How Does Your Garden Grow Read online

  "I remember one summer, there was a terrible storm and the big oak in Mom's back yard blew down. Felix was over there that same afternoon with a chainsaw. He sawed up the branches and trunk, then started rebuilding and reinforcing the back wall. Can you imagine? He's a marvel, really. He was younger then, of course, but he still hasn't slowed down. He added that nice big room at the back of 316 around a year ago, and almost every time I drive by, I see him working away in the front yard, or in that garden of his.

  "He's a wonderful person, really. Quiet and very refined, of course, but also responsible. When he was renting Mom's place, he always insisted on paying his rent at least a week early. I never had to go over there, and he never once bothered us about repairs. Just took care of everything by himself. Oh, he can be a little odd, sometimes, but Ginger says that's because he's been a bachelor for too long. We used to see a woman over there now and then, but I guess nothing ever came of those relationships."

  "What did you mean when you said he could be odd?" McCann asked.

  "Maybe odd is too strong a word, but after begging us for so long to buy Mother's house, and then renting it for those three years while she was ill, he went away. Simply left a note in our mailbox at the end of the month and said he was leaving in a few days. He included a check for the coming month, and since his lease had always been on a month-to-month basis, he was perfectly within his rights. I heard later that he'd gone on a year-long sabbatical and taken his sick mother to Europe with him, but I was very disappointed that he never even sent Mom a postcard at the nursing home, and I had no way of contacting him to tell him when she passed away. He was gone for an entire year, and when he returned and learned that I’d sold Mom's house to Miss Walker, he was horribly upset. I don't believe I've ever seen anyone angrier, even when I explained to him that I had needed to sell the house immediately to take care of funeral expenses and the final bills.

  "Anyway, I think he felt a little better after Ginger and I found this house, and offered him the opportunity to buy our own little place on Morning Glory. I've managed to acquire several pieces of rental property over the years, and let me tell you, Lieutenant, the world of real estate would be a far, far better place if every tenant was like Felix Kruger."

  * * * * *

  After driving around Cottageville and checking out a few loose ends, McCann knocked on Beth's front door, just after she got home from work. He knew she was home, because he'd been sitting outside in the car, waiting for her.

  "A peace offering," he said, handing her a large paper sack.

  Beth looked into the sack, then up at him.

  "Oranges?"

  "The fruit market on the corner. They didn't have roses. It was either this or avocados. I figured oranges smelled better."

  She wrinkled her nose. "I hate oranges."

  When his face fell, Beth rolled her eyes. "I'm kidding. Come on in, unless you're packing another wooden spoon."

  "Am I going to need it?" he asked pleasantly. "Or did you go to work today, the way you promised?"

  "Yes, I went to work. I sort of had to. I've used up my sick days."

  "Yeah, I hear being a full time spy can really eat up the time."

  "So, what did you do today, Detective?" she asked, sweetly.

  "I went to work—the work they pay me for. And after work, I paid a call on Fred Lawrence. Did you know that his wife's name was Ginger, by the way?"

  "Yes. Do you believe that? They square dance, too—at the Senior Center. So, what do Fred and Ginger have to do with this?"

  "Not a lot. I learned a couple of interesting things, though. Did you also know that before Kruger bought the shoebox behind you, he rented this shoebox?"

  "Are you telling me that Felix Kruger slept in my bedroom?" Beth cried.

  He nodded. "Could be. And used your bathroom, too, for all the usual purposes."

  "I may vomit."

  "This house—your house—once belonged to Fred's mother," McCann explained.

  "Yeah, I knew that much. They sold it to me after she died."

  "Yes, but what you don’t know is that Felix wanted it. Badly. Seems he was out of the country when Fred's mother died, and they couldn't reach him. When they told him they'd already sold it to some other lucky buyer, he was upset—to put it mildly."

  "Yeah, lucky me. So, why would he want this dinky little house? Or the one he's got now, for that matter? I bought it because I was broke as a stone and my credit sucked. And because no one stupider than me showed up. But Felix has dough, piles of it. I'm sure of that."

  "So am I. I ran his credit."

  "That sounds like a violation of his civil rights—not that I give a rat's ass about Kruger's rights. I hope the United States Government tramples over all his damned rights and runs over him with a tank while they're at it." She gave McCann a suspicious look. "Did you run my credit, too?" she asked.

  "I didn't have to," he said affably. "I asked around at a couple of the nearest liquor stores, where they seem oddly reluctant to cash any more of your checks."

  "It's only temporary," she said with a sigh. "My ship's coming in any day now. As soon as the major publishing houses get into a bidding frenzy for 'Brad the Cad Meets The Loudmouthed Pregnant Nun'. Play your cards right and you'll be the first kid on your block to get an autographed copy."

  McCann smiled. "According to Fred, Kruger wanted this house because he was sentimental about it," he said. "Felix and Fred's mother were apparently very close."

  "Close! The woman was almost ninety years old."

  "Yeah, but by that time, he'd also put a lot of work into the house—being such a good neighbor and all. It seems that Felix is a handy guy to have around. He does plumbing, carpentry, pulls mighty oaks out of the ground by the roots, wields a mean chain saw, and when he's not doing anything else, he bakes muffins. Anyway, when he missed out on this house, he bought the one in the back, from Fred and Ginger, who were finally well off enough to move to larger quarters. I get the feeling that Fred's mom had stashed away a few bucks. Quite a few, actually."

  "That's it!" Beth exclaimed. "It's got to be! That's why Kruger wanted this house so badly! The old lady had money hidden somewhere. Maybe in the walls—or in the basement! It could have been a fortune. Maybe he even bumped her off to get it!"

  "In the first place, Sherlock, he was out of the country when she died, and in the second place, I don't think anyone uses terms like 'bumped off' anymore. Try 'wasted', or just 'offed'. You’re the TV addict. How does Tony Soprano describe what he does for a living?"

  Beth grimaced. "Well, I believe the chainsaw thing, anyway, and I hate to admit it, but the main reason I finally bought this place was because everything about it was in such terrific shape. I was desperate, and on my budget—such as it was—I was seeing mainly fixer-uppers of the worst kind. Have you ever smelled the inside of a house where someone lived in peace and harmony with thirty-seven dogs, a kitchen full of guinea pigs and chickens, and at least one sleep-in goat? The only thing wrong with this property was the basement. It was old and moldy, and smelled. Even Fred admitted that at least twenty other people had already looked at the house and turned it down, but he didn't offer to fix the basement, and I didn't care. I didn't need a basement, and I did need a place to sleep.

  "I handle it by just not going down to the basement. Why would I? It's still old and moldy, smells even worse that it did then, and now it's started leaking. I think maybe it's sinking into one of those black holes you read about—where there used to be an old mine or something and this humongous, yawning pit suddenly opens up and starts eating houses and minivans. I hear water dripping down there at night, anyway. If you keep the hall door closed and a couple of towels stuffed in the cracks, the smell's not too bad, though. Once in a while, when I start noticing the odor, I open the door real fast and throw down a bug bomb and a bucket of Pine-Sol, then slam the door closed again." She grinned. "You've probably noticed that I'm not exactly Martha Stewart. I am a fanatic about my laundry,
though. Fortunately, the washer and dryer are in the kitchen."

  "You can thank Felix for that, too."

  "If you tell me he used to wash his underwear in my washer, I'm going in there right now and rip it out of the damned wall."

  "Well, if that's all you've got on your schedule for tonight," McCann said, " I'd like to take you to dinner."

  She flushed. "You mean, like a regular date?"

  "Like a regular date. I'll even pay, if you promise not to order lobster."

  "Isn't dating a witness kind of unprofessional?"

  "Blistering a witness's butt is unprofessional, too, and probably illegal, and you already know how that turned out. Besides, you're not a witness. Not until there's a crime, anyway."

  Beth made a face. "I don’t want to have this argument, again, McCann. There has been a crime. Maybe dozens of them."

  "I don't want to have it, either. I know you ditched my favorite spoon, but the male animal is always prepared." He touched his belt buckle. "Terrific accessory, a good-quality leather belt. It not only holds up your pants; it hurts like hell and leaves these big, wide red stripes. Anyway, let's go out and get some dinner. We can argue later—after we fool around for a while. Ex-nuns do fool around, don’t they?"

  Beth's cheeks turned bright pink, but she was still in fighting mode. "Don't try to change the subject. Why is it so hard for you to see the pattern here? At least four missing women, strange noises in the night…"

  "You know," McCann said, "I see two possibilities here. The first possibility is that you're just bound and determined to find out how hard—and how long—an aging forty-two-year-old cop can spank you when he really puts his mind to it."

  Beth made a face. "What's the second possibility?"

  "That you just don't want to go out with me."

  She smiled. "If you believe that, Lieutenant McCann, you're not the terrific detective I thought you were. Wait for a minute while I get a sweater."

  * * * * *

  Dinner was perfect. They ate at a charming little Japanese steak house then drove along the beach and stopped for a while to watch the waves in the moonlight. They kissed several times before he undid the top buttons of her blouse and touched his lips to the soft swell of her breast. After that, he suggested that they drive to her place, and Beth agreed—maybe a bit too quickly, she thought later. By the time they got back to 285 Hazelwood, Beth was ready to be seduced, and she had every reason to believe that Adam was thinking along those lines, as well.

  They made it as far as the bedroom before Beth made the very unwise decision to forewarn him about her "condition"—a poor choice of words, as it turned out.

  "Condition?" he asked, and Beth knew from the look on his face that she had frightened him.

  "Not that kind of condition," she said quickly, blushing down to her bare toes. "I'm not sick, or anything like that." She explained.

  "A virgin?" he repeated, and somehow, his look of surprise annoyed her.

  "Yes. You do know what a virgin is, don't you?"

  "Of course I know. I just never expected…"

  Beth felt herself slipping back behind her mask. It was a mask she'd used for years to hide her real feelings, along with the crutch of cynicism and sarcasm. "You don't like amateurs, is that it?"

  "Come on, Beth," he said. "Give me a break, would you? It’s just that that kind of thing is a…"

  "What? A bore? A chore? What?"

  He hesitated. "No, it’s…well it's more like a responsibility. A big responsibility."

  "I'm not exactly a teenager, Adam. Someone who needs her virtue protected. I'm not even a real virgin—not technically, I mean."

  "You’re going to have to explain that to me."

  "All right. I did it—once. Sort of. With a boy I knew in college, but it didn't…well, it didn't exactly take. We were both really nervous, and after I went back to my dorm, I still wasn't sure if I was—or wasn't. Deflowered, I mean."

  "I thought women could feel things like that."

  "I thought so, too, but I didn't feel any different. And I was too embarrassed to go to the campus clinic. I was a volunteer there. Everyone knew me."

  "If you don't know," he said softly, "I guess that kind of puts us back at square one."

  "So, you don’t want the job?" she asked coldly.

  McCann groaned. "For God's sake, Beth, don't put it that way."

  "How else should I put it? I can't just change back, one way or the other. What you see—or find—is what you get, I suppose. Are you telling me you've never done it with…"

  "No," he said quickly. "Not that I know of, anyway. We were Irish Catholic. My grandmother never missed mass or confession, and she saw to it that I didn't, either. She would have whaled the crap out of me if she'd ever found out that I had… and that nun business isn't helping, either, you know. I keep seeing you in a wimple and veil, like my sixth grade geography teacher. I was sure I was in love with her. Besides, I told you about my daughter. I keep wondering how I'd feel if I found out that…"

  Beth rolled her eyes. "How old is your daughter, exactly?"

  "Almost sixteen."

  Beth took a deep breath. "Okay, McCann. This is it. The moment of truth. I stand before you a vessel untainted—or maybe mildly tainted. And I'm not almost sixteen. I'm thirty-three years old, perilously close to thirty-four. I'm not getting any younger, so it's now or never. You’re just going to have to step up like a man and take the responsibility of doing me—or undoing me, as the case may be. Your grandmother's not here to yell at you, and this really needs to get done. Now. Before I get any older. Before I lose my nerve."

  "No pressure there," he growled. "Thanks a lot. I feel myself shrinking, as we speak."

  Suddenly, Beth sank down on the bed and started to cry. "I'm sorry," she sobbed, " I'm a big, fat fake. The truth is, I'm scared out of my mind."

  Adam sat down beside her and took her hands in his. "It’s my fault, and I'm the one who should be sorry. The thing is, I didn't want it to happen this way. Not with you. I wanted to take you to dinner, maybe even dancing. I wanted to walk along the boardwalk and buy you a snow cone. I wanted to go to the movies and hold hands. I wanted to neck with you and take your bra off for the first time in the back seat of a car, and…"

  "My God, what is this, a rerun of 'Happy Days'?" she cried. "All these years, you've been perfectly comfortable sleeping with legions of women on the first date, but just not with me?"

  "I wasn't in love with any of them," he said quietly.

  Beth sniffed and wiped her eyes. "And that makes a difference?"

  "That makes a difference."

  She hesitated. "Does that mean you’re in love with me?"

  "It looks that way."

  Beth gulped. "Then, what are you…What are we going to do about it, now?"

  He grinned. "I don't suppose you've got a couple of snow cones in your freezer, do you? I'll settle for a grape popsicle, if I have to. Ice cubes?"

  Suddenly, Beth's nerve completely failed her, and she pulled away. "You know what? Maybe we'd better just forget the whole thing. I should have explained before we…" She reached up and redid the buttons of her blouse and ran her other hand through her mussed hair. "Anyway, it's getting late, and I have to be at work early in the morning, so…"

  He pulled her close again, smiling. "So, you’ll be late to work, and so will I." When she began to protest, he leaned down and stopped her with a deep, forceful, kiss. Beth sighed and melted against him.

  "You’ll probably be disappointed," she murmured into his shirtfront. "And sorry you got involved."

  Before he kissed her again, Adam shook his head. "Bet me."

  * * * * *

  When Beth woke the next morning, she lay there for a long time, watching the play of shadows on the ceiling and listening to the sounds from downstairs. Adam was already up, and she could hear him moving about in the kitchen, humming cheerfully. She smiled, hoping the humming had something to do with her. The memory of what ha
d happened last night came back in a warm rush, and she burrowed back under the covers, blushing.

  He had made breakfast, and Beth ate dutifully, trying to act as if having breakfast with a man after spending the night and early morning in bed with him was an everyday occurrence. She tried not to stare at his hands and dwell on the curve of his mouth as they chatted over toast and scrambled eggs like old friends instead of momentarily-sated lovers. Virtually every inch of her body had been probed and caressed by this man’s hands and mouth, and she shivered with the lovely knowledge that when they had finished breakfast, he'd take her back to bed and do it all again. For the second time in her life, Beth Walker would lie back on the soft pillows with an abandon she never thought possible, while he did things with his hands and mouth and tongue that she had only read about—and dreamed about.

  Last night, she had given herself to a man in the fullest sense. A man she barely knew, but one she had decided to trust with all of her deepest longings and insecurities. A man she found to be both forceful and wonderfully tender—who had penetrated her repeatedly, but brought her along with him using not his superior strength but patience and infinite gentleness. When she seemed hesitant, he moved slowly, and when she was ready, he was quick to recognize that, as well. And what was even more wonderful was that she had enjoyed every moment of it. The first silken feel of a penis in her curious hands, and the delight and pleasure she felt when he responded to her touch by growing hard. Even that fleeting moment of pain when she'd finally surrendered to him what she'd held onto for much too long. A moment so long dreamed of, and yet terrified of, and so long delayed that it had begun to take on a significance it never deserved. Gone in an instant of discomfort, and forgotten two seconds later in the astonishing, voluptuous sensation of a man she loved moving deep inside her, owning her. And in return, she owned him, clasping the throbbing hardness of him with muscles she had never consciously used, and never known she needed.