Shelley shrugged. "His name just came to mind because he's the instructor who replaced her. Maybe he has a crazy need to publicize himself and his marigolds.”
Jane replied, "I'm sure he, like Julie, is asked to give a lot of talks to groups. Probably more than he wants to do. And the marigolds aren't even on sale for a couple more years, he said."
“I was thinking about what Miss Winstead said about him.”
Jane thought a moment. "Do you suppose her version is the whole truth?"
“I wondered that as well," Shelley admitted. "But Eastman is obviously a man determined to get ahead. Promote himself. Make lots of money. Maybe what he really wants is fame."
“He is a difficult man to like. But I don't think any of these theories hold water.”
Shifting gears, Shelley asked, "Mel hasn't been around much, has he?"
“He's busy with three different cases at once," Jane said. "He's been calling me at intervals, but I haven't actually laid eyes on him for a couple days."
“Has he told you anything more about Julie Jackson?"
“He's being silent as the grave about it. Says things are coming along in the investigation.”
Shelley took a sip of her iced tea she'd brought along in a big, remarkably ugly purple plastic carafe. "Doesn't want us meddling in a neighborhood crime?”
Jane nodded. "I guess so. But we've been so much help to him before, you'd think he'd appreciate our skills," she said with a wry smile.
The door of a vehicle slammed in Shelley's driveway and she got up, saying, "Just a minute. I'll be back.”
It was actually fifteen minutes before Shelley got back, saying, "That was the garden place." "What garden place?"
“The one where your Mike works. I called them out to spruce up my yard."
“Shelley!" Jane exclaimed. "That's cheating! The class is coming to our yards the same day. You're going to show off and make me look even worse."
“You could have thought of it," Shelley said calmly. "Come see what they've done.”
The formerly rather bland backyard had two young men mowing and using a Weed Eater around the edges of the lawn. A multitude of gorgeous plants in planters of every variety were sitting around the edge of the patio. A replica of an old-fashioned wooden wheelbarrow was full of yellow nasturtiums; a large watering can spilled out purple petunias. There was a cupid statue surrounded by little pots of lobelia, and about ten of those fake pottery pots that look real were scattered artfully about. From one pot sprouted a trellis covered with a coral wild rose. Tall spikes of veronica were next to the rose, and there was a huge pot of dark red sunflowers the color of good burgundy. Verbena was tucked in between, filling the gaps between the large pots.
Jane gaped at the transformation. "You — you! You don't even know what most of this is. How are you going to take care of this?"
“Easy. I just water for a couple days and when the garden tour is over, these nice boys come back and take it all away."
“You RENTED a garden?"
“Why not? It wasn't all that expensive. And it was easy. One plant catalog and one phone call." Jane glared at her friend. "I was just going to send Mike out with the pooper-scooper and a lawn mower the night before, and keep the cats inside so they didn't leave mangled chipmunks on the patio. I even considered getting a tablecloth for the patio table and a little arrangement of flowers from the grocery store. And you go and re-create the Biltmore gardens for yourself. I call that cheating. I really do.”
Shelley brushed this insult off. "As I say, anyone could have thought of it.”
Jane made a raspberry noise.
“Mrs. Nowack," one of the workers asked, "do you want your shrubs trimmed?”
Shelley made a flighty gesture and said, "Yes. Soldier on, my good man.”
Jane clumped home and took another critical look at her yard, noting the bug-chewed white petunias in the south corner, the straggling butterfly bush that had never bloomed, the stingy little marigolds. Then she went inside and called the nursery where Mike worked. Maybe since she was the mother of an employee, they'd give her a discount.
She was hardly off the phone when, a moment later, the doorbell rang. It was Arnold Waring holding a square pan with foil over it.
“Come in… Arnie," Jane said, remembering that he'd asked the class to call him that.
“Ms. Appledorn was telling me today about the awful food she brought you." He paused. "I hope you didn't like it, but maybe it was to your taste."
“Not my taste at all. I threw it all away. Though she meant well.”
He looked relieved to hear this. "Well, I got home and took to thinking that it might be nice to have something better around. These are brownies from my wife's recipe file. Where would you like me to put them?"
“You made them yourself?" Jane said, leading him to the kitchen and indicating the counter.
“Oh, Miss Jeffry, I have to cook for myself. Never cooked for one person until Darlene passed on. But I used to cook for a gang at the fire station before I retired. At least twice a week now, I go to Darlene's little recipe box. She was such a good cook. It makes me feel — well, a little bit as if she's still with me. In spirit, anyway."
“That's sweet of you," Jane said. "I'm sure she knows. you're doing that and is pleased.”
Suddenly he was bustling back to the front door. Speaking over his shoulder, he said, "Mustn't keep you. Just thought you might like the brownies.”
Jane followed him, thanking him, but he was gone.
Jane and her daughter were finishing a late dinner. Mike hadn't returned and Jane was wondering wildly if Mike and Kipsy had eloped. He was usually very good at letting his mother know where he was. Well… he was that way when he was in high school. A year of college had apparently put this courtesy out of his mind.
Ursula had called and said she was on the way with more food, and Jane said she was already putting her dinner on the table, and Ursula believed it even though it was only four-thirty when she called.
Katie was still speaking with a fake French accent, and Jane pretended not to notice. "The French, they would never use a plastic bag to cook meat. They use fine parchment paper," Katie commented.
“All of them?" Jane said sarcastically. "Katie, you were only in Paris with rich friends. And I doubt you got to go in the kitchen of the restaurants."
“But we did." Katie reverted momentarily to plain English. "Jenny's dad had gone to culinary school when he was young, and he always asked to see the kitchen before we ordered.”
Jane was appalled. "Jenny's dad is a banker. Culinary was twenty years in his past, and I remember him telling me it made him gain weight and he quit after the first year and took business courses. And what's more, 'nice' people from America don't insist on seeing the kitchens of restaurants. It's a wonder you weren't all thrown out.”
The argument was put on hold when Mel rang the front doorbell. Katie flounced to the hall and let him in, saying in bored tones, "She's in the kitchen criticizing my friends." She continued the flounce clear upstairs where she turned her radio on full blast.
Mel came in the kitchen smiling. "Who are you raking over the coals now?"
“No one you know," Jane said with a grin. "Sit down. There are tons of leftovers. I'll bet you haven't had dinner."
“Or lunch for that matter. Thanks.”
Jane had learned early on that you didn't try to talk to Mel when he was hungry. If he answered at all, it was merely "uh-huh" or "no." But she was anxious to pick his mind about Julie Jackson. She sat patiently as he ate four slices of the roast, and two helpings of potatoes and gravy, and passed on the broccoli au gratin.
While he was making inroads on the leftovers, she told him about Shelley renting plants. "It wasn't fair. Our yards are on the same day and it would make me look like a piker."