Murder & Sullivan Read online

  Maude Kelly? she wondered. But when she looked, it was Liz MacDonald who stood alone, her shoulders heaving.

  Should I go to her? I hardly know her.

  While Joan hesitated, Liz solved her dilemma by recognizing her.

  “Oh, Joan,” she wailed softly, and stumbled toward her across the uneven ground, her arms wide.

  Joan hugged her.

  “It’s too late,” Liz wailed.

  “Too late?”

  “I tried, but I couldn’t help loving him … and now he’ll never know.” She broke down again.

  Holding Liz while she sobbed, Joan was sure David must have suspected. What can I say to her? she thought. But no wise, comforting words came. The people were leaving now, but no one seemed to be paying much attention to two women hugging after a funeral.

  Poor Liz, Joan thought. You sang Saturday night as if nothing were wrong. I didn’t even wonder how you must be feeling. And I thought nothing could be harder than singing love songs with David when you knew you couldn’t have him.

  Finally, Liz pulled back. She fumbled in her handbag, wiped her eyes with a damp handkerchief, and blew her nose.

  “Thank you, Joan. I’ll be all right now.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Liz nodded.

  “You’ve helped me so much,” she said.

  I never did say anything, Joan thought. Probably just as well. She watched Liz go. By now the family and most of the others had left. Her low heels sank into the lumpy ground; this little country cemetery didn’t run to sidewalks. But it was a peaceful place, and a little breeze had finally kicked up. She no longer felt any great desire to return to work—the center would be closed by the time she got back anyway.

  “You decide to stay all day?” Fred had come up behind her.

  She smiled at him. “It crossed my mind. Did you learn anything?”

  “No. But you never know.”

  “I think I did.”

  “Oh? What did you learn?” He smiled that quirky smile down at her.

  Willing herself not to go weak in the knees, Joan stuck to the topic. “Did you see Liz MacDonald?”

  “Was that who she was?”

  “Yes. Fred, that woman had nothing to do with David’s death.”

  “Because she was weeping? Plenty of killers feel remorse, or fake it.”

  “Not because she was weeping, because of why she was weeping. She said, ‘I couldn’t help loving him … and now he’ll never know.’ I can’t believe she would have killed him. She still had hopes.”

  “You may be right.”

  “I’m sure I’m right.”

  23

  The flowers that bloom in the spring,

  Tra la.

  —NANKI-POO, The Mikado

  That evening at supper Joan told Andrew what had happened at the cemetery. “I don’t want it to be anyone I know, Andrew. At least now I’m sure it’s not my doctor’s nurse.”

  “How about the doctor?” He reached for another ear of bicolor sweet corn one of the old gardeners had brought to share at the center, and slathered butter on it.

  “I don’t know, and that’s the truth. I just hate it, Andrew. I hate not knowing something this important about the people I need to trust.”

  Andrew nodded as he worked his way down the rows of kernels. It does help to have a good listener, Joan thought. No wonder Liz didn’t need me to say anything. And then she remembered what Andrew had done today.

  “Andrew, how could I forget? I saw you and Henry at the funeral. Did you take him?” He ducked his head and half-smiled, the way he’d always done when he was embarrassed, but she went on. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “Aw, Mom. Henry couldn’t get there by himself.”

  “I know. But you thought of him, and you did something about it.” Andrew was really squirming now. She didn’t want to spoil it for him. “How is he doing?” She started down a sweet, bicolor row of her own, minus the butter.

  “Much better. He says they’re going to send him home before long. He’ll have someone there to help him, and he’ll get physical therapy every day. He really wants to come home.”

  “I can imagine. It’s going to break his heart to see his garden, though.” Henry had brought some of his favorite roses from his old house. And the new hybrids he’d been developing in his tiny greenhouse were sure to be dead, if they were even there—the greenhouse itself had been shattered by the tornado.

  “He already knows. He saw it after the tornado, remember? Mom, couldn’t we do something about that?”

  “Like what?” Joan knew her ignorance about roses.

  “I don’t know. Plant something over there? Move some of the stuff out of our backyard, maybe?”

  “We could, couldn’t we?” It was, after all, what she had been thinking only yesterday. “It’s pretty hard to kill an iris. Or a day lily. Or lilies of the valley, for that matter. They’re not roses, but they smell wonderful for as long as they last. At least he’d have something next spring.”

  “We could move some right now,” he said. “It’ll be light for a while yet.” Yesterday she’d been planning to wait for rain, but Andrew’s enthusiasm was worth a lot.

  They left the dishes to soak, and Joan changed into shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers. Half an hour later she was dripping with sweat, but they had wrestled several dozen lilies and irises out of the almost rock-hard ground and dug a wheelbarrowful of compost out of the heap she’d been building casually from grass clippings, autumn leaves, and vegetable trimmings.

  “I can’t believe we’re taking compost to Henry’s,” she told Andrew. “He’s worked so much stuff into his ground already—digging there is going to be a snap compared to digging in ours. And these plants don’t even need rich soil.”

  “So why are we?” He dumped another shovelful into the barrow and pulled up the bottom of his T-shirt to wipe his streaming face. Feeling a little too public to imitate him, even in her own backyard, Joan settled for a sleeve.

  “Foolish pride, I guess.”

  But when they crossed into Henry’s yard, she could see that their barrowful was a scant beginning, and sent Andrew back home to dig more compost. David’s backhoe had moved Henry’s topsoil away from the house, and the resulting mounds had baked as hard in places as the dirt from which they had taken the plants. Turning over several shovelfuls, though, she found some crumbly soil. It was going to be possible after all.

  She peered into the gaping hole by the house. They’d have to fill it up with the hard stuff from those mounds, no easy job.

  Wish I’d looked at the size of this mess before we dug the plants, she thought grimly.

  “What do you think you’re doing here?” a man’s voice growled behind her, and she jumped.

  “Oh!” She turned to see Virgil Shoals, in overalls and a painter’s cap. “You startled me.” Her heart was pounding.

  His voice softened. “Sorry. I didn’t recognize you.” He took off his cap. “Out of place like that.” It still felt like a challenge, though not so threatening.

  “I’m about to transplant some things from our yard for Henry.” She waved at them. “I hated for him to see it like this when he comes home, even though he’s already seen it, of course.” Her heartbeat had slowed, but she knew she was babbling. “This sure is some hole.” She peered in it again.

  “First time you’ve noticed?” He sounded as if he thought she should have been keeping tabs on Henry’s house and yard. Irritation won out over startle.

  “I had more than enough to be concerned with at my own house.” It came out sharper than she intended.

  “Uh-huh.” He sounded conciliatory, not sarcastic. “Zach ever going to get done over there?”

  “I hope so,” she said fervently, her irritation fading. “I’ll be glad to have my front door back. I guess you’ll be glad to get him back.”

  “I guess so,” he said. “I’d better go. See you Friday.”

  “Friday?” She drew a blank. />
  “At Ruddigore.”

  “Of course.” I must still be rattled, after all.

  “Look, why don’t you just leave this mess? I can take care of it in the morning. I’m coming past here anyway.”

  “You don’t have to do that. My son is helping me.” She waved at Andrew, digging in her compost heap. I can’t wait, she thought. These plants won’t last that long, but it was nice of him to offer. “But thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. You have a good evening, now.” He pulled his hat back on, walked out to the street, and climbed into a blue panel truck with Shoals Construction lettered on the side. Joan waved at him and went back to her own yard. She wasn’t going to attempt this next bit without Andrew’s help.

  “Who was that?” he asked, continuing to dig in the compost.

  “Zach’s boss, Virgil Shoals.”

  “He getting on your case about Zach?”

  “Not really. Virgil’s the man who had Zach boarding up Henry’s after the tornado. He offered to fill in the hole for us tomorrow morning.”

  “Good.” Andrew wiped his face again. “I wasn’t looking forward to that.”

  “Andrew, the plants we took over there would die by then. They’re already too dry.”

  “Oh.” He didn’t say another word, but picked up his shovel.

  They hauled several more loads of compost over to Henry’s and then tackled the mounds. By the time they filled the hole, evened out the ground, raked in their compost, and planted all the flowers-to-be, it was getting dark. They were both covered with dirt, and Joan’s lower back was throbbing along with the ankle that hadn’t bothered her for days. She sent Andrew home again, this time to stretch the hose across from their house—she had no idea where to look for Henry’s, or whether it had been blown away. You’ve been a big help, she thought, watching Andrew.

  “Turn it on so I can soak them,” she called over to him.

  “Thanks, Mom. You’ve been a big help.” She looked at him—was he pulling her leg?

  The expression on his face was guileless. He means it, she thought. This whole project was his idea. I’m just the assistant.

  “You’re welcome.” Don’t embarrass him again. “And so’s Henry.”

  To ease her back, Joan sat on the steps of the little side porch near the front of Henry’s house. When she saw how fast the water soaked in around the plants, she decided to saturate the ground enough to leave good-sized puddles around them. Otherwise, another day as hot as today would dry them out in no time.

  The spray from the hose would eventually tire her thumb, she knew, but when she considered how her back and legs felt, it was easier to do it the simple way than to hunt up the nozzle Andrew hadn’t thought to bring.

  He’d disappeared around back, where she could hear him tossing pieces of glass into Henry’s old metal trash can. He must be cleaning up the last scraps of the greenhouse, she thought, amazed. Was this the same boy she’d spent years trying to persuade to pick up his own room?

  After a while the cicadas began, or were they tree frogs? Combined with the spray, the sound made her eyelids droop. It was joined by voices, faint at first and then gradually louder, coming toward her from the direction of the park and preceded by a wave of barking from neighborhood dogs. They usually save that for the mailman, she thought, or other dogs. Someone must have waited for the air to cool to walk the dog.

  But when they reached Henry’s place, the voices seemed to be coming up his front sidewalk toward the house. Then Andrew was beside her.

  “Hear that?” he said. “That’s Henry’s dog!”

  Swinging around to look, she accidentally squirted him. He yelped, but waved off her apology and ran toward the voices.

  Probably feels good, she thought. She dipped her face into the cool stream and ran water over her hands and arms. Refreshed, she was wiping her hands on the seat of her shorts when she heard her name.

  “Joan, what are you doing over here?” Ellen Putnam, looking more comfortable now in cutoffs than in the suit she’d worn to the funeral, walked toward her with Laura, Andrew, and Henry’s old dog.

  “A little watering. Pull up a step.” She aimed the hose back at the flower bed, and was glad when Ellen sat down beside her. “We transplanted a few things from our yard. My son heard that Henry might be coming home before long.”

  “It’s very kind of you, though I think it will be some time. That’s why we came, to check the house and see what needed doing.”

  “It was Andrew’s idea. He and Henry are buddies.” Joan looked at him, squatting a few feet away with the dog and Laura, who was already in animated conversation—with Andrew or the dog, she couldn’t tell which. “I think that’s why he walked the dog.”

  “That old mutt. He smells, and he can hardly walk, but he’s been wonderful for Laura, especially since …” She stopped, her eyes filling.

  “She looks good. How are you holding up?” Joan gave her time to look away.

  “Better. The funeral was today.”

  “Yes. We were there.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.”

  “Of course not. It was a lovely service, Ellen.”

  “I’m glad it’s over. Nothing can bring David back, but I was dreading that.”

  “Yes.” They sat in silence for a few moments.

  “We had family over at the house until just a little while ago—food, and all that—but they finally left. Most of them live nearby, so it’s not as if I had to put them up. And I told them I didn’t want anyone to stay with us. I had to get out. The dog’s an excuse, really.”

  Joan nodded.

  “It’s getting late. I’d better tear Laura away from your son and go in there. I won’t try to do anything for a while, but I need to know. We’re all the family Henry has now.”

  “She’ll be all right out here, Ellen, unless she’d rather stick close to you. I’ll keep an eye on her.”

  “Thanks. I won’t be long.” Ellen spoke to Laura and Andrew and waved to Joan before letting herself in through Henry’s back door.

  The dog and Andrew kept Laura occupied. The soil was certainly wet around the irises, but the water was still soaking in amazingly fast. A little more won’t hurt, Joan thought. And I’m not about to go back home to turn the water off. This is the child who escaped from her parents during a tornado warning. I’m not going to turn my back on her until I see her mother again.

  A few minutes later, Ellen ran out the door yelling, “Joan, turn off the water! It’s leaking into Henry’s basement!”

  Joan immediately turned the water away from the house, and Andrew ran back home to shut the faucet off.

  “That tornado did more damage than we thought,” Ellen said more calmly. “There’s water all over the floor.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Joan said. “It never occurred to me that I could be causing a flood.”

  “Why would it? This is no worse than a rainstorm, after all.”

  “Maybe I should have sloped the dirt away from the house. I don’t remember how it used to be.”

  “Joan, a little dirt can’t possibly make that much difference.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “I was.” Suddenly Ellen started to laugh. “You should have seen me down there when I first realized my feet were wet!” Sitting on the step, she took off her sneakers and turned them upside down. No water poured out, but they were sodden. Then she pulled off her socks and wrung them out. This time, a thin stream wet the dust.

  “Careful,” Joan warned her. “There are still bits of glass in the dirt. In the grass, too.”

  “Right. I haven’t let the children go barefoot once since the storm.” Ellen stuffed the wet socks into a back pocket and forced her feet into the sneakers. “Uncle Henry’s house still needs some major repairs. But right now I’d better get Laura and the pooch home and to bed before we all collapse.”

  Joan watched them go. Ellen could be a real friend, she thought. It’s been a long time sin
ce I had a woman friend who lived nearby.

  24

  Sad is that woman’s lot who, year by year,

  Sees, one by one, her beauties disappear.

  —JANE, Patience

  Tuesday dawned clear and sunny, another hot one in the making. Only a few puffy clouds hinted at the distant possibility of rain. Joan was out on the almost-finished porch drinking a cup of morning coffee with Zach when Virgil’s truck pulled up to Henry’s house. Two young men carrying long-handled shovels hopped out of the back.

  “Oh, no,” Joan said. “He came back to fill in that hole David left, but we already did.”

  “I expect he’ll notice,” Zach said with a grin. He picked up a plane and began shaving long curls off the new porch railings. “Virgil’s been after me to work overtime for him while I’m finishing up here. Least I can do is look busy.”

  Joan left their cups in the kitchen sink and collected her shoulder bag from the closet doorknob. Waving to Zach, she set off down the sidewalk. Virgil came around from behind Henry’s house and met her.

  “I told you you didn’t have to worry about that hole,” he said. “I told you I’d take care of it.”

  “I know you did, but it’s been so hot, and I’d already dug my plants. I was afraid they’d die.”

  “How’d you manage it?” The smile on his face was friendly enough, but behind it she thought she sensed the kind of male superiority that Fred never laid on her. Well, almost never. I’m not being fair, she thought. The man asked a civil question.

  “Fine, thanks,” she said. Unless you count the muscles that hurt with every move I make. She shrugged. “Once you’re hot and dirty, what’s a little more dirt?” I’m no helpless female, even if I was glad Andrew was there.

  She walked on and was about to enter the park when Virgil drove up and tooted at her. Now what? she wondered.

  “Need a lift?” he called out.

  “No, thanks. I always walk to work.”

  He waved, and the truck veered off to the left. Only foot traffic could go through the park—that was part of why it appealed to her even now, with so many trees down. Just past the creek it occurred to her that she probably should have mentioned the leak in Henry’s basement wall.