Nuts and Buried (19 page)

I was thinking about his last remark as I showered, dressed, and made tea for myself:
“Hope never to miss an offer like that again in my life.”

I was back to being scared he would ask me to marry him. Funny how that works—one minute wanting something so bad and the next minute scared to death you might get it.

I sat at my kitchen table, in front of a small window looking down on Riverville. Flasher nosed the bowl of water I'd set on the floor for him and then sent it sailing across the room. I hollered then picked up the bowl, sopped up the floor, and told him he wasn't getting anything until I got him home, which turned him back in to the living room, where I saw him lift his leg on the end of my sofa. I was too astonished even to scream at him, and then too mad to do anything more than find a piece of rope and take him downstairs, through the store, which wasn't opened yet, and out to Carya Street, where he peed on every lamppost and every live oak like he had a bladder the size of the
Titanic
.

I sat on the store's porch for a minute. Flasher settled on the floor beside me with a deep grunt. All I wanted to do was sit and think about last night. About Hunter. About things he was saying—like maybe he was getting close to proposing and I didn't know if that's what I wanted at all now that I was in danger of getting it.

People walked slowly across Carya Street, mostly twos and threes, talking, hailing other people. Two women pushed baby carriages, one had a stroller, and another woman was pulling a two-year-old along by his hand, though he didn't want to go anywhere and was letting her know it.

All people in a long line of people. A man and woman fall in love and the next thing you know you've got a first baby and everybody's excited and then you have another and another and nobody really cares, just doing your duty for the human race.

But that musing left out a lot: the way I felt about Hunter, the way he felt about me, about biological happiness. No matter what my analytical mind was telling me, the rest of me was saying Yes, Yes, Yes. And a baby—from both of us. I'd held plenty of babies—my friends all had them now. I'd felt how warm they were in my arms and what they smelled like and what their eyes said when they looked up at you, and that toothless smile . . .

Ech. I wasn't ready for stuff like that. I pushed Flasher off my foot. I had enough babies to take care of: all my trees.

That reminded me I had other things to do today. A last search for my record book on the trees, and if I couldn't find it, I had a tough phone call to make to the editor of
Propagation
. There was no getting around it. I had nothing for him but photographs of the trees in different stages, and very few of those. Since the article was supposed to be about drought resistance, I would need background of the grafts, a genome
study, and my watering schedule: from full-on watering to the slow reduction of water; the trees' responses—all of that, with dates and times.

I was still cursing myself for not keeping everything on my computer.

I put Flasher in my truck, rolled down a window, and ran back up to my apartment. Scrubbing the leg of my couch and the wooden floor under it took some time. I dug out a different pair of sandals from my closet, changed my shorts, and headed back down the stairs, locking my apartment behind me.

*   *   *

It was going to be a tough day, making that phone call to
Propagation.
I didn't like letting people down after I'd given my word I would deliver something really groundbreaking. But life is life, I told myself while waving back at Treenie, who stood behind the counter, waiting on people holding their bags of pecans and boxes of pecan candy and books of pecan recipes in their arms while talking a mile a minute and smiling and yelling “Mornin', Lindy” over at me.

“Hope ya had a good night,” someone called out in a sarcastic voice.

Somebody else snickered and I remembered why all that small-town togetherness sometimes gave me a bad case of hives.

I hurried out the door, got in my truck, and started it. I had to get to the greenhouse—one more hunt for the notebook and then call Joshua Lightley at
Propagation.

That's when I missed Flasher.

He was gone.

I turned the truck around and went back to the front of the Nut House. A few people were gathered on the porch. They swore they didn't see any dog in my truck.

People down the walk shook their heads. “Nope. Big black dog? Think I would've seen him.”

I hunted in and around the stores for two blocks. I walked the streets behind the stores and then went back for my truck. This was awful. The first time I'd watched the animal for Hunter. Failed!

For the next hour I drove around town. Up one street. Down the next. No Flasher.

He was a wraith. Maybe not a real dog at all. Maybe he could disappear and reappear at will. I had to call Hunter and tell him. I didn't want to. I just kept driving until I was going in circles and hours had passed.

A two-failure day, I told myself. I had to let Hunter know what happened. This wasn't going to be an easy phone call either.

Hunter was busy so I had to wait. When he finally came on the phone, I wanted to burst out crying, letting him know how sad I was, what an awful person I was.

“I think I lost Flasher,” I blurted out. “I've looked everywhere. He was in my truck, but when I came out, he was gone. I only ran up to my apartment for a couple—”

He laughed at me.

“My neighbor called. Flasher's sitting on my back porch. I'll go over there and put him inside. The dog's kind of nuts, Lindy. Got a real mind of his own.”

I could have been mad—wasting my whole morning. I could have hollered at Hunter, saying I didn't want to watch the miserable creature in the first place.

All I said was, “I'm glad he's safe.”

I think I meant it.

*   *   *

The greenhouse felt dank and empty. I didn't feel the usual welcome. I searched the files again, thinking I'd misfiled the notebook, but there was nothing out of place.

I had another tough call ahead in my day of tough phone calls.

And, of course, Joshua wasn't happy with me though he did add, “Might have to accept another article offered to me. Sorry about that, Lindy.”

“An article about what?”

“Same thing you're working on. The man called just a day or so ago, offering me his work on the same grafts you're using. He's got all his timetables to back up his findings. Sorry. I was going to stick with you, naturally. But now—”

“Same work as I'm doing?”

“Sounded almost identical.”

“What's the man's name?”

“Hmm.” I could hear paper shuffling right through the phone. He put the phone down. Then was back briefly. “Give me a minute. Must've filed it for future contact.”

When he was back, he read off, “Dr. Peter Franklin. Guess a lab in Italy's working on your same materials.”

I was very quiet. I was thinking, and I was furious. My blood began to boil, but I couldn't let out a string of curses with Joshua Lightley listening.

“Are you there?” Joshua asked.

“Yup.” Okay, did I tell him I knew Peter Franklin and suspected him of stealing my records? He'd think I was unprofessional. But what the . . .

“Said he was in the U.S. to visit other scientists, get an idea of what's being done in the field.”

“He's visiting all right,” I said. “At the moment he seems to be stuck here in Riverville, where I live.”

“Stuck?”

“Well, something like that. There was a murder at a party we both attended. He stayed in town and came to my greenhouse. If I may speak frankly, Mr. Lightley, my notebook was stolen from my desk and I suspect Dr. Franklin was the one who took it. And now this. I am almost speechless.”

He cleared his throat. “Well, eh, Miss Blanchard. I don't know what to say.”

He sounded as if he thought there was something wrong with me. I wanted to groan. I should have kept my mouth shut.

“Do you know Peter Franklin?” I asked, hoping I wiped out my whining.

“Of course. Well credentialed. He was affiliated with Harvard, if I'm not mistaken. Many articles. Well thought of in his field. I thought he'd gone off the grid to do some work in less populated and, therefore, less disturbed areas. I could be mistaken. So many scientists working on so many projects. Hard to keep up with.”

He hesitated while he thought of a way to get me off the line. Or so I thought. “I suppose I'd better look into this, if there is a problem,” he said. “Wouldn't be the first time two scientists worked on the same thing at the same time.”

“We weren't.” I couldn't help myself. “Nothing like what I'm doing. At least not when we talked about my new trees.”

“Well then, I don't quite know what to say . . .” He sounded dubious, not believing me. After all, who was I compared to this man with a long list of credits to his name?

“Why don't I look into it? I'll check him out though I'm sure it's the same man. Doctor . . . eh . . . Miss Blanchard. I'll be in touch.”

I put the phone down and sat in complete misery. I was going to be a laughingstock when people heard how I accused Dr. Peter Franklin of stealing my work. It wouldn't be out in the open. Scientists didn't stoop to that level—often. But my name would be whispered in labs across the country, in fields, and in greenhouses.
“Accused Dr. Franklin of stealing from her. You ever hear of a Lindy Blanchard?”

They'd hear of me now.

I sat still in my rolling chair, in my greenhouse, and
thought long murderous thoughts about Peter Franklin. Friend of Elizabeth's all right. Just as devious. Just as underhanded.

And then I thought other thoughts. Like how to get even.

Beginning with an easy phone call.

“Lindy! How nice to hear from you.” Peter affected joy at the sound of my voice. “I was just beginning to wonder why you were being so standoffish. I've been busy here, with Elizabeth. So many problems about the estate and Eugene's wife running off to stay with those old ladies out in the country. I mean, people here are making it very difficult for Elizabeth. She's thinking of leaving Riverville for good. Putting this house on the market. Poor thing. Of course, I have to stay and do what I can to help.”

“Of course, Peter. I understand. We've all got to do what we've got to do.”

“Did you call about anything in particular? Or just to say hello?”

“To say ‘hello,' of course. And then I needed to talk to somebody who would understand—” I provided a little catch in my throat.

“Oh dear, is there something wrong?”

“Yes. Terrible. It's my trees.”

He hesitated. I could almost hear him thinking. “What is it?” he said. “I hope nothing's wrong with your latest attempts at drought resistance.”

“That's it. My poor little trees. I was so happy about them. Coming along just fine. I told you, didn't I? That day you were out to my greenhouse?”

“I think you mentioned something—”

“Well, they died. And I was just getting ready to write an article on them, too. Real breakthrough in drought resistance. It was for
Propagation.
Remember? I told you about it.”

He mulled that over. “Hmmm. I seem to remember. How sad for you. Are you certain? Perhaps this is a kind of dormancy. You were cutting the water back severely. I think that's what you were saying.”

“Yes. All going so well. Now they are stone-cold dead. We pulled them up today. Doesn't matter that I lost my record book. Won't be necessary. I'll have to begin again.”

“Well. The way you spoke—” He was working up to high dudgeon. “I mean, I took it this experiment was further along that it must have been. I feel . . . I don't know . . . somewhat fooled.”

“Really?” I said then had to infuse my voice with apology. “Sorry about that. I didn't mean to mislead you. But you, of all people, know what a scientist's life is like. So many disappointments. So many grants rescinded. Articles canceled.”

I played him along, holding him for a good while, enjoying his outrage. Next he'd be calling Joshua Lightley to cancel his offer of an article. I hoped I'd get to learn what his excuse was. Too bad it might hurt him professionally.

I could only hope.

*   *   *

Jessie and I went to see
Saving Mr. Banks
at the Bijou that night, and loved it. Took both of us back to when we were
kids and watched
Mary Poppins
over and over again. We used to walk with a duck-footed Mary Poppins walk and dance with a cane, like Bert. The movie brought it all back and we were pretty happy until we left the theater and ran into Ethelred Tomroy on her way out.

Not knowing much else to talk about as we stood there, all looking blankly at one another, I asked how her investigation was going. She stumbled back, fingers clawing at me as she tripped and almost fell, right there on the sidewalk.

I think my mouth was open. What the heck?

She looked hard around, at the people standing nearby. “Oh dear, don't mention that out loud,” she begged in the smallest voice I ever heard Ethelred use.

“I'm sorry,” I said, and meant it.

“Hunter came to see me. They're gettin' close to all those drug and gun lords. My heavens!” She wrung her hands. “This last murder, that man over to Lydia Hornbecker's boardinghouse—Hunter thinks he maybe came to town to shut me up. Can you imagine? Me—the target of some South American drug lord? I can't believe I let Freda talk me into hunting those men down.”

She threw her hands to her chest, as if to quiet her beating heart. “I'm out of it. I told Hunter everything I suspected. It's his job. Far as I can see, it won't do to have civilians doing police work. Freda and me coulda gotten killed. Now, because of all this, Freda's stopped talking to me, though it's mostly her fault. I'm going over to the Nut House and tell Miss Amelia what's going on. She gets herself too tangled up in police business, you ask me. She's got to be more careful. A woman her age.”

I agreed wholehearted and reminded her the Nut House was closed and said to go over there in the morning. I was just so sure, I went on telling her, that Meemaw would be only too happy to have Ethelred warning her how dangerous it was to interfere in police business.

“Well, I didn't think of it as interfering, as such. More helping out. Now I can see it's better if citizens trust in their police force and let them do their business. I know Miss Amelia might get mad at me, trying to tell her what to do, but she's got to listen. This is dangerous and I don't want anything happening to my old friend.”

I had to smile at Miss Ethelred. For all her posing and posturing and putting other people down, Meemaw's old friend really did care about her.

What I did next shocked Miss Ethelred so that her buggy eyes almost popped out of her head. I leaned up and kissed her cheek.