Chapter Twelve

 

After I’d gone home and changed clothes, I hurried to my office and started answering phone messages. Chelsea was usually off on Thursday afternoons, but she’d volunteered to work so I could attend the funeral without leaving the garden center shop short-staffed.

Chelsea stuck her head in. “You have a stack of...oh, I see you’re on it.”

“Arranged to meet with three prospective design clients—the Madisons, Robishaws, and Gregsons.” I checked to make sure the times and dates were correct on my calendar. “Sad to say a death and the publicity increased our business that much, but I’m grateful for whatever reason.”

“The news accounts showed the Rockwells’ house and grounds. Several only showed that entry you did, but it looked great.”

“Mmm, wait until this garden is done.” I couldn’t conceal my pride—the awed kind, not the boastful kind—that I’d snagged this prime design job. “There couldn’t be anything like it in Medford County.”

“Or all the counties around. It’ll be a showplace and you’ll get the credit. Maybe Bootsy will leave your sign up for a while.”

A merchant’s sign littering Bootsy’s perfect lawn? I didn’t think so. “Don’t count on it. But if she gets written up in Southern Gardens or some such, she’s promised to mention us.”

“Couldn’t hurt.” Chelsea started to leave, but turned back. “By the way, I finished up the displays boards.”

I stood and walked back into the shop. “Wow, they turned out really well. Way to go, Chelsea.”

She basked in my praise. “Prickly Felicia came by earlier. She actually acted pleased. I thought her face might crack, because she almost smiled.”

“No wonder.” I peered closely at the display wall. “Even Felicia Tucker couldn’t find fault with this, and that’s saying something. She finds flaws with everything we do.”

Felicia Tucker was a distant relative and friend of my grandmother’s. We bought heirloom seeds from her for our shop and for online sales, plus cuttings for our hothouse. Felicia was certain we were going to cheat her and was merciless in overseeing her sales and packaging. She was from one of Gamble Grove’s founding families, and she lived in the house built by her ancestors in 1863. They’d brought seeds with them from their plantation in North Carolina, and generations later, those flowers still bloomed true.

Chelsea had enlarged photos of the flowers represented by Felicia’s seeds that we stocked and artfully arranged the labeled photos on a three-foot by five-foot display board over the trays of seed packets.

Beside photos of heirloom plants, Chelsea had a similar exhibit of native Texas wildflowers, courtesy of the state tourist board, and seed packets for those, along with planting instructions. Next to that, she surprised me with an even larger demonstration of poisonous plants.

I stood back to get the impact of the three displays. “This is so much nicer than I visualized, Chelsea. Heavens, this must have taken hours.”

She looked pleased at my praise. “I used the photos and descriptions you prepared for talks to the garden club on cultivating wildflowers, and the Mommy-and-me group on preventing poisoning. I only had to enlarge the font on the explanations.”

“You’re an artistic genius.”

“Does this mean I get another raise?”

“Are they ice skating in hell yet?”

She laughed. “You’d need to ask Rockwell to find out.”

I shivered at the mention of that man’s name, as if his cold hand reached from the grave to grab me. I wanted to run and hide, but where?

***

Scottie would have to deal with Walter’s legal problems. I was furious with Judge Farley for denying Walter bail, but I was no help there. What I could do was visit Walter, and once again I enlisted Grandpa to go with me.

Poor Walter looked terrible. His scratches and bruises were healing, but he appeared to have shrunk. It appeared that, little by little, he was disappearing before our eyes.

He peered at Grandpa then at me. “You went to the funeral?”

We nodded. Grandpa and I looked at one another, and I guessed he felt as uncomfortable talking about it as I did.

Finally, Grandpa leaned forward. “Not many showed up.” He sounded pleased to be able to deliver that tidbit.

“Just as well I wasn’t there. I’d a danced on the bastard’s grave.”

I spoke into the small open circle in the glass. “You still can, when you get out.”

“He buried in the old part?” Walter frowned.

I knew he hated the fact that Rockwell was in the same cemetery as Nora.

Grandpa shook his head. “New section, near the front gate.”

Walter smiled, and a hint of his old self shined from his eyes. “Not near my Nora.”

Grandpa returned a grin. “Not even close.”

“That’s good news then. Tell me what else’s been going on.”

We chatted for ten or fifteen minutes and I told him about all the new landscape jobs lining up. Then I remembered the one thing he’d asked of me. I hated to admit I’d failed.

“Walter, I haven’t found your watch, but I’m still keeping my eyes peeled for it.”

“Thanks, but I reckon it’s gone with everything else. But I remembered something.”

“What?” Grandpa and I chorused.

“I really believe those scratches and bruises were because I fell. I kind of remember being on my hands and knees trying to get up, and hearing laughter somewhere behind me.”

“You think someone pushed you?” I asked.

“No, reckon I just stumbled because I was drunk, but someone saw me. Guess it won’t make a difference now. I’m good as convicted.”

I didn’t want him thinking on those lines. “Think positive, Walter. I’ll keep searching. And the police really are looking for other suspects. I’ll keep trying to find the watch and anyone who saw you.” Hallelujah, someone had seen Walter that night. Who?

I stopped rejoicing when I spotted the moisture gather in his eyes.

“Heather, you got to face up to the fact it looks like I’m guilty.” He rubbed at his chin. “You know how I hated him. Except for the fall, I still can’t remember what happened after I left the Alibi until you found me. Maybe I did go back for my shovel, see Vance, and kill the bastard just like the police said.”

My heart broke for him. “Walter, please stop saying that. You remembered the fall and laughter. Maybe you’ll remember something else. Whether you do or not, I know you, and you could never do such a terrible thing.”

Once again, I prayed I spoke the truth.

***

Devlin had assured me that Bootsy wanted work on her English garden to resume immediately after the funeral. Early the next morning, Miguel, Juan, and I showed up at the Rockwell estate with our truckload of bushes for the rose garden around the central fountain. Our work crew pulled up behind us in our two double cab pickup trucks.

I noticed Miguel parked in a different spot than on Tuesday when he’d found Rockwell’s body, but we still had to walk the same path as Miguel had then. I couldn’t resist indulging my curiosity as I trudged past the place where the body had lain. In spite of someone’s effort to erase any sign of the crime, broken branches in the hedge and signs of heavy foot traffic remained. Thank God the police hadn’t found Walter’s watch there.

When the Rockwells bought this place, the grounds were mostly lawn kept golf course green, with only a few trees or shrubs. The terrain and previous work to be salvaged meant we couldn’t get big machines in to do the digging. While we were unloading, the planting crew arrived. Miguel and Juan carried the roses to their designated places and the crew dug holes and planted roses and crepe myrtles. I kept as busy as Miguel did, directing workers and checking planting sites.

On most projects, I did designing and buying and let Miguel carry out planting. This was way too important and too large for me not to help Miguel check each detail. Not that I don’t trust him implicitly, but we’d talked this over and agreed both of us would work on it at first. With the plans unfurled on a portable architect’s drawing board, we wanted this to be perfect.

The sunshine heated us more like mid July than late May, and I was glad we’d brought the big cooler of water with us. I wore my garden center cap and sunscreen. Back in my father’s ancestry were Cherokees, hence my straight black hair, so you’d think I’d tan nicely. Instead, I burn not-so-nicely, thus the SPF-45. I wore my short-sleeved garden center shirt and khaki slacks, and I was already wishing I’d worn shorts instead.

The irrigation team had done a great job extending and rearranging the still-exposed water lines. We were making good progress with our planting. At noon, we knocked off for lunch. I sat on the ground in the truck’s shade to eat my sandwich. A couple of workers brought their lunch but I’d arranged for the roach coach, as the guys called the refreshment truck, to come by and save anyone who needed food from going into town.

I took my turn in one of the two portable toilets set up at the edge of our workspace. I hated going into one of those things. Even clean, they heat up like an oven. They didn’t do much for neighborhood beautification, but served a need.

As I came out, Juan called, “Hey, Heather, I hope you didn’t forget and leave the seat down again.”

Like I’d never heard that one.

We always took a full hour for lunch, and some of the guys stretched out in a shady spot for a mini-siesta while others talked. I sat beside some of the rose bushes not yet planted. Closing my eyes, I picked out the individual scents. The Millie Pavie and Mermaid were easy to distinguish, almost overpowering the more delicate fragrances of Sombreuil and Gene Boerner.

The timer on Miguel’s watch pinged and snapped me out of my reverie. The guys went back to work and I stood to follow. Then I noticed Devlin ambling our way, and I waited for him.

“Thought I’d come out and check your work.” He peered at the number of roses and crepe myrtles we’d planted and smiled. “Hey, you’re making amazing progress.”

“Thanks. Hedge plants should be here Monday.” I pushed up my sunglasses. “Your mom was very specific about the plans and plants. Some are Texas-friendly substitutes for those used in England which can’t take our intense heat and wind.”

“Yeah, Mom always knows what she wants.” He leaned over to peer at one of the bushes. “Is that a rose without thorns?”

“Yes, it’s called Marie Pavie. I love it, but I think my favorite is the Mutabilis, or Butterfly Rose, here.” I touched one of the multi-colored blooms.

“Did you guys graft several roses together to get the different colors on one bush?”

“No, the orange buds open to yellow, then darken to apricot and finally to crimson. When the bush has grown, it looks as if a cloud of butterflies settled on it.”

He looked at the plants as if he’d hadn’t seen them before now. “I never knew there were so many kinds of roses.”

“Hundreds. Your mom wanted a wide range of colors and types. Many of these are old varieties that have proven to be hardy yet dependable bloomers. Several like this,” I pointed to a double pink Knockout, “are the new Earthkind roses which resist drought and disease.”

“I’ll look forward to seeing the garden completed and established.” He shifted his weight. “Listen, thanks for coming to the funeral. Mom and I appreciated your family showing up.”

“Um, it was a nice service.” What could anyone say about a funeral—especially when the deceased was a rat and there was a murder involved?

“Vance wasn’t that popular. Most of the people who came worked for him. It was nice to see faces from Gamble Grove too.”

Changing from an unpleasant topic back to one I loved, I asked, “Have you seen the plans for the gardens?”

He looked embarrassed. “Mom gave them to me, but I have to confess I haven’t had a chance.” His eyes held a very un-nerdlike twinkle. “Why don’t you just tell me the short version?”

“You see where we’ve extended flagstone steps from the terrace. The four-season perennials will flank those as well as at the rose garden’s four corners. That fountain will be the center of the roses. Up near the house, so your mom can see it from the breakfast room, will be an old-fashioned cottage garden. Below the roses—where you see the second fountain—will be the maze’s center.”

“A maze, here? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“That’s what I meant when I said hedge plants should arrive Monday.”

“Looks like you’ve got everything covered.” He waved away a fly. “But that’s not the only reason I came out here. Would you have dinner with me tonight? You can give me the long version of the plans then.”

Though I’d seen the interest in his eyes, the actual invitation surprised me. “S-Sounds nice. We won’t finish up here until six. What time did you have in mind?”

He swatted at the fly again. “Will half past seven give you time to get home and catch your breath?”

And a shower. That fly had been circling me for a reason. “That’d be great. I live over my grandparents’ carriage house. Theirs is the yellow house behind the garden center.” I gave him the address and directions.

“See you there at seven-thirty.” He smiled and ambled back toward the house.

Although, calling the Rockwell place merely a house was massive understatement. The mansion? The castle? The palace? Any of those terms would fit.

Miguel came up beside me. “Dating a customer? This, you never do it before.”

“I know it’s not a good idea, but in this case—technically—his mom is the customer, not him.”

Miguel chuckled and walked away. He was a first generation American. His folks and even he and his wife spoke Spanish at home. He might not speak perfect English, but he understood way too much.

We knocked off at six and I rushed back to make sure Chelsea had done the deposit. She had. With both Miguel and me working at the Rockwell’s and Walter still in jail, that left Chelsea in charge of the garden center. A sobering thought. At least Steve could be depended on to oversee the nursery plants. Not that I couldn’t depend on Chelsea. She looked like a slacker but she worked hard. Usually. In the first or last stages of her many short-lived romances, she sometimes lost focus and spaced out. Having witnessed Sam Rockwell’s fit of temper, I worried about her attraction to him.

This evening, all appeared well. Dozens of sticky notes decorated my desktop and computer screen and a pile of phone messages caught my attention. I checked the messages and wrote tomorrow’s instructions for Chelsea on those that couldn’t wait.

I hurried home and took Rascal for a fast walk before urging him back up the stairs. We both had a long drink of water, him from a bowl and me from a tall glass.

I whirled through the shower, then practically took a bath in lotion and moisturizer. No amount of pleading would force my hair to curl, so I plaited it and wound it into a coil at the base of my head. In spite of the sunscreen manufacturer’s promise, my nose looked pink. A light layer of makeup took care of that problem. Sort of, but by now I was out of time.

I chose my tangerine dress. The rayon challis felt cool against my skin. I slid my feet into white sandals as I gave myself a spritz of cologne. In case I ever cooled off after today’s baking, I carried a short-sleeved white cotton cardigan.

Devlin was on time. Instead of asking him in, I met him on the landing. It’s really a porch about five feet deep and fifteen feet across. A white wicker chair is at one end and an assortment of plants takes up a good bit of the other space. Those with flowers bloomed in white or hot pink. I thought it looked cheerful even from below the steps.

Devlin dodged a hanging basket of ivy geranium. “Your personal jungle?”

I made sure the porch light timer was set then locked the door. “Pitiful, isn’t it? People give me ailing plants and I can’t let them die.”

He pointed at a plant near the rail. “That definitely looks healthy. I’ve never seen so many blooms on one of those...whatever they’re called.”

We started down the steps.

“Bougainvillea. Of course, most times when I want to sit and admire the vegetation, I use my grandparents’ swing.” I nodded at their garden, pleased by the eye appeal of the neat beds and lawn. The scent of jasmine and honeysuckle drifted our way, and I thought I detected the roses and the pergola’s wisteria as well.

“You nursed all those on your porch back to health?”

“A personal challenge. I love plants, obviously, or I’d be in another business.” By this time we were down the stairs and beside a white Lexus.

After we’d climbed inside, he said, “I’m pretty new to Gamble Grove. Do you have a special place you’d like to recommend?”

“It’s not as if there’s that much to choose from unless you want fast food. For inside dining, most people go to Turrentino’s or the country club.”

“In that case, where’s Turrentino’s?” He started the car. “I’ve been to the country club.”

So had I, and enjoyed its quiet, restful atmosphere. But I supposed we might as well face the inevitable and prepared myself for when we arrived at Turrentino’s.

Following my directions, he found the restaurant. The parking lot was crowded, Friday night being the busiest night of the week for dining out. We waited until a family backed out of a prime parking spot and pulled into their space.

When we stepped inside, my Aunt Clarice spotted me and rushed over to give me a hug. “Heather, we don’t see you enough.” As if I hadn’t seen her five days ago on Sunday. Aunt Clarice turned to Devlin. “Who’s this?”

I can always sense the speculation when I’m seen with a man. Not that it happens that often. The mischief in me wanted to introduce him as a lover with whom I planned to run off to Tahiti right after dinner—or any sassy remark guaranteed to set my aunt on her tiny buns. Instead, I sighed and gave in to propriety. “This is Devlin Douglas. The garden center is doing a large project for his family. Devlin, my Aunt Clarice Turrentino.”

“Combining business with pleasure. Nice.” She gestured for us to follow her. “This way.”

She led us to a table in a corner and left us with menus, raising her eyebrow at me before going on her way.

“Your aunt owns this place?” Devlin opened his menu.

“She and my uncle Rico, short for Frederico. He’s the head chef. My cousins Lisa and Ricky are pretty much forced labor but I think they plan to come into the business.” I indicated which two of the waitstaff were my cousins. “Although several other relatives have worked here at one time or another, I don’t think the other current staff are my kin.”

He asked, “They have a specialty you’d recommend?”

“You won’t go wrong with anything, but the tortellini is my favorite.” I tapped a finger on the menu to show him the selection. “And the salad features a secret dressing I swear is the best I’ve ever tasted.”

“Okay, I’ll trust your judgment. Besides, I’m too messy with spaghetti to eat it when dining with a beautiful woman I’d like to impress.”

While I basked in his compliment, Ricky appeared with a basket of rolls. “Hey, Heather, how’s it going?”

“Great. Congratulations on your scholarship. Devlin, this is my cousin, Ricky Turrentino, a soon-to-be college man.”

They exchanged greetings then Ricky took our orders and hurried toward the kitchen. Devlin and I discussed his mom’s garden for a while, but he didn’t appear interested in the benefits of one plant over another. Ricky delivered our drinks and promised our food would soon be ready. I decided to make good use of the time we waited and probed for clues.

“You said you’re staying with your mom for a couple of weeks? I guess you have a lot of your own relatives at your house now.”

“Not many. My Aunt Kay will stay a few days. Uncle Lionel will probably go back to Dallas after the will’s read.” He looked up from dredging a piece of bread in olive oil. “He’s not really my uncle, of course. He’s Vance’s attorney. Sam and I have always called him uncle because he’s a family friend.”

That fit with what Grandpa had speculated. “I guess that was your aunt beside you at the funeral.”

He looked embarrassed. “Yeah. She’s my dad’s sister, and she’s been in the company since it was founded. She never married and she’s always talked to Sam and me as if we were her kids. We should have insisted she take a tranquilizer or something before the funeral like Mom did.”

I wondered if he knew his aunt had dated Rockwell before the rat threw her over for Bootsy? “Are you nervous about the will or is it pretty cut and dried?”

He froze for a few seconds and appeared as if he tamped down anger.