Writ on Water (13 page)

It was soon obvious that Rory had been in earnest when he said that he was antiquing pots that morning. There were pallets of them stacked chest high, just waiting for attention. After he, his father and Chloe had all donned white lab coats,
gloves and paper shoe covers, he explained the process that his visibly nervous assistant was using to achieve an aged look. It was a simple but slimy one. Plain yogurt mixed with a thin gelatin was painted onto the outside of an earthenware pot, and then a hank of moss—in this case it was gray-green
asprella
—was shaken over it, planting thousands of nearly invisible moss spores into the goo. The pots were then placed in a cool, damp, and shady location while nature took its course.

Rory took pity on his fidgeting assistant, and removed MacGregor from the young man's orbit as soon as the explanation was complete. MacGregor did have a tendency to loom and make disquieting remarks regardless of who was at hand. Perhaps he forgot that the people who worked there were actual thinking beings and not just biological furniture to be arranged to his convenience.

Rory took them next to a backroom overhung with layers of shade cloth and showed them pots that were two days along, and others that were a week old. The pots that were only forty-eight hours into the process simply looked blotchy and diseased, but the week old spores embedded in the yogurt had transformed into a satisfactorily mossy covering. There were several species of moss whose names she didn't catch that were kept on hand for those who had pH problems in their yard caused by certain trees. According to Rory, there was a mossed pot for every location.

“And they'll stay like this as long as they are
kept wet, out of direct sun, and away from hostile plants of the
quercus
family. Most of these species can't survive near any of the beeches. Of course, a drop in the pH and many mosses come down with chlorosis and die,” Rory said absently, as he consulted a chart hanging at eye level on a nearby support post. “But even that can add an aged flavor to the right garden style.”

Chloe, at last recognizing a name, was about to ask if that prohibition of
quercus
included the local species of oak trees, but MacGregor finally had something to say and wasn't waiting for her to voice her questions about the effect of oak leaves on moss.

“Well, I'll be!” The man smiled, hefting a pot. It was the first time she'd seen Rory's malicious grin on his father's face. It made her uneasy. “What a wheeze. Do folks really buy these pots thinkin' they're antiques?”

Rory frowned and looked up from his notes.

“Of course not. It states clearly in the catalogue that mossed pots ‘
give the appearance of age
,' but that—”

“Nobody reads the fine print,” MacGregor said, waving a dismissing hand. “People don't read at all. Congratulations, boy! I didn't think you had it in you. This explains why your little company is doing so well.”

Rory's brow lowered at this insult, and Chloe hurriedly stepped into the conversational breach before return shots were fired. She tactfully redirected
the discussion back to mosses; she didn't want the afternoon spoiled with verbal warfare between the lions, and Rory was beginning to look thunderous.

After a thoughtful look from the younger of the titans, who apparently sized her up and decided that her interference was well-intentioned and therefore pardonable, the trio moved on with their tour of the hothouse. The unpleasantness was soon forgotten. Rory was in his element there among the flora, and could speak at length without fear of contradiction by his father.

He cheerfully introduced them to a new species of moss just imported from Borneo,
Chaelomitrium weberi,
with which he was experimenting in the hopes of finding some commercial application—after it had been quarantined long enough to be certain that it was harboring no imported Borneo bugs which would be harmful to the environment. Great caution had to be used so that no alien species were released into nature.

“Looks like green spider's web,” MacGregor said.

Rory nodded fondly. “Only a lot more aggressive, given the proper conditions. They can grow like wildfire. Put them in our growing medium and you can have what looks like a month's accumulation of moss in only two days.”

MacGregor, quickly losing interest, grunted and moved along.

Rory didn't notice his father's inattentiveness.
Waxing rhapsodic on his favorite subject, he finally showed them his collection of prized Spanish mosses. Chloe peered obediently at the gray strands. But seeing that MacGregor's eyes were beginning to glaze over again, she moved the tour along.

The aquatic plants in the next building proved more entertaining, for they were still in flower and looked wonderfully tranquil and mysterious floating on the dark pools of water. The piped-in serenade had moved on to the first duet in
Lakmé
, and Chloe nearly groaned with pleasure.

Rory politely demurred when she asked to photograph his aquatic gardens, but once he was convinced that she was in earnest about this desire and not merely being courteous, he volunteered to show her the remaining hothouses personally, and to serve as her photographic assistant. He even unbent so far as to ask her advice about the selections to be featured in the fall catalogue.

Chloe answered happily explaining why some plants would photograph especially well. If Rory liked her work he might actually want to hire her to come take beautiful pictures in this temperature-controlled paradise, which was infinitely more appealing than the hot, tick-infested, overgrown cemeteries in which she had recently been spending so much time.

MacGregor followed, either curious about his son's business or desirous of orchestrating any quarrels that sprang up between his offspring and
his co-opted employee. But the morning was disappointingly harmonious as Rory and Chloe found that they had “
two minds with but a single thought and two hearts that beat as one
” on the subject of aquatic plants, and the appropriate operas to insure optimal growth. Verdi and Rossini both got high marks for inducing photosynthesis. Common watercress and Wagner were rejected as being too plebian and heavy to waste time on photographically or aurally. Chloe even suggested that Rory sell CDs of the nurseries' favorite operas, an idea that he seemed inclined to favor.

Eventually a bored and fidgeting MacGregor decided that he had other things to do. He abjured Rory to bring Chloe back personally before the afternoon was too advanced. Rory assured his father that he would have Chloe home in time to change for dinner, and cheerfully waved his parent out the hothouse door.

“It isn't that I don't like his company. Sometimes,” he condescended to explain a few minutes later. “But he makes the kids nervous. And I can't have that while they are cultivating spores. Unfortunately, he isn't terribly interested in plants—not even moss.”

This was the most human Rory had ever been.

“I noticed that your assistant was upset, though I can't imagine why. I personally love to work with a lion breathing down my neck. It gives one an adrenaline boost and makes one feel alert.”
Chloe didn't comment on the return of moss to their conversation. She liked green stuff as much as the next person, but couldn't get passionate about it.

“Doesn't his stomping all over your sentences and assuming you are up to no good make you nervous?” Rory asked. “Most people are terrified of him.”

“Your father doesn't assume I'm up to no good. He doesn't really assume that your assistant is up to no good. It is only that he questions—”

“Without any cause!” Rory interrupted swiftly, as though she, too, had questioned his honor, or perhaps his masculinity.

“He only does it to needle you. Anyway, you stomp on as many of my sentences as he does.”

Rory eyed her, but didn't say anything about her observation. They wisely went back to photographing water lilies, and managed to spend an entirely enjoyable afternoon in each other's company.

They were packing away Chloe's cameras when Rory broached the subject of her visit with an abruptness that, while characteristic of the Patricks, was a vast change from the aimless pleasantness of their earlier conversations.

“You don't really think there is any danger to the cemetery, do you?” he asked bluntly.

“Yes,” she said simply. “I do. At least potentially.”

“But those monuments are
huge
. You'd need a crane to get them out,” he argued. “They aren't like paintings or even regular sculpture that
someone could just carry away in the trunks of their cars.”

“Not all of them would need a crane. Anyway, these thieves are smart and inventive. There was one statue taken out of a cemetery right in the middle of New Orleans that weighed seven hundred pounds. It disappeared in the middle of the day. The police still don't know how the thieves managed it.”

Rory stared at her. She knew he was thinking hard, but couldn't guess precisely what about. It seemed likely that part of what he was cogitating over was an attempt to believe that people could actually do something so distasteful as steal from the dead. She didn't truly understand the thieves' brains, but still made an effort to explain the indefensible crime so he would take the threat seriously.

“Grave-robbing is probably the world's third oldest profession. I know that this is a repugnant thought to contemplate, but thieves steal when there is something of value and little risk. Cemeteries are good economics. They are in Egypt and South America, and now here. Tastes change, but grave goods are always popular. This year, the flavor is early American.” She paused, but Rory said nothing, so she tried again.

“The New Orleans police recovered a million dollars' worth of stolen grave goods last year. And they reckon that is only about ten percent of the
known
missing monuments in that area. That is
just one city. Savannah, Williamsburg, Boston—they've all been hit. And, Rory, the stuff that was taken isn't a patch on the humblest tombstone in your family's cemetery. That isn't a graveyard; it's the Louvre and British Museum combined. If Riverview is ever discovered by thieves, you'll have to hire armed guards and patrol it around the clock. Maybe put in a security system and get some guard dogs. These thieves aren't amateurs, and some innocent people have already gotten hurt trying to stop them . . . I'm sorry,” she added. “I know that isn't what you wanted to hear.”

Rory blinked and ended his inner communion. He smiled ruefully.

“No, that is certainly not what I wanted to hear. But I am already looking at a system for the house. They can give me an estimate for the entire property while they're at it. I don't know if motion censors will work though, given the wildlife.”

“But it's just the cemetery you need to guard. I know the expense of electronics and guards would be—”

“It isn't that,” he said, hoisting her bags with casual ease. “It's MacGregor I'm worried about. I don't think he would permit guards in the cemetery proper. And if he ever gets it into his head that someone has actually been anywhere near his precious graveyard,
he'll
start patrolling on his own. And then we'll end up with someone dead—probably a teenager looking for a quiet
spot to enjoy a stolen beer and some necking with his girlfriend.”

“I see.” And she could. No second Sight was required to predict a tragedy if MacGregor did start policing the grounds.

“Look.” Rory started for the door without meeting her eyes. “I'm not suggesting that you lie to MacGregor . . .”

“But?”

“But there's no need to tell him all the statistics, is there? And if you see any evidence of trespassing, you can come tell me first and I'll take care of it.”

Chloe didn't even hesitate. The choice between confiding in an obsessed—perhaps even crazy—old man with a heart condition and his sane, responsible son was an easy one to make. Under the circumstances, even Roland would understand her decision. Really, she
was
looking out for her employer's best interests.

“Sure. I'll tell you first.”

Rory looked back and gave a relieved smile.

“We'd better go.”

Dinner that night was another long affair. Claude and Isaac were looking unusually shifty-eyed as they gobbled their food, causing MacGregor to glare suspiciously and comment nastily about freeloaders, when he spoke at all. The tone of the baiting suggested that Claude was in need of a large sum of money. Again. And, in spite of his
words the night before, MacGregor was no longer inclined to bail his nephew out on this occasion.

In spite of her earlier hunger, Chloe now had no appetite. The spiritual miasma that clung to Isaac Runyon made her feel ill. Conscious of her obligations to be a good guest, she made an effort to start a conversation or two, but had so little success that she excused herself before the cigar and brandy course and fled to her room.

It wasn't that she had any dislike of fine food and drink, but even an excellent VSOP and a mountain of chocolate couldn't reconcile her to another minute spent in such obnoxious—-and evil—company. She wished with all her heart that MacGregor would send the pair away. She did not understand how he and Rory could fail to perceive the malevolence that was in their midst. They made her so nervous that she could barely keep still.

What she truly would like to have done was cuff Rory for bailing out on the culinary ritual torture and leaving her alone, but there had been a frantic call from the nursery just before dinner about some new hybrids cocking up their rootlets and keeling over in their perlite beds, and like a surgeon or priest, he had gone racing back to Botanics to give aid and comfort to the dying stems.

Chloe had offered at the time to go back with him and perform last rites, but had been rebuffed. Kindly, but firmly. She knew why too. She was
supposed to go stand in the breach and keep Claude from annoying his uncle into a coronary.