Garden of Death (5 page)

Simon gave an impatient sigh. “Obviously you didn't want to find a dead body in your garden, but now that you have, what are you doing to do about it?

chapter five

Willow McQuade's
Favorite Medicinal Plants

BLACK COHOSH

Botanical name:
Actaea racemosa, Cimicifuga racemosa

Medicinal uses:
Native Americans were among the first to use black cohosh as a woman's tonic, while other tribes used it for fatigue, aching joints, and better kidney function. Historically, black cohosh has been used for rheumatism (arthritis and muscle pain), but has been used more recently to treat hot flashes, night sweats, and other symptoms that can occur during menopause. Black cohosh can also be used for menstrual irregularities and premenstrual syndrome. The underground stems and roots of black cohosh are commonly used fresh or dried to make strong teas (infusions), capsules, solid extracts used in pills, or liquid extracts (tinctures).

Jackson responded to Simon's question by drilling him with a look, and saying, “Willow isn't getting involved. The police can handle this.”

“So you don't want her investigating?”

Jackson shook his head. “Of course not. Someone obviously wanted White dead, and we don't know that he, or she, is done killing.”

“Agreed,” I said, and took a bite of my quesadilla. “What bothers me is that Koren is obviously interested in you.”

“And he doesn't like you for some reason, Willow,” Simon added opening up two raw sugar packets and putting them into his tea. “It's probably because you're better at his job than he is.”

“There is that,” Jackson said. “He doesn't like me much either, and it's not good that I handled the shovel when I was replacing that plant or that I had that very public fight with White last night. Koren doesn't need much to go on, you know that.”

“I have to do something,” I said, picking up a blue corn chip. “It will be twenty-four to forty-eight hours until the autopsy results come in. We need to get ahead of this thing and fix it before it becomes a bigger problem for us and the store and garden. If we work together we can figure this out.”

“Together?” Jackson raised an eyebrow. “You mean, the three of us? You have to be kidding.”

“We did it before,” I said. “Remember?” Last year when Simon was under suspicion for murder he had been surprisingly helpful with knowledge and ideas. While Jackson was my true partner, a little extra help couldn't hurt. “We can begin with the art and photography show
this afternoon. I'll scope things out and maybe start asking questions. Simon can help. He has to be there anyway. You can come with us or stay here and scope out the scene.”

“You want to work together?” Jackson repeated, not looking happy.

“Yeah, man, like the Three Amigos!” Simon said, putting his hand up for a high five. “Or the Three Musketeers!”

“Or the Three Stooges?” Jackson rolled his eyes. “I've got a bad feeling about this, McQuade.”

•   •   •

After we finished lunch, Simon
and I headed across the street to Mitchell Park to judge the art and photography show, while Jackson stayed behind to keep an eye on the police and what they were doing. The park was crowded with people enjoying the show, walking their dogs, relaxing on the grass, and riding the merry-go-round.

The park overlooked the harbor with a view of Shelter Island across the bay. The docks were packed with speedboats, yachts, and even a bright red tugboat. Over at the Railroad Dock, where the Shelter Island ferry picked up cars and passengers, visiting tall ships were moored. It was picture perfect. It made sense that
Forbes
magazine had declared Greenport “One of America's Prettiest Towns.”

As we walked into the park, Merrily was on her way out, happily carrying the winner's trophy, a bronze apple pie on a bronze apple tree. It was almost as big as
she was.

“Congratulations, Merrily!” I said. “You won! That's fantastic!”

“No surprise there,” Simon said. “Your pie is the best.”

She smiled. “Thanks, guys, but it was actually quite close. I thought the dessert chef from the North Fork Table was going to win with their rhubarb pie, but then they awarded me the trophy. It's going to look great on that shelf in the kitchen, if it fits.”

“Good for you. I can't wait to taste your pie; that is, if there's any left.”

Merrily smiled. “There's plenty. You know me, I made five pies and entered the best one.” Her expression grew serious. “I heard about you finding White's body. What's going on with the police?”

“Still investigating, but the mayor convinced Detective Koren to let us open again in the morning.”

“That's something, at least.” She looked across the street at Nature's Way. “Well, I'd better go back. We might get some folks in for a late lunch. I'll see you later.”

We said good-bye and headed down the path past the Little Miss Mermaid Contest being held in front of the carousel, where young girls dressed up in mermaid costumes were competing for DVDs of the movie. In the center of the park, beyond the fountains, was a colorful mixture of nautical photographs and paintings that Simon and I were here to judge.

I spotted Patty Thaw, the owner of Patty's Photo Shop, and the organizer of the event, at a table near the carousel. I went over to her to get our judging sheets. For the moment, I decided to put Dr. White's murder
out of my mind and focus on the task at hand.

“Hi, Patty, we're here, ready to judge away.”

Though Patty was in her late sixties, she was a regular at Nick's yoga classes, and had a calm demeanor, not to mention a lean, toned look. She gave me a kiss on the cheek. “I didn't expect to see you here, Willow. I heard about what happened—Dr. White, dead in your garden! That's not the headline you wanted for opening day. How absolutely awful!”

I wasn't surprised that she knew. Good and bad traveled fast via the village grapevine. Someone who had attended the dedication must have told her what happened. “Yes, it was awful,” I admitted. “I still can't believe it.”

“But we made the commitment to help with the art show,” Simon put in. “So we're here.”

“Okay, then, I'm glad you are.” She pulled two clipboards out of her green tote, grabbed two pens, and handed them to us. She pointed to the paper on the clipboard. “You just need to go around, check out each piece, and rate it on a scale of one to ten, based on originality, creativity, and execution. Afterward we'll auction them off to raise money for the North Fork Animal Welfare League, so we need to get the judging done by four at the latest. Harold Spitz and Maggie Stone are already making the rounds.”

Harold and Maggie were two others who had competed for the lot. Harold had wanted it for his flea market and Maggie, the head of Advocates for Animals, had wanted it for a new dog park. I'd seen them both the night before at the ball, and they weren't exactly friendly. I explained to Simon who they were.

He gave one of his dramatic sighs. “And I thought we were going to have some fun.”

“It's okay,” I said. “Just be cool, no fighting.”

“Something wrong?” Patty asked us.

“No, we're fine. Where should we start?”

Patty pointed to the artists and photographers set up near the fence that separated the park from Aldo's Café. “Why don't you begin over there? You can work your way around the green.”

“Will do,” I said, and we headed in that direction. “I hope Harold and Maggie aren't over there,” I said to Simon.

“I thought you were going to investigate,” he replied. “Maybe they know something.”

“You might be right,” I admitted. “Both of them knew Dr. White and wanted the land as much as he did. Talking to them might be a good idea.”

“See, I'm being helpful already.”

Simon needed constant reassurance and praise to be productive, so I said, “Right. Thanks, Simon.”

We made our way down the first row of booths. Every artist had three “walls” of plywood with mesh on top to display their work. Unfortunately, most of them had painted or photographed local boats, lighthouses, beaches, and fish, but without much imagination or sophistication. I gave most of the entries fours or fives.

“This stuff is awful,” Simon said, writing down his scores. “I'm giving them all a two, and that's being generous.” One of the artists turned to give him a sour look.

“Shhh,” I said. “We have to be diplomatic.” I
pointed to the row of artists whose booths were set up next to the water. “Let's head over there next.” It was becoming hotter, and I wanted to cool off with the sea breeze. I noticed that Joe Larson seemed very interested in a painting in the last booth on the right, so we started at the opposite end.

When we came out of the first booth, I saw several pirate ships heading into the harbor. “Look they're going to do their pirate show.” I pointed out the ships to Simon.

“What kind of show is it?”

“They do live reenactments with sword fights. They're even doing a treasure hunt for the kids.”

“What a kick! Let's check it out. It might inspire me. I'm thinking of writing and producing a movie about pirates. Kind of like
Pirates of the Caribbean,
but more of a historical piece, with a real pirate like Captain Kidd.”

“Chill, Johnny Depp.” I tapped my pen on the clipboard. “We need to do our judging.”

“Just a few minutes, okay?”

I said yes, because I really wanted to see it, too. We went over to the dock by Claudio's where they were landing. The place was packed. Pirates dressed in colorful garb docked the boats and then reenacted a fight, complete with swordplay and men overboard.

Meanwhile, the Thieves Market in the parking lot was doing a brisk business selling everything from pirate T-shirts to hats and plastic cutlasses.

My phone pinged and I looked at the text I'd received. It was from Jackson:

K & C still in garden. Nothing else new here. XO J.

I put the phone away and we continued watching the pirate show.

The fight now over, they descended onto the docks and began mingling with the crowd and giving away “pirate's booty”—aka candy—to the kids.

I nudged Simon, “We'd better get back. Patty might be looking for us.”

We headed back to the park, where I immediately noticed that Joe Larson was still planted in front of the same painting.

“Joe Larson is here,” I told Simon. “He's been looking at that painting for the past twenty minutes.”

“Good,” Simon said. “I have a few things I want to say to him.”

I grabbed his arm. “No, let's keep our distance.” I pointed to the booth farthest from Joe. “Let's go back over there. We need to stay focused.”

While we continued judging, I kept an eye on Joe Larson. He was still studying the painting, but when we were a few feet away, he spotted us, gave me an annoyed look, and moved off.

I couldn't wait to see the painting that Larson had been so interested in. But when I finally stepped in front of it, I couldn't figure out why Joe had been so riveted. The painting was unremarkable. The subject matter was a modest shop in a two-story green building. I recognized it at once. It was a store on Main Street, in Greenport, that sold cigars. Rumor had it that an apartment on the second floor was used as a men's club. The building was sandwiched between a cupcake store and a tea shop, and located a block from Claudio's restaurant, at the foot of Main Street overlooking Greenport
Harbor.

The painting Joe was so fascinated by wasn't particularly good or interesting. But there had to be some reason for his interest. I pulled my phone out of my purse and whispered to Simon, “Cover me.”

He looked at the painting. “You found a clue already? Great! What do you want me to do?”

“Just stand in front of me so no one can see, especially Joe Larson.”

Simon stepped around me and played lookout. “Okay, go for it.”

I took a few quick photos with my phone, sent them to Jackson, and slipped the phone back into my pocket just as the artist, a large burly guy with a beard, finished his conversation with a customer and came out of the booth. “You like that one, huh?” He pointed to the painting of the cigar store.

“Yes, it's . . . nice,” I said. “Does it have some personal significance for you?”

“Nah, I just like cigars. I've been going to that place forever. Actually, I painted it on commission for the owner, but after I finished, he said he didn't want it.”

I couldn't blame him. It was pretty dull for handmade art. Why was Joe Larson so fascinated by it? I thanked the artist, gave him a score of six, which was generous, and moved on to the next set of booths. On the way, Jackson texted me back:

Got pix, what is JL up to? K & C still here. J.

We spent the next hour judging the rest of the entries in the competition. Once we got into the groove, it became easier and, thankfully, the work got better. The photographers that I enjoyed the most
captured the essence of the town and the area, like the one who had created a set of images of the wetlands near Jackson's house in East Marion, or the one who focused on close-ups of local flora and fauna in the nature preserve.

I pointed to a photograph of a single conch shell lying on the beach, the sun setting on the water beyond. “I like this one. It's simple but it works.”

“I like the local landmarks best, maybe because I took the walking tour last week.” Simon pointed to a painting of the Floyd Memorial Library on North Street. “This was built in 1917 by Grace Floyd in memory of her father, Charles Gelston Floyd, the grandson of General William Floyd, and a signer of the Declaration of Independence. There's a lot of history in this town.”

“I guess I take it for granted.”

“That's natural. You're from here. It's my adopted hometown. Besides I like architecture and history.” He moved on to a painting of the Greenport jail in the historic commercial district, where he had been held last fall, and which featured barred windows and a brick exterior. “This I don't like. Too many bad memories, but you see this?” He pointed to the green light beside the front door. “It used to be called the Green Light Hotel because in the early days when someone was locked up, that light was turned on.”