Pushing Up Daisies

'She could just be jealous,' I said, sitting down and leaning against one of the stone planters. 'Pretty younger woman. Mrs. Crew Leader sounds like she might have missed the whole feminist sisterhood thing.'

'After thirty years, you'd think she'd mellow out a bit. Don't you girls ever let bygones be bygones?'

'Nope. Friend of mine refers to it as sediment. Never really goes away. Scary, isn't it?'

He filed that feminine insight for future use.

'She also thought Yoly might have been moonlighting as a waitress while she was working as the nanny. Nothing permanent—weddings, parties, stuff like that.'

He shuffled through some papers. 'The crew leader's kids got a postcard from Yoly with a Rhode Island postmark.' He looked up at me. 'Life before Xbox; the kids collected stamps and noticed the postmark. Mom was thrilled; the farther away the better—she was just sorry the letters didn't come from Outer Mongolia.'

'You think she relocated?'

'No. According to Mrs. Rivera's letters, she heard from Yoly twice after that, both times from Springfield. Not much else, I'm afraid. No luck finding Celinda Rivera yet, but I'm still working on it.'

He was craving approval. As punishment for stalking me, I withheld.

'What's the story between you and the congressman's aide, the lovely Ms. Colford?' I asked, watching him squirm.

'I should have known it was only a matter of time before you started poking around in my direction. We had a thing; it ended. I'm not successful enough for her,' he said. 'She's dated a guy from the Washington Post.'

Suddenly he reminded me of the nerdy twelve-year-old who didn't get picked for softball. Not only did I forgive him, now I wanted to help him make points with the little snob.

'That guy probably makes up his stories. Don't worry. By the time this thing is over, you'll be fielding job offers from all over. Just stay on the high road, okay? Lighten up on the 'Mother's Anguish.' The story's good enough without playing to the lowest common denominator.'

I told him my idea about looking for someone who'd videotaped their wedding ceremony the day Hugo and Anna were at the marriage license bureau, and he was on it in a flash, scribbling notes and inventing a story line.

'I don't even have to say what it's about,' he said, 'in case someone is nervous about getting involved.'

'Any ideas about your girlfriend's boss?' I asked.

'Win Fifield and Yoly Rivera didn't exactly travel in the same circles, but it's not impossible they knew each other. Pretty girl on her own, maybe on the sidelines at some high-profile parties? They could have met.'

It was more likely she knew Guido Chiaramonte, especially with his taste for Hispanic women. But I had yet to find that connection. I debated whether I should tell Jon my theory about the Peacock sisters and their secret garden.

'Do you know much about herbal remedies?'

He perked up. 'That reminds me of our other little drama. Margery Stapley.'

We agreed there was something fishy about the one-glass-of-wine-and-she's-on-the-floor story.

'I ran out to e-mail my story about Margery collapsing. When I got back to the party, it had already broken up. I stuck around, offering to help clean up, and I got an earful. Did you know Richard isn't Margery's first husband? She was Margery Russell, married her high school sweetie, a guy named Henry Pierce. The honeymoon was barely over when Henry shipped out to Korea. He never came back.

'Richard was a transplant from Boston, an up-and-coming attorney in her father's firm,' Jon continued. 'It took a while, but Margery finally agreed to marry him. Seems Dad had a hand in it.'

More than a hand. Apparently Margery's father had orchestrated the whole thing, including the financial arrangement that kept all Margery's assets in her own name.

'So she's loaded,' I said.

'Correct. And she was so delicate at the time, her father was worried she might kill herself and her inheritance from her mother, who was a . . .' He shuffled through his notes. 'Her mother was a Hutchinson—'

'As in the parkway?' I asked, astonished. 'All those tolls must really add up.'

'Dad didn't want the dough to go to an outsider in the event that something happened to Margery. Stapley married her in the early seventies; my Deep Throat at SHS wasn't sure when.'

Jon had done well. 'Did you notice the old guy at the party?' I asked.

'Which one?' he asked, and thought back to the crowd at the party. 'The guy in the denim shirt? You think that was Margery's first husband? He didn't really die?'

'Calm down. It's not that weird. It was William Peacock.'

'No shit.'

'Keep your distance. Gerald and I are going to see him first.'

CHAPTER 38

The lobby of the Hotel Criterion was a faux Southwestern style I placed as early 1980s. Large, dusty foliage plants softened the institutional atmosphere, but it still had the feel of a private hospital or sanatorium.

The place was empty except for a chubby desk clerk sorting mail and William Peacock, sitting near a small table set up with complimentary coffee and tea.

He was wearing the same tweed jacket and denim shirt he had had on the night before. In his face, I could see traces of the heartbreaker the thrift-shop ladies remembered. It was craggy and lined now, probably from too many years in the sun, and certainly from smoking. The ashtray in front of him was already full, and we weren't late.

'William, thank you for seeing me. Well, us.' Gerald Fraser introduced me as the new caretaker of the garden, and, for simplicity's sake, I didn't correct him.

'I hope you don't mind if Ms. Holliday joins us. This is just a chat, not a police matter. As you know, I'm retired, and officially there's no case and no charges regarding the body found on your sisters' property. But there have been some strange goings-on lately. We thought you might enlighten us on a few things.'

William had no problem talking to Gerald, or with my being there when he did. Once again, Richard Sta-pley had been my advance man and had been singing my praises about the good job I'd been doing at Halcyon.

'Not at all. Richard's firm usually handled my sisters' affairs, but he's recused himself in light of her bequest to the Historical Society. Brennan, Douglas and Marshall is handling the will. They just needed me to sign a few papers, and I thought I'd come back and take one last look around. I've got no quarrel with any of Dorothy's decisions.' He stubbed out his cigarette. 'I guess you're the gal that found the body?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Which most people in town seem to think belonged to one of my sisters.' He patted his pockets looking for his cigarettes. When he found them, he offered the pack to us. We both passed.

'I understand my sisters were very fond of you, Gerald, so I think I can trust you. 'Course, you may already know.'

'That Renata wasn't really your sister?' Gerald said gently.

William nodded. 'I was just a kid when I found out. I was pretty torn up. I wanted to get as far away from Springfield as I could. My plan was to hitchhike to California—I thought that'd be more adventurous than taking the train. I got stuck, though, in Texas. Spent the early years there, ranching, moving around quite a bit. Eventually, like most folks, I wanted to settle down, get a place of my own.

'I came back once, in 1959, to borrow money from my sisters. They thought I'd fallen off the face of the earth. I'm not a big letter writer,' he explained unnecessarily. 'You should have seen them fussing over me.' He smiled to himself at the memory. 'They wanted me to stay, of course, but I had other plans.

'Anyway, I got a little lucky with the piece of property I bought. We struck oil.' He stubbed out his cigarette. 'Once that happened, everything else happened so fast, the time just went by. Got a family there. Three sons, eight grandchildren, and'—he paused, counting on his fingers—'twelve great-grandchildren.'

He fumbled in his wallet and produced an informal family portrait taken on the sprawling veranda of an enormous house, framed by rambling roses.