Death In The Garden Read online

  “I would never do that.” How could I make her understand without sounding weird? “He’s been too good to me, as much a part of my family as if we were kin.”

  “I love talking with him and all, but I still say you’re too soft on him.”

  Chelsea nodded at the office door that opened to the center’s grounds. "And speak of the devil."

  Walter shuffled in and leaned on my desk. "Heather, you got to raise Chelsea’s salary. Look at her. Had to wear a little girl’s clothes and they don’t hardly even cover her. Must be embarrassing for her." He winked at me.

  I rolled my eyes. Since I’d hired Chelsea four years ago, Walter teased her unmercifully about her scanty, trendy clothes. I’d have suggested sensitivity training for him, but she loved their exchanges and was determined to educate him about the current trends.

  Before Chelsea told Walter for the hundredth time that she wore the latest fashions, I interrupted and touched his chin. “Oh, Walter, you have new bruises. Were you in another fight?”

  “I know you’re disappointed in me.” He refused to meet my eyes. “Yesterday would have been Nora’s fiftieth birthday. I couldn’t stay home alone last night.”

  Inwardly, I cringed at my oversight. I’d been upset about Rockwell and couldn’t wait to go home and forget the incident. I should have taken Walter out to dinner to distract him. “But fighting? Why, Walter?”

  “That sorry rascal Dub Cooley accused me of being as weepy as a girl. Said awful things about my Nora. I couldn’t let him talk trash about the sweetest woman ever lived, now could I?”

  Knowing how close he and Nora had been before her death, and how despicable Cooley was, a reprimand seemed pointless. “Walter, have you and Steve finished loading crepe myrtles?"

  "Yep. Truck’s loaded. We’re about ready to leave.”

  “No, Walter. You stay here and work in the greenhouse. Frank can go with Steve.” The Rockwell project was too important to chance Walter’s hatred of Rockwell.

  Now Walter fumbled with the bill of his green cap. "I’m supposed to help Steve."

  By this time, I wished I'd never heard of Rockwell or Walter Sims. I leveled my eyes at Walter. "You know I need your help in the greenhouse."

  Walter’s mouth turned down in displeasure. "Nope, I’m going. Your grandpa wouldn't ask me to stay here."

  There he went, always playing the authority card on me. I didn’t want to go through an I’m in charge now speech.

  "Walter, I’m depending on you. No one else has the know-how with plant propagation. We’ll be short of holly and ligustrum next year if you don’t get more started now."

  Walter rubbed his chin and scrunched his face until he resembled a thoughtful monkey. “Damn. I can take care of that later."

  I checked my watch. Half past three. “You’re not working for Grandpa now, you’re working for me.”

  "If you say so, Missy." Walter's shoulders slumped and he shuffled out.

  When the door closed behind him, Chelsea said, "Uh oh, he called you ‘Missy.’ He's definitely pissed."

  I sighed, as annoyed with Walter as he was with me, but even his pissiness couldn’t extinguish my pride in the design I'd worked out for the garden Bootsy Rockwell wanted and for which she’d paid a deposit. The elaborate project included a rose garden with a central fountain, complex maze with a center seating area, cottage garden, reflecting pool with lily pads, Greek style temple across the pond from the house, Koi pond, and numerous beds of perennials and shrubs.

  Chelsea walked to the back window overlooking our large plant nursery. “Looks like you won that round. The truck left and it’s loaded with crepe myrtles.”

  “Do you see Walter walking toward the greenhouses?”

  “No, guess he’s already inside.”

  A prickle of apprehension slithered down my spine and I looked at Chelsea. “You don’t suppose Walter would defy me and go anyway, do you?"

  ***

  The next morning, my yellow lab, Rascal, and I jogged around the garden center perimeter before breakfast. I waved at my grandparents and great-grandmother sharing breakfast on their screened-in porch, but didn’t stop. My grandparents, Dick and Meg Gillentine, deserved a Distinguished Service Medal for amicably living with my eighty-five-year-old great-grandmother, Gigi. She believes this is her town and isn’t shy about giving advice to the residents.

  Anytime.

  Anyone.

  Any subject.

  Back in my apartment after my run, I downed orange juice and a muffin and put out fresh water for my cats and dog. After a quick shower, I dressed with care. I wanted just the right balance between savvy businesswoman and a landscaper ready to get down and dirty.

  I pulled my hair into a low ponytail at nape of my neck. My new green garden center shirt proudly displayed our company’s name and logo, and I’d been told the color made my eyes look a darker green. Khaki shorts and canvas shoes would resist dirt stains. I looked perfectly attired for a day of supervising and digging in the dirt and grabbed my ball cap. Remembering Vance Rockwell’s rotten disposition, I slapped on a hefty dollop of attitude with my sunglasses, even if I did want the odious man’s business. Make that desperately needed his business.

  I climbed into my trusty silver Jetta and drove to Gamble Grove's most exclusive area. Wouldn’t you know the largest house in town now belonged to the Rockwells? I’d heard—via Chelsea’s cousin who worked in the county tax office—that the impressive Georgian-styled home had over twenty-five thousand square feet. It looked it, perched imposingly along the crest of a hill. As I approached, I saw flashing lights. Emergency vehicles. Lots of them.

  Oh, no, this had to be bad.

  Chapter Two

  Lining the Rockwell’s drive nearest the new garden plot were a fire engine, an ambulance, a van, what was probably an unmarked police car, two black and whites and—dang, wouldn't you know it?—the Gillentine Gardens truck. The muscles in my stomach were like vise grips clenched on my insides as I drove past the other vehicles and parked. Sickly dread overwhelmed me at what I might find.

  I wanted to turn my car around and drive home and run up to my bed and pull the covers over my head. No such luxury for me. I climbed out of my car and strode quickly toward the crowd, swallowing down fear’s metallic taste in my mouth.

  Container rose bushes destined for Bootsy Rockwell's garden almost filled the garden center’s staked-bed truck. Miguel Diaz sat on the truck’s bed with his feet dangling off the end. Steve Harris sat beside him. Bad vibes shot through me. A uniformed policeman and another man stood talking to Miguel. Miguel looked ashen and ill, but he nodded to me. Steve said nothing, merely hung his head.

  "Hello, Heather." Miguel shook his head, despair evident in his sad brown eyes. "It's really bad."

  "What's happened?"

  The officer turned to me. "You know the whereabouts of Walter Sims?"

  "He's supposed to be at the garden center. What's happened?" I repeated my question.

  Steve looked up, but said nothing.

  Miguel looked as if he were trying to send me some sort of signal. "Heather, it's—“

  The man in plainclothes quieted Miguel with a glance as he stepped forward. Good heavens, what a giant. Must be six-four with shoulders broad as our truck. Even a long, tall Texas gal like myself had to look up to meet his gaze.

  Whoa. What a gaze it was. Worried and puzzled as I was, I couldn’t fail to notice his eyes were delphinium blue and his dark hair the color of moist peat moss was cut short. He wasn’t GQ handsome, but definitely attractive.

  "I take it you're Miss Cameron? I'm Detective Kurt Steele and this officer is Sergeant Jack Winston. We need to ask you a few questions."

  "Not until I know what's happened. Why are you questioning Mr. Diaz and Mr. Harris?" Darn, stress must have fried my mind. I couldn’t believe I refused a detective.

  "Vance Rockwell was murdered early this morning. We want to speak with Walter Sims. No one here seems to know where Mr. Sims
is.” He paused. “Do you?"

  Rockwell dead and Walter missing? Panic rose with the bile in my throat.

  No, please don’t let Walter be the killer.

  At that moment, paramedics wheeled a gurney bearing a black body bag past the truck and loaded it into the ambulance. Oh Lord, Rockwell dead and Walter hated him.

  Carole King was in my head, and the earth really did move. Dropping away from my feet, leaving me drifting. The sky tumbled down. Swirling, everything was swirling. Spiraling around me. I thought I might throw up or pass out—or both.

  The detective stepped forward and grabbed my arm, anchoring me in the mixed up universe. "Miss Cameron? Maybe you should sit on the truck by Diaz and Harris."

  But the sky still tumbled, the earth spiraled around me. I was a kid spinning until I was drunk with dizziness. Sky flipped places with earth. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down.

  "Yes...Yes, I’d better." With Detective Steele's help, I staggered to the truck. I shrugged off his hand intent on levering myself onto the bed. But I stood there as if in a trance.

  The detective hoisted me up onto the truck as if I were a kid. I sat there wondering if I were going to pass out.

  I felt Miguel’s hand at my neck. “Your head, put it between your knees.”

  I did as he instructed, closing my eyes and taking a couple of deep breaths. When I straightened, my head was throbbing but the earth and sky had resumed their correct positions. Sky above, earth below.

  Willing my eyes to focus on the detective, I insisted, "Walter wouldn't kill anyone." I prayed I spoke the truth.

  Detective Steele referred to his notes. "It appears he and Mr. Rockwell had a heated argument yesterday about a quarter of five. Mr. Sims stalked to the truck—“ he pointed at Steve “—where Harris waited, and peeled off."

  Drat Walter, coming here when I’d ordered him to stay at the garden center. "If you consider anyone who argued with Rockwell a suspect, you'll be interviewing half the state." I almost included myself but thought better of it. "Besides, you said Walter left."

  Sergeant Winston said, "Maybe he returned."

  "Phffft." I peered at Detective Steele. "Sounds like you’re grasping at straws. What kind of detective work is that?"

  Steele's clenched jaw displayed a small tic.

  Oops, I shouldn’t have said that.

  He stood directly in front of me and glared. "We just started the investigation. If we had some cooperation, maybe we could wrap this up in time to buy donuts before we take our lunch break."

  Way to go, Heather. Not a good idea to annoy the police.

  I took another deep breath. At this rate, I’d soon hyperventilate. “There’s no need for sarcasm. I don't know where Walter is, but I know he wouldn't kill anyone, not even Vance Rockwell."

  He raised his eyebrows, making his nice blue eyes more noticeable, darn him. "Not even? What does that mean?"

  "Rockwell was not a popular man. I imagine you'll find a long, long list of people with motives, detective. Leave Walter alone." I glanced at Miguel slumped beside me and patted his shoulder. "Leave all my employees alone. None of them would have done such a thing."

  Detective Steele poised his pen over his notebook. "Where were you just after midnight, Miss Cameron?"

  I thought again about his nice blue eyes, but pushed those thoughts aside because of his nasty question. "In my apartment. Asleep."

  He raised one eyebrow.

  I shot him a glare. "Alone."

  "So, you have no alibi?"

  "People who live alone never have an alibi. That doesn't mean they're guilty of anything more serious than drinking juice from the carton."

  He pulled out a business card and handed it over. "We'll be in touch. Call me if you hear from Mr. Sims."

  "Can Mr. Diaz and Mr. Harris go?"

  Detective Steele nodded. Miguel and Steve slid off the truck bed to the ground, and Miguel helped me down. While they walked to the truck's cab, the detective speared me with another no-nonsense glare.

  "If you hear from Walter Sims, you'll be doing him a favor if you convince him to call us. We need to talk to him, and the sooner the better."

  I turned and walked back to my Jetta. My heartbeat fluttered and my throat threatened to close so I couldn’t breathe. I was afraid I wouldn’t make it to the car, but I climbed in and turned the ignition. I drove behind Miguel to the garden center then pulled up beside him. Steve hopped out and came to my window.

  “Miguel’s the one who found Rockwell. It was bad, even for me, and I didn’t get close to the dead guy after Miguel warned me.”

  “You probably should go home for today.”

  “Naw, I’ll unload the rose bushes, then go out to the nursery. Working out there always makes me feel better.”

  Thankful for good employees, I got out of my car and waited for Miguel to join me. But he sat staring at the steering wheel. When he didn’t move, I opened the cab door.

  Miguel looked at me. "I found the dead guy. Never have I seen anything that bad. His blood...it was everywhere, the skull smashed, brains smeared ..."

  He waved a hand, as if to erase the image from his mind. He looked awful, like he was ninety instead of forty-three, but he slid out of the truck and started walking toward the office. “Think how angry he was, the man who did such a terrible thing.”

  I walked beside him, wondering if I remembered what to do for shock. Sugar and liquids. "Oh, Miguel, that must have been horrible for you. Let’s go in where it’s cool and get you something to drink.”

  We covered the short distance to my office in back of the garden center’s shop area. We entered through the side door and Miguel slumped onto the chair beside my desk.

  I reached into my mini-fridge and grabbed him a Dr Pepper, then sat across from him. "Please tell me what happened."

  He gulped the soda as if he hadn’t had anything to drink in days. "This morning, Walter, he never came. I knew he hated Rockwell and probably, he wouldn’t show. I came early and started loading the truck. Steve came and helped.”

  His hands waved wildly as he described his actions. “We went over there. Wanted to get things ready before you and the crew came."

  Miguel was a good man and didn't say he figured Walter was sleeping off a drunk or still on a binge, but I knew he thought so from the way he shifted in his chair and wouldn't look at me.

  I said, “I know Walter’s drinking makes more work for you, and I appreciate you covering for him.”

  It only happened occasionally, and Miguel never mentioned it, just made arrangements around Walter’s absence—just as my grandfather had. That’s why Miguel received a percentage of the year’s profits. He was loyal and a hard worker who planned ahead and did a lot of extra things without being asked. That kind of employee deserves rewarding.

  "Went to Rockwell’s and parked.” He paused. “Steve, he was taking the containers from the truck and putting them on the ground for me. I picked up two of the rose bushes and carried them to where we were supposed to start.” He made a circle motion with his hands. “You know, the center part?" Miguel finished his drink and set the can on the desk.

  I stood and brought him another Dr Pepper. “Then what?”

  “Gracias.” He popped the can’s top immediately. "On the way back to the truck, these feet, I saw them sticking out of the hedge. How come I missed them before I don’t know.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe carrying the roses got in my way or something. Anyway, I looked and there was—“

  He took a swallow of his drink and closed his eyes.

  Finally he took a deep breath and scrubbed a hand across his face. "It was very bad. I couldn't tell who he was but it had to be Rockwell. I touched his wrist. He was cold. No way he could have lived through that . . . what was done to him.”

  “It sounds terrible.”

  He placed a hand on his chest. “My heart, it was pounding. I started to run to the house, but then I think about his family seeing what had been done to him.”


  He shook his head. “That would be hard for them. So I called 9-1-1 on my cell phone and went to the truck to tell Steve. Then I call the planting crew and say to them, today don’t come. Steve and me, we sit and wait for the police."

  I reached across the desk and patted his hand. "Miguel, I'm sorry you had to see such a thing."

  "I didn't know what to think.” He paused as if hesitant to continue. “Heather, I was afraid they’d blame me. You know how some police feel about Mexicans, that we're all illegal and drug runners. Lucky for me, Rockwell's maid saw us drive up when she came to work."

  "Who told them about the argument with Walter?"

  He shook his head and waved his hands. “Not Steve or me. And I sure didn’t tell them how much Walter hated the guy or that they’d fought years ago.”

  He met my gaze. “It’s bound to come out.”

  “I know, but maybe I can get Walter to an attorney before then. Go on, what happened next?”

  “Two policemen, they went up to the house and the other two, they stayed with Steve and me. Separated us so we can’t hear each other explaining. One with me kept asking the same thing over and over. I was getting scared. They wouldn’t let me call you or anyone else. Then the detective came. He sent one of the policemen to help the guys at what he called the crime scene."

  "Why did they think it was Walter?"

  "Rockwell was killed with a shovel.” He looked at me. “It was Walter's special shovel. You know how he is about it."

  Oh, yeah, I knew. He kept it filed sharp and had a fit if anyone touched it. Even used permanent marker to write WALTER'S SHOVEL in big black letters on the handle.

  “Where was it?”

  “By his...by what was left of Rockwell’s head. I saw it was Walter’s, but I was afraid to touch it.” Miguel paled again, as if the memory might make him throw up.

  "You were right, of course.” The thought that had preyed on my mind since I’d learned Walter was missing hit me hard. Had whoever killed Rockwell also killed Walter?

  “When did you see Walter last?"

  "I was leaving when he dropped the truck off last night." He looked uncomfortable then met my gaze. "I didn't tell the police, but Walter, he was hopping mad. He screeched to a stop and threw gravel, then slammed the truck door when he got out. Steve, he looked scared. Walter, he don’t act like that before."