Poison Flowers (12 page)

She thought of the women she’d loved, listing them on one hand, considering why the relationships had foundered. It was not always her fault, she decided, at least not totally. They lost steam, just weren’t meant to be. There was someone out there for her. She still believed that. She had to. Someone who could touch her in places she’d never been touched. The question was, when the time came, would she allow them in?

She watched the bright, rotund moon for a long time, telling the silent psychologist all her problems, all her dreams. Then, just as she turned to go inside, she spied it; a light oblong of fabric at the base of a tree about ten or twelve feet into the forest, a new addition to the familiar landscape.

Curious, she walked across the deck, her slippered footsteps resounding too loud in the quiet night, even when she moved from echoing wood to the soft susurrus of leafy litter. Two minutes later she realized what she was seeing.

Her mind tried to lie, actually argued with her eyes about what they saw. But there was no denying it. A dead body lay crumpled at the base of a small pine. And though she wanted so badly to disbelieve it, she knew by the distorted, blackened face gazing heavenward that the lifeless form belonged to Denton Hyde.

Inspector Christopher March was a small, neat whippet of a man whose dynamic energy whirled like a tornado in her small, calm kitchen. Marya was relieved when he settled that energy into the chair opposite her.

She watched him dully, her senses still chilled by finding Denton in the forest.

“So, Miss Brock. I’m very sorry you’ve had such a disagreeable experience this morning. I know it must have been grim being the one to find the body.”

“Yes, I’d say it was grim.”

His strong cologne made her nauseous. It had that strange gingery smell which she had never liked.

“I saw him in the trees from the porch because the moon was so bright. I thought he was a pile of clothing at first. I would have missed him entirely if not for the moon.”

He was watching her with eyes full of judgment and doubt. It seemed as though every word she said was being evaluated for merit and judged for credibility. He was weighing every fact she shared against what he knew to be true and therefore gospel. The tension made her uncomfortable, which was no doubt his intention.

The door swung open and a familiar face below a blond crew cut entered the kitchen. She was trying to remember who the man was, and her shift in attention caused Inspector March’s head to swivel.

“Hello, Thomas.” March said and her memory jarred. It was Thomas, the rude belt from the Barnes
dojang
. And he was a deputy sheriff for Coburn County. Lovely. “Canvass the rooms here and I think we’ll be through.”

Thomas’s eyes swept across her, amusement in their depths, and she felt soiled by his consideration. He moved off into her home, meandering, hands clasped behind his back.

“So tell me, what were you doing out on the porch at one in the morning?” The inspector’s intensity had returned to Marya.

“Why is that important?” she asked, bristling with annoyance. “I couldn’t sleep. I have a lot on my mind.”

“Ummhmm.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “How long have you known Mr. Hyde?”

“Me? Less than a month. I only knew him from the paper, the
Schuyler Times
. We both work there.” Her eyes were following Thomas. She was praying he wouldn’t touch anything.

“And would you say your relationship was amicable? Did you get along?”

“Of course. I like Denton. He’s a teddy bear of a man, sweet and shy. And he knows everything there is to know about a newspaper.” She gulped, still unable to believe that precious life had been snuffed out like some insomniac’s morning candle. “Did know,” she amended quietly.

The whippet was trying to be sympathetic, but she could sense his impatience. She realized he was waiting for her to mess up, to drop a clue that she was guilty in some nefarious way. He probably carried that attitude throughout his life. Marya bet his wife cringed every time he asked why his eggs were scrambled instead of fried.

“Ummhmm. And how was the body when you found it?”

“Just the way it was when your men got here. I didn’t move him. I didn’t even get real close. As soon as I realized what it was, I called nine-one-one.”

He watched her in silence until it became uncomfortable. “How well do you know Dorcas Wood?” he barked finally.

The change of subject startled her. “Not well at all.”

Her mind flashed to the image of Dorry swimming in the pool below her house, and she knew from the flush on her cheeks that her face had to be mirroring some of her thoughts. She cursed the fairness of her Irish skin. “I met her about a month ago. I rent from her.”

“And take lessons? In karate?”

How could he know so much about her? There’s nothing like a small town for disseminating information. She felt violated. “Taekwondo. And yes, three nights a week.”

“So you’ve been studying for quite some time?”

“Yes, many years.”

His eyes flew to her worn purple cloth belt, resting on the coffee table in a sinister looking S shape. “Purple belt, huh? Can you break a board with your hands? I saw that on TV once.”

Marya frowned. “Of course, cinderblocks too. What has that got to…”

Marya fell silent. How had Denton died? Gunshot? She hadn’t seen any blood. Suppose Dorry had…no, it was too horrible to contemplate. The inspector was speaking and Marya tried to focus on his words.

“Dorry’s good. I’ve seen her compete a few times. She’s very strong.” He was watching her closely.

Marya swallowed, the dry sound a loud click in her ear.

“Yes, she is. And she’s a good teacher, as well.”

Again he nodded, a low sound of assent issuing from his throat. He looked around the cottage, sharp eyes missing nothing. “You live here alone, don’t you?”

“Yes, I just moved here from Seattle to be near my parents but wanted a place of my own.”

She knew what he was implying, but she wasn’t about to help him along with it. He wanted real hard to believe that Dorry and Marya were sexually involved and that Denton had stumbled upon it and become a victim of their illicit passion. After all, Dorry was the town lesbian and a dangerous martial artist. What great gossip to share at the old police water fountain.

“So you’re what? Divorced?”

She stared evenly into his eyes, daring him to step onto this molten ground. “No, never married. Guess no one could tolerate me for the long haul. A reporter’s life is pretty busy and we stay preoccupied with our work.”

“Yet you had the day off yesterday, I understand.”

She turned her face away so he could not see the flare of anger brightening her eyes. “Yes, sometimes I take a day off.”

“And you did…
what
all day?”

She turned cool eyes back onto him. “I don’t think that is any of your business.”

Thomas’s radio sparked into life and he strode out the door. She wanted to sing hymns of thankfulness. Now if only the whippet would leave.

March smiled, as if happy she had flared up at last. “Now, Miss Brock, this is a murder investigation. I think it has to be my business.”

She was determined to maintain her equilibrium so she smiled back at him. “That’s true and in the spirit of cooperation, I will tell you that I cleaned and mowed my yard, then went for a long walk in the woods. I sat in a clearing at the top for a long time, most of the afternoon, then walked back home just after dusk. I fell asleep early and that may be why I woke up at one o’clock.”

He watched her, eyes blinking rapidly. “Sat in a clearing. Were you alone?”

She shrugged. “Afraid so. I told you, no one can stand me for the long haul.”

“Right.” He sighed and stood. “I think I have everything I need, Miss Brock. I’ll be in touch as information develops. Do you plan on staying in Schuyler Point?”

“Sure. Like I said, I moved here to be close to my parents.”

He nodded and walked to the door, eyes roving across the main room of the cottage, searching for last-minute clues. This was one man who took his job seriously.

Just a little more than an hour later all the blue flashing lights and busy voices were gone from the area around the cottage. Marya had been sitting at the table the entire time, watching the first phase of the investigative process in action. Another cup of tea in a long series of cups sat chilling before her.

She had not called her parents. She was not crazy about the idea of them knowing Denton’s body had appeared practically on her doorstep. With a sigh, she admitted to herself that this was just the beginning of a long road of trouble that she had no desire to deal with.

She hadn’t called Ed either, though she knew she should have. She didn’t know his home phone number, which was a good excuse, but she could have left a message at the paper. She found herself unable to imagine how she would explain what happened and why it had been in her yard. And no doubt Ed would badger her about writing the story herself later in the day, something she just wasn’t ready to deal with quite yet.

Marya yawned in spite of her troubled mind and realized just how tired she was. She glanced out at the sun brightening the sky just to the right of the bay. Ed and the crew were just going to have to survive without old Brocklyn this day. She grimaced, betting they would all know why anyway. The police blotter would see to that.

Her reporter mind went into action and she found herself pondering Denton’s death and what good thing it could have provided for anyone. What could be the motive for his murder? Did he have money? Was it revenge? Jealousy? She played over all the stock motives and none seemed to fit. Maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

She thought of the young people she had encountered her first day in Marstown, remembering that Dorry said they were often on her property. Were they harmless? She remembered her sense of unease as they surrounded her.

Wearily she rose and switched down the ringer volume on her cell phone. She was positive she’d be grateful for that later, although she wasn’t sure she’d be able to sleep. She walked to the door and peered through the side window in the direction Denton’s body had lain. Yellow police tape had created a maze in the small portion of the forest she could see from that vantage point. She believed herself absurdly safe now that it was daylight and knew she might be able to sleep after all. If truth be told, she was pretty tired of thinking about the whole mess.

She turned toward her bed, shaking out sheets left rumpled from her earlier nap. As she lifted one knee to the mattress, however, something hit the braided rug that rested beneath the bed, landing with a solid thunk. Curious, she bent to fetch it and found herself holding a heavy gold link bracelet with a satin-finished, brass plate attached. She leaned into the first golden rays of sunlight slanting from the kitchen door and saw the word Dorcas engraved in cursive writing across the front. There was a small diamond just to the right of the last letter. She hefted the piece in her palm as she pondered possibilities. Had Dorry been here last night? The bracelet couldn’t have been in the bed earlier. She would have felt it, wouldn’t she?

New worry nagged at her. Was she in danger? Had someone—Dorry—been in her house? She gripped the bracelet in her hand and moved to the door to double-check the locks. The kitchen windows were open for air but had screens accessible only from inside. Someone would have to cut them to gain access and she would hear it. Heart thudding, she moved back to the bed and pulled the sheets around her. She curled on her side and stared at the bracelet in her hand.

Marya’s desk was a cluttered mess. She moved the piles of waiting paper firmly to one side. She had to find some tangible means of proving her innocence or it could come down to her word against that of the Coburn County Police Department. She was definitely not yet considered one of the locals, and around here outsiders attracted finger-pointing like magnets attracted iron. It didn’t look good. Especially not with deputy-dog, misogynist, smart-ass Thomas involved.

Marvin had intimated as much during his hour-long interview with her. Off the record, of course. Though Marya had offered to do the story, Ed had refused, saying it was a front-page piece. Marvin’s beat, not hers. She knew the real reason; he wasn’t one hundred percent sure she wasn’t involved somehow.

At least her parents believed her. But they also believed she was in harm’s way, her mother begging her to move back in with them until the investigation was over and the bad guy caught. Marya sighed as she tucked her bag under the desk. Her mother hovering over her twenty-four/seven? Not a chance.

Who did murder Denton? Who could be heartless enough to do away with such a sweet old soul? Her mind raced across possibilities and raged like a brush fire gone wild.

Snapping on her computer, she found solace in old friends—the national police database and the national news archives. These were familiar stomping grounds.

She entered codes and passwords until she came to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Her reporter status gave her only limited access. Still their database might provide something useful. She typed in Denton Hyde and waited, the fingertips of her right hand smoothing the knuckles of her left.

His name was there but not as a criminal.

In 1996, in Richmond, Virginia, he had witnessed a purse snatching, fought off the perpetrator and reclaimed the bag. The bad guy had gotten away, but Denton had been fingerprinted. Witnesses and victims often were, so their fingerprints could be ruled out during investigations. Nothing in the file indicated a possible motive for his murder. It held other information, though, including his wife’s maiden name, Darlene Wood. This had to be Dorry’s sister, the woman whose photo she had seen in Dorry’s office. Denton once told her that cancer had taken his wife too early. She sensed that Denton had never quite gotten over her death. Could there be some grain of motive there? Could Dorry have taken Denton’s life as payback for some past transgression? Certainly she had the power, the physical strength, to snap his neck, and temper enough. Marya had seen evidence of that.