Pushing Up Daisies

the season.'

'I know, I'm a gardener, too. Paula Holliday.'

'Felix Ontivares.'

'Nice to meet you.'

He nodded in my direction, then he peeled a few dollars from his wallet, paid, and left.

'Just another conquest,' I said, shaking my head as the door flapped closed behind him.

'Don't take it personally. Most of the nursery guys are quiet, but it's a language thing. Felix doesn't have that problem. He's new, only been around a couple of weeks. Guido says he's a good worker, too. And you know Guido —he doesn't like any of the immigrant guys. Only the women,' she added with a smirk.

'Babe, is there anything else I should know about the Peacocks? You kind of suggested Stapley didn't tell me everything.'

'Nothing I can tell you. You think I'd have sent you there if I thought you'd find a stiff? There were so many rumors about the old girls, I didn't think he had the time to tell you everything.' She changed the subject. 'Are you okay for cash? What's he paying you, anyway?'

I looked down, groaning inwardly. 'Well, it's such a great opportunity, I thought . . .'

'That cheap bastard. Look, the library's open for hours. Stay here for a while. I'll tell you about the time I met the Lizard King. Chloe,' she yelled, 'we're gonna need some more coffee. And a couple more donuts.' As an old Doors fan, I couldn't refuse.

The Ferguson Library is a large white clapboard building in the center of town, the kind of place that's either the library or the funeral home in a small New En gland town like Springfield. I hadn't been there before, and Mrs. Cox, the librarian, did everything but ask for a tissue sample before issuing my temporary library card. After the presentation was made, she kept me under surveillance.

The Historical Society's Web site was still under construction and the Bulletin's wasn't much better, but it did yield a number of useful links and more pictures of the garden. The lion's share of the info was still on microfiche, the seventies' version of index cards. Mrs. Cox directed me to a file cabinet that looked like it was waiting for a tomb raider to open it.

Dorothy Peacock was ninety-three or ninety-seven years old when she died, depending on which piece of local folklore you chose to believe. She followed the colorfully named Renata, who had passed away four years ago. The two had lived alone for many years, any other Peacocks having died or dispersed years before.

Halcyon had been built in 1830 by Dorothy's great-great-great-grandfather Owen for his bride, Olivia, on a lush piece of property right on the water as befitting the former sea captain.

Although the captain was wealthy, and another of Dorothy's ancestors had made a tidy sum in the railroad business, the original three-hundred-acre homestead had been whittled down to the current seven acres through a combination of greed, bad investments, and the inevitable wastrel descendant or two. Dorothy's father recovered from the stock market crash, but his untimely death left the Peacocks' real estate assets in a holding pattern, and he was never able to fulfill his dream of buying back the acreage other family members had sold off. And Dorothy had other interests.

I was wandering in turn-of-the-century Springfield when my cell phone jolted me back to the present. Mrs. Cox scoured the room for the perpetrator. Not wanting to incur her wrath or disturb the book club crowd, which was just gathering, I ducked outside and fished the phone out of my bag with the same mixture of annoyance and surprise I always registered when it rang these days.

It was Lucy Cavanaugh, childhood friend and former colleague, currently orchestrating a seven-figure children's television deal (international and DVD rights included). I could hear furious keyboard clicking in the background; at 7 P.M. she was probably still in her office.

'Bravo for actually having the phone on. Listen, I just had drinks with the programming director at the Garden Channel. They have a fat bud get, and they're looking for producers. They need you, and you can do both of the things you love: TV and gardening. It's perfect. What's that stuff you're always going on about— mulch? You can produce the definitive history of mulch. Every other history from guns to candy canes has been done, why not mulch?'

'Is mulch in the air today?' I asked incredulously.

Then I told her what had happened, and the keyboard clicking finally stopped. 'Jeez. Are you all right?'

'I'm fine. I'm like one of those utility workers who accidentally uncovers ancient burial grounds. The cops'll do their thing, and eventually I'll get back to work.'

'Oh, yeah. I don't know—is it inappropriate to congratulate you on the job, I mean, under the circumstances?'

'Inappropriate? Okay, who are you and what have you done with the real Lucy? It's cool. Thanks.'

'In that case, were any of the cops cute?'

Same old Lucy; priorities in order: work, men.

'One of them was sort of cute, if a little tubby.'

'I'm not prejudiced. In fact, I'm tired of guys who are cuter than I am,' she said, keyboard clicking resumed.

I delivered my pitch. 'Come up next weekend. You can check out the men in uniform yourself. We'll have a spa weekend, you can detox from the party circuit. We can work out,' I said sneakily. I could get a good eight hours of gardening out of her if I told her it burned fat.

'Sure. We'll have a little mystery party—rent a few Hitchcock movies, play Clue.'

'Sounds like a plan,' I said, pleased with myself for signing on my first unsuspecting volunteer.

'Good. Look, I'm off to a screening. Pick me up at the train station a week from Friday; I'll get the six oh four. Call if you—I don't know—if you need anything or find another body.'

'Thanks, I will.'

Okay, my best friend is off to quaff champagne, flirt ferociously, and make financially lucrative deals at a film screening, and I'm pulling weeds at a haunted house. What's wrong with this picture?

Back inside the library, I collected my things and tidied the table where I'd been working. This earned me an approving smile from Helen Cox. Her thin lips had been set in a straight line since the moment I'd gotten here, reserving judgment until she was sure I was a responsible library user. I whispered 'Good night' to her, and that really sent my stock soaring. On my way out, Felix Ontivares strode in. He nodded but kept going.

I might not have stopped at the substation at all if it hadn't been next to the Dunkin' Donuts. I felt momentarily disloyal to Babe, then the moment passed.

'Great One, skim milk, no sugar, please.'

I heard a voice behind me. 'This late in the day, a coffee that size will have you up all night alphabetizing your seed packets.' It was Officer Smythe. He had the body of a serious weight trainer, so I was a little surprised to see him there, licking powdered sugar off his fingers.

'You caught me,' I said. 'I'm a sucker for Dunkin' Donuts coffee. I thought I'd stop next door to see when I can get back to work.'

He shrugged. 'Mom's not in. Talk to Guzman.' He picked up his bag of Munchkins and pushed the door open with his tiny, rock-hard butt. 'Later. Gotta go mind the speed trap.'

It didn't hurt for a single woman living on her own to have a good relationship with the local police. Maybe next time weirdo neighbor acts up, I'd impress him by being on a first-name basis with the Man. I took my supersized cup and went next door to the Haviland substation.

'Hi. Are you Officer Guzman?' I asked the first guy I saw.

'No, I'm much better looking.'

'I'm Guzman,' came a voice from the back of the office near the watercooler. 'Pay no attention to him— he's a lonely man. What can I do for you?' she said.

I closed the door behind me. I'd forgotten Guzman was the name of the female cop. She was my height but more muscular, with dark hair pulled into a stubby ponytail, held on the sides by half a dozen metal clips. I told her why I was there.

'No, Mikey would have called. He's good that way—if he says he's gonna call, he does.'

She must have seen how disappointed I was, and added, 'Sit tight, you'll be back digging in the dirt before you know it. Off the record,' she whispered, 'I think you'll be hearing from him soon.'