lupus flare.
Maybe Tate's niece Stevie was looking for a house to flip. "I'll let you know if I think of anyone who might be interested in it."
The inner office's door opened, and Marty Drumm emerged. His face looked even more strained than when she'd seen him an hour ago, and his eyes were flitting wildly from spot to spot as if constantly on alert for danger. He probably wasn't used to management and was wishing he could be back in the cab of a bulldozer, which might take considerable expertise, but at least there, he didn't have to juggle a large number of conflicting demands and could focus on a narrow goal of moving dirt from one spot to another.
"You know what's in everyone's best interest." Marty seemed oblivious to Gloria's and Helen's presence as he passed them. At the door, he paused to give Cory a meaningful look. "A lot of people are counting on you to do the right thing."
"I always do," Cory said amiably.
"You'd better." Marty swept out, apparently believing he'd made his point.
Helen wasn't so sure. She knew an evasive answer when she heard one. Cory was going to be every bit as difficult to get answers out of as Jack had claimed. Even her skills might not be enough.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Cory remained standing at the glass doorway with a smile that was either genuine or a remarkably good artificial one until the bright blue pickup truck had backed out of the parking space and headed for the road.
Cory took a deep breath and turned around. "You already own a lovely cottage, and I can't imagine you want to sell it, so I assume you're here about the community garden. Come on back to my office."
It didn't surprise Helen that he knew where she lived. It was his business to keep track of that sort of thing, after all. She was a little surprised, however, that he didn't even try to convince her she needed a bigger and more expensive home.
Helen followed him to the end of the hallway, past the picture window that looked into a small conference room. Inside Cory's office, three of the walls displayed pictures of half a dozen mansions—the real thing similar to the one that had been transformed into the Wharton Nursing Home, not cheap, modern knockoffs—that were presumably among his biggest sales. The remaining wall beside the doorway had been transformed into a massive, green-felt-lined rack to hold golf clubs. Two horizontal shelves ran the entire width of the wall, one at waist height and one near the ceiling, with slots cut into them for hanging the clubs. On the floor in the corner was a bucket of golf balls.
Helen's ex-husband had been an avid golfer, but even he didn't have that many putters, and he certainly didn't keep them quite this close at hand. Of course, as governor, Frank had to maintain a certain image, and he had to contend with reporters who weren't anywhere near as kind to their subjects as Geoff Loring was.
"I figured Dale would drag you into the controversy," Cory said as he closed the door and headed over to settle behind his desk. "What did you want to know?"
"Before I start planting my garden, I just want to be sure I'm not wasting the effort," Helen sank into the faded but well-built and comfortable guest chair across from him. "I'm hearing rumors that Sheryl's death wasn't an accident, and if she was murdered, it might tip the scales in favor of selling the land."
"I can't believe anyone would kill Sheryl for doing her job," Cory said. "Besides, she wasn't the only person interested in the land. The owner of Wharton Meadows wanted it as badly as Sheryl did. More, perhaps. The place is at peak capacity with a lengthy waiting list, and there's nowhere else to expand nearby."
"So you don't think one of the gardeners might have killed Sheryl?"
"Garden club members aren't generally known for their homicidal tendencies," Cory said. "They tend to be pacifists. Except for Dale, I suppose."
"She does have strong feelings about the garden."
"True, but I can't really see her killing
Maybe Tate's niece Stevie was looking for a house to flip. "I'll let you know if I think of anyone who might be interested in it."
The inner office's door opened, and Marty Drumm emerged. His face looked even more strained than when she'd seen him an hour ago, and his eyes were flitting wildly from spot to spot as if constantly on alert for danger. He probably wasn't used to management and was wishing he could be back in the cab of a bulldozer, which might take considerable expertise, but at least there, he didn't have to juggle a large number of conflicting demands and could focus on a narrow goal of moving dirt from one spot to another.
"You know what's in everyone's best interest." Marty seemed oblivious to Gloria's and Helen's presence as he passed them. At the door, he paused to give Cory a meaningful look. "A lot of people are counting on you to do the right thing."
"I always do," Cory said amiably.
"You'd better." Marty swept out, apparently believing he'd made his point.
Helen wasn't so sure. She knew an evasive answer when she heard one. Cory was going to be every bit as difficult to get answers out of as Jack had claimed. Even her skills might not be enough.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Cory remained standing at the glass doorway with a smile that was either genuine or a remarkably good artificial one until the bright blue pickup truck had backed out of the parking space and headed for the road.
Cory took a deep breath and turned around. "You already own a lovely cottage, and I can't imagine you want to sell it, so I assume you're here about the community garden. Come on back to my office."
It didn't surprise Helen that he knew where she lived. It was his business to keep track of that sort of thing, after all. She was a little surprised, however, that he didn't even try to convince her she needed a bigger and more expensive home.
Helen followed him to the end of the hallway, past the picture window that looked into a small conference room. Inside Cory's office, three of the walls displayed pictures of half a dozen mansions—the real thing similar to the one that had been transformed into the Wharton Nursing Home, not cheap, modern knockoffs—that were presumably among his biggest sales. The remaining wall beside the doorway had been transformed into a massive, green-felt-lined rack to hold golf clubs. Two horizontal shelves ran the entire width of the wall, one at waist height and one near the ceiling, with slots cut into them for hanging the clubs. On the floor in the corner was a bucket of golf balls.
Helen's ex-husband had been an avid golfer, but even he didn't have that many putters, and he certainly didn't keep them quite this close at hand. Of course, as governor, Frank had to maintain a certain image, and he had to contend with reporters who weren't anywhere near as kind to their subjects as Geoff Loring was.
"I figured Dale would drag you into the controversy," Cory said as he closed the door and headed over to settle behind his desk. "What did you want to know?"
"Before I start planting my garden, I just want to be sure I'm not wasting the effort," Helen sank into the faded but well-built and comfortable guest chair across from him. "I'm hearing rumors that Sheryl's death wasn't an accident, and if she was murdered, it might tip the scales in favor of selling the land."
"I can't believe anyone would kill Sheryl for doing her job," Cory said. "Besides, she wasn't the only person interested in the land. The owner of Wharton Meadows wanted it as badly as Sheryl did. More, perhaps. The place is at peak capacity with a lengthy waiting list, and there's nowhere else to expand nearby."
"So you don't think one of the gardeners might have killed Sheryl?"
"Garden club members aren't generally known for their homicidal tendencies," Cory said. "They tend to be pacifists. Except for Dale, I suppose."
"She does have strong feelings about the garden."
"True, but I can't really see her killing
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