Between the queries, critiques, mailings, and creating the royalty statement templates, the rest of the workday flew by. I managed to leave a message for the current English Department Chair of Crabtree University, but no one returned my call that day or the following morning. I wondered if the professors kept regular office hours during the summer, but I didn’t have the time to review the online course listings or figure out who would be on campus. I had to focus on the pile of royalty statements if Novel Idea’s clients were to be paid before the end of the week.
Finally, late on Tuesday morning, I decided I could spare two minutes at the tail end of a coffee break to call the university’s switchboard. Luckily, the operator transferred me to a helpful receptionist who informed me that the only member of the English Department who had taught at Crabtree during Marlette’s tenure was giving a lecture called “Shakespeare’s Soothsayers” that very evening. I was delighted to learn that nonstudents were welcome to attend and planned to ask my mother if she’d like to accompany me.
Feeling as though I’d made excellent headway at work and was on the cusp of learning something significant about Marlette’s past, I decided to devote part of my lunch hour to continuing the investigation. Taking the drawing of Sue Ann that Iris had helped me find, I struck out for the Secret Garden, thinking that with all the walking I now did, I’d soon be in the best shape of my life.
As I left my office and headed for the stairs, my cell phone rang.
“Guess what?” exclaimed my real estate agent. “Someone’s asked to see your house for the third time! I think they plan to make an offer.”
“That would really be great,” I said, stepping out the front door into the powerful midday sun. “I don’t know how much longer I can ask my mother to drive me to work and back. I feel like a little kid. If this goes on, she’s going to be packing my lunches and slipping notes into the brown bag like she did when I was a girl.”
Ginny made a cooing noise. “Your mama sounds so sweet. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you some good news, considering the last time I called you it was to report that awful vandalism.” She paused. “Did the police ever find out who did that?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. Water under the bridge,” Ginny declared brightly. “Gotta run, but I’ll be in touch.”
During our brief conversation, my feet had automatically carried me to the fountain in the center of town. I sat down on the damp cement and fished a penny out of my purse.
“This wish is for my house to sell quickly,” I told the closest muse. She ignored me, her marble gaze studiously fixed on the scroll in her hands. Examining the plaque at her feet, I said, “Clio, Muse of History, let me look back on this summer as a time filled with positive changes.” Closing my eyes, I sent the offering into the shallow water and watched the coin wobble to the bottom. Impulsively, I reached out and touched Clio’s wet cheek before heading off to the Secret Garden.
When I arrived at the nursery, I was met by the clamor of a large group of children. According to a sour-faced employee who had escaped outdoors to organize a shipment of petunias, a group of campers from the community center’s nature camp was spending part of the day learning how to grow a vegetable garden. Each child had been given a small terra-cotta pot to paint and plastic bags containing seeds and potting soil. It made me smile to see the eager campers decorating their pots with jolly round tomato men and stick-figure bean ladies. Addison was busy showing the children how to bury their seeds in the dirt. It was clearly not the best time to ask her to identify another plant for me.
Glancing at my watch, I knew that my lunch hour was nearly half over. After all, I had to hoof it back to the office and grab something to eat from Espresso Yourself if I was going to survive the rest of the day, but it was difficult not to linger. The laughter and high-pitched voices of the kids carried me back to a time over ten years ago. Suddenly, I was transported to my kitchen in Dunston. There I was, an old apron tied around my waist, busy painting homemade wooden toolboxes with Trey’s Cub Scout pack. I wondered what he was doing right now. Bathing a goat? Picking berries?
A voice interrupted my musing. “Can I help you?”
I surfaced from my reverie and noticed that a middle-aged man wearing a green apron was giving me an amused stare.
“Sorry, I zoned out for a minute there.”
He grinned. “Happens to the best of us. You might want to pick up a ginger plant. Or maybe a potted rosemary or Siberian ginseng. All three are proven memory boosters.”
“I just might.” Removing Marlette’s drawing from my purse, I unfolded it, surreptitiously reading the garden center employee’s nametag at the same time. “Do you recognize this flower, Martin?”
He handled the sheaf of paper with care and scrutinized the dried plant for a long moment. “It’s a peony. We don’t have many bushes left in stock, as most folks planted theirs back in April. We’ll get a bunch more in September, but let’s see if we can find a match.”