Garden of Death Read Free Page A

helped him out of a jam when he was suspected of murdering another TV producer. This had earned me his undying gratitude and cemented my place in his life, whether I liked it or not.
    I pulled his hand away. “What are you doing here?”
    He gave me a boyish grin. Simon wasn’t conventionally handsome, but he had an undeniable, irresistible charm. He also had a steady named Carly, a producer whom I’d met last September when she was here filming on location at the Bixby estate in Southold, just a few minutes east of Greenport. Now she was in the UK, busy working on a new movie.
    â€œI can’t just sit at home, and wait until Vision starts up,” he explained. Simon’s previous show, Fast Forward, had been canceled, but now he had a new one about a psychic who solves cases, inspired by the star of Carly’s show, who investigated the haunted mansion on the estate. In the meantime, he was trying to write a novel, without much success. He came in to the café each morning with his laptop and mostly stared at the screen. “Besides, you know I’m into maritime history, especially pirates, so I had to come. And, Willow, I need to ask you for a favor.”
    Someone shushed us. “Later,” I said, wondering what favor Simon needed this time.
    Simon, ever impatient, proceeded to text me. My phone pinged. I glared at him, plucked it out of my purse, and without looking at the message, turned
it off.
    â€œOkay,” Simon said, sounding defeated. “I’ll wait.”
    The same someone shushed us again.
    â€œNow, as for the prizes,” the mayor went on, “we’ve got some great gifts that have been donated by our local merchants for a raffle. All of the money that we raise each year goes to the museum’s children’s program along with maintaining the Maritime Museum and Bug Light lighthouse in Peconic Bay. But this year, we’re doing something new, providing a twenty-five-hundred-dollar scholarship for a Greenport High School student who plans to study marine biology.”
    The mayor checked his notes and continued speaking, “This scholarship is thanks to the generosity of the late Frank Fox, who also donated a tract of land in the heart of Greenport to the village when he died. The competition for the space was keen, but the Village Board and I chose to give this piece of land to Willow McQuade, the owner of Nature’s Way Market & Café.”
    There was more applause but I also heard a few dissenting voices. The decision to award me the parcel of land was not without controversy. Most of the competing applicants were here tonight, I realized as I scanned the room. But there were also quite a few friends of mine and Aunt Claire’s who waved to me, smiled, or gave me a thumbs-up. It felt good to havetheir support.
    However, Kylie Ramsey, the head of the local farmer’s market, who had also applied for the lot gave me a cool look. Harold Spitz, who organized flea markets and who also wanted the space, did not return my gaze. Maggie Stone, head of Advocates for Animals, who had wanted the land for a dog park, gave me a dismissive glance and whispered something to the man to her right.
    Over at the bar, I spotted Charles White, M.D., an orthopedic surgeon, who along with his investors had wanted to build a high-end boutique hotel on the lot to cater to rich out-of-towners. White was talking to his friend Joe Larson, a local builder and village trustee who had championed White’s plan and openly disliked me and what he called Aunt Claire’s “wacky New Age ideas.”
    White’s wife, Arlene, a sixty-something woman who looked ten years younger, thanks to an obvious face-lift, stood next to them, looking bored. Dressed in a fancy taffeta gown, she sipped what looked like a Bloody Mary. Arlene was not one of my favorite people. She had come into Nature’s Way several times to try and convince me to give the land to her