A Deadly Bouquet (11 page)

Mrs. Mitchell. The name was another thread in the tapestry of people who had a connection to Claire. I thanked Dana for the iced tea and left the house. I drove to the flower shop, where a quick hunt in the phone book revealed eight River City residents with the name Mitchell. I dialed the first three numbers without success but hit a bull's-eye on number four.

“Mrs. Mitchell?” I asked hopefully. “Are you a Girl Scout leader?”

“Yes, I am. What can I help you with?”

“My name is Bretta Solomon. We've never met, but I'd like to stop by your house and talk with you.”

“Is this about one of my Scouts?”

“No, ma'am.” She sounded nice, and I wasn't going to lie. “Your son, Howie, called me today. He said some rather … uh … unpleasant things.”

Her voice trembled. “My son is thirty-seven years old. I'm not responsible for his actions or what comes out of his mouth.”

“I understand, but I'd still like to speak with you. I can be there in about five minutes.”

Mrs. Mitchell's tone lacked enthusiasm. “Very well. You have my address?”

I told her I did, and we hung up. Before I left the flower shop, I grabbed a bouquet from the cooler. I'd made the arrangement several days ago and had included three lavender roses. The blooms were past the bud stage, which meant salability was chancy at best. But the roses still had a wonderful fragrance. Since I have a hard time tossing discards into the Dumpster, I hoped Mrs. Mitchell would appreciate the unexpected gift, and cooperate.

What I wanted from her still wasn't clear in my mind when I rang her doorbell some eight minutes later. The house was small—a two-bedroom bungalow dating back to the early fifties. The windows next to the porch were open. A breeze filled the lacy curtains. When they billowed away from the screen, I got the impression of a tidy living room with several silk arrangements and a floral-patterned sofa.

Good, she likes flowers,
I thought to myself as I pressed the bell again. This time the chimes set off a riotous barking from inside. The timbre wasn't the annoying
yip-yip
of a lapdog but a deep
woof-woof
that carried the threat of bodily harm.

I shuffled my feet. I'd done enough delivering for the shop to have an aversion to house dogs. Most guarded their property with aggression. Lew kept a big stick in the van and carried pepper spray with him at all times. I had neither.

The door opened a crack. A pair of brown eyes peered at me through the screen door.

“Mrs. Mitchell?” I shouted above the din. From what I could see of her, she was about my height with dyed brown hair and exaggerated penciled eyebrows. One was arched higher than the other, giving her a perpetual look of skepticism.

She nodded primly, then turned and bellowed, “Down, Aristotle. Stop that racket or I won't give you a puppy morsel.”

Puppy? The dog sounded like a mammoth canine with years of experience ripping flesh from bones. Instead of quieting the animal, her command provoked him. He hit the wooden door panel with a solid thud. The impact slammed the door in my face. I should've taken it as an omen to leave. I leaned closer to the windows, listening to Mrs. Mitchell admonish her pet for having “a nasty temper tantrum.”

After another moment, she wrestled the door open to a six-inch gap. “I'm sorry. I don't understand what's wrong with him. He usually isn't so—” She saw the flowers in my hand. “Oh. That's the problem. He hates anything with a floral scent. Goes positively berserk when he smells roses.”

Raising my voice, I said, “I'll put the flowers in my car.”

“But you'll still have their scent on you. I can't wear perfume. I can't spray a room deodorizer, but he's as docile as you please when we go for a”—she quickly spelled—“w-a-l-k.”

The barking had quieted, but deep menacing growls raised the hairs on my neck. “I'd really like to speak with you. Could you step outside for a minute or two?”

She glanced down. “I don't know. He seems quieter now. I can try.”

She opened the wooden panel farther, giving me my first glimpse of the dog. His black-and-brown head was massive. His eyes were filled with evil intent. Lips curled back to expose fangs that dripped doggie drool. While I gave him a quick appraisal, he did the same to me. His expression seemed to say, “A snack is only a screen door away.”

I shuffled the bouquet behind my back, then checked to see if he was fooled. Aristotle took a step closer and dropped to a crouch. I tore my gaze away from him and suggested to Mrs. Mitchell that we go to a restaurant. I added my own personal incentive: “I'd be glad to buy you a cup of coffee and a piece of pie.”

Her eyes brightened at my suggestion. “I don't get invited to go out—”

The moment she said “out” Aristotle leaped at the screen. My high-pitched squawk of alarm intensified to an unadulterated scream of terror. The flimsy screen gave way. Aristotle's head and shoulders were suddenly on my side of the door. Snapping and snarling, he lunged, trying to widen the opening. His sharp toenails scratched and clawed the aluminum panel. He wanted a piece of me, and I wasn't about to accommodate.

I heaved the bouquet, hit him square on the head, and ran lickity-split to my car. I didn't have the notion that I was being chased, and once I had the door open, I glared at the house. Aristotle had made his escape, but he'd lost interest in me. He chomped on the flowers like they were a carcass to be devoured. Mrs. Mitchell stared down at her pet, shaking her head.

She looked so forlorn I was moved to say, “I'm sorry.”

“So am I.” She gestured to the dog. “He's named after the Greek philosopher Aristotle, who believed that reason and logic are what separates humans from animals. My pet has a high intelligence, and if my son hadn't mistreated him, I think I could have taught him rudimentary logic.”

“Mistreated him how?”

“Howie doused Aristotle with perfume, then tied him to a rosebush without food or water. I was gone for three days. By the time I got home, Aristotle was dehydrated and almost starved. The chain had gotten tangled with the brambles, driving the thorns into his skin. That happened five years ago, but if I run my hand over his shoulders, I can still feel the scars under his fur.”

“That's terrible,” I said, staring at the dog with newfound understanding. If Aristotle had gone after his human tormentor with the same malice as was shown him, he'd have been put to sleep. With no other recourse, the dog had sought revenge by transferring his hate to an inanimate object—the rose.

Mrs. Mitchell said, “That emotional trauma rules his life. When he smells any floral scent, he proves his namesake's theory. Logic and reason are beyond his capabilities.”

I might have sympathy for the dog, but not an all-out forgiveness for his scaring me half to death. I ducked to get into my car, but Mrs. Mitchell's next words stopped me.

“I don't know what Howie said to you. It wouldn't matter if I did. I can't explain him. I've often thought my being involved in Scouts should've given me a special wisdom when dealing with youths, but that could be hubris.”

“Hubris?”

“Excessive pride.” Pain twisted her face. “I'm no psychologist, but I've had plenty of experience studying adolescent emotions and behavior. Even so, I couldn't help my own son.”

I leaned on my car, staring across the rooftop at her. “What was Claire like?”

“Needy.”

“In what way?”

“All ways. Claire followed her desires against reason and more often without logical forethought. Her marriage to my son is ample proof of that. But in the last few months I'd noticed a change. Everyone wants to feel special, unique. Claire dyed her hair and wore those strange contacts. Everyone wants a sense of being useful. She lavished attention on anyone who walked through the doors of her beauty shop. She donated her time and talents wherever they were required. Everyone needs to feel an emotional bond. We need to have a sense of belonging in this world.”

Mrs. Mitchell shook her head sadly. “From what I understand, Claire's earlier years were spent eliciting attention. What she got was a reputation for being a rabble-rouser.”

Aristotle had finished massacring the flowers. He stepped to the edge of the porch and stared at me.

Mrs. Mitchell grabbed his collar. “You'd better go.”

I didn't have to be told twice.

As I drove away, I looked in my rearview mirror. Amid the flower stems, petals, and chunks of floral foam at her feet, Mrs. Mitchell hunkered down to the dog, her arms wrapped around his neck. Aristotle's thick pink tongue slurped her face with adoring kisses.

I might have smiled. On the surface it was a charming picture—a woman and her faithful companion. I shook my head and pressed on the accelerator. Aristotle wasn't the only one in that household who carried emotional scars.

Chapter Nine

I drove up my driveway, keeping my eyes straight ahead. I would not look over at the cottage. It wasn't any of my business if Bailey was home. Besides, I'd know soon enough if I decided to join him for dinner.

If? Who was I kidding?

Since I'd met him in Branson, I'd tried picturing him going about his daily life, but it was hard forming a mental image when I didn't have a shred of information. Would we have things in common? Did he listen to the radio while he drove? Were the lyrics important to him—that unique phrase that can strike a chord, bring forth a passionate thought? Was he a sports fanatic? Did he like walks in the woods? Was he content to lean against a tree to marvel at nature?

I knew the cottage and could imagine him in this setting. The vaulted ceiling with its rough-hewn beams seemed like it might suit him, as did, perhaps, the multicolored braided rug on the glossy hardwood floor. Would he use the fireplace? Or see the necessity to cut wood and clean ashes from the hearth as a tasteless chore?

I had hundreds of questions, and if I'd understood Bailey correctly, he was willing to answer them. Anticipation made my stomach quiver. I felt as giddy as a schoolgirl about to go on her first date.

What was I going to wear? My weight had stabilized, but only because I was prudent and DeeDee cared enough about me to not keep high-calorie snacks under my nose. It wasn't a blue jeans evening, but nothing too dressy. I had that pair of black slacks. I could top them with a shirt and my favorite vest. Catching sight of my expression in the rearview mirror replaced my enthusiasm with guilt.

“I'm sorry, Carl,” I said as I pulled into the garage. I shouldn't feel guilty. I hadn't gone looking for someone. I still wasn't sure I was doing the right thing, but spending one evening with Bailey was an opportunity I didn't want to pass up.

I'd been gone from home longer than I'd planned. Had my father found something to occupy his time? In the hallway, I stopped. White particles danced and swirled, cloaking the air like a fine mist. At first I thought it was smoke. I sniffed, but only smelled something cooking in the kitchen.

A crash from above brought my head up. I charged into action when my father yelled, “Stand back! There's more gonna fall!”

“What's going to fall?” I demanded as I took the stairs two at a time. I was about halfway up the steps when another loud crash rocked the house.

On the second floor the dust was like a fog. “Dad? DeeDee? Where is everyone?”

“Bretta?” answered my father, stepping into the hall from the Mistress Suite. An embroidered dresser scarf was tied over his mouth and nose. He carried a fine ebony walking stick topped by a pewter knob. He brandished the staff like a classy bandit about to rob me.

“You hadn't been gone fifteen minutes when I discovered we've got one hell of a problem. But I've remedied it. That wasn't just an ordinary crack in the ceiling, daughter. I poked at it with my stick, and a huge chunk of plaster fell. It hit the light fixture, and we had fireworks. Sparks were shooting out like it was the Fourth of July. DeeDee replaced the blown fuse. She's a smart young woman. Can't figure out how she knew what to do, but she did it. While I caught my breath, we did some evaluating over diet-style slices of key lime pie. When we came back upstairs I put in a new bulb, and everything is in working order.”

I went past him, but stopped at the doorway. DeeDee was on the far side of the room. Her eyes were like two pee holes in the snow. I couldn't speak, but stared in utter confusion at the chaos.

Three-quarters of the ceiling had been reduced to rubble on the floor. The falling pieces of plaster had hit a lamp, and it lay smashed. A curtain had been ripped from the window. A marble-topped table had one corner broken. But what rocked me back on my heels was the dust. I could feel it in my nose, my eyes, and my mouth. The white grit sifted over everything, coating the interior of the house as effectively as pollen stuck to a bee's belly.

My gaze traveled from the floor to the twelve-foot-high ceiling. “How did you get up there?” I asked.

“DeeDee said you don't have a ladder—which is on my list to buy—so I improvised.” Dad rapped his knuckles on a wooden highboy. “They don't make furniture like this anymore. I used the open drawers for steps and climbed up.”

He stared at the ceiling with a small smile, as if reliving some great adventure. “Just before you arrived, I knocked down the rest of the ceiling. That corner over there is being stubborn, but I'll get it. We'll have this fixed in no time.”

My temperature shot to a dangerous level. Three quick thoughts—He's an old man; he's trying to help; he's my father—kept me from combusting. “We'd better get this cleaned up,” I said, trying not to clench my teeth.

“H-he meant w-well,” said DeeDee, picking her way across the floor. “I'll go get some cardboard b-boxes from the g-garage.”

“I know this is upsetting, Bretta,” said Dad, “but you have to tear down before you can fix up. I remember the time we papered the living room at the farmhouse. We had to peel off eight or ten layers of old stuff before we could put on the new.” He chuckled weakly. “Off with the old. On with the new.”