Rosemary Harris - Pushing Up Daisies

The land adjacent to mine was a bird sanctuary, but subscribing to the Japanese concept of borrowed scenery, I enjoyed pretending I was mistress of all I surveyed. And usually I was, except for the occasional birder who strayed off the trail. What more could a woman want? I drained the martini and went back inside for another. Second drink in one hand, door handle in the other-the phone rang. I prayed it wasn’t Richard Stapley or, worse, my mother. With no lunch, and having left my breakfast in the bushes, the large economy-sized drink I’d just polished off had gone straight to my head. I wasn’t sure I could compose an intelligent sentence.

“Hello?” I said, working hard to sound sober.

“Ms. Holliday?”

“Speaking.” Just barely, I thought.

“It’s Mike O’Malley. I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Great, once I get all the cadavers out of that place.” I hadn’t meant to sound that flip; it was the vodka talking.

“I’m glad you got your sense of humor back. It’s understandable, of course, but you seemed a bit stunned this afternoon. I almost suggested you go to Springfield Hospital.”

I had been surprisingly calm that afternoon; O’Mal-ley probably thought I was in shock.

I’d seen plenty of dead people before. My large Italian- Irish family generated boisterous wakes, watered by beer, wine, and anisette for the ladies in black dresses. Ancient relatives, the deceased generally looked better dead than they did when they were alive thanks to the talented folks at Torregrossa’s Funeral Home in Brooklyn. (“That’s the dress she wore to Donna’s wedding, periwinkle blue. It was always a good color for her.”)

The vodka kept me babbling. “I’d also like to thank whoever took such good care to keep the blowflies and the earthworms at bay.” That last graphic description rang in my ears. “God, that must have sounded terrible. I don’t know where that came from. Black humor- just my way of dealing with things.”

“I find it useful myself sometimes.” He finally sensed this wasn’t a good time to talk. “I just called to let you know we’ll be at the house for the next couple of days. Someone will give you a heads- up when you can go back. Glad to hear you’re okay.”

I replaced the phone in the cradle, missing the contacts the first two times. That’s when I noticed the red light and the flashing number 17. The first three messages were all from the same person, Jonathan Chap-pell, a reporter from the Springfield Bulletin . I didn’t bother playing the rest.

The sun was about to go down and I knew that would mean a drop in the temperature, so I pulled on an old black cardigan, big as a blanket and at least ten years old. I popped a Van Morrison CD in the player, cranked it up a bit, and padded back to the deck just in time to see the sun setting through the trees.

Most homes up here have a lot of house on a small piece of land-McMansions; mine is just the opposite. Tiny house, more land than most. Only the one noisy neighbor and a family I’ve never even seen on the other side. The far end of the property bordered wetlands and the bird sanctuary. A seasonal stream there, heavy from all the spring rains, was lined with rows and rows of swamp cabbage, ferns, and jack- in- the- pulpits. The birds were having a field day drinking and hunkering down for the night. Just like me.

The cold woke me, and the sky was so clear, it seemed as if Orion’s belt was dangling over my head. I briefly considered dragging my telescope outside, then the memory of the day’s events shook any fanciful notions of stargazing out of my head.

Inside the house, last Sunday’s dutifully purchased but unread New York Times made excellent kindling. I started a fire and went to clean myself up. A hot shower and fresh clothes made me feel almost normal again, normal enough to be hungry. Back in the kitchen, I checked out the dismal contents of my fridge: yogurt, wilting veggies, water, and every condiment known to man. I was always so virtuous when I went food shopping, but once home, hanging on the refrigerator door, I invariably craved high- fat food of no nutritional value. Since I never had any in the house, I opted for my patented Greek yogurt with flaxseed, honey, and raisins sundae; if I was feeling really reckless, I might throw in a handful of wonderful walnuts. Why not go to hell in a handbasket?

I settled in on the floor in front of the fireplace with the Halcyon file, my laptop and garden books spread out around me.

Oddly enough, finding the body hadn’t scared me. Everything pointed to its being evidence of someone’s old secret, as opposed to someone’s new crime. Perversely I even found myself thinking it would add to Halcyon’s mythology and make it even more of a local attraction once the gardens were restored. I got to work.

Renata Peacock’s birthday, June 18, would be an appropriate date for an opening. And there was a certain symmetry to it. Richard’s file revealed that was the date the sisters used to do their noblesse oblige thing and invite the locals. Problem was, it was only two and a half months away. Tomorrow I’d get in touch with Hugo and maybe rope some of my city friends into pulling weeds and mulching in exchange for a pleasant weekend in the country. I pored over the stacks of garden books and old pictures, adding to my bulging folders of notes and shopping lists.

I didn’t doubt Richard Stapley’s ability to raise funds. He was handsome, in a rugged, old- fashioned, Mount Rushmore way; I could see the blue- rinse crowd getting weak in the knees and handing over checks after just a few flattering words from him. I also saw that every once in a while I’d have to remind him I was a grown- up-not some kid he’d brought in to mow the lawn.

I’d need everything within a month, preferably by Easter if the shrubs were going to get established early in the season. Despite the inevitable consequences, I would throw myself at Guido Chiaramonte for the loan of a chipper, chain saw, some leaf blowers, and whatever other equipment I didn’t own.

Guido was a local nursery own er, in his eighties and notorious for hitting on women of all ages, shapes, and sizes. Women on walkers did not escape his advances. One of my early Springfield fantasies had been to buy Guido’s place when he retired or went back to Sicily, but the old reprobate had shown no signs of doing either. I once took him up on his offer to teach me about the nursery business, and I was met with amorous overtures that were half- amusing, half- revolting. Now I was planning to flash a little cleavage and bat my eyelashes at the old letch. For tools . I was shameless.

I made a timeline for the Halcyon job and refined my sketch of the garden, eventually getting around to the white garden and the spot where I’d found the body. Unconsciously, I’d been avoiding it, but I would have to go back there-mentally and physically.

Not to night though. My legs were stiff from sitting on the floor, and my neck ached from scrunching down to inspect old photos with a magnifying glass. I gave myself a good stretch, packed up my notes, and went downstairs for some mindless entertainment.

Mindless was right. The former programming exec inside me couldn’t help but criticize. Five shows devoted to moving your furniture and cleaning your closets? No wonder cable television kept resurrecting classics. That was my first job in the business, screening vintage sitcoms for TVLand. Uncle Miltie must be turning over in his grave. And the shopping channels were growing like ground cover. Who really needs another peridot pendant? I sure didn’t, but the disembodied hand dangling the necklace lured me the same way the tarnished chain had that morning. I shook off the urge.