The Garden of Eden and Other Criminal Delights.

Faye Kellerman.

For Jonathan.

The GARDEN.

of EDEN.

"The Garden of Eden" is an original

Peter Decker/Rina Lazarus tale written

specifically for this anthology. It

combines my love of gardening with my

love of mystery writing. I gave my

protagonist, Rina, gardening as a hobby

because she's a nurturing person, and

planting a garden is a way to give back

to Mother Earth. The story deals with the search for the almighty buck when true treasures are found in the most unexpected places.

IT BEGAN AS SOMETHING RECREATIONAL, A WAY TO pa.s.s the time pleasantly, but then, as insidious as a burrowing maggot, it turned into an addiction. By six months, every room in the house was a biological testament to Rina Decker's hobby, from the bedrooms and bathrooms to the living room and the laundry room, plants, sprouts, shoots, and cultivars crowding out s.p.a.ce once reserved for human inhabitants. Given the dire circ.u.mstances, she knew she'd have to act, but the decision was torturous. Which ones merited the honor of being houseplants, and which ones had to be sacrificed for the good of the family?

"I feel like I'm living in the Congo," Decker complained as he sipped coffee at the breakfast table. He was about to tackle the Sunday paper, though he harbored little hope of finishing it. Something always came up.

"What's wrong with the Congo?" Rina countered. "It's foreign, it's exotic . . . Where's your sense of adventure?"

"Sucked out by the miscreants in the streets of Los Angeles, thank you very much. G.o.d and Koolaire have given us creature comforts for a reason, Rina. If I wanted to live in a tropical rain forest, I'd pick a more idyllic spot than the San Fernando Valley. The house has become unbearable-way too hot, dripping wet, and teeming with bugs."

"That's because you leave the back door open."

"I leave the back door open because I'm a big guy and I need circulation. Otherwise I drown in my own sweat."

That was true. Peter was six-four, 230 pounds, and in great shape. The bulge of his winter gut usually melted away in the more active summer months. The only hints of his age in the sixth decade were the increasing streaks of white coursing through his ginger-colored hair and mustache. Rina's husband still cut a handsome figure. She said, "I know you need circulation. That's why the ceiling fans are on all the time."

"All they do is blow around the hot air. We need air-conditioning, darlin'."

"Orchids are sensitive."

"So are husbands." The ribbing was good-natured, but there was a lot of truth in it. "Look. I can tolerate the bathrooms. Bathrooms are usually wet and hot. And so are kitchens and laundry rooms. I'll even acquiesce to the living room and den. But I put my foot down with the bedrooms. Even Hannah's complaining. She feels that you've expropriated her s.p.a.ce."

"That's ridiculous. There's nothing in her room except a few African violets."

"Fifteen, at last count."

"They barely fill up her windowsill."

Decker took a deep breath in an attempt to harness patience. "Rina, both your daughter and I are glad you found something that taps into your instinct to nurture and that pleases your aesthetic eye."

Rina stifled a smile. "It's my calling, Peter."

"Fantastic!" Decker said wryly. "Everyone should have a pa.s.sion. Unfortunately, instead of a pa.s.sion, I have a job . . . a demanding job. I've got to work, which means I've got to sleep. It's either your Bletilla striata or me."

Rina saw the desperate look on her husband's face. He had reached his limit. "I'll clear the bedrooms. I think I have a millimeter's worth of s.p.a.ce on a shelf in the laundry area."

Inwardly, Decker chided himself for his laziness. "I know I've been promising to frame the prefab greenhouse." He wanted to add, The one that's taking up most of the room in the garage so that my vintage Porsche has been relegated to the driveway under a measly cover. But years of marriage had taught him a little tact. He didn't know why he kept putting off the construction of the greenhouse. It wouldn't take more than a half-day to build it. Maybe, psychologically, he was afraid of what would happen if she had even more room for plants. "And I appreciate that you haven't nagged me to build it even though we bought it months ago."

"You work hard and put up with long, long hours. Your time should be your own." Rina was using her best self-sacrificing voice. "That's precisely why I took up gardening. To occupy my time during those long, long hours-"

"All right, all right!" Decker broke in. He covered his face with his hands, then looked at her between his fingers. "Just promise me you won't turn into a dotty old lady like what's-her-name."

"Cecily Eden."

Decker smiled. "Yeah, dotty old Cecily with the eponymous garden. Is Eden really her last name, or did she change it to match her obsession?"

"As far as I know, it's her given last name, and she's not dotty. She's very sharp-a retired microbiologist. She always jokes that she went from growing aerobes to growing Aerides." Rina laughed out loud. When Decker didn't respond, she gently nudged his shoulder and said, "A little inside garden joke."

Decker tried to remain serious but finally gave in and laughed. She was so cheerful this morning. Rina was still his twenty-six-year-old bride, though she had climbed over the forty mark a few years ago. In the past, they had been mistaken for father and daughter, even though he was only twelve years older than she was. Rina had a beautiful complexion, and her hair was still black, although he rarely saw it in its full glory. Traditional Orthodox Jewish convention dictated that married women cover their locks whenever they went out in public. Lately, she'd taken to wearing big straw sun hats and goofy sungla.s.ses.

"You really should see Cecily's garden, Peter. It's magnificent. She has the most unusual plants. The crowning jewel in her backyard is an imported Chinese sacred tree. It's like a magnolia but has these smaller white blossoms with an intoxicating citrus aroma. It's so green and gorgeous. It's from China, it blooms in the fall, just when most plants are fading away."

"I'm sure it's a sight to behold."

Rina clucked her tongue. "How ironic that you're being sarcastic. When we first married, you were the one who communed daily with nature, Mr. Cowboy."

"Yeah, but I never brought the horses into the house. Do you need help with the plants, darlin'?"

Rina stared at him, then broke into a grin. "You want to garden with me? That would be great!"

Decker backtracked. "Uh, I meant, do you need help taking the plants out of the bedrooms and into the laundry room?"

Rina smiled to hide her disappointment. "No, I'm fine. It's not exactly strenuous work."

Now she looked dejected. To Decker, gardening meant chopping down trees or hacking away brush, not transplanting cultivars. He took her hand and spoke in earnest. "You know, Rina, it's a beautiful day. How about if you clear the bedrooms of the foliage and bring all the plants outside while I finally build the prefab greenhouse. We can christen it together."

Rina managed a weak smile. He was trying. "You don't have to build it today, Peter. I can cram the plants into the laundry room."

"No, no, no. I'm determined." Decker stood up, a small physical step that signified the morphing of a theoretical idea into action. "C'mon. Hannah's at Julie's. Let's spend some time together outdoors. You garden and I'll build. Afterward, I'll pick some lemons and you'll make lemonade. Then I'll go get some sandwiches from the deli and we'll watch the Dodgers game together. How does that sound?"

This time Rina's smile was genuine. "Actually, it sounds wonderful."

"Great! Let's get to it!" Decker picked up the paper and headed for the compost pile. One Sunday Times would make a week's worth of excellent mulch.

Tuesday from twelve to two had been earmarked as Rina's weekly get-together with Cecily Eden, and she couldn't wait to tell her elderly friend about the newly built greenhouse. Rina was pretty sure that, to celebrate the construction, Cecily would insist on giving her all sorts of plants and would spurn any proffered payments. In order to offset this inequity, Rina had come to her friend's house armed with a plate of chocolate-chip cookies fresh from the oven.

As usual, she walked up the driveway to the backyard gate and automatically turned the k.n.o.b. This time she found it locked. Usually, Cecily left it open when she knew Rina was coming. It was good that the old woman was finally taking precautions. Rina would often scold her: "You shouldn't be so trusting, Cecily."

The old woman would laugh. "At my age, what does it matter? If anyone breaks in, he can take whatever he wants."

Backtracking over the driveway, Rina went around to the front door. Cecily lived in a ranch house built in the fifties, what Realtors called midcentury style. Her kitchen and bathroom still had original tile, and her furniture had lived through enough years to be considered retro. The old woman kept the place spotless. Having worked with germs all her life, she was a stickler for cleanliness.

The structure wasn't much bigger than a bungalow, but the property was over a half-acre. Rina rang the bell, and when no one answered, she rang it again. She knocked but still got no response.

Strange, Rina thought, because she knew that Cecily was expecting her. As she was about to walk away, almost as an afterthought, she gave a quick jiggle to the k.n.o.b. She was shocked that the door yielded with the turn of her wrist.

The gate was locked . . . but the door was open.

Instinctively, Rina knew that something was wrong. She should have called Peter, but what was the sense of disturbing him at work before she had proof that things were amiss? As a lieutenant, Peter had his hands full of mishap and mayhem. She didn't want to add to the mix unless necessary.

"Cecily?" she called out. "It's Rina. Are you home?"

She stepped inside a tidy living room abloom with spring flowers-roses, lilies, irises, daffodils, tulips, and Cecily's prized orchids. The couch had been upholstered in old floral fabric that looked something like wisteria vines through trellises. Two wicker chairs sat opposite the sofa. The carpet was green; the walls were peach-colored and plastered with botanical artwork-plants and flowers rendered in oil paintings, watercolors, crayon, pencil, charcoal, pastels, every possible drawing medium. Some were good, some were bad, and lots were mediocre. It was hard to enjoy any individual work, because there were so many of them hung chockablock. Still, Rina was always effusive when Cecily presented her latest acquisition picked up at a junk shop or flea market.

I've been collecting them for years, Cecily would say.

Again Rina called out the old woman's name. When she didn't get an answer, she began to worry, although nothing seemed out of place. She walked through the dining room, setting the cookies on the table, and went into the kitchen. Maybe Cecily had been called away suddenly. Rina knew that the old woman had two grown daughters and several grandchildren. Cecily had mentioned them in pa.s.sing; nothing extensive, but nothing to indicate that the relationships were strained.

"Cecily?" Rina walked through the kitchen and laundry room, then out the back door. "Cecily, are you home?"

It was mid-May, and the garden was in full bloom, a riot of colors and heavy with fragrance. Cecily had divided and subdivided her lot, creating ecosystems and microclimates connected seamlessly by pathways and lanes. She had placed her rose gardens, bulb gardens, and cutting gardens where there was an abundance of sun and some partial shade. Tucked into a back corner was the Zen garden, with a pavilion and a small fishpond covered by barely visible netting that kept out the predators-stray cats, squirrels, racc.o.o.ns, and herons. The other corner housed her greenhouse. The orchard took up the rest of the s.p.a.ce, giant avocados providing shade for aromatic citrus trees. In the center was the rare Chinese sacred tree. A year ago, Cecily and her gardener had built a bench around its trunk. It was one of her favorite spots for reading and relaxing.

It was there that Rina discovered the body.

Gasping, she rushed over and felt for a pulse-for any signs of life-but she knew it was hopeless. There was no heartbeat and no breathing. The pupils were dilated and fixed, her empty eyes brazenly staring into the sun. Still, Rina called 911. Then she called her husband.

The investigator from the coroner's office was named Gloria, a woman in her mid-thirties who had recently come to the profession. Wearing traditional dark scrubs emblazoned with CORONER'S INVESTIGATOR in yellow, she got up from her kneeling position and snapped off her latex gloves. She looked at Rina. "Do you know if she had any health problems?"

Rina shook her head.

Decker said, "Find anything sinister other than the bruise on her left temple?"

"Nope, and the bruise was probably caused by her falling and hitting her head on the ground. Nothing to indicate blunt-force trauma. She was an old woman. She must have had a doctor."

"Henry Goldberg," Decker said. "He's a cardiologist. I found out his name from one of Cecily's daughters. He's on his way."

"Great," Gloria said. "I think I'm done here. You can go over the body if you want, but I'm feeling that she died of natural causes. If Dr. Goldberg feels comfortable signing off on the death certificate, that's fine with me. That way the next of kin can call up the funeral home, and they can come pick up the body. If not, have the guys bring her to the morgue, and one of our doctors will sign her off."

"No autopsy?" Rina asked.

"Not unless her physician or her children demand it."

"Thanks," Decker said.

"You're welcome, Lieutenant."

After Gloria left, Decker turned to his wife. "What have you been waiting to tell me?"

Rina bit her thumbnail. "It's probably stupid."

"It probably isn't. What's bothering you?"