Garden of Death (23 page)

“Is that why he donated the lot to the village—because he thought it was the right thing to do?” I asked.

“Frank wanted to give something back to the village he loved. But then it all went wrong when you were given the lot, and Charles was murdered.”

“So you think that it was because Willow got the lot that your friend was killed?” Simon said. “That doesn't make a lot of sense. Think about it, Joe.”

Joe stared off into the distance and was silent. Several moments later, he surprised us with his answer. “You know, you're right. It probably wouldn't have mattered who had the lot. It might have happened anyway.”

“I wish you would tell that to Harold and Maggie and the rest of that group. They really have made my life miserable.”

“I know, I saw the letter in the
Suffolk Times
,” Joe said. “Listen, Greenport is a small town. We all know each other. But that doesn't mean I condone what they're doing now.”

“But you wanted that lot, too,” I said. “You were even talking to Mayor Hobson about it the other day at Village Hall.”

“I admit that I tried to influence the mayor and the other members of the board to give the lot to Charles. And now I like the idea of a memorial garden dedicated to Charles. So what? I didn't do anything wrong.”

“You didn't push me into the camera obscura and lock the door?”

He had the grace to look embarrassed. “I felt like you were stalking me—and Rhonda and everyone else—and I got pretty annoyed about it. I'm sorry. That wasn't a good thing to do. But I did come back later to make sure you got out okay. Which you did.”

“How considerate,” I murmured.

He pushed off of the truck, shifted from foot to foot, and rubbed his knee.

“I'm surprised that you were still so friendly with Charles White,” I said. “After all, he was your surgeon, and clearly you're still suffering.”

“He did the best he could. I don't blame him for what happened.”

“Why was Dr. White so interested in that lot?” Simon said. “Is it because everyone, including you, is looking for the same thing—buried treasure perhaps?”

Joe laughed. “Buried treasure? I don't think so. Charles wanted the lot so he could build a high-end boutique hotel there, and Arlene would have been the manager. Me, I figured that it was a good investment, a chance for us all to turn a nice profit.” His phone rang. “I have to take this. I'm closing a deal.” He got into his truck, started it up, and drove away.

chapter twenty-seven

Willow McQuade's
Favorite Medicinal Plants

OATS

Botanical name:
Avena fatua
(wild oat),
A. sativa
(cultivated oat)

Medicinal uses: While we're used to eating oatmeal from ripe grains for a heart-healthy breakfast to lower cholesterol, this is just the beginning of the medicinal benefits that oats provide. First of all, the alkaloids in oats nourish the limbic system and motor ganglia, increasing energy levels and a sense of well-being. Oat straw (the stalk) contains silica and other important minerals that help nourish and build strong bones, nails, hair, and teeth. The milky green top of oats contains compounds that soothe and strengthen the nervous system and help to treat anxiety, mild depression, exhaustion, insomnia, nervousness, and post-traumatic stress.

As a flower essence, oat is helpful for those who are filled with uncertainty and dissatisfaction and are unable to find their life's direction. Topically, oats can help ease the pain and inflammation of sunburn, skin irritation, and itchiness. So the next time you have oatmeal for breakfast, think about everything else it can do!

Note: Those with gluten allergies should use oats with caution.

Simon and I drove back to Greenport, and since both of us were hungry, and we hadn't heard from Jackson's lawyer, we decided to stop and have a quick lunch at Nature's Way. Wallace and Lily were busy, since the rain had stopped, so I went into the kitchen and made us organic falafel pita wraps with tahini and yogurt dip, then grabbed two gluten-free chocolate chip cookies and two Honest Teas. We took them into my office, where we sat on the couch.

“Well, Joe didn't tell us all that much,” Simon said, chewing thoughtfully. “The weird thing is, though, I believed him.”

“Me, too,” I said. “He's not exactly likable, but he's honest. And I kind of admire him for being a loyal friend to Charles White. He might be the only person in this whole town who was.”

“So what's our next move?”

“Shawn should be here soon, so I think we should wait.”

“I'll call him after I eat,” Simon promised, and
opened his iced tea. “Do you think it was a mistake to mention the Roman numerals to Joe Larson?”

“It's hard to say. But if it's important and he figures it out before we do, we've got a problem.” I took a bite of my wrap and the tahini dribbled down my chin.

Simon handed me a napkin. “Great sandwich, but messy.”

We'd just finished our lunch when he got a call from Shawn, Jackson's lawyer. Simon put it on speaker. “Shawn, where are you?”

“I'm here. I just arrived at the jail. I wouldn't come over just yet, though. They're going to make me fill out forms before they let me see him. It's going to be a wait. I'll call you when I know I can get in there.”

Simon hung up and turned to me. “Sounds like it will be awhile.”

I nodded. “Let's go over our list of suspects and who we've talked to so far. We just spoke to Joe Larson.”

“Sandra wasn't much help, and neither was Harold, but you did leave a message for Kylie.”

“Right, and if she doesn't call me back, we can find her at the farmer's market, along with Ramona and Rhonda. That just leaves Professor Russell and Maggie Stone.”

“Where would we find him?”

I thought a moment. “He did seem interested in seeing
The Tempest
in Mitchell Park, so what if I call him to remind him about it? I can at least leave a message.”

“Do it.”

“After that we can go see Maggie. Usually she's supervising Southold Town's dog run.”

“Right, then we can circle back to see Jackson.”

•   •   •

Professor Russell didn't answer my
call, so I left another message. Fifteen minutes later Simon, Qigong, Rockford, Columbo, and I all arrived in Peconic, a small hamlet west of Southold. I figured they would enjoy an outing, and I also hoped that my animals might soften up Maggie.

We found the dog run on the east side of Peconic Lane. Fenced in with trimmed green grass and several park benches, it was a nice place to spend time, although not many people and their pets were around, since it was midafternoon. Maggie, though, was there, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, a whistle around her neck. I waved to her, but she didn't wave back.

Undeterred, Simon and the boys walked toward her. Qigong wagged his tail and greeted her while Columbo and Rockford hung back, since they were more afraid of strangers. She bent down and petted him. “Hi, sweetie. I didn't know that you had three dogs, Willow. They're adorable.”

“Thanks, I have two cats, too. All of them are rescues.”

“You know, you and Willow actually have a lot in common,” Simon pointed out. “You both really care about animals. She's on your side, Maggie.”

“If that were true, we would be talking in Greenport's new dog park, instead of here.” She turned to scan the park, checking on the other dogs, a black Labrador, a collie, a boxer, and several mixed breeds.

“I'm sorry you feel that way, Maggie.”

She gave me a sour look, and scratched Qigong behind the ears. “What do you want?”

“We're investigating Dr. White's death and—”

“That's a good one. He died in your garden.”

“Yes, I know that,” I said. I hesitated, choosing my words. “Look, I know you're still angry about not getting the lot. And I'm not trying to bug you. I just have one question—do you know anything about Harold's relationship with Professor Russell?”

“If I answer, will you leave?”

Neither of us said anything.

She blew out a breath. “Albert Russell is a client of Harold's.”

“Is Harold procuring items for him, possibly out of my garden?”

“I don't know anything about that.”

“The other day at the yard sale and antique show, it seemed like you did. You three were having a pretty intense conversation.”

She shrugged. “You misinterpreted. And I agreed to answer one question, not a chain of them. Now, why don't you take your dogs for a nice walk and go home?” She turned away from us and headed toward the other end of the field.

Simon looked at me. “That went well.”

•   •   •

We waited in the lobby
of the police station for over an hour before Shawn Thompson, Jackson's new lawyer, stepped out to talk to us. Handsome, in what looked like a very expensive suit, he sported day-old stubble, manicured nails, and a gold Rolex watch.

“Simon, good to meet you,” he said, shaking his hand. “And you must be Willow?”

“Yes, how is Jackson?”

He glanced around the room and at the burly cop on duty at the desk, and said, “Let's go outside.”

“I thought you were going to be able to get him released,” I said once we were out on the steps.

“Not until tomorrow. The police have the right to hold him for twenty-four hours, and that's what they're going to do. I think they're hoping that they can find something so they can charge him by then.”

“But he didn't do it,” I said. “This is ridiculous.”

Shawn stated the obvious. “They don't have anyone else for it.”

“Well, we're looking into it,” Simon said.

Shawn smiled. “That's what Detective Koren told me, and he didn't seem exactly pleased about it.”

“He never is,” I said.

“But if you think you can do something, you'll have to work fast. If Jackson's charged, I can get him out on bail, but you definitely don't want it to get to that point.”

“We've run down all the leads we can, for now,” Simon said. “I don't know—”

But I interrupted him. “That's not true. We've got the play tonight—Professor Russell may be there—and plenty of suspects to talk to at the farmer's market in the morning. There are still plenty of things we can do to help figure out who really killed Dr. White.”

Shawn smiled again, but this time his expression was tense. “Then I suggest you do them.”

•   •   •

Friday night, Mitchell Park was
abuzz with electric energy. The weather had finally cleared that afternoon,
and now it seemed everyone had turned out for Shakespeare's
Tempest.
The area was already crowded with theatergoers, clutching programs and carrying beach chairs, vying for space in front of the stage.

Even though we had come a half hour early, we had to settle for a damp square of grass in the back by the docks. I'd brought along a blanket and an umbrella, not quite trusting that the rain wouldn't return. The air was still heavy with moisture and clouds filled the sky around the harbor. The set was the same as when I'd first seen it—an ocean backdrop, a beached sailboat, and the bow of a ship—but was now dimly lit until the play began.

“Cool set,” Simon said. “Have you seen this play before?”

Disbelieving, I turned to look at him. “We saw it together.”

Simon looked at me blankly.

“When we were living together in L.A.?” I reminded him. “It was at the Actor's Playhouse in Santa Monica. You wanted to see this actor you were considering for
Parallel Lives
, your show. You don't remember?”

“I don't think so. What's it about?”

“It's the one with Prospero, the Duke of Milan?”

“Not ringing a bell.”

“He conjures up this storm to lure his brother Antonio and the king of Naples to his remote island? Chaos ensues?”

“Nope.”

“Forget it, we've got to find Professor Russell,” I said, and pointed to the ferry terminal behind us. “If he does come for the play, he's going to get off of the ferry
and take the boardwalk up to the park. We've got watch for him, and Harold, too.”

“You think they'll show up, even though they know you'll be here?”

“It's a big crowd. And I don't think either one of them is afraid of me.”

Simon and I both scanned the park intently. A few minutes later, Simon said, “There's Harold.” He pointed to the area of the park to the east of the stage and the carousel. “And he's alone.”

“I'll bet they're meeting here.” But as I searched the ferry terminal and the boardwalk, I didn't see Professor Russell.

“Wait a minute,” Simon said. “Harold just sat down. It's looks like he's with those veggie heirloom women, Ramona and Rhonda, and Sandra and Martin Bennett, the artisanal cheese couple.”

I groaned. “We won't learn much with them all together. We have to get the professor alone and confront him.”

“Is that him?” Simon pointed to a man wearing a tan overcoat and rain hat, scurrying along the boardwalk.

“That's him.”

We watched as Professor Russell entered the park and gazed around. “He must be looking for Harold,” Simon guessed.

But as we tracked the professor moving toward the stage, all of the lights went out, and a voice spoke over the loudspeaker: “
Welcome to the East End Players' performance of
The Tempest
. Since the play takes place on a remote island in a storm, we thought it was the
perfect choice to kick off the last weekend of the Maritime Festival—especially after toda
y.” The crowd laughed. “
Now, sit back and enjoy!
”

The play was actually pretty good, but my mind wasn't on Prospero and his machinations, but on Jackson sitting in a cell in the Greenport jail, and what I needed to do to get him out. During intermission, we spotted Professor Russell with Harold, and once the play was over, we waited to see what he would do next.

We watched as Sandra and Martin said good-bye and walked away, and then, Ramona and Rhonda. Soon, it was just Harold and Professor Russell. But then the two men shook hands, and Professor Russell walked past us, back toward the boardwalk and the ferry terminal. “We need to catch up with him before he gets on that ferry,” I said, grabbing the blanket.

We ran up the steps to the boardwalk. “Do you see him?”

“I think he's up there,” Simon said.

We hit the boardwalk and threaded our way through the crowd of people who were leaving Mitchell Park, most at a leisurely pace, as they chatted about the performance. As I got closer, I spotted Professor Russell about a hundred yards from the end of the boardwalk and Third Street. “There he is,” I said. “We need to run.”

We picked up our pace and jogged through the crowd, trying to catch up with him. Just as he reached Third Street, Simon grabbed him by the arm. “We need to talk to you, Professor.”

The professor blinked, looking only mildly surprised. “Certainly.”

We walked with him up Third Street until we were outside the Blue Canoe, a restaurant close to the ferry terminal.

“Miss McQuade,” Professor Russell said, smiling. “So nice to see you again. I'm sorry I haven't called, but I haven't heard back from Dr. Gillian yet.”

“Cut the crap,” Simon said. “We know what you're up to.”

“Dr. Gillian is a fake,” I said. “So we'd really like to know why you gave him our sword. The cops would like to know, too, for that matter. Where is it?”

“Dr. Gillian has it, and I don't appreciate you impugning my integrity—or his. Now, if you don't mind, I need to make my ferry.” Cars began to drive onto the boat, filling it up.

“You can take the next one,” Simon said. “Now tell us what is going on. Jackson Spade is in jail for Dr. White's murder, and we think you know something about it.”

“For starters,” I said, “what exactly is going on with you and Harold Spitz?”

“Nothing,” he said. “We met at my talk at the Maritime Museum, and he's been helping me find nautical items for my house. Is that a crime?”

“It is if the items come from my garden.”