Chapter 18
“It’s safe to say Martha still enjoys gardening, I suppose,” Arthur said, blinking at the small cottage on the corner that belonged to their accountant.
It was on the small side, painted a glamorous white with an exposed brick chimney.
The path was lined with immaculately landscaped flower beds full of cosmos, petunias, pansies, and irises in every color imaginable.
A raised bed under the box windows housed a robust herb garden—Arthur spotted at least three varieties of thyme—and bright fuchsia rhododendrons guarded the entrance like sentries.
Sal pointed to the photo on his phone screen, a goofy smile on his face that was so often the precursor to a terrible joke. “She hasn’t outgrown the hobby.”
Arthur offered Sal a small smile for his troubles.
He’d reached out to ask her about her connection to Ambrosia the night before, but Martha had insisted on an in-person meeting.
It was, perhaps, a good sign that she seemed willing enough to discuss the topic.
No one else had been so far. It was just before ten in the morning, so Arthur waited while the numbers on Sal’s phone clock rolled over to the hour before approaching the front steps.
Martha was a meticulous person in all aspects of her life, so he imagined they would do well to follow instructions precisely.
Before he could knock, a voice called out to them.
“Good morning!” Martha knelt amid the plants, a big sun hat shading her face and gloves on her hands. She’d been obscured by the rosemary bush she was pruning. “I hope it wasn’t too much trouble for you to come early. I have a lot of yard work to do and not a lot of time to do it.”
“On the solstice?” Arthur raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t think you’d want to be outside on such a hot day.” He’d made a habit of doing his gardening under the cover of night during the summer to avoid just such an inconvenience.
“Is it because herbs harvested on the solstice are more magically potent?” Sal suggested, wiggling his fingers in what was probably an offensive approximation of spellwork.
Martha stood, carrying a basket full to the brim with herbs. “Of course not,” she said without a hint of humor. “It’s because it’s Sunday.”
“Naturally, you want to maximize your weekend.” Arthur shot Sal a warning look. They didn’t need to antagonize Martha. She was just a bystander in all this nonsense and the quicker they got their answers, the better.
“All’s well at the inn?” Martha asked.
“Oh, it’s excellent,” Sal declared with a bit more gusto than necessary. “Arthur made an absolutely divine quiche this morning.”
They hadn’t come here to discuss Arthur’s prowess in the kitchen—though it was nice to hear.
He’d worried breakfast had been lackluster, since Other Arthur Miller hadn’t been particularly effusive in his compliments and the others had all taken theirs to go, but perhaps he’d been worried for nothing.
Still, it was time to move things along.
“The guests are all off to the festival now, so we have plenty of time to talk.” Arthur didn’t dare invite himself in to Martha’s, but he was getting weary of standing in the sun.
Perhaps a well-placed hint would do the trick.
“I’ve gone over the financials you sent over and things look good. I have a packet for you to take home with instructions about quarterly taxes.” Martha began to stroll back toward the cottage at a snail’s pace.
“I appreciate it, Martha. That’s very kind.” Arthur followed, doing his best not to look too eager. He didn’t want to make Martha uncomfortable—inviting vampires inside wasn’t something everyone was all right with.
“I’m sure you’d prefer to be out of the sun.” Martha glanced at Arthur’s umbrella, which sported alligators in roller skates, for some reason (it was a gift from Sal), and at long last, said the magic words: “Come on inside.”
“Thank you,” Arthur said. He glanced at Salvatore, who didn’t seem to want to go into Martha’s house.
No doubt he was afraid of any boring tax talk, but Arthur didn’t share that fear.
They were here for answers about Ambrosia, not discussions of itemized deductions—though, now that he thought of it, he did have a query about that very topic.
He’d save it for another time for Sal’s sake.
Though the garden was a rainbow of hues, inside Martha’s home was, in a word, beige.
She had little decor, and though everything was neat and tidy, the palette was one note.
The only pop of color on Al Capone’s dog bed was from his fur.
Even the books on her shelves had been turned around so the pages faced out.
“Lemonade?” Martha offered as Arthur and Sal sat on her living room couch.
“Do you have any silly straws?” Sal asked, perking up.
“Silly? No.” Martha blinked, clearly taken aback by the request. “I have regular straws.”
“None for me, then.” Sal began to look around the room, as if searching for alternative forms of entertainment than the small talk happening.
“Your garden is lovely,” Arthur said. “You must have quite the green thumb. We saw your photo in the Trident Falls High yearbook for the gardening club.”
“Yes.” Martha smiled wistfully, sitting across from him in a large armchair. “Those were the days.”
“Did you meet Ambrosia in high school?” Arthur prodded. He didn’t want to upset Martha or rush her, but a killer was on the loose, and he didn’t want there to be another victim. “We saw her in the photo with you and Wilhelmina.”
“No.” Martha shook her head. “I’ve known her all my life, pretty much. But we weren’t friends until ninth grade. Same with Wilhelmina. The three of us bonded over our shared love of plants.”
“You didn’t mention this before, when I asked about Wilhelmina.” Arthur hoped it didn’t sound accusatory; he was merely curious.
“Yes, I was a bit taken off guard when you asked, you see. The three of us lost touch after high school. You know how it is. People go their separate ways. I’d see Wil around town, and I kept up with the big events of her life, but that closeness faded.
Same with Ambrosia. She changed her name and went off to be a big-shot coven leader, and our relationship became more professional than personal. ”
“That’s always difficult.” Arthur knew well the toll the passage of time could have on friendships. Being a vampire meant endings were inevitable, unless one only fraternized with other immortals.
“When you asked about Wil belonging to a criminal organization, I didn’t think of the coven. Their business model isn’t something I strictly approve of, but it’s all legal. I would know, of course. I’m the one who files their taxes.” Martha gave a little self-deprecating smile.
“Was there a big dramatic blowup between Wilhelmina and Ambrosia?” Sal asked, probably to steer the conversation away from potential numbers talk.
Martha hesitated. “Would either of you like a snack? I’m not sure what vampires like—nothing with garlic, I guess.”
“Actually, if you have garlic bread—” Sal began, but Arthur cut him off.
“Sal, you know you’re allergic.” The last thing he needed was to spend the rest of the day nursing a Sal with an upset tummy. He turned to Martha. “We don’t need any refreshments, thank you. Just the truth.”
Clearly, Martha didn’t want to talk about this. She’d failed to mention Wilhelmina was part of the coven—though Arthur hadn’t thought to ask about it specifically—and now she was trying to deflect. Martha knew something about her old friends.
“I am telling the truth,” Martha said a little too breezily.
Arthur fixed her with a steady gaze. “We need all of it. Please. We think Ambrosia might have had something to do with Wilhelmina’s disappearance and Lola’s murder.
We found Lola’s journal in Ambrosia’s tent—she’d written Wilhelmina’s name down there.
Perhaps a coincidence, but…if there’s a connection you know about, we’d be terribly grateful for the information. ”
“Ambrosia, a murderer? Do you really think so?” Martha glanced away, her face contorting in an emotional odyssey before adding hesitantly, “The Ambrosia I knew when we were young wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“You’d be surprised what people will do when cornered,” Arthur said gently. “I know she was your childhood friend, but do you really know today’s Ambrosia? People change.”
“They do, indeed.” Martha still didn’t make eye contact, but her gaze had turned distant, like she was remembering something old and buried.
Arthur shifted in his seat, leaning forward to speak in a lower register. “We only want to find the killer to stop them from hurting anyone else.”
Bunching her fingers in the fabric of her overalls, Martha took a deep breath. “All right.” She looked up at Arthur. “I believe you. You’re committed to solving Lola’s murder, like you did with the late mayor.”
“He’s the best VAMP PI around,” Sal chimed in.
“Then you should know, Wil came to see me.”
“When?” Arthur asked, getting out his notebook.
“Last year. It was…oh, November. I remember because I’d just taken down the Halloween decorations and the whole town was already decked out for Christmas.”
That was more or less in line with when Chet Oakley had said Wilhelmina had left the coven, but he’d also said she’d headed east. Trident Falls was decidedly west of the Celestine Coven headquarters in New Mexico. Was Chet misinformed, or had he been lying about that as well as the rest?
“What happened?” Arthur prodded.