Rosemary Herbert - Front Page Teaser

After enjoying the best meal she had consumed in many days—lobster bisque, crab cakes, and spinach salad—Liz changed into sports leggings in the ladies’ room. They were at least a little bit warmer than her skirt. Back at her car, she traded fashionable boots for a pair that was insulated. Then she set out to find and follow the lakeshore.

Even in the harsh winter conditions, the Wellesley College campus could only be described as the lap of luxury. Wrought-iron pole lamps, curved over at their tops and holding glass-paned lanterns like dangling gems at their ends, added grace and contrast to a landscape where every tree and shrub was blanketed in snow. The lake, too, was white with ice, except for a slate-gray segment of open water where some swans swam so gracefully that they might have been placed there by central casting to add elegance to the scene.

Wading through eighteen-inch-deep snow, Liz crossed a small stone footbridge that arched over a frozen stream. Then she walked over a meadow until she reached the lakeshore path. It was clear from footprints that others had gone before her—people and dogs on foot, and one skier, too—but not very many of them. Liz wondered if Olga Swenson was among them.

But Liz remained a solitary figure in the landscape. After about a quarter of an hour, she came to an open fence with a large sign on it: PRIVATE PROPERTY BEYOND THIS POINT. NO TRESPASSING AFTER SUNSET. PLEASE KEEP ALL DOGS ON LEASHES.

Reminded of Olga Swenson’s warning, “My dog can be protective,” she earnestly hoped the animal would not be loose in this remote spot. Passing through the fence, she saw hundreds of conifers planted on the undulating landscape to her left. They took many shapes and sizes, from classic Christmas tree contours to weeping and prostrate forms. Fascinated, Liz realized this was a collection of trees.

Then the landscape opened up on a visual surprise. Fronted by a lakeside marble balustrade ornamented at each end with a marble urn, a hillside sloping up to the left was graced with perhaps a hundred carefully pruned topiary trees and shrubs. Some towered more than thirty-five–feet high, trimmed like fat bullets pointing skyward, with cutaway sections adding whimsy to their disciplined silhouettes. Others looked like lopsided lozenges resting on the hillside. Still more had the appearance of sugared gumdrops, bowler hats, or fantastically large chess pawns. As Liz stopped in her tracks and gazed at the topiary, the sun broke through the clouds and caused the ice and snow that frosted them to sparkle.

Dazzled, Liz stood transfixed, until she was startled by a panting sound behind her.

A dog, straining at his leash.

The owner appeared to be more tentative about the encounter. If her carefully coiffed silver chignon was any indication, she looked to be in her late sixties.

“Wesley Hightower’s Pinetum and topiary garden,” the woman said, pulling hard at her dog’s leash. “Is this your first visit, or do you find, as I do, that each time you come upon this place, it takes your breath away?”

“It’s my first visit. But I’m sure this is not the only time this sight will leave me breathless.”

“Then you don’t know the story behind the landscape?”

“I’m afraid not. But before coming upon this group of sculpted trees, I passed through a collection of conifers in their natural forms.”

“You know something about trees, then. Most people just think of those trees as ‘pines.’”

“I would call them ‘pines,’ too, but I can see that there are many varieties here. I’d love it if you’d tell me a little bit more about this place, if you have the time.”

“Liz Higgins, I presume?”

“Yes.”

“Olga Swenson. And this is Hershey. Silly name, I know, but Veronica insisted on it.”

Liz couldn’t help noticing that, for all his straining at his leash, the chocolate-brown Labrador retriever was wagging his tail to beat the band. His breathlessness, at least, was occasioned by friendliness.

“How is Veronica?”

“Sad. Then excited, despite herself, about Santa. And then sad. Very mixed.” Veronica’s grandmother looked about her and seemed to gather strength from an environment she evidently knew well.

Certain Olga Swenson would tell her more about Ellen if she could first talk about her passion for this place, Liz bent down and patted Hershey while looking at the older woman expectantly.

“You know, four generations of Hightowers marked their wedding anniversaries by pruning this topiary. Wesley Hightower told me he could always remember how many years he had been married by counting the times he had pruned these trees. He died just a year ago, but not before adding and labeling hundreds of trees to the collection started by R.T. Hightower, Wesley’s great grandfather. R.T. made his fortune in shipping and used it to build the mansion on this property and to indulge his passion for conifers. R.T. took his own collecting trips to China and other eastern climes that are remarkably similar to our own, and he sent men to collect conifers for him. And by allowing us access to the property, Wesley—and now his widow—are sharing their remarkable legacy.”

“How long have you known this place, Mrs. Swenson?”

“Since we moved here, shortly after Ellen was born.” She gulped in a breath and paused to compose herself. “We have a house on this lake, farther along the shoreline. When Ellen was a girl, I was not quite a stay-at-home mother, since I was active in a number of charities and my garden club. We had a nanny helping us out. But Ellen and I always had our Thursday afternoons together, just the two of us. We called it ‘Our Afternoon.’ And more often than not, no matter what the season, we’d stroll along here with our dog. Wesley discouraged public picnicking here, but he made an exception for Ellen and me. He allowed us to sit in the summerhouse you see there, with our sandwiches. When the weather was fine, we sometimes took along books and I read to Ellen. As she got older, we read our own novels side-by-side. I always think it’s no mistake Ellen became a librarian and married an environmentalist.”

“And became such a good mother, too. Now I know where she got the idea of spending a mother-and-daughter afternoon on a regular basis with Veronica. Has there been any word at all from Ellen?”

“Not a one. And I hope that goes for any words I share with you. Not one will be printed in the paper. I’m talking to you strictly to give you background information. I hope I may have your word on that.”

“Yes, of course. Any insights you can provide may be invaluable. May I ask, what made you consider talking with me? Was it because I know Veronica?”

“She did press me to see you. But that didn’t decide me. It was because you spoke of Ellen in the present tense. You wouldn’t believe how many people—officials and even close friends—talk of her as if she is not just missing but gone. Gone forever.”

“Not her friend Lucy Gray, surely. And not me. From what you are telling me, it seems Ellen enjoyed an idyllic girlhood. And her home and family life certainly present a good impression. Was this the whole story, Mrs. Swenson?”

“I feared it would come to this. You want me to dig up some dirt on Ellen or her husband, just like the rest of the media.”

“You’re a gardener, Mrs. Swenson. You know you can’t cultivate anything without getting your hands dirty. The result itself doesn’t have to be filth, however. It might be something quite beautiful, in fact—like the truth.”

“That’s very prettily put. Your talents are wasted in a tabloid. But where will your pretty words lead me, and Erik, too?”

“I hope they will take us to Ellen.”

Olga Swenson shivered. She turned and began to walk to the far side of the topiary garden, making no objection as Liz stayed by her side. She remained mum as the pair passed masses of rhododendrons, their leaves curled as tightly as profiteroles against the cold. Liz imagined the mother and daughter laden with picnic basket and picture book, rejoicing in the flowers that would bloom here each June. Was the scenario too good to be true?