Authors: Rosemary Harris
“Nothing. That’s just it,” she said, recovering from the insult and pouring herself another drink. “I lose interest. I have a room filled with half-finished projects—shell art, calligraphy, pottery. That hobby room is a shrine to my failures.”
“You shouldn’t think of it that way. At least you’ve tried.” I took a sip of the mimosa, just to be sociable. There was dead silence for a minute. Trying to empathize, I told her about the tag-sale treadmill in the garage that silently mocked me every time I pulled out of my driveway. “And who doesn’t have an unfinished scarf or poncho in her closet?” I said. “Although if you’re talking about baby booties from fifteen years ago, you might want to pitch them.”
She finally cracked a smile. “I can’t seem to throw any of it out. The potter’s wheel I bought after I saw the movie
Ghost
for the twelfth time. The loom I searched all over the Internet for. I was so happy when the box finally arrived, and I made exactly one ugly potholder with it.”
“Have a tag sale or take them to the thrift shop. The twins would be thrilled to have them. And dumb schmucks like me will be happy to assume the burden of ownership until they realize they aren’t going to use them either. Maybe there’s really only one potter’s wheel and one loom,” I said, “like they used to say there was only one fruitcake that was passed around and regifted during the holidays.”
Caroline was laughing and sniffling now, finishing one drink and instantly pouring herself another. She made a move to refill my glass then realized she didn’t need to.
She’d snapped out of her funk, but drinking at this rate, what was she going to be like by noon? If she wanted to drink herself stupid by lunchtime that was her call; it wasn’t up to me to give her advice, but that didn’t stop me. I repositioned my laptop and slightly, unnecessarily, moved her glass just out of her reach.
“You’re a big girl, Caroline, you know what you’re doing. But maybe you’re focusing on keeping your hands busy when you should be thinking about keeping your mind busy.” Which she couldn’t do if she was plastered.
She stared blankly into space.
“Forget it. I don’t know what I’m talking about,” I added quickly, fearing I’d overstepped the bounds of our quasi-friendship. “I’m just trying to be solutional. That’s my nature.”
“No. You’re right. That’s it,” Caroline said, the light dawning. She raised her glass to toast me, and I obliged by taking another small sip from mine. “So what do you think I should do?” she asked, reminding me of the eager interns we’d had at my old company.
“Well, first you need to decide what you want in your garden.”
The lines on her forehead disappeared as if they had been Photoshopped out. She reached for drink number four, but didn’t take a sip, and I could tell Caroline was busy plotting some activity other than merely saying yes or no to my designs for her property. She nodded absentmindedly at almost everything I suggested and I began to wonder if she was really agreeing or was just wasted.
A scratching sound came from another room.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Oh, that’s my houseguest,” Caroline answered, sliding off her high-backed kitchen stool. She crossed the kitchen floor on unsteady, ballet-slippered feet to open a narrow door that led to her mudroom. Out popped a small white dog.
“There you are, precious. Did you miss your Auntie Caroline? Paula, this is my new friend, April.” A small white Maltese that looked very much like the one I’d seen at Titans two days earlier in the care of a full-figured redhead.
What were the odds? You could go to any park or dog run in Connecticut and yell Maggie and a dozen pooches would come running. And there was no shortage of Tesses, Maxes, or Rileys. But April was not a common name for a dog in these parts. It was like naming a dog Barry or Helen. It just wasn’t done that often.
Caroline told me she was doing a favor for a colleague of Grant’s who’d had to unexpectedly join him on a business trip and hadn’t had time to find a pet sitter.
“Grant brought her home last night. To keep me company, I guess. Isn’t she darling?” Caroline bent down to give the dog a scratch and a gourmet dog biscuit she fished out of a decorative tin on the counter.
You’d have to have some cojones to fly off on a tryst with your girlfriend and make your wife watch the woman’s dog. From what I’d heard about him, Grant Sturgis was too much of a wuss for that brazen a move. Still, who knew? I was hardly an expert on suburban mores. Or men.
Grant Sturgis was a management consultant, whatever that meant. Everyone I knew who was unemployed refers to himself or herself as a consultant, but apparently there are people who really do it, and full-time, not just while they’re waiting for the permanent job to come along.
According to Caroline, who’d quietly gone back to sipping her mimosa, Grant’s work took him from Chicago to Georgia to Massachusetts, with the occasional trip to Europe. Despite her halfhearted attempts to join him, she never went. Every time she’d brought it up, he’d mumble something about boring clients, lengthy business dinners, and generic hotels. With that kind of review, I’d have stayed home, too.
“It can’t be that boring,” she said. “Chicago has museums, Marshall Field’s, Buddy Guy’s.” Shopping on the Miracle Mile and Frango mints, yes, but I hadn’t pegged her for a blues fan.
“Marshall Field’s isn’t there anymore,” I said. “And B. B. King’s is a lot closer than Buddy Guy’s.”
“You’re right,” she said. “It’s not him.” Had I said that? Maybe I was better at this suburban advice thing than I realized.
“I need to find something more mentally engaging,” she announced, nuzzling the tiny dog she now held with both hands.
I steered her back to our garden discussion. Seeing the dog had put some very uncharitable thoughts about Grant Sturgis in my head—I didn’t like the idea that he might be boffing some cocktail waitress while making his wife pick up his mistress’s dog’s poop. I longed for the old days when my pals had easier problems like “It’s Thursday, why hasn’t he called?”
Under the circumstances, I felt a little guilty but got Caroline to sign off on plans and purchases for the garden; I should remember to get all my clients tanked before meetings. I watched the wrinkled forehead return along with a determined little set to her mouth.
As I got up to leave, she mumbled something about going out, too, so when she wasn’t looking, I reached into the tin that held the dog biscuits, got one for April, and left Caroline’s car keys in the tin. Not to drive her crazy, just to keep her in the house long enough to realize driving was a bad idea.
The three spoonfuls of cereal I’d had for breakfast were starting to feel lonely in my stomach, so I turned left out of Caroline’s driveway and headed back to Springfield for an early lunch at the Paradise.
I pulled in past a line of vehicles that made the diner’s parking lot look like an emissions control station on the highway. As always, whatever the hour, size, or temperament of the crowd, Babe had everything under control. I spied one empty stool at the far end of the counter and elbowed my way through a sea of wide-bodied truckers whose haunches were spilling over the edges of the diner’s counter stools. It reminded me not to order whatever they were eating.
Business had picked up since Pete started his television cooking lessons and Babe now had three sullen waitresses helping her out at lunchtime instead of just one. Paulette, Theresa, and Alba were busy so Babe motioned for me to help myself to a cup of coffee and a newspaper until things died down a bit. I slipped behind the counter and served myself.
“How goes it?” she asked, when the crowd had thinned.
“It goes. Looks like your business is booming.”
“It’s Pete’s fault. When he was a lousy cook, I had more time to read; now my TBR stack is yea high.” She held a hand up to her hips. “And back then I didn’t have to play den mother. Look at those three. They’re worthless as waitresses, but the little one has a pretty good voice. The one with the black hair plays bass.” Having spent some of the best years of her life with a band, Babe still had a soft spot for rock and rollers. And although she denied it, I think she enjoyed playing den mother.
“Where’d you find them?”
“They came in late one night,” she whispered, “after an open mike night at Boomer’s. They were pretty upset—it didn’t go so well. I told them if they worked the lunch shift, four days a week, I’d give them stage pointers plus salary and tips. We’ll see how long they last. Are you eating or is this one of your liquid lunches?”
“Eating. I’m ravenous.” I ordered a turkey and sundried tomato wrap, something Pete had recently added to the menu courtesy of Giada De Laurentiis.
Babe stuck the order slip into a revolving rack behind her and spun it around like a prayer wheel, then brought me more coffee.
Two cops from the substation across the road came in, and Babe left me to say hello and seat them. Just then, something in my backpack rumbled and I recognized the sound as that of a new text message. I expected it to be Lucy, but it was Caroline Sturgis.
Thanks for listening and for moving my keys, Sneaky Pete! You’re a good friend. Call me tomorrow, I have a great idea!
I didn’t need a 9 A.M. drinking buddy, and Caroline’s last great idea had involved thousands of bulbs the size of cocktail onions. Was I a good friend? I didn’t bestow the
F
word easily. I generally thought of people as acquaintances until years had passed and they’d lost most of their fur like the Velveteen Rabbit. But maybe that was another New York habit I’d soon be jettisoning. If we were friends, should I have said something about April and the tacky woman I thought was her owner? I wondered how Caroline and the pooch were getting along.
I nursed my food until most of the lunchtime crowd had departed and Babe had time to sit and catch up.
“Okay,” she said, hauling herself onto a bar stool on her side of the counter, “what’s on your mind?”
“What makes you think there’s something on my mind?”
“C’mon, you haven’t camped out here this long since the early days when you had two clients and one of them was dead.”
I left names out of it, and she leaned in so none of the stragglers would hear. “What would you do if you thought the husband of a friend was having an affair?”
“Easy,” she said, straightening up, disappointed that my problem wasn’t more challenging. “Do nothing. Say nothing.” She made a zipping motion across her lips.
“Really?”
“Absolutely. First of all, it sounds like you don’t really know, and second of all, there’s nothing in it, either for you or your friend, for you to be the one who drops the bomb.”
It wasn’t the answer I was hoping for.
“Look, if you’re wrong, you’ll be persona non grata. If you’re right and they split up, you’ll be the unwelcome reminder of her humiliation. If you’re right and they stay together, you’re the friend that knows too much. And if one of them kills the other, then you’ll have to testify.”
She had a point.
My afternoon schedule was full, too full to hang out in the local diner gossiping about my neighbors. In the same way that everyone in Connecticut wants their pool opened on Memorial Day weekend, they all want their garden service started at the same time. I didn’t have many clients with great swathes of lawn to maintain, with all the attendant chemicals to apply. Caroline’s lawn was the largest, and I’d let Hugo handle that, unless the big idea she’d talked about was turning it into a meadow. But that wasn’t likely.
There were three nurseries to visit to reopen accounts and place orders. I spread my business around so all the dealers would know me, and each supplier had its own strong suit—shrubs, perennials, trees. Besides, if I was ever strapped for cash I’d have good credit at all three.
Before heading to the first nursery, I stopped at Lowe’s. One of my other clients had a stand of sedge that had been planted by the previous owners and ignored for years. The grasslike plant was now threatening to take over her driveway. My plan was to divide it and plant clumps in containers dotted around her property; it would be a nice tie-in with the rest of the landscape, and not expensive.
I could have used a saw but after nearly taking off my left index finger once with a chain saw, I stayed away from most power tools and all but the smallest folding pruning saws. Dueling pitchforks were my weapons of choice. If I plunged each of them into the center of a plant, face out, I could push the forks apart—or step on the backs of the tines—to divide the sedge, or any other overgrown grass or perennial.
This would be the first of many garden-season trips to a bigbox home center. For the most part, only amateurs or the truly desperate braved the throng of afternoon do-it-your-selfers who required a full lesson with the purchase of every item, but my schedule had changed and I had no choice. I made a beeline for the garden section, just coming to life with flats of herbs, pansies, and early spring annuals. I blew by the plants, grabbed two pitchforks, and after a quick credit-card swipe I was on my way.
The nursery was bustling. Forklifts moved mountains of bags of mulch, which made the place smell like a redwood forest. The help was happy to see me. Small-timers like me signaled the return of the busy season. And I was the perfect customer, knowledgeable, not big enough to take away serious business from them, and, on a good day, cuter than most of the sweaty, bigbellied guys who had open accounts with them. And thanks to Anna, I paid my bills on time.
Damn, I’d forgotten to get the partial payment from Caroline. Anna, my chief financial officer, would be unhappy. Whatever. I’d make a note to ask Caroline for it next time we met. I loaded up on plant material, arranged for larger shrubs to be delivered, and headed for nursery number two. It was after six p.m. by the time I got home.
I knew something was different the minute I pulled in: some of the stones I’d used to border a bed at the foot of the driveway had been driven into the ground. The old UPS deliveryman had done a number on it on a few occasions. After I complained the new guy was very careful—one of those men who prided himself on his K-turns and parallel-parking abilities. But I didn’t see any packages in front of the garage, where he’d have left them, so I inched the car up the driveway, looking for signs that anything else was amiss.
At the top, I got out of the car, leaving the driver’s-side door open. A few steps to my right I noticed that a stone trough filled with sedum was crooked. For some reason, I reached into the backseat and retrieved one of the pitchforks I’d just bought, and walked to my front door. As if the out-of-place planter wasn’t telling enough, the door was unlocked and partially open.
Pitchfork in hand, I tiptoed up the steps to the front door and yelled for Anna. No answer. I yelled again. Using the fork, I nudged the door open and peered inside. The place had been trashed.
I dropped the pitchfork, ran back to my car, and tore out of the driveway, plowing over stones and ground cover and driving them farther into the garden beds. I didn’t stop until I was near the diner, but instead of turning right into Babe’s, I made a sharp, screeching left into the strip mall opposite the diner and pulled in right in front of the Springfield police substation. The surprise turn pissed off the driver behind me, uncorking his bottled-up road rage. He let out a stream of anatomically impossible suggestions, but I didn’t care, I was too busy controlling my breathing. I rested my head on the steering wheel and exhaled heavily. Hands shaking, I turned off the engine and got out of the car.
Most small retail strips in Connecticut, and probably everywhere in the United States, look the same—overgrown dollhouses or model-train layouts, with a central pitch or cupola. Painted in pastel colors with white trim, the miniature towns look as if Santa’s helpers should be inside the shops hammering away at toys. This one was no different.
I took the stairs two at a time and banged on the door of the police substation with my fist. Nothing. I bent over and squinted through the bottom of the miniblinds, where I thought I saw a faint light.
“Hey, anybody in there?” I yelled, banging harder and rattling the glass in the door.
Two people from the nearby Dunkin’ Donuts came out and stared on their way back to their cars. A father put his arm around his little girl as if to protect her from the crazy lady. I sat on the steps of the Hansel and Gretel–like structure and dialed 911, telling the dispatcher what had happened and that the cops could find me across the road at the Paradise Diner.
Fifteen minutes later, Sergeant Mike O’Malley and a police cadet who didn’t look old enough to be an Eagle Scout met me at Babe’s. O’Malley and I didn’t exactly go way back but we’d gotten chummy since a garden restoration last year had me up to my elbows in dirt, some of it criminal.
He slid into the booth opposite me; the rookie stood. Babe brought O’Malley a coffee and squeezed my shoulder. “You two play nice,” she said.
“This used to be a quiet town until the rough element from New York moved in,” he said, taking the toothpick out of his mouth.
That was my cue that O’Malley and I were back in our wisecracking-but-I-really-like-you stage, which seemed to precede the who-the-hell-do-you-think-you-are stage, followed by a repeat of stage one. It was a game I was getting used to, and each time we played it, we revealed a little bit more of ourselves. We haven’t approached the
F
word yet, but we were moving in that direction.
“I take that as a compliment,” I said.
O’Malley wasn’t technically handsome, but he had that teddy-bear thing going. Some women like that. I happen to be one of them. He was very fair, with dark hair, pale blue eyes, and just enough padding to keep things warm on a cold spring night.
Not that I knew it from personal experience. There’d been something brewing under the surface when we first met, but when he was hot, I was cold, and vice versa, so nothing ever happened and we’d settled into a platonic relationship.
In the wintertime, people tend to stay put in Connecticut, at least I did. I stayed home, worked out, read, and planned my gardens for the big thaw in March. I don’t know what O’Malley did, but now that the weather was warming up the locals were showing themselves again, like crocuses or carpenter ants.
Some people would have hated that enforced hibernation, but I’d spent the first thirty-three years of my life in a big city and now nothing represented luxury to me more than the sound of . . . silence. No horns honking, no cell phones, and none of their suburban counterparts—lawn mowers and leaf blowers.
O’Malley told me a police cruiser had been close to my house when my 911 call was received, so someone had already been there. No sign of the perpetrator, but I was right: the house had been ransacked.
“That much
I
could tell. Did you boys have to go to cop school to figure that out?”
The rookie’s eyes widened.
“Ms. Holliday’s our resident pain-in-the-ass. She did a little detecting about a year ago and now she thinks she’s on the job.”
O’Malley chugged his coffee and stood up to leave. “Are you ready to go back to the scene of the crime?” He rode with me in the Jeep and we followed the kid in the patrol car.
“Recruiting them kind of young, aren’t you?” I asked.
“New program at the academy. He hasn’t graduated yet, but they’re going out on ride-alongs.”
When we got to my place, I made a move to pick up the pitchfork I’d tossed in the mad dash to my car. The younger man tried to stop me, probably thinking it was evidence.
I looked from him to O’Malley. “It’s mine. I dropped it when I was here before.”
“I guess we’re lucky no one was here when you first arrived,” O’Malley said, “otherwise we’d be looking at a homicide.”
Once again, I used the pitchfork to push the door open. This time I let out a scream, dropped the pitchfork, and stumbled back into O’Malley’s arms when I saw a figure inside the house, poking through the rubble with a stick.
“Jeez, you could have told me someone was still here,” I snapped, pulling away from him.
“I wouldn’t have let you skewer him.”
I stepped into the entrance of my once cute, now violated, little bungalow. I maneuvered around the cop, and surveyed the damage.
The rug had been pulled up and tossed in a corner on top of a plant called Spanish Dagger. The path to my office was strewn with papers, books, and the contents of drawers. My desktop computer was missing, as was a box of old CDs I normally used as a bookend. All of my clients’ files had been rifled, some spilling out of folders, others tossed in a heap in the middle of the floor. My eyes filled with tears; I used my anger to keep them from trickling down my face.
“Who would do this? Why?” My feet shuffled through the papers on the floor as if they were leaves.
I walked through the office to a small room behind it, where I worked out. I couldn’t afford a gym membership anymore and had resorted to buying every piece of castoff equipment—including the unused treadmill—that Springfield’s secondhand market had to offer. I had a setup that most small-town phys-ed departments would envy.
“Sweet,” the young cop said, eyeing my gear.
“And she uses it, too,” O’Malley said. “I can attest to that.”
“Howl at the moon once.” So I had punched him once. It was an accident and there was no permanent damage—his jaw and our relationship, such as it was, had both survived.
“Is the upstairs just as bad?” I asked, hoping for some good news.
“Not nearly,” the cop I’d almost pitchforked answered.
I followed O’Malley up the tight spiral staircase in the middle of the house to my tiny bedroom. It was a shambles. The dresser drawers had been pulled out and my clothing obviously handled. The bed had been stripped.
“I’d hate to see your apartment,” I told the cop.
“You’ve still got your sense of humor,” O’Malley said. “That’s good.”
“I just meant that nothing seemed damaged,” the younger cop mumbled, embarrassed.
They walked me into the kitchen, where it was more of the same, except the dishwasher and the fridge had been left open. I skidded on a puddle of water near the fridge, O’Malley slipped an arm around me to keep me vertical, then retreated to a more appropriate back pat.
“This was not your garden-variety break-in,” O’Malley said. “Our man seems to have been looking for something in particular.”
“In my fridge? Like what? Did they think I had money stashed in there like that guy in Washington?” I asked.
“Does anything other than your computer seem to be missing?” he asked.
“You mean like my jewels and collection of three-thousand-dollar handbags?” I did a quick mental inventory of my possessions—I didn’t have much worth stealing. “Is my telescope still here?” The cops followed as I ran out to my deck. There it was. Other than my car, the most expensive thing I owned was parked on the deck facing true north. I collapsed onto an old deck chair.
“So why would anyone break in, trash my house, and take a five-year-old desktop? You can probably find newer models at the Salvation Army.”
“It’s not the computer,” O’Malley said. “It’s probably what they think is on it.”