“The tracks at Guido’s nursery we initially thought were made by a wheelbarrow were made by a specialized bike,” Mike said. “Same make and model as Richard’s.
“Why didn’t he go back for the bike sooner?”
“He probably tried, but someone was always there. He told Margery it was in the shop anyway; and, given his track record, he probably thought he could leave it stashed in the garden for years and no one would notice. Sorry, Mike.”
“What about the weapon?” Jon asked.
“Richard unwittingly returned one of Guido’s own tools,” Mike said. “He took the coa from Halcyon’s green house and peeled off the orange tape Paula had used to identify the tools, assuming correctly that the handle would be covered with other people’s fingerprints. Hugo’s just happened to be a set we were able to identify. What Richard didn’t count on was our criminalist’s finding microscopic traces of cashmere stuck to the adhesive residue on the handle. Not too many garden workers wear cashmere gloves. All circumstantial until you forced his hand and he tried to kill you.”
“And, not to be too grisly,” I added, “anyone who knew how to use a coa wouldn’t have missed Guido’s heart. The curved blade enters much lower than you’d think unless you’ve used it enough times to get the hang of it.”
“So, Sergeant O’Malley, how did you happen to be at Halcyon at just the right time?” Jon asked.
“Fraser called me.” Mike turned to me. “You might eliminate the middleman next time. He learned a painting from the Hassam series was sold to a private collector in Hartford three weeks ago by a man claiming to be Benjamin Russell, who happens to have died in 1984. We’d been watching Richard anyway since the day we brought all of you in for questioning. Your alibi for him wasn’t exactly airtight. That’s the reason I went to the Stapley home in the first place.
“When we found Hugo’s prints we had to hold him, and it let Richard think he was in the clear. But you pushed his hand; he got careless. As Paula has so tactfully pointed out, given the police department’s history, and his, he probably thought we’d take another thirty years to figure it out,” Mike said.
“Any thoughts on the famous missing journal?” Jon asked. “Or is that Springfield’s newest mystery?”
“That’s what Stapley was looking for the night he sideswiped you at the recycling center.”
“That was him?” I was shocked, but it didn’t take me long to fill in the blank. “When he didn’t find the journal in Guido’s office, he waited until he thought it was safe, then borrowed one of Guido’s own trucks to search for it in their usual hiding place.”
“A plus. їQuiйn sabe?” Mike said. “Maybe the journal never even existed.”
“And the candy?” Jon asked.
“Purely an accident. Must have fallen out of Re-nata’s pocket without her even knowing.”
“All right, I’ve got enough here to keep me busy for a month.” He checked his watch. “If I write this up in the next hour, it can make tomorrow’s paper.”
O’Malley and I watched him fly down the hall.
“їQuiйn sabe?” Mike said. “Is that what you really think about the journal?”
“No. Now that the press is gone, I’ll tell you. I think Hillary Gibson took it that very first day at Halcyon, tucked it under her shawl the whole time she was talking to me. I don’t know what’s in it, and I don’t need to know. It’s none of my business.”
“And gardening is a dirty business,” he said.
“You know, that’s a much better name for my company-Dirty Business.”
EPILOGUE
DNA evidence proved the baby Yoly was carrying was Richard Stapley’s. He was convicted of the murder of Guido Chiaramonte, and is awaiting trial for the 1974 murder of Yoly Rivera. While in custody his eBay auction for The Temple of Flora ended with no bids since he wasn’t able to answer the 235 questions from members regarding its authenticity. A total of 197 members left negative feedback.
After divorcing Richard, Margery Stapley sold her house and embarked on a round- the- world trip for single seniors, on which she met a wealthy Italian clothing manufacturer. Margery and Enrico were married in a fifth- century church in Lugano, Switzerland. No charges were ever filed against her, and the Bulletin never retracted its original report that the baby I’d found “almost certainly belonged to one of the Peacock sisters.”
On the strength of the Rivera articles, Jon Chappell received a job offer from the National Enquirer, but declined, in favor of more serious journalistic pursuits at the New York Post.
Babe Chinnery and Neil MacLeod opened a small herb and tea kiosk in the parking lot of the Paradise Diner. Honeybush tea is now on the menu at both places.
Gerald Fraser and Hillary Gibson are living together. She’s arranging for an exhibit of his sculpture in a tony Bedford gallery. He’s hand- carving a new sign for her home’s entrance but no one’s seen the name yet.
Felix Ontivares returned and was my date for Hugo and Anna’s wedding. His involvement in the Rivera case further burnished the family name at home and he is currently entering local politics in Mexico.
Win Fifield’s aide released a statement that the congressman “hadn’t rested a day since the disappearance of that poor girl” and “his mother was proud to be instrumental in the resolution of this long, local tragedy.” Win’s approval rating shot up ten points, due to support from Springfield’s Hispanic community, which he had largely ignored in the past.
Lucy Cavanaugh didn’t get nominated for a Peabody, but she did make a deal with a cable network for a thirteen- part series tentatively titled Sin in Suburbia, which she is actively researching in Main Line Pennsylvania.
Anna Peсa and Hugo Jurado were married, not on Halcyon’s terrace, which was still surrounded by crime scene tape, but on Dina Fifield’s new dining pavilion, under a borrowed arbor, facing the sea. Pete’s buttercream cake was a huge hit.
Mike O’Malley and I are now sparring partners at the local gym. He is still smoke- free and has lost twelve pounds due to his new modified Zone diet, which I am advising him on. He has yet to play the accordion for me.
And the white garden at Halcyon is in full bloom, currently with masses of gypsophila, baby’s breath.
Rosemary Harris
