Cafe Underground Presents
COMING UP ROSES
Book 2 -- Chapters 2
The Detective Andi Wicksham Series, by RL Bell
Copyright © 1997 RL BELL
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....author RL Bell
Andi Wicksham's INVESTIGATORY SERVICES
Chapter 2
In the turmoil accompanying learning of her mother's diagnosis, Andi had left her car down by Hawthorne so, after a quiet breakfast of fruit and toast she and Lena walked to work, umbrellas in hand like a couple of schoolgirls. There, they worked quietly; Lena careful and protective, intercepting each call that came in--Andi with a hard lump in her chest that she almost willed to be her own inoperable cancer so she could be bonded more securely to her mother.
She cranked out routine skip-searches as she ruminated over Feight. Feight's death was still unexplained. If the toxicological report came up blank and it was still a heart attack, what could induce it; electric shock? Surely the pathologist would look for that sort of burn marks. With an elderly man and no suspicious evidence on the scene the medical examiner might not give him the attention they should. They'd probably checked the brain for hemorrhage and the spine for dislocation and trauma when they checked his heart.
That regular examination covered ninety-nine point nine percent of the otherwise unexplained deaths they investigated. What was less obvious? How would someone kill without leaving a trace? She jotted a note to ask about his medical condition in the last month and if withholding medications could have killed him. Simpson might have switched real meds for something else. Laboratory tests more sophisticated than simple screens were expensive and only wielded with strong evidence pointing to foul play--it was all to easy to guess that the Medical Examiner might not go the big-ticket route.
Mid-morning, Andi drove through an off-and-on drizzle to keep appointments with Alison Simpson and William Tyson. Lena'd efficiently scheduled them without consulting her--she'd meet them both at Feight's. Simpson because she lived there, Tyson because he told Lena that meeting at his place wasn't acceptable that morning.
Turning off the county road at the convenience store, she drove the small lane at a crawl, peering up driveways and studying the houses to get a feel for the neighborhood. There weren't many turn-offs from the lane, she paused a moment at Feight's drive, then drove past two more houses before the road ended in a rutted turn-around.
The lane wandered through a small valley of ten to twenty acre plots--tracing both lines of overlooking hills she could see no access roads cutting over. Unless a neighbor carted the roses home, the lane was figuratively as well as literally a dead-end. She turned her car and drove back to the house that would soon be Alison Simpson's.
Simpson must have been waiting. She opened the door before Andi had time to knock and led her quietly down the hall to a sunny table in the kitchen. She was dressed as she'd been before, in an ill-fitting, much-washed dress with her greying, dishwater blond hair held back with plain red plastic barrettes like Dorothy of Kansas. "I hope you don't mind meeting here..." she apologized shyly. "Uncle Darrel always used the living and sitting rooms...I've always waited in the kitchen...I guess I'm more comfortable here..." Simpson gave an awkward shrug, then stood as if waiting insecurely for instructions before finally gesturing for Andi to sit, "...do you want coffee?"
Andi smiled, nodded and chose a position where she could look out the window at the south-east garden. "You've been here fourteen years?" Andi asked congenially, she left her notebook unopened on the table, deemphasizing the business aspect of her presence. A small double picture frame with photo's of Feight and William Tyson stood on the counter with scraps of paper from a small pad. The room was high-ceilinged and airy, large stove, a dry pantry stood beside the open door to steep, winding back-stairs leading up to the second story.
Alison moved to the stove and turned a flame on under the tea pot. There was momentary pause, she glanced up and then quickly away. "Yes...fourteen..."
"Were you close to your uncle?" There were two more note-pads and half a dozen pieces of paper. Andi craned her neck to read.
Alison twitched as if surprised at the question, still turned away. "He was good to me..." Her voice was clipped and a bit defensive. "I've never had anything of my own. If he hadn't taken me in I suppose I'd be living out of a shopping cart." She carefully measured coffee into a filter and waited by the stove for the water to boil.
"But were you close?" Andi repeated. "Did you talk, did he tell you anything of his friends?" The notes were all lists; lists of chores, of books of thoughts, of actions in making coffee. There was one on mopping the kitchen floor that included getting out the bucket, taking it to the sink, and turning on the water.
Alison shook her head, still looking away from Andi. "He didn't really think much of me...we didn't talk. He was doing me a favor. I was here to keep house. That's all." She paused quirkily between each phrase and looked embarrassed at the admission.
"But you know his friends? The four he gave his roses to?" She needed to get the interview on track. Feight seemed to have been a jerk, but Andi didn't care about their family dynamics--Simpson's resentfulness was enough to keep her on the suspect's list.
A flash of bitterness washed Alison's face and then disappeared. "Of course I knew them, they came over all the time to talk roses with Uncle Darrel." She said it simply, without rancor, but with the flat affect of the severely depressed.
"You didn't join them?" Andi asked gently.
Alison swung her head from side to side like a little girl. "I brought them coffee and served lunch." She poured hot water through the coffee, set a plate with four cookies on the table and settled, ill at ease, to Andi's left.
Andi watched silently; each of Simpson's actions was simple and conscious. Pouring coffee, carrying cups, pulling out the chair and sitting down--a hand sweeping her dress straight under her as she descended--perfectly polite and proper, though barely risking eye contact since meeting Andi at the door.
Andi allowed a silent few moments to tick away. Alison sat primly upright, staring at the table between them with nervous anticipation.
Andi offered a smile and murmured "Thank you..." before raising her cup to her lips. She held the coffee as a prop, a symbolic screen between them, asking "...tell me about them..." from behind the steam rising from her mug.
"They talked about roses...hardly anything else." Alison's eyes darted to Andi's, then flitted away. "I don't like roses..."
"What do you think about them as people? Your uncle knew Warren Laroux a long time..." Andi let the sentence end as a statement instead of a question.
"...longer than I've been here..." Alison smiled suddenly, her eyes sparked, but didn't quite focus. "He and Uncle Darrel were related...distantly...Aunt Tamara and Mr. Laroux's wife were step-cousins..." She leaned forward as if to share a womanly confidence. "They were a couple of grumpy codgers...playing chess, drinking brandy and smoking their pipes in the living room...especially before Mr. Tyson and the others came along." She squinched up her nose as if remembering a disagreeable smell.
"That would be after their wives died?" Andi asked more to buy another moment to think than for the answer.
"Their wives died before I came..." Alison responded, suddenly sad and remote. "That was a long time ago...I went to Aunt Clare's funeral..."
Andi let another moment or two pass to let the mood clear. A bulletin board hung on the wall covered two and three levels deep with more of Simpson's lists. Andi sipped her coffee wondering how to bring the conversation around to her uncle's death. "How about William Tyson?"
Simpson shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "He's an interesting man..." she admitted with a shy smile. "He's decisive...I like that." She seemed to drift off in thought after making each statement. She looked up suddenly. "He has strong hands, have you noticed? And he's patriot...Air Force officer and everything. Has he talked to you about the constitution?" Simpson asked as eagerly. her cheeks had grown rosy and a warm smile graced her face.
"So you've talked to him more than the others...?" Andi enquired politely, the tone of the interview had drifted into that of a tea-party. She set her cup down and deliberately opened her notebook as if ready to get back to business.
"Not really...only a couple of times..." blushed Simpson again. "I've heard him talking...when I see him by himself in the garden I go out, but usually can't think of anything..." She gave a flustered smile before staring selfconsciously into her coffee.
"But you like him..." encouraged Andi gently.
"I respect him..." Alison admitted carefully, then took a breath and held it as if waiting an explosion.
"Do you think he's attracted to you?" Andi questioned bluntly.
Alison Simpson hung her head shyly. "I don't know...maybe a little...maybe if he knew I watched him..." she blushed again. "...he's always so serious...it makes it hard to get close..."
"How do you mean?" prompted Andi, kicking herself for wasting time exploring Simpson's romantic fantasies.
"Well...he talks politics when he's not talking roses. He doesn't like the government or the courts or schools or TV or music. Sometimes all he does is complain...but he's very organized and logical." Her voice dwindled in volume until it was almost a whisper. "He doesn't like people who don't think like that."
It was obvious that Simpson didn't think like that, no use asking if she thought she did.
Alison blinked and caught Andi's eye directly for the briefest of moments before looking away again. "I don't think he even likes roses...that they're just something else to be best at." She held Andi's gaze, her eyes opened wide in apprehension, her mouth closed to a narrow pucker and a muscle twitching in her cheek at the audacity she'd shown.
Andi nodded and looked at the window, the clouds were beginning to clear. Simpson's answer might have been appropriate for an adolescent with a crush, but not for a woman nearer middle age. "You think he's embarrassed by what the others might think?" Andi wondered just how far from rational Simpson was.
"Maybe..." Simpson acceded defensively. "...sometimes he ignores me. When the others are around he never looks or says `thank you.' I think he's shy...you think so?"
Andi gave Alison a self-depreciating smile and shook her head. "Believe me...I'm not really good for advice."
Simpson just sat silently watching her.
Andi hazarded. "I think he'd be difficult to get to know..." She kept to safe comments. There weren't prudent responses to romance-and-attraction questions.
Simpson's lips tightened and she stared fixedly out the window.
Andi paused to share the view, then gave a big sigh to break the mood. "Tell me about Jennifer Gould and Elizabeth Dao." They were looking out to where the twenty-four holes lay empty.
Simpson seemed ill at ease at the mention of Gould and Dao. "More coffee?" She asked it without looking into Andi's face, then without waiting for an answer, stood, strode across to the stove and touched the tea-kettle to see if it was hot. "Neither of them like me..." she said in a quiet voice. "Mrs. Gould tried to be friendly...sought me out, but there was something about her I didn't trust..."
Andi noticed that her hand shook as she poured hot water into the filter. Simpson ended up with both hands on the teapot's handle.
She continued awkwardly. "...I'm not good at social things..." her voice grew more insecure and reduced to a bare-whisper, "I'm not like other people..."
"Jennifer Dao sought you out?" Andi asked gently, purposefully ignoring Simpson's comments.
"One day when Uncle Darrel was outside she insisted I show her the kitchen, then she turned chatty and nosey...asked about Uncle's business. She thinks I'm a meek little mouse and tried to use me..." Simpson's voice abruptly turned judgmental and a sneer twisted her upper lip.
Andi chewed at her lip and studied Alison's face. Simpson's swings of emotion were marked and that made evaluating her more difficult, but the neuroses that ruled them were beyond her expertise. The class-conflict wasn't hard to read though. It wasn't hard to imagine an unscaleable social barrier between affluent, upwardly-mobile professional women and a penurious housekeeper whose last tenure had been at a mental ward.
Andi let Simpson pour coffee before continuing. "Which of them do you think could have taken the roses?"
Simpson shrugged as if she didn't care.
Andi paused then probed again. "Warren Laroux came out first on that day you found your uncle, didn't he?"
"They were all here...sunday and monday...all four of them. They've always treated the house as if it were their's...even since Uncle Darrel died..." Simpson sat properly, almost stiffly, her eyes blazing with indignation.
"Did you expect them monday?" asked Andi.
"I assumed they'd come...I called Uncle's lawyer Mr. Laroux after the police." She looked up apprehensively.
Andi nodded.
"...there wasn't any doubt that he was dead..." Simpson continued defensively. Wetting her lips with her tongue, she lifted her hands from her lap, shifted the position of her coffee cup a bit to the right, then glanced up at Andi with what could have been defiance.
"You found him in the living room?" Andi had read the police report, but it was always good to re-plow such ground.
"I tried to help him sit-up, but he was already stiff and the lower side of his face was purple with settling blood." Simpson touched a finger to her cheek. "His eyes stared straight ahead without blinking...like dead people's on TV." Simpson's account was as detached as a morgue attendant's. She lifted her face toward Andi but focused on the wall behind her. "I came back to use the kitchen phone, then stayed so I wouldn't touch anything."
"It sounds like you were extremely responsible..." complemented Andi evenly, "...you called the police, then Mr. Laroux?"
Smiling at the praise, Simpson continued. "...he arrived right after the police...Jennifer Gould came a few minutes later. The police were only around a few hours, until they took Uncle Darrel's body...by then all four were here...I stayed in the kitchen as they came and went through the rest of the day."
"They came and went?" asked Andi cautiously.
Simpson sipped her coffee, then blew across its surface as if to cool it. "They stayed until the police left just before noon, then left but kept coming back..." There was a resentful look on her face and a flash of barely-submerged hostility. "They came and went a couple of times, looking at things, talking in the drawing room among themselves...going into the living room."
Andi nodded again. "...and the police?" she prompted.
A skeptical smile momentarily turned the corners of Simpson's mouth. "The police were being official...they asked if things were stolen. We didn't know, so Uncle Darrel's friends looked through the drawing room while I looked through the rest of the house. We didn't expect to find anything stolen..."
"Nobody knew about the roses then?" Andi had the police version.
Simpson shrugged nonchalantly. "I guess no one went outside...Mrs. Dao discovered them missing that afternoon." Both Simpson and Andi looked out the window. "It was three o'clock...I looked at the clock when she came in yelling..." A smug smile graced her lips.
"Before that...it seems strange they'd stay..." Andi tried unsuccessfully to catch Simpson's eyes. "What were they doing...why the coming and going?" After asking the question Andi sat a quietly as she could, trying to ease into the background.
"I don't know...they argued...loudly, looking through his papers, shouting at each other, driving off and coming back. I didn't care...I guess I was shocked...it was all I could do to answer the door when they rang." Alison brought her hands up to cover her cheeks. Her eyes had a far-away look, as if remembering her uncle--she held that held that pose until Andi spoke.
"Loudly? Arguing?" Andi's interest perked.
"Arguing? Sure...they were loud..." Simpson again favored Andi with an unfocused gaze and self-satisfied smile. "...they take roses very seriously."
"Was one of the hand carts up at the parking lot when the roses were discovered missing?"
"No...not that I know of..."
Andi chewed her lip. "As they came and went, did they take anything away?"
Alison, shook her head. "Unless the front door's slammed, I don't hear it and the parking lot's on the far side of the house. I only knew when they'd ring to get let in..." she pointed to the door bell over the kitchen door. "The others wouldn't answer the door." She smiled contemptuously.
"You stayed here all day?" Andi pointed to the kitchen table.
"Sipping tea and staring out the window." Alison murmured.
"And you didn't see anyone outside?"
"No...I suppose I should have, shouldn't I have?" Alison worried, a wave of doubt creased her brow. "I guess I didn't watch every second."
"I guess not..." smiled Andi. "Did they leave one at a time or in a group?"
"I don't know. I walked around a bit...passed the drawing and living rooms--the doors were open...a couple of times no one was here..." Simpson's eyes anxiously shifted from window to floor to wall and back and her voice had a slight, betraying tremor.
"Nobody here? Why would they drive off and keep returning?" pushed Andi. Alison must have been listening, at least unconsciously.
"...checking mail?" guessed Alison vaguely. "...and getting lunch...maybe they had chores..." Her eyes darted about the kitchen as if seeking answers to the question. "They used the telephone...I know because I tried to make a call and they were on it."
"They all live nearby?" Andi consciously made her voice easy and undemanding, she lifted her coffee cup to her cheek and smiled as if sharing a chummy moment.
Simpson blinked. "Mrs. Gould lives on the other side of county road, Mr. Laroux just north beyond the little store, Elizabeth Dao on the next road north and William Tyson one road south...just over that ridge." Alison pointed out the window, then self-consciously pulled her sweater a little tighter. "They're all within minutes of here...do you want more coffee?"
"No...no thank you..." Andi murmured. There was a brief, awkward moment of quiet. "Actually I'd like to look around. Can you show me the living room and sitting room? Then maybe I'll poke around outside..." Andi looked up to read her expression, but she was already rising, looking away, twisting a cup-towel between her hands and shaking her head as if responding to an internal dialogue.
"Are you OK? Is there something you want to tell me?" Andi asked gently.
"No!" Simpson answered a bit too loudly before turning abruptly away, "You wanted to see the drawing room?" she asked the question demandingly as she strode purposefully across the floor, leaving Andi to close her notebook, rise and follow.
The drawing room could have been more accurately termed a library. Bookcases lined two walls from floor to ceiling and two oak tables were strewn with papers, manuals and reference books.
Andi quickly scanned the shelves--books on horticulture, plant pathology and grafting filled one bookcase. The other was dedicated to books and pamphlets and typewritten papers on roses. There were photo albums and scientific tomes, popular press pruning guides and catalogues from every rose nursery in this half of the world.
On a side-wall a locked gun case stood--two hunting rifles and a short-barreled, pump-action shot gun in a rack above three handguns--the case was all oak and beveled-glass with brass fittings and maroon velvet padding. These were not generic hunting rifles. The guns had hand carved rose-wood stocks and engraved scrollwork on their barrels. Even for a non-gun fancier like Andi they were impressive.
Simpson came up beside her and lay a hand on the side of the case. "Uncle Darrel won competition shooting matches." she volunteered proudly. "He loaded his own bullets and everything...want to see?" Her eyes had opened wide and her mouth was split with a eager smile.
Andi looked up with an encouraging smile.
Simpson turned and led upstairs to what must have been her uncle's suite of rooms--two with a private bath, the first a bedroom, the bed neatly made, two chest of drawers, a wood-framed antique-looking mirror on a wall with old photographs. There were no dirty clothes in the basket behind the door, nothing was out of place, even the tops of the bureaus looked dusted.
Andi followed through that room to the second. It was obviously a work-room, two long tables waited with an efficient craftsman-like display of tools and the warm, utilitarian smell of steel and gun-oil. Parts of at least two disassembled pistols and a rifle were neatly laid-out. Two lever-action shell reloaders were mounted on one side. Simpson pointed to a shelf of trophies and plaques--gold and wood--statues of men in various shooting positions with pistols or rifles, each inscribed with Feight's name, the event and inevitably, a first or second place.
"He tried to teach me to shoot..." Alison said, "...but I don't like loud sounds." Her face took on a mask of pained concern.
"I understand..." allowed Andi. "...he did quite a lot of work here?" There were neat stacks of her notes on the table, all firearm related it seemed from what she could see.
"Oh yes..." beamed Simpson, "...I helped him clean guns and load shells and all that...`like Annie Oakly' he'd say..." She gave an embarrassed grin and proudly met Andi's eyes a brief moment.
"Neat..." offered Andi distractedly. "He must have done lot of that sort of thing..."
"Him and Mr. Tyson. They talked guns and went across to Mr. Tyson's house to shoot..." Beaming radiantly, she turned on her heel in slow motion. "...now I guess it's all mine..." she looked down at the workbench with obvious pleasure.
"I guess so..." responded Andi a bit uncomfortably, "...can you show me the living room now?" She stepped back out to the bedroom.
Simpson paused as if reluctant to leave the room's pleasant aura, but turned off the light and glided after her.
"You must have cleaned up since yesterday morning..." observed Andi, looking at the neatly made bed.
Simpson followed her gaze and answered awkwardly. "Well I had to...with the police coming...didn't I?" Her eyes swept around the room as if seeking something she'd missed that was out of place.
"Did your uncle sleep in this bed sunday night?" Andi asked pointedly.
"Of course..." snapped Simpson defensively. "Where else would he sleep?"
Andi stepped out to the upstairs' hall way to avoid the question, moving quickly to poke into at least one more room before she could be headed off. There were three other doors off the hall--one was a large, well-lit, tiled bathroom with pedestal sink and huge old tub.
There were two other bedrooms; only one with an open door. Its room faced south-east garden like the kitchen directly below and must be Simpson's. A low, neatly made twin-bed waited with a chenille spread beside a narrow door probably leading to the back-kitchen stairs, on the other side of the room an oak chest of drawers had four prescription-labeled bottles lined in a row on its top. More notes lay on the bureau and bedside table. There was an open closet with neatly hung clothes. In the open expanse between lay a large braided rag-rug in browns and grays. No pictures graced the walls, there were no books, no radio or TV.
Andi turned to look back at Alison, she'd stopped a pace behind her, glowering at her guest's unauthorized intrusion. The room had the vacant, austere feel of a guest room. Simpson set her jaw in disapproval as Andi retreated downstairs.
The living room was centered around a grey-brick fireplace. A low table with a waiting chess board stood between over-stuffed chairs; two massive, oak buffets lined the inner walls; the front wall held a bay window and cheerful window seat set with square pillows and lace curtains. A masculine smell of pipe tobacco, brandy and dust hung in the air almost possessively. It lent an air of serious deliberation, of long evenings in talk and contemplation--contrasting with the well-lit, studious feel of the drawing room or the yellow, efficient breeziness of the kitchen.
"He was there..." Alison stood in the doorway and pointed to the area before the hearth. A set of fireplace pokers stood to one side, the screen was pulled open revealing a wrought iron grate with a few charred remains of logs. Ornate Persian rugs lay on either side--Feight's body must have lain on the hardwood floor or the stone skirting before the fire.
Andi paused beside Simpson just inside the door to take in the mood and setting before stepping inside to examine things.
"Aren't there drugs that can cause heart attacks?" Simpson asked indelicately. She held Andi's gaze with her own.
"The coroner'll check his blood and stomach for drugs..." assured Andi with a dismissive shrug. "Do you think he was murdered?" She glanced down to the place of death, then back to Simpson to read her response.
Simpson's eyes narrowed and shifted from side to side as if seeking escape, two or three waves of expressions washed across her face in a series of twitchy grimaces. "He was OK the night before..." she said circumspectly. "...but his friends always wanted his roses..." She walked away to stand by the bay window chewing nervously at her thumb nail.
"Were you up with him that morning?" Andi asked, trying to visualize how he must have been lying, looking about for possible blunt weapons.
Simpson glanced down at Andi's feet then turned toward the window. "No...I made coffee and went back upstairs...I heard him puttering upstairs while I was in the kitchen, but I didn't actually see him."
"You heard him talking?" Andi asked hopefully.
"No...just footsteps and his cough...then down the stairs, and into the kitchen." Simpson's voice had a rough-edged intensity, suddenly definitive, sure of herself. "I snuck up my back stairs when I heard him coming down..."
"What time do think that was?" Andi pursued, glancing in the ashtrays--all were clean.
"I don't know...just after dawn...maybe five, five-thirty..." Simpson abruptly changed to being vague and insecure.
"Do you think he could have been given something with a drug in it?" Andi studied Simpson's face as she asked.
Simpson shook her head and gave a half-embarrassed, half-confused, sort of smile. "No...we had spaghetti on sunday evening...we both ate it. I don't know what he had for breakfast. The police took his medications..."
Andi swept the room with her gaze. "Why did his friends keep coming in here? Didn't you said they kept coming into the living room?" Morbid fascination with death-scenes was normal, but returning several times was worth an explanation. Andi poked at the charred remnants in the fireplace looking for half-burnt scraps of paper.
"They came for these..." with two quick strides, Alison strode to the nearest buffet and tugged open a heavy drawer. Andi quickly rose and joined her. The drawers were filled with notebooks, folders and monographs on roses.
Andi didn't even bother glancing through them. It would take months to wade through the material and probably years of expertise to guess what was important or missing. Her prime suspects, separately or together, had already been through it the day before.
Andi shook her head--she felt drained. "Thanks..." she tried to look sorrowful, "...and my condolences about your uncle."
"Thank you." replied Alison. "I'll show you to the door."
They stepped to the entry and Simpson graciously opened the door. "Didn't you say on the phone you were meeting Mr. Tyson?"
"Yes, but I've got a few minutes...I was hoping to look about a bit before he comes..." Andi explained with an easy smile. "Would you tell me him I'm out here wandering?"
Andi suddenly noticed that Simpson stood so ready, so patiently by the doorway that, despite the fact that she now was owner and mistress of the small estate, it was hard not to treat her as a servant.
There was the barest misty drizzle falling now--almost a clear day by Portland standards. Andi had a brief thought about her mother, wondering what she was doing at that moment. It wasn't a desperate or depressing thought and she lauded herself for being mature.
She returned to the muddy holes and twice traced the paths to the parking lot, but after three days of rain, there was nothing to interpret. Undismayed, she returned to the potting shed to examine the shovels.
There were seven round-point round-backed standard shovels, six square potting shovels among an impressive array of other equipment.
She systematically surveyed the scene--when looking before, she was inhibited by the watchful presence of her clients. Even then though, there'd been a nagging-something that seemed wrong about the scene. There was a subconscious-something, something she couldn't put her finger on crossing some vague subconscious line to seem out of place. She stood a moment with her eyes shut, willing the scene to reconstruct itself around her, but she couldn't retrieve the detail and gave up.
Before her, plywood tables stood mid-floor, the shelves beneath them piled high with a couple hundred pots in various sizes and rolls of burlap and twine. A mulcher-grinder stood quietly, unplugged, but waiting. Four large bins stood at the back, one filled with sand, one of soil, one of manure and the fourth with mulch. Everything looked as it should, surfaces of the bins had been disturbed slightly, a small quantity of pale-clean chips lay scattered over the greyer, older mulch material. There was even a trowel left on a ledge with a residue of manure as if someone came in to re-pot a houseplant, but the amount of missing material wouldn't fill twenty-four pots and why would the thief risk doing such work here.
Andi mentally paced through the steps of someone working at the tables--a person would mix potting soil from-scratch as needed--probably to a specific recipe for each plant. The scene was neat, professional, everything in order, nothing seemingly missing, nothing here that shouldn't be. She looked among the pots stored under the tables--there would be no way to tell if twenty-four pots were missing. There wasn't the remainder of a pile with noticeably less dust.
In the tool shed, a peg-boarded wall held rakes and shovels and hoes, hoses lay coiled on the floor in a corner. Measuring cups and pails hung nearby, hand tools, gloves, insecticide sprayers--it was a legitimate workroom. There was a red cabinet locked with a small pad-lock emitting the distinctive smell of pesticides. Trowels, clippers, tar and accumulated gardening odds and ends cluttered the back half of the work-bench. A well-smudged, tan telephone hung on the wall. Everything seemed very much as she'd expect a small specialty nursery to be.
Shutting the door carefully behind her, Andi inspect the four waiting pull-carts. Their green industrial frames had pneumatic tires and the efficient balance of well chosen tools--the tread on the tires appeared identical and none had noticeably more, or recent mud.
It was there that William Tyson found her; `Colonel Tyson,' Andi remembered cynically. He held himself with a stiff erectness that seemed more fitting for a person in a body cast than a trim, fit man in casual clothes. He wore canvas sports shoes, tan slacks and a plaid stay-pressed shirt under a light jacket. His hair was cut to a uniform quarter-inch length and his gaze seemed to cut right through, as if assessing how much of his time she'd waste.
"Thanks for meeting me..." smiled Andi professionally, extending her hand. They stood under the potting shed's eves as a light drizzle fell around them.
Tyson shook hands without comment or expression. Andi gave him opportunity to respond--he didn't, so she continued.
"I was hoping you could help me understand some things..." She pulled out her slightly-confused, Colombo-style persona. "For instance, you and the others are competitors...adversaries when it comes to breeding roses, but you're also friends and spend quite a lot of time together..." She scratched behind her ear and shook her head in mock confusion.
"...and?" questioned Tyson impatiently. "Is that a question?"
"No...no I guess it's not..." fumbled Andi awkwardly. "But maybe you could tell me about your relationship." She even tilted her head to a side and gave the sort of helpless smile Colombo used to encourage answers.
"It's not so strange if you figure that bowlers, car racers and golfers socialize and train together, yet compete...we're not much different." Tyson said in a quiet, self-controlled voice.
"No, I guess not..." admitted Andi. "I understand you and your friends are inheriting these?" She waved an arm to encompass the gardens around them. "...they worth much?"
"Not as much as if they included Darrel's miniatures..." Tyson admitted with a bitter smile. "We'll probably split up the lot to sell through our own catalogues...without the new miniatures to headline a promotion, it probably isn't worth the trouble of a joint venture." He didn't try to hide his frustration and disappointment.
Andi paused and looked up to catch his eye as if embarrassed to ask her next rookie question, "...uhhh...just what would somebody do with stolen roses?"
"What would somebody do with them?" Tyson gave a superior smile that would have made a politician jealous. "If I'd stolen them I'd keep them hidden, maybe salting them in among my others to use in hybridizing. To be safe, each pruned branch would have to be clipped to remove Darrel's snipping...that might be a season or two, but it would only take a few minor changes to obscure ownership...maybe a different soil chemistry would change flower expression..." He waved his hand in dismissal. The explanation was clinical, without personal judgement or feeling.
Andi watched his face and body language. He was experienced enough to know that the best hiding places were often right out in the open. For all she knew Feight's roses were still here, waiting among the others. "...so it would take a while...months or years...before it would be safe to bring them out?" She kept her voice as neutral and uninterested as she could.
Tyson nodded, his thin lips drawn tightly across his teeth. "That long to be really sure...less for any practical purpose...a whole lot less if they were taken out of the Northwest..." He spoke in a clipped efficient manner, no beating around the bush, no obvious evasions, but despite his being straight-forward, Andi didn't trust him.
Andi shifted the direction of her attack. "What did you think of Darrel Feight...personally?"
"He's a neighbor...knowledgeable...helpful...we shared a passionate avocation, but weren't friends. I didn't like his politics..."
"His politics?" Andi asked.
"Darrel was a fuzzy headed moderate, thinking he was conservative...I don't like that type--don't trust 'em. Once I learned to not talk social issues we got along fine." Tyson confided that understanding matter of factly, as if used to living among lesser creatures and long-ago having given up expectations of consistency.
"How about Alison Simpson?"
"His niece?" Tyson smiled and shook his head as if bemused. "She's an little empty head, isn't she? She's harmless...she didn't kill Darrel or steal the roses." Tyson gave a sort of humorless chuckle, then looked up into Andi's eyes. "Frankly, I don't think she has the capacity."
"Who do you think does? Who would you suspect?" Andi asked immediately.
The question seemed to take Tyson off balance, he actually took a step backward and blinked. "Suspect? I don't suspect anybody...like you pointed out, one of us seem the likeliest thief, but I didn't do it and don't suspect the others. That kind of thinking doesn't lead where I want to go...if there's proof of guilt I'd have no problem pressing charges...otherwise I'm still be working with them...suspicion would get in my way."
"You live right over the hill I hear..." Andi shifted subjects effortlessly, pointing as Alison had, but keeping her attention on Tyson.
"Yeah...top of the hills is a green-belt, you know..." Tyson smiled like a satisfied burgher.
"Walking distance?" Andi offered casually.
"There are paths winding through...but you couldn't walk in this mud..." responded Tyson with a mocking snort.
"You didn't want to meet at your place this morning?" Andi questioned.
"That's right." A simple affirmation without explanation, he smiled easily.
"Why was that?" Andi asked, matching his insincere smile.
"Some mornings visitors are a pain..." he met her eyes without flinching. "Is there anything else you want to know?" It was a dismissive question, as if daring her to continue.
Andi looked across the rows of roses and stretched languidly. "No, not that I can think of. If I think of anything, would you mind if I call?"
"No, not at all...but I don't know if I've been much help..." Tyson shrugged and looked back toward the parking lot.
The earlier drizzle had ended and the sky was starting to clear. They turned together, stepped from the shed and walked to the parking lot without sharing another word. Andi didn't like the man at her elbow and felt certain his impression of her was equally negative. All in all, it hadn't been a fulfilling morning of interviews.
Andi sat in the driver's seat without starting her engine, watching Tyson disappear down the drive before jotting notes on the interviews and all the details she could remember of the house and shed. Then she drove slowly out the private drive and turned toward the county road lost in thought.
When she got to the intersection, instead of heading right back to the office she pulled into the convenience store for a snack. She pulled a bag of corn chips from the display and asked the bored clerk if he knew many of the neighbors.
He shrugged and shook his head with the passive, bad-attitude insolence of the minimum-waged. She searched her pockets but found nothing but twenty-nine cents in change. Cursing, she almost pulled out the fifty she kept in her wallet for emergencies, but stopped at the last moment with her wallet in her hands. Despite her urge for salt, corn chips were not an emergency.
Behind the clerk was a video monitor showing the back of his head and a full-faced view of herself. She waved selfconsciously to see her image wave back. The camera was directed so that it caught the display and buttons of the register as well as customers--the owners were obviously as suspicious of their under-paid help as they were of potential robbers.
The on-screen image showed her bag of corn chips on the counter--beyond it and her own image Andi could see down the candy isle to the window and the intersection beyond. As she watched, a car pulled in from the county road. Surprised, Andi turned around to watch it continue on down the lane.
Suddenly the corn chips seemed more important. "Can you cash a fifty?" she asked, turning back and forth to compare the video image to the view behind her.
"Sure...we got lots of twenty's..." the clerk smiled and rang up the chips and handed her two twenties, a five, a couple of ones and change.
"...that thing connected to a VCR?" she pointed to the video screen.
"Be kind of stupid if it wasn't...wouldn't it?" the clerk responded rhetorically. He reached for his paperback book, obviously waiting for her to leave him in peace.
"Do you keep the tapes more than a day or two?" Andi asked in her professional voice, opening her wallet to show her private investigator's license and handing the clerk a business card. She looked toward the back-room, wondering if the VCR were someplace obvious.
"I don't know...you'd have to talk to the owner." The clerk was suddenly a lot less friendly, he had to be cajoled into giving out the owner's name and number. The name Andi left the store with was Freedom, Inc. Thankfully, the number had a local-sounding prefix.
She munched corn chips as she drove back into Portland. Maybe it hadn't been as worthless a morning as she'd feared.
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