Pushing Up Daisies

O'Malley might have had something there. I didn't think there were a lot of people who wanted to see me dead, but there was no shortage of people I'd pissed off. Once a year they all met in Yankee Stadium.

'Too large a group,' I mimicked.

'What about the ex?' he asked, for the first time venturing into personal territory.

'Not that crazy. Look, maybe we should take a break,' I said, steering him away from the subject. 'Didn't you promise me a gourmet meal?'

'I did indeed.'

After dinner, we sat on the deck. Mike fiddled with the grill's dying fire, and then settled in across from me on an old rattan loveseat.

'You haven't talked much about yourself. All I know is you were some big television honcho, and now you're in the garden business. How did you come to be a gardener? Don't most city folk have one house plant they either neglect or overwater?'

'Hardly a honcho, just a cog in the machine. But I've been a gardener since grade school. One day my second-grade teacher had us bring in avocado pits for a class project. I didn't even know what an avocado was— they were not on my mother's shopping list. She cooked vegetables no one in my class ever heard of—escarole, broccoli rabe, fennel, stuff like that.'

'Holliday isn't a very Italian name.'

'You are a detective. I'm half-Italian, on my mother's side. It was strictly an Italian menu, except for corned beef and cabbage once a year.'

'I should have let you cook.'

'I'll ignore that. Anyway, we planted the avocado pits in cut-off milk containers, and I checked them every morning for signs of life. I've been hooked ever since.'

'Are you good at it?'

'That's an astute question. A good gardener,' I answered slowly, 'knows what to put where. And not just aesthetically—it's the zone, the microclimate, the soil, a lot of things. So, yes, by those standards, I am a good gardener.'

'Ever married?'

'That's a switch. Nope.'

'Not interested?'

'Bad timing, mostly. I was in a relationship that ended a few months ago. We met cute and parted ugly.'

'Sorry.'

'That's okay. What about you?'

Mike was single. That helped him avoid the twin occupational hazards lots of cops succumbed to, alcoholism and divorce. He spent most of his spare time kayaking and renovating a cabin in northern Connecticut. Dad was a cop, uncle was a cop, most of his friends were cops. I got the picture.

'Dad and I are a couple of grizzled old bachelors. I thought he might remarry after my mum passed, but it never happened. We live just a few blocks apart. Some nights he cooks, some nights I do. I just stopped smoking —eighteen months ago; so mostly I'm battling the weight I put on. Walking the dog helps, but I need to get back in the gym.'

'What do you have?'

'A border collie. Her name's Jessie. Guzman looks after her while I'm on duty.'

Guzman again. Were they a couple? Then what the hell was he doing here with me? And what the hell was I doing? For the second night in a week, I was sitting in the dark, getting cozy with a man I barely knew. Either I was lonelier than I thought or hornier. And he's apologizing for his weight, which means he's somewhat interested.

A blast of music from the other side of the woods ripped through the night, nondescript rock, the kind you'd get on a cheap drugstore party CD.

'The noisy neighbor, I presume?'

'Comes with the springtime; all the slugs come out. He hasn't been too bad lately. At least there aren't any squealing bimbos frolicking in the hot tub.'

'Still, it is late for a school night,' Mike said, glancing at his watch.

I used it as a cue to end the evening—before bachelor number two decided to make his move. 'Excellent point,' I said, standing up. 'I don't know about you, but I have a full day tomorrow.' I walked him down to his car, and watched him pull away in the direction of the music. Heh, heh, heh, that'll teach my noisy neighbor.

CHAPTER 24

Back in the kitchen, the old laptop's screen saver showed a haunted house, inhabited by digital bats and screeching cats. (Who remembers what significant documentary I was working on when I chose that one.) I'd barely touched the mouse when the phone rang.

'Jesus, you scared me!'

'Is that the way you answer the phone? When was the last time you got a call?' Lucy said.

'I knew it was you—I saw it on caller ID.'

Lucy filled me in on France, and I filled her in on Springfield. Mid-conversation, she forced me to put down the phone and set the house alarm. 'What if there was a connection between Anna's attack and your green house incident? Why are you still up there? Stay at my place until this is sorted out.'

'Can't. I have to work. Besides, Mike's right—it's probably nothing.'

'Oh it's Mike now—no more Mayberry jokes? What am I thinking? Is he still there? Don't answer, cough. Then I'll know you're not alone.'

'No one else is here. But there has been some action on that front.' With little encouragement, I gave Lucy the broad strokes on my encounter with Felix.

'I always say the best way to get over someone,' she said, referring to my ex, 'is to get under someone. Too bad you weren't ready. And where is he?'

'Mexico, I think. Family business.'

'Wow. My rejects rarely feel the need to leave the country, but I suppose a clean break is best. Is that why his backup was at your house so soon? You're not turning into the town slut, are you?'

'Please. To night was all business.' I told her about the pictures on the flash drive and reeled off the shorthand descriptions on Mike's photo log.

'Hmmm. Babhdbck. What's that?'

'I'm guessing baby's head, back.'

'I think I can skip that one,' she said. 'Anything about the necklace?'

I didn't know if I was supposed to be looking at the other pictures, but why not? By accident or by design, Mike had left the drive. I scrolled down to the necklace images and waited for the first to load. It was a tiny medallion on a slim chain that might have been silver. On the front was the worn image of a female saint with a border of horizontal lines emanating from her robe to the edges of the medal.

'It's the Virgin of Guadalupe,' I said, 'the patron saint of Mexico. In 1531, she revealed herself to a poor Indian named Juan Diego on the outskirts of what's now Mexico City. Her image miraculously appeared on his cloak and supposedly it's still there after almost five hundred years. They're talking about making Juan Diego a saint, too.'

'I'm impressed. How do you know this? Don Felix?'

'I worked on a documentary called Religions of the World. Besides, you've been to Mexico. She's everywhere, on guest soaps and shopping bags. When I was there I bought a Virgin of Guadalupe devotional candle, the thick glass kind you find in bodegas in the Bronx.

'Anyway, the Virgin told Juan Diego to climb this hill and cut some flowers. Even though it was December, and Juan Diego couldn't believe there would be flowers growing in the winter, he climbed the hill. When he got to