Mulch Ado About Nothing (8 page)

There were a few neat things in the garden when you studied it. A peculiar iron sculpture about four feet high that looked like a bunch of rusted airplane propellers gone awry caught her eye and whimsy.

A statue of a woman, nearly life-sized and graceful, was gently turning from copper to green. Morning glories had climbed her and wreathed her upturned head. Jane wondered if this was coincidental or a product of training them that way.

A stand of bachelor buttons in a deep, eye-watering blue stood solid and proud among a sprinkling of towering bright yellow cosmos with lovely ferny foliage. A tilted, broken wheelbarrow spilled out masses of pink geraniums.

It was, if nothing else, a messy garden with a lot of blighted areas among spots of true beauty.

She heard a little cough behind her and turned to see Charles Jones watching her. "Aren't you going to walk around and look?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I don't want to go home with ticks just to see a bunch of rubble."

“But sometimes rubble is good — in small doses. Look at that big piece of egg-and-dart molding among the pink petunias. That's a good combination," Jane persisted.

“It's okay, I guess. If you like that sort of clutter," he said, dismissing Jane's view.

Of course he would hate a garden like this, Jane thought. He was so tidy and crisp and somehow disgustingly clean. She assumed he was a bachelor who would consider sex to be messy and disorganized.

“Is it," she said, "that you dislike the garden, or Ursula, or both?"

“Both," he said without hesitation. "If I lived next door to this… mess, I'd complain to the city, put up a solid fence, or just move away. Gardens should be things of beauty and precision. Like Dr. Eastman's. Though I don't believe he is really the gardener there."

“Not high on the chaos theory, are you?" Jane said, trying to make it sound like a joke.

He just stared at her with confusion.

Shelley returned from her tour picking burrs off her slacks. "Interesting place," she said to Charles and Jane. "Can you see the waterfall from here?" She turned and peered back out into the yard. "No, I guess you can't. It's… interesting. A wall of clear violently colored marbles with tiny lights behind them here and there. The water absolutely shimmers over it. Ursula says she's done all this work entirely by herself."

“Obviously," Charles Jones said. If his face hadn't been so utterly bland, Jane would have sworn he was sneering.

The rest of the crowd was drifting back toward the patio. Geneva Jackson was smiling slightly, shaking her head in apparent disbelief. Stefan Eckert was trying to pull an especially clingy vine with thorns off his golf shirt. Arnold Waring simply looked stunned, and Miss Martha was grin- ning as she made scribbles in a notebook. Maybe she was the only one besides Jane who saw interesting things about Ursula's garden.

When everyone started thanking Ursula for the tour, however insincerely, she exclaimed, "Oh, but you haven't seen — or heard — everything yet. It's a proven fact that plants thrive on music. Wait here.”

She dashed into the house, and a moment later, there was a blast of noise. Not music.

“I know it doesn't sound terribly nice together," Ursula said, reemerging from her house. She had to bellow to be heard. "But different plants need different kinds of music. Perennials, for the most part, prefer opera. I can't imagine why, but after long experimentation, I realized it's their favorite. The cornflowers and the hostas like marches. You wouldn't think they had that in common, would you? They're not the least like each other.”

Everybody just gawked. Only Arnold Waring, holding a cupped hand behind his right ear, was making a serious polite effort to hear what she was saying.

“And the columbines love rock music," it sounded as if she was saying.

“We'll assemble in class tomorrow morning," Dr. Eastman screamed at the group, "and discuss hybridizing. Then go… where, Mrs. Nowack?"

“To Miss Winstead's garden and Mr. Jones's," Shelley shouted, consulting her schedule.

As they escaped the noise and headed for thefront yard, Ursula caught up with Jane. "Where are you off to?" Ursula asked.

Jane, who felt honor-bound to let the others go first instead of having her hold them back, was ready with an invented errand. "Another meet- ing.”

“All three of you?"

“It's a library thing," Miss Winstead, who was just in front of Jane, said over her shoulder. "And we're already late. Jane, get in the van so we can go. Ms. Appledorn, I've enjoyed your garden immensely. It's clear that you love it.”

They sped off before Ursula could invite herself along, and left her smiling at them.

When they reached the Chinese restaurant they'd selected, a woman customer who was opening the door held it for Jane. "What did you do to yourself?" she asked, as Jane narrowly missed cracking the stranger's ankle with the left crutch.

“Just a hang-gliding accident," Jane said. "Bad landing, I'm afraid."

“How fascinating. You landed on your foot, I guess."

“No, actually a tree broke my fall, but I got the foot caught in a crotch of the tree and had to hang there upside down for ages before someone got me down."

“I can't wait to tell my husband this," the woman said. "He thinks hang gliding sounds like fun."

“Elephants, now hang gliding," Shelley muttered as they took a table.

“But she enjoyed the story," Jane said. "I hate to disappoint people.”

Miss Martha smiled broadly. "I admire your imagination. How did you really do it?"

“Tripped over a curbing," Jane admitted. "At Julie Jackson's house."

“What were you doing there? Are you friends of hers?"

“We barely know her," Shelley explained. "Some flowers for her were accidently delivered to Jane, who has the same address but a different street name, and we were taking them over to where they belonged.”

They ordered their drinks and looked over the list of what was on today's buffet. Shelley asked Miss Winstead if she knew Julie Jackson.

“Not well," Miss Winstead said. "Years ago she occasionally did some research at the library, but most often, I suppose, she used the university facilities. I haven't laid eyes on her for years. Now research is at the tip of the fingers for anyone who knows how to search the Internet. Especially for scientific or government publications."

“What, exactly, is her job?" Shelley asked.

“She's a microbiologist, it says in the brochure for the class," Jane said. "Do either of you know what that is?”

Neither Shelley nor Miss Winstead could define the job.

“What did Geneva tell you about Ms. Jackson's condition?" Jane asked Shelley.

“Not much to report. Stable, but not improving noticeably."

“That sounds like a bad thing," Jane said. "If she were going to improve, I'd think they'd see some progress by now.”

Shelley shook her head. "Her sister said it was normal considering the blow. The brain just needs to rest awhile, she thinks. They've done all sorts of tests — X rays and sonograms and such — and there doesn't seem to be a blood clot or increased swelling. Geneva says this is a good sign."

“Miss Winstead…?" Jane said hesitantly. "You seemed to be indicating earlier that you were related to Dr. Eastman and not happy about it. Would it be too nosy to ask why?"

“Not at all. I wouldn't have said anything if I considered it a secret. I knew him when we were both young and in college. We dated for a while, but it wasn't a match made in heaven, as they say. I was too smart and independent even then for him. But the last event we attended together was a big family dinner at my grandmother's. My cousin Edwina was there. People were always mistaking us for each other, we looked so much alike. Edwina was the dearest girl. Not quite as simple-minded as single-minded. She wanted nothing of life but to be a wife and mother. Not at all like me or young women today. Very old-fashioned."

“You were fond of her," Jane said.

“I was. I couldn't understand or agree with Edwina's thinking, but admired her sense of know- ing her purpose in life. I was still trying to figure out whether I wanted to be Amelia Earhart or Eleanor Roosevelt or Joan of Arc. She was perfect for Stewart Eastman. We were both pretty girls, but he wanted a compliant, domestic wife, not a bright one. They were married a year after they met.”

She paused and drew a breath. "Let's get our food and I'll tell you the rest while we eat, if you're interested." She scooted out of the booth and went to look over the food. Shelley handed Jane her crutches and said under her breath, "I don't think this is going to be a story of unrequited love. Come along and show me what you want and I'll fill your plate."

“Why? The plate, I mean."

“Have you not noticed yet that you have both hands busy with the crutches? Were you planning to walk around with the plate on your head?”

The three
women came
back to the table with Y their first course of appetizers. Jane had loaded up on crab Rangoon, Shelley on egg rolls, and Miss Winstead on a single spring roll, which she ate with generous dollops of hot mustard that didn't even cause her eyes to water the slightest bit. The first time Jane had tried this restaurant's mustard, she'd wept, and choked, nearly fainted, and couldn't taste anything for three days afterward.

Since she was the first to finish, Miss Winstead went on with her story. "Edwina was the perfect wife for Stewart for a couple years. He wasn't the perfect husband, though. She desperately wanted children. He told her they couldn't afford to raise a family on his meager teaching salary while he was getting his advanced degrees. After four or five years, he had his doctorate and was near the top of his field.

“In the academic world, this meant lots of politicking. Buttering up his betters, entertaining lavishly, and intellectually shining. And Edwina ceased to be of any use to him. She didn't speak the same language as the faculty wives. Her interests were baking and cleaning, not social climbing and back-biting. She was sweet, but rather dim, I have to admit."

“Poor girl," Jane said. "How did she cope?"

“She didn't have to," Miss Winstead said with a catch in her voice. "I don't think she ever realized he considered her a liability instead of an asset. She became ill with ovarian cancer. A death sentence in those days. Stewart delivered the divorce papers to her while she was still dopey after the surgery.”

Jane nearly spit out her food with outrage. "NO!”

Several other diners turned to look at them.

“Yes," Miss Winstead said softly. "She lasted only a week longer. She'd simply lost her entire will to live."

“How can you bear to be around the man?" Shelley asked.

“It's revenge, I'm afraid. I turn up every time he speaks anywhere in the area. I take notes and hunt down errors to correct the next time he speaks. I owe it to Edwina, poor dear girl, to avenge her. I remind him of her and his cruel treatment every time I show up. Merely by showing up. You must think I'm a real old harridan."

“Not at all. If something like that happened to someone I loved, I'd hope I have the wit and ability to remind them for the rest of their miserable life," Shelley said passionately.

Miss Winstead brightened up and said, "Let's get the rest of our food.”

When they were seated again, Shelley asked, "Do you know about the others in the class as well?"

“Some of them. Librarians often see only one side of patrons. The side that shows their private interests or their business needs. Ursula Appledorn is a frequent visitor. She apparently doesn't have a very good computer at home, or doesn't want to pay for a provider. She comes to the library to use ours and prints a lot of stuff out. Overall, it's more expensive for her to do it that way."

“Conspiracy stuff?" Jane asked. "Has she told you about the Denver airport?"

“Endlessly," Miss Winstead said. "It's her favorite one. The actual books she takes out on loan are usually about herbal cures, gardening, or dogs, and for fiction, she reads romances."

“Romances? That doesn't seem in character, somehow.”

Miss Winstead shrugged. "Few people are really as one-sided as you think on slight acquaintance, I guess."

“What does she live on?" Shelley asked. "Does she have a job?"

“I have no idea," Miss Winstead said.

“Maybe she still baby-sits the elderly," Jane contributed. "And she said something about one of her old ladies leaving her a legacy. Maybe it was a really big one."

“What about Arnold Waring?" Shelley moved down the list.

“I don't know much about him. His wife was a dear, helpless little woman who came to the library at least once a week. She read practically every mystery story that came in. She especially liked anything to do with firefighters."

“why?" "Her husband had been one before he retired.

They had no children, she said, and really appeared to live for each other. He'd drive her every week, would carry her books she was returning, and stand by the door to wait, and carry the new ones out. As if she were a delicate flower who couldn't carry them herself. It really was nice. Such a surly-looking, hulking man, taking such good care of his wife."

“When did she die? He mentioned her in class in the past tense," Jane said.

Miss Winstead thought for a while. "Maybe five years ago. Possibly four. I imagine he was devastated."

“And Stefan Eckert?" Jane asked.

“I know very little about him, although we've worked together over the years. He's an assistant to the man who runs the community relations at the junior college, and always full of ideas to pull the public into taking an interest and supporting the school. He often consults with me when he bags a big name, so the librarycan get the author's books in before the activity.

Jane said, "He told us he was the head of community relations."