Semua Bab The Plants Know What You Did: Bab 11 - Bab 19

Judith Mercer came home on Thursday. I knew because the roses told me.Steven had called the night before to say she was being released from the hospital, but there was something different about hearing her plants react when she stepped through her own front door.Relief traveled strangely through the network. Warmth. Recognition. Familiar footsteps. Judith’s hands touching leaves she had probably walked past a thousand times before nearly dying.I stood in the propagation greenhouse with my eyes closed and let myself feel it.Alive. Home. Safe.“You’re smiling,” Mabel observed.I opened my eyes. “Judith’s home.”“Good.”The simple response made my smile widen. The investigation wasn’t finished. Peter Vance and Gregory Walsh were both in custody, and Steven had warned me repeatedly that in custody did not mean convicted. The blood on my oak still hadn’t matched either man, and Vance denied knowing anything about Judith’s handbag appearing on my property.Steven believed him. That both

By Monday morning, Mabel had developed a detailed opinion about a man she’d never met.“He sounds acceptable,” she announced as I checked the moisture levels in a tray of young begonias.“High praise.”“He made you laugh, he has a respectable occupation, and he did not attempt to kiss you when you were unwilling.”“Those are generally considered positive qualities.”“But I would like to meet him.”“You want to interrogate him.”“I can do both.”I adjusted the watering wand. “You are not interrogating Adrian.”“Then how am I supposed to determine his intentions?”“By minding your own business.”“Your happiness is my business.”That was sweet enough to make me pause.Then she added, “Also, I am terribly bored.”I finished watering and moved toward the retail greenhouse. Mari was processing a delivery, Noah was wrestling with an enormous bag of potting mix, and the morning sunlight had turned the glass walls into a cheerful collection of reflections.Everything was running smoothly. Natu

By Wednesday morning, Marcus Hale’s fern had developed a strong opinion about my office. “Too quiet.”I looked up from the invoice I was reviewing. “You spent years in an accountant’s office. Surely you’re accustomed to quiet.”“He talked.”“What did he talk about?”The fern considered the question. Its fronds shifted slightly in the gentle breeze from my desk fan. “Numbers. People. Things that made him angry.”“That sounds like accounting.”“Sometimes he sang.”I smiled. “Was he any good?”“No.”“Well, nobody’s perfect.”The fern seemed pleased with that answer. I’d moved it into a larger pot the previous afternoon, removed the dead fronds, and given it a thorough watering. It was already looking better, although recovery would take time.I understood the appeal of keeping something alive after losing someone important. Claire had seemed genuinely relieved when I promised to care for it.My phone rang. Steven.“Good morning,” I answered. “Please tell me you have something interesting

By Friday afternoon, I had learned two things about Marcus Hale’s basement.First, it contained an impressive collection of tax records, obsolete electronics, and exercise equipment that had apparently never experienced exercise. Second, there wasn’t a single living plant down there.I considered this a personal insult. “Not even a spider plant?” I asked Steven over the phone.“No.”“A neglected cactus?”“No.”“An ambitious potato growing in a forgotten cupboard?”“Ivy.”“I’m trying to help.”“I know.”I sat at my desk and regarded Fern, who had been listening to my half of the conversation with considerable interest.“Did you find anything?”“Maybe. There are scuff marks on the basement floor near a metal filing cabinet. Crime scene is checking whether anything was moved.”“Blood?”“Nothing visible. They’re testing.”“Could Marcus have been looking for something?”“Possibly. Claire says he stored older financial records downstairs.”I considered that. “Did Elliot know?”“We’re asking

Marcus Hale’s ex-wife arrived at the nursery on Sunday morning carrying a cardboard box, a potted rubber tree, and an expression that suggested she had very little patience left for the world.I understood the expression. I wore something similar whenever someone asked whether succulents needed sunlight.“Are you Ivy Faylan?”“Yes.”“I’m Natalie Hale. Claire said you were taking care of Marcus’s fern.”I glanced at the rubber tree. Its broad leaves were dusty, but otherwise it looked healthy. “I am. Would you like to see it?”Natalie’s expression softened. “Actually, I would.”I led her into the greenhouse, where Fern had been moved to a bright corner among several other recovering plants. Mabel had spent the morning explaining greenhouse etiquette, an undertaking Fern appeared to find both bewildering and reassuring.Natalie stopped beside Fern’s bench. She looked to be in her late forties, with dark hair streaked silver at the temples and the kind of careful posture people adopted w