Little Shop of Homicide (20 page)

I was talking about my adventures in the world of high finance and investing when I yawned; Boone and Poppy quickly followed suit.

Jake stretched and said, “Looks like it’s time to call it a night.”

We all agreed. Before we separated, Boone, Poppy, and Jake exchanged cell phone numbers, and Jake cautioned us not to tell anyone about Joelle’s false identity.

After we promised, Boone picked up the empty appetizer tray from the coffee table and said, “Poppy, could you grab the glasses for me, please?”

I stood to help with the cleanup, but Poppy gently pushed me back down. “I’ve got it,” she whispered. “You keep Jake company.”

Choosing not to argue—embarrassment was inevitable if I did—I agreed, then sat tongue-tied, unable to think of anything to say to Jake.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “I had a good time tonight.”

“Me, too.” I blushed. “I could tell my friends really liked you.”

“I liked them, too.” He stood. “I should get going. Ranch work starts early.”

“Sure.” I got up, too. “I’ll show you out.”

We walked into the foyer, and after I handed him his coat and hat it looked as if he was about to kiss me.

Sticking to my resolve, I stepped out of his reach, so instead he touched the brim of his Stetson and said, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Great.” I forced myself to look away from the warmth of his eyes.

“That was stupid.” The front door had barely closed when Poppy berated me. “Why didn’t you let him kiss you? It was clear he wanted to.”

I faced her. “The last thing I need in my life right now
is a boyfriend. Think about my track record with the opposite sex.”

“Phooey!” Poppy blew a raspberry. “Your problem is that you think the perfect guy will turn up on your doorstep like an already-assembled piece of furniture. But a good man doesn’t just happen.”

“No?”

“No. They have to be put together by us women. First you have to eliminate all the bad habits his mom taught him. Then you have to get rid of that macho crap they pick up from beer and truck commercials. And finally, you have to delete all the data his friends entered. Only at that point are they worth spending any amount of time with.”

We both giggled a little; then I said regretfully, “A relationship with Jake would be too much of a risk.”

“Life is a risk.” Poppy poked my shoulder for emphasis. “Your only choice comes down to whether you’re the taker or the taken.”

“B
ingo?” I heard my horrified tone and started over, trying not to sound quite as appalled as I felt. “You want me to go to bingo with you tonight?”

I had been heading to work when Gran ambushed me in the front hallway.

“If you’re not too busy.” Her voice quavered suspiciously; then she went for the kill. “I just thought it would be fun since we haven’t been spending much time together.”

Gran’s Friday evening bingo games were a sacrosanct part of her life, but she’d never before invited me to accompany her.

“Really?” Either she was dying and not telling me, or this was some sort of scheme. Gran liked her space, and enjoyed the chance to let her hair down with her friends. What was she up to?

“You said you and Jake weren’t working on the murder tonight.” Gran compressed her mouth into a thin white line, then, like a ventriloquist, muttered without moving her lips, “Although I can’t imagine why not.”

“Because we haven’t decided on our next move yet,” I explained, folding my arms across my chest and waiting for her next volley.

“Right.” She narrowed her pale blue eyes, then smiled
sweetly. “I believe you mentioned that Boone has a business dinner.” Banshee was draped around Gran’s neck like an ermine stole, and she stroked his tail before adding, “I imagine Poppy’s working at her bar.”

She had me there. “True.” My friends were busy and I had no intention of being alone with Jake. Not that he had asked, although he had said he’d call. “You’re not sick or anything, right?”

“No,” Gran snapped and Banshee hissed, all traces of sweet little old lady and cute kitty vanishing. “Is it too much to ask that you spend a couple of hours with me, doing something I enjoy?”

“Of course not.” She was right, and I felt guilty for doubting her. “Sorry.” Sucking it up, I said cheerfully, “I’d love to play bingo with you tonight. The store closes at six. How about I pick you up a little after that, and we can go right there.”

Gran shook her head decisively. “I better meet you. If you’re not at the hall by five o’clock all the good seats are taken.”

“Good seats?” I knew Gran liked to go early, but I had always assumed it was to visit with her pals, not to stake out her territory.

“The ones up front,” Gran explained. “Father mumbles and you can’t hear him from the back.” She groused, “They need to buy one of those… uh…”

“Microphones?”

She shook her head, but I was stumped.

“You know, one of those thingies that show what numbers have been called.” Gran sneered, “But the Altar and Rosary Society is too cheap to spend the money.”

“Oh.” I was already in the doghouse with Gran, so I didn’t mention the hearing aid the audiologist had suggested. Why borrow trouble?

“Come in the side entrance,” she ordered. “Only newbies use the front.”

“Gotcha.” I eased the door open. “Is there food available?”
I knew I’d be starving if I had to wait until after nine to have supper.

“Certainly.” Gran inserted herself between the threshold and me. “The ladies of the church sign up to bring stuff to sell.”

“Terrific.” I brightened at the thought of homemade goodies.

“Don’t get too excited.” She sniffed. “Half those women use box mixes.”

“Okay.” I wasn’t discouraged. Even a not-from-scratch brownie would taste mighty fine if you were hungry enough. “I better get going.”

“Not so fast.” Gran didn’t budge when I tried to step around her. “Maybe you should take a nice outfit to change into after work.”

“Why would I do that?” My guard immediately went up. Clothing suggestions from a woman who wore a flowered muumuu one day and an authentic 1920s flapper dress the next were a little suspect. No doubt about it, she was up to something. “I wasn’t aware bingo was a formal event.”

“Sweet Jesus! I’m not suggesting a ball gown and dyed-to-match slippers,” she retorted. “Just a top that doesn’t have writing across your chest.”

“Fine.” I spun on my heel, stomped into my room, grabbed a white blouse from the closet, and returned to the foyer. “Can I go now?”

“Be my guest.” Gran stepped away from the door. As I walked out, she yelled after me, “Don’t forget to put on some lipstick and take your hair out of that stupid ponytail.”

Damn! I had been mean to my grandmother, and I was still stuck playing bingo tonight.

The day went downhill from there. Hannah arrived for work looking pale and as if she was about to pass out. She finally admitted she was too sick to stay. Soon after her departure, a customer came to pick up a wedding
shower basket that she had ordered for her daughter.

The mother of the bride hated my creation, especially the book I had selected—
The Joy of Sex
. She insisted that I do it over immediately and include a book that would help her daughter learn to bake, rather than help her learn how to put a bun in the oven. She also demanded that I deliver it to her home as soon as the dime store closed.

Then the phone rang. And rang. And rang. After too many annoying calls to count, I almost didn’t answer the next one, especially when I saw it was Jake. Finally I reminded myself that he was helping to keep my butt out of jail, and I picked up.

“Devereaux?” His voice sounded like well-aged scotch, smoothly intoxicating, and sent a ripple of awareness through me.

“Yes.” My hand tightened on the receiver and I had to clear my throat. “It’s me.”

“It took some doing, but I’ve arranged to get access to the crime scene.”

“That’s incredible.” I was impressed. “How did you pull that off? Did you have to reveal you were a U.S. Marshal?” I crossed my fingers, hoping he hadn’t. I didn’t want Woods to get wind of our investigation.

“No. I located a colleague who has a CI on the hotel staff.”

“CI?”

“Confidential informant,” he explained. “Someone law enforcement officers pay for their information and cooperation.”

“That’s terrific.” I wedged the phone between my ear and shoulder so I could continue to work on the Easter baskets for the Athletic Booster Club’s fund-raiser. I was nearly done, but still had to photograph them and make up the brochures. “When are you leaving?”

“I can’t tonight. It turns out Uncle Tony needs me for something or other.” He sounded puzzled. “Anyway, how about we go tomorrow afternoon?”

“We?” I zeroed in on the important part of his announcement as I propped a tiny bag of Jelly Belly candy against a fluffy pink rabbit.

“Yes. The hotel contact is the night maintenance man, and he says he can only do this if we check in, so he can claim he had no idea who we were if down the road there’s any problem with his boss or the local cops.”

“Why can’t you check in alone?” I measured out a length of yellow satin ribbon.

“Because it’s the honeymoon suite.” Jake’s voice was amused. “The CI insists it has to be a couple or it will look suspicious.”

“Yeah, I can see how a single guy staying in the honeymoon suite might seem peculiar,” I admitted. “Okay. I’ll go.” If Jake made a pass while we were at the hotel I’d just say no. I’d close my eyes and pretend that I wasn’t attracted to his handsome face or turned on by his sexy body, and I’d just say no. Yeah, right. “Let me look at my calendar.”

“By all means.” His tone became distant. “I wouldn’t want to interfere with your social life.”

I was about to explain that I was checking to see if I needed to stay after the store closed to make any baskets when I stopped. Maybe it was better to let him think I was seeing someone else.

“So.” Jake interrupted my racing thoughts. “Can you fit me in?”

“Yes. I’m free after four.” There was nothing urgent on my basket-making schedule. “Do you want to pick me up here, or would you like me to drive?”

“I’ll drive.”

Before I could say good-bye, he hung up and I stood there listening to a dial tone.

Having, as ordered, changed into my white blouse, combed my hair down around my shoulders, and applied peach lipstick, I was ready to report for bingo duty. That is, as soon as I dropped off the remade wedding shower basket to Mrs. Fussbudget.

Thank goodness, the mother of the bride was satisfied with my second attempt. Unfortunately, now that she was happy with it, she wanted me to stay and chat. She insisted on showing me the bridal gown and all the wedding gifts that had already been delivered for her daughter, and then she led me through her house, which had been turned into a shrine to the happy couple’s upcoming nuptials.

Since a delivery that should have taken a couple of minutes had turned into a nearly half-hour encounter, I was now seriously behind schedule. As I sped toward my bingo date, I resigned myself to a boring evening with the support-stockings-and-dentures crowd.

Ouch!
Where had that snarky thought come from? I mentally apologized to the senior citizens I had maligned and vowed to play nice.

Gran’s game was at St. Sagar’s Catholic Church. As a child, I had asked the priest about the name. Although he’d explained who Saint Sagar was, further probing revealed he had no idea why Shadow Bend’s Catholic church had been christened for a martyred bishop from Turkey. Not surprisingly, the parishioners called it St. Saggy’s.

St. Saggy’s had had a recent spate of bad luck, which started when the six-foot-tall fiberglass figure of Jesus that stood in front of the building was struck by lightning. The statue went up in flames, like a giant roman candle, leaving nothing but a blackened steel skeleton.

Understandably, people did not find this an uplifting display, and, according to Gran, attendance at Sunday Mass was way down. Father Flagg, a different priest than the one I had annoyed with my questions during catechism classes, was frantically trying to raise the funds to replace Jesus, but the cost was prohibitive and few people were contributing to his pet project.

There
was
something disturbing about the burnt effigy, and I parked my car as far from the twisted hunk of metal as I could get. Turning my head to avoid looking
at the unsettling image, I hurried past it toward the fellowship hall on the far side of the lot.

The hall was a faded green pole building divided into a trio of gathering rooms, with a long kitchen accessible to all three. It was a bare-bones structure serving the congregation’s needs for catechism classes, weddings, showers, and funeral luncheons. As I pushed through the glass door, I saw a notice tacked to the bulletin board on my right. It read: THE FASTING AND PRAYER CONFERENCE INCLUDES MEALS.

I was still chuckling at the sign when Gran met me a few steps down the hall. She was dressed in a 1950s black linen sheath that had white arrows on either side of her still tiny waist. Matching black pumps and her hair in a French twist completed her outfit. I paused for a moment, thinking that this is how she must have looked the year she graduated from high school.