Pushing Up Daisies

CHAPTER 26

Compared to other nurseries in southwestern Connecticut, Chiaramonte’s had a decidedly retro style. He didn’t carry five different types of basil, and he didn’t sell resin Buddhas, Japanese stepping-stones, or tranquility chimes. Most of Guido’s shrubs looked like they had set down roots right out of their nursery pots, and he eschewed all other bedding plants in favor of red and white impatiens. Not even New Guinea impatiens. How he stayed in business was baffling.

I opened the door to Guido’s shop, displacing two of the nursery’s many cats, and the fresh- faced clerk behind the counter seemed stunned to see a customer on such a miserable day. She was chair- dancing to what ever pounding music was pumping through her headphones and hand- lettering one of the crude, self-promotional signs Guido wanted me to place at Halcyon. I’d have to nip that baby in the bud. I told her why I was there.

“He must be in the back,” she said, removing her headphones and wearing them as a necklace. “I just got here. I haven’t seen him yet.” She sifted through the clutter on the dirty counter-Bag Balm, watering worms, and sell sheets for deer fencing. “We have these walkietalkies. They’re kind of lame, but would you like me to try him?”

“Sure, give him a buzz.”

I lingered near the electric space heater while she fiddled with the buttons on the walkie-talkie, which she apparently rarely used, since her strategy was to push every button and yell hello. Hanging from the beams in Guido’s shop were baskets of all shapes and sizes, and Styrofoam hearts, crosses, and wreaths. Maybe that was it. Guido catered to the cemetery crowd. As long as people kept dying, Guido would stay in business.

“He’s not answering, but he doesn’t always carry his walkie-talkie with him. The car’s here though, so he must be around.”

“No problem, I know where the office is. I’ll drive around to the back. If he’s not there, I’ll just leave the tools and a note.”

That would be a break, not having to actually interact with His Oiliness. I pulled into the pergola- covered parking area that separated Guido’s trailer from the rest of the nursery and crossed the wet gravel to Guido’s office. The door to the trailer was open and I could hear the crackle of the walkie-talkie as the girl kept trying to reach him.

I knocked on the door frame. “Guido? Mr. Chiara-monte? It’s Paula. I’ve brought back the rest of your tools.”

I stepped into the trailer, trying to make as much noise as possible. With Guido’s reputation, I didn’t want to catch him in flagrante anything. Catalogs and plant labels were everywhere. On top of a gray metal file cabinet was a plaster model of the Fifields’ grotesque fountain.

“Guido?”

I ventured farther inside and detected a subtle shift in the decor-from messy office to sloppy love nest. A saggy, stained couch conjured up images of Guido and his women. A boom box and a handful of audio -cassettes-Jerry Vale and Dean Martin, as I expected, and a generic opera compilation-sat on the plain pine coffee table.

Ooooh-kaaay, I thought to myself, time to hit the road. It would be just like Guido to be standing behind me with a bottle of wine and a head full of crazy notions.

I was about to leave when something on the floor caught my eye. White and fluffy, at first I thought it was another of Guido’s cats. It didn’t move, but something else did. A huge fly, feeding on the pool of blood the head was sitting in. Guido Chiaramonte was facedown on the floor of his trailer-a long-handled Mexican coa protruding from his back.