Death In The Garden Read online

  "No, he's always careful with the truck." I knew why. Walter had told me how much he appreciated me trusting him with it. He'd once had his license suspended for DUI. I still trusted him. He’d given me his word he’d never drive drunk again and, as far as I knew, he hadn’t. He didn’t need to because all his drinking places were within walking distance of his house.

  "Anything else you can think of?"

  "That's when you came." Miguel fidgeted with his drink can for a few seconds. "I don't think Walter would murder anyone. I know he gets mad, and he goes off and ties one on. And sometimes, well, he gets in fistfights when he’s drunk. But he's a good man. No one knows more about plants, not even you or your grandfather.”

  Fear showed in his eyes when he looked at me. “When they find out Walter didn't do it, you think they'll accuse me?"

  "There’d be no reason to, Miguel. I know you're upset, but will you go up to the house and tell Grandpa what's happened? It’ll be better coming from you in person than over the phone. I have to find Walter and make sure he’s all right."

  “Sure, I'll tell Dick. You find Walter before the police do. If they corner him when he’s drunk, no telling what he’ll do or say. He might even resist arrest and get himself shot or into more trouble."

  "I know. After you talk to Grandpa, please go on home for the day. Chelsea and the others can handle things here. Any questions will have to wait."

  "Gracias, but no. I think I’d better help Steve see to the roses."

  He scratched his head. "What we gonna do with them, Heather? And we ordered all those special plants for Mrs. Rockwell. You think she’ll still want that fancy garden?"

  His reminder set loose a swarm of killer bees inside me.

  Buzz, what if she blamed me because the shovel was from our employee?

  Buzz, buzz, what if she cancelled the contract?

  Buzz, buzz, buzz, what if Walter was guilty?

  "I hope so. She was so in love with my design. We can thank our lucky stars we required a sizable deposit before we started the job.” It would cover the cost of the plants, but not the salaries for hours of planning or the preparation already done at the Rockwell estate.

  When Miguel left, I slipped in to tell Chelsea the bad news.

  As soon as Chelsea saw me, she asked, "What's happened? I know something's wrong. I saw you and Miguel and Steve come back earlier with the roses still on the truck."

  "Rockwell's dead. The police think Walter did it."

  "Ohmygosh! Tell me about it."

  I went through as much as I knew and my plans. "The police will come talk to everyone here, so don’t be alarmed when they show up."

  "You’re going to look for Walter?"

  "I have to find him and make sure he’s all right. If he’s not guilty, I want to tell him about the murder before he hears it from the police. First I’d better see if Steve knows anything else." I grabbed a Coke, Steve’s choice, and went outside.

  Steve was unloading rose bushes so fast I was afraid he’d hurt himself. When I called to him, he turned and his expression worried me.

  “You look as if you’re in shock. Drink this, then go home.”

  He accepted the Coke. “Thanks, but I’m all right. Miguel said the guy looked a mess, so I never saw the body. It shook up Miguel, though. Never saw him like that.”

  “You were moving fast just now.”

  He took a long drink. “I was thinking about Walter and how bad this looks for him.”

  Steve peered at the ground. “I know he gets crazy sometimes, but in the ten years I’ve been here, he’s always been decent to me. I never thought he’d kill anyone.”

  Obviously Steve thought Walter guilty.

  “Can you tell me anything he said or did that might help me find him now?”

  “Naw, I couldn’t help the police either. Heather, Walter was really mad yesterday. We were through unloading the myrtles when that Rockwell came over and started ragging on Walter. Man, Walter exploded. Never saw him like that, not even when he was on a drunk.” He finished the Coke.

  “What did you do?”

  He crushed the Coke can and laid it on the truck bed ready for the recycle bin. “Tried to reason with him, joke him out of it. Paid me no mind. Wouldn’t stop shouting at Rockwell. I got in the truck and waited.”

  He turned to meet my eyes. “I didn’t tell the police that Walter made threats, but someone must have overheard. They asked me about them. I wouldn’t have volunteered it, Heather, but when they asked me outright, I couldn’t lie.”

  With a shrug, he added, “I only told exactly what they asked, nothing more.”

  “It’s okay, you should tell the truth. I’m sure they’ll show up here and may talk to you again. Right now, I’m leaving to find Walter before the police do and arrest him.”

  “That’s good. Better it comes from you before the police.”

  He turned and hefted another rose container from the truck. “You find him first, Heather.”

  “I’ll go now.” Could I find him before the police did? What if he already knew about Rockwell’s death because he was guilty?

  Chapter Three

  I knew Walter’s habits—good and bad—and where he was likely to go. I’d start with his home and work from there. Walter lived in a small house on the back edge of Grandpa Gillentine’s acreage. He walked to work, cutting through the nursery. To save time, I drove to his house. I saw the detective at the door but stopped anyway. If Walter was inside, he needed my help to talk to the authorities.

  Detective Steele watched me walk up.

  Really watched. Even though I was worried about Walter, I was also a woman being admired by an attractive man. I confess I threw an extra wiggle into my step.

  "Miss Cameron. What a surprise to see you here."

  It annoyed me that he’d shown up before I reached Walter’s house. I didn’t know what possessed me, but apparently a wise-ass demon entered my body and forced me to deliberately mispronounce his name. "Hello, Detective Squeal."

  "The name's Kurt Steele.” He tried to glare but one corner of his mouth tilted and he didn’t look so fierce. “Mr. Sims doesn't answer his door. Don't suppose you have a key?"

  "As a matter of fact, I do." I brushed by him on the narrow stoop and knocked. "Walter? Walter, it's Heather."

  Nothing.

  Steele stood close behind me. "You gonna open the door?"

  I turned and looked up at him. With both of us standing on the small porch our bodies almost touched. He oozed testosterone and being this near him set bells clanging. I wasn’t sure if they were warning bells or the wahoo variety. In spite of those bells, I frowned and focused on helping Walter. "I don't know. If I do and Walter's not there, can you search the place without a warrant?"

  "Why would I want to do that? You said you think he's innocent."

  "I said he is innocent, but who knows why the police do things? You might want to frame him."

  "Lady, I never framed anything but my mother's photo." He pointed at the lock and repeated his question. "You going to open that door?"

  “Maybe.” I pretended to think about it. "So, you don't have a wife or girlfriend to give you a picture, huh? Too bad.” I gave him my best wide-eyed innocent look. “Maybe if you smiled more. Or, you could take a charm course or something."

  He kept his gaze on mine. He wasn’t smiling, but amusement danced in his eyes. "Yeah? I suppose you have twenty or thirty boyfriends?"

  "Not quite that many, but you're close." Zero would be closer, but he didn't need to know that.

  "Anyone special?"

  In self-defense, I turned and pulled out the door key. I had to make sure Walter wasn’t inside passed out or ill—or worse. "I'm temporarily between specials." I pushed open the door and walked inside.

  Trailing close behind me, Detective Steele muttered, "No wonder."

  Pretending I hadn’t understood, I whirled. "I beg your pardon. What did you say?"

  He bumped into me, and was
every bit as solid as I’d thought. He braced me with his hands on my arms while he looked down at me. "Nothing. Nothing at all." His deep blue eyes twinkled with mischief.

  Interesting. But I was on a mission. I turned and called out, "Walter? Are you here?"

  Still no answer.

  Sunlight streamed through the living room window and slanted across the hardwood floor. Dust motes danced in the rays. A section of Sunday’s paper, folded to the crossword, lay on the arm of Walter’s favorite chair. A gum wrapper marked his place in a horticulture book on the coffee table. The small room appeared in order, and I headed for the bedroom.

  Darn. I’d hoped Walter would be passed out on the bed, but it was made neat as a pin. Nothing out of place in the bathroom, either.

  On my heels, the great detective asked, “So your first name is Heather?”

  “Like the plant.”

  “Not a surprise since your family owns a garden center.”

  “Go figure. Plus Cameron is originally a Scottish name, and Heather grows there, or so I’m told.”

  “So, do you have a brother, a Cameron Junior called Bud or, keeping with the Scottish theme, Gorse perhaps?"

  “I’m an only child, but you are just a riot of laughs, detective.”

  “And I’ve just started my investigation. Think of all the humor in store for you.”

  I wondered what he meant by that, moving into the kitchen with Steele as my shadow. Walter hadn’t been home since he’d been drinking—if that’s what had caused him to disappear. The house was tidy except for a dirty cup in the sink. I picked it up and sniffed—and almost gagged.

  “Ugh.” At least it didn’t smell like alcohol.

  “What is it?” he asked and peered over my shoulder.

  He stood so close I smelled peppermint on his breath. Nice.

  “Coffee, or old battery acid. Take your pick.” I poured out the contents.

  “Hey, you’ve just destroyed evidence.” He reached for my hand.

  “Evidence? Here, you can keep the dirty cup.” I handed it to him.

  He smelled it and set it in the sink.

  I’d been here countless times checking on Walter, but I’d never pried into his personal things. I hated to start now, especially with a detective looking on, but I glanced around the phone for any numbers scribbled on Walter’s scratch pad. There was nothing.

  “Well,” Steele said. “Looks like no foul play here. Think he’s out on a binge?”

  Wondering how he knew about Walter’s fondness for alcohol, there was no point denying it. “If he’s drinking, he hasn’t been home since he started.”

  “How can you tell?”

  I gestured to the room. “When Walter’s sober, he keeps a spotless house, like he’s a regular Mary Poppins. Drunk, he’s Lord of the Flies.”

  “No use wasting time here then.”

  He followed me to the front door. Chewing on my lip, I tried to think where I should check next. I slipped out with the detective close behind me and stepped aside for him to pass before I locked the door. Once again, he stood almost touching me on the small stoop. That wise-ass demon was still hanging around and made me give an extra wiggle as I brushed against Steele and stepped off onto the walk. I headed for my Jetta.

  He followed me and opened my car door. Nice manners. Before he closed it, he leaned in. "You gonna tell me your next stop and save me some trouble?"

  "I think I'll let you do your own detective work.” I stuck my key in the ignition. “Good bye, and good luck."

  He closed the door. I smiled to myself and started the engine.

  The car's engine.

  I was pretty sure I'd already started Detective Steele's.

  ***

  I purposely drove an indirect route, frequently checking my rearview mirror, in case Detective Meddlesome Steele tried to follow me. I had to find Walter so I could explain about Rockwell’s death before the police informed him he was a suspect. If he was still drinking, I planned to sober him up and get him to our family’s attorney before he talked to anyone else. At least, I hoped he was on some sort of drinking spree and that nothing bad had happened to him. And especially that he hadn’t had a part in Rockwell’s death.

  I drove by the home of Walter’s drinking buddy, Billy Ray Nix. Billy Ray sat under a cottonwood tree in his front yard with a beer in his hand and Beau, his big old black hound, asleep at his feet. I saw no sign of Walter. Billy Ray was only around forty, and I didn’t know if he’d ever had a job. He waved as I got out of the car. Beau opened one eye, deemed me harmless, and went back to sleep.

  “Have you seen Walter?” I asked Billy Ray.

  “Last night.” Billy Ray never wasted words when there was beer to be downed.

  “Where?”

  “Alibi.”

  He meant the Alibi Lounge, a local dive. Relief swept through me with the knowledge of Walter’s whereabouts for at least a part of the unaccounted time. “He say anything to you about why he was drinking?”

  “Nope.” Billy Ray took a big swig of beer.

  I figured I’d get almost as much information from the dog, but I persisted. “Did he seem upset or sad?”

  He examined the contents of his bottle against the sunlight. “Mad.”

  “You leave the Alibi together last night?”

  “Nope.”

  “Who left first, you or Walter?”

  He frowned, and I thought he tried to focus his bloodshot eyes. “Him.”

  “What time was that?”

  His frown deepened, as if concentrating took all his effort. “Night-noon.” Billy Ray laughed at his name for midnight, apparently pleased with his joke, and drained his bottle.

  “Anything else you can think of?”

  “Nope.” He tossed the empty into the trash bin behind him.

  Rim shot.

  “If you see Walter, will you call me?”

  “Yeah.” He squinted up at me, as if trying to make sure he knew who I was.

  I gave him my garden center business card. “Thanks for your help, Billy Ray. See you around.”

  “Yeah.” He stuck the card in the back pocket of his jeans.

  Beau gave one flick of his tail, as if to wave farewell. Billy Ray reached into his ice chest for another Lone Star long neck.

  I hurried to my car and drove the two blocks to the seedy hangout Billy Ray had mentioned. I went around to the delivery entrance in back and braced myself before I stepped inside. As if the name weren't cliché enough, the décor matched any low expectations patrons might harbor. Smoke-stained walls, peeling vinyl, dark paneling, and a country song blasting from the jukebox.

  Johnny Granger was a balding, portly man who owned the place and served as bar tender. This morning, he wore a dirty apron over his jeans and black T-shirt. Apparently, he was also the janitor, because he looked up from pushing a broom.

  Now there was a surprise. I hadn’t realized the place had ever been swept.

  "Hi, Johnny. Seen Walter?"

  "Not since close to midnight. He in some kinda trouble?"

  Uh, oh. Not good. "Why do you ask?"

  "Policeman just left. Wouldn’t say more than the damn mumbo jumbo cops use to avoid saying anything.

  “He give you his name?”

  “Yeah.” Johnny pulled a card from his pocket, squinted, and held it at arm’s length. “Detective Kurt Steele.”

  Darn that Steele for his detecting. How did he know about this place?

  Johnny leaned on his broom and looked at me. “What's going on? Walter’s an okay guy, even if he does turn mean sometimes when he’s soused. He in some kind of trouble?"

  How much should I tell Johnny? I decided on the minimum, spiced with a little evasion.

  "Walter might have witnessed a murder. Don't know. I need to find him, though."

  "A murder? Why, there hasn’t been a murder in Gamble Grove for five years or more.”

  “There was one this morning. Walter might have seen who did it without realizing
what he saw. I really need to find him.”

  “Busy here last night. Didn’t have time for talking to Walter or anyone else. ‘Sides, he only comes in when he's real blue. Not a talker then.”

  “Yes, I know, it’s when he starts thinking about his wife’s death. Did you tell the detective that drinking turns Walter kind of mean and he sometimes gets into a fight?”

  Johnny looked insulted. “He didn’t ask, so I didn’t tell. Don't know where else Walter might be, though."

  Thanking Johnny, I left. I thought I knew where Walter had gone and headed for the cemetery. How many times had Grandpa or I found him there in the years since his wife’s death? I’d lost count, but it was one of the places he went to drink and wallow in regret.

  I turned in through the wrought iron gates of Greenwood Cemetery and passed the newest area of graves. Carefully sculpted landscaping and isolated gardens greeted me. I’ve been told that with no raised headstones to slow the riding mower, care was easier and less expensive. Not that I supposed it mattered to the cemetery’s residents, but it was too sterile and impersonal for my tastes.

  The old-fashioned upright tombstones with character stood at the back, where ornate monuments honored departed loved ones. Angels or lambs might decorate a child’s grave. A marble obelisk or upright slab marked a wealthy deceased, and a few who’d passed on even had crypts. Small wrought iron fences or curbs partitioned family plots. Here, large cedars and oaks grew at random. Several families had planted wild roses or lilac bushes near a loved one.

  To me, the atmosphere of this section was serene and peaceful, even comforting. I came here sometimes to put flowers on my parents’ graves and to look at the dates and names on other tombstones, a surprising number of whom were for my relatives. Today I parked and cut across the grass to the center of the old section, careful not to step on graves—or fire ant mounds—until I reached a path.

  Walter slumped on a cement bench facing Nora Sims’ grave. The scent of roses drifted around me. Sunlight glistened on a Jack Daniels bottle at his feet. Nearby, water circulated in a fountain, sending a spray from a stone maiden’s ewer into the pool. My footsteps crunched on the gravel walkway, but Walter gave no sign that he heard me approach.