Grounds for Death

CHAPTER 1

The ringing of the phone jarred Marilee’s concentration. She was putting the finishing touches on a new display celebrating garden scents – mint, thyme, lemon thyme, roses and a plethora of other aromatic blossoms. She stood back and placed her hands on her hips to assess the quality of her work. Another shrill ring echoed through her office doorway and out into the space housing annuals, herbs, shade-loving perennials, and now her therapeutic Scent-Sational Summer exhibit. A self-satisfied sigh escaped her. Scent-Sational Summer wasn’t totally finished – perhaps she would follow her nose through the aisles of greenery and see what else she could add to polish the look. But enough for now – her phone was ringing off the hook. She turned and headed toward her office.

Hello, Green Horizons Garden Center, Marilee Bright speaking.

Marilee, it’s me, Gary Clark. We’ve encountered a problem at the landscaping job. I think you should see it.

Is it serious? Is someone hurt? That was her biggest dread. Of the various parts of her business, her landscaping arm had the greatest opportunity for injury. There were often a number of people simultaneously working on different tasks, which gave rise to the possibility that someone wasn’t entirely aware of another worker’s movements, especially when heavy equipment was involved. Worksite safety was one area where she would not tolerate non-compliance or horseplay. Earthmoving and grading equipment were serious machines and could easily cause death or significant injury if operators didn’t pay attention. It wasn’t only themselves they had to look out for. There was the general public as well. Gary Clark, her landscaping supervisor, was fully on side when it came to safety. So what had happened? Her brow furrowed and concern tightened her heart.

No, that’s not it. I’d rather not say over the phone. She could hear Reggie, another of her employees, speaking in the background. Can you come? Now? A note of distress tinged Gary’s voice.

Thankful that no one had been injured — unless Gary was saving that bad news for her arrival — and sensing she wasn’t going to get further detail until she arrived at the site, she acquiesced.

Sure, Gary. I’ll be there in ten. She rang off. They wasted no time discussing where Marilee could find him. Although Gary coordinated all of Green Horizons’ landscaping projects, Marilee made it a point to be aware of all of the projects and to make personal contact with the owners of each property that was to be landscaped.

So concerned was she that something dreadful had happened, Marilee headed straight for her FJ Cruiser almost forgetting to stop to advise her staff she was driving out to Culvert Avenue. If someone’s hurt and Gary didn’t want to tell me over the phone, he’d better have called 911 for help. She shook her head. No. Gary is very competent. There’s no way he would wait to obtain medical assistance if someone was hurt.

She ran a hand through her hair as she drove, trying to shake off the morbid thoughts. Her knuckles were white as her fingers crushed the steering wheel.

What the heck was happening on Culvert Avenue?

Gary Clark ran up to the vehicle as Marilee pulled the truck onto the soft shoulder in front of the house, kicking up gravel. He helped pull the driver’s side door open. She was wearing her traditional tan-colored cargo shorts and loosely fitting cotton blouse, along with dark socks and heavy safety boots. She slid out of the seat and planted her boots on the loose gravel.

What’s going on, Gary? You sounded concerned. She looked him in the eye, hoping to glean some clue. Come on, it can’t be that bad, can it? No one is hurt, right? Please don’t let it be that, she prayed silently.

No, everyone’s fine, really, Marilee. That’s not our problem. But I want you to take a look at something.

He grabbed her elbow and led her into the acreage that surrounded the century old home of their clients. In the near distance, Marilee saw Reggie standing beside his mini excavator, his hands in his pockets, kicking the dirt.

As they approached him, Marilee could see that Reggie had been at work moving soil. Tire tracks and dark, terra-cotta-colored dirt indicated where he had been digging and where he stopped his excavator. Beside it, for the first time, Marilee noticed the above-ground remains of a concrete-walled well. The well had seen better days. Holes gaped through its sides, and a stone cover angled from its top lip.

Hey, Marilee, said Reggie as they neared him.

Hey, Reggie, said Marilee cautiously. What’s up?

Gary led her to the knee-high edge of the well. What do you see in there, Marilee? He gestured for Reggie to remain silent.

Marilee knit her brows, shifting her eyes between the two men. What are you getting at, Gary? Reggie?

Just look, will you, Marilee? Gary asked, a note of exasperation creeping into his voice.

Okay. She leaned over the well’s edge and peered into its depths. She saw nothing but darkness. She straightened and turned to her colleagues. Nothing. Why?

Take another look, said Gary.

Marilee humored him and focused her attention on the well’s gloomy interior, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. At first she saw nothing. Wait. What is that? Something white. She shielded her eyes from the glare of the brilliant summer day and leaned further into the well to block even more light. She felt Gary grab her waistband to keep her from falling in. Good idea. She peered into the gloomy depths. Uh-oh.

She eased herself up and met the looks of her two colleagues. Their faces told the whole story; they had both already seen what she had just seen. She moved away from the well’s opening.

I’ll call the police.

CHAPTER 2

Detective Jim Peterson watched as Reggie Brown reversed the mini excavator from the jagged edge of the well that he had backed into and destroyed that morning. Drying, tan-red clay peeled from the machine’s rear track as it moved away. A police spotlight had been set up and its powerful beam was directed into the well shaft. The light seemed out of place on a bright, hot June day, but it was necessary.

Jim was among the group of six observers waiting until it was safe to approach. Waving away diesel fumes, he moved forward and the group followed. They stumbled over chunks of mud and craned their necks to peer into the well opening. There was no doubt about it: a white skull glowed eerily from the dry clay well bottom. Alongside the curved concrete chunks that had been broken from the well’s rim that morning, it was clearly identifiable, even to the untrained eye.

Detective George Blackwell, Jim’s partner, broke the silence. Stepping back from the jagged opening, he announced that work would have to be suspended and the area cordoned off as a crime scene. In response, Jim fished his cellular phone from the pocket of his gray cotton slacks — he had shed his jacket in the car due to the oppressive heat — and, moving away from the well, called the office — the Sandalwood Police Department — to request a forensic team. A coroner’s attendance would not be necessary, as was usual in cases of the recently deceased. This proclamation of death would take place at the morgue.

Jim snapped his mobile shut and returned his gaze to the group. He had been introduced to a few of them that morning. Others he already knew. Sandalwood was after all a small town, and people generally got to know one another quickly if they were in the least bit sociable.

New to him were the homeowners, Steve Hamilton and his fiancée, Gwen Sheppard. He’d met but never dealt with Gary Clark, the landscaping supervisor, and Reggie Brown, who had been operating the earth-moving machine. And then there was their boss, Marilee Bright, owner of the Green Horizons Garden Center. Marilee, he definitely knew.

Jim surveyed the scene as he passed a damp sleeve across his perspiring brow. The property was typical for the Sandalwood area: established in the mid to late 1800s, surrounded by acres of flat, arable farmland on which corn and other grain crops were grown. Patting his pockets for his sunglasses, he realized belatedly that he had left them in the car. He shielded his eyes from the glare of the bright sun and gazed in the direction of the house. It was a well-preserved Victorian home, steep roofed, clapboard shell, eaves ornately trimmed in teal-colored wood, a wide welcoming veranda bordered by a white-painted railing with turned spindles. It had obviously been taken care of. Not like the well.

Refocusing on the object of his visit, he lamented the number of abandoned and neglected wells that still dotted the landscape, a hundred years later. He had been drawn into other well-related tragedies in his fifteen-year career.

He recalled one case in particular, in which a missing teenager had been found three months after his family and police had assumed he had run away. On learning of his death, the family was grief stricken and guilt ridden that they had failed him. How he had come to be in the unsealed well on the abandoned property remained an unresolved question.

A second case had involved two ten-year-old children who happened upon a well hidden among overgrown brambles and raspberry bushes on a vacant lot beside their grandparents’ property. Curiosity had led them to investigate this seemingly odd and unused structure. The vacationing children had spent several days in and around the well, playing on the heavy protective stone, cracked with the passage of time, that capped the opening. The little they could see into the well had added to their curiosity, as they could make out nothing but darkness beyond. Thankfully, they had been found alive after two days, when a community-organized search team heard their cries. It seemed the children had used a crowbar to widen the opening and had fallen in, the second to save the first. One had suffered a broken leg; the other, two broken ribs.

It was not unusual for an old well to be left uncovered and unattended by owners who might have intended to fill them in but, for whatever reason, neglected to complete the task quickly, or thought that a temporary cover would protect passers-by. He couldn’t imagine how such a person might feel after learning he had created the environment for someone’s untimely death. If only more homeowners were aware of the danger. The town’s ordinance required the decommissioning of unused wells by licensed technicians — which was surprisingly more involved than simply filling it up with soil — and the work had to be done in the space of one day, leaving no opportunity for accidental deaths.

Here, on the Hamilton-Sheppard property, the land was flat and clear, with just a few shrubs and expanses of weeds — not hilly nor covered in stands of trees — and had been in that state for many years, if his memory served correctly. He pulled out his police-issued notebook and jotted down a few words to remind himself to confirm this perception with Steve Hamilton or Gary Clark. Although who knew how long the body had been there? The landscape could have undergone several transformations in the intervening years. In fact, since the skull had not shown evidence of flesh or skin, Jim presumed that the body had lain undisturbed for several years. Still, he would leave it to forensics to establish the time of death, and in the interim he had better be thorough.

The group had moved away from the shaft and they were huddled in discussion, no doubt Hamilton, Sheppard and Clark asking George when their work could resume. Presumably Green Horizons had other jobs requiring their attention in the event that this project was temporarily delayed.

Steve Hamilton and Gwen Sheppard had purchased the property within the past two years, he believed. Judging by the state of the remains, it was doubtful that the death had occurred within that time frame. That reduced the pool of suspects by two.

There must have been something that twigged him to think this was a crime, and not an accidental fall into the well. What had that been? Oh, yes, the fact that the cover was securely placed over the well’s opening before Brown had backed into it.

Jim noted with surprise — and some irritation — that the group hadn’t yet moved the conversation indoors. Surely it would be more comfortable than standing in the oppressive head, the sun beating down on their bare scalps. George made eye contact with him, eyebrows raised, wanting confirmation of the imminent arrival of forensics. Jim nodded slightly to indicate that he had reached them. He supposed he should provide George with the latest update and rejoin the group, but the heat made him sluggish and unwilling to move in any direction unless it took him somewhere cooler. He wished George would say something that would lead the homeowners to invite them indoors for refreshments.

As Jim drew closer, George met him halfway, his face red from the heat, rivulets of perspiration marking his temples and cheeks.

So what’s the status? When will forensics arrive?

Within the hour, I’m told.

George turned to the homeowners. Mr. Hamilton, the investigators will be here by nine o’clock. He checked his silver-faced analog watch. Do you mind if we move this discussion inside? He brushed a bead of perspiration from his cheek with a forefinger.

Of course, said Ms. Sheppard with a broad smile, answering for the couple. In contrast to the men, she seemed quite comfortable in the heat, her rose-colored linen skirt and sleeveless white blouse betraying no sign of perspiration, but of course, she had not been toiling under the unrelenting sun. I’m sorry. I should have suggested it sooner. I’ll get you something to drink while we wait.

Hamilton repeated the invitation, not that anyone had hesitated, and they moved inside.

Jim admired the style and architecture of the house, although he would not have chosen it for himself. He preferred new construction, where he did not have to worry about the integrity of the roof, furnace and wiring, or the numerous other problems inherent in century-home ownership.

His own personal knowledge gave him some insight into the history of the property. The home’s previous occupants, seventy-something Orla and Robert Barton, had lived in the old Victorian home for several decades before moving into the heart of Sandalwood to be closer to shops and health care, and to lead a less taxing life. George and Jim would almost certainly visit them as part of their investigation unless the crime was immediately solvable, which he seriously doubted. A visit to the Bartons would be one of their first stops. Presumably the couple had been the unwitting custodians of the evidence of someone else’s crime, but nothing excluded them from suspicion at this juncture.

As they approached the house, dry grass crunched underfoot and the scent of scorched vegetation assailed their nostrils. Much of the grass had dried to straw in the June heat, giving the impression they were tromping through late summer wheat stubble. He noted the house’s broad façade, clapboard construction and white paint, accented by teal wood shutters. Bordering the steps leading to the door were low-lying evergreens. Wide, wooden steps stained a rich, rusty shade of red led to a veranda that wrapped around the corners of the house. He wondered whether the veranda circled the home or ended on the south and north sides. That would be a pity. The back’s westerly view would be ideal for a comfortable, shaded veranda. He imagined white wicker seating and sunny summer afternoons spent observing the sun arc through the sky and descend into brilliant sunsets over the distant abandoned grain silos and time-ravaged barns. Perhaps he would have a chance later to view the back of the house to confirm his mental image of the place.

The broad floorboards of the covered wooden porch creaked and thudded hollowly under their feet. Not like the newer houses, thought Jim. These days, subdivision homeowners were lucky if they received a narrow, preformed concrete step representing a front stoop. Certainly this old Victorian home had a great deal more character than that.

CHAPTER 3

Inside, the house was cool and the change in temperature was welcome. Jim wondered whether the coolness was due to the house having few, narrow windows to protect it from the heat of the sun and to insulate against bitter cold winter winds, as was common at the time, or whether the homeowners, past or present, had decided to forego authenticity in favor of comfortable days and nights through the addition of central air conditioning. It was probably the latter.

The cherry-wood floored vestibule and reception area were surprisingly spacious. A fireplace original to the house ran along one wall of the long central reception hall, a blackened cast-iron grill occupying the hearth. Sheppard and Hamilton showed them into the living room, or, as it was properly called in its day, the parlor. Here Jim surmised that the couple may have purchased the home with a plan to renovate: a floor sander stood tucked into a corner, and on one of the room’s walls the layers of faded wallpaper had been peeled back to reveal a stained plaster surface.

High nine-foot ceilings made the spacious room seem even larger. Paisley wallpaper lined the walls in a pattern he assumed had originally been burgundy on a cream background. The furniture — a pale blue, chintz sofa on a carved, mahogany frame, a number of matching guest chairs, a long, aged, mahogany wall cabinet that took up one entire surface, and a matching coffee table — appeared to have been left behind by the Bartons, as they seemed more in keeping with the character of the room than with the house’s new occupants.

They sat, taking up all of the available seating, as Hamilton and Sheppard headed to the kitchen to assemble and return with drinks.

He observed the others. Reggie Brown and Gary Clark were intently focused, he gathered, on explaining to Marilee Bright how they had come to discover the remains. Despite the fact that the summer had only just officially begun, both men sported deep tans typical of those in outdoor occupations.

Brown, in his mid to late twenties, was dressed in dark jeans and a thin, presumably once-white T-shirt, which the morning’s hot and dusty work had transformed into a perspiration-drenched garment that had captured so much dirt as to make it appear a mottled canvas of gray and brown. He appeared an easy-going, friendly type. He was fit in a way that reflected his manual job but also suggested workouts at the gym. He still had the bright eyes of youth: enthusiastic and energetic.

Jim could see how women could be attracted to Brown. He self-consciously glanced down at the extra weight gathering unchecked at his own waist. His wife, Kelly, had joked with him about it only this morning as she gave him a loving squeeze over orange juice and toast. She was kidding, he knew, but the additional weight was bound to increase if he didn’t act on it. He made a mental note to spend more time on the treadmill.

Brown gestured animatedly as he re-enacted the