A Deadly Bouquet (28 page)

I could barely get the words out. “Evelyn. Stand up. We're safe.”

She knelt in the shallow water and stared across the park. “Safe from what, Bretta?” she asked softly.

I followed her gaze. A patrol car with flashing red lights barreled toward us.

Epilogue

It had been five days since the fire in the park. Evelyn had been indicted on two counts of homicide—Claire and Lydia—as well as arson, public endangerment, and a few other charges. There were multiple civil suits filed against her by wedding guests, citing pain and suffering and mental anguish. Evelyn had been denied bail and was awaiting trial in the River City jail. I'd thought about going to see her, but I was a witness for the prosecution. Besides, what would I say if I saw her?

I was at the Flower Shop, watering plants, watching the clock. Bailey was being discharged from the hospital at noon. DeeDee had helped his daughter, Jillian, clean the cottage, making it ready for his homecoming. I'd stayed away. Jillian seemed like a pleasant young lady. She was twenty years old, full of youthful thoughts and ideas, and extremely possessive of her father.

Tipping the water can spout over the dracaena plant, I was happy to see it had survived its wilting episode without any visible sign of damage. I'd escaped the fire with only a few minor cuts and blisters. Since that night, I'd thought about cause and effect in relation to my father, and to Evelyn, and to life in general. I'd even bought a book on philosophy, trying to get a perspective on human morals, character, and behavior.

I was still waiting for enlightenment, though the words of Aristotle played often in my mind.

The quality of life is determined by its activities.

After my close encounter with death, I figured I'd better curb my pastime of detecting. I revised that thought once I'd done some soul-searching.

Where would be the quality of life if I didn't care enough to get involved?

If I didn't make a difference in my corner of the world?

If I minded my own business?

Keep Reading for An Excerpt from Janis Harrison's Next Gardening Mystery,

Reap a Wicked Harvest

Available in Hardcover from St. Martin's Minotaur

“Death plays havoc with my social life,” I said. “It's after five o'clock. We've missed all the scheduled events.” I peered through the windshield, searching for passing landmarks that would show we were getting closer to Parker Wholesale Greenhouses. “We might as well have stayed home.”

“Where's your compassion, Bretta?” said my father from the passenger seat of my SUV. “I'm sure Mr. Tyler would prefer a few hours' festivities over his present location.”

Since Mr. Tyler was stretched out in his casket prepared for burial, I knew my father was right. But neither fact kept me from being grumpy. My flower shop closes at noon on Saturday, but just because the doors are locked doesn't mean the work ceases. Lois, my second in command, had a sinus infection. I'd had no choice but to design and deliver the sympathy bouquets for Mr. Tyler's funeral service. I'd put in seven straight days at my flower shop business and looked forward to having this day off. I'd hurried every chance I could, but we were still late for Dan and Natalie's Customer Appreciation Day Celebration.

We were headed south of River City, smack dab in the middle of the Missouri Ozarks. The road twined and clung to the hillsides like a serpentine trumpet vine. Fleeting breaks in the wall of foliage revealed the Osage River flowing at a leisurely pace in the valley. It was a peaceful, relaxing ride through the sun-drenched August countryside, and one I'd anticipated for weeks.

“There's the sign,” Dad said. “See it? Up ahead on your left.”

“Got it,” I said, flipping the turn-signal lever. We rolled off the highway onto the private road and through an elaborate gateway made of wrought-iron curlicues. On each side of the entry a natural outcropping of limestone rock was landscaped with bright spots of sun-loving annuals tucked into soil-filled crevices. Purple verbena trailed over rugged stones. Hot-pink periwinkle, portulaca, and the rich autumn tones of the rudbeckia gave a domesticated feel to the untamed tract of land.

Dad tilted his head so he could look up the bluff. “I see a flash of sunlight on glass. Is the house up there?”

I nodded. “The lodge where Natalie and Dan live and the commercial greenhouses, too. It's another mile to the top of the bluff where the ground levels out.”

“Will there be parking?” Dad touched his walking stick that was propped against the SUV's console. “My arthritis is bothering me. I'm not up to hiking long distances.”

“Natalie promised she'd reserve a place for us close to the lodge,” I said and tried not to roll my eyes. Arthritis might be the excuse, but knowing him, he was more concerned for the condition of his clothes.

My father, Albert McGinness, was a natty dresser. Before we left home, I'd explained a white suit might not be the best choice for an outing to a greenhouse. Jeans or shorts and a T-shirt would be the order of the day. But he'd gone ahead and decked himself out like Colonel Sanders.

I glanced at him. He was a handsome man in his seventies. His hair was thick and gray, his eyes blue. In his younger days he'd been lean and wiry, but age and good living had added a paunch to his middle. He'd only recently come back into my life—when I was eight years old, he walked out on my mother and me. My feelings toward him were complicated. I cared about him, but I wasn't always sure I liked him. I was making an effort, but sometimes he irritated the living daylights out of me.

We topped the bluff and saw cars, vans, and trucks parked everywhere. “Do all these vehicles belong to florists?” asked Dad.

“No, though I'm sure many of them do.” The lane was shady. I turned down the AC and lowered my window. “The greenhouse delivers potted plants for a radius of two hundred miles to garden centers and retail outlets as well as flower shops.”

Dad nodded. “What's in store for us this afternoon?”

I reached into the side pocket of my purse and pulled out a folded paper. “Here's the invitation, but as I said, we've missed all the tours.”

Dad took the paper and smoothed the wrinkles. With gusto he read: “‘Come join the fun! Meet our growers. Tour the Parker facilities. Whole-hog roast with fireworks to end the day's gala.'” Turning the paper over, he squinted at the smaller print used for listing the schedule. “You're right about the tours, but we can still wander through the gardens.”

“And,” I said, “we can eat.”

Dad chuckled. “What about your diet?”

I'd lost one hundred pounds after my husband, Carl, had died two years ago. Since then I'd lost and gained the same ten pounds over and over. My struggle with food was a war with daily skirmishes against my foes—ice cream, potato chips, and chocolate.

I grimaced. “It's August. It's hot. I'll be walking and sweating. I can get by with a few extra calories.”

Dad stuffed the paper back into my purse. He made a sweeping gesture toward our surroundings. “When you said we were going to a greenhouse, I pictured some glass huts filled with plants. I had no idea it would be so big or so beautiful.”

I slowed the SUV to a crawl, partly because of the parked cars that lined the roadway, but mostly because we were ogling. A long building that served as loading area, potting rooms, and offices fronted the fifteen greenhouses. To our left were the gardens and around the curve of the driveway would be the lodge.

Dad touched my arm. “I hope your friends won't mind that I've tagged along.”

“They'll be happy to meet you. You'll like Natalie. She's fun-loving and outgoing. Dan is the typical absentminded professor. He's developing his own hybrid orchid and would rather be with his plants than socialize. Natalie says he's so involved in his work, she can hardly get him to the house to eat or sleep.”

“Hey, Bretta!”

Hearing my name, I stepped on the brake. A young man dressed in the Parker Greenhouse uniform, emerald-green shorts and a jade-colored T-shirt, drove up to my window in a golf cart. “Hi, Eugene,” I said. “Looks like a good crowd. Natalie promised she'd save me a parking spot.”

Eugene was lean and tanned. His teeth, exposed by a wide grin, were white and strong. “I wasn't sure if you were going to make it,” he said. “Follow me, and I'll move the sign I used to save the space.”

“Who's he?” asked Dad.

Since my window was down, I spoke softly. “His name is Eugene Baker. He phones Parker customers and takes their orders. I talk to him every week.”

I followed Eugene up the drive and waited for him to move the sign. I parked the SUV and hopped out. Eugene said, “I'm glad you're here. The day wouldn't have been the same without you.”

My father snorted rudely.

Eugene leaned down so he could see in my window. “You must be Bretta's father. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir.
You
have a fine time here today, and if there's anything you need just look me up.” Eugene winked at me and drove off.

I went around to help my father out. When I opened the door, Dad said, “Eddie Haskell.”

“No,” I said patiently. “That was Eugene Baker.”

My father frowned as he got out. “I mean he's a suck-up like that kid on the
Leave It to Beaver
show. Remember? Eddie Haskell was Wally's buddy.”

“Yeah, well, put Eugene, Eddie, and the Beav out of your mind. Enjoy yourself, just don't get too hot.”

Dad smoothed the lapels of his summer suit jacket, then reached for his walking stick. Straightening his shoulders, he gazed around him. “I'm glad I brought my sketch pad. This place is a wonderland of subjects. My fingers are itching to get started, but I think I'll meander first.”

“Do you want to meet someplace later?”

“I'm not here to cramp your style, daughter,” he said as he walked off.

I gazed after him and shook my head. Since my father had reentered my life he'd taken to calling me “daughter” every so often. It sounded formal, but I'd decided he used it to remind me that he was the parent. It also helped to verbally establish our kinship—a fact that
never
slipped my mind.

Happy that my father was content to be on his own, I scanned the area for my hostess. I spotted Natalie under a shade tree, telling a story to a group of children. Short and chunky, she wore her hair in a Dutch boy's bob. And she loved color. Today she was dressed in Day-Glo orange shorts, shirt, socks, and sneakers.

Natalie told her tale with comical facial expressions. She puffed out her cheeks and crossed her eyes. Leaning forward she flapped her arms, then looked around, pretending to be amazed that she hadn't taken flight. The children responded with wild giggles. Flushed with pleasure, Natalie glanced up, saw me, and flashed a happy grin before she beckoned the children closer.

“She's in her element,” said Emily Thomas, coming to stand near me.

I turned and smiled at Natalie's aunt. A stout woman, Emily usually had a capable air about her, but at the moment, she appeared frazzled. Her dark hair had been pulled back in a bun, but several pins had come loose and the knot had worked itself free. Her white shirt was stained across the pocket, and her blue shorts were wrinkled.

I shifted my position so I could see Natalie. The picture of her surrounded by children was sweet and cozy, but it made my heart ache. Natalie couldn't have children, a fact that devastated her. I sighed. “She would have made an excellent mother. I wish they'd adopted a child.”

“They've talked about it, but the red tape involved is invasive to their personal lives. Private adoption would involve less people and paperwork, but the cost is prohibitive.” Emily made a dismissive gesture. “After the last five hours, I've decided kids are overrated anyway.” She reached up and anchored a couple of pins in her knot of hair. “I'm exhausted. I was elected medic for the day.”

“No serious injuries, I hope.”

“Just the results of a bunch of rambunctious city kids turned loose in the country. I've given first aid to three skinned knees, a bumblebee sting, and a little girl who had hysterics when she saw a snake. Turns out a Popsicle is the best medicine.” Emily glanced down at her stained blouse. “Grape is the flavor of the day.”

“I don't see Dan or your husband. Where are they?”

Emily stopped fussing with her hair. “Haven't you heard?”

I shook my head. “I just got here.”

“Dan's mother in Portland fell and broke her hip. Then in the ambulance on the way to the hospital she had a stroke. Donovan took Dan to Lambert airport in St. Louis so he could catch a flight to Oregon. They arrived early, but the plane was late. My husband's car was towed—too much time in the wrong zone.” Emily grimaced. “I just got a call from him. He's finally on his way back from St. Louis, and he's hopping mad. He was supposed to do rope tricks for the kids. We improvised with Harley giving rides in a wagon hitched to the back of the greenhouse's all-terrain vehicle.”

“How's Dan's mother?”

“The news isn't good. Natalie wanted to go with Dan, but it would have been more trouble to cancel today's celebration than to go ahead.”

I glanced back at Natalie. “She seems to be holding up okay.”

“Yeah. She's doing great.” A shrill squeal erupted over by the swings. Emily sighed. “Duty calls,” she said and hurried off.

I made my way slowly across the drive, stopping to visit with people I knew. Once I entered the garden, I strolled along the path, enjoying the sweeping borders of plants, seeking out the hidden seats tucked under rose-covered arbors. Pieces of statuary added focal points to flower beds that were a combination of perennials and annuals.