Maggie?”

Her face slowly turned bright red. “I might have mentioned it. I didn't know it was a secret.”

“I didn't know that you and Maggie were friends. But after seeing you picketing with her and Harold and Kylie in front of my garden, I have to assume that you are. What happened to staying out of it, Sandra?”

She sniffed. “After talking to Maggie and Harold, I realized that they were right. Dr. White would never have been murdered right here in town if it wasn't for your garden. If the board had given the lot to one of us, this never would have happened.”

“Do you actually believe that?” Simon asked. “Chances are it would have happened no matter who owned it.”

“You don't know that.”

“And you don't know that it
wouldn't
have happened if someone else owned it,” Simon said. “That's a ridiculous thing to say.”

“Besides, I thought you didn't like Dr. White,” I said. “Wasn't he once your doctor?”

“I never said that!”

“You didn't have to. Kylie said she had a friend who was suing Dr. White. You talked about a doctor that you didn't like when you visited the garden.”

Sandra made a face. “That could have been any friend and any doctor.”

“No, Sandra,” I said. “We just got back from his office, and his assistant confirmed that you were one of his patients and that you were suing him. But maybe that wasn't enough for you. Maybe you killed him.”

“How could you even think such a thing?” Sandra looked genuinely horrified by the idea. “He was murdered in your garden, and it made the village look bad. It could hurt business for everyone. That's why I joined Harold and Maggie and Kylie.”

Simon looked around the green. “Given the crowds all week long, I'd say business is booming, wouldn't you, Willow?”

“Well, I've had my problems, thanks to the murder, but the rest of the village seems to be thriving.”

Sandra looked confused. “I don't know. It seemed to make sense at the time.”

“Sandra,” Simon spoke in an overly patient tone. “Why do Harold and Maggie really want to shut down Willow's garden?”

Sandra bit her lip and said, “I don't know.”

•   •   •

“She was helpful,” Simon said
sarcastically as we left Sandra on the village green and walked over to Village Hall to do some research. “It was like she was reciting talking points. Is she really that stupid or was that all an act?”

“I'm not sure,” I admitted as we turned the corner onto Third Street and headed north. “But I'm beginning to think that Sandra's extremely malleable. Whatever they say, she believes.”

“She doesn't seem angry enough to have killed Dr. White,” Simon noted. “But for all we know, she's after the treasure, too.” He pointed at the parking lot behind the stores on Front Street. “Let me put this stuff in my car so I don't have to carry it.”

We walked over to his red and black Mini Cooper and he popped the trunk. As he did, I noticed Rhonda Rhodes hurrying up Third Street. “I wonder where she's going. I just saw Harold call her partner, Ramona.”

Simon carefully placed the diving helmet and maps on top of a clean towel in the trunk. “Who are they again?”

“Rhonda and Ramona are partners and they grow heirloom vegetables. We talked to her at the farmer's market on Sunday, remember?”

Simon thought about this. “No.”

“You know, the table in the back, by the church. She wasn't very friendly. You didn't like her.”

“Oh, right, no, I didn't.” He slammed the trunk shut.

“Maybe Harold called Ramona, and she called Rhonda.”

“To do what?”

“I don't know.”

“Let's find out.”

We caught up to Rhonda on the steps of Village Hall. She wore a flowered shift dress and flip-flops, like
the one she'd had on Saturday night when Jackson and I had seen her at the art gallery with Ramona.

She threw me a wave and tried to hurry inside, but I caught the door and said, “Hi, Rhonda, how are you?”

She mumbled something and headed through the door to the left and down a hallway that led to the section of the building where you could pay your utilities.

“Maybe I was wrong about her being up to something.” I pointed to the sign on the wall to the right of the elevator that said Map Room: Basement. “We go this way.” I pushed the button for the elevator.

The elevator arrived and we rode it downstairs. We reached the basement, and the doors opened to a room with file cabinets covering just about every square inch. In front of the files there was a middle-aged, balding man working on an outdated computer. “Damn!” he said, and pounded the desk.

“Problem?” I asked.

“Oh, hello. Sorry about that. It's just that it takes forever to download files on this thing. I'm Larry. Can I help you guys?”

“I own Nature's Way at 528 Front Street, and recently, the village awarded me the lot next door. I was wondering if it was possible to research the history of the lot.”

“Everyone wants to know about that lot. I just had a lady down here asking about it about an hour ago.”

“Who was it?” I asked.

“She didn't say.”

“Well, what did she look like?” Simon said.

“She was kind of tall, and she had on a flowered dress.”

“I'll be right back,” I said, and hurried back up to the first floor. But when I got there, Rhonda was gone. Perhaps she'd come to do research
and
pay her bill and had forgotten about the latter and come back, and that's when we saw her.

When I got back downstairs, Simon and Larry were across the room, peering into the open drawer of a lateral file cabinet. Larry was thumbing through documents. He found what he needed and pulled it out, then put it on top of another map. “Since the village of Greenport is so small, they still keep all the maps of all the lots this way. I found yours and the one next door. Follow me.”

We walked over to a table shoved into the corner of the room with a large fluorescent light overhead. Larry put the map onto the table and smoothed it down. “Here you go.”

Simon and I examined the maps. The one for Nature's Way showed the building and gave the dimensions of the lot and a list of utilities on the property.

“Look,” Simon said. At the bottom of the map, tiny lettering read Property of Claire Hagen.

“I guess they never changed it when I took over.”

“Oh, we're behind on all of that stuff,” Larry assured me.

I ran my finger along her name.

“You miss her,” Simon said.

“I really do. It never goes away.”

He squeezed my arm. “Let's take a look at the other map.” He pulled it out from under the stack and put it on top. “Look, there was originally a house on the lot.”

“I didn't know that. I mean I figured there had been something there, but I didn't know it was a residence.”

“It was owned by Frank Fox,” Simon said. “It says so right here.” He pointed to the name below the map specifications. “And it was a double lot. You see this line?” He pointed to a vertical line that transected the piece of land.

“It looks like there was some kind of outbuilding or a shed on the eastern side,” I said.

Simon shrugged. “Doesn't tell us much. We knew Frank Fox owned the land; he's the one who donated it to the village.”

I turned to Larry. “Do you have any information about the history of the lot, who lived here and when?”

“I knew you'd ask that. Everyone does.”

“And what do you tell them?”

Larry shook his head. “It should be on the microfiche.”

“
Should
be?” Simon said.

“That particular roll of microfiche is gone.”