The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [50]
After the site closed, and she was free to drive her car onto the grounds, she locked the trailer and went in search of Dellyn. Chloe found her friend dead-heading zinnias in the narrow beds around the Hafford House, once the home of a widowed Irish woman who had made her way in the world by taking in laundry. “Hey,” Chloe said, as she walked into the yard. “Pretty flowers.”
Dellyn straightened. “Did you know that the Aztec name for zinnias meant ‘eyesore’?”
“Um … no, I did not know that.” Chloe surveyed the beautiful rainbow of flowers—orange, yellow, purple, red. “What were the Aztecs so cranky about?”
“The name meant they treated eye problems with it. The Spanish did too. They called the plant mal de ojos. The name we use today came from a German guy named Dr. Zinn who helped promote the flowers as ornamentals.” Dellyn pulled off a few more dead blossoms. “There’s your bit of garden trivia for the day.”
Chloe watched her work for a moment. “Can’t the interpreters do that?”
Dellyn wiped her hands on her stained apron. “In theory. But they can’t keep up with everything.”
“Neither can you,” Chloe observed. Dellyn’s cheeks looked hollow. Dark smudges beneath her eyes looked like bruises. “Dellyn, I’m worried about you. Your mom’s garden, the inventory of your folks’ collection, the Garden Fair, all the gardens here … it’s too much to juggle at the best of times. Which this isn’t.”
Dellyn stared over the rest of the Crossroads Village. “I don’t know if I even want to be head gardener at Old World Wisconsin anymore.”
This is not good, Chloe thought. She tipped her head toward a nearby bench. “Let’s take a break.”
For a moment they sat in silence, savoring the peace of the site after-hours. Chloe watched a monarch butterfly dancing over the flowers. Finally Dellyn said, “Part of me wants to succeed as historic gardener. Part of me wants to get the heck out of town. But if I left, what would I do? The only things I’m much good at are waiting tables and planting seeds and pulling weeds.”
“That’s not true!” Chloe protested. “First of all, any historic site or public garden would welcome your knowledge. And on top of that, you’re an artist!”
“At the moment, I’m not anything,” Dellyn said. “I was a second-rate painter and a second-rate daughter and sister. Sometimes I think I should just sell my house and everything in it, and use the money for some kind of practical training.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure I even care. There’s got to be a way I can pay my bills and still have enough time and energy left over to paint on weekends.” She sighed. “I’m just so tired.”
“Dellyn … you buried your sister yesterday,” Chloe said. “Please give yourself time. Don’t make any big decisions right now.”
“I guess I don’t need to decide right this minute.” Dellyn shaded her eyes with one dirty hand. “What about you? You’re sure you’re OK after what happened in the barn?”
“One whopper of a bruise, but no real harm done.” Chloe didn’t want to dwell on the attack. “How are plans for the Garden Fair coming along?”
“Pretty well, despite everything. Harriet is making labels for the produce displays.” Dellyn wiped sweat from her forehead with her apron. “And the interpreters are excited about choosing their best heirloom vegetables to represent their farms.”
“A little competition is a good way to stir up the summer doldrums.” Chloe had worked at historic sites for a long time. For summer hires—college students, mostly—the job that had seemed so romantic and fun in April sometimes got tedious by muggy mid-summer.
Dellyn arched her back, stretching out a kink. “And I asked Nika to take a look for any artifacts in storage that might work well on display.”
Chloe was used to people