Devon Hatler sat in his backyard at dusk, texting on his phone while his dog Hodor ran around the back yard.
Too many business deals. One day he was going to have to scale back. And this damned lawsuit . . .
Hodor bent down at the fence, digging in the dirt.
“Hodor!” Hatler swung his feet down from the opposite chair. “No!”
The other side of the chain-link fence was covered with vines rustling in the breeze. The old lady who lived in the house behind him complained whenever the dog tore one of them. She was a nice enough neighbor, but a little kooky when it came to her plants. She had two gardens in her front yard and a greenhouse in her back yard, though Hatler could only see the top over the fence and the throng of vines.
Hodor kept digging, whining. Hatler set his phone down on the picnic table and stood up, clapping his hands. “Hodor! Here!” He walked across the lawn in his bare feet.
Hodor suddenly jumped up and ran to Hatler’s side. Then he darted away, heading for the house.
What the hell?Hatler bent over to inspect the ground next to the fence. Hodor hadn’t done much damage. In the morning he could—
Then it burst from the ground, scattering dirt and grass in high in the air.
Long and thick, it had a gray wormlike body with hairy stalks sprouting from its trunk everywhere, spiky triangular fronds that seemed to reach forward, looking for prey. A cluster of blood-read petals rose from its head.
The top of the head split open, revealing a wide star-shaped maw. Yellow gunk dripped from the lipless opening onto the grass, turning it to ash.
Hatler jumped back. This isn’t—what is it?
The thing bent forward. Part of its body stayed rooted in the ground, but it lurched toward Hatler like a slow snake.
Hatler stood frozen. I should run.But his legs wouldn’t move.
He could peer into the thing’s maw. Its throat seemed to sink all the way down its thick gray body. The yellow bile seeped from folds all around.
He managed one step back, and then the red petals began popping in his face.
“Ahhh . . .!” The stinging in his eyes felt like acid. He clawed at his face. “Hodor! Hodor!”
He heard the dog barking from the picnic table. Too scared to even come to help.
Pain speared his arms and chest. The spiky fronds? He waved his arms and tried to fight them off, but they were all over. Tears streamed from his burning eyes.
Then he couldn’t breathe. It felt like a bag over his head—a slimy bag that smelled like a sewer.He tried to push, choking against the putrid stench invading his throat, but then it stretched wider, sliding down his shoulders and trapping his arms. He tried to scream, but he couldn’t breathe . . .
“It’s my cat. And that weird old lady next door.”
I nodded. Private detectives don’t get too many cases involving cats, but I could tell that José Dukes was upset. And it was a murder case—sort of.
We stood in his backyard in suburban Glen Ellyn, next to a tall white picket fence shrouded in thick green vines that blocked any view of the house and yard next door.
Dukes pointed a foot to a spot next to the fence. “I found her there. What was left of her.”
He’d emailed me the pictures—a few bones and snips of flesh on bloody grass, and a leather collar with a brass tag. Like something had chewed Precious up and spit her out.
I folded my arms. The air was warm—early summer. “And you think it has something to do with your neighbor?”
“Look over there!” He jabbed a finger at the fence. “She’s got a jungle there! I don’t know what kind of plants and animals she’s raising there, but there’s something wrong. That’s why I called you.”
Me? Tom Jurgen, ex-reporter and now a private detective with a reputation for handling weird, supernatural cases. I don’t chase them, but they keep catching me.
We went inside Dukes’ house, a small Cape Cod design. The blocks around the place were snug, with small front yards and houses planted close together. Dukes poured me a cup of coffee.
“Have you talked to her?” Good coffee.
“I moved in two years ago. Just me.” Dukes was in his early thirties, with a short brush cut and thin glasses over bright blue eyes. “I went over to introduce myself. She wouldn’t come out of the house, just looked at me through her screen door. I brought her a pie.” He shook his head. “Her name’s Lillian Floria. I just left the pie on the front porch.”
It was almost lunchtime. The thought of pie made me hungry. “What do your other neighbors say?”
“She doesn’t talk to anyone. I brought pies or cakes to almost everyone on the block.” He looked embarrassed. “I live alone. I like to bake.”
“But you’re pretty sure she’s somehow responsible for your cat’s death?”
“I know it sounds crazy.” He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket. “But I found Precious right there, next to the fence . . .” He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. “Sorry.”
“No problem.” I waited as Dukes blew his nose. “I’ve got to say, I’m not sure how much I can do. Trying to prove that she killed your cat is likely to be—difficult.”
“Just find out what she’s doing over there!” He pointed a finger. “Other people had pets disappear. And just the other night, some other guy just—vanished. They found his barking dog, but nobody has any details. I just . . . miss . . .” He started crying again.
I remembered my dog, Spooky. He’d died when I was 11. I’d cried for a week.
“Sorry.” Dukes blew his nose again. “Do you want some pie?”
“No, thanks.” Although I wanted to ask what kind. “The thing is, I can only invade her privacy so far. I can run checks online, but realistically, I’m going to have to talk to her. Is that okay?”
“That’s fine.” He nodded. “I just—I can’t move, not for a few years. But all those vines and plants? That place next door spooks me.”
I stood up. “I can’t make any promises. I’ll do what I can.”
“All right.” He wrote out a check and shook my hand. “Thanks.”
Out in my Honda I did a quick check on Lillian Floria using my phone. She’d owned the house for 30+ years. All her taxes were paid up. No social media presence.
Then I checked the local news media websites. And yeah—there’d been a disappearance in the neighborhood.
Devon Hatler, 67, around the corner from Dukes’ house, but—if I read the map accurately—right behind the Floria house. His barking dog had alerted neighbors and the police. They hadn’t found any trace of Hatler’s body, just some torn-up grass and dirt.
I have some sort-of friends on the Chicago Police Department who could probably hook me up with someone in Glen Ellyn, but it didn’t seem worthwhile for a case involving a cat. At least right now.
The next obvious step was to go next door and ring Lillian Floria’s doorbell. Being a reporter for years before I became a P.I. had taught me not to be shy about talking to strangers.
The front yard had a short patch of green lawn overshadowed by two wide flower beds. A riot of colors and aromas—lavender, jasmine, honeysuckle, and some I couldn’t name.
I wanted to literally stop and smell the flowers, but I had work to do. I walked up the steps separating the two beds. Plants inside of the house covered the windows—big, green, leafy plants with long twisting stalks and thick leaves.
I pressed the doorbell. Waited. How long until I should press it again? It doesn’t pay to seem impatient. Especially with an older person. So I waited,
I was about to push again when the door inside opened. “Yes?”
The woman who peered at me through the screen door was in her 70s, with gray hair, short but wiry. She wore wire-rimmed glasses, a green T-shirt, jeans, and garden gloves.
“Ms. Lillian Floria?” I held up my business card. “Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective. Could I speak to you for a moment?”
She stared at me over her lenses. “What about?”
I had to say it. “Your neighbor’s cat. Precious.”
“The one that’s always chewing at my vines?” She stepped back to close the door. “He should keep it inside.”
She was ready to slam the door in my face. “She’s dead. It looks like she was eaten by something. Do you maybe have a dog or—”
“What?” The idea seemed to make her nauseous. “I only have plants. Dogs and cats are pests, like rats and bats and mosquitos.” She pushed the screen door open. “Come in and see for yourself.”
Lillian stripped off her gloves and dropped them on a table next to the door. “This is my house.”
Two tall rubber plants flanked the door, like guards at the entrance to a palace.
A big room to the right was filled with plants in pots and planters. I smelled herbs—oregano, basil, cilantro and more, making me more hungry than before. More potted plants waited on every step on a staircase to the side of a long hallway.
Lillian led me down the hall. Vines dangled from the staircase railing. My shoulder nudged an aloe plant almost as tall as me as I followed her into the kitchen.
Bonsai trees sat on the counter. Lillian stopped to examine one, plucking off a few dead leaves, then spraying it with a bottle from the sink. Near the back door a dwarf orange tree grew in a pot, its fruit not ripe yet but the citrus smell filling the air. Now I was thirsty.
Lillian opened a door into the back yard. “Take a look, Mr.—what was your name again? Take a walk around. Tell me if you see any dogs.”
“Jurgen, Tom . . .” I stopped.
Trees and plants filled the yard, big and small. The scent of avocados, limes, and apples filled my nostrils, along with a few other fruits and veggies I couldn’t identify. Plus fertilizer.
The yard looked like the jungle from Apocalypse Now. I half expected snakes, a tiger, and an overweight Marlon Brando lying in the shadows.
A wide greenhouse stood in the middle of the yard, its windows fogged with moisture.
“Do you see?” Lillian leaned on the railing, smiling as she inhaled the aroma around us. “No dogs here. Just me and my plants.”
I nodded. “So what’s in there?” I pointed at the greenhouse.
“More of my plants.” She crossed her arms. “I cross-breed different types. They’re very delicate. You can’t go in.”
I saw leafy fronds shaking near the foggy windows. But a few open slats at the top of the greenhouse were letting the afternoon breeze in. So maybe they were just trembling in the fresh air.
I looked around the yard. Duke’s big picket fence on one side. Some of the ground seemed torn up, along with the grass next to a tall chain-link fence at the back.
The greenhouse door opened. “Ms. Floria? I need some help with the—oh.”
A young black man, maybe 19, in jeans, cargo shorts, and long-sleeved glove stared at me. “Uh . . .”
“It’s all right, Erick.” Lillian foldered her arms. “Mr.—Jurgen? Was just leaving.”
“What are you growing in there, Erick?” I had to ask. I was a reporter before being a private detective. Asking impertinent questions is in the job description.
He didn’t take the bait. “Just—stuff.”
Lillian stared at me, waiting.
“Well, thank you for your time.” I left a business card on the tailing. “Call me if you think of anything. I can find my own way out.”
That worked. “Good day, Mr. Jurgen.” Lillian walked down the back porch steps into the yard. “Let’s take a look, Erick.”
I walked back inside the house. I didn’t plan on trying to search everywhere—that would be time-consuming, as well as illegal—just checking a few things out.
Mostly I took pictures of plants I didn’t recognize, and a few I did. In the living room next to the front door I found a row of carnivorous plants—Venus flytraps and others I couldn’t name. At the front door I leaned up and took a photo of one of the rubber trees, its upper leaves skirting the ceiling. Then I turned to the door—
And jumped. “What?” Something had touched my shoulder.
I staggered around—“whirled” would be a little too athletic—and saw one rubber frond swing back and forth.
Maybe it was a breeze I couldn’t feel. Maybe I’d somehow brushed against it from three feet away. Maybe I was losing my mind.
Whatever. I left before Lillian Floria could come to check up on me.
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