Murder Crops Up (6 page)

“I don’t know what makes Susanna so boisterous here,” Melanie said, frowning at Susanna while Bridget comforted Moira. Susanna, too, patted her back, murmuring, “It’s okay, baby. Don’t cry, baby.” She sat on the floor and took more blocks out of the bin. “I build a big tower. Then she can crash.”

After a few minutes, the moms joined me at the table. Melanie gave me a brief smile. “Hello, Liz.”

“Melanie.”

She accepted the cup of tea Bridget poured, but refused a cookie. I squelched the surge of irritation Melanie always inspired in me. She and Bridget had worked together before having children, and they also belonged to the local poets’ group. I knew they had things in common, but they were polar opposites as far as I was concerned.

“When exactly is Claudia’s birthday? This is a very busy time for me.” Melanie pulled a leather-bound calendar from her Gucci bag. I wouldn’t have known it was Gucci if my niece, Amy, hadn’t educated me on one of our swings through the secondhand stores. “Let’s see." Melanie opened the calendar. “Is it before Thanksgiving?”

“It’s next Wednesday.” Bridget took a cookie for herself. “I'll just have one, and really savor it,” she told Melanie, who had glanced pointedly at Bridget’s comfortably rounded figure.

“On your hips be it.” Melanie sipped her tea, but couldn’t resist glancing at the cookie plate. “Oh, well, if everyone else is going to eat them—” She reached out and broke off a piece. “Next Wednesday? That appears to be free.” She sounded puzzled, as if unable to believe she had a free day.

“And you’re available, right, Liz?”

“If I’m not arrested.” It slipped out before I remembered that Melanie had no sense of humor.

“Arrested? What have you done now?” Surreptitiously she broke off another piece of cookie.

Bridget shushed me with a glance. “Do you know the Danceys? The family with the big construction business?”

“The boys were at Paly when I was,” Melanie said guardedly, using the local name for Palo Alto High School. “I don’t really know them that well. They’ve done some work for us.’’

“Who exactly runs that construction company?”

“Jack Dancey, the old man, stepped down a couple of years ago,” Melanie said thoughtfully. “I had Dwight over to bid on the bathroom remodel we did, and he told me that he and Tom were running the company, that his dad had pretty much retired. And then he fobbed the job off on his foreman, who didn’t even speak English.” Melanie’s lips tightened. “I soon let him know that wasn’t acceptable.”

“Are those the only ones, Tom and Dwight? I thought there was a girl.”

Melanie pursed her lips. “Well, Jack remarried when the boys were in high school. His new wife had a younger daughter, I think.”

“That’s Rita, the community garden coordinator.”

Melanie searched her memory. “That’s right. She must have been ten at least when her mom married. She uses the name Dancey, though I don’t think Jack adopted her. Now I remember meeting her at one of the city functions. Tom came with her, and everyone was whispering that Dancey’s had a big housing project up for approval and he was hoping to expedite the process. And I think there was a little juicy gossip about Tom and Rita having a fling, even though they were stepbrother and -sister.”

“Is that so?” Bridget was listening intently. I didn’t see what this had to do with the garden. But maybe whoever had killed Rita had come from a different area of her life. “And did Tom Dancey get preferential treatment for his project?”

“Not likely.” Melanie gave in and took the rest of the cookie. “You know how the city bends over backwards to avoid looking like they play favorites. And expedite isn’t in the game plan in this town. I don’t think that housing has been built yet. Still hung up in the permit process."

“So Rita might have been using her position to give her stepbrother a competitive edge in finding out about city projects.” Bridget looked at me.

“Yeah.” It sounded like something Rita would do. “And she did say something about her stepfather being in construction, when she was arguing with Lois about the fence.”

Melanie pouted. “So what is going on here? Why do we care about the Danceys? What has this got to do with Claudia’s birthday?”

“Rita was killed today at the garden.”

Melanie gaped.

“We don’t know that she was killed, for sure,” I hastened to add to Bridget’s stark announcement. “But she’s dead, all right.”

“That’s terrible.” Melanie leaned forward, her nose for news twitching. “What happened?”

“We don’t know,” I said. “She was found dead in a garden plot. Her neck was broken. She might have tripped on a rake and fallen into the trench the gardener had been digging.”

“Goodness.” Melanie took a moment to absorb it. “The police are staying busy these days.”

The front door burst open and Emery Montrose charged in, towing the youngest boy, Mick. “Gotta find a hammer,” he gasped, collapsing at the table. Mick, released, grabbed a cookie and went to see what the girls were doing. Emery wiped his arm across his face.

“Is it an emergency?” Bridget was on her feet.

“No. But there’s only one hammer and it’s always in demand, so I said I’d get another one. And Mick was bored anyway. He doesn’t want to do the work day anymore."

“What about Corky and Sam?”

“They’re fine.” Emery accepted the glass of sparkling water she poured for him. “It’s far more effort to jog with a three-year-old than to jog alone. Mick’s gotten a lot heavier, hasn’t he?”

“Anything you carry when you run will get heavy.” Bridget spoke from experience. She jogs, too, when she can get free of her children. Her focus is on time, not distance—she runs for ten minutes, turns around, runs back. I’ve done it with her—it’s not too taxing to go at her speed. But it wouldn’t be fun carrying a squirmy three-year-old at the same time.

“Guess I’d better take the hammer and get back.” Emery drained his glass, seized two cookies, and stood up. “Nice sitting with you ladies, if only for a moment.” He looked at Bridget. “I’m leaving Mick here, okay?”

“Fine.” Bridget looked into the living room. Mick and Susanna had commandeered the plastic blocks. Moira was busy sticking bristle blocks into Susanna’s doll’s long blond hair.

Emery vanished out the back door, toward the garage and his workshop. Melanie pushed back her chair.

“If we’re through planning Claudia’s birthday party—"

“We haven’t even started.” Bridget barred the kitchen door. “And, Melanie, this stuff about Rita is confidential. No gossiping.”

“I don’t gossip.” Melanie drew herself up. “I was merely planning to mention it to a few people who might know more about the Danceys than I do.” She put her calendar back in her bag. “And what’s left to plan? Claudia’s party, Wednesday night.”

“We’ll have it here.” Bridget scrawled something on her own calendar, a huge one that hung on the back of the swinging kitchen door. “I’ll ask Claudia to dinner. No, I’ll ask her to baby-sit while Emery and I go out to dinner. Then she won’t suspect anything.”

“Do you think a surprise party is wise? Some people really hate to be surprised.” Melanie offered this bit of wisdom just before breaking off another piece of cookie.

“She’ll love it.” Bridget put down the pencil. “I’ll make lasagna and garlic bread.”

“I’ll order a cake.” Melanie whipped out her planner again. “Gotta run, Bridget. Nice seeing you, Liz.”

“I’ll do the salad.” I wanted to do something for Claudia, too. I hated it when everyone acted as if I were too poor to contribute.

“Great,” Bridget said briskly. “Bring a lot. I’m going to let some of the other poets know. They can bring wine.”

The planning was over. Melanie spent a couple of minutes picking the bristle blocks out of the doll’s hair while Moira used her own battered doll to destroy the fort Mick and Susanna had built.

“Liz,” Bridget said, after Melanie had left, catching me at the door. “Come over tonight for dinner. We’re not doing anything.”

“I’ve got to be back at Drake’s by eight.”

“We’ll be done by then. Come at six.”

I knew Bridget was indulging in an excess of mothering, but it had its desired effect. I felt comforted, not alone anymore, even though there was no one but Barker waiting for me when I got back to my house.

Chapter 7

Barker sniffed around the yard, refreshing his territorial markings everywhere. My yard is pretty good-sized by Palo Alto standards. The two houses I’d inherited, much to Carlotta’s disgust, had been on an extra-long lot. Drake’s house had a small front yard that faced the street and a gravel area for parking directly behind his back door. The rest was mine.

It felt funny to be missing Drake. At the time he’d bought the house from me, he’d been no more than the police detective who’d had charge of investigating a murder I’d been suspected of committing.

Now I kept thinking about him while I cleaned my gardening tools and put them away in the garage. I wanted him to call that evening, wanted to know about his father’s illness, how he and his mother were holding up.

But I dreaded his call, too. He had his laptop with him, and I knew he got e-mail from Bruno Morales. He’d probably ask me about Rita’s death. Being out of the investigative loop would make him crazy. And he’d give me a lot of grief for getting mixed up in it. As if there were any way I could have avoided it.

My little cottage may be rickety, but at least I own it free and clear. I fix it up as I have time and money, which is to say, I don’t fix it much. The foundation has settled around the front porch, leaving the steps gently canted to one side. I hoped the porch wouldn’t fall off before I got enough money ahead to take care of the problem.

I weeded through the flower bed that edged the picket fence separating my front lawn from Drake’s parking area. The roses planted there were attention hogs, always wanting their diseased leaves stripped off and yummy amendments fed to them. I was letting hips form for the winter, but there were still a few buds and blossoms. I raked up the yellow leaves that had fallen to the ground, and attacked some renegade violets. Whoever said violets were shy, shrinking flowers was wrong. They’re aggressive invaders, capable of beating back ivy in a single season. I thought they were pretty when they popped up along the edge of my flower bed, but their relentless advance was changing my mind.

I was still on my knees in front of the roses when Barker growled. Peering through the foliage toward the street, I saw Lois heading down the driveway again, like some horrid déjà vu. She had nearly reached the fence when Barker went into his ravening-dog routine.

“Nice doggie,” she quavered. She hadn’t yet seen me. I thought of crouching behind the fence until she went away.

Barker ran along the gate, growling maniacally. I hoped he remembered that he wasn’t allowed to leap over it. When I’d put it up, while he was a puppy, I’d had no clue that he would one day be so large, with such long legs.

Lois wouldn’t have been enough to tempt him to jump, if she hadn’t gotten frightened and begun backing stealthily away, in a manner very enticing to a young and enthusiastic dog.

Reluctantly I got to my feet. “Back,” I said in my sternest voice. “To the porch, Barker.”

He complied, though glancing at me a couple of times to make sure I really meant it. When he sat on the porch, I turned to Lois.

“Will he bite?” She was frozen to the driveway, her gaze fixed on Barker as if he were the Antichrist.

“Maybe. He is protective of his space.” I doubted that he would bite; he’s more interested in playing. But I wasn’t about to reveal his pussycat nature to someone who might not have my best interests at heart. “Why are you here, Lois?”

She came a step nearer. “As long as questions have been raised, I have a duty to investigate.”

“Questions?”

“About you selling the things you grow in the community garden. That’s absolutely forbidden.” Since Barker stayed on the porch, she came right up to the gate. “I want to check out your claim that you only sell what you grow here.” She looked around, taking in the raised beds that marched along the back of the yard. “You have a fair amount of space, I’ll say that. I didn’t notice yesterday.” She sounded disappointed.

“Check me out, by all means.” I opened the gate, and Barker leapt to his feet.

Lois hesitated. “Can’t you put the dog inside?”

“No.” I was angry all over again. And in the face of her rudeness, there didn’t seem to be much reason for polite pretense. “Just don’t yell at me and he won’t attack you."

I shut the gate behind Lois. Once she was in, she seemed reluctant to start her inspection. “Oh, what lovely roses. Do you sell flowers, too?”

“No. I like to have flowers to give to my friends.” I had been thinking while I weeded that the buds on Margaret Merrill and Oklahoma would make a nice centerpiece for Claudia’s birthday party. She, too, was fond of roses.

“The veggies are over here,” I said, and led the way to the raised beds.

Barker followed us, his nose extremely interested in Lois’s pant legs. She winced away, but he couldn’t be discouraged. “You must have cats,” I said, finally snapping my fingers to make him leave her alone. “He loves cats.”

Lois shivered. “I can imagine.”

We stopped beside the beds of salad mix and root vegetables. A few cherry tomato plants still produced in one bed, next to the brilliant ruby ribs of kale.

Lois inspected, her knife-blade nose twitching. “What’s this?” She was looking at one bed full of stubby, chopped-off plants.

“That’s where I harvested salad mix for the farmers’ market last week. It takes a couple of weeks to come back, so I have several beds in rotation.” I showed her the setup. “I cut this one the week before, and this one a month ago. You see it’s ready to cut again.”

“That’s not a very big crop.” She looked at the bed, full of bronze and green foliage, with feathery, pastel frisée and dark red radicchio providing highlights, and sniffed disdainfully.

“Right.” I wanted her out of my yard. From her point of view, the raised beds I had built with lumber scavenged from construction sites were slipshod and mismatched. My house was shabby, not comfortably worn. My cold frames were patched together, not an ingenious use of old storm windows.