“When you’ve been through something like that,” my mother said in a soft hypnotic tone, “you need to release the energy. Would you like me to take you through some relaxation exercises?”
I sighed. “I don’t think so, Mom. We’re not into that.”
“Well,” Vicki surprised me, “I don’t know. This one, for some reason, was harder than the others. It couldn’t hurt to try some techniques.”
I smiled at Vicki and my mom, but I wasn’t about to do yoga.
“I’ll see you in the garden,” I said. “Let me know when you’re done.”
My mom turned on some sort of hippie new age music, and I left the room. For the first time, I actually thought about what had happened at the studio. It was pretty alarming to be in the middle of a project with someone, and then come back, and they’re dead.
Given that more than likely The Count killed him, it was even worse. He was a little high strung, and definitely eccentric, but I would never have pegged him as a murderer.
Sedona, however, had a track record of false murder charges, but this one seemed fairly in the bag to me. The Count was the only one in the building, and everyone knew it. They’d been arguing for days straight, maybe even longer. Then, he was the one who found the body, and he’s the one who called the cops. Not to mention, he knew exactly how it had been done.
It sounded like the work of someone who committed a crime of passion, and then had to try and cover their tracks.
I walked through the hallway, and noticed an old painting of Harmony’s on the wall. It was the one I was looking at the moment I met AJ.
All the evidence had pointed toward Harmony, and I went to the art gallery in search of evidence. AJ, whom I’d never met and only read her blog, had broken in and was looking at this painting for clues herself. She found the murder interesting and wondered if she could find some evidence for her blog.
Standing there, looking at the painting, reminded me of how wrong evidence could be. What did it matter, thought? None of it was my business anyway.
I stepped outside to the garden. It was a small area in the backyard, with rising wire and about half a dozen plowed rows. My dad and Harmony were already there filling wicker baskets. Once I approached, it looked like the only thing growing was some sort of purple vegetable.
“Look at these things,” my father told Harmony as he held a luscious royal purple plant.
“What is that?” I asked.
“This is the cherokee purple tomato,” he replied with a smile.
“That’s a tomato?” I raised an eyebrow. “It looks like an eggplant.”
“Nope.” He handed me one, and sure enough, it felt like a tomato.
“Wow,” I mused as I studied the vegetable.
“It’s all organic,” he said, “with heirloom seeds.”
“How did you get it this color?” Harmony asked as she fingered more of the plants.
“This is a rare strain,” he answered, “I got the seeds from a supplier in Denmark.”
“Denmark, huh?” I looked over the plant again, dirty from the ground, but still ripe and full. “How did you get it through customs?”
He smiled. “I have my ways.”
I snickered and shook my head. “Now that I’m grown, I’m starting to understand more and more why no one wanted me to become a lawyer.”
My dad laughed. “Don’t worry, it’s all legal.”
“That’s your story, and you’re sticking to it, huh?” I replied.
He chuckled and pointed to the plant. “But you should try this. In fact, why don’t we all try some? Let’s go inside.”
Harmony rose, and we all went inside to the kitchen.
“Where’s Vicki?” Harmony asked.
“She’s doing yoga with Mom,” I answered with a shrug. “Some sort of relaxation, tension release or something.
“Hmm.” Harmony nodded knowingly as she filled a kitchen strainer with the purple tomatoes and ran them under the faucet. Then she grabbed a washrag and scrubbed visible dirt off the vegetables.
“When we heard about it,” my dad said while he washed and dried his hands, “the first thing we thought about was if you guys were around.”
I shrugged. “Vicki’s pretty shook up about it.”
“I’ll bet,” Harmony said with a frown. “When that art critic died, I had nightmares for weeks. I kept seeing him dead on the gallery floor. I mean, sure, he wrote some pretty mean things about my work, and it was pretty hurtful. But he didn’t deserve to die. It was hard to think his life was just … over.”
“Yeah,” I sighed, “I think that’s how she’s taking it.”
“Gee.” My dad shook his head and stared down at the counter in reverence. “Do they have any suspects?”
“They took Alfred Dumont in for questioning,” I told him.
“Alfred Dumont?” Harmony scoffed. “The Count? That guy apologizes if he steps on a lizard.”
“Well,” I countered, “they’ve got a lot of evidence against him. He was the last one to be seen with Jerry, and the two of them were alone in the building. He called the cops, though.”
“That should work for him,” my dad said.
“Or,” I pointed out, “it could be just a cover up.”
My dad shook his head as he grabbed a clean tomato out of the strainer. Then he held it up and whistled at it, as if it were a prized diamond.
“Would you look at that?” he mused.
“That is perfect,” Harmony agreed, and I gave it a once over myself. This one was fat, juicy, perfectly round, with no blemishes, and looked so full it seemed it would burst out if its purple skin.
