A Deadly Bouquet (16 page)

When my father had offered to arrange transportation, I'd gritted my teeth and accepted. Only this time I'd given him a description of what I wanted. I didn't know motor size, make, or model, but I knew big and red.

My new set of wheels outclassed me in the color department. I was dressed in black. Oliver's funeral was at ten o'clock, and I planned to attend. But first, I made a trip to the hospital. I asked at the desk if Bailey was conscious and learned that his condition was unchanged.

My mood was glum when I arrived at the flower shop. Lois had the doors unlocked, the lights on. I didn't have to ask how she was doing. She gave me a quick grin as she carried a bucket of flowers to her workstation.

“I've taken another order for Oliver's service,” she said. “The bouquet is to be in a large basket, so I guess you won't be able to haul it in your car. Lew can—”

“I've got plenty of room.”

Lew strolled in. “Who owns that hunk of hot metal in the alley?”

I waved a hand. “Dad bought it after my car was vandalized last night.”

Lois looked from me to the back door. “I wanna see what you're driving, then you can tell the tale.”

“I don't have much time, and neither do you if you're going to do an arrangement for Oliver.”

She nodded and took off. In a flash, she was back. “Wow. Why didn't you get a tank? That thing's as broad as it is long. Are the highways wide enough?”

I admitted that it was huge but that it drove like a dream. “Or a nightmare, if the wrong person is behind the wheel. I don't want to go into detail, but Bailey and I were rammed last night by an SUV that looked like the one in the alley. His truck went over Make Out Point with us in it. I had my seat belt on, and I'm fine. Bailey is still in a coma.”

Accustomed to the task, Lois's hands flew as she designed the bouquet. “Rammed. SUV. Make Out Point. You're fine, but Bailey is in a coma.” She tossed the order form at Lew. “Type the sympathy card.” She handed me a bolt of yellow ribbon. “Make me a bow.”

I drew the satin ribbon through my fingers. “Is that all you've got to say?”

“Are you kidding? I'm about to explode with questions. You didn't mention how or why your car was vandalized.” She shot me a frown. “Though, since I know you so well, the why is obvious. You've been poking into that beautician's murder.”

“The few inquiries I've made hardly warrant the type of destruction that was done to my car. It was bashed and battered.”

“By a vengeful hand,” said Lew.

I didn't comment, but folded the ribbon back and forth, creating even loops. “Vengeful hand” was an apt description.

Right now the big question was—did I back off? My shifting emotions ran as hot as my new car and as cold as a well-digger's ass. Anger surged through me each time I thought about the devastation to my car, but the thought of Bailey lying in that hospital bed because I'd been the intended victim was enough to freeze me in my tracks.

I reached for a pair of scissors and saw Lois watching me. “You aren't telling us everything, are you?” she said.

“You've been pretty tight-lipped yourself. How's it going? Are you ready to talk about Kayla's problem?”

Lois gave me an exasperated glare at the subject change, but relented and spilled the beans. “Raising children can be rewarding, but it's also nerve-racking.” She cut the stalk of a yellow gladiolus. “I'm sorry for my sister. Kayla is a brat, but now she's my responsibility, and I'm not going to shirk it.”

“Send her back to Cincinnati,” I said.

Lois shrugged. “I could, but I know I can make a difference in her life. I just have to find the right approach.”

“What did she do?”

“My niece and two of her new friends thought it would be a great joke if they put a mud turtle in the principal's aquarium.” She poked the gladiolus stem into the floral foam. “Cute, huh?”

“Where'd they find the turtle?”

“Does it matter? Suffice it to say they picked up the nasty thing on some road. It had crud and leeches on it, but my finicky niece put it in her backpack and took it to school.”

“So?” said Lew. “What's the big deal?”

I ignored him to ask, “Was it a large aquarium?”

“Fifty gallons.”

“Expensive fish?”

“Oh, yeah, to the tune of three thousand dollars.”

“I still don't see the problem,” said Lew, typing fast and furious. “A turtle can live in water, especially if it's a mud turtle.”

A clueless Lew was awesome. If we'd had more time, I'd have played on his ignorance, but Oliver's funeral was in forty-five minutes. However, I couldn't resist putting Lew's own brand of pomposity in my tone: “A mud turtle can live in water, but it has to eat. I'm guessing that old reptile had a rich banquet.”

“Oh,” said Lew as understanding dawned. He rolled the card out of the typewriter and carried it to the worktable. “You say this was the
principal's
aquarium?”

Lois took the finished bow from me and attached it to her arrangement. She plucked the card from Lew's fingers and pinned it to the ribbon. “That's what I said. The principal is thoroughly pissed. Two of the fish she raised herself. She'd had the others for ages, and they were like family to her. I wanted to tell her to get a life, but figured that wouldn't help the situation. We've been waiting for her to decide the girls' punishment.”

I picked up my purse and removed the keys. “Now you know?”

Lois stood back and stared at the arrangement. “I'm done. Does it look okay? My mind wasn't on what I was doing.”

I assured her the bouquet was fine, and then asked, “So? Tell us what's going to happen to Kayla, but make it the condensed version.”

“During the next school year each girl has to earn a thousand dollars without a parent or guardian contributing so much as a dime. The money, once it's earned, is to be donated to an animal rights organization.”

“That's not so bad,” said Lew.

I agreed and picked up the bouquet, ready to head out the door.

“There's more,” said Lois.

I stopped and waited.

“When school begins this fall, Kayla and her friends will start the year with ISS—in-school suspension—for the first six Saturdays.” Lois sighed. “It could have been worse. The principal had the right to expel the girls, which would've gone on their permanent records.”

*   *   *

Oliver was laid to rest in a small country cemetery that was about eight miles from where he'd lived on Catalpa Road. It was a beautiful day to be alive, and I silently gave thanks, sending up an additional prayer for Bailey's speedy recovery.

Across the road, prairie grass waved in the breeze like an undulating tide. A wrought iron fence enclosed the cemetery. Cedar and pine trees sparked the hope that life was everlasting. Carrying the bouquet Lois had made, I dodged marble markers, crossing the uneven ground to Oliver's grave site, where I put the flowers next to the casket.

The turnout for the service was small—thirty adults and his two grandchildren. The minister was frail and had to be helped across the rough ground to the grave. His hands trembled, but his voice was firm.

“From Second Corinthians, chapter nine, verse six, the Good Book says, ‘But this
I
say, He which soweth sparingly shall reap also sparingly; and he which soweth bountifully shall reap also bountifully.'”

The minister closed his Bible and lifted his head. “We have evidence of Oliver's caring for others right here in this cemetery. He kept the graves mowed and trimmed, without pay. He planted trees and flowers in memory of those who have gone before us. Oliver sowed bountifully, but it us who have reaped the benefit of his compassion, his love, and his charity. Let's bow our heads in prayer.”

Eddie seemed composed and in control during the brief eulogy. Once the final prayer was said, his jaws clenched. I'd been watching him because I knew what was coming. Oliver's spade leaned against a tree.

The casket was lowered. The vault lid moved into place. Eddie reached for the spade, taking the handle in a firm grip. For a second or so, he stood with his head bowed. It was a poignant moment—not a dry eye among us.

The funeral director moved a piece of green carpet aside, exposing the soil that had been taken from the grave. Eddie stooped and picked up a clod. As he crumbled the lump, he shook his head. “This stuff won't grow nothing.” He sighed. “But then I guess it don't have to.”

He stood and plunged the spade into the dirt, then gently sprinkled the dirt over the vault. “Bye, Dad,” he said quietly before turning to his family. “Son?” he asked, holding out the spade.

Both of Oliver's grandchildren took a turn, as did Molly, Eddie's wife. Then he offered the spade to me. “Bretta?”

I didn't hesitate. My fingers wrapped around the wooden handle. It hurt to move my shoulders when I lifted the scoop of soil. In the past, I'd heard the comment about “planting” someone and thought it unfeeling and crude. But in this case, planting Oliver was exactly what we were doing—as an act of love and respect for a man who'd earned both.

After mourners had been given the opportunity to place dirt on Oliver's casket, all meandered toward their cars. I hung back so I could have a private word with Eddie. He saw me waiting and came over.

“It was a nice service,” I said. “Your father would have approved.”

“I think so. Anyhow, it felt right. When Mom died, my kids were too small to hold the spade. I was proud of them today, but I never thought about others wanting a turn.” He chuckled. “Dad would've gotten a kick out of prissy Mrs. Dearborne handling a spade.”

“Dearborne? Lydia Dearborne? Which one is she?” I asked, craning my neck.

Eddie scanned the area. “That's her,” he said, pointing. “The red-haired woman getting into the car parked nearest the exit.”

“I want to talk to her, Eddie. I'll see you—” I took a step, but the heel of my shoe had sunk into the sod. I stumbled. If I hadn't been stiff and sore, I might've regained my balance, but my reflexes were slowed by strained muscles. Eddie made a grab for me, but I went down on one knee.

“Bretta, are you all right?”

“Help me up, but do it slowly.”

He took my arm. I tried not to wince, but he'd grabbed a tender area. I got to my feet as quickly as I could to relieve the pressure. Rubbing the spot, I looked around for Mrs. Dearborne. “She's gone?” I asked.

“Lydia? Yeah.” He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “I'll be at your place this afternoon. I've lined up some guys to help remove the tree limbs. The weatherman forecasts showers for the weekend. I'd like to get the area cleaned up so I can do a controlled burn of the thatch—”

I'd been inspecting the grass stain on the knee of my panty hose. “Rain?” I said. “
This
weekend?”

Eddie grinned. “I see it as poetic justice for the witch. I hope it rains like hell on her parade.”

“That's not nice,” I said. “Don't forget I'm part of that parade.”

We visited a while longer about my garden. I got directions to Lydia's house, then crawled into my SUV and headed down the road.

I knew I wouldn't like Lydia Dearborne from the moment I set eyes on her property. Eddie had called her prissy, and if her yard was any indication, the word was apropos. The house was pristine white. There wasn't a flower or a weed in sight. The grass had been given a crew cut—no blade longer than an inch. Branches had been lopped off trees so they resembled lollipops spaced in tidy rows.

I knocked on the front door, but received no answer. The clatter of a metal bucket drew me around to the back of the house. Lydia didn't see me, so I watched her in fascination. The smell of ammonia perfumed the air as she scrubbed the trunk of a tree.

The chore itself was unique, but the woman had tackled the job dressed in white slacks, a green blouse, and matching green shoes. Not your average tree-trunk-scrubbing uniform. But then, scrubbing trees was hardly your average person's idea of garden work. Rubber gloves encased Lydia's arms up to her elbows.

She walked around the tree, inspecting her endeavors. That's when she spotted me. “Oh,” she said. “Mrs. Solomon. You startled me.”

“Have we met?”

“Not formally, but my friend Darlene's daughter works for you.” Her expression turned to pity. “How is poor little DeeDee?”

The hairs on the back of my neck bristled like the brush in her hand. “She's doing wonderfully. I couldn't ask for a more competent housekeeper.”

“I'm surprised. She was such a shy, delicate child.”

“She isn't a child.”

“No, of course not.” Lydia lifted a shoulder. “Oh, well, at least she's doing something appropriate.” She clicked her tongue in distaste. “My, my, the things women do nowadays are amazing. I had my car serviced last week and a woman dressed in filthy coveralls took care of it. Just a little while ago, when I came home from Oliver's funeral, a lady was here from the Gas Service Company.”

Lydia frowned. “We didn't talk long because I was in a hurry to change out of my funeral clothes. She seemed familiar, but I don't know anyone who'd have her job. She crawled under the house without a qualm. Came out with cobwebs in her hair and dirt under her fingernails.”

I could have said a number of things in reply, but I plunged into another topic. After her comment about DeeDee, I happily employed the shock method of questioning. “Did Claire act like a woman about to be murdered?” I asked.

Lydia blinked. “How does such a person act, Mrs. Solomon? She was Claire. Talking and laughing while she curled my hair.”

“She told us in the park that she had a hot piece of gossip she hoped you'd confirm. What did she ask?”