A Deadly Bouquet (7 page)

“There's nothing alleged about it. Claire Alexander was hit over the head, her nose and mouth filled with herbal foam so she'd suffocate.”

Avery shuddered and stepped out into the warm night air. “I don't want to hear another word, Bretta. I need a good night's sleep.”

He gave my arm a squeeze and warned me to keep my wits about me. I waited until he had his car started and was headed down the drive before I closed the door and went back into the library.

While I'd seen Avery out, my father had made himself comfortable on the sofa and fallen asleep. His snores were a sonorous accompaniment as I spread an afghan over him. I stared down at him and shook my head. What was he thinking when he'd concocted the foolish notion that I would want to be part of a detective agency? I enjoyed dabbling in solving mysteries, but to make it a day-in-and-day-out job wasn't of interest to me. Like Avery said, I had the flower shop, and I had this house and the garden—minus the cottage.

“Bailey,” I breathed his name softly. He was so close and yet so far away, held at arm's length by my frustration and disappointment at not being able to buy the cottage.

Sighing, I gathered up the used coffee service and headed for the kitchen, where DeeDee was putting away the last of the dishes. “Here's some more,” I said, setting the tray on the counter. “You can leave these things till morning, if you want. I'm going to bed.”

“I heard Avery say you f-found a b-body today. W-whose was it?”

“Her name was Claire Alexander. She had a beauty shop located in the old section of town.”

“Claire's Hair Lair? That's where my m-mother g-goes.”

“You knew Claire?”

“N-not really.”

“Does your mother have a friend by the name of Dearborne?”

“L-Lydia Dearborne.”

I opened a drawer and took out the phone book. After flipping through the pages I saw a number of Dearbornes, but all were male. “Do you know her address?” DeeDee shook her head. “Could you call your mother and find out?”

“I-I guess.” She glanced at the clock. “She'll be getting r-ready for bed.”

I pressed. “It won't take a second. I'd like to have this information to give to the police.”

Her tone was droll. “You don't think th-they can get it on th-their own?”

I gestured to the phone. “Please call.”

Reluctantly, DeeDee did as I requested. Ten minutes later she replaced the receiver. Her slender shoulders slumped. Her head drooped with despair.

I'd eavesdropped the first few minutes, then busied myself washing up the coffee cups and saucers. I'd heard only one side of the conversation, but DeeDee's answers had clued me in. Her mother was being her usual annoying, overbearing self.

“I'm sorry, DeeDee,” I said. “I keep thinking your mother will change. That she'll see how independent you've become, and stop being so domineering.”

“W-won't h-happen, B-Bretta. I can take most of it until she asks if I'm w-wearing clean underw-wear. Then I l-lose it. L-Lydia lives on C-Catalpa R-Road. Out b-by that g-garden c-center. M-Mother can't recall the n-name.”

DeeDee's stuttering was always worse after a conversation with her mother. I wanted to kick myself for putting her through— Garden center? There wasn't any garden center on Catalpa Road, but there had been a gardener.

Again I grabbed the phone book, although it wasn't necessary because I knew what I was going to find. Yes. There it was. “Terrell Oliver 18807 Catalpa Road.” I flipped back to Dearborne. “Dearborne Harold 18809 Catalpa Road.”

With this bit of trivia cluttering my brain, I said “Good night” and went upstairs to my room. So Oliver and Lydia were neighbors. How did that piece of the puzzle fit into the scheme of Claire's murder?

I tried to think about it after I was settled in bed, but I kept seeing Avery's blue-veined hands weighing his choice for the new owner of the cottage.

I dropped off to sleep with the image of those hands rising and dipping. But in my dream I removed Bailey and Fedora from the formula. Avery's hands were replaced by an old wooden teeter-totter. A faceless Mrs. Dearborne straddled one end of the plank, with Oliver balancing her weight at the other. They seesawed back and forth like a couple of kids at a playground. Then, like the zoom lens on a camera, I took a closer look at the middle support.

Mrs. Dearborne and Oliver were teetering over Claire Alexander's body. Claire's green hair grew like tentacles, twisting and tightening its hold over Oliver and Mrs. Dearborne. I reasoned this was a ridiculous dream. I had only to open my eyes and the horror would fade, but those slithering tendrils were mesmerizing, drawing me in.

Chapter Six

The ringing of a bell prompted swollen buds to emerge from the tendrils of Claire's hair. Another shrill ring and those buds burst into a multicolored display of blossoms. Like the painting on the ceiling of the beauty shop, the flowers flourished around the girl's head. Only this time the girl was Claire.

“Bretta? There's a c-call for you.”

I came awake in a rush of confusion. Sunlight shone through my bedroom window. DeeDee stood in the hall doorway, motioning to the telephone on my nightstand.

“What time is it?” I asked, wiping the sleep from my eyes.

“Seven on S-Sunday morning.”

I made a face and picked up the receiver. “This is Bretta.”

“Why didn't you call me about Claire?”

I recognized Sonya's voice though it was rough with grief. Sitting up, I swung my legs over the edge of the mattress. “I'm sorry, Sonya, but I never thought—”

“I heard the news from Evelyn. She said you found the—uh—” She stopped and blew her nose. “I can't believe Claire is dead. We were like sisters, staying at each other's house, walking to school. I've let my business take over my life. She called a month ago to see if we could meet for lunch, but I've been booked up. I should have called her back, but I knew we'd be seeing each other as we worked on this Montgomery wedding. I thought it would help renew our friendship. Now it's too late.”

“Do the others know?”

“I told them, and they're as shocked as I am. What happened? Was she robbed?”

“I don't know.”

“How was she—uh—killed?”

I dodged her question. “Don't think about that. Think of the good times. Claire remembered them fondly or she wouldn't have recited that poem in the park. Something about Royals being on the make? Sounds like the male population back then didn't stand a chance against the four of you.”

Sonya's tone was distressed. “I have work to do.” She hung up.

I put down my receiver. I'd mentioned the poem because I'd wanted to divert her from asking about the murder—a subject I'd been warned not to discuss. But I'd also been curious. Sonya, Dana, and Kasey had all seemed bothered when Claire had recited it in the park. I wondered how the other women would respond to my referring to that poem now that Claire was dead.

I looked up Dana's number. She answered after several rings, sounding as if she had a severe head cold. When I identified myself she let me know she'd been crying nonstop, which accounted for her stuffy, nasal tone.

“Why Claire?” asked Dana. “She was good, kind, and generous. Did you know she spent her days off at local nursing homes washing and curling the residents' hair? Or that for the senior prom she styled the hair of any girl who couldn't afford a trip to a beauty shop?”

“No. I didn't know that. I'd never met Claire until yesterday at the park, but I could tell she had a sense of humor. That poem she recited was—uh—cute. Something about the Royals being on the make, wasn't it? Is that part of a school song or something?”

Dana gulped. “Why are you bringing that up?”

“Just curious, I guess. Claire must've had a reason. Perhaps good memories were associated with it?”

“She shouldn't have said it. I have to go. I have a—uh—cake in the oven.” Dana hung up.

Next I looked up Kasey Vickers's phone number. When I dialed it, the line was busy. I got out of bed and made a trip to the bathroom. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and wondered why I was exploring the reactions of three women about a poem that most likely didn't have any relevance on any level.

But if I didn't think about the poem, I'd have to think about my father's arrival and his plans for a detective agency. Or about Bailey's purchase of the cottage and his close proximity to my house and my life.

I wanted to know both men better, but I'd been thinking small doses, not the chug-a-lug portions I'd gotten. I'd hoped for a quiet talk with Bailey—a time of discovery—who he was, what he liked, how the past had shaped him into the man he was today.

As for my father, a lengthy and honest discussion was in order. After said discussion, I assumed he would go back to Texas, and I could digest the information at my leisure.

In my room, I plopped down on the bed and dialed Kasey's number again. This time she answered.

“This is Bretta Solomon. We met yesterday in the park.”

“Oh. Hi.”

Not a promising beginning. “You've heard about Claire?”

“Yes.”

“I was wondering about that poem she—”

“Dana warned me that you might call. Drop it. She's dead. Everyone is dead.” Kasey's voice hit a hysterical note. “‘Wherefore I abhor
myself,
and repent in dust and ashes.'” She slammed down the phone.

I hung up, rubbing my ear. “Whew,” I breathed. “That woman has some serious issues.” In fact, all three women seemed strangely moved by that simple poem.

I picked up a pencil and paper and tried to remember Claire's exact words. When I was finished, I studied what I'd written:

You can boil me in oil.

You can burn me at the stake.

But a River City Royal

Is always on the make.

The words seemed innocuous. The kind of song a kid might sing while skipping rope. What I needed was an impartial viewpoint. I picked up the phone once again, but this time I dialed Lois. She answered in a dull monotone.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Not really. Kayla and I had a terrible fight.”

“Are you ready to discuss the problem?”

Lois sighed. “Out of fairness to my sister, I'd better talk to her first, but thanks.”

“I won't bother you,” I said quietly. “I'll see you in the morning—or if you need time off, just give me a call.”

“Speaking of a call, why did you?”

“Forget it. We'll talk tomorrow.”

Lois chuckled. “Go ahead, Bretta, tell me. Is it another detail about this wedding?”

“No. I haven't heard from Evelyn.”

“That's a blessing. The Lord does work in mysterious ways.”

“I think I had a Bible verse quoted to me this morning.”

“It
is
Sunday.”

“True.” Then I spilled the whole tale.

When I'd finished, Lois clicked her tongue. “That's one helluva story. And the dream you had is frightening. I'm looking at my English ivy in a totally new light. It's growing awfully fast. The tendrils trail a good three feet. Maybe I should take it out of the house in case it has lethal tendencies.”

“Not funny.”

“I know, but I've learned that in the face of adversity, it's better to laugh than to bawl.”

“I suppose so. But what about the poem? Don't you think it's odd that all three women seemed put off by my reciting a portion of it? Kasey was nearly hysterical.” I gave Lois the gist of what I could remember of the verse Kasey had quoted. “Do you recognize it?”

“‘Ashes to ashes and dust to dust' is well known if you've attended a funeral, but you said Kasey said ‘dust and ashes,' so I haven't a clue. As for the rest, my opinion is they're justifiably distressed. Their childhood friend has been murdered. That would freak anyone. Why are you harping on this poem business?”

“Harping?” I repeated. “Mmm. I guess I am, but it's easier to think about something distant than what's going on under my nose.”

“And that would be?”

“I have a new neighbor and a houseguest. Bailey and my father.”

Lois's tone brightened. “Wow. I hope Bailey is the houseguest, and while we're having this useless conversation he's in your shower washing away a night of passion.”

“Useless conversation is right. I'm hanging up.”

“I need details. I need juicy gossip. I need—”

“Bye, Lois. See you tomorrow.” I dropped the receiver into place, cutting off her bawdy cackle.

Speaking of gossip. My hand hovered over the telephone. I wanted to call Mrs. Dearborne and ask a couple of questions, but I knew if Sid found out my goose would be fricasseed. Feeling as if I was leaving an important stone unturned, I dressed in a pair of jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt.

My plans for the day involved puttering around the house. Makeup wasn't called for, but with Bailey nearby, I applied my weekday regimen of powder, blush, and mascara. I was combing my hair, grimacing at the nearly all-gray strands, when a chain saw roared to life outside.

I strode to the window to see what was going on. Eddie's truck was parked in the driveway. I craned my neck and caught a glimpse of him in the garden. Muttering under my breath, I left the bedroom and hurried down the back staircase.

He saw me as soon as I'd opened the terrace doors and stepped out onto the paving stones. His chin rose defiantly, but he kept sawing at an old apple tree we'd said needed removing. The chain saw's engine dipped and rose in pitch as the blade bit into the decaying wood.

From the terrace the main focal point of the garden was a concrete water lily pool. The water was long gone, but a crusty scum fringed the cement walls like a lace collar. I walked closer, but stayed well away from where Eddie worked. Four brick paths led to separate areas of the garden. The house was at my back—to the north. The east path ended in what had once been a formal setting with statuary, stone benches, and an abundance of perennial plantings. The west edge of the property was covered with dense-foliaged trees. Nothing much grew under them except ferns, astilbe, lily of the valley, and a few stubborn bleeding heart plants.