“That’s right,” Jo said. “And this is my gym. I haven’t seen you here before. When did you become a member?”
“This is your gym? How amazing! I just joined this afternoon,” Claude replied. “I don’t usually run indoors, but, as I’m sure you’ve heard, we’ve been having some problems out on the Pointe that have made outside exercise a bit challenging.”
“I haven’t heard anything,” Jo told her. “What’s going on out there?”
“An invasive species of weed sprang up on the Dunn property and spread around the entire neighborhood. The flowers smell delicious and they’re really quite pretty. The only problem is, they’ve attracted a rather large swarm of bees.”
“Bees?” Jo barely got the word out.
“Yes. By the thousands, I’m afraid. Leonard won’t do anything to harm them. I think he loves bees almost as much as he loves whales. I’ve got the best bee wranglers on the East Coast out on the Pointe trying to round them all up. But between the bees and the clouds of pollen, the plants have made outdoor exercise impractical for the last few days. So wait—does this mean you don’t know about Jackson?”
Jo felt her stomach drop. She’d had a hunch where the story was heading the moment she heard the word bees. “No, what happened?”
“He’s in intensive care in the city. Apparently, he was up on his roof deck yesterday when he was attacked by a swarm. He’s deathly allergic, unfortunately. They’re not sure he’ll make it.”
“Oh my God.” When Harriett had tossed seeds off the roof of Jackson Dunn’s home, she’d known exactly what she was doing. It hadn’t been a prank. It was attempted murder.
“Between Jackson, the bees, and Rosamund Harding, this has been a difficult summer. I imagine you heard the tragic news about Rosamund?”
“I did. She was a client of mine.”
“I remember,” Claude said. “You spoke to her husband at the party. You and your friend seemed convinced that Rosamund wasn’t safe with him. I think you were right, and I wish I’d done more to help her.” Claude was hinting at something and Jo eagerly took the bait.
“What makes you think we were right?”
“Leonard can’t stand Spencer. He’s heard through the grapevine that Spencer launders money for some pretty bad men. Drug lords, dictators, oligarchs—you know the type.”
“What? I thought Spencer Harding was an art dealer.”
Claude sighed. “I was an art history major in college. I even managed my dad’s collection for a while. I thought rich people bought paintings because they love great art. Maybe some do. But for many, the art world is a racket. Let’s say you’re looking to sell a ton of heroin or a bunch of illegal weapons. How are you going to get paid? You can’t take cash and put it in a bank. The authorities would want to know where the money came from. So instead you buy an expensive work of art and then sell it to an anonymous buyer for an enormous profit. Now all that money can go right into your pocket, and no one looks at you funny. Leonard says deals like that are how Spencer got so rich so fast. Rumor has it, he also shares some unsavory habits with his clients.”
“What kind of habits?”
“Drugs. Women—though I don’t know if you’d call Spencer’s type women. Apparently, he likes them young. That’s one of the reasons Leonard despises him. He’s made it clear that he wants Spencer to leave the Pointe. Maybe this latest turn of events will finally inspire Leonard to crack the whip. There’s no doubt in my mind that Spencer Harding was responsible for his wife’s death.”
“How?” Jo asked. “I thought she drove into a utility pole.”
Claude snorted. “You think Spencer doesn’t know people who could hack into a car’s computer system?” she asked. “But I’m not going to hold my breath waiting for the cops to figure it out. They’d never pin a murder on him, anyway. Men as rich as Spencer do whatever they like. Every time they get in trouble, they buy their way out. Spencer’s got some of the best lawyers in the world on retainer.”
“Justice will be served, one way or another,” Jo assured her. “I promise you that.”
Claude seemed to study Jo’s face. “Harriett said there would be hell to pay if something happened to Rosamund. Do you really think she’ll take action?”
Jo thought of the bees. “Spencer Harding has no idea what he’s gotten himself into.”
“Well, I, for one, am thrilled to hear it.” Claude’s dark eyes remained fixed on Jo’s. “And I’ll do anything I can to help. You guys ever feel like kicking some ass, just give me a call and I’ll invite you out to the Pointe. You can get my phone number off my membership profile.”
Furious Fitness was three miles away from Harriett’s house. Jo hoped that was far enough to burn off the energy that was still coursing through her. She ran at a brisk clip down the sidewalks in town. When she reached Woodland Drive, she stuck to the shoulder. There was more than enough room for cars to pass, yet a black SUV that took the turn onto Woodland after she did remained right behind her. Finally, she stopped and waited for the car to roll by. Perverts always leered as they passed. Misogynists smirked, spat, or shouted insults. But it quickly became clear that the guy behind the wheel of the car belonged to neither group. He wore a polo shirt and sunglasses. His no-nonsense haircut was a style Jo had nicknamed “professional douche.” Plenty of Jo’s neighbors shared the same look, yet somehow, she sensed this man wasn’t one of them.
Once the car was out of sight, Jo continued her jog up the hill toward Harriett’s. The setting sun lit the sky a brilliant orange, and Harriett’s jungle appeared in silhouette on the horizon. Jo stopped in the road and snapped a picture. When she got home, she’d show Art and ask if he saw it, too. The scene looked just like the old movie posters for Apocalypse Now.
As she neared the house, she could hear Harriett speaking to someone in the garden. Her voice was low, almost conspiratorial. Jo wasn’t there to spy, and even if she had been, she couldn’t have made out any words. She wasn’t convinced Harriett was speaking in English.
“Hello?” Jo called out. “You there?”
The voice paused for a few seconds. Then Harriett replied, “Yes, in the garden, come on through.”
Jo passed easily through the wall of vegetation that surrounded the property and found Harriett seated cross-legged in a patch of tall yellow flowers, her eyes closed and her hands cupped in her lap as though she were collecting some invisible substance raining down from above. Tendrils of silver hair snaked away from her scalp and a fine layer of dirt dusted her skin like bronzer. She appeared to be wearing a silk pillowcase, and she made it look good.
Jo scouted the garden for visitors. “Who were you talking to just now?” she asked.
Harriett’s eyes slowly opened. Jo remembered them being hazel, but now they appeared brilliant green. “I was having a word with my silphium,” she said, running a hand fondly over the flowers around her. “It was extinct until very recently, and it needs a little encouragement.”