EIGHT

 

       The matinee ended at four. Angie changed from dress clothes to jeans and sweatshirt, and called the florist. “Hi Donna. Can you make me up a colorful vase of carnations?”

“The stage ones wilted already? Must be the lights.”

“No, these are for my apartment.”

“Uh-oh, you need cheering up. What did Jarvis do now? Or, has Will been hasseling you again?”

Angie laughed. “Nothing like that. I’m feeling spring-like. I’ll be there in a few.” She considered phoning Jarvis to see if he wanted to see Donna’s irises but he’d acted so strange at the theater. Like he was avoiding her. Probably regretted making love to her. She’d been too easy, hadn’t resisted one inch when he hefted her dress and jabbed his—

“Angie, are you okay?”

She found herself standing inside the florist shop, surrounded by the scent of roses and humidity and a very serious looking Donna Marks.

“Um, yeah, I’m fine.”

“You look a little pale.”

“I had to get out of the theater. Claustrophobia.”

“In that huge, echoing building?” Donna laughed. “I know how you feel though. Sometimes I want to close this place up and go romp in a snowbank.”

“I haven’t been sledding in years,” Angie said wistfully.

“Too bad about what happened Friday night.”

“Were you there?”

“No.” She smiled. “I thought I’d go toward the middle of the month…after you got the kinks worked out. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“Besides, I kind of had something to do.”

“Something to do, huh? Did you know John?”

“No. Well…I’ve been to his nursery before.”

A bell over the door clanged as a customer entered. A gust of cold air rushed in too, but soon became absorbed in the humidity of the shop. Donna called good afternoon, then lowered her voice, “I went there once in a while, for outdoor bedding plants. I can’t remember who I dealt with, might’ve been a salesperson. That seems more likely, doesn’t it? I’ll be right with you,” she said to the customer, then continued to Angie, “A friend said the cops have been all over the neighborhood asking questions: did you see any activity over there; did you hear anything; how well did you know him?”

“Did your friend know anything?”

“Only after the fact. Lots of commotion around one a.m. Turned out to be the cops.” Eyes on the customer who’d picked up a vase of cattails, Donna told Angie, “I’ll be right back.”

Once the customer left, Donna gestured at a vase on the far end of the counter. “Colorful enough for you?”

“Beautiful. By the way, the next show is called Ruckus in New York. I’ll need sunflowers for that. Can you get them this time of year?”

“Sure. How many?”

“A couple dozen a week. And also, something subdued for a dining room arrangement. Maybe nine inches tall.”

“Consider it done.”

Angie paid for the carnations. “By the way, can I see your irises again? I haven’t been able to stop thinking about them.” The truth.

“Uh, sure.” Donna peeked onto the sidewalk to make sure no customers were coming in.

Her hothouse was just as neat and orderly as Angie’s visit two days before. Just as aromatic. There were a lot of red flowers; she surveyed the long aisles: brown-red, orange-red, rose-red, reddish edged in other colors, but not a single red-red. And, no overcrowding from the addition of red plants. How many might that be anyway?

Angie tried to recall the placement of the irises from her last visit. Hadn’t there been a tall, rose-color Donna had called Gingersnap in front? Yes. They had talked about scents: how some were strong and some nearly absent.

In the left aisle, hadn’t there been a cranberry-brown called Fire-something? Yes, Play with Fire. The flower was gone. She mentally kicked herself. Donna could be no more involved in this than her. To move a plant from a spot to mate or debug, or whatever else had to be done, wouldn’t be unusual. Besides, it would be stupid of Donna to put the red on display just days after stealing it.

Donna’s eyes were on her. Angie leaned forward, wrapping both hands gently around the nearest bloom and giving an exaggerated sniff. “Mm. Very nice. What’s the name of this one?”

“That one’s one of my favorites. It’s called Spiced Custard.”

Angie made a show of reluctantly releasing the flower, and straightening up. “How’s the breeding program progressing?”

“Er…Not very well right now. I guess in the long run it doesn’t really matter. I love the flowers so much, I’d have them anyway.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t have so many though?” Angie offered.

“I don’t know. I think I’d still have a lot. I have very little outlay since I’ve bred most of them here. They don’t cost much to keep.”

“Record keeping must take quite some time.”

Donna’s grass-green eyes lit up. “Definitely. I have a log on each flower. The logs are cross-referenced several times, both on paper and in the computer. Then, of course, there are extensive pedigrees…”

Finally a glimpse into the magnitude of John’s theft.

“Could I see a pedigree?”

“My office is really a mess. I’d be embarrassed.”

“It can’t be as bad as mine and Tyson’s,” Angie said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I have stacks this high in every corner. I’m curious about your filing system; I haven’t got a computerized one at Prince & Pauper yet.”

Donna stepped forward, white Converse sneakers showing below too-short jeans. Angie had a glimpse of brown socks before the foot moved back. “You should call Montez Clarke, he does all my computer integrating.”

“I know him,” Angie said. “I hear John was breeding for a red iris.”

Donna’s glance shot toward her. Then it moved away. She put a hand on the doorknob—the tour had ended. “Is that right? Wish I’d known. We could’ve traded pointers.”

“The other day, you talked about cloning. Have you done any of that?”

“Gosh, no. I haven’t the education. I’m just a backyard breeder.” Donna stepped into the hallway and crossed her arms. “Did John do cloning?”

“I have no idea. I know two things: he’s been breeding for several years, and he’s been in touch with a guy from Amsterdam, who’s bred irises for a long time.”

When Donna made no comment, Angie changed the subject and moved back into the shop. “So,” she put a sly tone in her voice. “What did you do this weekend? Have a date?”

Donna’s eyebrows scrunched. “Why are you asking so many questions?”

“Oh goodness. Sorry if I’ve overstepped. I was just making conversation.” Angie picked up her vase. “I will see you Friday for the weekend’s flowers. Thanks.”

Angie left, blinking in the bright sunshine. Even though it looked like winter, the smell of spring peppered the air. The revelation put a jaunt in her step in spite of the mood instilled by the dramatic change in Donna’s attitude. What prompted that change? Just two days ago, she’d invited Angie to see the greenhouse. Shown her around like a mother parading a newborn.

Which brought up the question, was there another reason Donna hadn’t come to the show? Because she waited for John to leave his property she could break in and steal Rhapsody? She had the means and the opportunity, and a smallish motive.

Not a small motive, really. The red would be worth millions. Every breeder in the country—no, the world—would breed it. Sell it. Love it. Want the process for other genetic work. Which led her to think of Trynne. Angie shook off the notion and stuck with Donna for now. Why didn’t she didn’t want Angie in her office? Maybe she told the truth about the messy conditions. But it could also be a mess from an overload of files and laboratory equipment, a red iris—and a hard drive. What did a hard drive look like?

Had Jarvis considered Donna as a possibility? Angie took out her cell phone, but as she fingernailed the buttons, a strange sensation oozed into her. Somebody was watching. A slight tilt of her head revealed Donna standing in the window between two bushy plants, arms crossed, the corners of her mouth turned downward. Angie waved. Donna didn’t.

Angie put the phone on the seat and realized someone else was waving…from the window of the shop beside Donna’s: Will’s real estate office. Angie waved to her soon-to-be ex and drove a few hundred feet to the Downings Landing parking lot. Jarvis didn’t answer either his cell phone or his home phone. She dialed the station and learned he was out. The tone suggested he’d been reminded of the same thing. In Alton Village, she turned right onto Barr Road. Most of the houses were older but interspersed between were newer ones, many of them modulars. Middle-income cars.

Jarvis’s red Jeep sat alone in the yard. She pulled in beside it. Icicles the size of pencils dripped like broken faucets from the garage eaves. Rivers of salty sludge puddled in the driveway. Earth thawed, pooled. Mud season had begun. Meanwhile, brown grass lay bedraggled and limp, but ready to erupt to green with very little encouragement from the sun. Daffodils and crocus waited to push green points through mulch and dead leaves, and bring hope to even the most downcast cabin-fever victim.

Her side-view mirror sent a reflection of activity across the street. In the rearview mirror where objects didn’t “look smaller,” a stout elderly man stalked down the circular driveway of the aged Victorian home, painted a harsh green. He didn’t even look both ways before crossing the road. Not that there was any traffic, but Gloria’s voice shouted in her head, “No sense taking chances.”

Angie got out of her car, the open door pinging indignantly, and faced the oncoming man. He was of medium height with thick jowls and a too-high forehead. Bits of gray hair poked from under a bright orange toque, boots splashed in the mud. He breathed hard, from anger more than exertion, Angie thought. His face might have been pleasant at one time, but something had forced his mouth into a permanent frown.

Angie said a bubbly, “Good afternoon.”

He stopped walking…a foot away. She stepped back a foot and a half. He stabbed a finger in the comfort zone she’d created. It poked the air in her direction, and jerked toward Jarvis’s car. “I want you police people out of here. My wife is very ill and this is too much. Just too much.”

“I’m not from the police.”

The man lurched toward her. She opened her mouth to shout for Jarvis. “You gawkers are even worse. Can’t you let this go? Let the dead man rest in peace. My wife is ill, we can’t have this commotion.”

She’d seen this behavior before; the man was grieving. “I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean any harm.” She shuffled her feet acting uncomfortable with her new knowledge. “Terrible when someone we love is ill.”

The wrinkles around his mouth twitched. The ones around his eyes softened—a little. “Not your fault.” He pulled off the toque and raked a blue-veined hand through his hair, flattened by the heavy hat. “We’ve been married forty-seven years.”

“You don’t see many long-term marriages any more,” Angie said, thinking about her own. Twenty-six years.

“Nothing they can do for Edna.”

The face of Carson Dodge superimposed itself on this man. “I’m very sorry,” Angie offered, laying her hand on the coarse sleeve. Then she reached back and pushed the car door shut, silencing the energetic pinging.

“I’m trying to make her last days as peaceful as possible.” He waved a gnarled hand at John’s house where a kitchen curtain moved. Jarvis. “And now this,” the man said.

“My name is Angie Deacon.”

“Frank Chute.”

Angie stuck out her hand, a small amount of physical contact helped put people at ease. “Nice to meet you.” His hand was soft, the hand of an inactive person. The creases at the corners of his eyes smoothed.

“Are you the girlfriend?” He glanced over her shoulder at the Lexus. “No. No, you’re not.”

“Did she look like me? Was she tall? Short? Fat? Thin?”

His eyebrows knit. “One night the porch light came on. I got a peek before she got inside. I’d say she was more tall than short. Thinner than fat, if you know what I mean.”

Angie gave a shrug. “An impression is better than nothing at all.”

“So, you’re not a policeman, er, woman?”

“No, I’m sort of a…”

“A detective?”

“No. Mr. Bloom was a friend. I’d really like to find out who did this to him. Would you mind telling me what you told them? You never know when something new will come from a simple conversation.”

“They say that on TV all the time.”

“Talking helps jog the memory. Can you remember what kind of car the woman drove?”

Frank yanked his hat back over the gray curls and eyed Angie’s car. “Nothing like yours, that’s for sure. Hers was one of those small jobs with five doors.”

“A hatchback?”

“Yes. That’s right. Blue.”

“Did she come here often?”

“I don’t want you thinking I spend all my time watching my neighbors but at night, the sounds carry our way. Don’t know why that is. Top a that, I don’t sleep well.” He stopped for a breath. “I’d say she came a couple times a month.”

“Did John go out much?”

“Never at night. Sometimes during the day.”

“Did you hear, or see, anything the night he died?”

“Around midnight I heard a lot of door slamming. Muffled voices. Turned out to be the cops.”

“What about before that, say around nine or ten?”

He looked toward his house, probably thinking he’d been gone too long, wondering if Edna was all right. “Most weekend nights there’s activity down there.” He pointed past Bloom’s driveway. “Old log road kids use. Probably to smoke dope.”

“There’s more, isn’t there? Something you didn’t tell the police.”

Frank Chute looked at her, as if assessing her integrity. He smiled, revealing well-made false teeth. “I didn’t mention the other car.”

“Car?”

“I got up to—well, a car inched very slowly along the road. At the time, I thought it was just some kids, you know? That’s mostly why I didn’t mention it before. But I’ve been thinking maybe it was related because it could have been pulling out of the driveway. I say could have because I didn’t actually see it doing that.”

“Was the car small and blue?”

He grinned again. “That I would have mentioned. As you can see, there’s no streetlight, and neither of our porch lights were on. We don’t get much company in the middle of the night.” He shrugged. “One of the reasons we bought on this road.”

“The moon wouldn’t have been much help either,” she said, recalling the sliver of moon and the minimal light illuminating the snow on their way to the greenhouse.

“This car was bigger, and a dark color. Navy or black, maybe. The weather was clear and cold. The heat came on. Shakes the house a little.” He gave a chuckle. “That’s how I know when we need a furnace cleaning.”

“Can you remember the time?”

He pursed his thin lips. “I can only guestimate that it was between nine and ten.”

“How did you get along with Mr. Bloom?”

The lips flattened. “That yard brings down property values for people trying to sell their house.” Anger and frustration welled up inside him again.

Over his shoulder she saw the sign, jammed into the ground near the front walk. “Are you selling because of Mr. Bloom?”

In that short instant before he spoke again, Angie knew the reason the house had been put on the market. “Edna’s bills…we have no insurance. I hate to do it; she loves the place so. But what choice do I have?”

“Where will you go?”

“With one of our kids. We have four. I didn’t tell Edna, I’ve been worried that if the house doesn’t sell in a few weeks…” He shrugged. “When the snow melts, buyers will see the mess.”

“I guess that’s moot now, isn’t it?” Angie stopped talking, letting the implication behind her words sink in, but he either didn’t get it, or chose not to. “Did you know Mr. Bloom personally?”

Chute jammed his hands deeper in the pockets of his wool coat. He took them out, then put them back in again. Something had happened between the neighbors. Chute didn’t volunteer anything.

“Do you know what he did for a living?” Angie asked.

A light flickered behind his brown eyes. “I see what you mean. He was doing something on the side. Drugs?”

“No, nothing like that. He bred irises.”

“Irises?”

“Red ones in particular.” She watched, but saw no reaction. “Has anyone ever come around asking about irises in relation to Mr. Bloom?”

“This trouble related to that?”

“Maybe.”

“No, the only talk was about the traffic on the street.”

“Do you have a computer?”

He laughed and shook his head. “Kids keep saying we should have one, to do something called E-mail with the grandkids. Why?”

“No reason.”

She ducked inside her car, wrote her name and home phone number on the back of a Prince & Pauper business card, and handed it to him. “Would you call me if you think of anything else?”

“Else? Did I say something helpful?”

Angie touched his arm. “I really appreciate you trusting me. Please give your wife my best.”

Frank nodded toward the house. “Who’s inside?”

“Police Detective Colby Jarvis. He’s one of the good guys.”

Frank’s face finally smoothed out. “I get it. You and him.”

“Go home to your wife,” Angie said, playfully.

This time Chute looked both ways crossing the street. She headed for Bloom’s house feeling a bit gloomy. A tiny part of her wanted Chute to be a suspect. Physically he probably couldn’t have ransacked the nursery. What motive would he have anyway? To get Bloom out of the way, so the house would be sold, and property values rise again? Much too uncertain.

Bloom’s door opened. Jarvis gestured for her to come in. She followed him to the dining room where he’d obviously been sitting amid mountains of papers and pamphlets. Jarvis sat and picked up a stack. “Sometimes this job is really boring.”

She sat in front of him, crossing her legs Indian fashion and leaning forward, elbows on her thighs. “Find anything worthwhile?”

“Nah. The big guys took everything yesterday.”

“Nothing about Sondergaard?”

“A few mentions in newsletters.” He thumbed through a pamphlet with bold black letters saying International Code of Nomenclature for Cultivated Plants. He wiggled it in the air. “Mucho boring-o.”

His attempt at humor made her laugh.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he said.

Sorry that she was too easy?

“I didn’t mean to force myself on you. Well, I guess I did mean it because otherwise I would’ve stopped. I guess what I mean is—”

“I liked it.”

Their eyes met, lingered. Jarvis broke away first. “What did Chute say?”

“A woman in a blue hatchback visited a couple of times a month. His impression was that she was taller and slimmer rather than shorter and fatter.” Jarvis didn’t say anything, but his eyebrows wrinkled. “Also, between nine and ten p.m. a large dark color vehicle might have turned in, or come out of, the driveway.”

“You sure you don’t want a job on the force? You could probably have mine.”

“Cut it out, you’ll be reinstated, though I wonder what they’ll do if they catch you here.”

“Don’t know. Don’t want to find out.” He slapped the book to the floor and put out a hand to help her up. “Come on, let’s go.”

On the way out, Angie told about Donna’s about-face attitude. “She’s a dedicated breeder. Won’t admit to breeding reds but she owns a little blue car.”

“You think she’s the girlfriend? After here, I thought I’d head over to talk to her.”

“She’ll never speak to me again.”

“I’ll keep you out of it.”

“How you going to do that, I was only there an hour ago.”

He walked Angie to her car. “I’ll figure something out. But there will be a price.”

“There always is.”

* * * *

 

Angie slowed as she passed Donna’s shop. A narrow driveway, framing two long patches of muddy looking garden, led around the right side of the building and greenhouse. Between the rectangles of garden sat a car, identical to the one Frank Chute had described. Angie couldn’t tell the exact make from her location. Behind, Jarvis waved and pulled into a parking space.

Could Donna be John’s illusive girlfriend? A mutual interest in something like iris breeding could really spark a relationship. Angie pictured long, boring conversations and marathon laboratory sessions. And yet John’s neighbor said the girlfriend only visited a couple of times a month. Trynne said John never invited anyone to his home. Wouldn’t she be surprised to hear about this?

Maybe it wasn’t a romance between John and Donna; perhaps the relationship was business. The pair met to compare progress, tell lies, chat about the industry.

Angie realized she’d driven past her condominium complex; she whipped the car into the pull-off area across from the ledges overlooking the bay. The vehicle following gave an irritated honk and sped past. Pulling her jacket tight against the perpetual breeze off the water, she got out and went to the guardrail, taking in great breaths of cold air that shot chills into every cranny. Below stretched the long narrow bay that, from here, might be mistaken for a river. She couldn’t see its abrupt ending at Downings Landing. Across the water, the homes and seasonal cottages were lined like pickets. Upstream was the gaping mouth of Lake Winnipesaukee.

Why couldn’t she extinguish the urge to find killers? What if her marriage hadn’t broken up and loneliness didn’t drive her emotions, would the investigative compulsion ever have surfaced? Or was there some inbred desire for danger? Granted, the feeling of bringing a murderer to justice brought great satisfaction. And she had to admit, that fleeting fame garnered interest in the theater. Angie shivered, climbed in the car and headed home. She drew two newspapers from the tube and pushed open the door. Warm smells oozed out—Gloria was cooking dinner. Beef stew maybe. A cupboard door shut.

“I’m home!” She hung up her coat and bustled into the nice, cozy kitchen. Her mother, in bathrobe and slippers, stood bent over, looking at something in the oven. Angie slipped onto a counter stool and set the newspapers in front of her. “Smells great. What prompted your Suzie Homemaker impression?”

Gloria shut the oven and smiled. “I felt like it. I invited Jarvis and his dad.”

“Mom…about Mr. Dodge…”

Gloria stopped smiling and dropped onto an adjoining stool. “What about him? What is it about him that you could possibly dislike? He’s considerate and kind, he’s—oh, I get it, you hate him because he ran off on his family forty-something years ago.”

“No. I like him a lot. It’s just that…are you sure you should get involved with someone who’s…”

“Who’s what, dying? Angelina, I know all about death. People my age face the possibility every day. Everyday I read of friends who have left us.”

“Okay, okay. I just don’t want you hurt.” And, heaven help her for being selfish, she didn’t want a grieving woman clinging even tighter.

“Don’t worry. I’m fine. I’ll be fine. So, where have you been all afternoon?”

While her mother brewed cups of chamomile tea, Angie outlined the events of the day. She opened the previous day’s newspaper, the phone rang. Gloria groaned. “The thing’s been ringing off the hook. Reporters.”

Angie let the machine pick up. A man’s voice identified himself as a reporter for the Union Leader and asked her to phone when she came in. Yesterday’s Concord Monitor headline screamed Prominent Alton Bay Nurseryman Dies. It featured a picture of John standing beside his sign, one hand extended as though to say, see what I have! His smile was wide and welcoming. A pang of sadness drove through her. What a waste. Angie pushed the paper away. As the hall clock chimed six, the doorbell added its chord.

Angie almost laughed seeing Jarvis and his father standing there. If two men ever looked less excited to be on a date, she hadn’t seen it. Jarvis’s face was tight and somber. Carson Dodge looked tired, the gray circles under his eyes more pronounced. Jarvis kissed Angie on the temple.

Mr. Dodge laughed. “Son, even I’m more romantic than that! Go on, give the girl a real kiss.”

Which Jarvis did, hauling her in close and bending her over backward, like dancers dipping. She came up laughing. “Good evening, Mister Dodge, can I take your coat?”

“Please, call me Bud.”

Jarvis helped him off with the coat then handed the garment to her. Gloria appeared in the kitchen doorway. Bud went to her and planted a kiss on her temple. Angie nearly threw out a sly comment about kiss placement but thought perhaps their relationship hadn’t progressed to that stage yet.

Dinner was delicious. It had been a while since Angie had a home cooked meal. They chatted about politics, weather, sports, and more politics. Everything but murder.

Prompted by his father, Jarvis related a story from his childhood. “Dwight and I were playing behind the cookhouse. The snow was as deep as I’d seen it. And cold, god, the cold could freeze the insides of your nose before you could get off the steps. We took a couple of old burlap bags out of the trash bin and climbed the bank behind the shed. It was roof high, great for sledding. After twenty or so trips down, it got pretty slick and had extended a good ways from the building.” Angie watched the animation on his face, and hand gestures. She wished he could be this way more often. “Well, long story short,” Jarvis continued.

Gloria broke in with a “too late” that made everyone laugh.

He threw her a fake scowl. “As I slid down that last time, face first, I decided to blaze an even longer track and pulled the bag left. It went up over a small ridge. I couldn’t see anything on the other side, but wasn’t worried.” He laughed. “Not till I went over. And down. Into the well. Took them an hour to fish me out.” Jarvis shivered. “Never been so cold in my life.”

Bud turned serious. “I should’ve been there for you.”

“That’s not why I told the story.”

“I know.”

“I actually only remembered bits and pieces of the story. My mother repeated the Colby falling in the well story anytime company visited.”

Jarvis then told of a fourth grade spelling bee he and the other logger children participated in. He’d won on the word nausea. This was the first time he’d really opened up. On a roll, he then told how he’d broken his wrist in a basketball game.

“I bought you a football for your second birthday,” Bud said. “Caught hell from your mother. She didn’t want her little boy getting hurt.” He smiled. “Worked out in her favor though. You didn’t like it. You went out the next morning and stole…well, I should say traded without permission—the football for a neighbor’s kid’s basketball.”

“I always dreamed about being a Boston Celtic. I wanted to be Larry Bird.”

“You sure did, it was all you talked about. Finally I took you to a game in Boston. You had the time of your life.”

Angie waited for Jarvis to agree, but beneath the mustache his lips had dipped into a frown. “I don’t recall ever leaving that logging camp. Not to go anywhere.”

“Funny how the brain erases some things, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, funny.”

“So, why didn’t you become a basketball player?” Angie asked.

“After Mom died, I came back to the states and played through high school. I was pretty good, averaged twelve points a game, coupla blocked shots.” Jarvis shrugged. “When I was a senior, some scout came and watched one of our championship games. When one of my teammates—a guy who averaged less points, rebounds, and blocked shots—got the call, I hung up my sneakers. I know it sounds petty, but it broke my spirit. Anyway, a couple weeks later, a career counselor came and talked to all the seniors. I got hooked on police work.”

“I think you chose well,” Gloria said.

While Jarvis talked, Angie watched Carson. His demeanor was sad, wistful. She felt bad for this man who’d missed his children’s exploits, their accomplishments. Angie set her utensils across the plate and pushed it away.

“I guess that’s what it takes to get you to eat right,” Gloria said, “home cooking.”

With stalled breath, Angie waited for the bomb to drop: Gloria’s suggestion that she stay on permanently. But she merely rose from the chair and walked to the refrigerator. She returned with a pie, said, “apple,” and began dishing out slices.

“Mmm,” Bud and Jarvis said at the same time.

She watched the men. They were nothing alike. Even though seriously ill, Bud Dodge presented an image of energy and sociability. She’d rarely known Jarvis as anything more than somber and steadfast. He was brave and determined; if he got his teeth into anything—like this murder investigation—there was no dragging him away. Then again, as time passed, she saw different sides to the serious man. Last night, for example. And tonight, when he related stories about his past. His manner became much more like his father’s.

“Pie, Angie?” Gloria asked.

“No thanks,” Angie said.

“Come on, you can eat a piece.” Gloria slid a huge hunk onto a plate and pushed it in Angie’s direction.

Jarvis and Bud dug into theirs and ate in silence till the last crumb of crust disappeared. Jarvis hauled Angie’s untouched plate toward him and ate her slice too.

Bud stood up and began clearing the table. “You two go get ready to leave, Jarvis and I can handle this,” he told Angie and Gloria. Gloria smiled like a schoolgirl just asked to her first prom.

Jarvis gathered the paper napkins, crumpled them in balls and heaved them into the trash container. Then he took her elbow and escorted her down the hall. They stopped outside Angie’s bedroom door. “I wanted to tell you the news. Sergeant Wilson called as I was going out the door. He found cameras in John’s lab and greenhouse.”

“So, the theft wasn’t a random act. Someone carefully planned this. Any way to determine when the equipment got installed?”

“Maybe. Wilson’s having the stuff checked by an expert.”

“Any way to trace where the camera signal is going?”

“I wondered the same thing. I’d guess yes because they can do it with cell phones. We’ll know in the morning. The expert is coming up from Nashua first thing.”

She put a hand on her doorknob. “One more thing,” Jarvis said. “I did as you suggested and called the registrar of the iris society. He said he didn’t know John personally, but knew of him. He has…had…a good reputation in the industry. The registrar said unfortunately there’s no proof John ever produced a red. There’s no application for registration, he’s published no articles, given no symposiums.”

“What about the theft? Did he have any theories? Any suspects?”

“No. But he did tell me one interesting thing. He said every day he gets claims by people saying their ‘discovery’ has been stolen. ‘The simple fact is,’ he said, ‘it’s easy to steal pollen. I’m in your greenhouse. All I do is distract you a moment. I already have a Q-tip cupped in my hand. I knock some pollen onto it and stick it in a baggie. Then I take it to my host plant and deposit it…’ I forget where he said it goes. Anyway, poof, you’ve got offspring.” He chucked her under the chin. “I prefer the good old fashioned way of breeding.”

Angie laughed. “There was nothing old fashioned about last night,” she said and ducked into her room.