A Deadly Bouquet (17 page)

“She didn't ask anything. We just visited.”

“She said if she phrased her questions right you wouldn't know what she was after.” I smiled coolly. “Since you don't have a clue, I guess she was good.”

“I'm not a fool, Mrs. Solomon. I know when I'm being pumped for information.” She gave me an arch look as she stripped off her gloves and laid them on a chair. “Claire and I talked about the passage of time. How people move away and you lose track of them. I told Claire I've always been lucky to have caring neighbors. Oliver's land connects with mine on the west. I've heard that someone is interested in the property that lays to the east. There isn't a house anymore, but the site would make a lovely place to build a new home.”

“Do you think Claire was interested in buying that land?”

“Not at all. Why would she want property out here when her business was in town?”

I hadn't heard anything that could be termed a “hot piece of gossip.” My frustration made my tone sharp. “You must be forgetting something. Claire expected you to tell her a piece of important information.”

“Don't be snippy, Mrs. Solomon. Since Claire's murder I've had a difficult time. I haven't slept without medication. My sister and my daughter came to stay with me, but they left this morning to go back to their lives. Now I'm coping alone.”

“I didn't realize you and Claire were such close friends.”

“I wouldn't call us friends, though I saw her once a week. She began doing my hair when I won a contest she held at her shop. My name was drawn as the winner of a wash and set, though I never registered for the prize. Hadn't stepped foot in her shop.”

“How did she get your name?”

“I never win anything, so I didn't ask. She was excellent with my hair. I told my friends about her work, and they switched to Claire.” Lydia touched her henna-colored curls. “I'm going to miss her. She was clever. Have you seen the mural on her ceiling?”

“Yes. It's very nice.”

“Claire did the work herself. A month or so ago, I was tilted back in my chair, and she told me she'd been thinking about painting a picture on the ceiling. She asked my advice, and we tossed ideas back and forth. Claire hit upon the idea of a woman with flowers sticking out of her head like hair.”

“Is the girl on the ceiling a real person?”

Lydia started to speak, then stopped. After a moment she mumbled, “Now, isn't that strange?”

“What's strange?”

“I haven't thought about that family in years.”

Totally confused, I said, “What family?”

“Shh,” she said sharply. “I'm thinking.”

I watched Lydia, who was acting more than weird. When she finally looked at me I said, “Well, what's going on?”

A sly smile twisted her lips. “That's my secret.”

“There aren't secrets in an ongoing murder investigation. If you have information, you have to give it to the authorities.”

Lydia sniffed. “Which you are not.”

From the stubborn twist of her lips, I could see I wasn't going to convince her to talk to me, so I switched gears. “What about the flowers?”

Lydia lifted a shoulder. “Claire said that by painting Missouri wildflowers on the ceiling she might be able to achieve a total state of … uh…” Lydia stopped and thought. “Now, what was that word?” Her face brightened. “That's it—a total state of catharsis.”

“Catharsis?” I murmured, studying Lydia. “What did Claire mean?”

“I couldn't tell you.” At my look, she snapped, “Because I don't know, Mrs. Solomon. When Claire was in one of her analyzing moods, she'd quote her ex–mother-in-law, who in turn quoted this Aristotle.” Lydia shook her head. “Seems silly to me. What did Aristotle Onassis ever say that was so profound?”

Chapter Fourteen

I turned my head to hide my amusement. How could I expect Lydia to know about a Greek philosopher who had believed in logic and reason? Where was the logic and reason in the idea that a woman's place was only in the home?

I mumbled something about getting back to the flower shop and went around the house and climbed into the SUV. After I'd cranked over the engine, I smiled at the powerful sound. I'd never owned anything remotely like this vehicle. I zipped down the drive, whipped out onto the road, and then applied the brakes. A sheriff's car was headed my way.

Sid pulled alongside me. He gave my new wheels a sharp study and grunted. “Looks like a rich father has its dividends. Why red?”

“Why not? Any news on who rammed Bailey's truck?”

“Nothing on who, but a red SUV was found abandoned out near the River City waste plant. It was reported stolen from a strip mall. The owner went into a store to get cough syrup and left the motor running. Our suspect got in and drove away. No one saw who it was, so we don't have a description. There's damage to the left front fender complete with flecks of black paint.”

“What about my car? Did you find anything?”

“Not much. It was beat to hell with a baseball bat. I read in the officer's report that you called that wad of wilted flowers on the floorboard a tussie-mussie. I saw it. Looked like a bunch of leaves and dead blooms to me. Why do you think it was put there?”

“I told the officer that each leaf, each flower, even the placement of them, is important. It contains a message, and it isn't good.”

“A message?”

I explained about the language of flowers, but Sid lost interest. When I took a breath, he said, “I hear you're a regular visitor to Monroe.” He reached down beside him and held up a plastic bag. “Here's the personal items that were in the truck—CDs and the ring of keys that were in the ignition. We kept the notebooks and papers for a closer inspection. I'd give this stuff to his family, but so far they haven't been located. His daughter is on some cruise ship with her grandmother.” He passed the bag out the window.

I took it, placing it on the seat next to me. I hadn't thought about Bailey's having children. “What's his daughter's name?” I asked, trying to keep my voice casual. “How old is she?”

“Jillian Monroe is all I know. I didn't ask for her life history.” He stared at me. “I heard he bought the cottage next to your house.” He raised an eyebrow. “That's convenient.”

I wasn't going to discuss my relationship with Bailey, so I asked, “Are you on your way to talk to Lydia?”

He studied me a moment, then said, “Yeah. I assume that's where you've been. Did you get anything out of her?”

“Nothing much.”

Sid's eyes narrowed. “I'll be the judge of that. What'd she say?”

I shrugged. “Changing attitudes of neighbors. The property to the east of her place is for sale. Claire herself painted the mural on her beauty shop ceiling.” The devil in me added, “She's keeping something to herself, and I think it has to do with the painting.”

“Is it important?”

“I don't know, but she says it's her secret. She was snooty about it. Lydia also said that Claire painted Missouri wildflowers so she could achieve ‘a total state of catharsis.'”

Sid's eyebrows zoomed up. “Aristotle's theory of catharsis? Interesting.”

When he saw my mouth hanging open, he said, “Don't look so damned surprised. I read more than deputies' reports. Philosophy exercises my brain in other areas.”

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Aristotle believed that pity and fear were the extremes of human nature, and for a person to attain virtue these emotions should be avoided. According to him, by viewing a tragedy there could be a kind of purgation or purification from these feelings—a catharsis.”

“I'm impressed. But wasn't Aristotle talking about a tragedy represented by a stage enactment, not real life?”

“If you're scared you look for comfort anywhere you can find it.” Sid tilted his cap back and scratched his head. “But I don't see how flowers painted on a ceiling could be called a tragedy, unless she was an artist with my talent.”

“Claire's ex-husband, Howie, told me she was scared about something, but I didn't get that impression when I talked to her. She seemed more excited than frightened.” Sid's expression stopped my palavering.

His chin dropped, and he glared. “When did you talk to—”

Kaboom!

Lydia Dearborne's house exploded into a fireball, altering the bright yellow sunlight into a surging, unnatural, orange glow. The concussion slammed me into the steering wheel before the SUV's suspension rocked me like a baby.

“Holy Mother of God,” said Sid.

I twisted around in my seat and stared in horror. The upward escalation had blown the house debris sky-high, where it maintained a sort of suspended animation. Hunks and chunks appeared to burst into flame against the blue background. As gravity took hold, charred bits of unidentifiable materials slammed to earth. Ashes floated on air that was thick with black smoke. Where the house had been, flames leaped and danced like demons intent on total destruction.

While Sid called in the emergency, I thought out loud. “She has to be dead. She couldn't have lived through that explosion even if she was outside scrubbing trees.”

“What?” shouted Sid.

I raised my voice. “Lydia must be dead, but shouldn't we check?”

Sid shot me a disgusted glare. “Which part of her are we gonna look for? That was either a bomb or a gas leak. See how the flames are roaring straight up? They're being fueled by something. I've called the gas company to come turn off the main valve. Until they do their job, we're gonna sit tight.”

Gas company.

With my eyes on the fiery scene, I said, “Lydia told me a woman from the gas company had gone under her house for an inspection.” I glanced at the dashboard clock. “That was approximately an hour ago.”

Sid looked at the house and then back at me. “Holy shit! Are you thinking this was intentional?”

“Carl never liked coincidences. It's more than a fluke that after an inspection the whole house would go up.”

His mouth pressed into a grim line. “If you're right—and I'm not saying you are—tell me what Mrs. Dearborne knew that would make her a threat.”

“I think she knew something, but she didn't know she knew it.”

“Double talk,” said Sid. “I hate it. Be clear.”

“In the park, Claire said she wanted Lydia to confirm a piece of information. When I saw Lydia just now her hair was freshly curled. When I was in the beauty shop I smelled fresh perm solution. A permanent takes time to complete. They chatted. Claire maneuvered the conversation and got what she wanted. Lydia didn't have a clue until I asked her some questions. She started thinking, and up came this ‘secret,' which she wouldn't share with me.”

I thought a moment, then added, “I bet the killer has been waiting for a chance to kill Lydia, but delayed the deed until Lydia's company left.”

“Why? If you've killed once and plan on killing again, what's a few more bodies?”

I didn't have an answer. Fifteen minutes later a group of rural volunteer firefighters arrived. Sid jumped out of his car and motioned for me to move on.

“I know where to find you,” he said.

I put the SUV into gear and drove back to River City, meeting emergency vehicles on my way. As each one passed, I shook my head and murmured, “Too late. Much too late.”

*   *   *

Bailey had been moved out of the Critical Care Unit into a private room, but he hadn't regained consciousness. I'd been told his vital signs were good and the swelling to his brain was going down.

A nurse had patted my hand and said it would only be a matter of time before he opened his eyes. When I pressed her to be more specific, she had smiled and said, “He'll come around when the time is right.”

“Time?” I grumbled as I dragged a chair up to Bailey's bedside.

What was time anyway? We gain time, kill time, do time, are behind the times, or pass the time of day. Old folks look back and say they had the time of their lives. Young people want to be ahead of their time. There are instances when we'd like to turn back the hands of time. And sometimes, we're simply out of time.

When Lydia went to Oliver's funeral, she probably thought she had plenty of time left. She'd been scrubbing tree trunks, for God's sake. Surely if she'd known her time was almost up, she would have done something more worthwhile.

I picked up Bailey's hand and tenderly wrapped his fingers around mine. “Open your eyes,” I said quietly. “It's time.”

No one would've been more surprised than I if Bailey done as I'd directed. But he didn't, and I wasn't. I sat with his hand in mine and talked.

“This really sucks. I can feel your warmth, but you aren't here with me.” I leaned closer. “I have a major problem. Well, I guess it isn't really my problem, but Claire did call me. She thought I could help her. I have all these thoughts waltzing around in my head. Help me, Bailey. Help me figure this mess out.

“If I start with the park where I met Claire, then I have to consider Oliver's dying words: ‘Bretta—Spade.' I'm not sure if they belong with the rest of the scenario. Oliver had a heart attack. Claire was murdered. Both were in the park. Both knew Lydia Dearborne. Oliver heard Claire say Lydia's name. Before Oliver's heart acted up, I noticed he had his head cocked to one side as if he were concentrating on remembering something. He said, ‘So long ago.' He had his spade in his hands. Earlier he'd told me ‘whenever I touch this wood, memories of bygone years flash into focus.'”

I rested my cheek against Bailey's hand. “Bygone years. Claire and Lydia talked about neighbors and how times change.” I grimaced. “Dana said, ‘Time's supposed to blur the memories—' There's that word again.
Time.
My father believes that time heals all wounds. He seriously thought, when he left all those years ago, I'd get over the pain. That I'd simply forget him and go on with my life. I did to a certain extent. I married a man I adored and who adored me. I started and maintained a successful business, but at odd moments I'd think about my father and wonder what he was doing. And more important, I wondered if he ever thought of me.”