Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [104]
Espy and I have spent much of the last four days doing nothing but watching the grounds. We’ve noted and cataloged the comings and goings of every vehicle, the movements of the staff—who seem few in number, considering the size of the estate—even the pattern of light usage through visible windows. We’re as prepared as we’re going to be. There comes a point when one must take some decisive action to move things forward. I can’t stay in this place forever, living under Manheim’s nose. Nor can I return to Evanston while this thing remains unfinished. Each time I leave my apartment, I would be looking over my shoulder.
The landscaping van was Espy’s idea. We watched them drive in on our second day here, and they spent almost six hours working among the multitude of hedge mazes, flower beds, and the lawn on the east side. By the time they knocked off for the day, we had our plan sketched in. I walked into the shop at Green Gardens Landscape Service expecting suspicious questions as I pried for information about the crew responsible for the Manheim grounds. Instead, I was met with an indifference that marked the employees as average working stiffs who didn’t care about anything beyond their next paychecks. Soon I had the names of the two operators of van number three, even the location of their favorite after-work hangout—a dive located less than a mile from Green Gardens. Three rounds of beer and two hundred dollars are all it took to convince my new friends, Joel and Napalm—I never got a definitive answer about whether that is the man’s given name—to take a paid sick day, misplace their uniforms, and lose their keys. According to Napalm, Green Gardens would cancel the next maintenance trip with a promise to double up the following week. That way, Espy and I wouldn’t run into a replacement crew when we assume our new identities.
Behind the steering wheel of the van, Espy shifts gears as we turn onto the road that leads to the estate’s entrance. It’s almost anticlimactic when, less than three minutes later, we pull into the long and stately driveway. I barely have time to get my hat on before we’re climbing a gentle slope of stone pavers, approaching the security gate. I glance at the shrubbery on both sides of the concourse—beautifully shaped, and the spacing is spot-on. I agree with Napalm: no one would know that the third bush on the left is new, a replacement for one that succumbed to a fungus. It matches the others in every way.
“Those guys do great work,” I say.
I slouch down in my seat as Espy slows the van and stops next to the security station. She leans out the window and presses a button, and I hear a faint buzzing sound coming from the call mechanism. I keep my head low, the hat all but covering my eyes, while trying to make it appear as if I’m not hiding. A moment later the gate swings open, and Espy drives through without any change in her expression. As we watched the crew do earlier, we park in the front roundabout, near the cherub fountain on the east side.
We exit the van and go straight for the back of the vehicle, where I open the door and pull out a gas-powered edger. Espy reaches for a wheelbarrow. It’s upside down, resting on a cushion of pine mulch ten bags strong. She gives it a yank and then guides it into a twist while in the air so that it comes down on its wheel. It bounces once and she steadies it at an angle so she can reach the bags of mulch and pull them across and into the wheelbarrow.
“Nice,” I say.
“I grew up on a farm, remember?”
“Just don’t wear yourself out. We’re not here to plant daisies.”
“Daisies would never survive in this climate. The soil is mostly clay and there’s too much sun.”
“I’ll remember that. Thanks.”
I start the edger and work my way toward the front door, keeping my eyes to