CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I find it far easier to be patient now that I am certain of the culprit. I even manage to interact with Violet without letting on that I know of her secret. I know the truth now. It is only a matter of time before I have what I need to act on it.

I suppose part of my calm is due to the fact that my suspect is less dangerous than any I've had so far. Violet is not a threat to me, and she's not a flight risk either. The estate is kept locked at all times, and the only way to exit is to use a keycard. Violet doesn't have a keycard, and I am certain no one in the family would allow her to leave the estate. I know that people with dementia are prone to wandering, but there is nowhere for Violet to wander.

I can be more prudent this time. With Cecilia and Eliza, I had to accuse them directly. In Cecilia's case, that accusation nearly got me killed, and it was only the miraculous intervention of her lover—who happened to be a police detective and unaware of Cecilia's crimes—that saved me. In Eliza's, I had to concoct a scenario and manipulate a confession to be recorded by Scotland Yard investigators.

Both were rather shoddy pieces of detective work that succeeded more by chance than anything else. I don't intend to leave anything to chance here. I am quite sure that all the evidence I need to make a compelling, even an airtight, case against Violet exists on this estate. I only need to find it.

The first order of business is to discover what's hidden in the secret garden Elizabeth frequents. Now that I'm aware of her mother's violent history, I suspect that Elizabeth's fascination with the garden has nothing to do with some mythical Secret Keeper.

But I dare not risk disturbing the flower bed. If I find the evidence I seek there, it might be worth it, but if I don't, or if what I find isn't enough to bring the case to the police, then I will paint a giant target on my back, and that could indeed prove dangerous. The other Greenwoods are clearly very protective of Violet. Even Annabelle, who seems to hate her family, hasn't told anyone that she knows of Violet's criminal past. If the choice came down to me or her grandmother, I'm under no illusion which choice she would make. I need to find out what secrets that garden holds, but I need to do it without raising the family's suspicions.

I have no idea how to do that, however.

Thursday arrives again, day twenty-three of my employment at Greenwood Plantation. It is also the first day of August, not that the milestone means anything other than to alert me that the weather will remain hot and humid for several more weeks. I am told that August is the wettest month and that the rain will bring the opposite of relief from the humidity.

The weather is the least of my concerns, though. I don't want to linger too long without an answer. I am patient, but not that patient.

I decide I'll have to risk a visit to the secret garden after all. If I am questioned about it, I can simply deny I was there. I'll disturb my footprints and clean my boots in the fountain before I return to the house. No doubt Moses will be quite displeased with me, but I've already accepted that I'll never reach the promised land, so Sir Moses will simply have to deal with it.

I take my journey an hour after breakfast when the rest of the servants will be busy working and the family will be off the estate. I suppose Violet could see me from her window if she chose, but the hedges will hide my destination, and it's not a crime for me to walk through the grounds on my day off.

I reach the garden, determined to accomplish my mission. Today, I will find out what that garden hides.

When I reach the honeysuckle hedges that separate the inner gardens from the outer ones, I feel an odd trepidation. An image flits across my mind of a towering hedge maze, an otherworldly glow and a pale woman under a harsh moon.

I reach for the image, but it disappears before I can identify it. I sigh and press forward.

I make it halfway to the wrought iron gate that separates the garden when I hear footsteps. I freeze, but before I can determine the direction of the sound and hide, Christopher walks into view. He stops and stares at me a moment, then reddens. "Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't think anyone could hear me."

I blink, confused. "Hear you?"

"Yes. I was… Well, I thought I was being loud. That's why I came out here. You couldn't hear me yelling?"

"No. The first I heard of you was your footprints."

He sighs. "That's a relief. Well, I won't disturb you any further. Good day, Mary."

"Wait. What were you yelling about?"

I'm not sure why I ask him this. Perhaps it's only a hunch.

Well, it's a hunch that fails me because the reason he gives has nothing to do with my investigation. "Oh, I…" He chuckles bitterly. "Between you and me, Mary, I wish to Christ I'd never gone to Harvard."

That is sufficiently surprising that I forget about the garden for the moment. "Really? You regret an education at the finest school in America?"

He sneers. "Harvard is only the finest school in America if you want to be a lawyer or a professor."

"That can't be true," I reply. "Harvard Medical is renowned worldwide, and Harvard Business School has produced some of the finest leaders American industry has ever seen."

"And many thousands more dipshits who only find work because the Alumni Association takes pity on them. You realize that's why the school is so renowned, right? Harvard graduates have a network of former graduates whose sole purpose is to get them jobs so the school can keep acting like it's the greatest thing since the creation of shoelaces."

"Surely it can't have been that bad. There's nothing wrong with taking advantage of a network, and if that network is as effective as you say, then there must be a reason for it."

He sighs. "You're probably right. It's true that Harvard was once the premier school of the Western Hemisphere. I'm sure it's still a fine school, it's just…" he purses his lips. "I don't know shit, Mary. Pardon my Tagalog, but I really don't know shit. I'm a Regional Director of Operations for a major grocery chain, and I have to ask Assistant Managers how to tell if a store's profit margin is acceptable. I make five hundred fifty-three thousand dollars a year, and I have to ask people making seventy-five a year how to do the most basic aspects of my job."

"Everyone needs to start somewhere," I reassure him. "You'll learn."

"I will, but I'll learn in this role. I'll learn making it clear to everyone that I'm unqualified. I'll limp along. I'll do well enough to keep my job, but it's going to take me twenty years to earn enough of a reputation to find the same job at another company where I can spend another ten years proving I'm good enough to be an executive. Then I can crawl my way up that ladder for another ten years so I can retire as an Executive Vice President of the Department of Placeholders for People who Aren't Quite Good Enough."

I understand his frustration, but really, is this worth complaining about? I keep my tone gentle, but he needs a bit of a scolding. "There are plenty of people who work far harder and never get as far."

It turns out that I've mistaken the reason for his complaint. "That's my point. I don't deserve this. I'll make money, but I won't earn money." He shakes his head. "I could have gone to a state college. I could have taken correspondence courses while gaining actual work experience. I'd probably only just be completing my bachelor's degree, and I'd probably be only a store manager or a senior assistant, but I'd be a good one. I'd be worth my paycheck. It might take another ten years to get to regional director, but by then, I'll be damned good. Twenty years from that, I'll be a COO, and I'll be damned good at that. Because I'll have learned the actual job and not some bullshit, stuffy academic bullshit that mattered back when Dad was a teenager."

He catches himself and reddens. "Anyway, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make that your problem. I just…" His brow furrows. "Why are you out here? It's hotter than Hell, and I didn't think you cared much for the summer weather out here."

"Oh, it's not so bad," I lie. "I was just heading to the geranium garden."

"The what?"

He feigns surprise, but the way he stiffens and pales tells me he knows exactly what I'm talking about. I risk pressing a little.

"Your mother's geranium garden. She told me I was welcome there anytime."

"She did?" he says incredulously. Then he catches himself again. "I mean… I really don't know of any geranium garden. Perhaps you were misinformed."

"I'm certain I saw it. It's past the wrought iron gate a few dozen yards that way."

He snaps his head the way I point. Then he reddens a little. "Well, I can't stop you from going where you want, but I think you'll be happier if you take a walk through the Glens. The oaks will provide shade, and you won't find what you're looking for behind any wrought gate. You might find our gardener, Nathaniel, out in the Glens too. He might know what this geranium garden you're talking about is."

I nearly protest that I'll make my own way, but I remember that I don't want a target on my back.

Besides, Nathaniel seemed just as nervous as Christopher when I questioned him about the gate. And since Nathaniel is a servant like me, I can press him a little harder when I talk to him. Maybe I can find answers without digging up the actual dirt after all.

I smile at Christopher and say, "You know what? I think I will visit the Glens. Thank you."

Christopher looks very relieved. "Of course. And… It goes without saying, but please keep my little rant about Harvard between us."

"I would never dream of releasing your secret," I reply.

He gives me another relieved smile and nods. "Have a good day, Mary."

"You too, Christopher."

He walks past me to the house, and I change course for the Glens. My confidence remains unshaken. Whether by talking to Nathaniel or digging up the flowerbed myself, I will have answers today.