Timothy
The road is dark, swimming ahead of me. I need sleep. I’m not going to get it.
I’m thinking about my old partner, Hitch, on the drive from Beck’s office. He was a fan of Occam’s razor, the rule stating
that the most plausible explanation is the most likely. He was constantly saying things like “when you hear hoofbeats, think
horses, not zebras.”
Of course, Occam’s razor is a fallacy. Because the simplest solution is not always the correct one. Life, people, circumstances
are impossibly complicated. If Hitch were still here, we’d probably have Ana in custody already. When a man is murdered and
his new girlfriend is missing, the ex with a history is the reasonable suspect.
I wonder what he would think of the things Beck shared.
“Agnes Blacksmith had a garden on her property, walled and locked,” Beck said. “It’s where she grew the flowers for her business,
as well as the herbs for her cures. I think you might find what you’re looking for there.”
“Agnes Blacksmith has been dead for ten years.”
He nodded slowly, picked up the skull on his desk, turned it in his hands like a baseball. “But her nieces, Ana and Vera Blacksmith,
inherited and maintain the property.”
“You’re saying that they tend the garden. That they keep a poison garden.”
“That’s what I understand.”
“Understand how? Have you seen it?”
“No,” said Beck, putting the skull down.
It was clear that he knew more than he was saying. I pressed. “I’ll need a warrant to search that property. Tell me why you
think I’ll find what I’m looking for there.”
“I’m telling you that the plants which are indicated in Iggy Rose and Paul Hayes’s poisonings grow locally. And one of the
places they might be growing is on the Blacksmith property. Other possible places—fields, wooded areas, even places like cemeteries,
which are essentially nature sanctuaries.”
He slid the file over to me. “Keep it. It’s a copy.”
What would Hitch think about witches with poison gardens? He’d think that motive is motive. And everything else is just set
dressing.
Now I come to a stop at the driveway to Agnes Blacksmith’s property. The road leading to the house is gated, a tall wrought
iron structure that is locked with a heavy chain. There’s no call box, and the stone wall in either direction is high enough
that it would be difficult, not impossible, to scale. I climb out of the vehicle to stand in the dark considering it, weighing
my options. Above me a rising full moon casts the world in silvery light.
If I enter the property illegally and find anything, it will be inadmissible in court.
I stare through the gate. Is that a glow off in the distance? Is there someone in the house? What’s that noise? There’s a
faint humming.
The place is still owned by the Blacksmith sisters. Pacing, I pull out my phone and call Ana. No answer. I leave a message.
Then Vera. My call goes straight to voicemail.
I’m staring at the wall and imagining all the ways I could fuck myself up or over by trying to climb it when my phone pings.
I need help. It’s an emergency.
Another ping offers a shared location.
Here is a choice with a lot of layers.
Bad cop: climb the wall and try to find the deadly garden Beck claims is here.
Smart cop: call for a warrant based on the evidence provided by Beck and the video footage I watched. Call for backup, and
seek to enter the property to find more evidence to build my case.
Idiot cop: drop everything to answer the text of an obviously unstable woman with whom I’m obviously entangled on all sorts
of levels.
Hurry. Please.
The decision is surprisingly easy.
I get in my vehicle, gun the engine, and drive.