The Garden Tour Affair: A Gardening Mystery (25 page)

I
T WAS A CHANGE OF SCENERY, AND
everyone needed it. Even the three-mile ride in the Litchfield Falls Inn van to Wild Flower Farm was a pleasure. For a moment, they could almost forget the sad events that had taken place in the past day.

The beleaguered guests were getting the gold-plated tour of the farm from the horticulturalist himself, a man in his sixties. On the back of his sunburned head he wore an old work hat that had seen plenty of New England weather. He gathered the group together in the
begonia greenhouse and patiently explained, probably for the thousandth time, how these lush beauties were propagated by cuttings. As he talked, his gentle hands fondled ‘Ninette,’ an apricot begonia from the Blackmore and Lang-dons strain of Bath, England. He was repeating what he had said for the WTBA-TV camera yesterday, so Louise fazed out the words and lost herself in the psychedelic beauty of the flower. She had already resolved to buy a ‘Ninette’ for her own shady garden.

She soon discovered she wasn’t the only one who wasn’t paying strict attention. Sandy and Mark Post were standing behind a half-wall, deep in their own conversation. She sidled over and tuned them in, pretending to study the begonias intently.

No, it was not a conversation. It was a quiet squabble. An upper-middle-class squabble. No yelling, crying, waving of arms, tipping over tables, or throwing a few dishes, which could vent some steam and possibly lead to a romantic reconciliation. This one was quiet and venomous, guaranteed to leave them both unhappier than when they started.

Sandy was a vibrant young woman, and Louise was almost embarrassed by the fact that she had read her so well. Sandy was dissatisfied sexually. There was no way to avoid that conclusion.

Louise watched the couple for a moment, and then walked slowly back to the cluster of listeners, so as not to be conspicuous. Their behavior only strengthened Louise’s far-out theory about Mark’s sexuality. Could Jeffrey Freeling have been his partner?

Even if Sandy Post knew this, a young woman with her background and pride would never divulge the information, probably not even to a close friend—probably not even to Louise’s seemingly guileless daughter, Janie, an expert at extracting confidences from people.

As her gaze wandered over the little crowd, Louise saw something even more upsetting than the quarrelsome
newlyweds. The Gasparras were missing. She decided instantly to try to find them, ducking out of the huge shed and into a faint Connecticut drizzle.

It took just a few steps for both her clothes and her sneakers to become soaked by the rain. She ignored her damp state, for she wanted to find the Gasparras quickly. Something told her Rod was asking for trouble. The first place she looked was in the building that stood two structures down from the begonia greenhouse, its door ajar. She peeked through the crack. Inside, tables were filled with neatly packaged plants awaiting shipping. And Rod and Dorothy were standing just inside. Practical people, they wore yellow slickers, rain hats, and black-and-yellow rubber shoes; unlike her, they were probably dry as toast. Since Rod had shoved his raincoat aside, Louise could see a bulge in his sports jacket pocket, and wondered half seriously whether he was carrying a handgun. He was talking angrily to a third person, his words spouting out with bitter abandon.

By moving her head closer to the crack, she was able to see the third person: Wild Flower Farm’s owner, Fenimore Smith. “My
dear
sir,” Smith was saying, in his cultured voice, one aristocratic eyebrow moving upward in apparent shock, “I take umbrage at your attitude …”

Louise had met the suave Mr. Smith yesterday. He ran the successful nursery as a hobby, only appearing here on weekends—otherwise busy in New York running a large publishing company. He was a tall man in his fifties with fine features and thick, salt-and-pepper hair. He was wearing a gray translucent slicker over a sweatshirt and chinos. A rakish Tilley canvas hat was set well back on his head. Right now, he had his hands pushed confidently into his coat pockets, and he was rocking back and forth on his deck shoes. His hooded eyes never left Gasparra’s face. Yesterday, Louise had felt the effect of those hooded eyes locked on hers: She interpreted it as a power move, New
York—style. A Washington mover and shaker, she thought, would not have been quite so “in-your-face.” He probably would have smiled a little, flattered a little, put a little spin on his words with the thought that someday he might run for office and would need the Gasparras’ vote.

Not Smith. “… and I can’t fathom what you are charging me with, since of course I have never obtained pollen illegally,” said the nursery owner, “any more than I would infringe on another grower’s patent, as you seem to be on mine.” His nose seemed to elevate a little, and Louise couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for the disadvantaged Gasparras, shorter, homelier, and less well-spoken.

Smith was tough native stock, like a wild rose, while Gasparra had been hybridized many times through unions of many nationalities. Ironic, she thought, that while in the plant world the hybridized one was prized above the native one, just the opposite was true in some circles of human beings.

“The development of the Sacred Blood iris is very clearly documented,” Smith continued. “We paid almost three hundred thousand dollars for that work. We have records of every step in the genetic-engineering process, including all costs for the research, which were, as I said, enormous. It’s true that many others attempted to approach the red quality that was finally achieved through the wonderful work of Dr. Freeling.”

He took a step closer to Gasparra and his wife. “I talked to him only yesterday morning, and he mentioned your charges, Mr. Gasparra, and said he told you there was recourse for you if you think we’ve stolen one of your irises for our research. But to come here, the very day after that great scientist died!” Smith slammed his palm down on the plain board table piled with plants. “Jeffrey was a man of impeccable honesty—God rest his soul. What a terrible accident it was that took his life. I couldn’t believe it when I heard it.”

The mention of Freeling’s accident gave her a chill, for Louise realized how easy it would have been for an angry individual like Rod Gasparra to shove Jeffrey off that mountain. After all, he had a twisted motive: revenge for fancied misdeeds on the part of the professor. And people with twisted motives sometimes did strange things. Maybe he had killed Jeffrey Freeling yesterday, and intended to complete his vengeance by killing Fenimore Smith today.

Smith made clear what Louise had always suspected. Gasparra didn’t have much of a case. At any rate, DNA tests could prove the matter, one way or another—so why would Freeling and Smith take a chance on stealing someone else’s plant material?

But Gasparra wasn’t finished. “My wife and I,” he said, “we’re the ones who spent years creating the bright red iris—genuine field-grown plants, not some fancy magic out of a laboratory. And then, someone came and stole our work from under our noses!”

“That’s true,” said Dorothy, in a strained voice.

“Improbable, my dear people. You were working with an iris
similar
, but not identical, to the Sacred Blood iris. My dear man, if you know iris, you know how profligate they are.” And he rolled his eyes, as if talking of a wanton woman.

“But now you will sell it for fifty dollars a plant, and receive royalties from anyone else who sells it!” Gasparra cried, desperation creeping into his voice.

Through the crack Louise could see Fenimore Smith advancing on Rod Gasparra. “Listen, Mr. Gasparra, or whatever your name is, you’ve got to prove it, you know, not just make the argument. Whatever your product, it was not the Sacred Blood iris. And furthermore, if you disbelieve me as you apparently disbelieved Dr. Freeling, then go see my lawyers. They’re in Manhattan. Be assured, however, you will pay the court costs when you lose.” Louise could see Smith rummaging in his shirt pocket for a pencil and a
scrap of paper; he was so confident, even arrogant, that he didn’t sense the danger in the man standing so near to him. “Here, I’ll even write their name down for you …”

At this, Gasparra’s temper exploded. “Why, you prissy son of a—” He shoved Smith just as his wife Dorothy tried to intervene.

“Rod, oh no, please—that’s enough!” she cried, but Rod was busy now, rummaging in his layers of coats and jackets and elbowing her rudely away. Metal glinted in the dim light. He
was
carrying a weapon.

Louise realized she had to act, and act now. She grabbed the shed door and slammed it open with a loud bang. Rod Gasparra froze with his clutched hand halfway out of his pocket. Louise strode over to Smith, nodding in a friendly fashion at the Gasparras on the way. “Hello, Fenimore,” she called jovially, as if she had just blown in out of the rain. “What a day! Too bad the weather isn’t better for your summer tea. I’m glad it wasn’t quite as dreary yesterday. It’ll make for a better show when it’s aired on television.”

She chattered on for a bit, then turned to acknowledge the Gasparras’ presence, taking special care to include them in the conversational group. She noted with relief that Rod had lowered his hand to his side. “Dorothy, Rod—is Mr. Smith giving you a special tour? Isn’t it wonderful here? It must be particularly interesting for fellow growers like yourselves to see how this place operates.”

Smith lifted a quizzical eyebrow, at a loss to know whether Louise was aware of what was going on. He was looking at Gasparra with a different expression, she noticed. Wary now, not believing he was totally safe even yet. Taking a cue from her, the nursery owner said, “Perhaps all of you would like to rejoin the tour, for alas, I must return to Manhattan tonight. Big meeting coming up tomorrow morning.”

“Let’s do that,” encouraged Louise, but Rod Gasparra didn’t move. He stared from under his heavy, dark brows at
Fenimore Smith. “You were going to write a name down for me,” he muttered. “Why don’t you do that now.”

“Be happy to,” said Smith. He rummaged again, and this time came up with a slip of paper on which he wrote a few words. He handed it to Gasparra. “And good luck to you. I mean that in the fairest way, Mr. Gasparra.” He turned to Dorothy and reached out his hand to her. Reflexively, hers came out to shake his. “It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Gasparra.”

Louise smiled benevolently. She avoided eye contact with the Wild Flower Farm owner, but she and Dorothy exchanged a quick look. Then the three of them left the shed.

Once outside, Louise took a deep breath and continued her charade. “I bet we’ll find the others in the Moon Garden. They’re serving tea there, under a tent.” In the distance, she could see the inn guests clustered near the all-white garden, now overflowing with white delphinium, achillea, phlox, and daisy. She wished she had been here in May, when the garden was overlayered with the white panicles of the wisteria. The Gasparras, with a rather beaten look about them, trudged across the wet meadow to join the group.

Louise went her own way, down a separate garden path, for she needed a moment by herself to think things out. Rod Gasparra didn’t act like a killer back there in the potting shed. Blustery, frustrated, yes. His vanity injured by losing the recognition that would be given to the creator of a bright red iris. But Louise had been able to stop the downward spiral that could have led to violence. If she hadn’t done so, probably the competent Dorothy would have. All in all, she was inclined to cross him off the list of those who might have done harm to Jeffrey Freeling. In Gasparra’s eyes, Fenimore Smith was the offensive SOB who was reaping the harvest, earning the acclaim of horticulturists and making the big profits. It was obviously not the aloof scientist, Jeffrey Freeling. So why would he have killed Jeffrey?

That still left Mark Post. Could he have killed Jeffrey—either because of some homosexual love affair, or as retaliation for the shame Mark endured when he was thrown out of NYU five years ago?