Garden of Death (26 page)

“Did Frank have any relatives or any other friends?” I asked.

Emily squinted for a moment, thinking. “Frank told me that his wife died years ago. He had a stepson, but he moved away a long time ago, and both of Frank's brothers are gone.”

“So it was mostly Joe and Dr. White who visited,” Simon said. “Was there anyone else?”

The phone rang at the station and Emily said, “I have to get this.” She answered the call then turned back to us. “I just thought of something. There was this young guy here that Frank became friendly with. He came to put in new rose beds as part of his course work at the Horticultural College in Riverhead.”

“What was his name?” I got a funny feeling in my gut, as if I already knew what she was going to say next.

“I think it was Nate, Nate Marshall. Frank had been an avid gardener when he was younger so they talked about plants and stuff like that. It was really sweet to see them together.” Another nurse, with a chart in her hand, approached the desk. “I have to go now,” Emily said. “I hope I helped.”

“You have,” I said. “More than you know.” We started to walk away and got halfway down the hall when Emily called to us. By the time we got back to the nursing station, the other nurse was gone, and Emily had placed a tattered cardboard carton on the desk.

“These are Frank's things. We tried to send them to the stepson but could never find an address or phone number for him. Dr. White wanted them, but I didn't think that was right because Frank didn't really like him. So I've been saving them, I don't know for what. There isn't anything of value inside—it's mostly old books—but maybe they'll mean something to you.”

I could feel my heart begin to hammer with excitement. “Thank you,” I said. “We'll take good care of them.” I hoped they would help us solve this mystery.

chapter thirty

Willow McQuade's
Favorite Medicinal Plants

ST. JOHN'S WORT

Botanical name:
Hypericum perforatum

Medicinal uses:
For over a thousand years, from the time of the
ancient Greeks through the Middle Ages, St. John's wort has been used to treat mild to moderate depression. This hardy, sun-loving perennial is easy to grow and is traditionally gathered on a sunny afternoon, when the buds on the flowers are just about to open. You can make your own oil, salves, and liniment from these flowers, but when it comes to using St. John's wort to treat your depression, purchase standardized products from a health food store. This herb is also helpful in treating anxiety, stress, tension, and nerve damage, along with seasonal affective disorder (SAD). The oil when applied to the skin can help relieve pain, and speed healing from bruises, sprains, and burns.

Note: Do not take St. John's wort with prescription antidepressants. Remember, if depression is not adequately treated, it can become severe. See your health-care provider to get the help you need. There are many effective proven therapies available.

Simon and I headed back to Greenport and Nature's Way. For a while we were silent, mulling over what we had just learned. Finally, Simon said, “You know, when Emily first started talking about Frank and Dr. White, I thought the two of them might have been working together to find pirate treasure out here.”

“Me, too,” I said. “But after what she said, it's pretty clear that Frank didn't want Dr. White to know what he knew.”

“Right, but White was too greedy—or dense—to catch on to what Frank was doing. So when Frank died last summer and White found out that he'd left a lot he owned in Greenport to the village, he must have figured that the most likely place to find something of value was right there,” Simon said. “So he puts in a bid for the lot, to build the hotel and find the treasure, and Joe puts together investors for him.”

“Between the hotel and the treasure, he must have thought it was his ticket to financial freedom,” I said.

“But then you're awarded the lot. White must have been furious; first, because he didn't get the lot and the hotel deal fell through; and second, because now he had to work around you to get to the pirate treasure.”

“There's something about all that that's not quite right,” I said. “The sword was stolen, remember? And
the earring is Victorian and no one got all that excited about the bronze goblet. So, though we've uncovered stuff in the garden, I don't think any of it was actually hidden there by pirates.”

“Doesn't matter,” Simon said. “Because White didn't know that. He seemed convinced that Fox knew of buried treasure there, and he was furious when he lost out on the lot. And, of course, Arlene was also counting on it as her ticket to wealth, so she, too, felt cheated when it went to you. Which explains her Garden of Death hate campaign, and her efforts to shut you down.”

I thought about that. “Okay, maybe that explains why Dr. White was in the garden the night he died—and why he was killed. Someone must have known what he was searching for.”

“We need to tell the police about all of this,” Simon said.

“We need proof first.” I looked at the box of stuff on the floor behind the seat. “Let's go back to Nature's Way and look at this. But first, please call Shawn and find out when they're releasing Jackson. I want him home.”

•   •   •

Simon couldn't reach Shawn, so
we swung by the police station on the way back to Nature's Way. The desk sergeant there had good news for us: Jackson had just been released. Moments later, I received a text message from Jackson, telling me that he was out and back at Nature's Way. I blew out a sigh of relief, then quickly texted him that we were on our way.

We couldn't get there fast enough, even though the store was less than five minutes from the police station. Jackson met us at the back door, pulled me inside, kissed me, and folded me into a hug. I began to tremble, and he pulled me even closer. “It's okay, it's okay,” he repeated, until I began to calm down.

“They wouldn't let me see you,” I said, tears forming in my eyes. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. It was Koren. He was playing hardball, but Shawn got him to release me. I'm just afraid they may pick me up again.”

“Then we've got to solve this, so that doesn't happen,” Simon said. “We've got a lot to tell you.”

“Yes, I think we're getting close,” I said, wiping away the tears.

“Good, what's that?” He pointed to the box that Simon was carrying.

“These are Frank Fox's effects from his stay at the nursing home,” Simon said. “But we haven't had time to go through them yet.”

“Let's get some lunch and take it outside, and we'll tell you everything.”

A few minutes later, the three of us were sitting on the porch eating Gardenburgers, chips, and passion fruit iced teas with orange slices for lunch and reviewing what we'd learned so far.

“You two have covered a lot of territory,” Jackson said. “I'm impressed.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But does it make sense?”

“I think it does. It's logical that if someone else was after the treasure, they may have run into Dr. White
in the garden. They fought, and whoever it was, killed him. The question is, who?”

The door opened and Wallace came out, his face as white as the sheet of paper in his hand. “This just came in on the fax machine.” He gave it to me, his hands trembling. “She didn't call in this morning, but I never thought . . .”

The piece of paper only had seven words, but it was enough to strike terror into my heart:
Find the treasure or Merrily is DEAD!
I sucked in a breath. “Oh my God.”

“What is it, Willow?” Jackson said.

I handed him the paper, which he showed to Simon.

“Who do you think it's from?” Simon said. “Do you recognize the fax number, Willow?”

“No, I don't,” I said. “But I'm calling Merrily right now.” But she didn't answer and neither did Nate. “What do we do?”

“We'd better find that treasure fast,” Simon said.

“Didn't we already find the treasure?” I asked. “Is there something else buried—or is this creep asking us to get the sword back from the fake Dr. Gillian? I don't even know where to start.”

“First, we call the police,” Jackson said.

•   •   •

I called the police and
told the desk sergeant what had happened, that Merrily was missing, and what the note said. Unfortunately, among other things, there had been a multiple-car accident on the main road that demanded police attention, a boating accident, and a restaurant fire. Maritime Festival activities always
stretched the police force thin, and this year was no exception.

There was also the fact, the sergeant said, that they usually didn't investigate missing persons until forty-eight hours had passed, and that the note could be a hoax or a practical joke. I said that I didn't think it was at all funny, and he said that someone would be over as soon as possible.

While we were waiting, I brought the box that Emily had given us into my office and put it on the coffee table. Simon came with me while Jackson said he wanted to check on the dogs and went upstairs. I really think he wanted time alone to process what had happened to him at the jail, but I didn't say anything.

“Let's go through it methodically, okay, Simon? I want to make sure that we don't miss anything.”

I pulled several books out of the box that were about pirates on the East End of Long Island. “These look like the kind of books that Professor Russell lent me,” I said as I began to page through the first one. “Let's check for any notes that Frank may have made.”

Simon began looking through one of the other books. “What are we hoping to find exactly?”

“Anything that hints at buried treasure in Greenport—­especially anything that refers to the area that's now the garden. I need to know if there's something else there. It would take us days to dig up that whole lot.”

“I realize that, but I doubt that Frank would have put it in a book for anyone to see. If he actually had information like that, wouldn't he want a more secure
place—especially with someone like Charles White coming around all the time?”

I sighed. “You're probably right, but let's check to make sure we haven't missed anything.”

An hour and a half later, we'd carefully examined all six books and found nothing unusual. We'd just finished when Detective Coyle arrived, wearing baggy pants, a shirt with perspiration stains underneath the arms, and an awful purple tie with a bluefish on it. Wallace showed him into my office.

“I hear you have a missing person, Ms. McQuade. Want to tell me about it?”

I decided not to call Jackson and tell him Coyle had arrived, figuring he'd had enough of both him and Detective Koren in the past twenty-four hours. Instead, I went over to my desk, got the fax, and handed it to him.

“What's this bit about the treasure?” Coyle wanted to know.

“It's what we've been trying to tell you and Detective Koren about all along. Several people are looking for something in my garden—I think they think it's pirate treasure.”

He laughed. “That again? C'mon. The important thing here is that someone is threatening to kill your employee.”

“I know that, Detective, but it's because of the treasure, or whatever is out there, that this has happened.”

Quickly, I explained what we'd learned at the nursing home. To his credit he did listen, and when I'd finished, he said, “I don't know about all this other stuff, but if your employee, and your friend, is in trouble, then you did the right thing by calling. I'll
put out a BOLO, and we'll keep an eye out for her.”

“A BOLO?” I asked.

“An all-points bulletin,” Coyle explained. “It's an acronym for be on the lookout, so all officers in the county will be aware she's missing. Depending on what happens, we may need to bring the FBI in on this, too. Call us if this person contacts you again. Now, I have to go. I was on my way to that five-car pileup when you called. I'll update you later.”

•   •   •

After he left, I told
Jackson what happened. We agreed that now that I'd told the police what we knew, it was time to try to find Merrily ourselves. There was no way we could just sit there and wait for the phone to ring.

I asked Wallace to call me if another fax came through or if anyone, especially the kidnapper or the police, called, and we headed out to Merrily's house, where she lived with her mother. The three of us got into my Prius and Jackson drove while I called Merrily's cell again, and Nate's, but got no answer.

Next I tried her mother, Cheryl, who told me that she had seen Merrily last night before she left to go to Nate's. She said that Merrily did seem worried about something, but she wouldn't say what.

I told her that we wanted to stop over. I'd break the news about her kidnapping once we were there.

•   •   •

Merrily and her mother lived
in a restored yellow Victorian home at the corner of Broad and First Street, with a neatly cut lawn and pretty flower beds filled with
geraniums, nasturtiums, and marigolds. When Cheryl came to the door, she looked surprised to see all three of us and quickly knew that something was wrong.

“What is it? What's happened?”

“Can we come in?”

“Yes, of course.”

We stepped into the foyer and she directed us into a sunny living room. Like Merrily, she liked to dress in a funky style. She was wearing a tie-dyed tunic and flip-flops.

Cheryl had worked as a production designer for films before she got married, moved to the North Fork, and had Merrily. Now she only worked occasionally on special projects.

“Is Merrily okay?” she asked.

“That's why we're here,” I said. “We're not sure. We received this strange fax a little while ago.”

She read the fax and started to cry. “Treasure? What treasure?”

I squeezed her hand as I briefly explained what had happened to Dr. White, why we thought it had happened, and what might be in the garden. “I've talked to the police and they are going to look for her, and maybe even contact the FBI, but we're ready to help right now. Let's start with when you saw her last night. Before she left, you said that she seemed troubled?”

Cheryl nodded. “Yes, she had something on her mind.”

“Do you have any idea what it was?” Simon asked.

“I really don't.” She reached for a tissue from the box on the coffee table and dabbed her eyes. “I need to call her father. We're divorced but he needs to know. He lives in the city, though, so it will take him time to get out here.”

“Do you have any idea where she might be?”

She shrugged. “Nate's, I guess. But you've called there already, right?”

“Yes, but we'll stop by.”

“Will you call me if you find her?”

“Of course we will.”

“Cheryl,” Jackson said, “we'll bring Merrily home. Don't worry.”

•   •   •

Nate lived in a garage
apartment in Arshmamoque, on the same road where Simon and I met with Joe Larson. His apartment was at the very end of the road, opposite Mill Creek and behind a ranch house that had peeling paint and a scruffy yard. No one was home but we parked on the road and walked down the driveway to the back.

The garage apartment was also in rough shape, with a roof that needed repair and cans overflowing with garbage. We peered through the windows. Inside, the place was a mess, dusty with dishes, magazines, and discarded clothing on the floor. Clearly, no one was home.

“How can he live like this?” I said. “I hate to think of Merrily spending time here. She deserves better.”