The Howling II

11

MR. BJORKLUND SHRUGGED and spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "I'm sorry," he said.

Karyn waited for a moment for him to say something more. When he didn't she looked down at the long wooden counter between them. There, each in its familiar pot, were her three plants. They were barely recognizable. The fern and the spider plant were yellow-brown, shriveled, and ugly, dead, ropy things that had nothing to do with the vibrant living greenery they had been. Only the tough philodendron had not given up. With the tenacity of the dying it clung to the mossy post, but its leaves were pale and sickly, splotched with brown like the hands of old people with liver spots.

"I'm afraid they're goners," Mr. Bjorklund said. "There was nothing I could do."

"Thanks, anyway," Karyn said dully.

"What have you been feeding them?"

Karyn looked up at him curiously. "I didn't feed them anything, except what you gave me. I kept them in the soil you blended for me, and I was very careful about watering them."

"Somebody fed them," the nurseryman said. "They've been poisoned."

Karyn stared at him.

"I ran a test on the soil in all three pots. Each one is saturated with enough herbicide to kill a Douglas fir."

"That isn't possible."

Bjorklund shrugged again. "All I can tell you is what the tests showed."

"Is there some way the herbicide could have got into the soil accidentally?"

"Nope. It was added to the soil deliberately and carefully. The concentration was heaviest right down around the roots. Then way I figure it, somebody jammed the nozzle of a plastic squeeze bottle down in there and pumped the stuff in."

"Why would anybody want to do that?"

"You tell me."

Karyn looked down again at the sorry shriveled things that had been her plants. "Then they're all — dead?"

"As last winter's corsage," he said. "The philodendron might hang on for a while if we transplant it into some rich new soil and feed it special nutrients, but if you want my opinion, it's a goner too. I'll try to save it if you want me to."

"No," Karyn said abruptly. "No, never mind." She turned and started for the door.

"How about replacements?" Bjorkland called after her. "I can fix you up with three nice healthy plants."

"No, thank you."

"What about these pots? They're yours."

"You keep them," Karyn said without looking back. "I have no more use for them."

The house in Mountlake Terrace seemed painfully empty. Karyn wandered around restlessly, then stopped short as she realized she was avoiding the family room. That was where her plants had been.

For God's sake, they were only vegetables! she reminded herself. And yet she had to admit now that they had come to mean much more to her. Far too much.

She saw the absurdity of her feelings, but seeing it did nothing to lessen her sense of loss. The plants had been hers, and hers alone, and now they were dead. Murdered, if it was accurate to say a plant had been murdered. Who would do a thing like that? And why? It had to be someone who was trying to get at. her. The someone who was in her house the other night?

She put aside the suspicions forming in her mind when David came home. She told him briefly that her plants had died, without going into details. There was no way to tell him without sounding more paranoid than ever.

David was very kind. Sensing her mood, he put an arm around her and patted her gently. "You know something, we haven't been out together for a long time," he said. "What do you say we have dinner tonight at Teagle's?"

"But you have to work tomorrow."

"So I'll go in a little late. The business will hold together. How about it?"

"I'd like it," Karyn said. "Very much."

David gave her hand a squeeze. "It will be good for you to get out of the house."

Mrs. Jensen came in and cleared her throat to get their attention. "Will you be wanting an early dinner tonight?" she said.

"We're going out," David told her. "Just make something for Joey."

The housekeeper nodded and turned to leave.

"Oh, Mrs. Jensen," David called her back.

"Yes?"

"There was a ladder left leaning up against the back of the house the other day. I had to put it away."

Karyn looked up quickly. "A ladder?"

Mrs. Jensen made a clucking sound with her tongue. "Ah, that would have been one of Joey's little friends. The Kelly boy."

"I wish Joey would tell his friends to leave things in the garage alone. Or at least put them back when they're finished."

"I'll speak to him about it," said Mrs. Jensen.

It was warm in the house, but Karyn caught herself shivering as though she were caught in a cold draft.