His Only Defense. Carolyn McSparren

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СКАЧАТЬ Their medium-size Georgian-style house was well-kept, but unremarkable.

      The garden, however, was anything but unremarkable. Either the couple could afford a full-time gardener, or one of them worked continuously to manicure the lawn and the flower beds. Even in November, great clumps of gold and ochre chrysanthemums hadn’t quite finished blooming, and the pansies glowed.

      Interesting. They were planted in strict groups sorted by color. Somebody had a thing for order.

      The trees hadn’t been neglected, either. Liz wasn’t very good on horticulture, but even she could identify the glowing red of dogwoods and Japanese maples that still hadn’t lost their leaves. Each tree was carefully surrounded by a mulched circle planted with hostas and dwarf azaleas. There was no crab or orchard grass. Not one dandelion. This was property that would receive the yard of the month award more often than not. The gardener obviously had control issues. Whatever the rest of this person’s life was like, he—or she—could impose his will on this little patch. Shrubs didn’t talk back.

      Liz wanted to see whether the backyard was as cultivated and staged, or whether the front yard—the one the neighbors saw—received all the attention.

      She was reaching for the doorbell when a voice came over the intercom, startling her. “Miz Gibson?”

      A female voice. Not young. “Mrs. Richardson?”

      “I’m in my workshop out back. Come on around by the driveway and down the path past the fountain.”

      Liz walked around the house. At first glance the backyard looked no different, but then she realized the deep lot was bisected—quadrisected, really. The same precision governed the plantings around the house and deck.

      Beyond the section of lawn on the right side was an equally neat vegetable garden. Turnip greens, cabbage, winter squash and cauliflower still remained in the beds.

      The left-hand quarter, however, looked as though it belonged to a completely different yard. She’d be willing to bet it belonged to a different gardener.

      Although there were neat brick paths, instead of marching straight and intersecting at ninety-degree angles, they curved gently among deep beds of ornamental grasses and now-dying wildflowers. The paths met at an ornamental pond made to look like a natural pool fed by a small, mossy waterfall. When Liz leaned over it, fat, parti-colored koi rose up to see if she had any nibbles for them.

      The pool would be cool and shaded in the summer when the big oaks were in full leaf.

      At the very back corner stood another building. Not a shed, but a good-size A-frame structure of dark green stained board and batten, with a window wall facing the backyard and up the driveway.

      Liz made a mental note to see how long the Richardsons had lived here. This could not have been accomplished in a day or even a year.

      “Down here, Miz Gibson.” A tall woman in jeans and a hunter-green sweatshirt stepped from the side portico of the A-frame and motioned to Liz, then stood aside and let her enter ahead of her.

      “In case you can’t tell, I’m a weaver.” Irene Richardson waved her hand at the room and laughed.

      Diamond-shaped shelves built across the wall beside the door were stuffed with jewel-toned skeins of thick wool. A big bench loom faced the window wall at the front, and several pieces of equipment Liz assumed had to do with making yarn were positioned around the space. There was even an antique spinning wheel.

      On the mantelpiece sat about twenty wooden candlesticks with tall ivory tapers in them. “They’re made out of old-fashioned wool spindles,” Irene said. “I collect them.”

      A scarred harvest table, several pine chairs and a tiny kitchen unit ran along the back wall. Above hung more shelves overflowing with what looked like craft books. A gas fireplace with fake logs burned cheerily in the far corner. A worn club chair and a Lincoln rocker sat on either side of the hearth.

      A number of colorful wool rugs hung on the walls, and bright shawls were tossed casually over the furniture. There were no pictures; the weavings were art enough.

      “Incredible room,” Liz said. “Incredible yard, too. I’d love to see it in the spring.”

      “Come back in April. Herb is always delighted to show off his handiwork. We’re on several garden tours every spring and summer, although I think it’s even prettier in the fall, when the leaves turn, and before the summer flowers die.”

      “So he’s the gardener, you’re the weaver.”

      “Not quite. The little bit around the cottage is mine. Takes almost no maintenance, and I can usually con Herb into doing that for me. I loathe gardening, with its dirty fingernails, aching knees and sweat.”

      Liz wandered around, peering at the cloud-soft shawls draped over the chairs, and wondering whether Mrs. Richardson sold them. If so, whether she could afford to buy one. It wouldn’t do to ask now, but after the case was closed, she might inquire about price. “When did you start weaving?”

      “Six years ago.” Mrs. Richardson sat in the rocker and motioned Liz to the club chair. “I either had to discover something to occupy my mind, or lose it. Simple as that. I took a continuing-education course in weaving, and six years later, this is the result.”

      “Herb’s the gardener?”

      “He’d always gardened, but he went crazy after—you know. Same reason.”

      “So a year after.”

      “It took us both a year before we could do anything besides sit and stare at the walls and bug the police.”

      “After something like this happens, many couples split up. You’re still together.”

      “That’s debatable.” Irene laughed, this time without mirth. Jud had laughed the same way. There wasn’t much comedy in this family. “We have a granddaughter who needs us. Jud needs me, too.”

      “Just you?”

      Irene sighed. Her shoulders sank, and for the first time, she looked her age. Liz had checked. She was sixty-two, her husband sixty-nine.

      “I wanted to speak to you before Herb got hold of you. He’s so angry. He thinks Jud…did something to Sylvia. He’ll tell you a whole bunch of stuff that isn’t true, although I’m sure he believes every word.”

      “You’re certain none of it is true?”

      “Oh, absolutely. Jud wouldn’t hurt a fly, and believe me, Sylvia gave him plenty of motivation.”

      Aha.

      “That boy was the best thing that ever happened to Sylvia, and he’s blessed my life and Colleen’s.” Irene waved at the room. “He designed and built this cottage for me completely at his expense. He didn’t even let me pay for the materials, although I’m sure he could have used the money.”

      Her attitude surprised Liz. Mothers didn’t generally say negative things about their own children to the police.

      “If Jud says he doesn’t know where she is, then he doesn’t know. Period.”

      “You СКАЧАТЬ