Garden of Death (22 page)

“The question is, did Professor Russell know, and are the two of them in this thing together?”

“I'll call him,” I said, grabbing my phone. But I got his answering machine, too, and left a message. “Professor Russell, I need to talk to you about Dr. Gillian as soon as possible. Please call me.” I'd just put the phone down when Detectives Koren and Coyle along with two uniformed police officers entered my office.

“That was fast,” Jackson said. “What's going on?”

“I need you to come into the station to answer some questions, Mr. Spade.”

I pointed to the computer screen. “We know about Dr. Gillian being a fake, but we didn't know before. You need to talk to Professor Russell. He'll confirm our story.” But I wondered if this was true, given his friendship with Harold and Maggie. “There's no reason to take Jackson in.”

“No reason? We talked to Professor Russell and he told us that Mr. Spade lied about the trip to East Hampton, and the meeting with Dr. Gillian. He also told us that the stolen sword, a priceless artifact, has gone missing. For all we know, you have it.”

“That trip was real, and I can produce the flight log to prove it,” Simon said.

“Can you prove that you actually met with Dr. Gillian?”

“Yes, I have a receipt for the sword,” I said, beginning to panic. “I—I just have to find it.”

“Even I know that's lame,” Detective Coyle said. “You're stalling.”

“He's right,” Detective Koren said. “We can't believe anything either of you say, especially that business about Harold Spitz and Joe Larson. That's classic misdirection. Maybe you wanted Dr. White dead for personal reasons, Spade, or maybe you fought over that sword and he died. But you're going to answer for it.” He nodded to the police officers. “Take him in.”

chapter twenty-six

Willow McQuade's
Favorite Medicinal Plants

NETTLE

Botanical name:
Urtica dioica, U. urens

Medicinal Uses: Nettle is one of the most versatile herbs you can know, grow, and use. The ancient Greeks and Romans planted and cultivated more acres of nettle than any other crop for use as food and medicine, and even clothing. Nettle is chock-full of vitamins and minerals, including iron and calcium, and makes a nourishing tea and tonic to help strengthen your body and ease creaky joints. And there's more. Nettle works as an antihistamine to remedy allergies and hay fever, nourishes and tones the veins, reduces inflammation, and helps prevent blood clots. Nettle also helps curb the appetite, cleanses toxins from the body, and boosts energy. You will often find nettle in PMS formulas and other remedies for menstrual, fertility, and menopausal issues.

Note: If growing nettle yourself, be sure and wear gloves to protect your hands from the needlelike protrusions. An old folk remedy suggests rolling down a hill of stinging nettle to ease the pain of arthritis, but I wouldn't recommend doing this!

They snapped cuffs on Jackson and I felt my heart constrict. How could this be happening? I wanted to cry but didn't want to make it more difficult for Jackson, so I tried to hold it together. But then my hands began to shake, so I shoved them into my pockets.

Simon promised him that he would put his lawyer on his case. “In the meantime,” he said, “don't talk to the police.”

Jackson shot him a look. “I was a cop, Simon. Don't you think I know that?”

“Let's go Spade,” Detective Koren said. “Say good-bye to your girlfriend.”

Jackson turned to me and mouthed
I love you
.

I nodded and mouthed
I love you, too
. I took a step toward him, but Detective Koren waved me off.

Detective Coyle snickered and marched Jackson out the front door, followed by his partner and the other cops. When they closed the door, it felt like life as I knew it had ended.

Simon called his lawyer and I went back into my office. I sat at my desk and allowed myself to completely fall apart. Five minutes later, Simon came in and hugged me. I wiped my tears and quickly pulled myself back together again. “What did your lawyer say?”

“I told him that I wanted him in Greenport by this afternoon, and that I'll pay for his representation of Jackson. He's not available, but he's sending a new partner at the firm named Shawn Thompson, who is Harvard educated and a top-notch attorney. Thompson specializes in criminal matters and has won some really big cases in the city. Actually, he's the hottest lawyer in NYC at the moment.”

“Thanks, Simon.”

“No problem, but he also said to stay away from the jail right now. Jackson knows not to talk to Detectives Koren and Coyle until his lawyer arrives.

“Once Thompson hits town, he'll call us on the way to the jail and we can meet him there. He'll be with Jackson during any questioning and hopefully get him released. In the meantime, I say we follow up on what I learned about that painting last night, maybe research its history—and the history of the men's club.”

I nodded. I wasn't sure how—or if—the men's club was connected to Dr. White's murder, but at this point, I was willing to follow any lead. “Okay, but first we need to go the bank and look at that receipt to see if it provides any clue to Gillian's real identity, and if it does, tell the police.”

“I've been thinking about something else. Since I couldn't write last night, I used the time to go over the chain of events, and I realized that an important piece of the puzzle is missing.”

“What is it?”

“Why that guy donated the lot in the first place.”

“Frank Fox?”

Simon nodded. “Exactly. Did he do it to be a nice guy or did he have another motive? Maybe there was a reason he gave it away rather than profit from it.”

“That's a good point. Fox might have had his own agenda.”

Simon smiled at me. “I've never met a person who didn't.”

•   •   •

Fifteen minutes later, we were
in my bank, in one of the little rooms where they let you examine the contents of your safe-deposit box. Once the bank manager left, I opened the box. Everything was still inside, including the receipt from “Dr. Travis Gillian.” But I could tell immediately that it wouldn't help us.

“It's just his name and the address of the East Hampton Historical Society, not even a phone number. He signed it as Dr. Gillian, but that doesn't mean much. It's obviously a fake. He could have had this printed anywhere.”

“We should still show it to the cops, though.”

“I guess, but we need more. I'm going to try Kylie Ramsey again.” She didn't answer, so I left another message. “Now, we need to research that painting and the history of the men's club. Maybe we should go and talk to that artist again.”

“I'll find him,” Simon said, taking out his phone.

“And how are you going to do that?”

“I'm going to put in the description of the painting and see if I get a hit on his name.” He punched a few keys. “Here he is. His name is Fred Monsell, and he
shows his work at the Seaside Gallery. I can't believe this guy's stuff is in a gallery.”

“Me either, but that's right near the men's club. Let's see what Fred has to say.”

By the time we left the bank, the rain had lightened to a fine drizzle. We headed south toward Claudio's and the docks, then walked past the cupcake shop, the men's club, and the tea shop until we reached the Seaside Gallery.

We were in luck. Fred was there, clean shaven and wearing clean overalls rather than the paint-spattered ones he had on at the art show. He was explaining his work to a customer. The series of paintings he had on display in the gallery were all surprisingly good, various seascapes in the impressionist school, vibrant with light and swirls and dots of color.

The customer left and he turned his attention to us. “Help you, folks?” He went over to a little desk in the corner and pulled out a cigar. “Let's stand near the door so I can enjoy this bad boy. You want one?”

“No, thanks,” I said. “Where are you buying your cigars, now that the cigar store is closed?”

He pointed out the rain-spotted window. “They moved over there when the new owners took over.” The cigar store was now next to a Mexican takeout place. “Rent was cheaper. You've got to sell a lot of these babies to make any money.”

“We wanted to ask you about the painting that you sold to Joe Larson at the art show,” I said. “Was it by chance a part of a series, like your seascapes?”

“No, that one was special for the owner, Jerry.”
Fred clipped the end off of the cigar, lit it, and took a few puffs. “I painted it last year.”

“Last night I attended a meeting at the men's club, the one that's upstairs from where the cigar shop used to be,” Simon said. “They put the painting on display there, above the fireplace.”

“That's fitting,” Fred said, and took another puff on his cigar.

“How so?” I said.

“It's the same building, right? That's why Joe wanted it, he said, for the club. He and Jerry were both members and they were friends, too. At least someone there got some use out of it.”

“I examined the painting last night at the meeting,” Simon said, “and I wanted to ask you about something. On the curb outside the building there are some numbers.”

“Yeah, those Roman numerals.”

“They add up to forty-nine,” Simon said. “What does that mean?”

“Can't tell you, folks, 'cause I don't know.”

“But you painted them,” I said. “How can you not know?”

The phone rang in the back of the room. “Hold on, folks.”

While he went over to take it, I said, “This is really strange. You would think he would know about all the elements in one of his own paintings.”

“Maybe the owner, Jerry, told him to put the numbers in,” Simon said. “Ask him.”

Fred finished his conversation and came back over. “Sorry about that. Now you were saying?”

“We were wondering if maybe Jerry, the owner of the building, told you to put those numbers in.”

“No, it wasn't him, it was his friend Frank.”

“Frank Fox?”

“That's him. He came down when I was working on the commission. This was before he went up to live in the nursing home, but he was already pretty frail, and he told me that Jerry wanted those numbers put in. Since he was a friend, and a member of that club, too, I went ahead and did it. Never did find out why.”

“Would Jerry know?” I asked. “Maybe we could ask him?”

“Hard to do that.” Frank took another puff on the cigar. “Last year he died of lung cancer, right after he sold the business to someone else, and they moved it across the street. I'd just finished the painting but his wife didn't want it, said cigars killed her husband, and left it with me.”

•   •   •

“Where to next?” Simon said
as we stepped out onto Main Street. “Should we go to the library to research the men's club?”

“No, we need to talk to Joe Larson,” I said. “I think he wanted that painting because of Frank, and we need to find out why.”

“He may also know why Fox gave your lot away to the village.”

I nodded. “Exactly, and I think Joe Larson works as a real estate agent for Country Living Real Estate. Their new office is on Front Street, right around that corner.” I pointed to the intersection of Front and
Main street. “But first, please call that lawyer, Shawn Thompson, and find out where he is. I'm worried about Jackson.”

Simon took out his phone and put it on speaker. Shawn Thompson answered after one ring.

“It's Simon Lewis. I'm here with Jackson Spade's girlfriend, Willow McQuade. We were wondering how close you are to Greenport.”

“Hold on, please.” We could hear him talking to his driver. “We just passed the exit for the Stony Brook Hospital. We should be there in an hour. I've talked to Detective Koren, though, and he knows that Jackson isn't answering any questions until I get there. I'll let you know once I hit town. We'll get him out, don't worry.”

“Thanks, Shawn. Talk to you then.”

“He sounds good,” I said.

“I told you. Now, let's talk to Joe Larson.”

A few minutes later we entered the upscale office of Country Living, all whites, grays, and clean lines, with glossy photos of available properties mounted on the walls. Joe, we were told, had gone out to show a listing.

We found out where and headed to a house in Arshamomaque, a hamlet off of Route 25, between Greenport and Southold. Fifteen minutes later, I pulled into the driveway of the property, a pink one-story beach house with a giant starfish on the garage, right across from Mill Creek.

Simon frowned. “It doesn't look like anyone is here.”

We got out and walked around the house, but he was right. “Now what?” he asked.

I wasn't sure, but kept driving toward the boat
launch at the end of the street. The launch was used to put small boats, canoes, and rowboats into the creek, an idyllic place surrounded by woods and tributaries that fed into Peconic Bay.

Today the scenic area wasn't as charming, though. The rain had almost stopped but stray raindrops splattered the steel-gray surface of the creek. As we got closer, I spotted Joe Larson leaning on his truck, his phone pressed tightly to his ear.

I parked and we walked over to him. He wore a sky-blue suit and shirt with a navy striped tie. When he saw us, he quickly shoved the phone into his pants pocket and turned to face us. “What do you want, Ms. McQuade? I'm working.”

Simon spoke up. “Last night's meeting was very interesting, Joe. I found your talk quite educational.”

Joe looked wary but thanked him.

“I really liked the painting that you bought at the art show,” I said. “We talked to Fred Monsell, the artist, and he told us about Jerry from the cigar store and selling the painting to you. He seemed to think it had found a good home since you, Jerry, and Frank Fox were all members of the club.”

At the mention of Frank's name, something in Joe softened. “Frank was a good guy. He was a credit to our membership.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at Simon. “I can't say I have high hopes for you, Lewis. You couldn't even commit to having your photograph taken.”

“It's just that I'm in L.A. for most of the year. I won't be able to attend many meetings or really get involved.”

“I'm sure you're a very busy man,” Joe said with a smirk.

I tried to steer the subject back to the investigation. “Is there something special about that painting?”

Joe shrugged. “Not that I know of. I just thought it belonged in the club.” He seemed to be telling the truth. I decided not to discuss the numbers on the curb. We needed to keep that information to ourselves until we knew what it really meant.

But Simon plunged ahead, saying, “Last night, I noticed that there are these Roman numerals on the curb in front of the store. Fred Monsell said that it was Frank Fox's idea to add them. Any idea what that might mean?”

Joe's eyebrows rose in surprise. “I never noticed that,” he admitted. “But Frank was one for puzzles. Maybe it was a secret message to Jerry. But he's long gone now. Frank, too.”

“Can you tell us a little bit more about Frank Fox? What was he like?” Two white swans traveled in a leisurely fashion downstream toward us. I wished I had some bread crumbs for them.

“Frank was a loyal guy, hardworking.” Joe pointed west across the trees. “He owned a potato farm on the North Road, ran it for thirty years. That's all gone now. He was also a good husband and a good friend. You could always count on Frank to do what was right.”