Grace Under Pressure by Julie Hyzy

contradiction to those words. “I suppose I’ll get by.” He placed the pansy pot on the tabletop, and fished into the pocket of his canvas coveralls, as he tilted his head toward the house. “How’s the Mister?”
    “Bennett is . . . holding up,” I answered, realizing how lame such things sounded. Weren’t we all holding up? What else was there for us to do? Falling apart wasn’t an option. Not with so much responsibility ahead.
    Earl pulled a crinkled plastic bag from his pocket, fished out a Starlight mint, and offered it to me. “Peppermint helps you think,” he said as I unwrapped the candy and popped it into my mouth. He joined me, then took back my empty wrapper. “I’ll make sure these don’t end up on the lawn.”
    Working the mint into the side of my cheek, I said, “I wanted to ask you about yesterday, Earl. Were there any members of your team out back when the break-in occurred? The detectives will be talking to everyone today, but I thought I’d try to help them corral witnesses to streamline things a bit.”
    He hung the handle of his cane on the tabletop and dragged over an old stool, lowering himself to sit. Just as he did so, he stood up again and dusted off the seat. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Ladies should sit.”
    I declined. “But you go ahead, please.”
    He smiled his thanks, his dirt-encrusted fingers working the soil around the pansy to free it from its tiny pot. “You know Jack, don’tcha?”
    I shook my head.
    Concentrating on the pansy, he reached down under the table, pulled up a larger pot, and dragged over a bag of dirt. “This one’s needing some TLC,” he said. “Jack’s not one of the gardeners on staff, he’s a landscape architect. He don’t work here regular. Got his own company in town. But he helps us out.”
    “He’s a consultant?”
    He stopped working long enough to answer. “Yup. And I like to think I helped him get where he’s at. I used to talk to him about growing things back when he was just a little tyke. Now he’s the one teaching me. I guess that’s what’s called enjoying the fruits of my labors.” Working the pansy into the new pot, he continued. “Jack’s a good kid. Got real talent, and he’s a local boy.” Squinting outward, he pointed toward the gardens. “We don’t only grow plants here at Marshfield; we grow family, too. Been doing that for years. That’s how all of us started here way back when.” He gave me a sad look. “Sorry, don’t mean to put you city folks down.”
    “I’m not ‘city folks,’ ” I said. “Well, not originally. I was born in Emberstowne.”
    His draped eyes twitched with skepticism. “You don’t talk like you’re from around here. How’s come I don’t know you?”
    “I spent a lot of time up north,” I said, then pointed to the minty bulge in my cheek. “But I remember how you used to sneak these to me when my mom wasn’t looking.”
    He grinned but still looked confused. “Wheaton, eh? I don’t know that name. You married?”
    “No,” I said, “but you might be more familiar with my grandparents’ name. My grandma used to work here, in fact. Her last name was Careaux.”
    He straightened. “Sophie? You’re Sophie’s kid?”
    “Granddaughter.”
    “Shee . . . yeah. Granddaughter. Wow. Time flies.”
    A voice from my left interrupted. “Good morning, Earl. What do you have for me today?”
    Earl said, “Speak of the devil.” Jerking a thumb at the newcomer, he said, “This here’s Jack Embers. Mark my words: Him and his company are the ones going to take over when I retire.”
    Although the day was cool, Jack had evidently been hard at work for most of the morning. Perspiration trickled from his dark hairline and splotches of sweat covered most of his gray T-shirt. He was tall—a full head taller than me—and that was saying something. With military-short hair, he was muscular though not ripped, carrying an extra ten pounds. The added weight suited him, but then again,