Bindweed (11 page)

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Authors: Janis Harrison

BOOK: Bindweed
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I shrugged. “I don't know.”
“Have another cookie?”
Reluctantly, I declined.
Yvonne sighed. “I wish I had your willpower. I'm so big I can't do the things that used to give me pleasure. Sugar Cube is my horse. I loved to ride him, but now I can't get my foot up high enough to put it in the stirrup. And even if I accomplished that feat, I'd be afraid my weight would hurt him.” She turned her sharp gaze on me and demanded, “How did you do it? How did you lose so much weight and keep it off?”
I gave her a quick version of how I ate lots of fruits and veggies. I ended by saying, “Quick, convenient food is the most damaging.”
“But it's so good. Agnes was always lecturing me on the danger of fast food. She never went out to eat. She didn't buy potato chips or Coke for Toby. She told him restaurants were dirty and that the food could poison his body. According to her, nature's bounty was the only thing he was to put in his mouth. Apples, oranges, bananas, peanuts—unsalted, of course. Popcorn, no butter. Lemonade, with little sugar. Her special treat for Toby was a frosted shredded wheat biscuit.”
Yvonne chuckled. “I can't tell you the number of times I
watched him lick off the sugar and toss the fiber to the birds or break it up and feed it to Sugar Cube. Toby gave that horse carrots, celery, and other bits of healthful snacks that Agnes thought necessary for a long life.” Yvonne sighed. “And then that woman up and died young. What was the point of depriving herself—”
From the other end of the barn, Phillip called, “Yvonne, will you hunt up that chart that shows the different colors of stains? I think it's in on my desk.”
“I'll be right back,” she said, levering herself up from her seat at the spinning wheel. She stood upright slowly. “My knees are giving me fits. I've had replacement surgery, but my doctor says another won't do any good unless I lose the weight.” She waddled across the alleyway and into a room.
I looked at the tin of cookies that was within easy reach. Then I looked at the door where Yvonne had disappeared. It wouldn't be polite to stash the cookies out of sight, but I could take myself away from temptation. I jumped up and meandered over to one of the milking stanchions and ran my hand over the smooth, glossy boards.
Behind me Phillip said, “I can't get that kind of finish with a sander. The cows slicked up that wood with constant contact while poking their heads through the stanchions to eat. When I turned this place into my workshop, I thought about tearing all this out to make more space, but I didn't have the heart. This is a piece of Americana that can't be duplicated.”
I agreed. “Destroying it would have been a sin. It's good to see a barn of this type being preserved. So many are left to literally fall down in disrepair.” I turned in a complete circle. “I grew up on a farm and we had an old barn, but it was nothing like this. There isn't any hay, or straw, or cobwebs.”
Phillip laughed. “Since I use this barn to stain and varnish
furniture, the days of storing hay are long gone. But there are cobwebs. They're just up so high you can't see them.”
I walked farther into the barn, noticing a faint, unpleasant odor. I'd identified the expected turpentine, varnish, and paint that Phillip used in his work, but this odor was different.
When I commented on it, Phillip said, “After years as a dairy farm, the essence of cow still lingers.”
I sniffed again. “This doesn't smell like cow.”
Phillip frowned and took a deep breath. His brow cleared. “I know what it is. I'm so used to it that I don't even notice it. Follow me.” He led the way to the back of the barn. “I think you're smelling the silo. I haven't done any renovating in this area. Structurally, I think it's sound, but several bricks are missing, and the top is gone.”
He took a ring of keys from his pocket. “Keeping doors and gates locked can be a nuisance, but for insurance reasons we were forced to make certain restrictions. I had problems with Yvonne's antiques customers roaming all over our property. The silo is a real draw for kids and adults. The original iron ladder is still attached on the exterior, but the first rung is an unhandy ten feet above the ground. Our insurance agent wanted the silo dismantled, but I balked at the idea. To pacify him, I put locks on every door, and fenced and gated the immediate property near the store.”
Phillip opened the door, then stood aside so I could enter. I walked slowly over the threshold into a corridor with a dirt floor. Filthy windows allowed a murky light to penetrate the gloom. The odor was stronger.
Phillip said, “This covered area was used by the farmer to bring the silage to the cows.”
I nodded. “Now I recognize the smell. When I was a child, a neighbor chopped corn-and-grain sorghum. He stored the
green fodder in a pit. After a few months of hot weather, the wind would pick up the stench and carry it to our place. My mother said the stuff smelled too rancid to feed to an animal.”
“Once the plant fibers start to break down, the smell can be offensive, but only if the silage hasn't been properly packed into the silo. If all the air is forced out, then the fodder doesn't spoil because mold can't survive without air.”
Phillip flipped through his ring of keys. “This isn't the right set,” he grumbled. “I must have left the silo key on my desk.” He touched the bricks. “There isn't much to see, but if you want, I'll run get the key. Once I get the door open and you look up, all you see is sky, because the top is gone, but it's an interesting piece of architecture.”
Before I could answer, Yvonne hollered that she'd found the chart he wanted.
Phillip sighed. “I guess I'd better get back to work. You come out another time, I'll give you a proper tour. I love this old barn. It was built back in the late twenties, and the beams in the original main alleyway don't have any nails. They were put together with pegs.”
As we walked back to the main entryway, Phillip continued my education on the construction of barns. He pointed out the different woods that had been used for siding, and the size of the trees that had been hewn to make the massive support posts.
Up by the front door, my father was sipping tea. Yvonne and Abigail were looking at a length of cloth that was spread across one of the milk stanchions. At my side, Phillip picked up his pace. When he reached the women, he said, “Sister, sometimes you amaze me. I've told you I'm not ready to—”
“Now, Phillip, don't be upset,” Yvonne said in a placating tone. To the rest of us, she explained, “My macho brother
doesn't want people to know that he weaves cloth in his spare time. He thinks the task is too sissified.”
Phillip rolled his eyes. “That's not it at all. Yvonne, you and your cohorts think that everyone's life should be in the public domain.” He picked up the end of the cloth. “I will not begin a new business venture until I'm sure I can provide quality work. Until then I don't want to be hounded with questions and requests. Upholstering is a natural sideline to my refinishing furniture, but I'm not confident in that area of expertise yet.”
A spark of anger flushed Yvonne's face. “My ‘cohorts,' as you refer to them, are good friends. We respect privacy, but Toby's death changed the rules.”
Phillip sighed. “I suppose you're right—on that issue.” Taking a couple of steps back, Phillip started to wind the material into an untidy ball, but a corner was caught on the head of a nail that protruded about a quarter of an inch from the wooden stanchion.
I was closest. Before I could free the fabric, Phillip gave it a tug. I expected the cloth to rip, but the nail bent double, allowing the fabric to slide free. Tucking the wad of material under his arm, Phillip said, “I have the bill for the desk in my office, Albert, if you'd like to follow me.” He shot his sister a sharp glance before disappearing through the doorway to his office.
Yvonne shook her head. “I know better than to talk about Phillip's hobby. But when Abigail mentioned the wonderful fabrics she found in your attic, Bretta, I wanted to show off my brother's creation. He's very talented and has shown a real aptitude for blending natural fibers.”
Before I could speak, Abigail took up the conversation. She went into great detail, describing one particular piece of brocade she'd come across. Annoyed, I kept waiting for a break so I could ask what Yvonne and her “cohorts” had been doing that
involved Toby's murder. Before I could get a word in, my father returned alone from settling up the bill.
With the business dealings done, my father wasn't in the mood to hang around. In a flurry of good-byes, we thanked Yvonne for her hospitality and went out to the truck.
While my father checked the ropes that anchored the desk to the truck bed, Abigail said, “I wish I could buy some of that cloth from Phillip to use in the Cocoa Magic room. The neutral color would go well with what I have in mind for the area rugs. They would need a stout backing, but that wouldn't be a problem.”
“What was the fabric like?” I asked absently. Had Phillip only been referring to the notes the three women had given me? I thought back over my conversation with Yvonne. Nothing raised a red flag that she and the other women might be involved in pursuing another line of inquiry into Toby's murder.
“Jute comes to mind,” said Abigail, “but this had a softer feel and a fabulous shimmer. It was the weight of the weave that intrigued me. When I get back to my apartment, I'm going to look through some of my catalogs. I don't dare ask Phillip what blends he used, and I'm not sure it would be a good idea to bring up the subject with Yvonne. She might mention to Phillip that I was interested, and that might upset him so much that he wouldn't do our refinishing. His work is excellent, and I wouldn't want to hunt up another restorer.”
My father heard her as he climbed into the truck. “That's exactly right, Abby. We
need
Phillip for this project. We don't need his weaving talents.”
As we drove out the gateway, I glanced back at the brick silo. The afternoon sun touched on a metal rung near the rim. In the strong shaft of light, the weathered metal glinted like a beacon.
My mind leaped to the lighthouses I'd incorporated in the banker's birthday bouquets. I shook my head at my analogy. The silo and a lighthouse had nothing in common except their cylindrical framework. And yet, something niggled at me.
Before I went to the flower shop on Monday morning, I detoured by Merry's Delights to have a word with the employee who had made the belittling comment to Toby. Sid had said his interview with the woman had gone nowhere, and he'd crossed her off his list. I wanted to meet her for myself and draw my own conclusions. I knew I might be wasting my time hoping to have a private conversation. Mornings were chaotic at the bakery. Impatient customers wanted fast service so they could get to their jobs. I had the same pressures facing me, but I made the time.
I walked into Merry's Delights and got in line. There were three people behind the glass-fronted counter where the goodies were kept. The smell of freshly baked yeast bread, cinnamon, and vanilla edged past my resolve to talk, not buy.
I was trying to make up my mind which pastry to choose when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to find the owner, Mr. Barker, at my side. He was as round as a bagel and covered from neck to knees with a green apron that was powdered with flour. He was bald and wore gold wire-rimmed glasses, which he had the habit of peering over.
“Hi,” I said, smiling. “Looks like business is good.”
“Pays the bills,” he said, tilting his head so he could study me
over the rims of his glasses. “You don't come in as much as you used to.”
Since I lost weight, I'd taken my daily stop at Merry's Delights off my schedule. “That's right,” I said. “I miss your apple fritters, but if I indulge too often, I can't snap my jeans.”
“So you're here for the apple fritters?”
Something in his voice told me I'd better be honest. “They aren't my primary reason this morning.”
“I figured as much.” He turned and nodded to a window that looked into his kitchen. “I was standing there kneading dough when you walked in. As soon as I saw you, I knew you'd want to have a word with Elsie.”
“If she's the one who upset Toby with a rude comment.”
He took my arm and led me across the room to a private area. “It ain't going to happen, Bretta,” he said in a low voice. “You can't talk to her. She's high-strung. When the sheriff questioned her, she was so upset she had to take the afternoon off.”
“I won't upset her.”
“Yes you will. If you say anything to her other than to give her a pastry order, she'll be worthless for the rest of the morning, and I don't have time for that.”
I looked at the three helpers. “Which one is she?”
Mr. Barker hesitated, then said, “The young woman dressed in pink.”
Elsie's dark hair was tucked under a net. Her eyes were wide spaced, her mouth drawn down in a frown. She didn't look particularly cheery, but she was fast. As I watched, she took care of more customers than her two fellow employees put together.
I turned back to Mr. Barker. “She gets the job done. Does she ever smile?”
“Rarely, but at this time of day, my customers don't care.
They want to be efficiently served. She's not rude. She just doesn't make small talk.”
“But she did with Toby. Do you know the context of the conversation they had?”
Mr. Barker pursed his lips in disapproval. “Since you're going to pursue this, it's better that you talk to me instead of Elsie.” He folded his arms over his pudgy tummy. “I witnessed the entire episode. It started before Toby came in. Elsie was cleaning off tables and tipped over a glass. The liquid soaked the front of her slacks. Toby came in, saw the damp spot, and asked her if she'd peed her pants.”
I grinned. “I see.”
Mr. Barker shook his head. “Anyone else would have laughed it off, but Elsie was mortified. She told Toby that he was dumb. That he ‘couldn't track an elephant in four feet of snow.
He held out his hands. “It was a rude remark, but Toby's observation was, too. Those of us who knew Toby forgave his odd ways. He wasn't the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but he
brightened
our life—my life. For Toby to die under such circumstances is ironic.”
“Ironic, how?”
“Toby loved animals. Even the ones that could do him harm. I know it's an overworked cliché, but Toby truly wouldn't hurt a fly. About a month ago, he found an opossum lying by the side of the road. A car had hit the animal, but it was still alive. Toby wrapped it in one of his window-cleaning towels and took it home. He told me it tried to bite him, but thank heavens the creature died before doing any damage.
“Just last week I received a frantic call from Toby. A snake had finagled its way behind some rocks, ate an oversize meal, and couldn't get out. Toby had tried to move the rock, but it
wouldn't budge. I told him to forget it, but Toby said the snake's tail was making a funny noise. When I heard that, I didn't linger. I hopped in my car and headed out there.”
Mr. Barker shook his head. “I've never fainted in my life, but when I saw Toby sitting six inches from that rattler's head, I almost passed out. Nothing would do but that we get that snake free. Sheer adrenaline gave me the strength. We shifted one of the rocks enough so the snake could slither away. Once it was gone, I gave Toby a lecture on letting Mother Nature see to her own.
Mr. Barker peered at me over his glasses. “You know what Toby said when I was done?”
I shook my head. “I haven't a clue.”
“Toby stared me in the eye, and said, ‘God made us all—ants and spiders, birds and fishes. Critters can't always help themselves. You helped me, Mr. Barker, and I'd help you if you were caught between two rocks.'”
Mr. Barker shrugged. “I told him I wouldn't sink my fangs into his skin and fill him with poison in return, but Toby wasn't convinced. I don't remember his exact words, but he said something to the effect that no critter should be punished for just being itself. I feel as if Toby has been punished for that same reason—for being himself.”
Mr. Barker's voice was hoarse with emotion. “In those last minutes before Toby passed out, he must have felt betrayed by the critters he helped and loved.” He cleared his throat. “When the call came about Toby, I'd already gone to bed. I'm on the job by three in the morning, and I don't have the same vigor I had twenty years ago. Martha, my wife, thought she was doing the right thing by not waking me. She meant well, but I should have been at the hospital with the rest of you.”
I touched Mr. Barker lightly on the arm. “There was nothing
you could have done. Thanks for talking with me,” I said. “And for sharing your memories of Toby. I really appreciate it. I won't bother you any longer.”
I zigzagged my way between customers, but stopped when Mr. Barker called my name. I turned to see him waving a white sack at me. I met him midway and took the heavy pastry bag he offered.
“Let me pay you,” I said, reaching into my purse.
“No. This is on the house. A few extra calories to burn might come in handy if you have a busy day at your flower shop.”
 
“Busy” was an understatement. In addition to the sympathy work for Toby's service, the owner of the Teaching Tots Day Care Center called and needed sixty helium balloons by noon. The children were going to release them in honor of Grandparents' Day.
The supervisor at a River City nursing home telephoned. In a frantic tone, she told us that the woman in charge had forgotten to place an order for a centerpiece and fifteen corsages. A special celebration was taking place at two o'lock. She wanted to know if we could help them out of an embarrassing situation. With a worried eye on the passing time, I reluctantly agreed.
Avery called and confirmed that Toby's casket would be open. I told my crew of two that it would be easier if we all met at the funeral home tonight and went in together. Lew said, “I might not go.”
Lois and I both stopped what we were doing. I asked, “Why?” Lois said, “Do you have a hot date?”
“No. Toby didn't like funeral homes. Remember when he said people go in on a little bed and come out in a locked box? That's exactly what's going to happen.”
I said, “It's going to be difficult, but attending his visitation is the right thing for us to do. We'll pay our respects, but we'll remember him the way he was the last time we saw him.”
Lew mumbled something I didn't catch before heading for the bathroom.
Lois looked after him, shaking her head. “He's either really bummed out, or he's got a bad case of the
trots
. He's been in there off and on since he came to work.”
“Being upset has that effect on some people.”
Lois shrugged, and we went back to work.
Four babies had been born over the weekend, and, of course, the local sheriff was still in the hospital, recuperating from surgery. If the numerous orders we received for Sid were any indication, he should win his bid for reelection. Knowing Sid, he probably wouldn't appreciate the flowers, but the expressions of get-well wishes ought to make him feel better.
I called the hospital to make sure he was out of the ICU and could receive the floral deliveries. The nurse I spoke with said he was back to his usual self. This observation was passed in a dry tone that made me chuckle. Sid, in a hospital gown, confined to bed, while a high-profile murder investigation was being bandied about in the newspapers wouldn't win any “good patient” award. I had absolutely no plans to visit him. I figured anyone who willingly walked through the doorway to his room had a death wish. I considered sending his nurses a bouquet with a sympathy card attached, but there wasn't time.
When Lew came out of the bathroom for the third time, I said, “I'm sorry you don't feel well, but we have work to do. We also have an obligation to attend Toby's visitation. The three of us will meet at the funeral home tonight, and we'll go in together.”
Grimly, Lew nodded.
As I worked, I kept a watchful eye on him. If his illness progressed, I'd have to call in additional help. To my relief, whatever had plagued him seemed to have lessened. He kicked into high gear. It's times like this that I truly appreciate Lew as an employee. He takes phone orders and waits on customers. He wraps plants, pleating the foil paper neatly around the pots and tying perfect satin bows. He delivers. He types cards. He does it all, except he won't learn to design. On slow days, I've offered to give him a lesson, but he always declines, saying he's happy with the status quo.
We made the deadlines for the helium balloons, and the nursing-home centerpiece and corsages. My feet were killing me. I'd worn a pair of shoes that were usually comfortable, but I'd made too many trips to the back flower cooler. While Lois tackled the hospital orders, I did the sympathy work. For most funerals, plants outnumber cut flowers. Since Toby hadn't any family to see to the plants after the service, all the orders were for bouquets. These took more time and thought because I wanted each one to be different and special.
It was midafternoon before the phones were silent and the front doorbell had stopped chiming. Lew had pulled up a stool and sat down. He had his delivery clipboard in front of him, but he wasn't writing. I thumbed the stack of orders and shifted from one sore foot to the other.
Lois said, “Lew, if I can't sit, you can't sit.”
“I'm listing my deliveries.”
“I don't see your hand moving.”
Lew muttered, “That's because you're blinded by that monstrosity in front of you. You're mixing your seasons. Blue iris and yellow sunflowers—spring and fall.”
I was accustomed to Lois and Lew's constant bickering. This time Lew's observation seemed more belittling than usual. I
looked at Lois's bouquet. She tended to be flamboyant in her designs, but that was her style. She dressed the same way, favoring bright, splashy colors. I sometimes cringed when I saw her bouquets, but if given the choice, customers often picked her designs over my more conservative ones. It was a matter of taste, and I respected that. However, Lew didn't see it that way. He was always nitpicking about Lois's work, which led me to believe that was why he wouldn't try designing. It would be payback time, and Lois wouldn't hesitate in being equally critical.

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