A Deadly Bouquet (2 page)

“But why River City?” whined Dana. “Why us? Why—”

“Dana,” said a woman coming down the path toward us, “will you stop that screeching? I could hear you clear out to the parking lot.”

This new arrival looked like a sixties reject who had found her way back into style. She wore bell-bottom slacks and a tie-dyed shirt. A narrow band of cloth was fastened around her forehead and kept her stringy blond hair out of her eyes. She was as thin as a willow branch. Her arms were like twigs.

“You think you've got problems?” she said, pointing to a mammoth oak. “See that tree? Workmen are coming this week to build a platform so I can take aerial photos of this wedding.” She tossed her head. “I've been ordered to dress as if I'm a guest so I won't be intrusive. Can you explain to me how I'm supposed to climb that tree in a skirt and panty hose while carrying a video camera and equipment?”

I shifted uncomfortably. All these last-minute changes bothered me. For the past twenty-four hours I hadn't heard a peep out of Evelyn. I turned to Sonya. “Exactly why were we asked to meet here this morning?”

Before Sonya could answer, another woman sprinted toward us. Her hair was a shrieking shade of green. Her eyes glittered like emeralds. She wore an orange uniform with a lemon-colored apron tied around her narrow waist. “Hi, guys. Am I late?”

“Would it matter?” asked Dana, staring at the green hair.

“Nope. I've got a business to run, and Claire's Hair Lair has to come first. I can't be away for more than an hour. I'm on the trail of a hot piece of gossip, and Mrs. Dearborne is coming in for a perm. If I phrase my questions just right, she'll never know what I'm after, and I'll—”

“Claire, what have you done to your hair?” demanded the photographer. “All those chemicals aren't healthy.”

Claire gave the woman's own limp hair a sharp study. “Cut, color, curl. The three C's will earn you a man.”

“Like your track record makes me want one.”

I laughed politely with the others, but had the feeling I was being left out of some private joke. While Sonya and I had a professional acquaintance, and I'd often sold Dana fresh flowers to decorate her cakes, the other two women were strangers.

I asked for an introduction, and Sonya quickly responded, “I'm sorry, Bretta. Since we know each other, I never thought you'd be left out of the loop. The woman with the broccoli-colored hair and contacts is Claire Alexander, beauty shop owner.” Sonya turned to the other woman. “This is Kasey Vickers. She's a local celebrity. Her photo-essays have earned her national recognition in environmental circles.”

I must have looked as confused as I felt. An environmentalist was shooting the photos for a wedding?

Sonya said, “I know what you're thinking. But regardless of the subject, Kasey's photo techniques will give Nikki a wonderful keepsake.”

Impatiently, Claire said, “What are we waiting for? I have to get back to my shop.” She lowered her voice. “After I talk to Mrs. Dearborne, I may have some news that will knock you all onto your fannies.”

Sonya frowned. “You keep hinting at some great secret. Are you going to let us in on it?”

“Not till I get more information.”

Sonya said, “It's no wonder you became a beautician. You thrive on gossip. What's going on?”

Claire shook her head. “I'm not saying another word.”

“That'll be the day,” muttered Kasey.

Dana turned to me. “Ignore their bickering. Our friendship goes back to high school.”

I looked from one face to another. “You're all the same age? What year did you graduate?”

“Nineteen sixty-six,” said Dana, fluffing her brown curls. “I'm the baby of the group.”

While the others razzed her, I did some fast calculations. If they had graduated when they were eighteen that meant these women were fifty-four years old. Of the four, only Sonya looked her age. Dana's plump cheeks were wrinkle-free. I wouldn't have guessed the green-haired Claire to be past forty. As for Kasey, her skin was stretched so tightly over her bones my estimation of her age would've been way off the mark.

Claire thrust her hands into her apron pockets. “That's how we can get away with the insults. We've been friends too long to let a little criticism separate us. Besides, nothing any of us could say would be new.” She studied her friends and softly chanted, “You can boil me in oil. You can burn me at the stake. But a River City Royal is always on the make.”

Dana's mouth dropped open. Sonya stiffened. Kasey said, “No, Claire. You—” But then she stopped and bit her lip.

In the silence that followed, we heard Evelyn's voice. Her tone was sharp. “I want everything perfect, right down to the leaves on the shrubs.”

Evelyn walked toward us with Eddie and Oliver trailing along behind her. When I met Eddie's gaze, my stomach muscles tightened. The man had fire in his eyes. Oliver's skin was mottled. His chest rose and fell with sharp, agitated breaths.

I looked back at Evelyn. She was a beautiful woman—blue-black hair and deep brown eyes, her complexion as smooth as a magnolia blossom, her makeup flawless. She possessed a figure a teenager would have envied. Pointed breasts, a narrow waist, and nicely rounded hips were displayed in a bronze-colored dress.

“As I've told Mr. Terrell,” Evelyn said, coming into our circle, “my goal for this wedding is a tribute to an exquisite woman.” She dazzled us with a smile. “Thank you for coming this morning. I thought it best to be on-site for this discussion. If you have any questions, suggestions, or complaints say them now. You'll have my undivided attention. Oliver and Eddie have heard what I want.” She nodded to them. “You may both go back to work.”

It was a cool dismissal, but Eddie had something else to say. Oliver tugged on his son's arm, but Eddie wouldn't move.

Evelyn ignored him and said, “All right, ladies, who wants to go first?”

Claire stepped forward. “I have to get back to my shop—”

“That hot piece of gossip from Mrs. Dearborne won't wait, huh?” asked Dana.

Oliver stared at Claire. “Dearborne? Gossip? Who are you?”

Claire raised an eyebrow. “I'm Claire Alexander, owner of Claire's Hair Lair.”

Oliver studied her face and shook his head. “I don't know you, but suddenly something is niggling at me.” He gazed at the ground. “I wish I could remember.”

Evelyn said, “Please, we have to discuss the fine points of Nikki's wedding.”

Oliver closed his eyes and cocked his head as if listening to some distant sound. His hand moved up and down the handle of his spade. “So long ago,” he murmured.

Eddie said to Evelyn, “Dad and I have done like you asked. We took out the euonymus shrubs, and we're planting the golden spirea. The look is natural. To spray the foliage with gold paint would be ridiculous.”

“Spray the foliage?” I repeated.

Evelyn turned to me. “Yes, Bretta. The color of the shrubs is too yellow. I want Nikki to stroll down a gilded path.”

“She also wants us to plant dead trees,” groused Eddie. “Dead trees, mind you, so the bare branches can be draped with hoity-toity lights.”

“I saw the idea in a magazine. The effect against the night sky was—”

“—not done by Terrell Landscaping,” finished Eddie.

Oliver opened his eyes. “Where are the markers?”

Eddie shot his father a puzzled look, but said to Evelyn, “I've had it. Dad and I are done. Plant your own shrubs. Drape your own damned lights.”

Evelyn's smile was cold. “Fine. Pack up your stuff and get out.”

Eddie waved an arm. “It's a public park.”

“Son?” said Oliver weakly. He stumbled forward. “Chest hurts. Heart.”

Eddie whipped around. “Where's your pills?”

Oliver sunk to his knees. “Can't … get … breath.” He gasped and fell forward.

Sonya used her cell phone to call 911. I knelt next to Oliver. “Help me turn him over,” said Eddie.

Once we had Oliver on his back, he opened his eyes. Eddie found the pills, uncapped the brown bottle, and slipped a tablet under Oliver's tongue.

“Hang in there, Dad,” he coached. “Give the medicine a chance to work.”

Spittle drooled from the corner of Oliver's mouth. Eddie used his shirttail to wipe it gently away. Oliver gazed at his son. Love reflected beyond the pain he was enduring. He turned his head and stared directly into my eyes. Softly, he said, “Bretta … Spade.”

Chapter Two

My flower shop has always been a safe haven, a place I can go to regroup and put my thoughts in order. I headed for that calming piece of real estate when I left River City Commemorative Park.

As a florist, I've helped bereaved families choose a fitting memorial for their loved one's service. On a personal level, I've had my own share of dealing with an unexpected death. But never has my name been on a dying man's lips. Never have I stared into his eyes as he drew his last breath.

I pulled into the alley behind the flower shop and climbed wearily out of my car. It felt as if an eternity had passed since the morning. As I went up the steps to the back door, I checked my watch, but my wrist was bare. The timepiece had stopped a few days ago, and I hadn't bought a new one. I entered the workroom and glanced at the clock. It was only eleven thirty. The shop closed at noon on Saturdays. My employees, Lois and Lew, were finishing a couple of last-minute orders.

“Oh, boy,” said Lois, eyeing my grim expression. “I take it the meeting didn't go well. What does that woman want now? White doves released from gold-plated cages?”

Lew said, “More like trained seals barking ‘Ave Maria' from the reflection pool.”

I moved a tall stool closer to the worktable and sat down. Lois Duncan is my floral designer, and while I value her work, I treasure her friendship. Over the years, I've tried to analyze why we get along so well when we have so many differences.

Lois is taller than I am, and has the metabolism of a hummingbird. Her weight never varies even though she sucks down candy like a vacuum cleaner in an M&M factory. My hips expand when I so much as smell chocolate. She has five children. I have none. Her bouquets are flamboyant. Mine are conservative. Sometimes she's bossy, especially when the subject concerns my lack of a social life.

Lew Mouffit is my deliveryman and perhaps the most annoying male in River City. He has the answer to everything and pontificates with such pomposity that I'm often tempted to fire him. However, he has a following of well-to-do women who patronize my shop, so I bite my tongue again and again.

Before I plunged into the story of my morning, I looked around me, drawing strength from what was near and dear to my heart. Years ago, when I had to name my business, a cutesy title didn't cut it. I'd settled on the Flower Shop, which suited my practical nature. I ran a tight ship. I believed that everything should have a place, that an object should be where I wanted it when I wanted it.

Bolts of satin ribbon were neatly lined on shelves. From where I sat I could see the front cooler, displaying fresh, colorful arrangements. Next to the cash register was a vase of white carnations, their spicy scent an open invitation for my customers to make a purchase.

I took a deep breath, then released it in a sigh. “You can't begin to imagine what happened.” I filled them in on everything. My visit with Oliver and Eddie. Meeting the other women involved with the wedding. Eddie's and Evelyn's disagreement, and finally, the morning's distressing finale.

“The paramedics arrived, but it was too late. Oliver had already passed away. Eddie was devastated. He jumped in his truck and tore out of the park.”

“Poor guy,” said Lois.

I glanced up, saw the concern in her blue eyes, and knew what she was thinking. Carl had died from a heart attack, too. Lois was worried that my morning's experience might send me into a deep depression.

I summoned up a smile to ease her fears, then turned to Lew, who was muttering under his breath. Lew was thirty-five and rapidly going bald. I've never seen him dressed in anything but well-pressed slacks, a shirt, and a conservative tie.

Against my better judgment, I asked, “Are you talking to us?”

Lew checked to make sure he had our complete and undivided attention. “If Oliver used his dying breath to whisper ‘Spade' to you, then it must have been important.” He added piously, “I've figured it out.”

Lois rolled her eyes. I had to control an urge to do likewise. This was so typical of Lew. I'd skimmed through the account of my conversation with Oliver. I'd briefly explained his brush with death six months ago. I'd ended my story by repeating Oliver's dying words. I'd been there, I'd seen everything that had happened, and yet,
Lew
had drawn a conclusion.

I said, “Let's have it. Why did Oliver say ‘Spade' to me?”

“If I understood you correctly, Oliver actually said, ‘Bretta … Spade.'” Lew's balding head shone in the fluorescent light. “He was asking for your help. It makes sense. Bretta Spade.”

When I didn't shout “Eureka!” or do a cartwheel across the floor, he demanded, “Don't you get it? Oliver was drawing a parallel between you and Dashiell Hammett's fictional detective—Sam Spade.”

Well, that was stupid, and I would have said so, but Lois beat me to it.

“Get real. The man was dying. He could've been confused. Disoriented. Bretta told us he cherished that gardening tool. Maybe he was asking her to keep it safe for Eddie.”

Lew's chin rose several degrees. “As my great-grandmother would've said, ‘Balderdash!' If Oliver wanted his son to have the spade, he'd have said ‘Spade' to him. According to Bretta, Oliver actually turned his head toward
her.
He spoke
her
name. He knew who he was talking to, and he knew exactly what he was saying.”