Bloom and Doom (12 page)

“Restaurant?” Nick asked.

“Yeah,” Amber Lee said, “a little Italian place just outside town. The spaghetti and meatballs would keep you filled for a week.”

“Ramble has an Italian restaurant?” Nick asked. “How did I miss that?”

“It’s not there anymore,” I said. “But it was quite the place to go when I moved here. Jenny told me that the Whitney family had all been restaurateurs—only more home-style Southern foods. When he married an Italian woman, his family were all up in arms. Could she cook?”

Amber Lee laughed. “But the joke was on them. She could cook like a dream. So they set up this restaurant and expanded and expanded. Despite the family warnings that any place serving polenta instead of corn bread didn’t stand a chance around here, it seems like people were tired of the same old, same old. They’d eat anything Ellen dished out. That place was hopping all the time.”

“Then what happened?” Nick asked.

“George Whitney got sick.” Amber Lee assumed a more somber tone. “Cancer. He passed away quick. Ellen kept the place going for a few months, but it just went downhill. You could see her heart wasn’t in it. And then she just let the staff go and barred the doors.”

And Ellen hadn’t been the only one to cut ties. Jenny gave me the old heave-ho about that time.

“It was tough on Jenny, too,” I said. “All that upheaval. She grew up working in that restaurant. I think she bused tables as soon as she could walk.”

“How’s Jenny doing?” Nick asked.

“From what I hear, not well,” I said.

“What’s the deal with the letters?” Amber Lee asked.

“You heard about the letters?” I asked. Of course she had. Amber Lee heard everything and saw everything. And often shared everything.

“It’s making the rounds,” she admitted.

“What letters?” Nick asked.

“Some spicy letters from Jenny to Derek, turning a little pathological at the end,” Amber Lee summed it up.

“That’s pretty much it, but there’s no proof that Jenny wrote those letters,” I said. “At least, she never signed them with her name. Besides, from what I hear, they were quite . . . explicit. And—I’m sorry—if anything, the Jenny I knew always seemed a bit of a prude.”

Nick frowned. “So it’s possible someone else wrote them. Maybe someone from Derek’s secret life.”

“Secret life?” Amber leaned forward.

I waved it off. “Ellen intimated that Derek had a gambling problem. So maybe the letters could be from someone associated with that lifestyle. Or who said the letters were new? Maybe they were from some old flame. Derek had a reputation for getting around.”

“A player,” Nick said, with just the right note of disapproval. It was getting pretty hard not to like this guy.

Amber Lee shook her head. “If you’re looking at old flames as suspects, the list is going to include almost half the population of Ramble—including the mayor’s daughter.”

I looked down at my half-completed table centerpiece and swallowed hard. “I’d forgotten that Carolyn dated Derek.”

“From what I gather,” Amber Lee said, “Carolyn did it to please her father, but she and Derek didn’t hit it off. At least that’s what her cousin told me.”

“If the mayor’s daughter ran with Derek,” Nick said, “maybe she could shed more light . . .”

The sentence trailed off, and we all worked silently for a while. Maybe quizzing Carolyn would prove fruitful. Perhaps she’d have some idea who could have written such letters to Derek . . . if she hadn’t written them herself. She certainly wasn’t as prudish as Jenny, but I wouldn’t call her crude, either. But then again, it’s hard to know what someone might write or do when they thought no one else would see.

But how do you interrogate the mayor’s daughter the week of her wedding?

Nick must have been thinking, too. “Why would Derek keep the letters if they were from an old flame?”

For almost a minute, the question hung in the air.

“Because they meant something to him?” I proposed.

“Or . . . he could profit from them,” Nick added.

“Blackmail?” Amber Lee’s gaze shot to the ceiling.

“If they’re as steamy as everybody says, yeah, why not?” Nick said. “We know Derek had a gambling problem. And that means he’d always be looking for a source of income.”

“So,” I added, “he saves these old letters, written by someone concerned about her reputation, and then Derek uses them to raise capital to feed his gambling addiction? That’s repugnant.” And a motive. A good one. And one that pointed at someone other than Jenny, since the Whitneys no longer had that kind of money.

I leaned back to consider. If I took this half-formed idea to Bixby, he’d ignore it. The chief wouldn’t want to ruffle the mayor’s feathers for such a far-fetched idea. Not that I intended to ruffle any feathers, either. But I could keep my eyes open and poke around a little. And since I would be involved in the wedding, as both florist and guest, it couldn’t hurt to be extra vigilant.

“Do you need more flowers?” Nick asked.

“Maybe some more snapdragons and a few more bells of Ireland.” I held up a few so he could see them. He grabbed them to take with him. Good idea. Otherwise, I could imagine him coming back with gladioli.

Instead, he emerged with the proper blooms and one bird of paradise.

“I just had a great idea. What would you think if we put a bird of paradise on a bite of paradise? As a decoration?”

It sounded like one of those two-in-the-morning ideas. One that would not seem so great in the light of day. It didn’t even seem that great to me at the moment. “It would be remarkable, but I wouldn’t do it.”

I’m not sure where a crest is on a male human, but his was fallen.

“Not only is it one of our more expensive blooms, since it’s tropical, but it’s also toxic.”

“Surely people wouldn’t eat it.”

I neglected to tell him of one wedding where a couple of the groom’s fraternity buddies consumed half their table centerpiece between dinner courses. “They might not have to. A little sap of some flowers is all you need. I keep a list of edible flowers. If you still want to collaborate, I can make you a copy.”

At the mention of collaboration, Amber Lee pushed herself up using the table. “I’m sorry, Audrey, but I think these old bones need to get some rest.”

Nick also stood up. “Need a ride home?”

I liked those old-fashioned manners.

“No, it’s just a few blocks and my car’s out back,” she said. “I’ll see you in the morning.” She winked at me, then waved and headed to the back room.

The wink did it; I caved under the added pressure that Amber Lee put on me by contriving to leave us alone. Nick and I had been working companionably for hours, but now my palms broke into a sweat and my mouth went dry. I raced to find something to say, something witty and charming and maybe a tad flirtatious. But my mind drew a complete blank.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Perhaps a bit tired,” I said. An understatement, I assure you. I rotated my shoulder blade and heard a crack.

He stood up and came behind my chair, placed his hands on my shoulders, and started a massage that—

“Just a little to the left.” As my muscles relaxed under his touch, I let out an unconscious moan.

“Hey, keep it G-rated in there,” Darnell called out.

Opie then proceeded to elbow him in the ribs.

My brain refused to process the sound. It was
either a knock on the door or my neighbor Tom was getting back at me by constructing a new deck in the middle of the night. But the source of the sound was closer than that. Considering I’d slept only a few hours and the alarm had not yet gone off, it took a good while before curiosity won out over the gravity holding down my eyelids.

I opened my eyes to the streetlight peeking through the slats of my bedroom blinds. Chester swatted at some insect that encroached on his territory. The sound that had awakened me turned out to be the blinds slapping against the window. At least through the gap I could see that the heavy rain that had fallen most of the night had diminished into a misty drizzle.

I glanced at the clock. Ten measly minutes left to sleep. “Stop,” I called out in my most feeble voice. Surely Chester would show some sympathy. After all, cats are all about sleep. When that didn’t work, I pulled my pillow over my face. It dulled the slapping but not the huge crash that followed.

I sat up to see Chester rolling on the floor, head, feet, and tail entwined in the cording and slats of what once were my blinds. The intruding fly zoomed around his head in an almost taunting flight pattern, then took off into the hallway. Served Chester right.

Chester took off after the fly, dragging the blinds several feet before he extricated himself.

I let my head crash back down on the pillow. This was a perfect day for calling in sick, going back to bed, and waking up to pancakes at around three in the afternoon. Unfortunately sick time is not a luxury the self-employed can enjoy. And since the missing shades left a beam of lamplight that honed in on my pillow like a laser-guided . . . laser, I heaved myself out of bed.

After a shower—at least I think I remembered taking a shower . . . my first coherent recollection was standing in my bathroom soaking wet and stark naked, so the odds were pretty good there—I toweled off and dressed in a conservative black dress.

Shoes were more difficult. This was sure to be a high-class event. I opted for my nicest black shoes, a pair of nondescript pumps that were so high that I could barely walk in them. I grabbed a pair of cheap black flats to wear while setting up.

Liv had informed me the previous night that the Rawlings wanted all the flowers that had been delivered to the house—and any new additions—taken to the graveside area, where a tent had been set up. For this massive relocation project, we’d enlisted a couple of borrowed trucks—Larry’s and Eric’s.

And while the football players would do most of the heavy lifting, Liv and I would be directing the effort.

When I arrived at the shop, Eric stood outside in the alley barking orders to the boys as they loaded arrangements into Larry’s truck.
All
the arrangements. I made them put the wedding centerpieces back in the cooler.

“Where’s your wife this morning?” I was grateful for Eric’s enthusiastic help, but without Liv’s direction, not to mention her kid-glove treatment of our already tired and underpaid staff, it was a case of force misapplied. Like hammering in a tack with a jackhammer or opening an envelope with a machete.

“Sleeping,” he said.

“Sleeping?”

Whether it was at the incredulity in my voice or the slap of my jaw hitting the floor or the look of panic in my eyes, Eric hustled to explain.

“She sneaked into bed late and set her alarm. I turned it off.”

“You . . . turned it off?” I wasn’t sure who would be more upset over this: me, Liv, or Eric’s mom—after Liv killed him.

“Yes.” Eric squared his shoulders. “She’s been dragging all week. She needed more sleep, and I aimed to make sure she got it.” His tone was challenging, daring me to cross a line.

“Eric,” I said softly instead, “I understand, and I wish I had someone to turn off my alarm for me, too.” Or kill my cat. “But how do you think Liv is going to feel when she wakes up and figures out what you did?”

“Pretty angry.” It was Liv’s voice, and we turned to see her walking out the back door, arms crossed on her chest. But as she got closer to Eric, her expression softened. “But also touched that you care.” She tipped herself up on her toes to kiss Eric on his scruffy cheek.

“I tried so hard to let you sleep,” Eric said.

“I know, which is why I set a backup alarm. I appreciate the thought, but this is my business, too. And we’re going to have our insanely busy times. In a few days, this will all be a memory, and I’ll take some extra hours off. Promise.”

I’d believe that when I saw it. But it seemed to appease Eric, who then went off in search of bagels when his next question, “Did you eat anything?” was answered evasively.

“Sorry about that, Audrey.” Liv leaned in for a hug. “He can get overprotective sometimes.”

“No problem,” I said. “Everyone needs an Eric in their life. I just hope mine shows up before I’m on social security.”

Soon we and our crew were on our way, happily with bagels and coffee, to the small cemetery just outside town.

Or, rather, I was happy. Liv sipped her decaf and toyed with her bagel.

“Maybe Eric had the right idea.” I noted the dark circles under her eyes and the gray pallor of her normally rosy skin. “Are you all right?”

Liv let out a slow breath. “Probably just all the junk food and late hours last night. I’ll be fine.”

“Maybe you should get a nap after we set up. There’s no need for all of us to stay for the ceremony. And I’m sure with all the extra help, I could handle the wedding arrangements.”

Liv shook her head. “I was the one who put us behind in the wedding plans because I couldn’t stop taking funeral orders. I’m not going to make you do all the work to catch up while I take a break. You know it’s true. You’d have all the wedding flowers done by now.”

Hard to argue with that. Waiting until the last minute used to be a habit for me, but I’d grown out of that a little. Still, that procrastination had taught me something. I knew I could rally at the end if I needed to. And with the funeral and the wedding back-to-back like this, we’d need to.

The sun began to streak through pink clouds as we found the funeral tent, more like a cross between a gazebo and a pavilion but the size of a circus tent—with room for three hundred close friends and family.

Thin, translucent ribbons of a misty fog lingered, hovering over the wet grass. Workers were busy aligning perfect rows of white wooden chairs, so we parked our truck behind the rental truck and hopped out. Liv and I took one quick circuit around the site, discussing tactics for arranging. We decided on a semicircular wall of flowers behind the grave and arching down on either side. A semicircle of smaller arrangements would flank the casket. They would be free-form here, mixing and mingling colors as though we’d just plopped them in the first place we found. Of course, we wouldn’t do that. Arranging flowers casually, to look like you didn’t care, took more work than most people realized.

Just the brief walk through the grass was enough to soak my suede flats. A breeze kicked up, swirling the remnants of the morning fog. A chill ran up my spine, and I wished I’d thought to bring a sweater and waterproof shoes. But as soon as we got to work in earnest and the sun continued to ascend at a rapid pace, the air grew rather warm and I appreciated the breeze. The wet shoes, not so much.

We sent the boys back in one of the empty trucks just as people started to arrive. It seemed too early for mourners. I worried we’d gotten the hours wrong, but then I saw one of the new arrivals lugging a cello toward the pavilion. Soon a string quartet was tuning and warming up.

I recognized one violinist, probably in his fifties, with short-cropped hair, a splotchy pockmarked face, and a long neck with a pronounced Adam’s apple. I’d run into him at several events and tried to give him a wide berth. When he saw my gaze travel in his direction, he winked at me. If that was all he tried to do, I’d be lucky. He gave roving violinists a bad name by “accidentally” getting his bow caught in ladies’ hemlines on more than one occasion.

I’d first met him at tryouts for the town band, where he plays the bassoon. As a relative newcomer to town, I’d been flattered when he asked all kinds of questions about my tuba and music education. I first pegged him as a harmless music aficionado. When he leaned over, hand on my knee, and rapturously declared how sensual an instrument the tuba was when played with such passion and joie de vivre, I saw his true colors—letch blue. I mean, I can oompah a Souza march with the best of them, but it’s never inspired anything in men but an incredulous “You play the tuba?” or “Doesn’t that thing get heavy for you?” Or, more often, “That must take a lot of hot air.”

Five minutes later, a harpist also arrived, and a large, full harp was carried carefully from the gravel road, down a brief hill, and set into place in the pavilion.

The next car to arrive, a compact Honda Civic, pulled off the roadway and onto the grass, stopping just a few yards from the tent. A young red-headed woman hopped out of the driver’s seat, jogged to the passenger side, and opened the door. Pastor Seymour neglected her offered assistance and instead planted his quad cane firmly into the grass and heaved himself up. Again the young woman offered her arm, but he refused. I wondered if she was the pastor’s new secretary and Amber Lee’s former student and current source of information. She parked the car on the gravel road, and he hobbled toward the pavilion.

“Pastor Seymour,” I called out, then ran to greet him. Liv did the same, and we positioned ourselves on either side. He wouldn’t accept assistance walking, I knew, but in the event that he lost his footing or hit a rut, between the two of us, we could keep him upright.

“How are you this morning, sir?” I said.

He paused for a moment, drew himself up to full height, and sucked in a deep breath of morning air. “Grateful,” he said with a decisive nod. Whether he was grateful for the morning or grateful to be able to still enjoy it, he never said. But this was his stock answer whenever anyone asked how he was, and he lived his life graciously, as if he meant it.

“Well, it looks like I have two lovely escorts this morning.” He winked, but, unlike the violinist’s, I knew his wink carried nothing but kindhearted friendship.

When we arrived at the back row of chairs, he levered himself into one, struggling to catch his breath in the gusty breeze, which seemed determined to become a full-blown windstorm. “Sad occasion for it, though. I just met with the young man the other day. He was going to be married, you know. Would rather have a wedding, I think.”

I slid into the chair next to him. “He was going to marry Jenny. And now the poor thing is in jail.”

Pastor Seymour turned a set of clear brown eyes in my direction. His body may have grown feeble, and he napped more than he used to, but his mind proved sharp and lively. I suspected if he rambled a bit, he used it to his advantage, to say some of the things that he’d been too timid or tactful to say in years gone by. “I tried to visit Jenny,” he said. “It’s a good thing, visiting people in prison. The Lord said what we do to one of the least of these, we do to him. She wouldn’t see me, though. Wouldn’t see anybody, I hear.”

“I know,” I said. “I tried, too.”

He patted my hand. “That’s a good thing.”

“Pastor Seymour, I don’t think she killed Derek.”

Pastor Seymour nodded and closed his eyes. For a moment, I worried that he’d already started one of his unplanned naps. But his words came anyway, soft and melancholy.

“Audrey, I’ve been preaching for over sixty years now, and been honored to officiate at more weddings than you can shake a stick at. I’ve seen all kinds of couples leave down that aisle, cheered on by their family and friends. Some went on to enjoy kids and grandkids and great-grandkids. Others, you just knew they had little chance of making it. A few of those turned around, you see, when one or the other grew up and took some responsibility. So when two young folk come to me to get married, I don’t turn too many of them down. If I do, they’ll just run off and get someone else to hitch them up. But I still try to teach them something . . .” He closed his eyes and trailed off, and I thought he was finished. Or sleeping again.

“But Jenny and Derek, that was an odd pair. So I laid it on thick. I talked all about the duties of marriage, cautioned them not to enter unadvisedly, painted a vivid picture of what an unhappy marriage can be.”

“You tried to dissuade them,” I said.

“I don’t know that I’d use quite those words. Let’s just say I put more emphasis on the negatives of marriage—how confining and conflicting it can be when married to the wrong person.”

He could use whatever words he wanted. I figured he did right by Jenny. “You know, I think your words had an impact. Jenny called off the wedding.”

“Huh . . . and here I thought I wasn’t getting through.” He shook his head. “She could have been stuck with that man for life.”

My quick intake of breath drew a chuckle from him. “Yeah,” he said, “I learned a thing or two about character over the years. Derek was what we used to call a wolf. Not that I like to speak ill of the dead, mind you. Still . . .” He gestured to the coffin, suspended over its future resting place. “I think I’d rather have a wedding.” He sat there for several moments longer, staring at the casket, then he turned to me. “I wouldn’t worry about Jenny, though, dear. These things have a way of working themselves out.”