A Deadly Bouquet (18 page)

I sighed deeply and sat up. “You're not helping, and I'm getting off track. I wanted to talk to you about this murder case, and here I am going on about my personal life.”

I glanced over my shoulder. “Before someone comes in and tells me visiting hours are over, I want you to hear the latest development. Lydia Dearborne's house blew up. It was murder, Bailey. I'm sure of it. When Sid questions the Gas Service Company, he'll find they didn't send an inspector out to Lydia's house.

“Lydia has had someone with her since Claire's murder. She's been on medication, too. The very morning her family leaves, and Lydia feels well enough to go out—out where she could talk. About what, I'm not sure, but our killer feared she had something to say. If I'd stayed another five minutes, I'd have been blown to bits.” I shuddered. “I left her house in the nick of time.”

I sat quietly, thinking, then said, “Lydia told me it was a woman inspector and that she seemed familiar. Why didn't I ask for a physical description?”

I snorted. “Because at that
time
I didn't know it was important.
Time.
That word sure does crop up—time after time. It's time for me to go. Time for you to wake up.”

I stood and leaned over Bailey so I could whisper in his ear. “What's it going to take to bring you back to me? A hug? A kiss? I can supply both, but you have to ask.”

I'd have been thrilled with a muscle spasm, but Bailey lay quietly. Tears threatened, but I winked them away, forcing a bright note in my voice. “You think over what I've said. I'll drop by later to hear your theories.”

Before I left the hospital, I called the flower shop to check in with Lois. “How's it going?” I asked.

“Manageable. Where are you?”

“At the hospital.” Anticipating her next question, I added, “Bailey isn't conscious, but he's improving.”

“That's good news. I have three messages for you. One is from DeeDee. She says the cleaning crew is at the house, and they're doing a wonderful job, but your father is wandering around the estate like a lost soul. Eddie called. He and his crew are hauling brush out of the garden.” Lois heaved a sigh. “I've saved the worst for last. Evelyn was by.”

“Do I want to hear this?”

“Probably not, but
I
had to listen to her. She has too much time on her hands. While looking through some bridal magazines she saw a picture of an arch made of twisted grapevines.”

I heard paper rustling. Lois said, “She left the picture with me. If we had another month, we could do it, but we've got four days. I told her no way. She told me to give you the message.”

“Message received. Now, forget it. I'm not adding another thing to this wedding. As it is we're going to be hard-pressed to get everything done and delivered and set up. Eddie says it's going to rain.”

“It wouldn't dare.”

“I'll be at the house if you need me, but don't tell Evelyn. I'm almost out of antacid tablets and patience.”

“Speaking of patience. How do you feel about hiring Kayla to do odd jobs here at the flower shop? I can't give her money outright, but I could give it to you, and you could give it to her.”

“Sounds complicated. Can we talk about it after this wedding?”

“Yeah, sure. I want her under my thumb for a while. If this escapade had gone on her permanent record, it could have haunted her for the rest of her life.”

I shook my head. “It was a turtle, Lois. A year or so down the road, what possible difference could it make?”

“I don't know, but some people could view her as a troublemaker. She trespassed into the principal's office. She had a disregard for someone else's property. If she was up for a job and her prospective boss called the school to ask what kind of student she'd been, would that boss hire her if he or she found out she'd been in trouble?”

“Depends on the trouble. A turtle is pretty tame compared to some of the pranks kids pull.”

“I suppose, but she's so young. Here comes a customer. Gotta go.”

I hung up the receiver and walked slowly out of the hospital. On automatic pilot, I started the SUV and left the parking lot. Dana had said, “We were so young and full of—”

Full of what? Hopes? Dreams? Plans for the future? Somehow I didn't think she'd been talking about aspirations and goals. When I'd tried bamboozling Sonya about what had happened all those years ago, I'd been left with the impression that I'd touched a nerve.

I drove to River City High School with the idea of probing for that nerve ending. Sid had said Claire didn't have a police record. But there were other paper trails.

My inquiry into obtaining information from the school's permanent records hit a brick wall in the form of a Mrs. Florence Benson, secretary. When I walked up to her desk, she smiled pleasantly. Her hair was gray, eyes blue. She looked like someone's sweet little grandmother, the kind that bakes sugar cookies and never forgets birthdays.

After I'd made my request, she said, “I'm sorry, Ms. Solomon. This isn't a public library. Our records aren't part of a free-reading program. Besides, I'd need maiden names. Do you have those?”

“I can get them.”

She glanced at the clock on the wall. “My break is in thirty minutes.”

I raced down the hall to the 1966 display. Hunting and mumbling, I searched out Dana, Sonya, Kasey, and Claire's last names. Kasey Vickers had never married, so that was simple enough. Claire had returned to her maiden name, Alexander. Dana Simpkin Olson. Sonya Darnell Norris.

Huffing and puffing, I arrived back at Miss Benson's desk. I'd used five minutes of my allotted time. “Alexander. Vickers. Simpkin. And Darnell. Now will you help me?”

“Up to a point.”

I expected her to click some computer keys on the machine next to her. Instead she got up from her desk and frowned at the clock before disappearing down a back hallway. I waited and waited and waited. Finally, when I'd decided she'd sneaked out a side exit, she came back with a stack of ordinary folders.

She tapped them. “If you'd been looking for students who'd graduated in nineteen sixty-nine, I could have brought the names up on the computer. But since we're talking nineteen sixty-six, I had to find them in the vertical files. What do you want to know? You have twelve minutes.”

“I'm not sure. Something they all had in common.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Could you be more specific? Same classes? Same bus route? What?”

“Did they get into trouble?”

“Trouble? What kind of trouble?”

“That's what I'm looking for.”

She sat down and opened the first folder. Running a finger down the page, she scanned and muttered. I strained my ears but couldn't make out a word. She took another folder off the stack and gave it the same perusal. When she reached for the final report, she slid me a glance, and I knew she'd found something.

I waited as patiently as I could until she'd flipped over the last sheet. I asked, “What did they do?”

“Is this the Claire Alexander who was murdered a few days ago?”

I nodded.

Mrs. Benson pointed to a yellow tab stuck to the folder. “Her file has been flagged, meaning she had trouble while in our River City school system. Claire's career as instigator goes all the way back to kindergarten. From that time, and including eighth grade, her teachers attached personal notes to her record outlining different capers, fights, and disruptive behavior.”

“What kind of disruptive behavior?”

“The usual kid stuff. Picking on others. Cutting in line. Chewing gum in class. Arguing with the teacher.” Mrs. Benson tapped the folder. “It wasn't until high school that she found her niche.”

“And that would be?”

“Agitator. I realize it was the sixties and everyone was protesting everything, but the way her file reads, Claire Alexander jumped on the bandwagon with both feet. She organized boycotts, strikes, and demonstrations about too much homework, bad school lunches, and the right to wear miniskirts. From what I get here, most of her demonstrations were orderly, not violent. Minor annoyances to the administration. Claire and Kasey Vickers are named as the founders of the Botany Club, which is still in existence today. In fact, all four girls were members.”

Mrs. Benson scanned Claire's file again. “Claire and her cohorts picked the wrong person to tangle with when they upset Ms. Beecher—God rest her soul. The home ec teacher had taken enough of Claire's foolishness.”

Mrs. Benson chuckled. “Kids can find the strangest ways to get into trouble. Claire and her three friends were denied taking part in the photo sessions for the school's yearbook because—here's the corker—they stole four bottles of lemon extract from the home ec kitchen.”

That explained the girls' absence from the club pictures. But why would four high school girls want bottles of lemon extract?

Chapter Fifteen

When I pulled up the lane to my house I wasn't sure where to park. Three vans with
RIVER CITY CLEANING COMPANY
painted on their sides blocked my entry into the garage. Four trucks piled with brush were lined up caravan-style, headed down the drive. Apparently, my father had been watching for my arrival. He limped out the front door and down the steps, waving me to a space near the veranda.

I nodded and brought the SUV to a stop in the shade. Before I climbed out, my father launched a conversation through the closed window. The only words I caught were “—stay close to home until this maniac is caught.”

I opened the door. “Are you talking about me staying close to home?”

“Of course, daughter. Your safety is my concern.” He gestured to his dusty clothes and green-stained fingers. “I've spent the day investigating your gardens, searching for plants and flowers that would match those of the tussie-mussie. In your personal library I found a book on the language of flowers. I've got it nailed down.”

I assumed he hadn't nailed the book down, so he must be talking about what the tussie-mussie represented. I was skeptical. “You've figured out the message?”

“Damned straight, and it isn't good. Someone is hell-bent on bringing you grief. Come into the dining room; I have it laid out.”

He took off for the house. I followed more slowly. Since I had the sketch in my purse, I couldn't quite believe that my father had found each leaf, each blossom, and put it together from memory. But the project had kept him out of trouble. That by itself deserved a few minutes of my attention.

DeeDee met me at the door. Her eyes sparkled with excitement. “The c-cleaning crew is d-doing a great job. The boxes of p-plaster chunks are gone. The d-dust has been s-sucked up. They're f-finishing in the b-ballroom.” She leaned closer. “It's g-gonna cost you a f-fortune.”

I grimaced. “It's money well spent if the dust is gone.” I stood in the foyer and looked around my home. Above me, the crystal prisms on the chandelier sparkled. All the wooden surfaces gleamed from a recent polish. Each riser on the horseshoe-shaped staircase glowed as if lighted from an inner beauty. The air had a clean, lemony fragrance.

I sighed softly. “Money well spent, DeeDee. Tell the foreman to bring me the bill before he leaves, and I'll write out a check.”

“He s-said he'd mail you a s-statement.”

“Whatever.” I nodded to my father, who shuffled his feet impatiently in the dining room doorway. “Have you seen what he's been doing?”

“E-earlier this morning, we m-moved his s-stuff into a bedroom. While I made his b-bed, he took a walk around the es-estate. When I b-brought him lunch, he was m-messing with a b-bunch of weeds on the d-dining room t-table.”

“Weeds.” I shook my head. “That's what I'm afraid of, but I'll still have to be appreciative.”

“And nice, Bretta,” she added softly. “You're always p-patient with me. Give h-him the s-same respect. He is your f-father.”

I winked. “My, aren't you the little pacifist? Make love, not war. Next thing I know you'll be wearing flowers in your hair reminiscent of the sixties.”

“Flower power. I've heard about that.” She giggled and raised her hands above her head. “Flowers sticking out to h-here. I'd l-look like a b-blooming idiot.”

“Or the painting on Claire's ceiling,” I said.

A buzzer went off in the kitchen. “Gotta go,” DeeDee said. “Th-that's my timer.”

Flower power. Someone in history had once said, “Knowledge is power.” While in high school, Claire had organized strikes, boycotts, and demonstrations. All represented acts of power. She'd told Lydia that by painting Missouri wildflowers on the ceiling of her beauty shop she might be able to achieve “a total sense of catharsis.”

Wouldn't that be power, too? A power over what had been troubling her? She'd dyed her hair green—which, according to Dana, meant Claire was bothered by something.

“Bretta,” called my father. “Please come into the dining room. I want to show you what I've discovered.”

I moseyed across the foyer, my mind trekking on Claire. Lydia had said she hadn't registered for the prize she'd won from Claire's shop. Had Claire made up the contest so she could meet the woman? Why? What had Lydia known?

My father gestured to the dining room table. I dropped my gaze but didn't focus on the items. Going back to this catharsis business. If Claire needed catharsis she was looking to be purified—which translated to me that
she'd
done something wrong. But if she were the culprit, then why had she been killed?

“Don't you see it?” demanded my father.

I squeezed my eyes shut. “I'm trying.”

When I'd been in Dana's kitchen, she'd said that Claire had “this natural radar when it came to wickedness.” Whatever had happened had been in the past. Kasey, Dana, and Sonya had been Claire's friends in high school. If something were about to come out, would one of them try to stop Claire from telling it? The girls had gotten into trouble for stealing four bottles of lemon extract. So many years later, why would it matter?