Pushing Up Daisies

the bacteria, the fungi, and then resign yourself to the fact that the deer will eat most of it anyway. I didn't kid myself that I controlled the garden. But at least there were no dead bodies here—or none that I knew of.

Outside the garden, control was no easier. Chris Mazzara had moved out months ago. The body had stuck around, but, to paraphrase B. B. King, the thrill had gone. Now the only thing left was the name on the mailbox, which I hadn't had the heart to remove, since that made the departure more final.

I ended my short garden inspection, picking off a few dead leaves in the pro cess, then went inside.

'Anna?' I yelled. No answer.

Anna Pena is my cleaning lady. The cushy days of double income no kids were gone and I couldn't afford her anymore, but Anna didn't seem to want to leave. And it was anyone's guess when she'd show up. I suspected she came to watch English lessons on cable, which she didn't get at home, but she never said. There was only the inconclusive evidence of the laundry being done and the TV being on channel 106. Far be it from me to discourage her.

Anna was a hardworking single mom and she'd decided that polishing her English and being my 'assistant' would land her a job at the country's biggest tequila distributor, based in neighboring Greenwich. So sometimes she came by to answer the phone and do a little filing to practice. 'I don't want to clean houses forever. I have ambition,' she'd told me.

To that same end, she'd recently embarked on a cutrate make over including the permanent tattooing of her eyebrows, eyelids, and lips; so it was also possible she was just lying low until all the swelling went down.

My voice echoed through the empty house. I dropped my backpack in the entrance and hauled myself up the open staircase. To night the climb felt longer than usual, but it was worth it. Upstairs was the living room, kitchen, bedroom, and a small deck. Downstairs was the entrance, office, and—for want of a better name—the TV room. It also housed all my workout equipment: rowing machine, free weights, Fat Boy punching bag, and any new gizmo guaranteed to flatten my stomach.

Eight hours before, I thought I'd be celebrating with a bit of bubbly, but I was going to need something stronger now. I made myself a very large, very dirty martini: lots of vodka, lots of olive juice, three olives, and 'just say the word vermouth,' as an old friend once instructed. I opened the slider out to the deck, took my glass, and headed out to the old teak chaise I'd found at a yard sale.

I kicked off my shoes, put my feet up on the railing, and took a long pull on the drink. If the martini was a vacation in a glass, as that same friend once told me, my deck was a freaking sabbatical. No noise (usually), lots of sky, and a chance to contemplate my latest gardening project.

The land adjacent to mine was a bird sanctuary, but subscribing to the Japanese concept of borrowed scenery, I enjoyed pretending I was mistress of all I surveyed. And usually I was, except for the occasional birder who strayed off the trail. What more could a woman want? I drained the martini and went back inside for another. Second drink in one hand, door handle in the other—the phone rang. I prayed it wasn't Richard Stapley or, worse, my mother. With no lunch, and having left my breakfast in the bushes, the large economy-sized drink I'd just polished off had gone straight to my head. I wasn't sure I could compose an intelligent sentence.

'Hello?' I said, working hard to sound sober.

'Ms. Holliday?'

'Speaking.' Just barely, I thought.

'It's Mike O'Malley. I wanted to see how you were doing.'

'Great, once I get all the cadavers out of that place.' I hadn't meant to sound that flip; it was the vodka talking.

'I'm glad you got your sense of humor back. It's understandable, of course, but you seemed a bit stunned this afternoon. I almost suggested you go to Springfield Hospital.'

I had been surprisingly calm that afternoon; O'Mal-ley probably thought I was in shock.

I'd seen plenty of dead people before. My large Italian-Irish family generated boisterous wakes, watered by beer, wine, and anisette for the ladies in black dresses. Ancient relatives, the deceased generally looked better dead than they did when they were alive thanks to the talented folks at Torregrossa's Funeral Home in Brooklyn. ('That's the dress she wore to Donna's wedding, periwinkle blue. It was always a good color for her.')

The vodka kept me babbling. 'I'd also like to thank whoever took such good care to keep the blowflies and the earthworms at bay.' That last graphic description rang in my ears. 'God, that must have sounded terrible. I don't know where that came from. Black humor— just my way of dealing with things.'

'I find it useful myself sometimes.' He finally sensed this wasn't a good time to talk. 'I just called to let you know we'll be at the house for the next couple of days. Someone will give you a heads-up when you can go back. Glad to hear you're okay.'

I replaced the phone in the cradle, missing the contacts the first two times. That's when I noticed the red light and the flashing number 17. The first three messages were all from the same person, Jonathan Chap-pell, a reporter from the Springfield Bulletin. I didn't bother playing the rest.

The sun was about to go down and I knew that would mean a drop in the temperature, so I pulled on an old black cardigan, big as a blanket and at least ten years old. I popped a Van Morrison CD in the player, cranked it up a bit, and padded back to the deck just in time to see the sun setting through the trees.

Most homes up here have a lot of house on a small piece of land—McMansions; mine is just the opposite. Tiny house, more land than most. Only the one noisy neighbor and a family I've never even seen on the other side. The far end of the property bordered wetlands and the bird sanctuary. A seasonal stream there, heavy from all the spring rains, was lined with rows and rows of swamp cabbage, ferns, and jack-in-the-pulpits. The birds were having a field day drinking and hunkering down for the night. Just like me.

CHAPTER 4

The cold woke me, and the sky was so clear, it seemed as if Orion's belt was dangling over my head. I briefly considered dragging my telescope outside, then the memory of the day's events shook any fanciful notions of stargazing out of my head.

Inside the house, last Sunday's dutifully purchased but unread New York Times made excellent kindling. I started a fire and went to clean myself up. A hot shower and fresh clothes made me feel almost normal again, normal enough to be hungry. Back in the kitchen, I checked out the dismal contents of my fridge: yogurt, wilting veggies, water, and every condiment known to man. I was always so virtuous when I went food shopping, but once home, hanging on the refrigerator door, I invariably craved high-fat food of no nutritional value. Since I never had any in the house, I opted for my patented Greek yogurt with flaxseed, honey, and raisins sundae; if I was feeling really reckless, I might throw in a handful of wonderful walnuts. Why not go to hell in a handbasket?

I settled in on the floor in front of the fireplace with the Halcyon file, my laptop and garden books spread out around me.

Oddly enough, finding the body hadn't scared me. Everything pointed to its being evidence of someone's old secret, as opposed to someone's new crime. Perversely I even found myself thinking it would add to Halcyon's mythology and make it even more of a local attraction once the gardens were restored. I got to work.

Renata Peacock's birthday, June 18, would be an appropriate date for an opening. And there was a certain symmetry to it. Richard's file revealed that was the date the sisters used to do their noblesse oblige thing and invite the locals. Problem was, it was only two and a half months away. Tomorrow I'd get in touch with Hugo and maybe rope some of my city friends into pulling weeds and mulching in exchange for a pleasant weekend in the country. I pored over the stacks of garden books and old pictures, adding to my bulging folders of notes and shopping lists.

I didn't doubt Richard Stapley's ability to raise funds. He was handsome, in a rugged, old-fashioned, Mount Rushmore way; I could see the blue-rinse crowd getting weak in the knees and handing over checks after just a few flattering words from him. I also saw that every once in a while I'd have to remind him I was a grown-up—not some kid he'd brought in to mow the lawn.

I'd need everything within a month, preferably by Easter if the shrubs were going to get established early in the season. Despite the inevitable consequences, I would throw myself at Guido Chiaramonte for the loan of a