Bones of a Feather - Carolyn Haines [56]
Just as I planned, Jerome emerged from the herb garden at the sound of the dogs.
“Help me!” I yelled, rushing toward him. “Sweetie and Chablis took off after something and I’m afraid they’ll get lost in the woods.”
“They’re dogs, not wild creatures.” His brows drew together as he assessed my intelligence. “They’ll come back.”
“They don’t know where they are,” I insisted. “Please help me find them.”
“I haven’t got a lick of work done all morning,” he grumbled. “The dogs will return on their own. They’ve got a sight more sense than most people.” His direct look left no doubt to whom he referred.
“If anything happens to Chablis, it’ll kill Tinkie.”
He threw his shovel to the ground. “The dogs will show up when they’re ready. They’re smart creatures. But I can’t accomplish a damn thing if you stand there, yammering at me. The roses are all a’bloom and need attention. Move along with you.”
If he gave the rosebushes any more attention, he’d have to read them to sleep. There wasn’t a leaf out of place. “I think the flowers are fine. I need your help.”
He faced me. “Monica wants fresh flowers in the house every day. Roses. That’s what she likes.” He stabbed his shovel into the ground. “Now let’s find the buggers so I can get back to my digging. Which way did they run?”
I pointed away from his cottage. “East.”
He trudged off, but when I didn’t follow, he stopped. “Well? Have you grown roots?”
“What if they go to the highway?” I used all of my acting skills to appear distraught. “I’ll drive around the estate to the road. If they come out there, I’ll pick them up.”
“A little exercise might work wonders for you. Blood flow to the upper regions, you know.”
“In all the best movies, the gardener isn’t a smart-ass.”
Jerome let out a bark, which I realized was a laugh. “Ride your car, then. Let’s round up the sinners and be done with this.”
I jumped in the Caddy and wheeled around, heading for the road. When Jerome disappeared into the thicket of woods, I took the fork of the driveway to his cottage. I would have to be fast and thorough.
We’d gone through the cottage once, but that was for signs of Monica’s presence. Now I needed evidence of horses … or Barclay Levert. The relationship between Monica and Jerome had so many levels. I remembered the bottle of fine wine, the shared cheese and crackers, how Jerome reacted when we found the scrap of Monica’s gown. He cared for her. But Monica seemed incapable of reciprocating. Perhaps Eleanor was the only person she’d ever loved. Monica had abandoned her own child. And Jerome knew she’d slept with numerous men.
I pulled up to the cottage thinking of the inequity of class. America pretended there was no class structure, but a classification as rigid as the Indian caste system was well and truly in place. The haves and the have-nots. An heiress—even the heiress of a bluebeard type—didn’t marry a gardener.
As Eleanor stressed, Monica once had her pick of European royalty and business entrepreneurs. These men traveled in her social strata. Why had she romanced a gardener and, for that matter, a Gypsy sponge diver? Was there cruelty in her choices? She selected men she could abandon without a qualm. Was it an aphrodisiac for her to feel superior to the men she slept with?
The more I learned about Monica, the less I liked her. She used people as though they were paper towels. Such conduct could easily earn retribution. If Barclay hatched a plan to abduct and ransom Monica, Jerome might have cooperated because he was hurt, not greedy. The man loved the grounds of Briarcliff. Had he loved Monica equally, her heartless conduct might have pushed him too far.
The cottage was small, but time worked against me. I rushed to get through it without leaving any indication I’d been there.
When I finished with the kitchen cabinets, I looked out the window. Almost hidden in scuppernong vines that Jerome had allowed to swallow