Nipped in the Bud (25 page)

I entered the shop and spotted stacks of containers near the counter. My intuition told me things were coming to a head on the investigation, and I wanted nothing more than to run off to the newspaper office to follow up on the reporter, but I couldn’t. Not yet. I had to think positively. Keep believing I wouldn’t go to jail, and that meant working at The Garden Gate to keep it running. When the workload here lifted, I’d go.

Between dealing with the customer traffic that always picked up on Thursdays and creating the luscious containers for the Pickle Fest, Hazel, Teri, and I spent the full day rushing around the shop. Now, nearly
five p.m.
and closing time at the
Serendipity Times
, I shuffled through the stacks of papers on my desk until I located an advertising bill and my checkbook. I didn’t want another day to pass before I investigated
Zac
Young, and I had just enough time before I met with Adam and Mitch to do so.

I rushed out the back door and headed straight for the newspaper office. I hurried down the street, clutching the checkbook and bill as if they were the lifeline I so needed. I don’t know what I’d do if this turned out to be another dead end.

At the door, out of breath and excited to hear good news, I paused.

Deep breaths.
Calm down, Paige.
Won’t do you any good to let the wily reporter see you like this.

When my heart returned to normal, and I was sure I could control my voice, I pushed through the door and into the shop. The strong scent of newsprint and ink permeated the disorganized space. I worked my way through piles of old newspapers and haphazard stacks of boxes. A long wooden counter stained with ink ran the width of the shop. Behind it sat Jack, the paper’s editor and one of my mom’s dearest friends. His fingers clicked away on a keyboard, and his focus was riveted on a computer monitor.

“Hey, Jack,” I said with a genuine smile for an old friend. “I’ve come to pay my bill.”

“Paige, good to see you.”
He smiled, and his face looked like a road map with all the deep lines running through it. “How are you holding up?”

“Okay, I guess.” I laid the bill and checkbook on the counter and scribbled the amount due on the check. “Say, Jack,” I said in an offhand manner, “I was reading old council minutes at the library and saw a bunch of articles by a
Zac
Young. He
work
for you?”

Jack came to my end of the counter, planted his elbows, and leaned forward.
“Sure enough.
He was a smart young man.
Ambitious, too.
Started working for me right out of college. Said he wanted to learn the newspaper business from the ground up and no better place to do it than in a small shop like mine. He did some fine work here.
Was sorry to lose him.”

I ripped out the check and flipped the register pages until I located a blank line. “I heard he left for the bright lights of the big city.”

“You heard right.
The
really
big one.
New York
.” Jack’s tone bordered on awestruck.
“Works for the
Post
covering business news.
I see his byline quite often.
Sends me a fruit basket every Christmas.”

Trying to keep from getting excited over the possibility that Jack knew how to contact
Zac
, I slowly wrote the amount in the register and said, “Sounds like the two of you were pretty close.”

“Sort of thought of him as a son. That’s why, when he up and left unexpectedly, I made sure we kept in touch.”

I closed the checkbook and looked at Jack.
“Unexpectedly, huh?”

“That’s right.” Jack fanned the check as his eyes turned dreamy. “I remember the day like it was yesterday, except it was a Tuesday.
Zac
attended the monthly council meeting the night before and stopped by late in the afternoon to give me the copy. Said he didn’t have another job yet, but he’d made the decision to move on.
Surprised me.
He never mentioned wanting to leave until he quit. Gave me two weeks and then took off for
New York
. He
musta
saved most of his pay when he lived here, ’cause he didn’t get a job in
New York
for almost a year. Of course I don’t know what kind of place he was living in. Still, it costs a lot to live in the city.”

Hmm, left right after a council meeting.
Perhaps the one where Nancy Kimble attacked Bud.
Had enough money to live in
New York
for a year.
I definitely needed to talk to the lad. “You know how I can get a hold of him?”

“Well, sure.” He grabbed a notepad and wrote down
Zac’s
contact info.
“Why all the interest in
Zac
?”

“Like I said, I’m trying to find out who killed Bud. I figure if I talk to everyone who came in contact with him, I’m bound to find a lead.”

“
Zac’s
been gone for over ten years now. How could he have anything to do with
Picklemann’s
murder?”

My first instinct was to share the information I’d learned about Fulcrum and
Leever
. Jack was a good friend of my mom’s, and I was pretty sure he’d keep it quiet. “Pretty” was the operative word here. I wasn’t 100 percent certain of his silence, so I had to keep mum. “Oh, I don’t think he had a thing to do with the murder. Just might give me some background information about how Bud related to the council members.”

“You think one of the council members did
Picklemann
in?”

“I don’t know, Jack.
Could be anyone around here.
Could be you for all I know.”

He erupted with a crackly and gruff laugh. “You’ve always been such a kidder, Paige. I wish your mom could have lived to see how you turned out. She’d be proud for sure.”

Wishing my mom were here, too, I left Jack with a hug and a promise to come to his house for dinner real soon. Neither of us acknowledged the heavy thought that hung in the
air.
. .
if
I didn’t go to jail. And if I didn’t want to go to jail for failing to follow Mitch’s demands, I best head over to the station for my appointment.

As I walked in the cooling night air, I dialed
Zac’s
number only to get voice mail. I left an urgent message and made sure I had plenty of charge left on my phone in case he called back soon. Stowing the phone, I pushed into the police station.

An officer who looked like he wasn’t old enough to shave sat behind the desk that a receptionist manned during regular business hours. I walked up, leaned over the counter, and read his name badge. “Officer Riley, I’m here to—”

“I know why you’re here. Take a seat. Someone will be out for you.”

“Fine,” I said. “But I’m not talking to Mitch until my attorney gets here.”

He shrugged and swiveled his chair. “Paige Turner’s here,” he called into a microphone on the desk.

Lamenting the fact that Mitch’s bad manners appeared to be contagious among his men, I sat in a faded armchair next to a table holding a wilting
pothos
. They sure didn’t care for their plants here. If I survived this whole ordeal, I would offer to stop by weekly and tend to them. That might be too late for this parched baby. She needed an infusion of water quick. Barring a call to 911, what could I do? I heard a gurgle and remembered a water dispenser sat just behind the reception desk.

Only my love of plants would send me back to talk to the officer. “Can I get a glass of water?” I asked him.

“Knock
yourself
out,” he said and punched the phone line that had pealed a few times. He greeted the caller then sporadically offered various inflections of a grunt.

Thinking he might be talking to an ape on the other end, I filled two glasses with water and returned to the plant. The arid soil sucked the moisture like a parched man at an oasis. I sat down and poured slowly, letting the water soak in, not run through the hard soil to the tray on the bottom.

“Paige, come on back.” Mitch’s voice booming from above pulled me back to reality.

“I won’t talk to you until my attorney arrives,” I said without looking up at him and continuing to pour. “You need someone to look after these plants. The
ficus
in the conference room is in sad shape, too.”

“Excuse me for focusing on protecting people instead of watering plants,” he grumbled.

While Mitch fidgeted, I finished tending to the neglected darling. Let him see how it felt to be kept waiting.

“Hey, Chief,” Officer Riley bellowed. “That was the ME on the phone. Says he’ll finish the autopsy on
Picklemann
tonight and have the report on your desk first thing in the morning.”

The autopsy?
Did this change anything? Could Mitch use the autopsy report against me somehow? I looked up to gauge his reaction.

“Well, Paige,” he said with a snide grin. “We don’t need to have our little conversation after all. Looks like this could be your last night of freedom. I suggest you get out of here and spend it wisely.”

“And now, enjoy the best of Through the Garden Gate with your beloved host, Paige Turner.”

“Hi, Paige, this is
All
Dug Out in Tigard. I’m having a problem with my container gardening.”

“Thank you for calling,
All
Dug Out. I’m so happy that you’ve chosen to use containers in your garden. There’s nothing like an assortment of containers to add color all around the area.”

“Well, yeah, that’s what you said, but I bought about twenty different containers. I got different colors and textures, even sizes, and planted them all over the yard. That was about six weeks ago, and not a one of them silly pots has bloomed.”

Tears clouding my vision, I left the police station and ran smack dab into Charlie as I had earlier. This time as I tried to right myself, I kicked a large terracotta container filled with pansies and sent it into an earthquake tremble. Unlike our last encounter, though, I no longer felt a need to be diplomatic.

I grabbed the arm of his pharmacy jacket and stopped him from passing by. “Mitch pretty much told me he was going to arrest me in the morning. So, Charlie, please, stop being so pigheaded, and tell me Bud’s secret.”

“Can’t.
I promised not to.” He shook his arm free and stomped off.

I stood as if someone had encased my feet in the concrete of the sidewalk and watched him and my future walk away. My mouth fell open when he yanked hard on the door to the police station. In a stiff march that reminded me of a funeral procession, he entered the building.

Huh?
The police station?
What was he up to? Did he have more information for Mitch that he withheld from me? Was this a glimmer of hope I could hold on to? Was he helping to clear my name? If he
were
here to help me, why had he been so closemouthed again? Simple, Paige. He wasn’t here to help. He was probably delivering a prescription.

I shook off my questions and walked aimlessly down the street. At the park, I strolled straight to the play area for the first time since the day of Bud’s death. There was no evidence that I had ever worked or found Bud here. Instead, there were dozens of volunteers hard at work constructing booths for the Pickle Fest. They were joined by children running around and men bantering with one another. The anticipation of the annual fun that would begin tomorrow flowed like an electric current through the air.

If things were different, I would be excited about the craziness of Pickle Fest, too. Pickle bobbing, pickle eating contests, and everything pickle filled the weekend and brought the town together with all the residents in their best moods.

Not me. Not this year. I would be crabby with a capitol C. If I was even free to attend it.

I sat on the square tower in the center of the play structure and tucked my legs under my arms. This was as good a place as any to sink into my own deserved fest, a pity fest. Wrongly accused of a crime, I was going to jail tomorrow. I had earned the right to cry. My cell rang. I pulled it from the clip, and without looking at the caller’s identity, silenced the pealing. It was probably Adam looking for me. Why waste my last night of freedom talking? If I were incarcerated tomorrow, talking was the one freedom I would retain.

I turned off the ringer to prevent further interruptions and returned to my pity party. Briny tromped into the mulch with a throng of children trailing behind. I never did hear who they hired to play Briny. Gender was certainly veiled in the beelike abdomen of the pickle that rose up over the head. The long slender legs encased in Robin Hood green tights and almost delicate arms indicated a woman.

The tiny tots invading the play structure didn’t care if the pickle was male or female. They screamed and latched onto the costume, sending me in search of solitude elsewhere. I strolled down the long line of booths constructed from two-by-fours and heavy canvas. I nodded at booth occupants, who were stocking their space for tomorrow. Few returned my greeting. I was a pariah.
A dead woman walking.