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  Stancik hadn’t said another word. He didn’t have to.

  Losing my temper would be unproductive. “So now I’m Fagin, orchestrating a team of youthful offenders, like the guy in Oliver Twist? You’ve got to be joking,” I said, my voice even.

  He wasn’t. “While I was waiting for you, I ran the plates on that tank idling by the fire hydrant. I hate when people do that,” he said, looking up from his notes. Over the top of his glasses, I could see his eyes were chocolate brown. I hadn’t noticed before. “What if there’s a fire? Anyway, the vehicle belongs to one Concetta Anzalone, wife of Guy Anzalone, who the police in Brooklyn are investigating on usury charges. You’ve been seen with them on numerous occasions, including one incident at the St. George Hotel, where you allegedly struck Mr. Anzalone with a suitcase. Doorman called it in.”

  “This is preposterous. I’m getting out now. If you don’t have an actual question for me or a warrant for my arrest, thanks for the lift but I have to go to work. I suggest you do the same.”

  “Honey, I am at work. I just don’t want you to get hurt. You’re not in the burbs anymore. Some of these people are rougher than you may be used to. From what we’ve pieced together, it’s not impossible Jamal’s crew has been staging these Javits Curse mishaps at the convention center to deflect attention from their real crimes.”

  “Has anyone questioned these protestors out here about the disturbances at the show?” I asked. Tight security had kept the antichemical, antifertilizer group under control except for one minor incident at the reception on Friday. The cops felt they were in the clear as far as the vandalism went. Management thought it was an inside job—a disgruntled employee or even one of the exhibitors. And the first incident happened before the sales vendors were admitted, so it could even have been one of the display gardeners.

  “Right. Maybe it’s Mrs. Moffitt.”

  “No. We checked her out. She’s been exhibiting at the Big Apple for a long time. We don’t think she’d sabotage the show. We think the first incident might have been staged to destroy some piece of evidence, but now the perpetrator is getting a kick out of being referred to as the Javits Curse. That says kids, not professionals.”

  I wondered where he’d gotten his detailed show information, then it hit me. “I was unaware of Kristi Reynolds’s stint at the police academy.”

  “Maybe she got there after you graduated. She’s a little younger.”

  Someone once told me the worst wounds were self-inflicted. I hadn’t pulled the trigger on that one, but I’d certainly given Stancik the ammo.

  “That came out wrong,” he said. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Forget it,” I said, hauling myself out of the car.

  Just then two fire engines screeched to a halt in front of the Wagner Center. Stancik and I looked at each other.

  “Now what?”

  We hurried past the thin crowd of protesters, who parted for the emergency vehicles and workers and us as soon as Stancik flashed his badge. Inside the building, the sight of the abandoned security desk had us sprinting up the escalator to the second floor, which was the scene of much chaos and shrieking.

  Fifty-two

  I didn’t know how much water can come out of overhead sprinklers in ten or fifteen minutes, but it was enough to dash dreams and bankrupt a few businesses. By the time the downpour stopped, some hearts were broken. Others thanked their lucky stars that, like a capricious tornado, the deluge had miraculously skipped their aisles or booths and landed next door. All they’d suffered was a light misting, compared to devastated neighbors who’d been washed away in mini-mudslides.

  Stancik ran off to find security and to make sure there wasn’t a real fire anywhere in the old building. I hurried to Primo’s booth and breathed easier when I saw his sculptures had gotten sprayed but were otherwise fine. David’s light fixtures had been spared, as had the sumptuous breakfast he’d brought for us. Nikki was less fortunate.

  The wooden and wrought iron furniture and tools in her booth could be wiped down, but the dried flower arrangements looked like piles of refried beans, the vintage linens were ruined, and the sarcophagus was filled with water that had leaked through the decorative grate that served as the tabletop. It would be difficult to drain and would probably start to smell soon, since the water that had come out of the sprinklers was hardly Poland Spring.

  All around, people wondered how to salvage the last day of the show, one that historically saw an increase in foot traffic from shoppers who knew bargains could be found when vendors were faced with the prospect of shipping home all the merchandise they hadn’t sold. This particular day there would be lots of bargains.

  In a calm and determined voice (did nothing fluster the woman?) Kristi Reynolds announced that the show would open ninety minutes later than originally planned and that tubs and plastic garbage bags were being distributed by Wagner personnel to help people get rid of any debris. Fans and water extractors were available by calling the building’s maintenance number.

  Very quickly, the atmosphere changed. Out of the chaos grew a spirit of camaraderie I hadn’t seen before at the show, as exhibitors helped one another clean up and improvise in those gardens and booths that had been most severely damaged. In a remarkable display of solidarity Mrs. Moffitt’s Jensen got the ball rolling by offering their award-winning specimen plants, window boxes, and container gardens to anyone whose display had been irreparably damaged. She had plenty of takers, and it inspired me to make the same offer for the temporary use of Primo’s remaining artwork. Selfishly, I also thought it might even help them sell if they were seen in situ.

  Connie Anzalone’s Coney Island Garden was unscathed but, wanting to help, she called Guy and the Tumbled Stone King diverted a truckload of rocks and faux flagstone to the loading dock, where Fat Frank and Cookie handed them out like Romans flinging bread into the crowds at the Colosseum or, to use a more recent and perhaps more appropriate analogy, like old-time mobsters handing out turkeys during the holidays.

  In some instances, exhibitors joined forces and created one decent display where previously there had been two or three bedraggled ones. As they worked, people shared stories about how their home gardens had survived sudden downpours and freak hailstorms. I was loving my gardening community. In fact, it was the first time I’d felt like part of a professional community in a long time and I was happy to pitch in to help. I called Lucy and left a message for her to come as soon as possible.

  Through the frenzied last-minute activity before the opening bell, Stancik and Labidou were clustered around an ever-changing knot of uniformed cops, private security guards, and convention center employees not far from my booth. Periodically workers pointed to the ceiling at the sprinkler heads that had gone haywire and caused all the destruction. A maintenance worker came over with one of the rubber carts.

  Five exhibitors asked to borrow small sculptures, so I loaded them onto flat carts and they were whisked away. As I walked the floor, I began to notice a pattern. Not the exhibits that had been ruined—the ones that had been spared. Among them were all Mrs. Moffitt’s entries; SlugFest; three major plant suppliers from the Northwest; and, as far as I could tell, any vendors and gardeners with electrical equipment. Perhaps the deluge hadn’t hit with the randomness of a tornado.

  Like a good citizen I circled back to my booth to share my observation with John Stancik. I may not be have been as young as Kristi Reynolds, but as my mother would have said, I had a much better personality. I just needed a little lipstick. I swung by the ladies’ room before looking for John.

  The smoke stung my eyes, and I wondered if there really had been a fire, but it was just Allegra Douglas, puffing away in the first stall. In an uncharacteristic display of thoughtfulness, she tossed the butt when she heard me enter.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, waving at the air. “I know I shouldn’t be smoking here. I’m just so frazzled. How is your booth? Is everything all right?”

  Our previous c
onversations hadn’t been that much fun, so I nodded politely and got to the business of primping. Allegra stood there, not saying anything. She seemed genuinely distressed, and I couldn’t keep up my cold shoulder routine. I asked if her booth had survived the flood. She shook her head, close to tears.

  “It’s all under water. It was the way I designed the garden. All the water collected in the middle and didn’t run off. It looks like a swamp.” I knew she wanted another cigarette and was grateful she didn’t light up again.

  “Is there anything I can do? Is there anything you can borrow to fix it?”

  “From whom? Everyone hates me. I know it. But it’s not easy to change when you’re as old as I am. What am I going to do—just start being nice at my advanced age? People will think I’ve gone senile. I’d rather have them hate me than pity me.”

  “No one hates you. They may think you’re a little rigid, that’s all. About the rules.” God, how I could lie in the name of a good cause. I guess I had retained some skills from my former job. “C’mon, maybe I can help.” I pulled on her spindly arm and dragged her to her garden.

  She was right. It was a disaster. The water hadn’t drained, and she had a large murky pond surrounded by a ring of bedraggled plants. With a little luck and a lot of hard work it could look as good as a toxic sinkhole. We had fifty minutes.

  “All right. You have three choices: bog garden, amphibian pond, or a high-concept, first garden after the apocalypse, I Am Legend/The Road–type thing.” She just stared. “Scratch that,” I said. “Two choices: bogs or frogs. What think?” She went with the frogs.

  In fifteen minutes we’d foraged two broken pieces of lattice; more than two dozen stone, ceramic, and metal frogs (they had not sold as well as the hummingbirds and the vendors were happy to part with them for the price of a mention); and three bruised but living water lilies. It was a start. I set her to work, while I went in search of other less obvious materials—an empty six-pack and a neon beer sign. I went to the gangsta garden display, which was in pristine condition.

  Some were convinced that was due to the students themselves being the vandals, but I thought it was the wiring in the exhibit. Whoever had arranged for the downpour didn’t seem to want electrical items shorting out and potentially causing a real fire or a permanent blackout. They just wanted to screw things up temporarily. Stancik thought it was someone creating a diversion. I thought it was someone with an ax to grind, but a carefully wielded ax.

  I was anxious to talk to Lauryn about Jamal, but that would have to come later, in a more private setting. Right then, I needed her help on a smaller but more time-sensitive matter.

  “C’mon, Lauryn. This is one of those moments when you get to be the person your dog thinks you are. To be good to someone who’s been mean to you. Allegra Douglas.”

  “I don’t have dogs, I have fish,” she said, arms folded but a slight curve to her lips. “I also eat fish.”

  “Is that what y’all do in the suburbs?” one of her students asked. “Worry about what your pets think?” It earned the speaker a sharp, critical look from her teacher, who wasn’t really hesitating, just savoring the moment. And strategizing. I told her what I needed.

  “Not just the suburbs. Trust me,” I said to the kids, “you’ll feel good about doing it. You’ll be making another garden. And this one has a television theme.”

  I’d said the magic word. And Lauryn knew where I was going with the six-pack and the beer sign.

  “Do we need to find someone with a football jersey?” she asked.

  “Maybe you can bribe one of the workers?”

  With that she and three of the students judiciously picked hardware and plant material from their own display and brought them over to Allegra’s booth. I left the kids practicing ribbit noises. The girl who had asked about pet habits in the suburbs was telling Allegra about Frogs, a cult classic B movie that carried the memorable tagline, “They’re not the ones who croak!” Someone went off in search of a jersey or a football and I headed back to Primo’s booth.

  Amid the sounds of exhibitors, rushing to be ready when the doors opened to the public, and convention center staff, scrambling to put away floor fans and water extractors, Nikki’s gasp could barely be heard except by those closest to her, which included me, David, and John Stancik, who’d returned to see how I had fared.

  She’d been trying to straighten the decorative grate on top of the sarcophagus when she noticed something colorful through the wrought iron of the grate. Fabric, with patches on it, bobbing in the water.

  Fifty-three

  John rushed to Nikki’s side, instructing her not to touch anything, which I thought an unnecessary precaution since her fingerprints were everywhere. Perhaps it was just cop talk. He left a message for Labidou, who was floating around the building. Stancik peered over the edge of the sarcophagus through the grate. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and slid the heavy makeshift tabletop a few inches to the right to see what had elicited Nikki’s reaction. She took a step back as if something were going to jump out of the stone tub; David put his arm out to catch her, just in case. She’d already cracked her skull once that weekend.

  “Is it a body?” Nikki asked.

  Perversely, I stepped closer to the sarcophagus for a better look. I saw a ripple of colors and thought I recognized a scrap of fabric with a familiar image on it, Delicate Arch, a common symbol for Arches National Park, one of the places Garland Bleimeister had visited and memorialized on his jacket. The jacket he’d given to Jamal Harrington.

  “Oh, no.” The words escaped my lips like a low moan, and before I knew it I’d drawn even closer to the stone vessel. Whatever Jamal might have done, this was no way for a kid like him to end up.

  “Stay back,” John said. It was spoken softly, a request, not an order, and I complied. “It’s not a body. Or a jacket.” Stancik used one of the vintage fireplace tools in Nikki’s booth and fished something out of the tub—Garland Bleimeister’s missing bag. He dumped it on top and we watched the water drain through the decorative grate. Just then someone joined us.

  “What’s going on? I guess they have to keep it humid at these things, but this is ridiculous. No wonder everyone’s hair looks bad.”

  “It’s not the humidity,” I said mechanically.

  “It’s the heat?” she said. “Wait, that doesn’t sound right.” She threw her head back in a full-throated laugh, cracking herself up. “Love the sarcophagus. Saw one at the Gardner Museum, but I’d never be able to get it up the stairs.” Lucy Cavanaugh marched right up to it for a closer inspection.

  “Oooh, that bag’s never going to be the same. I dropped a backpack in a canal in Amsterdam once. Smelled for days and all my lovely patches ran. To say nothing of the stuff inside. Thank goodness most of it was in plastic bags.” She snorted. “Wow, that was a long time ago.”

  Lucy sucked on a Dunkin’ Donuts iced coffee and handed me the one she’d brought for me. Skim milk, no sugar. It was just like her to jump right into an ongoing discussion and totally hijack it.

  She looked around for an ally or an explanation. “What?” she asked. “What?”

  “I don’t think the owner of this particular bag will object to its condition,” I said. Sometimes clueless but never slow, Lucy nearly gagged on her coffee.

  “That’s the dead guy’s bag?” She gave it a closer look, including the patches, some of which had started to bleed at the edges. “At least he got to travel a bit, before, you know…” She trailed off, realizing she was getting into a line of conversation that might be considered in poor taste.

  “Detective Stancik, are we going to see what’s inside?”

  He hesitated before answering me.

  “What’s the big deal?” I said. “Apparently it’s been here for days. I think I was even accused of not being curious enough when your partner asked me about it.”

  He unzipped the main compartment. Inside, sopping wet but still neatly folded, was a change of clothing, sli
ghtly more formal than the T-shirt and jeans he was wearing when we met—black slacks, a button-down shirt, and black slip-on shoes. There was a small Dopp kit with travel-sized toiletries and a washcloth; three water-logged paperbacks; and Zagat New York Restaurants with Post-its fringing the pages. In the outside zippered pocket was a soggy deck of cards. What wasn’t there was even more telling.

  “No wallet, no keys, no ID,” Stancik said.

  “No phone either,” I said.

  “How do you know he had a phone?”

  “Everyone has a phone,” Lucy said.

  “He called me. But it was after he left his bag, so he must have had it with him. He had a few bags. Three, I think. Maybe this was the nonessential stuff.”

  “No wonder he didn’t bother to come back for it,” Lucy said. “There’s nothing here that couldn’t be easily replaced if you were trying to get out of town in a hurry.”

  “I think he left a little sooner than he planned,” I said. “But why all the fuss about a bag with extra clothing in it? Especially if you’re expecting a windfall and leaving the country? If it was that important to him, why didn’t Garland just come and find me on Wednesday morning after he sneaked in?”

  It hit me and Stancik at the same time. Garland wasn’t looking for his bag—someone else was. Someone who knew it was missing and wanted to know what was in it. I’d never actually spoken to him on the phone—Babe did, and she wouldn’t have recognized his voice. And anyone could have left that note on the bulletin board. For all we knew it was Garland’s killer who’d been trying to reach me.

  None of us had seen the bag since Wednesday, when I’d stashed it under the table. Nikki thought the grate might have been slightly out of place on Saturday morning after her husband had been there. “I assumed Russ moved it.”

  “Friday was the morning you thought I had rearranged Primo’s sculptures, remember?” I said. “Maybe someone took the bag from under the table in my booth, searched it, and then dumped it in the sarcophagus.”