Summerkill (5 page)

“I kind of figured. Why don’t we sit in the living room— it’s reasonably cool.” And it afforded the best vantage point from
which to keep an eye on whatever else they were doing downstairs.

I got first pick, choosing the sofa for its field of view. Joe promptly settled into the only nearby chair, and Roxy trotted
over to sniff him. I could see he didn’t appreciate that, but she hung in there. Why do dogs work hardest to win over the
people who would always rather they weren’t around?

The sheriff opted to stand. “You said this morning,” he began, “that you and Ryan Jessup didn’t get along, professionally.
That seems to have been an understatement.”

Joe took over. “At the Garden Center they told us you two got into a big fight several weeks ago. At one point you yelled
at him—” He paused to consult a pocket notebook. “This is the quote they gave me: ‘You’d better watch it! I’ve had about enough
of your shit.’ Did you say that?”

“As I recall, I said ‘back off,’ not ‘watch it.’”

“Back off from what?” the sheriff wanted to know. “Ryan had outlined their game plan for the rest of the season. I didn’t
like the way I fitted in. Or his threat to take me to court if I didn’t agree to do what he wanted.”

“He had the authority to assign work to you, though?”

“Yes and no. He had authority to speak for the Garden Center, but I’m an independent contractor. Each season we have to agree
on terms—hours, compensation, responsibilities, a whole laundry list of items. I can show you the contract. What he had in
mind was, in my opinion, in violation of that contract.”

“Yet Ryan thought the Garden Center was the party with grounds for a lawsuit.”

“Or he was just trying to intimidate me. My lawyer told me not to worry about it.”

“Yesterday you were overheard telling Willem Etlinger he was running out of time to work something out. Why?”

“The ‘something’ I said he needed to work out was ongoing supervision of the landscaping at Hudson Heights. New plantings
do not take care of themselves, and beyond programmed watering, the staff over there can’t be expected to do much. I only
agreed to get things into the ground, which I’ve done. Willem is aware I’ll consider myself quits with the Garden Center as
soon as I finish up at Mariah Hansen’s garden— that should be by Labor Day. He’s on record as wanting me to stay on, but I’ve
never seriously expected him to ‘work something out’ there. The sides are too far apart and he doesn’t have the clout.”

“Aren’t you looking at a hefty financial penalty for leaving, though? Two months of unemployment in a profession that has
a very short year. And I understand your contract contains a performance bonus, contingent upon your finishing the season.”

I walked him through it. “That bonus is based on signed and installed landscapes, which I’ll have done exactly one of this
year. Mostly I was supervising the Hudson Heights installation. The forfeit would not be significant.”

“There’s still the two months’ lost employment.”

“Not really. I never give exclusive rights to my services. On my own time last year I did a small garden down in Platteville
with Jake Southeby. The grower whose nursery’s just south of Clarksburg? We have another planting set to go this fall and
can probably pick up at least one more with my time freed up. At a nicer profit margin than the Garden Center can offer.”

“What about the emotional penalty?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your relationship with Willem Etlinger?”

“Willem and I are colleagues and close friends. I’m sure I’ll miss working with him. This is not a romance from either of
our points of view, if that’s what you meant.”

“Several people have suggested otherwise. From your point of view, at least.”

“Well, now, they’d certainly know better than I would.”

This time it was definitely a smile he suppressed. “What we found disturbing, asking around, is the overall reputation you
have for being a person with a hot temper. Whatever you might have meant, it sounded to some of the people present at that
meeting as if you were physically threatening Ryan Jessup.”

I shrugged, all too used to that interpretation. “I have a mouth and a fine working vocabulary. That’s the only kind of tearing
into people I do.”

For a while there, Joe had been looking about ready to pounce. “I wonder if your stepfather would agree?”

It must really have been dump-on-Val morning over at the old Garden Center. “You’re referring to an incident of domestic violence
that happened when I was a thirteen-year-old minor. It is not a matter of public record, and I do not discuss it. Unless you
want to count basketball games, I bowed out of violent situations, domestic or otherwise, before I graduated high school.”

“This incident of domestic violence did involve a stabbing, right?” he persisted.

I remained silent.

“The thing is, it establishes a precedent.” Joe seemed pleased. A few men are turned on by my size; most seem to find it mildly
intimidating. Then there are those who take personal offense. The way he came on, Joe was not hard to categorize. “I mean,
we can make an argument for stabbing being your preferred type of assault. Here’s a guy who’s giving you a hard time, to the
point it figures to put a damper on your love life, maybe get you in legal trouble. He ends up dead on your front lawn, with
your pruner sticking out of his chest.”

“You’re suggesting I lured Ryan out here, stabbed him with my pruner, left the body lying in my front yard, and then pretended
to find it? I don’t know anybody dumb enough to describe that as a plan.”

“Maybe you didn’t plan it.”

“Oh, right. We’re talking something more in keeping with my fiery temperament. So, Ryan comes out here for whatever reason,
we get into an argument, I end up stabbing him. Why would I be standing around after dark holding a long-handled pruner?”

“Maybe you were inside, you thought you heard a prowler, you picked up something to defend yourself with. And how do you know
this happened when it was dark?”

“It was already dark when the boys and I got home last night. The blood had mostly dried by the time I found the body—it’s
hard to believe a couple hours in the early morning would be enough for that, especially with the dew. And try this on for
an ‘I didn’t do it’ bottom line: My nine-year-old nephew is normally the one who takes the garbage out to the road Thursday
mornings. It wasn’t my idea he didn’t today— he got up grouchy and refused. We snapped at each other about it; I cut off his
TV for tonight. Whatever else you want to think about me, you had better believe this: no way in the world would I have left
that body lying there for Alex to find.”

I might not have convinced Joe, but temporary verbal blackout seemed worth a little something. “Let’s be more specific about
last night,” the sheriff said, ending the silence. “You got home around a quarter to nine and then what—sat around watching
television till one
A.M.
?”

“Until a little after ten I fiddled with a garden design on my computer. Then I came out and watched the rest of that Schwarzenegger
movie and the
Tonight Show
with the boys.”

“Came out?” He looked puzzled. “Your computer’s in the dining room. I can see it from here.”

“That’s the all-purpose computer the boys are allowed to use. I have another in my bedroom dedicated to landscaping work.”

This revived Joe. “Your bedroom is where?”

“Through that door the other two men came out of a couple of minutes ago.”

Joe considered the logistics. “When you were in there, the boys couldn’t see you, right? Or did you leave the door open?”

“Too noisy. They popped in several times, asking when I’d be finished. You know kids.”

“They only bugged you during commercials, though, if they’re like my kids. Which would give you several ten-minute spreads
to work with. Is there any way out of your bedroom except that door?”

“There’s another door into the bathroom, but if you mean out of the house, that wouldn’t help. In desperation you could use
one of the windows.”

“Can we go take a look?”

Sheriff Dye was less interested. “I don’t think we need to bother right now, Joe.”

“Hey, you never know.”

He led the way. My growing antipathy toward Joe included the supposition that he considered casing women’s bedrooms one of
the perks of the job. He’d be disappointed in mine—it’s distinctly spartan. “Decent-sized windows,” he observed, looking around.
“I’ll bet you could fit through one of those. Want to try it for us?”

“No, thank you.”

“If I can make it through, would you agree you probably could?”

Even eight months pregnant, you turkey, I thought, staring pointedly at his beer belly. “Sure.”

“Mind if I check it out, then?”

“Up to you.”

I watched closely, arms folded; the sheriff looked on with a mildly disinterested expression as Joe cleared the top of the
built-in shelves, hoisted himself up, raised the window and screen, and easily slipped through. “Jesus Christ!” we heard an
instant later. Thrashing around in the shrubbery noises gave way to the harsh punctuation of receding footsteps.

“Barberry hedge,” I explained to the sheriff’s raised eyebrows. “Many, many thorns. Anybody wants to enter or leave my bedroom,
I like them to use the door.”

He shook his head. “It was the wrong time frame, anyhow.”

“Can we talk time frames? When do you think Ryan Jessup was killed?”

“Dr. McCartny’s ballpark estimate is a pretty big spread,” he said cautiously.

“I’ll put it another way. As I told you this morning, I want my nephews’ involvement in all this kept to a minimum. If having
you talk to them about last night can give me a definitive alibi, then I want you to set that up. It seems to me the arrangements
should be in place by one-thirty when the rec program lets out, so there’s no possibility I could influence what they’re going
to say. If that sort of thing would be of doubtful use, I’d rather not put them through it.”

“Your ‘definitive’ makes it a hard call. The ballpark started out as eight
P.M.
to three
A.M.
We’ve already been able to chop some time off the front. Ryan Jessup was at a Rotary meeting until a little before nine.
He gave one of the older members a ride home, mentioned he was going to stop at Stewarts for something to eat. Which he did.
Probably left there by nine-thirty. His stomach contents, some other tests if they’re consistent, should shrink those remaining
five and a half hours. Enough for your purposes? Not that I can promise. If you want my recommendation, it wouldn’t hurt to
go for the best documentation you can get.”

Because it was looking like I’d need it? I tucked my hands inside my still folded arms to hide the sudden shaking. It passed
quickly. Assuming those medical tests were worth spit, I had reason to believe that time frame would roll back far enough.
I unfolded my arms. “Let’s set something up.”

O
ur discussion of who, where, and protocols was seriously bogging down when Donna arrived and took charge. I don’t understand.
When I tell a man what to do, like as not I get called a five-letter word—not to my face but they make sure I can hear it.
When Donna tells a man what to do, he says “Yes, ma’am.” Maybe she evokes memories of the first no-nonsense teacher they encountered
in school? With her severely styled gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses she looks the part.

There were to be four adults present: Donna, who was familiar to the boys from the guardianship proceedings; Sheriff Dye;
Arlene Judson, Galen’s first-grade teacher at North Patroon Central—it hadn’t been an altogether happy pairing, but she was
practiced at redirecting his verbal ramblings; and the deputy in the department who specialized in juvenile matters. Donna
and the deputy would pick the boys up at the town park in her car when the rec program let out and take them to the primary
school guidance room, a setting not unfamiliar to either. The proceedings would be taped, but inconspicuously; the boys were
not to be told.

My main uneasiness about the setup was on Alex’s behalf. For starters, he’d wonder what he’d done wrong this time. But obviously
the boys couldn’t be told in advance why all the questions, nor could my absence be explained. Sheriff Dye thought there’d
be too many distractions if they tried to hold the interview at the house, and he was probably right. I was adamantly opposed
to having the boys hauled in to his office. The school setting was the best compromise we could think of.

Still, however hard the adults might try, the atmosphere would have to feel at least a little threatening. Galen might be
too happy having an audience to pick up on it; he hasn’t much of a nose for trouble. Alex’s works all too well.

So, reluctantly, I sent Donna and Sheriff Dye off to put things in motion and geared myself to wait, an activity for which
I am miserably suited. Ten minutes in anybody’s reception room, I’m glowering; I know better than to get in long lines, no
matter what’s at the end of them. Killing time is not one of my major skills, either, or just hanging out. Until the boys
came, there wasn’t a TV in the house, and my toes can stay covered when it comes to counting how many times I’ve been the
one to turn it on. Last night had required dedicated internal lecturing to sit there so long. Alex, who was using my thigh
for a pillow as he fell in and out of sleep, kept complaining I wiggled too much. By the time we went to bed both legs were
tingly as hell. So was my brain.

Which was the reason I was pretty sure Ryan hadn’t been killed between one and three
A.M.
In most people’s opinion, my house faces backwards: its effective front looks toward the creek rather than the road. In the
living room, watching television, we were the width of the house plus several hundred feet from where the body ended up. At
that distance, under cover of action movie noise, a lot could have happened without us noticing. My bedroom, though, does
have a window that faces the road, and last night it had been wide open. I could not fall asleep until nearly three. If there
had been anything unusual to hear I should have been able to. I couldn’t remember Roxy barking once the whole time.