A Murder on the Garden Tour

Everywhere I go, people offer me plots for my next book. One of the recurring ideas is one that is a sad reality in many clubs: the divisive interloper. It is someone who joins a club and almost immediately begins setting members against one another. Heaven help the club if that person gets into a leadership position.

Frieda Woodley is just such a person. She moved to Hardington (from where, no one is quite certain) two years ago, after retiring from ‘an important job in state government’ (she never volunteers more than that). In her two years, she had effectively divided the club into two camps: her friends, and ‘the enemy’. Two months ago, she announced her candidacy to become president of the Hardington Garden Club (as well as two other organizations). And, because Liz Phillips’ long-groomed successor just announced she is moving to North Carolina, it is horrifying possible Frieda might get her way.

But, as the book opens, Frieda is tumbling down the side of a ravine and, yes, she is dead when she hits the bottom. Was it an unfortunate accident while on a club-sponsored garden tour? Or, was she pushed?

It will fall to Liz Phillips and Detective John Flynn to find the answer but, first, they have to figure out Frieda’s real identity, because ‘Frieda Woodley’ didn’t exist until she moved to Hardington. They’ll also discover many of Frieda’s supporters were coerced via threats backed up with blackmail. Frieda’s most heavily guarded secret, though, has to be her role in state government. Her files are sealed, misplaced, or destroyed. I will only hint there’s a strong ripped-from-the-deadlines component to this story.

Events are also transpiring in Liz’s and Flynn’s personal lives. There has always been an attraction between the two. Now, those events may be forcing changes that could pull the two 50-somethings together — or push them permanently apart.

What I can guarantee is this: you’ll love the story. Here are the opening chapters:

Chapter One

Tuesday

I’m not changing anyone’s mind, Liz Phillips thought to herself.  I know they’re listening, but no one is going to raise their hand.

Nevertheless, she continued in earnest.  “We have more than 70 members and we’re growing.  We are fortunate, because so many organizations can’t attract people no matter what they do.  We’re well organized.  Most of our club officer positions require just a few hours a month – less time than you spend on your wayside garden.  Yet, out of 13 positions, we don’t have takers for four of them.  You need to step up.  The future of the club depends on it.”

Few of the 55 people in the audience looked down or away.  Rather, they all looked at Liz intently.  They could do so because they all had ironclad rationalizations why they could not possibly become the next Ways and Means Chair, or Wayside Gardens Chair, or Program Chair… or President.

“Couldn’t you take one of the positions?”  It was Nan O’Donnell; seated, as always, in the front row.  Nan was nearly 80 and had been a member of the Hardington Garden Club for almost half a century.  She had twice been the club’s president.

That question isn’t useful, Liz thought, and then audibly sighed.  “Nan, you of all people should know, by tradition, the outgoing club president goes off the board for at least two years.  It gives the new president a free hand to try new things without someone whispering in the background, ‘that’s not the way I did it.’”

“Which positions are open?” Brooke Chen was asking the question.  She had been in the club just two years, and Liz wished Brooke had come to more meetings because she seemed a natural for a leadership role.

“Only the nominating committee has that information,” Liz replied.  “And they’ll be canvassing everyone this week.”

Which was, of course, a lie.  Not the canvassing part – that would start Wednesday evening.  But it had been six weeks since Trish Cummings called Liz in a panic, reporting Megan Karni had formally turned down the nomination to become the club’s next president. It was still something of a secret, but Megan was moving to North Carolina.  Her husband had been recruited for and had accepted one of those positions that changes the arc of a business career.  Even though it would mean pulling their two children away from the school and home they had known all their lives, it was too good an opportunity to turn down.

Liz had groomed Megan for the job; included her in every important decision and continually sought her input.  Better still, Megan genuinely looked forward to becoming president… right up until the day her life changed.

Now, the near-universal reason for turning down the post was simple: “I don’t want to be the person who follows Liz Phillips as club president.  I don’t want to be compared to her.  I want to be the person who follows the person who came in after Liz.”

“Please do more than just think about it,” Liz implored. “Clubs die when members stop being willing to take leadership roles.”  She added to herself, or when the wrong people move up to positions they shouldn’t have.

Which was exactly the problem facing the nominating committee.  One person in particular had jumped at the opportunity to take a top position on the board.  In Liz’s view, that person had the potential to do lasting damage to the club – split it in half or worse.  Fortunately, the nominating committee shared her opinion.

That person was in the fourth row; glaring at Liz with an unreadable, Cheshire Cat look on her face.  The woman’s arms were crossed; a symbol of defiance.

“That’s all I have to say,” Liz concluded.  “Expect to get a call this week.  Please say ‘yes’ when Trish or Yunhee ask if you’ll serve.  Now, let me introduce our docents.”

Two well-dressed women, both silver-haired and appearing to be in their sixties, rose from their seats off to the side of the historic Bigelow Chapel. Over the next 15 minutes they took turns expertly laying out the history of the Mount Auburn Cemetery – the country’s oldest ‘garden’ burial ground – and its current efforts to incorporate primarily native trees, shrubs, perennials, and ground covers into areas being renewed. 

Liz also noted the subtle message woven into the presentation: that Mount Auburn was not a ‘museum’; rather, it continued to offer burial plots.  Without ever saying it in words, the docents held out the thought of you or your Aunt Tillie spending eternity next to Winslow Homer or Henry Wadsworth Longfellow; or your argumentative Uncle Leo debating Felix Frankfurter or Arthur Schlesinger until he won them over.

Now outside following the introduction, the club was divided in half, each bound for Consecration Dell by different routes.  Liz joined the crowd leaving first.  Her group would take a steep path descending to the pond that lay at the center of the Dell; the other would first see the Dell from above, then wind their way down into it.

As the garden tour began, Liz stayed close to the docent to hear the history of the Dell.  Over the prior 15 years – and following decades of benign neglect – the docent explained, Mount Auburn’s staff had methodically and systematically removed thousands of invasive and non-native plants and trees from a four-acre, steep-sided natural valley with a pond at its base.  Once an ecological desert, now the site was as rich with biodiversity as it had been when the cemetery was established early in the 19^th Century, and the once-fetid pond was now alive with salamanders and other wildlife.  All this had been accomplished without disturbing the monuments of distinguished citizens within the confines of the Dell.

Unlike the rest of the light-filled, manicured park seen by tourists and casual visitors, Consecration Dell was intentionally in perpetual twilight, with a high canopy of oaks and other hardwoods, and an understory of smaller trees beneath which were shade-tolerant shrubs and ground covers.  Compost-filled burlap tubes bursting with ferns bordered narrow trails.  The drop beyond those tubes, in some cases, was thirty feet or more down steep slopes.

An ardent, amateur horticulturalist, Liz noted the intricacy of the plantings: tiarellas and heucheras spaced to ensure the soil was held in place, yet positioned in seemingly random patterns. This, she thought, should be the inspiration for the renovation of her own garden: a natural, low-maintenance landscape using the plants native to the region before the arrival of Europeans. 

She was lost in thought, studying the placement of plants when she heard a scream coming from the top of the ravine and across the pond.

Instantly, she looked up, attempting to locate the source.  More shouts, now from multiple voices, followed almost immediately.  They were coming from above her, on the far side of Consecration Dell.  Liz began running; guessing which path would take her upward and around the pond.  It was near impossible going: these paths were intended to slow visitors.  Even with sensible athletic shoes, Liz felt her footing slip in several locations.  Had someone fallen down the steep slope?  She chastised herself for instantly thinking, Thank God the club has liability insurance.

The screaming, now louder and more insistent, continued.  Many of the shouts were appeals for help.  Liz found the first members of the other group.  They were frozen into inaction, looking down into the ravine, yet afraid to find the source of the alarm.

Then, Liz was in among a group of some twenty club members. They were helping up someone – it was Hillary Palmer – who had tried to make her way down the hillside and had quickly found the footing impossible.  Hillary was past 60 but physically fit and athletic. While a few members of the group watched Hillary’s rescue, most still stared into the ravine and its thick tangle of plants.

Liz helped Hillary take the final steps back to the path.  “What’s happened?” Liz asked.

Hillary shook her head.  “Someone – I’m not even sure who – fell off the trail.  No one seems to have seen her go over.  We just heard the scream and the sound of the undergrowth breaking.”

“Dear God,” Liz said, more to herself than to anyone.  Then, to Hillary, she asked, “Where is the docent?”

“She took one look and then began running off as soon as she realized what happened,” Hillary said, pointing back in the direction of the Chapel.  “She had out her phone and was tapping numbers as she ran.  That’s when I decided to try going down on my own.  It wasn’t an especially bright idea.”

Liz looked around her.  Everyone was looking to her for leadership.  “Did anyone see who fell down the ravine?” she yelled out to the group.

She heard no response. 

“Then, everyone please walk back the way you came – and if you’re not certain, keep walking uphill.  There’s nothing anyone can do here.  Hillary says she is reasonably certain your docent was calling for help, but I’m going to call 911.  Let’s reassemble at the chapel and do a head count.  It’s the only way we’ll know who fell.”

Liz maintained her exterior calm.  As soon as she saw her club members walking up the path, her resolve gave way to fear.  Who was it?  Were they badly hurt? 

She took her phone from her purse and tapped 911. The call was immediately answered by a woman. “Emergency Services.  What is the nature of your call?”

“I’m at Mount Auburn Cemetery.  Someone has fallen down a rather steep embankment…”

“You’re at Consecration Dell?” the woman asked.

“Yes,” Liz said.

“Please stay on the line while I connect you,” the woman said.  Liz was not the first person to call, she thought. 

A new voice, this one male, came on the line.  “This is Sergeant Ferrara.  With whom am I speaking?”

Liz provided her name.

“And you are at the scene?” Ferrara asked.

Liz affirmed she was.

“Please don’t move,” Ferrara said.  “I’m using your phone to get precise GPS coordinates.”  There was silence for several moments.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Ferrara asked.

“No,” Liz replied.  “Nor can anyone around me with whom I’ve spoken so far.  I was on the other side of the pond and lower down.  I heard one scream, then more screams.”

“You didn’t see anyone fall down the ravine?” Ferrara asked.  “No movement in the shrubbery?”

Liz paused.  No, she hadn’t. But it was a large area and rather dark considering it was midday.  Unless she was looking in exactly the right spot at the right time, it would be easy to miss.  She told Ferrara as much.

“Are you in charge of the group?” Ferrara asked.

“I’m the club president,” Liz replied, “so, I guess I’m in charge.  I’ve told everyone to go back to the Bigelow Chapel,” she added.  “If someone witnessed the fall, they’ll be at the chapel.  And, we all came on a bus. It will be easy to see who isn’t there.”

“The first responders are less than five minutes away,” Ferrara said.  “I’ve got the spot mapped and we know the terrain.  We’ll find the person who fell.  I’ll send officers to the chapel to take statements.  Please don’t let anyone leave.”

Liz circled back to the other side of Consecration Dell to tell everyone to go back to the chapel.  As she did, Liz mentally checked off names of the people she saw or spoke with; relieved each time she saw the face of a friend.

The bus held 56 passengers and, a week earlier, only 52 members signed up for the trip.  Liz had quietly let it be known the first four members who called or emailed Isuel Kim, the trip coordinator, could claim one of the last seats for a spouse or friend. 

Thinking back to her impassioned talk, Liz could recall only a few faces that were not immediately recognizable.  Isuel would have the names of those guests.

Liz arrived at the Bigelow Chapel just as two police cars and a paramedics van raced down the narrow lane connecting to the cemetery entrance.  The van and one police car continued toward Consecration Dell.  The second came to a stop near the chapel’s entrance and two police officers stepped out of the vehicle.

The docent leading the second group – the one who had raced back with her phone in her ear – approached the older of the two officers and identified herself.  Liz joined her.

“I feel terrible,” the docent said in a trembling voice.  “In three years, I’ve never had as much as a sprained ankle.  And now, this.”

“Start from the beginning,” the older policeman said. 

“I had 27 women and one man in my group,” the docent said.  “I took the upper trail.  We’re told to keep the pace deliberately slow to ensure no one gets winded or falls too far behind.  I paused every two minutes to allow stragglers to catch up, but some people inevitably are more interested in one of the vaults than in the ecology or horticulture.  We were just starting to descend into the dell and I made my third catch-up stop when I heard the scream.  It was a woman’s voice and she sounded terrified.  I think she may have screamed all the way down but, after a second or two, there were so many screams I can’t be certain.  As soon as I heard, ‘somebody fell down the hill’ I did what we’re trained to do: call 911 and Mount Auburn’s main office.”

“I also called 911,” Liz said.  “Sergeant Ferrara used my phone to get the GPS coordinates for a search.  I was with the group on the lower trail.  I’m afraid I didn’t have the right vantage point to see the person fall.”

The officer, a man in his forties with what could have been a perpetual scowl, nodded.  “Let’s get everyone into the chapel and figure out who went down, and who saw it happen.  Right now, there are two teams getting in place; one to start from the pond and another from the top.  We’ll know whether or how badly your friend is hurt within a few minutes.”

Liz quickly went to four women and asked them to begin corralling everyone into the chapel.  In less than two minutes, everyone was seated.  Isuel Kim handed Liz a clipboard with the names of those who signed up for the trip, with check marks for everyone who boarded the bus in Hardington.  

Liz had a commanding presence.  At 56, she was five-ten with thick chestnut hair framing an attractive oval face, and a slender build that spoke of healthy living and regular exercise.  On this day she had chosen dark blue slacks, white blouse, and pale blue blazer.  She needed the club’s attention and she quickly had it.

With no need for a preamble, Liz said, “Please answer when I call your name.”  She began reading the list and, after each name, she heard, “here” from the audience.

Halfway through the list, Liz read, “Darlene Cattalano.”  There was no response.  “Does anyone remember seeing Darlene Cattalano in the past few minutes?”

Everyone in the room looked at one another.  “She might be in the bathroom,” someone said from the back of the room. 

Liz nodded to Isuel.  “Would you please check?”  She quickly left the room.

Liz continued reading.  Three names from the end, she said, “Frieda Woodley.”  Again, there was no answer.  “Does anyone remember seeing Frieda?”  There was only silence.

Liz read the final names and, three times heard, “here”.

Just at that moment, Kim re-entered the room. Darlene Cattalano was close behind, looking sheepish.  Then, the police officer’s radio chirped.  The officer left the room and, for a few moments there was silence.

A minute later, the officer returned, his face ashen.  “We’ve just found the woman who fell.  She is being transported by ambulance to… an emergency facility.”

“We’ve learned her name,” Liz said.  “It is Frieda Woodley.  Is she going to be all right?”

The policeman shook his head.  “Departmental policy prohibits me from discussing the condition of…”

“We’re her friends,” Liz interjected.  “She came here with us.  She’s part of our club.”

“The policeman again shook his head. “I can’t comment.  What I need to do is ask anyone who witnessed the event to raise their hand.”

Liz looked across the audience.  No hand was raised.

“One of you must have been near her,” Liz said. “Please.  This is an accident investigation.”

“I remember seeing her about 30 seconds before it all happened.  She was standing near the edge of the path, talking to someone.  I was trying to catch up to the group and was looking down the path; not up it.  I heard someone screaming.”  It was Darlene Cattalano who was speaking.  “I started screaming, too.  For help.”

There were several nods around the room.

Liz looked at the policeman.  His name tag read ‘Hoffman’.  “Officer Hoffman, how do we help you?”

“I think you start by telling your bus driver you’ll be a while,” Hoffman said.  “I need to get some detectives over here to sort this out.”

Chapter Two

The bus did not depart for Hardington until 4 p.m.  After a preliminary round of questioning, seven club members were spoken to individually at length by two detectives while the rest of the group was allowed to go outside or remain in a glassed-in gathering area that appeared to have recently been added to the chapel.  Four others who said they knew Frieda Woodley were also asked to provide information about her family and loved ones so they could be contacted. 

The detectives cautioned the group not to discuss what they had seen, so as not to taint their memory.  The club members, in turn, did nothing but discuss what might have happened.

Liz eavesdropped on snippets of conversation.  Frieda thinks she’s dame almighty… Frieda has been so kind to me since she joined the club… Frieda takes credit for everything… She is so generous… She uses people like Kleenex and throws them away… She has become my closest friend… I hope she breaks a leg… I pray she’s OK…

What only Liz and the members of the nominating committee knew was, a few weeks earlier, Frieda Woodley had written a letter nominating herself for club president.  Almost simultaneously, three letters from club members, each so glowingly composed they had to have been written by the same person, were also received.  Each proudly endorsed Frieda for president of the Hardington Garden Club.

Frieda’s self-nomination letter included her curriculum vitae.  She had retired two years earlier from a ‘vital role’ in state government.  While in government she oversaw a ‘mission-critical staff of more than 60 men and women’.  She had received the ‘prestigious Leverett Saltonstall Award for Meritorious Service’ for an employee with management responsibilities.  She had consistently received performance ratings of ‘outstanding’ for her work.

Frieda’s c.v. also said she had a degree in English from the University of Massachusetts, though no graduating year or campus was provided.  She also listed multiple certificates from management programs associated with prestigious universities. Liz’s ballpark estimate of Frieda’s age was 50 though, because the woman carried 20 or 30 extra pounds, she might be off by several years.  It seemed young to retire, although she was aware state government provided generous benefits for those with as little as two decades of service.

What was clear was Frieda Woodley was looking for something new to manage.  From friends, Liz knew Frieda had joined three civic organizations at the same time – the other two were the Maria Mitchell Women’s Club and the Friends of the Hardington Animal Shelter – and, also from friends, Liz knew Frieda Woodley behaved much the same in each club.

It was Trish Cummings, the chair of the nominating committee, who first gave a name to Frieda’s tactic.  “She’s a natural-born divider,” Trish said angrily.  “She sweet-talks one group and makes them her bosom buddies.  She then sets up another group as ‘the enemy’ and sets out to undermine them.  Why does she do it?” Trish had asked.  “It makes no sense.”

And it was David, Liz’s husband, who provided the answer.  “Artificial conflict,” he said.  “Create a crisis only you can solve. Blame your ‘enemies’ – which includes everyone who stands between you and the power you want – for the problem you caused, and take credit for the solution.”

David had gone further.  “When I identify someone like that in an organization, I work with Human Resources to root them out.  People who engage in artificial conflict are invariably lousy at their jobs, but they’ve frightened their managers and peers into submission.  They’re destructive, and they don’t care.”

Which was why Trish had been crying when she called to say Megan Karni was moving and could not take the job as president.  “Liz, what if I can’t find anyone else?”

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a male voice shouting out.  “May I have everyone assemble in the chapel?”  It was Officer Hoffman.

Five minutes later, Hoffman and the two detectives stood in the front of the room.  “For the past two hours, news media has reported that ‘an unidentified woman’ was taken by ambulance after sustaining serious injuries in a fall at Mount Auburn Cemetery,” Hoffman said.  “Within the last few minutes, we’ve heard over those same news outlets – and I promise you they did not get their information from any police source – that the ‘unidentified woman’ had died from those injuries.”

There was an audible gasp from the room.

“In the next few minutes, it is likely this area will be descended on by camera crews, anxious to shove a microphone into the face of anyone who even looks like they may know something.  Because we have not yet made notification of her next of kin, we urge you to say nothing.  To be blunt, we urge you to get on your bus and go back to Hardington.  There are seven witnesses who are helping us with reconstruction of the accident, and we will provide transportation home for them.  For the rest of you, please don’t cause undue grief to a loved one by being the person who gives her name to a reporter; who will then immediately put Ms. Woodley’s name over the air.  Talk to no one.  Please.”

Liz realized everyone was looking at her.  She was, after all, the club president.

“You heard Officer Hoffman,” she said calmly.  “Please gather your belongings and let’s head for the bus.”

She walked over to Hoffman.  “Just so we’re not waiting on someone who isn’t joining us, may I get the names of the seven people staying behind?”

Hoffman paused, then nodded; apparently considering her request a reasonable one. He read a list from his notes. 

Liz was surprised by the names.  The list included Trish Cummings, the head of the nominating committee.  Also on the list was Megan Karni, who would have become the next club president had her husband not accepted a new job in North Carolina.  The third was Catherine McKinnon; one of the three women who had ostensibly written glowing testimonials about Frieda Woodley.  The fourth was Kaye Ballantine, a non-member who was a guest of Linda Tenzor, the club’s head of Ways and Means.  Linda was also asked to stay behind.  The sixth was Darlene Cattalano, the member who had told everyone Frieda was ‘there one moment and gone the next’.  The last name was the most surprising to Liz: Roland Evans-Jones.  The lone male member of the Hardington Garden Club, and, quite possibly, Liz’s closest friend.

* * * * *

On the hour-long ride back to Hardington – it was now rush hour in Boston – it seemed everyone with a phone was scrolling news sites and reading what they found to anyone who would listen. 

WBZ news radio reported Cambridge Police were treating the scene as an ‘active investigation’ but saw no evidence of foul play. The unidentified woman was ‘part of a garden club tour of the cemetery from the suburban town of Hardington’, though it was not known if the woman was from that town.  Channel 5 said it was now known multiple people were on the tour of the steepest site at the cemetery but apparently no one had seen the accident.  Channel 4 said the cause of death was traumatic injury caused by the fall.  Paramedics had attempted to revive the woman but she was not breathing when she reached Mount Auburn Hospital, less than five minutes from the site of the accident.  Emergency Room personnel worked for thirty minutes before pronouncing her death.  A Channel 7 reporter stood at the edge of the ravine and wondered aloud why there were no handrails or signs posted warning of the steep drop. 

By the time the bus reached the Roche Brothers parking lot in Hardington, four Boston television stations had picked up the drumbeat: why on earth would one of the most famous and visited cemeteries in America not have protective barriers to keep someone from falling off a cliff into a rock-filled ravine with a pond at its bottom?

* * * * *

Once home, Liz found five voice mail recordings on her home phone.  Each was from a different reporter who had tracked Liz down as the club president.  Remembering Officer Hoffman’s caution, she did not return any of the calls.  She felt horrified that a member of the club had died on an outing.  A year earlier, Liz had found her closest friend, Sally Kahn, murdered in her own home.  By the time the crime was solved, two more people – one a club member – would be dead.  A few months later, Liz had been present when the bludgeoned body of a Hardington town selectman was found at a construction site.  In both instances, she had helped identify the killer.  Death, it seemed, was always nearby.

On the surface, the death of Frieda Woodley appeared to be an unfortunate accident.  An overweight woman trips or loses her balance and falls down an unprotected ravine.  She was not a pleasant woman – at least not pleasant toward many members of the club – but she was a living person who must have had a life and a family.  To her embarrassment, Liz did not know if she was married or had children.  What part of town did she live in?  Did she move to Hardington following her retirement or was she a lifelong resident?

Liz realized she needed to get something out to the club as a whole.  Mary Giametti, the membership chairman, would likely have the details.  Liz reached for her phone.

It rang as she picked it up.

“Thank God you are home, Missy.”  The voice was unmistakably that of Roland Evans-Jones.  Roland was well into his seventies and an antiques dealer – the proprietor of a busy shop called ‘Rare Treasures’ in Hardington’s small ‘downtown’ district. ‘Missy’ was his private name for Liz.

“I just walked in the door,” he said.  “I’m betting you have nothing but ramen noodles in your cupboard and you’re paging through the Uber Eats app looking for dinner.”

Liz had to laugh – and it was the first time she had felt like laughing since that first scream.  She hadn’t yet considered dinner but, when she did, it would almost certainly be delivered to the house.

“I, on the other hand, not only have a made-this-morning-and-ready-to-reheat boeuf bourguignon, but I have a hell of a tale to tell,” Roland boasted.  “Do you want me to set the table as well, or can you have a decent bottle of wine decanted and the good china out?”

Liz shook her head.  Roland knew her too well.

“Wine is one thing I have plenty of,” she said.  “But give me half an hour.”

Liz had been married 27 years.  For the past six years, though, she had lived in an odd, almost long-distance relationship.  David had ‘retired’ at 51, only to promptly open a one-man management consulting service.  He rescued and mended (or sold) broken companies.  Every Monday morning, he boarded a train or plane to somewhere and, for the next three-and-a-half days, he was only a voice on the other end of the phone.  The morning call might be as short as a ‘hello’; the evening one anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour, depending on how much either of them needed or wanted to talk.

He was in New Brunswick, New Jersey now, putting back together a medical holding company that had financially overextended itself even as its CEO engaged in a series of ‘#MeToo’ moments with the corporate staff.  The CEO had been ousted but there was no credible heir-apparent, and the company’s financial condition made attracting a permanent chief executive problematic until those finances were in order. 

David Phillips’ track record in half a dozen such situations made him the first call made by the executive search firm retained by the company’s board of directors. 

For what he called, ‘parachuting into a burning building’, David was rewarded handsomely.  His last assignment, in Pittsburgh, had resulted in a net, after-tax addition of well over a million dollars to their already hefty brokerage account.  But it had come at the cost of 14 months of his time.  Afterward, they had, as he promised, chartered a sailboat and cruised the Aegean for a month.  At the end of that time, though, David had already negotiated and been offered the New Jersey assignment.  That was three months ago.