A Deadly Bouquet (22 page)

“—screamed like a pig stuck in a fence,” continued my father. “I don't think her feet touched a single rung of the ladder as she came down. She tore past me, slipped in a pile of manure, and landed flat on her back.” He shook his head. “Lord, but she was a smelly mess. She was crying and reeking when I took her to the house to get cleaned up.”

I waited for him to finish the story, but he stopped, and Lew swung into a remembrance from his life. I stared at my father's profile. That moment when I'd entered the house, all those years ago, was as vivid as if it had happened only yesterday.

My mother was at the sink. I'm sure she heard my bawling before she saw me. Perhaps it was fear that I'd been mortally wounded that prompted her to place the blame for what had happened on my father. Her verbal rebuke had been delivered in a soft tone, but as I recalled her words, I flinched.

“Alfred, your carelessness will be the death of our daughter.”

My father hadn't replied. He'd hunched his shoulders and walked quietly from the room. While my mother cleaned the poop off me, I'd asked her what “carelessness” meant. She'd said, “Having no thought for the safety of others.” I worshipped my father and had taken up for him in my typical outspoken way. My mother didn't approve of “talking back.” My punishment had been to pick green beans until supper.

Mom had never screamed insults. She'd spoken quietly, but the words—
careless, ineffective, wasteful, imprudent,
and
head in the clouds
—had been applied often to my father. For a child they'd meant nothing because my mother never raised her voice. Mom was just talking, and Dad was just listening.

I felt a chill as the implication of what I was thinking registered. When spoken on a daily basis the constant belittling would be intimidating and devastating to a person's self-esteem. I studied my father. I saw the proud tilt of his head. The confident way he carried himself. He had dignity and seemed self-assured.

A small voice inside of me murmured,
Only because he got away.

I gasped and everyone looked my way. “Hi, all,” I said, trying to smile. “Just dropped in to see if I would be missed if I took time off.” My glance slid over my father's face. “Dad, if you aren't busy, I'd like for you to come with me.”

His smile went from ear to ear at my invitation. It was a simple gesture on my part, but the fact that my father showed overwhelming delight reminded me I had some serious holes to mend in our relationship.

Lois said, “Tomorrow is Thursday. Are we going to start on the wedding?”

“We have no choice. We can't leave everything until Friday. The next three days are going to be horrendous. That's why I'm taking the rest of the day off.” I motioned to my father that I was ready, and we went out and got into the SUV.

My father patted the dashboard. “Now that you've been driving this beauty, how do you like her?”

My first impulse was to downplay my feelings—be reserved. But I stopped myself and was totally honest. “It's a helluva machine. I love it.”

If he'd had a tail it would have wagged. “Good, good. I'm glad I could give it to you.” He glanced at me. “But more important, I'm glad you accepted the gift.”

“It wasn't easy. I'm used to working for everything I get. It still doesn't feel right, but I'm not giving it back.”

“I don't want it back. Just enjoy.”

We were silent for a few blocks. I kept asking myself how I was going to broach the subject of my mother. I finally decided to use the story my father had told to Lois and Lew. After all, that had been the source of my enlightenment.

“I heard you telling about that old snake in the hayloft.”

“As a child you didn't get addlepated very often. It's one of my favorite memories.”

“I'm surprised you remember it fondly, considering how Mom blamed you.”

“She was right. I should have watched you more closely.”

“I was pretty strong-willed. I thought those kittens were in the hayloft. Come hell or high water I was going to check.”

“Even if I'd told you about the snake?”

“I'd have taken a hoe with me, but I'd probably have gone up there.”

“Yeah. You're probably right.”

I swallowed my nervousness. “Mom did that often, didn't she? Blamed you for stuff that did or didn't happen.”

His gray head swiveled in my direction. “I had faults that irritated your mother. Let's leave it at that.”

“Not this time, Dad. Because you and Mom never argued or had rousing shouting matches, I thought you got along. But your marriage was too silent. When Carl and I had a dispute, we'd get vocal. We'd air our problem, make up, and move on. As I remember, Mom did all the talking. You listened or walked away.”

“She was usually right.”

“I don't think right or wrong has anything to do with it. I think you took her abuse as long as you could and that's when you left.”

“Abuse?” His eyes widened. “Your mother wasn't abusive. She was an exceptional woman. We were just mismatched. She had her way of doing things, and I had mine. It's funny how the very traits that attract you to a person can turn out to be the most frustrating. Your mother was strong of spirit and firm in her convictions. When I first fell in love with her, I admired the way she always seemed to know what was right. I always seemed to make the wrong choice. She had no patience with my ideas. I liked to make changes, try something new, even if it failed. She wanted everything to stay the same.”

“Such as?”

He thought a moment. “The vegetable garden comes to mind. She was pregnant with you and as big as a barrel when it came time to plant. I worked and worked that soil until it had the texture of flour. I sowed the seeds, putting the corn near the pig lot. I thought that as the corn grew tall it would hide the dilapidated building. When we sat on the porch we wouldn't have to look at it. I admit it was an aesthetic concept, but what difference would it make? The ground was the same in both places.”

“Mom didn't want the corn there?”

“Hell no. She got so upset she nearly went into premature labor. She said the hogs would smell the corn ripening and would tear down the fence to get to it.”

“Did she raise her voice?”

“Of course not. That wasn't her way.”

“But you were made to feel inferior. That you'd screwed up, right?”

“I had.”

“No, Dad. What you did wasn't wrong. What Mom wanted wasn't wrong, either. It was just a difference of opinion.”

“We had those differences often, daughter. After a while, it gets to where you can't trust your own instincts. You begin to question whether you have a working brain. I'd had this cattle-branding-tool idea spinning around in my head for years. I'd tried talking to your mother, but she wouldn't listen. She only saw the here and now, not what could or might be. Those months before I finally left were hell. Nothing I did suited her, so I took off.”

I turned onto Catalpa Road and slowed the SUV. “I can better understand now why you left, but what about me? You sent a yearly check, and Mom deposited it into an account for me. After she died you started sending me a birthday card and a box of grapefruit at Christmas. Dad, I don't even like grapefruit.”

He stared at me. “Well, I'll be damned. I didn't know that.”

“There's so much about me you don't know. Mom's been dead for more than fifteen years, but you waited until last Christmas to come see me. Why?”

“How did I know if you'd want to see me? I didn't really think your mother would speak ill of me to you. Fact is, I figured once I was gone she'd simply never mention me again. But I couldn't be sure. Time has a way of slipping by. Before I knew it you were grown. You had a life here in River City. You had a husband, who from all accounts was kind and loving to you. Then when I read Carl's obituary in the paper, I thought of returning.”

“Thought must have been all you did. He's been dead for two years.”

“Give it a rest, Bretta. I'm weak. I'm shy. I'm old. I'm scared. Take your pick. I didn't feel I could intrude on your grief. I came at Christmas because DeeDee called and said you needed me.
You needed me.
I got on the first plane. We spent a few days together. I went back to Texas, but I wasn't satisfied. I wanted more.”

“More what?”

He whispered, “I wanted revenge.”

“On whom?” I squawked.

Wearily, my father said, “Let's drop this. I've said too much.”

“No. No. I think we're finally getting somewhere.”

He stared out the window. “I wanted revenge on your mother. I wanted to prove her wrong. I'm not a fool. I'm not lazy. I have amounted to something. In this world, money spells success. I have money, and I've made it using my abilities, my imagination, and my skills.”

“You don't have to prove anything to me. I credit you with my creative talent, my imagination, and my penchant for ‘what if.' Mother's influence grounded me so I give it some thought before I go off the deep end. I got the best from both of you, with my own personal quirkiness tossed in to keep life interesting.”

I topped a hill, and my lips turned down in a frown. Sid Hancock stood in the middle of the road at the end of Lydia's driveway, waving me to a stop. “And if my life gets too humdrum, I have Sid to annoy the hell out of me.”

I slowed the SUV, pulled alongside him, and put down the window. His pale complexion was blotchy from the sun. His eyes shot sparks when he saw my passenger.

“Take your joyride somewhere else, Bretta,” Sid said, keeping his gaze off my father. “We're working a crime scene.”

“So Lydia's death wasn't an accident?”

“Nope. Murder. There was no gas inspector. The fire marshal says the gas line was tampered with. Gas leaked and filled the house. When Lydia flipped the switch for the kitchen light, the spark triggered the explosion. You've got your information, now buzz off.”

“I'm
buzzing
on my way to the property east of here.”

Always suspicious, Sid demanded, “What for?”

“I'm looking for a flower.”

“A flower? Don't you have a shop full of them? Now you're out scrounging the fields and ditches.” He shook his head. “Jeez. You can do the damnedest things.” He waved me on, but hollered, “If you haven't passed back by here in half an hour, I'm coming to look for you.”

“Be still my heart,” I muttered under my breath, but I put up a hand to show I'd heard.

My father chuckled. “That was quick thinking about the flower.”

“It's the truth. I
am
looking for a flower, but not because I'm a florist. On the ceiling of Claire Alexander's beauty shop is a painting of a girl. Among the flowers surrounding this girl is a bloom that's been identified as Mead's milkweed.”

“Milkweed? Like what was in the tussie-mussie?”

“Same family, but an extinct cousin. From what I understand, it grew in this area. An area where Oliver and Lydia used to live.”

My father glanced over his shoulder. “So we're investigating the murder right under the sheriff's nose? I like that. He's entirely too arrogant.”

“Forget Sid,” I said, pulling into the first driveway that was east of Lydia's place. The lane was rutted, the grass and brush waist-high. “This is as far as I want to take the SUV, Dad.” I glanced at his neatly creased trousers, knit polo shirt, and dress shoes. “There's rough terrain ahead. You might want to wait here.”

“Not a chance, daughter. I'm with you on this mission.”

“Sid gave us thirty minutes. Let's make the most of it.”

We got out and pushed our way through the thicket. I tried not to think of ticks, chiggers, and other creatures hiding in the grass.

“Where are we going to find this Mead's milkweed?” Dad asked.

“In an igneous glade,” I said, then explained what the botany teacher had told me. “I doubt we'll find the plant, but I want to see where it could have grown. I'm not sure if that's important, but something about this area is.”

Dad stopped a few feet ahead of me. “Here's what's left of a foundation,” he said. “It was either a shed or a very small house.”

“Lydia said there used to be a house here.” I pointed. “Look at those old trees. They're ancient. Wonder how come they died?”

Dad squinted, then moved so the sun wasn't in his eyes. “Dutch elm disease swept this part of the country and took plenty of victims. But I don't remember the trunks turning black like that.”

Dad wandered on, but I stayed where I was. Parts of the concrete foundation had crumbled until it was no more than a pile of rubble. Saplings as thick as my arm had taken over the area. A plump toad hopped out of the grass and scuttled into hiding under the rocks. Mother Nature had reclaimed this spot as her own, rubbing out nearly all traces of human inhabitance. The trees, their trunks rotted hulls, stood like decrepit sentries. I gazed at them, wondering what they were guarding.

Off to my right, my father shouted, “Bretta! You have to see this.” He motioned to me.

“I'm coming,” I said, but I didn't move. I kept staring at the foundation. Carl had said I needed to put everything in the right order. I knew that Claire had been a rebel. The sixties were a time of revolution—of social reform. People were looking for answers. They wanted to preserve things and often took up causes.

“Bretta?” called my father.

I hurried forward and stopped at his side. He flung out his arm and stared at the ground. “Would you look at that? Can you believe it?”

I looked and saw a tangle of plants. He picked a leaf, and after he'd bruised it with his fingers, held it under my nose. The aroma was powerful, and memorable.