A Deadly Bouquet (5 page)

“I know,” I said soberly. “She was hit over the head, dragged to the back room, and her mouth and nose were filled with that green mousse.”

“You've got it all figured out, huh?”

“I checked to see if she was still alive. She wasn't. I saw the can. The foam was losing its substance, becoming all watery and yucky, but there was enough of it left that I could draw a conclusion.” I shivered. “Did Sid tell you I must have walked into the shop not long after she was killed? I think the murderer actually spoke to me.”

“He told me, but I want to hear it from you. Start where you think it's the most relevant, then we'll tie up loose ends.”

“If that's the case, I'll need to go back to about ten o'clock this morning, when I met Claire in the park.”

The chief twisted on the seat to stare at me. “Ten o'clock? I thought you came here—Nope. Never mind. Tell me.”

And I did. I covered everything. I tried to repeat verbatim all the conversations I'd been privy to up and until I arrived at Claire's beauty shop. When I was finished, forty minutes had passed. Evelyn had been allowed to leave. Claire's body had been taken away.

Once I was out of the squad car and in my own vehicle, I switched on the engine. I should've gone home, but while events were fresh in my mind, I decided to go back to the park.

Chapter Four

I'd only gone eight blocks when I came to the conclusion that every one of River City's thirty thousand residents must be on the streets. Hoping to make better time, I caught the outer-loop highway that circled the metropolis. I bypassed traffic lights but got hung up in a snarl of slow-moving vehicles driven by people looking for entertainment on a Saturday afternoon. The entrance to the Westgate Mall was off the loop, as were three cinemas and the newly constructed Menninger Civic Center, which featured a weekend puppet show for kiddies.

I zinged in and out of traffic until I spied the exit sign for the park, then switched lanes once again, taking the off ramp into a quiet wooded area. After the roar of gas engines, the silence was welcome. I took my foot off the accelerator and coasted around the first of several lazy bends in the road. Filigreed tree branches laced overhead, creating a tunnel of shade. I rolled down my window and breathed deeply.

My shoulders ached with tension. I tried to relax, but images of Claire's body kept my muscles taut. To take my mind off that vivid picture, I thought about events leading up to her death. We'd been in the park. Oliver had died. A short time later, Claire was murdered.

Was there a connection between Oliver's heart attack and Claire's murder? He had said he didn't know Claire. Had his heart attack been brought on by the tension in the air? The situation between Eddie and Evelyn had been volatile, but Oliver hadn't seemed concerned about the landscaping for the wedding.

I frowned. But he had asked, “Where are the markers?” Had he been thinking about another job? Tree markers? Plant markers?

Oliver's heart condition was a fact. That he'd died at that point in time was a fact. I wanted to assume his death was from natural causes, but where murder is concerned, it would be foolhardy to assume anything. Maybe I should make a discreet inquiry.

My mind flip-flopped back to Claire. In the park she'd been fired up about some gossip. Beauty shops had a reputation for being the center of spicy gossip. But so did local taverns, church choirs, or any place where more than two people congregated. Should I make the assumption that Claire's tidbit of news had something to do with one of her clients? There was Mrs. Dearborne. But if I understood Claire's earlier reference, she was using Mrs. Dearborne to confirm something she'd already heard or suspected.

My eyes narrowed. Hmm? Oliver
had
been interested in Claire's reference to the Dearborne name.

I caught up to a line of cars making their way between the stone pillars that marked the entrance into the park. The fifty-acre tract of land contained tennis courts, a swimming pool, bike and jogging trails, a three-acre fishing lake, and numerous shelter houses and playground equipment. The smell of roasting hot dogs and burgers overpowered the scent of flowers. The peace and quiet I'd noticed this morning was shattered by the shrill screams of children hard at play.

Tranquility Garden was secluded from the rest of the park by a line of cedar trees. The garden couldn't be seen until you passed that screen of vegetation and took the path Eddie and Oliver had been landscaping. I squeezed my car into a slot, locked the doors, and headed for that path.

An elderly gentleman sat on a bench soaking up the sun. We traded polite nods. He commented that it was a lovely day. Weather-wise it was perfect—warm, sunny, blue skies, and clouds sculptured like giant heads of cauliflower.

I hadn't eaten in hours, and the aroma of grilled food had made even the clouds take on the shape of sustenance. I would gather up Eddie's tools, deliver them to his house, and then head for home.

But all the tools were gone. The shrubs were planted, mulch layered at their bases. Amazed, I walked down the path, touching a leaf, raking the toe of my sneaker against some wayward wood chips on the bricks.

Spinning on my heel, I headed back the way I'd come. I wondered who was responsible for finishing the work, and stopped near the gentleman on the bench. “Did you see anyone over there?” I asked, indicating the area where I'd been.

“Just Eddie Terrell. Always knew he was a hard worker, but the man acted possessed, heaving tools into the back of his truck.”

“Did he plant the shrubs and spread the mulch?”

“Sure did. Dust fogged the air as he worked.”

I thanked him and went back to the path, taking it to the gazebo that would serve as the altar. The latticed structure was six-sided with a dual set of steps—one for the bride and her attendants, the other for the groom and his. Wood shingles covered the peaked roof.

Squinting, I envisioned the results of my hard work. Brass baskets filled with masses of white flowers were to be hung in the gazebo's arched openings. Extensive use of ivy, Boston ferns, brass and copper containers, helium-filled balloons, and yards of gold-shot white tulle were to dazzle the immediate surroundings. Highlighting the altar would be twelve large hurricane lanterns. The reflection pool in front of the gazebo was to have floating wreaths made of flowers.

Plans called for five hundred candles, under protective globes, to be placed in designated areas and lit at a strategic moment before the wedding ceremony. Thank heavens this chore fell under the heading of wedding coordinator. At last count, I'd heard Sonya had hired twelve people just to light wicks.

I went up the steps to the gazebo and stood at one of the arched openings. Staring down at the reflection pool, I should've been mentally concocting the wreaths, thinking about the mechanics that I'd need to make them float. Instead my mind skipped back to Oliver's death and Claire's murder.

I waited for some revelation, but after twenty minutes nothing came to me except an overwhelming desire to eat.

*   *   *

Last October I moved from the house Carl and I'd shared to a mansion that we'd dreamed of someday owning. His life insurance had provided the down payment, which was a bittersweet turn of events. In those early days of ownership, I cared for my new home with all the maternal instincts of a proud mother. I saw my child's flaws—peeling paint, cracked plaster, and cluttered attic—but knew it would mature into a fine specimen if I gave it the loving attention it deserved.

That was the rub. When I first moved into the house, I'd worked myself into a frenzy renovating the downstairs. At that time I'd had a goal. I'd scheduled my flower shop's annual Christmas open house to be held in the stately mansion, and I'd wanted everything impeccable. I grimaced. What I'd gotten was murder and an inheritance that wiped my debt for the house clean.

I owned it. I lived in it. But I didn't love it. My original plan had been to turn it into a boardinghouse. I'd wanted people around me. I'd wanted to come home from work to lights and conversation, not darkness and my own spiritless company. But those holiday catastrophes had squelched my enthusiasm for the restorations that needed to be made before I could rent the first room.

The lane up to the mansion was a quarter-mile long. Majestic pine trees lined the drive and would have embraced me with a warm fuzzy feeling that I was home if I'd let them. I couldn't. It had been months since I'd discovered the history of this land, and I still hadn't come to terms with my findings.

Hoping to bolster my waning interest in the house, I'd put painting and plumbing on hold and had plunged into a rejuvenation of the overgrown garden. It had taken less than a week to see I needed professional help. There were so many different species of plants that I couldn't tell a weed from a flower. Brush needed to be hauled off, trees had to be trimmed or removed. That's when I'd called on Eddie and Oliver to discuss what I wanted done.

I'd supplied them with pictures from gardening magazines of fancy stepping-stone paths, lattice arbors, arched bridges, statues, and a tire swing like the one I'd played on as a child. I wanted a secret garden where I could go to wile away a few spare minutes. I wanted beds of bright annuals that I could tend. I wanted well-kept trees and rosebushes bursting with color.

To my left, past the furthermost edge of my property, was a cottage. At one time it had been part of this estate, but when I'd bought the mansion and land, that piece of property had been excluded from the sale. The structure was empty. I'd made numerous offers to buy it, but so far my bids had been ignored.

I wanted that cottage because it would square out my holdings. But most of all, the cottage—with its vaulted ceilings, hardwood floors, and fireplace—would make an ideal chapel. By coupling the chapel with my garden plans, I hoped to replace the wickedness this land had once seen by holding weddings on my property.

I pulled my car into the garage and climbed from behind the steering wheel. Before I'd taken two steps, the door leading into the house opened, and DeeDee stuck out her head.

For the first time in what felt like hours, my lips spread into a genuine smile. Twenty-three years old, DeeDee was my housekeeper. Today she wore her dark hair straight to her shoulders. Her prominent eyes were brown. Her cheeks were rosy. I'd never had a child, but this young woman filled that void in my life. Overprotective, overindulgent parents had home-schooled her. By rights she should've been an obnoxious brat. She was caring, loyal, and when I'd needed her the most, she had always been there for me.

“W-what's w-wrong?” she stammered.

DeeDee's stuttering was the reason her parents had kept her out of public schools. They'd sheltered her to the point she'd almost stopped speaking when we first met. Elocution lessons and the responsibility of an entire household had built up her confidence. Her faltering speech was evident when she didn't concentrate on what she wanted to say or when she was excited or worried.

I had no intention of going over the events of my day before I'd stepped foot in the house, but her sharp brown-eyed stare had ripped away any attempt I'd made to appear composed.

I forced a cheerful note into my voice. “Nothing's wrong,” I said. “I'm just tired.”

“Nope. Won't f-fly.”

I rolled my eyes as I brushed past her and into the house. She trailed me like a curious kitten, batting at my arm, imploring me to dump my worrisome load on her slender shoulders.

I hung my purse on the doorknob to the back staircase, then headed for the kitchen. With my head in the open refrigerator, I said, “Is there any more of that gazpacho left? Cold vegetable soup isn't my first choice, but I'm starved.”

“I have f-fixed a v-very nice s-s-supper, B-B-retta.”

DeeDee had discovered that she loved to cook. She watched the food channel on television, took note of the fabulous recipes, and turned them into low-cal treats that kept my weight stable.

DeeDee tugged on my sleeve. “Look.”

I turned and followed the direction of her finger. Through the kitchen doorway I saw the dining room table set with my best china, crystal, and flatware. Sprigs of English ivy cascaded from a vase and twined over the burgundy linen tablecloth.

“Pretty fancy for us,” I commented before counting the place settings. There were five. I closed the refrigerator door. “I'm not in the mood for company, DeeDee. I've had one helluva day. All I want is food, a hot bath, and a good book. Maybe then I can forget my—”

The doorbell rang.

DeeDee galloped away.

“Damn it. Damn it. Damn it!” I would've stomped my foot in frustration, but I recognized the voice coming from the foyer and mellowed out.

Avery Wheeler and I had met during the Christmas open house fiasco. A florist and a lawyer make a dubious team, but we'd pooled resources, escaped a harrowing experience, and carried between us a secret we'd sworn never to reveal.

I crossed the polished oak parquet floor and listened to him tease DeeDee. His tone was melodious. Once I was closer, I saw his eyes twinkle with humor. As his lips moved, the salt-and-pepper mustache under his bulbous nose twitched.

“—your cooking is only surpassed by your delightful company,” he was saying to a blushing DeeDee. “My evening meal usually consists of lukewarm soup and a dry contract. I've anticipated this repast all afternoon.” He touched DeeDee's hand, then turned to me. His bristly eyebrows shot up. “Oh,” he said. “Been one of those days, has it?”

I grimaced. For those who know me well, there seems to be no area of privacy. The eyes are the mirror to the soul—or, as in my case, an invitation to invade my solitude. I waved a hand. “I'm fine. You're the first guest to arrive, but from the places set in the dining room it looks as if we have more to come.”