How Does Your Garden Grow?
There was no more beautiful garden in Rockwell Heights than the one so lovingly tended by Miss Agatha Quimby. Sweet, silver-haired Miss Quimby was one of the most beloved residents of the quaint little New Hampshire town. Having never married, Agatha spent her middle-aged years bearing the stigma of spinsterhood, but by the age of eighty-two, she had left all that behind her. Now everyone thought of Agatha as a surrogate grandmother rather than an old maid.
Still, it remained a mystery to many just why she had never married. Those who could remember her in her early twenties recalled an intelligent, attractive, outgoing person who had more than her share of eligible suitors. Then as she neared her thirties, she began traveling a great deal, and when she finally came home, she was content to settle down and lead a quiet, solitary existence in a cottage on Sullivan Street.
Despite her advanced years, Agatha had the energy of a woman half her age. When she was not tending her beautiful garden, she kept herself busy with various charitable deeds. She volunteered at Rockwell Heights Hospital, the local library and the homeless shelter in nearby Brookfield. A woman of means, Agatha was also a munificent person who could always be counted on to contribute to every food, clothing, toy and book drive. At every school bake sale, community craft show, hospital-sponsored tricky tray and church rummage sale, she was more than willing to donate a prize, man a booth, work in the kitchen or help with the cleanup.
Although Miss Quimby was a respected pillar of the New England community, no one loved the kindly octogenarian more than the children of Rockwell Heights. Agatha, who loved to bake, always had fresh, homemade cookies or cupcakes for the neighborhood kids who often went out of their way to walk past her cottage on their journey home from school. On cold, snowy days she invited skaters and sleigh riders into her home for hot chocolate in front of the fire. Every Easter she held her annual egg hunt; every Halloween her treats were considered the best; and every Christmas she made gingerbread men and alcohol-free eggnog that she shared with the carolers who sang at her door.
Yes, Agatha Quimby was loved by all, but she was known by no one.
* * *
Heather Townsend, the first female police detective in the history of Brookfield, had met Agatha on several occasions. She was well aware of the elderly woman's reputation as a warm and charitable soul, but to Heather, the old woman seemed a bit remote and a trifle cold.
There's something not right about that one, she thought on more than one occasion. I wouldn't be surprised if there's something more sinister beneath the kindly old grandmother exterior.
Perhaps, like many other dedicated law enforcement officers, Detective Townsend was becoming too suspicious. Certainly, a respected woman such as Miss Agatha Quimby had no guilty skeletons in her closet.
As Heather sat at her desk one day reading over a witness' statement regarding an attempted robbery, Mrs. Leona Borden, the social worker at the homeless shelter, asked to speak with her.
"What can I do for you, Mrs. Borden?" Heather politely inquired.
"I'd like to report a missing person," Leona replied.
Heather grabbed a pen and paper to take down the relevant facts.
"Who is it that's missing?"
"A young runaway named Peter Willis. He was staying at the shelter until he disappeared two days ago. I haven't seen him since then."
"What makes you think he's missing, that he didn't just run away again?"
"Because he was tired of living on the streets. He had called his parents and asked if he could come home. They are driving all the way from Oregon to come and get him. They'll probably be here late this afternoon or early tomorrow, and now he has disappeared."
"He could have had second thoughts about going home," Heather suggested.
"That's true, but everything he owns is in a duffel bag, which he left in a locker at the shelter. If he did run away, why didn't he take his belongings with him?"
Heather took down Peter's description and promised Mrs. Borden she would make every attempt to find the missing boy. During the next several days, she interviewed everyone at the shelter as well as the people who lived on the surrounding streets. When the detective questioned the local shopkeepers and their employees, one cashier remembered seeing a boy of Peter's description get into the back seat of Miss Quimby's car. Following her only lead, Heather went to question the old woman.
"What a beautiful garden!" Heather told Agatha, who was busy pulling weeds from around her precious flowers.
"Thank you. You're that female detective from Brookfield, aren't you? I saw your picture in the newspaper when you got promoted. What are you doing here in Rockwell Heights?"
"I'm investigating the disappearance of a young man named Peter Willis. According to witnesses, he was last seen in the back seat of your car."
"Peter Willis? Oh, yes, you must mean the boy from the shelter. I saw him hitchhiking along Third Street, so I picked him up and gave him a ride to the bus station."
"I understand that you volunteer at the shelter. Weren't you aware of the fact that his parents were coming to take him home?"
"Mrs. Borden may have mentioned it to me. I don't remember."
"But you did know he was a runaway."
"Yes. Everyone at the shelter knew that."
"And yet you drove him to the bus station, knowing he had a history of running away."
"I didn't ask where he was going, Detective. He might only have been taking a short ride and planning to return later that day."
"But didn't you at least report it to Mrs. Borden? She should have been made aware of any traveling he did."
"I didn't see her until a few days later, and by then the whole incident had slipped my mind."
Heather had gotten a recent photograph of Peter Willis from the boy's parents, who arrived from Oregon only to have their hearts broken when they learned their son was missing. She took the picture with her when she questioned the staff at the bus station. No one remembered seeing Peter, although Heather supposed it was possible that whoever was on duty that day had not taken notice of a young man traveling on his own.
Still, Heather had a hunch that Miss Quimby was not being completely honest with her.
* * *
"A missing boy, huh?" asked Calvin Reinhold, the director of the county's Center for Missing and Exploited Children. "Let's see who we have here."
He quickly read the missing persons report on Peter Willis.
"That's odd," he concluded.
"What's odd?" asked Heather, who had been filling out the forms to officially include Peter in the Center's missing children network.
"Agatha Quimby. I've come across that name before."
"In another missing child case?"
"I believe so."
Calvin pulled a file folder out of his desk drawer and began thumbing through the typed forms. Halfway through the stack, he found what he was looking for.
"Here it is. Tommy Newman. The day before he disappeared, he told a friend that a woman named Agatha Quimby had offered to pay him to help her with some yard work. According to Quimby, Newman never showed up, and she got a local boy to help her instead. When I asked the local boy's name, she said she didn't remember, that he was just one of the kids in the neighborhood."
After leaving the Center for Missing Children, Heather took her investigation directly to the children of Rockwell Heights. They all gave her glowing reports of Miss Quimby, but none of them had ever been asked to help her with yard work.
"She always got strange kids to give her a hand. We didn't know any of them," one of the youngsters told the detective.
"Do you know what kind of work they did for Miss Quimby?"
"They would help her dig holes that she could plant things in."
"Holes?" Heather echoed with suspicion. "How big were they?"
"Big enough to bury a pirate's treasure chest in!" one of the younger children answered.
* * *
Agatha Quimby was busy working in her garden when Heather showed up at her cottage for the second time.
"I stopped by for two reasons," Heather said with a friendly smile. "The first is to tell you that one of the bus drivers thinks he remembers Peter taking the bus to Boston. The second is to ask you a favor. I've always wanted a garden, but I know nothing about plants. I was wondering if you might give me some pointers."
"I don't know what I could teach you, Detective Townsend."
"Call me Heather, please."
"Heather? What a beautiful name. I always get along well with people who are named after flowers. I'll tell you a secret about my garden. I treat my plants as though they were my children. I've even given them names. The daisies are named Tommy, the coneflowers are called Bobby and the poppies are named Helen Elizabeth."
Heather spent the rest of the afternoon with Agatha, who gave her lessons in planting, watering and cultivating various species of plants. After leaving the old woman's cottage, the detective's hunch had grown into a full-fledged suspicion. But that suspicion was so bizarre. Who would ever believe it? Even Heather, herself, had doubts. She had to have more to go on before she shared her theory with anyone at the police department.
The next day was Detective Townsend's day off, and she decided to drive to Manchester where she could shop at the outlet mall and also check out a few things at the university's library. While looking for a book on varieties of flowering plants, she met Warren Barrett, a professor of botany. Thinking it might be quicker to get information out of him than reading through thick textbooks, she invited the young teacher out to lunch.
"You're probably going to think I'm crazy, but are you familiar with any types of flowers that are named after people? You know, like Rose, Lily, Daisy."
"All plants have at least two names. They have their scientific name, which is in Latin, and their common name, which is in English. Then, of course, various species and varieties of each plant have their own unique names."
Heather was beginning to think that maybe a book might have been faster after all.
"As to people's names, there are the more common ones such as the Rose of Sharon and Sweet William. There is a variety of lamium, which is called White Nancy. Then there's a variety of goldenrod that's called Peter Pan."
Heather was reminded of the goldenrod in Agatha Quimby's garden. Most people avoided goldenrod because it wreaked havoc with people's allergies and hay fever.
Why would anyone include it in their garden? she wondered.
"Are you okay, Detective Townsend?"
"Professor Barrett, I'm working on a case and checking out a theory that seems on the surface to be completely unbelievable. I need help, and you're an expert in the field."
She quickly told the professor about the missing children that she believed might be buried on Agatha Quimby's property. Warren agreed to go with her to look at the garden in the hope of identifying the species of flowers it contained.
* * *
Heather and Warren parked about a mile from Agatha's cottage. When Miss Quimby passed them on her way to the homeless shelter, the detective drove toward Sullivan Street. Once there, Heather took out her notebook as Warren started to examine Agatha's plants.
"This is the one called Jacob's Ladder," Warren stated with authority. "That plant in the back is an eryngium that is sometimes called Sea Holly. The daisies are the double white variety known as Thomas Killen. See those small blue flowers over there? They're called anchusa, and that particular variety is known as Little John. Those dark pink anemones next to them are called Queen Charlotte, and the plants next to them are asters. Asters are sometimes called Michaelmas daisies."
Heather scribbled furiously, trying to keep up with the fast-talking professor.
"On the ground around that tree is a creeper lamium; that's the White Nancy I mentioned at lunch. And over there, of course, is the Peter Pan goldenrod—an odd plant for a garden. Oh, well! To each his own."
"Hold on a second, professor," the detective said and flipped to a blank page in her notebook. "Okay. Go ahead."
"The light pink flowers," Warren continued, "are oriental poppies, specifically, the Helen Elizabeth species. These are coneflowers. They'll produce large purple-red daisy-like blossoms that are known as Robert Bloom. And those scarlet flowers are a variety of pyrethrum known as James Galway. Finally, that tall, spiky plant is a yucca plant. It'll bear creamy white flowers pretty soon. That particular species is called Adam's needle."
After dropping Warren Barrett off at his car and thanking him profusely, Heather went back to her apartment and checked the list of plant names against the list of missing children Calvin Reinhold had given her.
"Jacob's ladder corresponds to Jacob Lawrence; Sea Holly ... Holly Marie Stewart; Thomas Killen daisies ... Tommy Newman; Little John anchusa ... Jonathan Romano; Queen Charlotte anemones ... Charlotte Anne Fuller; Michaelmas daisies ... Michael Dennis Kennedy; White Nancy ... Nancy Henderson; Peter Pan goldenrod ... Peter Willis; Helen Elizabeth poppies ... Helen Elizabeth Jennings; Robert Bloom coneflowers ... Bobby Crawford; James Galway ...."
Heather carefully scanned the list of missing children several times, but she could find no James, Jim or Jimmy on it. Skipping over James Galway, she went to the next and final plant on the list: Adam's needle, which corresponded with Adam Daniel Brewer.
Heather's suspicion was becoming more and more a certainty, but she still needed concrete proof before she went to a judge to ask for a court order to dig up Agatha Quimby's garden.
* * *
Once again, Heather waited in her unmarked car until Agatha left for the homeless shelter. When the coast was clear, she headed toward the old woman's cottage, equipped with a spade and a supply of Ziploc evidence bags to hold anything she found in the garden that was even remotely unusual.
"If I could only find a button, a torn scrap of fabric, a loose tooth or a strand of hair—anything that would prove one of those missing kids was here in the yard."
Heather got down on her hands and knees, carefully searching through the grass, sifting through the fertile soil and feeling along the stems and thorny protrusions of the plants. So intent was she in her search that she never heard the car pull into the driveway.
"Come for another gardening lesson, Detective Townsend?" Agatha asked sweetly.
Heather stood and brushed the dirt from her hands.
Thinking quickly, she replied, "No, actually I lost an earring, a rather valuable one. And the last time I remember wearing it was the day I came here. So I was just looking around trying to find it. I hope you don't mind."
"That's a nice story, my dear," Agatha laughed, "but it doesn't explain those baggies filled with topsoil and grass clippings."
Heather let out a long sigh, deciding it was time to come clean.
"You're right, Miss Quimby. The truth is no one at the bus station could remember seeing Peter Willis the day he went missing. I don't think he was ever there. In fact, I think he's right here, buried underneath that patch of goldenrod."
There were no tears, no vehement denials. Rather than proclaim her innocence, Agatha simply smiled and clapped her hands.
"Well done, Heather," she said, mockingly applauding the young detective. "Do you know how many years it has been since I first put little Jimmy under the pyrethrum? And you're the only one to guess the truth. Still, I really must be more careful in the future."
"Who was Jimmy, Miss Quimby? I didn't find any James or Jimmy reported as missing."
"Of course not. Jimmy wasn't like the others. He was my son, my illegitimate son. Back in those days, women couldn't just get an abortion like they can now. And the problems you had to face if you were an unwed mother! People were so intolerant then. When I learned I was pregnant, I was forced to leave town. I told everyone I was traveling to Europe, but I went to New York until the baby was born. Then I came back here and put my son in the garden."
"You murdered your own child?"
"It was quick and painless, I assure you. One night while he was sleeping in his crib, I put a pillow over his face and smothered him."
As Heather bent over to pick up the filled Ziploc bags, she started reciting Miss Quimby's rights as required by the Miranda Act.
"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in ...."
Suddenly, Agatha brought the spade down on Heather's skull, exhibiting incredible strength for a woman her age. The young detective was unconscious after one blow and dead after two.
As she started digging a hole next to the patch of poppies, Agatha Quimby smiled, imagining how nice English heather would look growing in her garden.
No, Salem, I have no idea what Agatha wants to plant beneath the Pussy Willows.
