A Deadly Bouquet (15 page)

My mouth tasted like caffeine-flavored vomit. I'd gotten some coffee from a vending machine and had waited and waited. Information concerning Bailey's condition had been sketchy up till now. This was the first time I'd been approached by anyone who might have answers. I wasn't sure I could deal with the news. “Next of kin” sounded too ominous, too foreboding.

The doctor sat in a chair next to me. “My name is Dr. Watkins, and I'm going to be honest with you. Mr. Monroe is in critical condition. We set his broken leg, treated his abrasions and contusions, but he hasn't regained consciousness. The blow to his head has left a portion of the brain swollen.”

“Oh, no,” I said softly. Tears filled my eyes. I tried to blink them away, but was unsuccessful.

“Now, now,” he said. “Mr. Monroe is in good hands.”

“Can I see him?”

“He's in the unit where only family members are permitted.”

“I
could
be his sister.”

The doctor eyed me. “Yes, you could. Since I'm not acquainted with Mr. Monroe, I can't dispute your claim.” He nodded down the hall. “Tell the nurse at the desk that you have my permission to visit Mr. Monroe. Keep it short. Five minutes—tops. Don't be afraid to touch him. Talk to him, but be calm and reassuring. Let him know that he's going to be fine.”

“But you said he was unconscious.”

“That's true, but sometimes comatose patients can hear, and they're often aware of what's going on around them even though they can't respond. In this case, I think it might be helpful if Mr. Monroe heard optimism in your voice.”

I thanked him with a smile that wobbled around the edges. The nurse didn't question my request to see Bailey after I'd mentioned Dr. Watkins's name. She looked at some papers on her desk and said he was in Cubicle 7b.

“Cubicle? Doesn't he have his own room?”

“This is the Critical Care Unit,” she explained. “No walls, no doors, just curtained cubicles and seriously ill patients. Don't be alarmed by the tubes and wires. Each has a purpose and is important. You may go in, but keep your visit to five minutes.”

I found 7b and pushed the curtain aside. I hesitated for only a moment before I took a deep breath and walked to the bed. Bailey's arms were straight at his sides. His right leg was in a cast, and a bandage wrapped his head. A crisp white sheet was smooth over his stomach. His chest was bare except for electrodes attached to a machine that kept up an encouraging
beep, beep, beep.

I touched his hand. “Bailey, it's Bretta. You're going to be just fine.” Tears threatened, but I forced myself to talk quietly. “You have to come back to me. We have too much to do. I want to sample your cooking. I want to slow dance with you. I want you to meet my friends.”

I kept my eyes on the monitor as I leaned closer. “I want you to hold me in your arms.” Saying those words made my own heart's rhythm increase. Did his? I scanned the peaks and valleys on the screen.

“What are you doing?”

I turned to see a nurse standing at the foot of Bailey's bed. My cheeks felt hot. “Dr. Watkins said I should talk to Bailey. So I am. Is that wrong?”

She looked from me to him to the electrocardiograph. “Mr. Monroe's heart changed rhythm, and we were alerted at the nurses' station.”

“Changed in a bad way?”

“No. Just a hiccup in the pattern.”

“Should I go?”

Again, she studied Bailey's handsome face. “No. If the doctor told you to talk, that's what you should do.” She lowered her eyebrows. “Just watch what you say. Don't make any promises you aren't prepared to honor.” She left the cubicle chuckling lightly.

Gingerly, I picked up his hand. Speaking softly, I said, “Looks like I'd better not try any more rousing experiments. But you get better, and we'll—” I dropped my voice to a husky whisper and said something that deepened my blush.

I looked at Bailey's heart monitor, then glanced behind me. No one appeared in the doorway, but his fingers curled ever so gently around mine.

*   *   *

“It was not a muscle spasm,” I said to myself. I limped back and forth in front of the hospital, waiting for my ride home. It was late. The parking lot was deserted, which gave me freedom to vent my frustration. When I'd felt Bailey's fingers move, I'd rushed to the nurses' station with the encouraging news. After he'd been examined, I'd been told there wasn't any change and that it was time for me to go.

I'd left the Critical Care Unit, but had gotten only as far as the nearest phone. My car was parked behind the flower shop in the alley. I couldn't drive it anyway. My purse was in Bailey's truck, which had been towed away and impounded for an evidence search.

I'd thought about calling Sid, but I didn't have the stamina to face him. I'd thought about calling Lois, but she had enough on her mind. I'd thought about calling DeeDee, but I didn't want her out on the roads at this time of night. I had settled on my father.

When he answered the phone, I'd simply said I was without a car and needed a ride home from the hospital. He'd promptly replied, “I'm on my way.” Twenty minutes after my call, he rolled into the parking lot.

Leaning across the seat of his new blue truck, he pushed open the door. “Are you all right, daughter?” The dome light accentuated the wrinkles on his face and the concern in his eyes.

“I'll be fine once I get into bed. I'm exhausted.” I started to climb in but saw my purse on the seat. I touched the familiar bag. “Where did you get this?”

“A deputy brought it out to the house. He said there had been an accident, but he assured me you were all right. I've been waiting by the phone, hoping you'd call.”

“Accident?” I muttered, as I settled on the seat. I slammed the door with more force than necessary. “It wasn't an accident. We were rammed by an SUV.”

“Rammed?” My father studied me. “Why would anyone ram your car?” His eyes narrowed. “We? Who was with you?”

“I was with Bailey in his truck.”

“Ah,” said my father. “That would explain it. I'm sure Bailey Monroe has made plenty of enemies over the years. A drug dealer who's been brought to justice would have irate customers wanting to even the score.”

I winced at my father's choice of words—“even the score.” They brought back happy memories of the first part of my evening with Bailey. The last half had been disastrous.

As we pulled away from the hospital, I said, “Please, take me by the flower shop. Since I have my purse and keys, I'll drive my car home. I'll need it in the morning.”

“You're still shaky. Tomorrow you'll be stiff and sore. I'd be glad to take you to work.”

“Thanks, but I'd rather have my car so I can come and go as I please.”

“Always the self-sufficient one, aren't you?” Under his breath, he added, “You're so like your mother—intimidating and damned frustrating.”

I stared at him. “What do I do that intimidates you? More important, what did
she
do?”

“I'd rather not discuss it.”

“How did Mom intimidate you? I don't remember any fights. There weren't shouting matches. You simply took off. Why?”

“How is Bailey? Was he hurt?”

“Talk about frustrating. You could give lessons on the subject.” I shook my head. “Bailey is in critical condition. He's in a coma.”

We stopped for a red light, and I felt my father's steady gaze on me. “So your heart's bruised as well as your body,” he said quietly.

My chin shot up. “My heart? Good heavens, no. Bailey is just a friend.”

The light turned green. Dad didn't comment, just pressed on the gas pedal. We rode in silence. The lie I'd told hung in the air, begging me to recant it. But I couldn't find the courage to speak about my feelings for Bailey to my father. The subject was too personal.

After a moment, Dad said, “When I was in Texas and you were here in Missouri, I took comfort in the fact that the same sun that shone on you was shining on me. I wanted to see you. I missed you until the ache in my heart was almost too much to bear, but I stayed away. Sometimes, you have to be cruel to be kind.”

I turned to him, relieved at the subject change. “What was kind about leaving me?”

“I'm not talking about the leaving. I'm talking about the staying away.”

“I don't get it. Either explain what you mean or drop it.”

“I knew when I left without saying good-bye your heart would be broken, but I also knew it would mend. Time does that, you know. It heals all wounds.”

I hugged my purse to keep from trembling. “That's a crock.”

“No it isn't, Bretta. You had your mother. You had school and other activities to keep you occupied. As time passed, the hole I'd left in your life would grow smaller and smaller.”

I fought tears that were close to the surface. “What you don't understand is that you left me with all the reminders. You went on to a new and different life. But everywhere I looked, I expected to see you. Coming in the back door. Sitting at the dinner table. Holding me on your lap and reading me a story. Once I was older, I'd think about conversations we'd had. I kept looking for something I'd said that would keep you from picking up a phone and calling me.”

“But if I'd called you, it would have renewed our relationship.”

“But that's what I wanted. That's what I needed.”

“I know. But it wasn't something I could handle. I couldn't chance talking to you. I couldn't see you. The sight of your face, the way your smile lights your eyes—” He sighed. “I would've been back in your life—and your mother's.”

We'd come full circle. I still didn't understand, and I was too tired to pursue it. A block later, I pointed to the alley entrance. “Turn there,” I said, searching in my purse for the keys. They always settled to the bottom.

“Oh, my Lord,” said Dad. He slammed on the brakes.

I pitched forward, and the seat belt dug into my bruised shoulder. I moaned at the pain. “Dad, that hurt,” I said, frowning at him. He stared straight ahead.

I followed his gaze and caught my breath. My car had been vandalized. Tires slashed. Windows smashed. Fenders battered.

Dad's theory about a drug-related hit was shot all to hell when his truck's headlights picked out the writing on the driver's side of my car.

“
STRIKE
2!”

Chapter Thirteen

My father got a flashlight out of his truck, and while we waited for the police to arrive, I inspected my car. I was careful to not get very close, but I couldn't stop staring. I'd been too upset since the SUV rammed Bailey's truck to give thought as to why it had happened. My father's explanation had sounded viable, but to realize I'd been the intended victim was mind-blowing.

The devastation to my car made me heartsick, but the message painted on the driver's door panel shocked me. “
STRIKE
2!” The unwritten words crept through my brain—strike three, and I was out.

I played the beam over the interior, wondering if I'd left anything in the front seat that I might need. Amid the twinkling bits of glass, I saw something lying near the accelerator. Leaning closer, I stared at a small bundle of flowers and leaves tied together with a piece of orange twine.

“Look at that,” I said.

My father took a step forward and peered over my shoulder. “What is it?”

“It's a tussie-mussie. It's a custom that dates back to pre-Victorian times. From what I've read, people didn't bathe regularly, so the women carried these little bouquets made from fragrant leaves and flowers to mask body odor. In later years the language of flowers evolved, and blooms and foliage were given individual meanings. The tussie-mussie was sent to a special person to convey a message of love. Each leaf, each flower, even the way the blooms were placed in the bouquet had a meaning, and they were all tied together with a piece of twine.”

I frowned. “But I doubt this combination means I have an admirer. That dried white rose represents death. I wish I had a camera. Someone more knowledgeable than me will have to identify each leaf and the placement of the flowers.”

“Why don't we take it? The police won't know anything about a tussie-mussie, and you'll have—”

“I can't do that. It's evidence—and important, too.”

“Why so important?”

“Not just anyone would know how to construct a tussie-mussie. That in itself is a clue.”

“I don't have a camera, daughter, but I could make a sketch.”

“There isn't time—” I stopped speaking when he ignored me and went to his truck. He came back with a tablet and a pencil. With swift, sure strokes, he etched in the general outline of the nosegay. When I saw the bouquet come to life under his expert hand, I leaned closer to the car so I could better aim the flashlight at the floorboards.

“Make each leaf as accurate as possible, Dad. Isn't that a milkweed bloom in the center?”

“Could be,” he mumbled, leaning through the broken window. “Smells funny in here. Pungent.”

I sniffed, but a squad car pulling into the alley drew my attention. “Are you about done?” I asked.

“Need a few more minutes.” He took the flashlight out of my hand and made another quick study of the tussie-mussie before he turned off the light. As he stuck the flashlight into his back pocket, he said, “Stall.”

“How?”

“Hysteria might work.”

I rolled my eyes, but moved away from my car and down the alley. Before the officer had climbed from behind the steering wheel, I was wringing my hands. I put on a good act—or was it an act? The fear and confusion came awfully damned easy.

*   *   *

Last night I'd said a sad farewell to my car as I watched the police tow it away. This morning I was behind the wheel of a cherry-red SUV, not unlike the one that had plowed into Bailey's truck.