Pushing Up Daisies

parking lot.

'Real gardeners don't get their nails done between March and October. Between digging in the dirt, moving rocks, and washing up fifty times a day, what's the point?' I said. It made no impression on my well-groomed friend. The night before, Lucy had tossed her bag in the backseat of my car, given me the once-over, and shaken her head in disgust.

'If we had more time, I'd do something about the hair. At the very least, you're getting a manicure and a pedicure. You'll thank me later.'

'It's a small-town event. With all that's going on here, I think I can safely say my toes will not be the hot issue.'

' 'Mother used to say you could always tell a lady by her hands,' ' she quoted reverently from Gone with the Wind. 'You don't have to look like a field hand. Besides, potential clients will be checking you out. Maybe you should wear a hat. Don't garden ladies wear dramatic hats?'

I nixed the hat but agreed to the mani-pedi, though few things filled me with as much trepidation as having my little piggies manhandled by some stranger. It ran a close second to going to the gynecologist, and usually required a glass of wine first to loosen me up. Hands and feet splayed, only the stirrups were missing, when Mike O'Malley walked by the salon.

'Oh, great.'

'What's the problem?' Lucy whispered.

Mike tapped on the glass as if we were puppies hoping to be adopted.

'Which one is that, anyway—number two or number three? It's so hard to keep track of your turnstile romances. I can't believe all the trouble I go to to meet men, and you just stay home and they come to you,' she said, eyeing him through the window. 'He'd be cuter if he had a little more definition.'

The bells on the front door jingled as Mike came in, and the young Korean proprietor fussed over him, giggling as if it were hysterical for a man to be in a nail salon. At least that's what I think she was laughing about; for all I knew he was here every week, getting his knuckles waxed.

I hid behind a magazine and pretended to be immersed in an article on how to wear green eye shadow tastefully. It didn't work.

'Afternoon, ladies.'

I hadn't seen him since the night at my place. If he'd learned anything new, he hadn't shared it with me, and I was just as happy to keep my distance from the police station. Like two fighters, we'd retreated to neutral corners.

I peeked over the top of the magazine. 'Sergeant O'Malley. What a surprise. Manicure or pedicure?'

'Or bikini?' Lucy added.

'I couldn't get an appointment. I'll be reduced to handling my own grooming,' he said, spreading his fingers. 'What do you think—cut cuticles or push back?'

'Push back,' Lucy said, aghast.

'We haven't seen you in a while.' He slipped into the royal we, so I did, too.

'We've been busy at the house.'

'We?' he asked.

With Hugo languishing in jail and Felix still in Mexico, there was no we, but I wasn't sure O'Malley knew Felix was out of the country, and I didn't want to be the one to tell him.

'Neil MacLeod has helped out. And Lucy,' I said, recovering quickly. 'We're almost finished, but there may be more we can do if we get any additional contributions. Richard's anticipating a few last-minute surprises to night.'

'Looks like your little side investigation is also starting to bear fruit,' he said, holding up a copy of the Bulletin.

'And there's more,' Lucy added. 'Tell him what Felix has been up to.'

'Do tell,' Mike said.

I pushed a button on her vibrating chair and sent her shaking like a washing machine on spin cycle.

'He-e-e-ey.' She fiddled with the controls and returned herself to gentle cycle. 'What was that for?'

Mike turned to me. 'Anything you'd like to share with the group?'

'Nothing yet. I'm still recovering from the psychological letdown of my candy fiasco. When I know something for sure, I'll be sure to let the proper authorities know.'

It came out snottier than I'd intended. Like a good pal, Lucy broke the icy silence that followed. 'So, will we be seeing you at the big bash to night, Sarge?'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'And will you save a dance for us?' she flirted.

'I don't think there's going to be any dance music. I can bring my accordion if you like.'

The young Korean girl tapped my toes and motioned for me to put my feet in the whirl pool bath. I couldn't possibly hold a conversation while I was getting a pedicure; I squirmed too much, and I was starting already. Tactfully, O'Malley turned to leave.

'Well, I'll leave you ladies to your ablutions. See you to night, then.'

'I may want to revise my initial comment.' When he was safely outside, Lucy added, 'Do you think he really plays the accordion?'

'Why? Are you suddenly developing a taste for ice-skating music?'

She leaned in. 'How many men do you know who can move their fingers and push in and out at the same time?'

CHAPTER 34

Richard Stapley's silver hair gleamed under the crystal chandelier. I could almost hear the cash register ringing inside his head as he grinned and posed for the videographer who was chronicling the eve ning's festivities.

Poster-sized before-and-after pictures of the garden were displayed around the grand wood-paneled room, as was an early portrait of Owen Peacock. The walk-in fireplace was filled with fresh flowers; I was camped out in front of it when Richard sidled up to me.

'I don't think we'll have a problem getting you anything else you need for that garden, Paula.' He looked around the Historical Society's crowded gallery, doing a silent head count. 'I do believe we may even have something left over for that bonus I mentioned.' Bending down closer to my ear, he added, 'We should have charged fifty dollars.'

As it was, for a modest thirty-five-dollar contribution anyone in town could dress up, drink nondescript jug wine, and gossip to their heart's content—and feel civic minded while doing it. They came like locusts— community activists, avid gardeners, and the just plain curious.

Hillary Gibson and Gerald Fraser were there. So were Caroline Sturgis; the thrift-shop ladies; Richard's wife, Margery; and a couple hundred others I didn't know. The mayor was in attendance, but no one turned more heads than Babe Chinnery and Neil MacLeod. Anyone who thought she lived in jeans and a leather bustier had another think coming. She was elegant in a slinky tuxedo suit, tats hidden, and he was striking in a suit that could have been Zegna. They might have been going to the Grammys.

'I've got to hand it to your development people. This is a fantastic turnout,' I said to Richard.

'I wish we could take the credit for it,' he said, surveying the crowd and occasionally acknowledging someone, 'but I think we both know it was those articles in the Bulletin. I believe you know Jon Chappell?' He knew I did.

Jon was standing with a group of people I didn't know, and probably didn't want to—granite-faced corporate types who'd clammed up the minute he joined them. He excused himself and came over to us.

'Jon, I was just telling Paula this is mostly your doing. I suppose I should thank you.' Richard gripped him tightly on the shoulder.

'Some people thought you might postpone the party, sir, in light of what's happened,' Jon said, praying for a slip of the tongue that he could print.