The Garden Tour Affair: A Gardening Mystery (9 page)

“Failures,” finished Louise.

“Yes, failures,” said Fiona coolly. Then, with a lift of her magnificent chin, the woman signified she was done. Frank picked up the promotional pitch again, talking about their plans for a fourth school. Putting on her most interested face, Louise let her attention wander to the riveting discussion at the next table.

In a quick, sideways glance, she saw three dominant faces, highlighted by the hurricane lamp as if in a picture by Rembrandt. Barbara Seymour looked serene and happy: Tonight, she must be particularly grateful just to be alive.
The light touched dramatically on Jim’s angular features and Neil Landry’s bland countenance and perfect hair. Stephanie Landry and Grace Cooley were leaning back in their chairs, their faces outside the halo of light.

The conversation was a verbal thrust and parry: the two men and the timid Stephanie against Barbara Seymour. Grace was silent. Louise heard something, about a development. Something about how the waterfall would enhance the property so that profits would be “at the maximum.” Something about acting “
now
,”

“…an idea we’re throwing out for discussion, but with a pressing time frame …” Jim was saying.

“…a plan Stephanie and Jim and I have developed over the years, when you no longer want to go to all the trouble to run this place,” said Neil.

“…no terrible need for new housing that
I’ve seen
” she heard Barbara reply.

“… perfect for when you need to quit all this work … and one of the homes, a prime home, just for you,” said Stephanie.

“… still thinking of turning it over to the Connecticut Trust for Historic Preservation,” said Barbara.

Dead silence from the others.

Louise didn’t need much more to realize that this property, with its magnificent acreage, was being discussed as a site for a new housing development—or, alternatively, for remanding to the state of Connecticut. It was quite apparent that Jim Cooley, as well as Neil and Stephanie, favored development over deeding the property to the state government—prosperity over posterity. She hadn’t heard Grace utter an opinion, one way or the other.

No one but an aging woman stood between these heirs and a rich haul of money.

Now the niggly little suspicion in Louise’s mind had substance: There was a motive for that stair carpet to have been loosened with malicious forethought. And since
the incident, Jim Cooley had treated Neil like a misbehaving schoolboy. But now Neil was back in the bosom of the family. Maybe Jim simply needed Neil to be on his side in this debate over the disposition of the mansion. It sounded like a moment when all family votes would be counted, from good guys and from guys who weren’t so good.

L
OUISE BIT INTO AN AFTER-DINNER
mint, and savored the cool rush inside her mouth. Why was she fussing about a family con job on a wealthy old woman? It happened every day, she was sure, somewhere in America. But it was depressing to see it close-up. On the eve of a difficult location shoot, where they would be short-staffed, and she would have more responsibility than usual, the last thing she needed was to be depressed. For the camera never lied: Either she would come across as alert, focused, and prepared, or not.
No sense in getting bogged down in someone else’s problems.

Resolutely, she turned her attention back to the dance floor. It was not the usual scene, with soporific partners lazing in each other’s arms. Instead, it was rife with tension. Each of the dancers seemed to be painfully aware of the others, creating nervous currents and cross-currents, furtive glances, and careful jockeying for position on the floor. As she watched, Louise remembered reading about fish behavior: The more robust females swim in the middle of the school, waiting to be fertilized by male fish. And there were Nora and Janie and the luscious Sandy Post, swirling confidently in the middle of the room, with men spread out around them.

Everyone had switched partners—well, almost everyone. Chris was now dancing with his mother, who was guiding him through the old-fashioned steps that suited the music of the evening. Yet he kept one eye on Freeling and Janie, while Freeling had at least half his attention on the beautiful Nora as he wheeled Janie about the floor.

Mark and Sandy still had their arms clasped around each other, like a little romantic island unto themselves, but the illusion was spoiled when Mark shot suspicious looks at the agile-footed professor.
What on earth is going on between those two?
Louise wondered.

Teddy had apparently given up hope of ever getting closer to Janie, knocked off work, and gone home. Somehow, Louise missed him; he seemed like a grounded, sensible person.

As another tune ended, Freeling pulled the delighted Bebe Hollowell to her feet for a dance to Glenn Miller’s “String of Pearls.” The woman danced like a pro, and together, the unlikely pair would have won any dance contest. Bill, with a little urging from Louise, took Nora and swung her around the floor. The Storms joined them and, like Bebe, made the rest of them look like amateurs. Fiona had
an amused smile on her face, as if to say, “We’re fulfilling your expectations that black people can really shake it.”

The next song started, and Jeffrey Freeling was suddenly standing over her. “Shall we dance, Mrs. Eldridge?”

“I would like that.”

Once on the dance floor, she realized it was his height and long arms that made his partners seem so completely enveloped, so safe. It seemed quite natural to lay her head against his shoulder as they swayed to a syrupy song called “Those Little White Lies.” She pressed her nose into his jacket comfortably, then jerked back as an odious scent filled her nostrils: Jeffrey smelled of rotten eggs.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that her husband had been captured by Bebe Hollowell again, and now Louise could see the woman had a tendency to lead. What was the sense of being a divine dancer if one emasculated one’s partner? She found herself loosening her muscles and relaxing more completely into Jeffrey Freeling’s arms.

Louise looked into the professor’s eyes. “You’re quite an operator,” she said.

He smiled down at her, as if his rudeness at dinner had only been in fun. “You mean to say, I’m quite a dancer.”

“I’m not sure what I mean, as a matter of fact. By the way, it’s unfortunate that you don’t seem to … relate to the Posts. Do you know them well?”

Freeling turned frosty again, and said in a clipped tone, “Mark was a student of mine, and his wife—she was on campus at the same time. Let’s just say that some unpleasant things come up sometimes in academia, and that was the case with—them. I shall say no more.”

Her mind raced to fill in the gaps. Had Mark been accused of some wrongdoing? Was he guilty? Or could it be that the professor had gotten himself in hot water, dating a student? That probably happened all the time in his little world of academia. After all, Sandy was an attractive little package, thought Louise, one of those “perfect” pretty
girls that others envied in high school. She was world-class in sports, an able mountaineer and a fine shot with a rifle, and probably just as adept in bed. In that instant, Louise realized with a guilty start how unkind she was being to a woman who really hadn’t asked to be born small, blond, and beautiful.

“I’m sorry I asked,” she said to Jeffrey. “It’s not my business, and unfortunately, I tend to get too nosy about things in general. Maybe it’s because I’m always looking for gardening stories.”

He slowed their dancing so that they were merely rocking back and forth in time to the music. “You are a perplexing woman, Louise—but interesting. You know, if you contact me at my office on campus, I’ll be happy to talk to you about my work.” He grinned diabolically. “All about how I implant foreign genes into plants, as I did with the Sacred Blood iris, and come up with a transgenic plant …”

“You mean, a plant with a new gene implanted …”

“Yes. In the case of this plant, a red gene from the maize plant was shot into the nucleus of the iris—as well as other genes.”

“How do you do it?”

“We start with a segment of the peduncle of the iris …”

“Peduncle.”

“It’s the portion of the stem just below the ovary. We take that piece and culture it, causing it to form a callus, or thickened tissue. The callus is divided up and put in a solution, so that you have this cell suspension of iris, with the possibility of thousands of plants. Then, into this cell suspension, the red gene, and other genes, are inserted. This particular plant has been further engineered both to have a spicy smell and to have a later blooming period than most irises.”

“That’s produced by other genes?”

“Yes. The one that affects blooming is probably more significant. Now we have an iris that starts flowering with the
roses in June, and continues right into July. It is truly superb. Oh, I’ll be happy to tell you all the nefarious things I do each day in that laboratory.”

“I’d love that.”

“Sorry about before—I just didn’t feel like being that agreeable at the table, with everyone listening in.”

“You seem so cautious about things, Dr. Freeling—”

“Jeffrey, please.”

“Jeffrey. Do people really steal each other’s work on these projects?”

“I suppose they could. People do steal each other’s patented plants. I’ve heard some growers are pollen thieves—they actually go to someone else’s experimental flower beds and snitch pollen, the better to grow things themselves. And I’ve heard more than one story about a horticulturalist who has stolen patented roses. They sneak into someone’s greenhouse, strip the buds from an exquisite patented rose, take them back to their place, graft them onto understock, and grow them themselves.”

Louise smiled. “It’s a strange world. I see you’re more agreeable than you want that world to know.”

“Something like that,” he answered seriously. “It doesn’t pay to wear your heart on your sleeve—or to give away your whole game at the drop of the first card. Life is funny—some people are dealt a very poor hand and deserve to get a better one.”

She laughed. Yet she was surprised that this direct-talking professor had suddenly switched to metaphor, as if he were speaking in code, hiding secrets that he longed to reveal. “You mean, put down a few discards and draw a few new ones from the deck.”

“Do you play poker?”

“Bill does. I just eavesdrop.”

He chose to take even this seriously. “I used to eavesdrop on
life
. These days, I’m disinclined to do so. I want to live it.” And he swept her back into the rhythm of the dance.

“Mmm,” she said appreciatively, “whatever that means. Maybe that’s why you dance so well.”

By the time she was escorted back to her seat, she knew why the ladies liked the professor. He had a certain way about him. But he definitely didn’t give away his game. If he had always been a bachelor, it had been his choice.

Bill had dutifully danced with each of the women at least once—Bebe, several times. He gave Louise a wry look. “Now I suppose you want me to dance with you after your round with Astaire.”

“No, not if you don’t want to, dear.”

“Good. Then I think I’ll just rest my tootsies for tomorrow’s hike up Bear Mountain with Janie and Chris and Jeffrey.”

“Hike, my foot, Bill. You promised me you would come on the garden tour …”

“Oh, yeah. Well, there goes the hike.”

“Honey, I’m sorry. I thought I told you that the crew will be small—they could use your help.” Suddenly she clutched his sleeve and pointed. “See what I mean—the man’s a natural.”

The professor was dancing with Jim Cooley’s wife. Grace, diminutive and almost childlike in his arms, had assumed the position: head on Freeling’s shoulder, eyes closed, body sliding in unison with his when they dipped. “Women don’t even have to bother with conversation. It’s all movement and music and rhythm.”

“Looks kind of lovey-dovey to me.”

“It’s not that: It’s something about the guy—he’s not nearly as gruff as he sounded at the table.”

“Face it, Louise,” said her husband, “you just think he’s cute.”

The music ended, and everyone adjourned to their separate tables. Louise heard Grace softly thanking her partner for the dance.

The Gasparras had been sitting quietly during the dancing phase of the evening, listening to the music and the conversation. But now they stood uncomfortably at the
edge of the room as if they were about to leave. As Professor Freeling was leaving the dance floor, Rod Gasparra stepped in front of him, looking as if he might grab Freeling’s lapels. Verbally, he did. “I’ve heard tonight, Dr. Freeling, that you were one of the ones.”

“One of the ones,” Freeling repeated archly. “And what on earth do you mean by that?”

Gasparra shook a finger at him. “You’re one of the ones that worked on the Iris of the Sacred Blood!”

“Hmh,” said Freeling, repositioning his wire-frame glasses on his nose and giving Rod Gasparra a close look. “So that makes me ‘one of the ones’ Just what beef do you have with me? My work is in the laboratory, doing research on a plant with a simple genus,
Arabidopsis thaliana
, though my doctoral students and I developed the Sacred Blood iris. We derived its name from the fact that the color of its flowers resembles arterial blood. Tell me exactly why this impinges upon you.”