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Authors: Janis Harrison

BOOK: Bindweed
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“Albert liked the idea of naming each room for identification, rather than tacking a number on a door. The blue room, the pink room sounded too mundane for such a classy old house. Since flowers are an integral part of your life, we researched that category. I have to say we've considered everything from amaryllis to zinnia.”
Zinnia reminded me of my conversation with Bailey concerning the stages of an investigation. My mind flitted away from Abigail's words. What had Sid found out? Would he tell me if I called him? Had he questioned the proprietors on Hawthorn Street? What would he ask each one? Did he have a suspect yet?
“—that's why we settled on it,” finished Abigail. “There are so many different varieties with such visual names, though I wouldn't be so presumptuous as to tag your private quarters. We've chosen only six names for the seven bedrooms.”
She consulted her notebook. “Golden Dawn. Crimson Charm. Vanilla Blush. Lavender Lace. Cocoa Magic. Coral Duet.” When she raised her gaze to meet mine, her eyes were shining. “Doesn't each name evoke its own portrait? Once we'd settled on the names, the rooms seemed to take on lives of their own.
“Golden Dawn calls for buttery yellow accents against fern
green walls, with contrasts of deep indigo blue. Crimson Charm begs for brass and glass with touches of elegant damask in shades of rich, vibrant burgundy. Vanilla Blush is a perpetual bloomer with red hips among luscious ivory flowers that are tinged with shell pink.”
Abigail waved her hand. “I could go on and on, but a picture is worth a thousand words. Albert, if you'll dim the lights, it's time to show Bretta our incentive for making the bedrooms fabulous.”
I'd lost the thread of Abigail's speech while I was daydreaming, but picked it up again when she mentioned “red hips.” I assumed she was talking about roses. She switched on the overhead projector and slid a transparency into place. An exquisite picture of a rose came into focus on the screen. Under the photo, in elegant script, were the words “Lavender Lace.”
Abigail's voice was soft. “See how the petals are infused with splashes of deep purple edged with white fringes? I visualize pale gray walls, a deeper gray carpet with an undertone of lavender. Accents would be with pewter and touches of dainty lace trim. It would be a feminine room, but I think any woman would love to call it home.”
As Abigail talked she put another image under the projector. This time I saw the words “Cocoa Magic.” A russet rose with a chocolate glaze was the only way to describe the sensational reddish-brown color combination.
“This would be a man's room,” continued Abigail. “The wood floor would be left exposed, but area rugs in cream or ecru would add contrast. There's a sleigh bed in the attic that would set the room off to perfection.”
She turned to me, and I saw her teeth gleam in the dusky light. “And speaking of the attic. There's a gold mine of antiques upstairs. Most are in excellent condition. Some need a
few minor repairs, but I know a man who does wonderful restoration. But getting back to the roses. Your father painted all the transparencies. Once the walls are finished, we'll use this overhead projector to cast the image of the rose on the wall of the corresponding room that bears its name. Your father will then paint that image directly on the plaster, giving the room its monogram.”
Abigail switched off the projector, and my father turned on the lights. She locked eyes with me. “I know this is too much to take in all at once. I have more elaborate sketches of each room, with placement of the furniture and the fabrics I'd like to see used. I can leave everything for you to look over, or you can ask me questions, if you have time?”
My mind was in a whirl, but in a good way. I was truly impressed. I loved the use of the roses. I loved the names attached to the rooms. In fact, I didn't see anything that hit a jarring note.
Abigail and my father stood side by side watching me, waiting for my reaction. I had plenty of questions, but asked only one. “Dad, what was in the trunk you brought down from the attic this morning?”
Before he could speak, Abigail said in a dramatic whisper, “A corpse in need of a final resting place.”
I supposed she was trying for humor, but I wasn't amused. I cocked an eyebrow, but kept quiet.
Abigail's lightheartedness vanished. She glanced at Albert as if for help, then back at me. “I—uh—you—uh—your father has told me about your extracurricular activities.” Her voice grew cool. “Since my spiel only prompted a question concerning the trunk, I thought I needed to grab your attention another way.”
“I'm listening,” I said.
Her eyes narrowed. “But are you seriously interested?”
Keeping my voice even, I replied, “I'm still here, aren't I?”
My father stepped forward. “Now, girls,” he began, but choked off in midsentence.
I glanced at him and caught a pained expression. Concerned, I touched his arm. “Dad? What's wrong? Are you ill?”
He shook his head. “No. No. Disappointed is more like it. I'd hoped this first meeting would be productive as well as amicable. Bretta,” he said, “I know you're upset about your friend's death, but try to be patient.” Looking at Abigail, he added, “Let's keep to the business at hand. Show her the contents of the trunk.”
Abigail pressed her lips tightly together and led the way around the sofa. The piece of furniture had blocked my view, so I was surprised to see the carpet spread with bright pieces of material. The fabrics had been carefully fanned out in color-coordinated stacks.
“These vintage textiles are fabulous,” said Abigail. She picked up a shimmering piece of vermilion-colored cloth, unfurling it like a flower opening its petals. “I've done a fabric identification using the burn test. This is pure silk.”
My gaze swept the fabric, but I saw nothing that marred the sheen. “Burn test?”
Still miffed, Abigail replied in a monotone. “I snipped a piece from the selvage, touched a match to it to determine if the fabric is natural, man-made, or a blend of natural and man-made fibers. Silk is a protein fiber and usually burns readily. The odor reminds me of singed hair. The ash crumbles easily, but the fire can't be extinguished as quickly as it can with linen or cotton.”
I picked up the edge of the fabric and let the sensuous material slip though my fingers. “So this is real silk? It feels wonderful,
but I'd be afraid to use it. With my luck, I'd spill something on it and it would be ruined.”
Abigail's lips twitched. “I can be a klutz, too, but silk is wearable, durable, and is a classic. It never goes out of style. No other fabric generates the same reaction as silk. It's one of the oldest textile fibers know to man and it's the strongest. A filament of steel the same diameter as silk will break before a filament of silk.”
“Stronger than steel?” I stared down at the fabric in my hands. “If it does all you say, then why isn't it used more often in clothes and such?”
“Cost. Pure silk like this is taken from the cocoon of the silkworm.”
I nodded. Anything that took time to produce raised the price. I looked down at the other fabrics displayed on the sheet-covered floor. “Are these silk, too?”
“Some are.” Abigail gently folded the length of silk and placed it back with the others. Pointing to a fuchsia piece that was almost transparent, she said, “That's chiffon. Over there is a georgette sheer crepe. It's heavier than chiffon and has a crinkle surface. Organza is similar to cotton organdy except it's made with silk.”
“And those heavier-looking materials?” I pointed to a lovely plaid of scarlet, green, and navy.
“That particular piece is tartan. It's made from wool and is a twilled plaid design that originated in Scotland.”
“Since you had Dad bring these fabrics down from the attic, I'm assuming you have plans to use them in the decorating upstairs?”
“With your permission, of course. Some of the pieces are too small to do much with except make accent pillows. But there's
enough of this vermilion silk to cover the Queen Anne chair I found in the attic.”
“I understand that silk is durable, but do you think covering a chair is making the best use of this material?”
Abigail shrugged. “At least it's being utilized. Stuffed in a trunk, it's doing no one any good.”
“That's true.” I studied the range of fabrics. They were lovely to look at and a pleasure to touch. The filmy texture of the chiffon was sensual in my fingers. The woolen tartan made me think of wintry nights, curled up with a good book and a cup of hot chocolate. “These fabrics set a mood, don't they?”
My casual comment caused Abigail's eyes to light up. “You get it, don't you? The principles that apply to arranging flowers are color, texture, and placement. The same is true of fabrics. Whether plaids, gingham, or pinstripes are used, layering vintage fabrics is a wonderful strategy. Brocade has a raised pattern that resembles embroidery. Damask is a mix of plain and lustrous weaves and has a formal air for draperies and slipcovers. Taffeta is crisp and plain, but pair it with velvet and the room comes alive. Whether it's curtains or draperies, or dust ruffles around a four-poster bed, or chiffon draped in a canopy, I think using these fabrics will make each room unique.”
I was listening to Abigail, but I sneaked a quick peek at the clock on the mantel. Apparently, I wasn't as furtive as I thought. Abigail saw the direction of my gaze and stiffened again. “Here's my phone number,” she said, taking a business card from her pocket. “If you decide to hire me, I'll clear my schedule and begin immediately.”
I needed time to think things through, and promised Abigail I'd be in touch by the first of the week. Both she and my father looked crestfallen at the delay, but I stuck by my decision. Her
comment about a boardinghouse versus a bed and breakfast had opened up several new thoughts, but I had to get to the flower shop. I said my good-byes, picked up my purse, and headed for work.
As I drove into River City, I decided that I liked Abigail Dupree. She was a little too prickly, and my father was taking this redecorating much too seriously. It was as if he had a personal stake in whether I decided to hire Abigail. Again I wondered if he'd put some of his own money into her venture. But I couldn't see why he'd do that unless he was bored and looking for a new outlet for his creativity. Painting the roses on the bedroom walls might satisfy the artist in him, but he could do that without Abigail's influence.
Abigail's presentation had appealed to me. She'd been straightforward. Her ideas were pleasing, and her use of colors that coordinated with the roses had stimulated my creative imagination. I could understand her wanting to do this job. Browsing the attic for furniture, pairing the pieces with vintage fabric and accessories that didn't figure into a budget would be exhilarating. Now that she'd reminded me of the possibilities lurking in the attic, I was tempted to nose around on my own. But first things first. I had a flower shop to operate.
I entered River City on Chestnut, traveled about eight blocks, and then made a right on Millstone Road. Normally, I stay on this lesser-traveled course until I'm in the same block as my shop, and then I cross over to Hawthorn. I had other plans
today. I cut to Hawthorn immediately so I could see the route Toby took each day when he left his house.
I was at the south end of the street, where country gave way to city. Missouri State Highway 12 divided fields and pastures before becoming Hawthorn. If I wanted a look at Toby's house, I would have to turn away from town and go outside the city limits. There wasn't time, so I had to fight that urge. I stepped on the gas and eased into the flow of traffic that would take me to the flower shop.
I knew this area well, but I tried to see it through Toby's eyes. What would it be like to frequent only one street when hundreds crisscrossed our city? Hawthorn was high traffic, with every kind of business imaginable. Fast food, cafes, ethnic fare, insurance offices, bars, dress shops, liquor stores, discount stores, a grocery store, a pharmacy, a hardware store, a tire-repair shop, and so many more.
Everything a person needed to sustain life was on this one street. There wasn't any reason to go farther afield, which must have been in Agnes's mind when she planned her son's future. Had she picked each of us because Toby might require our services? Abner's grocery store, Harmon's pharmacy, and Diana's discount store were places Toby would need to frequent, but Leona's dress shop or Melba's candle shop didn't sell anything necessary for Toby's well-being. As for my business, I'm sure there are people who live a lifetime without entering a flower shop. So why was I chosen? Why Leona, Melba, and Yvonne? And I couldn't forget Mr. Barker and his bakery. Mr. Barker was a kind gentleman. As were Leona, Melba, and Yvonne. I liked to think I'd fit into that same category. So had we been chosen because we'd take an interest in Toby?
We'd cooperated with Agnes's wishes, but what was in Toby's mind? I knew he had trouble comprehending some
things, but for the most part he functioned on his own. Avery took care of the financial aspects of his life. How did Toby spend his days? Did he always work? He came around my business frequently, but I'd never stopped to wonder what he did the rest of the time.
I parked in front of the flower shop, gathered up my purse, and stepped out of my SUV. I glanced next door to the Happy Hour Video store and caught a glimpse of the store's owner, Josh Wainwright, peeking out at me. I raised my hand to wave to him, but he quickly ducked out of sight. That roused my curiosity.
Last night at the hospital, no one had mentioned contacting Josh about Toby's condition. And yet, I'd seen Toby sweeping Josh's sidewalk and washing his windows. Why hadn't Melba or Yvonne called Josh? Did that mean that Josh wasn't on Agnes's list of store owners?
I changed direction. No harm in asking a few questions. I pushed open the door of the video store and stepped inside. Josh was behind the counter. He was in his thirties. His taste in clothes ran to baggy pants, tight T-shirts, and loafers without socks. He always looked as if he needed a shave, but the scruffy hairs on his jaw never materialized into a full beard.
He glanced up when the door opened and flashed me a quick grin. “Bretta,” he said, “I figured I'd be seeing you today. Our friendly neighborhood sleuth is hot on the trail.”
“What do you mean?”
“That hornet's nest was
intentionally
put in Toby's house.” Josh's eyes narrowed. “Get the bastard, Bretta. Whoever pulled such a nasty trick deserves to be charged with murder.”
“I agree, but how did you find out about the nest?”
Josh shrugged. “Sheriff Hancock isn't as devious with his questioning as he thinks. I drew my own conclusions.”
“How well did you know Toby?”
Josh hesitated. “So-so,” he finally said.
“Have you ever see anyone hassle Toby? Push him around? Tease him?”
Josh stared at me. “Do you think someone has been picking on him?”
“I'm not sure, but I'm not ruling it out completely. I can't understand the motive. Why Toby? Did someone carry a grudge against him? Was Toby a threat in some way?”
Josh's eyes opened wide. “Toby, a threat? You've got to be kidding.”
“I'm serious. Why put the hornet's nest in his house if not to cause serious injury? Maybe the perpetrator didn't plan on Toby's dying, but that's what happened.”
Josh nodded. “I see what you mean. I'll give it some thought, but nothing comes to mind at the moment.”
“You weren't at the hospital last night.”
Josh raised an eyebrow. “Was I supposed to be there?”
“I thought maybe Yvonne or Melba might have called you.”
“Why would they call me?”
“Toby swept your sidewalks and washed your windows. I assumed you were one of the people Agnes asked to employ her son.”
Josh shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. “Never met the woman.”
“So Toby took you on as a client after his mother died?”
“That's right.”
“Do you know if he stopped at any other stores along Hawthorn besides the ones his mother had chosen for him to do business with?”
Josh raised his chin. “I don't know what Toby did after he left my shop.”
I had one more thing I wanted to ask. This was always the difficult part of my amateur sleuthing. I had no right, or the badge, to back up my impertinent question, but I asked it anyway. “Where were you yesterday?”
For a second, anger flashed in Josh's eyes. A tight smile twisted his lips, but he answered my question. “Right here. Two of my employees didn't show up for work. I was here from nine o'clock in the morning until I closed at ten.” He touched the keyboard of the computer next to him. “I have a list of customers from yesterday. With the touch of a finger, I can print you out a copy, complete with addresses and phone numbers. I've already given one to the sheriff, but it's no problem to make a copy for you.”
My cheeks felt hot. “That isn't necessary, Josh, but surely you understand why I asked?”
His voice was cold. “I understood when the sheriff asked me, but not you.” He picked up a stack of video cases and turned his back to me.
I sighed softly and walked out the door. Pausing on the sidewalk in front of the flower shop, I glanced across the street to Kelsay's Bar and Grill. I could use a snack. My conversation with Josh had left a bad taste in my mouth. Maybe I could entice Lois away from her diet with some of Kelsay's curly fries. We could split an order.
Sounded good to me. I took a step in that direction. The door behind me opened, and Lois stuck her head out.
“Don't even think about going over to Kelsay's, Bretta. I need you inside right away. I can't take another minute of this lunacy.”
Thinking she was talking about orders for Toby's funeral service, I said, “It's been hectic, huh? Didn't you put two of the phone lines on hold?”
Lois rolled her eyes. “Flower business I can handle. Being interrogated about a murder investigation has gotten to me.” She held the door open wider. “You deal with them. I've had it.”
“Them?” I said as I entered the shop. “I thought you were talking about Sid.” I looked over the front counter to the workroom. Melba, Yvonne, and Leona had made themselves at home. I walked slowly past the display of green plants, my gaze fastened on the trio. They were seated on stools around what is usually my workstation. Cans of soda and sheets of paper were spread over the tabletop.
“Well,” said Melba. “It's about time. While you've been at home, we've been busy gathering information.” She pushed several sheets of paper toward me. “Here, take a look. We've made a list of possible suspects and motives. We've done all that Yvonne's brother will allow. He says we're inviting trouble, but we had to do this for Toby.”
I sensed a movement to my right and turned to see Phillip Pritchard sitting in a chair by the ribbon rack. He came slowly to his feet. “Sorry for the invasion, Bretta. I've tried to keep a tight rein on these ladies. Since I'm their designated driver for the morning, I've curtailed their movements, but I can't stop them from theorizing.”
He held out his hands in a helpless gesture. “Back when I was working, I could keep twenty employees toeing the line. These women don't recognize that
there is a line
. Maybe you can talk some sense into them. Yvonne has been on the phone since we got home last night from the hospital. I finally went on to my room, but at some point she and these two,” he said, waving a hand at Melba and Leona, “decided to write up every detail they could remember about Toby's life. I went along with that, but when I heard them mapping out a strategy for interviewing people along Hawthorn, I took a stand.”
Yvonne shifted her weight on the three-legged stool, making the wood creak. I was worried that the stool was about to give way, but Yvonne had other things on her mind. Her eyes blazed. “Stand? Ha! You invited yourself along and have been treating us like underlings.”
Leona's lips tilted up in a smile. Her heavily applied makeup creased, forming tiny lines around her mouth. “I think it's cute that he's worried about us. I haven't had such consideration in ages.” She stood up. Today she had on a calf-length belted dress in shades of peach and toast, with swirls of burgundy. “I have to get to my shop.”
She stacked the papers that were in front of her into a neat pile. “Bretta, these are for you,” she said, handing the sheaf to me. “We've dredged up all the information we have about Toby, his mother, Agnes, and anything else we could think of that might be relevant. We've signed our names to our own work, so if you have any questions, you'll know who to contact.”
Melba stood, too, but she was such a little lady, I had to dip my head to meet her direct gaze. As she came closer, I caught a whiff of what smelled like blueberries. I sniffed a couple of times and my stomach rumbled in response to the wonderful aroma.
Melba laughed. “Hungry, Bretta? I was unpacking a new shipment of blueberry-muffin-scented candles when Phillip arrived. That particular fragrance must have been a good choice on my part judging by your reaction.”
“You're right about that.” I glanced at the papers in my hand. “I appreciate the trouble you've gone to, but why don't you give this info to the sheriff?”
Leona spoke up. “We did. We made copies, but he didn't seem impressed. That's why we're giving you a set, too. Sheriff Hancock was more concerned with where we were yesterday.
That's why the three of us got our heads together. We have airtight alibis for the entire day. We have witnesses who are willing to swear that we never left our businesses, but the same can't be said for some of the other owners.”
Melba tapped the papers in my hand. “We've put it all in here, Bretta. My mind is already made up as to who is guilty. You can bet your last dollar that I won't be buying groceries at Garrett's anytime soon.”

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