The Big Dirt Nap

the highway. As always, whatever the hour, size, or temperament of the crowd, Babe had everything under control. I spied one empty stool at the far end of the counter and elbowed my way through a sea of wide-bodied truckers whose haunches were spilling over the edges of the diner's counter stools. It reminded me not to order whatever they were eating.

Business had picked up since Pete started his television cooking lessons and Babe now had three sullen waitresses helping her out at lunchtime instead of just one. Paulette, Theresa, and Alba were busy so Babe motioned for me to help myself to a cup of coffee and a newspaper until things died down a bit. I slipped behind the counter and served myself.

'How goes it?' she asked, when the crowd had thinned.

'It goes. Looks like your business is booming.'

'It's Pete's fault. When he was a lousy cook, I had more time to read; now my TBR stack is yea high.' She held a hand up to her hips. 'And back then I didn't have to play den mother. Look at those three. They're worthless as waitresses, but the little one has a pretty good voice. The one with the black hair plays bass.' Having spent some of the best years of her life with a band, Babe still had a soft spot for rock and rollers. And although she denied it, I think she enjoyed playing den mother.

'Where'd you find them?'

'They came in late one night,' she whispered, 'after an open mike night at Boomer's. They were pretty upset—it didn't go so well. I told them if they worked the lunch shift, four days a week, I'd give them stage pointers plus salary and tips. We'll see how long they last. Are you eating or is this one of your liquid lunches?'

'Eating. I'm ravenous.' I ordered a turkey and sundried tomato wrap, something Pete had recently added to the menu courtesy of Giada De Laurentiis.

Babe stuck the order slip into a revolving rack behind her and spun it around like a prayer wheel, then brought me more coffee.

Two cops from the substation across the road came in, and Babe left me to say hello and seat them. Just then, something in my backpack rumbled and I recognized the sound as that of a new text message. I expected it to be Lucy, but it was Caroline Sturgis. Thanks for listening and for moving my keys, Sneaky Pete! You're a good friend. Call me tomorrow, I have a great idea!

I didn't need a 9 A.M. drinking buddy, and Caroline's last great idea had involved thousands of bulbs the size of cocktail onions. Was I a good friend? I didn't bestow the F word easily. I generally thought of people as acquaintances until years had passed and they'd lost most of their fur like the Velveteen Rabbit. But maybe that was another New York habit I'd soon be jettisoning. If we were friends, should I have said something about April and the tacky woman I thought was her owner? I wondered how Caroline and the pooch were getting along.

I nursed my food until most of the lunchtime crowd had departed and Babe had time to sit and catch up.

'Okay,' she said, hauling herself onto a bar stool on her side of the counter, 'what's on your mind?'

'What makes you think there's something on my mind?'

'C'mon, you haven't camped out here this long since the early days when you had two clients and one of them was dead.'

I left names out of it, and she leaned in so none of the stragglers would hear. 'What would you do if you thought the husband of a friend was having an affair?'

'Easy,' she said, straightening up, disappointed that my problem wasn't more challenging. 'Do nothing. Say nothing.' She made a zipping motion across her lips.

'Really?'

'Absolutely. First of all, it sounds like you don't really know, and second of all, there's nothing in it, either for you or your friend, for you to be the one who drops the bomb.'

It wasn't the answer I was hoping for.

'Look, if you're wrong, you'll be persona non grata. If you're right and they split up, you'll be the unwelcome reminder of her humiliation. If you're right and they stay together, you're the friend that knows too much. And if one of them kills the other, then you'll have to testify.'

She had a point.

Thirteen

My afternoon schedule was full, too full to hang out in the local diner gossiping about my neighbors. In the same way that everyone in Connecticut wants their pool opened on Memorial Day weekend, they all want their garden service started at the same time. I didn't have many clients with great swathes of lawn to maintain, with all the attendant chemicals to apply. Caroline's lawn was the largest, and I'd let Hugo handle that, unless the big idea she'd talked about was turning it into a meadow. But that wasn't likely.

There were three nurseries to visit to reopen accounts and place orders. I spread my business around so all the dealers would know me, and each supplier had its own strong suit—shrubs, perennials, trees. Besides, if I was ever strapped for cash I'd have good credit at all three.

Before heading to the first nursery, I stopped at Lowe's. One of my other clients had a stand of sedge that had been planted by the previous owners and ignored for years. The grasslike plant was now threatening to take over her driveway. My plan was to divide it and plant clumps in containers dotted around her property; it would be a nice tie-in with the rest of the landscape, and not expensive.

I could have used a saw but after nearly taking off my left index finger once with a chain saw, I stayed away from most power tools and all but the smallest folding pruning saws. Dueling pitchforks were my weapons of choice. If I plunged each of them into the center of a plant, face out, I could push the forks apart—or step on the backs of the tines—to divide the sedge, or any other overgrown grass or perennial.

This would be the first of many garden-season trips to a bigbox home center. For the most part, only amateurs or the truly desperate braved the throng of afternoon do-it-your-selfers who required a full lesson with the purchase of every item, but my schedule had changed and I had no choice. I made a beeline for the garden section, just coming to life with flats of herbs, pansies, and early spring annuals. I blew by the plants, grabbed two pitchforks, and after a quick credit-card swipe I was on my way.

The nursery was bustling. Forklifts moved mountains of bags of mulch, which made the place smell like a redwood forest. The help was happy to see me. Small-timers like me signaled the return of the busy season. And I was the perfect customer, knowledgeable, not big enough to take away serious business from them, and, on a good day, cuter than most of the sweaty, bigbellied guys who had open accounts with them. And thanks to Anna, I paid my bills on time.

Damn, I'd forgotten to get the partial payment from Caroline. Anna, my chief financial officer, would be unhappy. Whatever. I'd make a note to ask Caroline for it next time we met. I loaded up on plant material, arranged for larger shrubs to be delivered, and headed for nursery number two. It was after six p.m. by the time I got home.

I knew something was different the minute I pulled in: some of the stones I'd used to border a bed at the foot of the driveway had been driven into the ground. The old UPS deliveryman had done a number on it on a few occasions. After I complained the new guy was very careful—one of those men who prided himself on his K-turns and parallel-parking abilities. But I didn't see any packages in front of the garage, where he'd have left them, so I inched the car up the driveway, looking for signs that anything else was amiss.

At the top, I got out of the car, leaving the driver's-side door open. A few steps to my right I noticed that a stone trough filled with sedum was crooked. For some reason, I reached into the backseat and retrieved one of the pitchforks I'd just bought, and walked to my front door. As if the out-of-place planter wasn't telling enough, the door was unlocked and partially open.

Pitchfork in hand, I tiptoed up the steps to the front door and yelled for Anna. No answer. I yelled again. Using the fork, I nudged the door open and peered inside. The place had been trashed.

I dropped the pitchfork, ran back to my car, and tore out of the driveway, plowing over stones and ground cover and driving them farther into the garden beds. I didn't stop until I was near the diner, but instead of turning right into Babe's, I made a sharp, screeching left into the strip mall opposite the diner and pulled in right in front of the Springfield police substation. The surprise turn pissed off the driver behind me, uncorking his bottled-up road