The Garden Club Mystery by Graham Landrum

Author:Graham Landrum
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781466880108
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

XIII

Return to the Scene of the Crime

BOB KELSEY

I remember picking up the phone and hearing this familiar voice. “Mr. Kelsey,” she said, “this is a cranky old lady too crippled up to get around very well, and I’m afraid she’s going to make a pest of herself.”

Although the description was not accurate, I knew who it was. “Why, it’s Mrs. Bushrow,” I said. “Well, what can I do for you?”

“Well, it’s a big, big favor,” the voice at the other end of the line warned.

Harriet Bushrow said that since I had found the body, and since she had it in her head to follow this case and see if she could make something out of it, would I be kind enough to show her the grounds?

“You could give me a guided tour, you might say,” she concluded.

I said that I would be delighted and would even pick her up to take her to the Claymore house. I would first have to call Viola Coleport to ask permission for us to see the place. Viola said it was fine.

Mrs. Bushrow was a little surprised to see me drive up in Leota’s nice new Acura—I guess she had never seen me drive anything else but my van. Anyhow, she got in and oohed and aahed over all the features of the car.

When we got to the Claymore home, I helped her out of the car. I had to treat her like blown glass, she is so delicate; however, she was ready to preside, complete with that regal gold cane.

Mrs. Claymore’s flowers were still beautiful, but the place was beginning to miss its owner. The grass was growing and so were the weeds. It made me wonder what the next owner would do with this spectacular garden.

We went around by the back door, and I explained how it was open when I got there that Saturday morning. Then we went around the corner of the house to the west side, where Mrs. Claymore had been working. There was her trowel, since no one had thought to put it away, and there was that pile of peat moss that caused her death. Who would think that something as soft and natural as peat moss would be deadly?

“Now where was the concrete squirrel found?” Mrs. Bushrow asked.

I showed her.

“And I believe you said there was an unexplained footprint. Where was that?”

I showed her the spot, which was by some bushes about fifteen feet from the place where Mrs. Claymore died.

“Now this squirrel,” she said, “the thing that hit her, where was it?”

I showed her.

“How big was it?”

“Life-size.”

“How much do you suppose it might have weighed?”

“Seven or eight pounds—maybe a little more than a brick.”

It did seem an unhandy weapon, but if you suddenly want to hit someone over the head, you have to use whatever is available.

“Why don’t we see that footprint again?”

We returned to the big clump of bushes—Leota would know their name, but I don’t. They were fifteen or twenty feet from where Mrs.

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