Mulch Ado About Nothing (10 page)

“Last month it was only tofu and veggies, wasn't it? Speaking of which, what did you think of Ursula's garden?" Jane asked.

“I hate to admit this, but there were things I liked. If the marble fountain had been clear blue marbles instead of garish colors and maybe foil behind it, it would have been a knockout. I've been thinking of trying to find someone to make me one."

“Wish I'd seen it. I liked the statues. Especially the elegant lady in copper. And I think Miss Winstead admired some of the yard herself. I saw her taking notes."

“You seemed uneasy with Miss Winstead toward the end of lunch," Shelley said.

“I'd said too much of what Mel told us. I felt guilty about shooting off my mouth. Then a little alarmed when she wanted me to keep her up on what other theories he was coming up with."

“That was peculiar of her, come to think of it. And so was her opinion that we thought Ms. Jackson's attacker was someone in the class.”

Jane was silent for a long moment. "But — what if it was?”

“
why
would it make any sense that the attacker was one of the class?" Shelley asked.

She and Jane were getting hungry smelling the roast cooking and had gone outside to sit on Jane's patio. The heavy rains predicted for the rest of the day had stopped and it was cool and damp and reasonably comfortable outdoors.

“It could be one of them, I guess," Jane said, looking sadly at her backyard. Max and Meow were sitting side by side, studying the field behind the house for signs of movement. If another developer built houses there instead of going bankrupt before even starting, the cats would be bereft. The grass needed mowing, and there was a permanent path in a semicircle where Willard had been running back and forth for years from gate to gate, barking his fool head off at the mailman. There were even some dead leaves of tulips Jane had never gotten around to gathering up and disposing of. Her yard was really a disgrace.

“But it could be anyone else as well," Shelley argued. "Someone in her family, her profession, maybe a neighbor she'd had a falling-out with. For that matter, it could be a complete stranger, or a drug-crazed lunatic who was randomly testing back doors for one that was open."

“The lunatic would have stolen what was on the ground floor and fled," Jane said.

“Maybe or maybe not," Shelley argued, mainly for the purpose of arguing. "If he heard somebody moving around in the basement, he might have gone straight down and attacked Ms. Jackson for no reason whatsoever. Someone seriously into drugs might have thought that was a good idea."

“I suppose with enough drugs, anybody might think anything is a good idea," Jane responded, but wasn't considering the theory seriously and she doubted Shelley was either.

Shelley said, "What if it was Dr. Eastman who attacked her?”

Jane turned to look at her. "What would be the point of that?”

Shelley shrugged. "His name just came to mind because he's the instructor who replaced her. Maybe he has a crazy need to publicize himself and his marigolds.”

Jane replied, "I'm sure he, like Julie, is asked to give a lot of talks to groups. Probably more than he wants to do. And the marigolds aren't even on sale for a couple more years, he said."

“I was thinking about what Miss Winstead said about him.”

Jane thought a moment. "Do you suppose her version is the whole truth?"

“I wondered that as well," Shelley admitted. "But Eastman is obviously a man determined to get ahead. Promote himself. Make lots of money. Maybe what he really wants is fame."

“He is a difficult man to like. But I don't think any of these theories hold water.”

Shifting gears, Shelley asked, "Mel hasn't been around much, has he?"

“He's busy with three different cases at once," Jane said. "He's been calling me at intervals, but I haven't actually laid eyes on him for a couple days."

“Has he told you anything more about Julie Jackson?"

“He's being silent as the grave about it. Says things are coming along in the investigation.”

Shelley took a sip of her iced tea she'd brought along in a big, remarkably ugly purple plastic carafe. "Doesn't want us meddling in a neighborhood crime?”

Jane nodded. "I guess so. But we've been so much help to him before, you'd think he'd appreciate our skills," she said with a wry smile.

The door of a vehicle slammed in Shelley's driveway and she got up, saying, "Just a minute. I'll be back.”

It was actually fifteen minutes before Shelley got back, saying, "That was the garden place." "What garden place?"

“The one where your Mike works. I called them out to spruce up my yard."

“Shelley!" Jane exclaimed. "That's cheating! The class is coming to our yards the same day. You're going to show off and make me look even worse."

“You could have thought of it," Shelley said calmly. "Come see what they've done.”

The formerly rather bland backyard had two young men mowing and using a Weed Eater around the edges of the lawn. A multitude of gorgeous plants in planters of every variety were sitting around the edge of the patio. A replica of an old-fashioned wooden wheelbarrow was full of yellow nasturtiums; a large watering can spilled out purple petunias. There was a cupid statue surrounded by little pots of lobelia, and about ten of those fake pottery pots that look real were scattered artfully about. From one pot sprouted a trellis covered with a coral wild rose. Tall spikes of veronica were next to the rose, and there was a huge pot of dark red sunflowers the color of good burgundy. Verbena was tucked in between, filling the gaps between the large pots.

Jane gaped at the transformation. "You — you! You don't even know what most of this is. How are you going to take care of this?"

“Easy. I just water for a couple days and when the garden tour is over, these nice boys come back and take it all away."

“You
RENTED
a garden?"

“Why not? It wasn't all that expensive. And it was easy. One plant catalog and one phone call." Jane glared at her friend. "I was just going to send Mike out with the pooper-scooper and a lawn mower the night before, and keep the cats inside so they didn't leave mangled chipmunks on the patio. I even considered getting a tablecloth for the patio table and a little arrangement of flowers from the grocery store. And you go and re-create the Biltmore gardens for yourself. I call that cheating. I really do.”

Shelley brushed this insult off. "As I say, anyone could have thought of it.”

Jane made a raspberry noise.

“Mrs. Nowack," one of the workers asked, "do you want your shrubs trimmed?”

Shelley made a flighty gesture and said, "Yes. Soldier on, my good man.”

Jane clumped home and took another critical look at her yard, noting the bug-chewed white petunias in the south corner, the straggling butterfly bush that had never bloomed, the stingy little marigolds. Then she went inside and called the nursery where Mike worked. Maybe since she was the mother of an employee, they'd give her a discount.

She was hardly off the phone when, a moment later, the doorbell rang. It was Arnold Waring holding a square pan with foil over it.

“Come in… Arnie," Jane said, remembering that he'd asked the class to call him that.

“Ms. Appledorn was telling me today about the awful food she brought you." He paused. "I hope you didn't like it, but maybe it
was
to your taste."

“Not my taste at all. I threw it all away. Though she meant well.”

He looked relieved to hear this. "Well, I got home and took to thinking that it might be nice to have something better around. These are brownies from my wife's recipe file. Where would you like me to put them?"

“You made them yourself?" Jane said, leading him to the kitchen and indicating the counter.

“Oh, Miss Jeffry, I have to cook for myself. Never cooked for one person until Darlene passed on. But I used to cook for a gang at the fire station before I retired. At least twice a week now, I go to Darlene's little recipe box. She was such a good cook. It makes me feel — well, a little bit as if she's still with me. In spirit, anyway."

“That's sweet of you," Jane said. "I'm sure she knows. you're doing that and is pleased.”

Suddenly he was bustling back to the front door. Speaking over his shoulder, he said, "Mustn't keep you. Just thought you might like the brownies.”

Jane followed him, thanking him, but he was gone.

Jane and her daughter were finishing a late dinner. Mike hadn't returned and Jane was wondering wildly if Mike and Kipsy had eloped. He was usually very good at letting his mother know where he was. Well… he was that way when he was in high school. A year of college had apparently put this courtesy out of his mind.

Ursula had called and said she was on the way with more food, and Jane said she was already putting her dinner on the table, and Ursula believed it even though it was only four-thirty when she called.

Katie was still speaking with a fake French accent, and Jane pretended not to notice. "The French, they would never use a plastic bag to cook meat. They use fine parchment paper," Katie commented.

“All of them?" Jane said sarcastically. "Katie, you were only in Paris with rich friends. And I doubt you got to go in the kitchen of the restaurants."

“But we did." Katie reverted momentarily to plain English. "Jenny's dad had gone to culinary school when he was young, and he always asked to see the kitchen before we ordered.”

Jane was appalled. "Jenny's dad is a banker. Culinary was twenty years in his past, and I remember him telling me it made him gain weight and he quit after the first year and took business courses. And what's more, 'nice' people from America don't insist on seeing the kitchens of restaurants. It's a wonder you weren't all thrown out.”

The argument was put on hold when Mel rang the front doorbell. Katie flounced to the hall and let him in, saying in bored tones, "She's in the kitchen criticizing my friends." She continued the flounce clear upstairs where she turned her radio on full blast.

Mel came in the kitchen smiling. "Who are you raking over the coals now?"

“No one you know," Jane said with a grin. "Sit down. There are tons of leftovers. I'll bet you haven't had dinner."

“Or lunch for that matter. Thanks.”

Jane had learned early on that you didn't try to talk to Mel when he was hungry. If he answered at all, it was merely "uh-huh" or "no." But she was anxious to pick his mind about Julie Jackson. She sat patiently as he ate four slices of the roast, and two helpings of potatoes and gravy, and passed on the broccoli au gratin.

While he was making inroads on the leftovers, she told him about Shelley renting plants. "It wasn't fair. Our yards are on the same day and it would make me look like a piker."

“But you've got more sense than to do a silly thing like that," he managed to say between bites.

“Not exactly…" Jane said softly. "Mine are coming tomorrow afternoon. And I even got a water feature to one-up her. It's only a little birdbath waterfall that I wanted anyway and actually bought outright."

“Is it the broken foot that's making you so competitive? Or something else?" Mel asked, setting down his silverware at last and really looking at Jane.

She looked at him for a long time. "It's more. And stupider. See, I've never broken any bone. It makes me feel as if I'm suddenly vulnerable and — well, getting older."

“But you might as well have broken your foot when you were eight or nine and you wouldn't have felt that way. I broke my arm about that age, and I thought it was sort of neat and made me stand out in the crowd, as I remember. Everybody breaks something, sometime. You've just been lucky."

“Yes, but there's a difference between eight and forty-something. And it reminds me, too, that I'm older than you.”

Mel looked genuinely stunned. "When has that
ever
mattered? It's only a couple of years and you've aged far better than I have.”

Jane got teary and reached across the table, putting her hands to his cheeks. "I sometimes forget what a good man you are.”

Mel took one of her hands and kissed the palm, grinning. "You just want to pry information out of me, don't you?"

“NO! I wasn't even thinking of that. But now that you mention it—"

“Let's go sit in the living room where you'd be more comfortable, then.”

When Mel had gallantly seated Jane and put sofa pillows behind her back and was assured she was comfortable, he sat down and took her plastered leg on his lap and said, "Frankly, we're getting nowhere fast with the Jackson case. Too many suspects, too little evidence."

“What suspects?" Jane asked, glancing around for something long she could stick down her cast to scratch an itch on the back of her leg. She set- tied on an emery board she found in the side table.

“Lots of men. Dr. Jackson was quite the socialite. She'd married young, twice in a row, then went off men as marriage partners, apparently. But she had quite a social life. She was on all sorts of high-tone charity boards and went to lots of fancy dinners. Always with an escort. Her bankbook and closet are both things you'd envy. Lots of money and lots of very elegant clothes." He took the emery board away from her. "You don't want to do that."

“What about the ex-husbands?"

“No go. One was at a business meeting in Hong Kong and the other was on vacation with his third wife and four children in Martha's Vineyard. Lots of creditable witnesses. And both exes expressed what sounded like genuine sorrow that she'd been injured and asked if there was anything they could do for her."

“What about the other men? The ones that wine and dine her at the charity dinners?"

“It's quite a list. And they're all successful men who are at the top of their fields and know how to keep their heads when questioned by the police. They all also expressed their concern and sounded quite sincere. Her hospital room would be crammed with flowers and fruit baskets if they were allowed in the intensive care area.”