Lilacs, Litigation, and Lethal Love Affairs by JL Wilson

The angry voices were getting louder.

I crouched behind the double-shelved potting bench full of glossy green philodendrons and tried to peer through the leaves at the argument in progress on the far side of the greenhouse. Two men had come into the house while I was bent over to straighten the plastic pots on the floor and they obviously didn’t know I was there. Heck, even if I were standing straight they might not see me among the verdant vegetation that surrounded me. I was short and the greenery was tall and thick.

“You’ve sold out, Mike, and you know it,” one man said, his voice deep, low and angry. “I can’t believe you took everything we worked for and threw it away like that. You son of a bitch, I should expose you. You deserve it.” I couldn’t see the speaker because he was standing next to the palm bench and was hidden by the fronds but he sounded royally pissed off.

“Threw it away? Who are you kidding? I’m making a six-figure salary and I’m on the board of Min-Gen Technologies. I’ll retire in a couple of years on my stock options. Where are you? Still peddling petunias? Still crawling around in the dirt and doing landscape designs? How’s the company doing? Will you show a profit this year?”

This came from the tall man in a business suit who stood in the aisle leading through the greenhouse past the dozens of wooden tables holding houseplants. I recognized him as the keynote speaker for today’s dedication ceremony of the new greenhouse, which was situated next to this one where I now toiled. Dr. Michael Peavey was a research botanist who donated a large chunk of money to build the tech school’s horticulture program here in Roseville, a suburb of Minneapolis. I’d endured his speech just an hour earlier but slipped away from the celebratory banquet to finish my chores in the old greenhouse.

“It’s not about the money,” the first man hidden in the palms said.

“Of course it is. You’re lying if you say it isn’t. I got the business and the patents and…” His voice was muffled as he turned then I heard him say, “…hated me all these years because of it. Don’t blame me now because I’m a success. Your threats won’t stop me.”

“Threats? You haven’t seen threats yet. Just wait until I tell —”

Their voices were drowned out by the creaking of the overhead fans kicking on in an attempt to keep the temperature regulated in the leaky old structure. I used the noise to duck low and scurry out of the side door leading to the hall in front of the horticulture classrooms.

“Hey, Gidget!”

I stopped and waited for the teenager to catch up to me as he hurried down the concrete block hallway. My younger classmates bestowed that nickname on me when one of them watched a Sixties TV marathon on cable TV and noticed my resemblance to the star of the television show of the same name. Sally Fields was ten years older than me, but we still looked remarkably alike although my short, shaggy hair had always been white. It was an odd quirk of aging that now as I approached fifty my hair was turning pale sweatshirt gray. Thank goodness the kids didn’t latch onto the Flying Nun. That would have been too much, even for my easy-going nature.

“What’s up, Aaron?” I asked, taking a left turn and approaching the main entry door to the greenhouse I’d just vacated. I glanced at the steamy glass door and saw a dark silhouette against its surface.

“They’re getting ready to cut the ribbon on the new greenhouse. You have to make the speech, don’t you? Ed sent me to find you.”

“I’m on my way. I was just finishing up in the old greenhouse.”

“It’ll be nice working in the new house, won’t it?” Aaron Swenson fell into step with me. He was one of the handsomest young men I’ve ever seen with a tall, athletic build, blond hair, and a sunny smile and disposition to match. His dark blue eyes always seemed to be mischievous and warm, as though every person he talked to was the center of his universe. He was charming, sweet, and sincere, or at least he seemed to be. Some people seemed that way until you really got to know them, but I suspected he truly was as nice as he seemed. No one could cultivate such a persona without slipping at least once in a while.

“I won’t get much time in the new greenhouse,” I commented. “I graduate in a few weeks and am off to the real world, such as it is.”

Aaron looked surprised then nodded. “I keep forgetting you’re ahead of us.”

“Only relatively speaking,” I assured him. “I transferred in so many credits from my other schools it put me a year ahead of you guys.” We walked down the hallway, nearing the main door to the greenhouse. As we did, the steamy glass door opened and a man burst out. The collar on his black leather jacket was pulled high, hiding most of his face so all I saw was his tousled white and gray hair. He brushed by us down the hall which led to the front entrance of the school building.

“Who’s that?” Aaron asked as he peered back over his shoulder. He opened the door and I preceded him into the potting room that served as foyer to the newer greenhouse.

“No idea. I guess he’s a visitor or something.” I entered the twenty-foot open space, meagerly heated by the overhead pipes. Most of the Horticulture Department students were inside, mingling with a few school and town dignitaries who looked out of place next to the tubs of dirt, bags of fertilizers and plastic trays lining the wooden potting benches. Ed Jenkins, one of the instructors, gestured with his coffee mug for me to join him. I crossed the room to the big red ribbon stretched across the doorway to the new greenhouse.

“Cassie, this is Dr. Anderson, the school President.” Ed beamed at me. “Dr. Anderson, this is Cassie Whittington. She’s the president of the Student Horticulture Society. She’ll be making the acceptance speech on behalf of our students.”

I held out my hand, which was thankfully somewhat clean. “Nice to meet you.”

Dr. Anderson was a tall, angular woman about twenty years my junior and svelter in her business-like blue pants and pretty silk blouse. Of course, I was transplanting tulips just an hour earlier, so my patched jeans and man’s shirt over my T-shirt were more practical. I thought about my own business wardrobe, pushed to the back of my closet since the layoff three years earlier and wondered fleetingly if anything would still fit. I made a mental note to go through the clothing and donate a few items to charity. I doubted I’d be returning to the Business World any time soon.

“It’s nice to meet you,” she said. “Ed tells me you started working at Barlow’s Nursery in Pickaway. That’s a good company. We’ve placed a lot of students there over the years. Sam Barlow and Mary Hannon are real supporters of the program.”

“I started there last month. It’s convenient because it’s so near my house. Aaron and I both started at the same time.” I nodded toward Aaron, who had followed me into the room. “This is Aaron Swenson. He’s the V.P. of the Horticulture club.”

Dr. Anderson turned to Aaron and smiled. Everyone smiled when they saw Aaron. He reminded me a lot of my ex-husband, Charlie, who was also one of the handsomest men I’ve ever met. Charlie was unspoiled, rich, and likeable. If Aaron were lucky, he’d mature into a man like Charlie.

“Several of our grads have worked at Barlow’s Pickaway store and at the Roseville store.” Dr. Anderson looked past me at the clock high on the wall. “As soon as Dr. Peavey arrives, we’ll get started.”

“I saw him in the old greenhouse a few minutes ago,” I said, jerking a thumb over one shoulder to the hallway. “He was talking with someone over by the big palms.” Ed shot me an exasperated look and I added, “They were standing by the Howea belmoreana.” I had struggled to memorize the Latin names in Ed’s Interior Landscaping class and was gratified when he nodded. Apparently I got it right.

Dr. Anderson glanced at the clock again. I recognized impatience when I saw it. I edged toward the door. “I’ll check and see if he’s ready.”

“I’ll go.” Aaron was already turning and hurrying out of the potting room.

“Thank you.” The prez turned to another student and I went to the new greenhouse, slipping under the big red ribbon and walking into the empty space. It was a beautiful structure, graceful and up-to-date with all the modern conveniences. Compared to the old house that leaked cold air in the wintertime and was stifling in the summer, this was like a little bit of heaven, a little bit of clean, fresh, and new heaven.

I joined the two members of the Elder Ladies League, or ELLs, a group of older women who had, like me, returned to school after layoffs or empty nest syndrome. “Ready for your ten minutes of fame?” Susan asked with a smile.

“I’m not talking for ten minutes, more like two.”

“How’s the new job going?”

“Pretty good. I think I’ll like it. Of course, it’s only about a mile from my house, so I love the commute.” I spied food arranged on one of the wooden potting benches. My stomach rumbled at the sight. “It’s so odd to be in a suburb after years of living downtown. Cows instead of cars.”

“Have you met Sam Barlow yet?” Laurie Morrison asked.

“I heard he’s sexy,” Susan said. She was a petite, gray-haired woman whose husband retired young. They spent several weeks in Florida over the spring break and she still retained her tan, which emphasized her light gray eyes. “Joan Evenson said he was sexy. She works in the Roseville store and he manages it.”

“I haven’t met him yet. He’s snowbirding in Florida. His sister Mary hired me. She runs the Pickaway store.”

“He was a Marine,” Laurie said. “I heard he served overseas then came back and went to college before going into business with his father. There’s been a Barlow Nursery for almost a hundred years. I heard it’s a good place to work. They pay well.” She regarded me with alert curiosity.

I nodded. “I’m getting seven dollars over minimum.”

“Man, that is good.” Laurie was working at Landau’s Nursery, the biggest garden center in the Twin Cities. They had five locations and Laurie worked at the Uptown center, where all the yuppies shopped. She always complained about the hours, which were long, and the clientele, which was snobby. “I’m only getting five over minimum.”

“I think it was the computer stuff that did it.” I eyed the cookies resting on a tray on one of the potting benches. In the last three years I shed seventy pounds and was now at my college weight of one-hundred-twenty. Surely one cookie wouldn’t matter, would it? “I told Mary Hannon when I interviewed I could revamp their inventory system.”

“Good bargaining chip.” Susan looked envious and I knew it was because computers intimidated her. My twelve years in the high tech industry were proving to be handy in my post-layoff years.

“Can you?” Laurie asked. She was a slim blonde woman who, like me, had lost weight but unlike me, she didn’t have to struggle to keep it off. Either that or she was a good actress and it only appeared that it was effortless. It might have been the latter because I could never quite tell what Laurie was thinking.

“Can I what?” I edged toward the cookies and the coffee urn nearby.

“Can you set up their inventory system?” She perched one butt cheek on a bench and leaned back slightly, letting a leg dangle back and forth. Her ‘work’ clothes—denim jeans and jacket over a dark T-shirt—still looked fresh and clean even after tussling with repotting plants in our propagation class earlier in the day. I always ended up looking like Pig Pen after a day at school but Laurie and Susan looked as if they just stepped out of the laundry room. Laurie regarded me skeptically. “I thought that sort of thing took months to implement.”

“It does,” I admitted. “But I’ve already tested the software. I did it for a project in my Nursery Management class. So I know how it works. Mary Hannon wants me to try it out on a subset of their operations this summer and if it looks good, we’ll implement it completely in the fall, when they change stock for winter season.”

“Sounds like you’ll have a job for a while then,” Susan said

I hadn’t considered it, but she was right. Many nursery/landscape jobs were seasonal, but Mary didn’t indicate it was short-term when she hired me. “We’ll see,” I said. “Inventory can be complicated to implement. We’ll need to do new bar coding to get it to work.”

“So you haven’t met the boss yet?” Susan took a ginger cookie from the tray.

I took one, too, to keep her company. “Nope.”

“I heard they’re going to close the Pickaway center,” Laurie commented, still swinging one leg casually.

“Really?” I nibbled the cookie, making the gingery goodness last as long as possible.

“I don’t think it’s a done deal,” Susan said. Like me, she lived in Pickaway, a suburb to the west. She’d been a resident for decades, though, while I moved there just a few years earlier. “I know the county wants to widen the highway in front of their corner. Of course, they’ve been talking about doing that for years.”

I visualized the scene in my mind. Barlow’s Landscape Center was located on the corner of a busy county highway on the north and an equally busy boulevard on the east. A small lake bordered it on the west while townhomes, one of which was mine, encroached from the south. It was a prime piece of real estate in a fast-growing suburb. “I haven’t heard anything about it,” I said as I savored my cookie.

“Hey, Gidget,” a voice hissed behind me.

I turned. Another student, Bobby Somebody, was gesturing to me from the doorway. “That must be my cue,” I said, popping the last of the cookie in my mouth. I joined him near the big red ribbon. “Did Aaron find our main event?”

“I don’t know. We can’t find him anywhere. You said you saw Dr. Peavey in the greenhouse?”

“Yeah, just a few minutes ago. He was talking to a guy.”

“He’s not there now. What should we do?”

“Maybe he went to the administrative offices.” I looked at my instructors, all standing with the college president. “Let’s check.”

I ducked under the red ribbon and headed for the door just as it opened and Aaron came in. He looked anxious and worried. “Did you find him?” I asked.

“What? Who? Oh, no. No, I went to the greenhouse but he wasn’t there.” Aaron looked past me to the college president, who was regarding us expectantly. “I looked everywhere.”

I doubted it but I wasn’t going to say it out loud. Aaron looked frazzled enough as it was without me criticizing his efforts. “Let’s see what they want to do.”

We joined the president and our instructors and had a huddled conference then Ed said, “Let’s go ahead and do the ribbon cutting. Maybe Peavey was called away.” He handed me a pair of the faux gold scissors and handed the other pair to Dr. Anderson. “You two ladies can do the honors.”

She and I stepped to the ribbon and the assembled students and visitors hushed. Ed introduced us then I gave my brief little gee, this is great, it’ll be neat for the students, we appreciate the matching funds you bigwigs donated speech.

Dr. Anderson stepped forward and gave a brief, sincere speech and patted us all on the back, metaphorically speaking, for a fund-raising job well done. She and I turned to the ribbon and whacked it, the thick cloth falling aside to let the spectators move forward.

Polite applause greeted our efforts as the ribbon dropped to the concrete floor. The guests walked into the space, oohing and ahhing over the clean potting tables, bright sunlight streaming in, and the engraved paving stones donated during the fund-raising. I’d hit up the Whittington family for donations and several pavers were there with their names on them. I eyed John Whittington’s paver and wished I could tread on it with my dirty, manure-covered work boots. John wasn’t my favorite person.

About twenty minutes after the ceremony the crowd started to thin. The ELLs had long vanished, many to home and family and a few to jobs. Like me, many of them were working part-time while in school and all had commitments after the class day ended.

I picked up two of the Boston ferns we used as table decorations and started back through the potting room. “I’ll put these back in the greenhouse,” I told Ed as I passed him near the door.

“Thanks. I’ll bring the other props in as soon as the crowd leaves.”

I went to the old greenhouse and pushed open the door, drinking in the humid smells of dirt, plants and the sharp tang of fertilizer. The odors were a balm to my winter-weary senses. March in Minnesota is a month of tantalizing hope and we still had half-a-foot of snow on the ground. This greenhouse was an oasis in the desert.

I walked along the narrow entry aisle, paved with flat stones that lay unevenly on the gravel floor. This walkway led into the greenhouse proper, the three-tiered tables on either side loaded with ficus, spider plants, dumb canes, bromeliads and ivy. The plants effectively blocked my view of all but the intersection ahead and the bright afternoon sunlight over me.

I reached the intersection for the main aisle and looked to my right. Four three-tiered benches lined either side of the aisle, each loaded with assorted plants. The Boston ferns were kept in the center of the greenhouse, where the humidity was less variable in the leaky structure. I turned to walk to my left, into the main part of the greenhouse and as I did, I almost fell over a body.

Michael Peavey was stretched out on the floor, overturned plants, dirt, and pots scattered over and around him. My first thought was that he’d fallen. Then I got a closer look at his face. I’ve never seen anyone with cyanosis before, but I recognized the symptoms. They were drilled into those of us who took Nursery Operations 101. Michael Peavey had all the signs of a man with pesticide poisoning — fixed and rigid limbs, a blue tinge to his face, bulging eyes, and protruding tongue.

I froze for one long, awful second. Then I realized whatever poisoned him could still be in the air if it had been released as a vapor. I turned to flee and that’s when I saw the thin trail of blood, bright red against the white of a broken ceramic pot on the floor. I hesitated—was he just injured or was he dead?

I hazarded another look at his face and what I saw convinced me to get the hell out while I could. I dropped the ferns in a crashing explosion of busted pots and dirt then dashed out of the greenhouse, almost overturning a bromeliad on the way. I burst into the hallway then into the potting room, barreling into Ed Jenkins, who chatted with a group of students near the door. I grabbed his arm, almost spilling his ever-present coffee cup from his hand.

He took one look at my panicked face and set the mug down on a nearby table. “Is there a problem?”

An important dignitary and the chief donor to the school dead of pesticide poisoning in the Horticulture Department greenhouse? A problem?

That was the understatement of the year.