A Deadly Bouquet (8 page)

The section of the garden that set my creative juices flowing was where Eddie was working at clearing away the apple trees. Oliver had taken me beyond the rotting orchard to show me how the land gently sloped to a creek. We hadn't walked very far because of his heart problem, but through his eyes, I'd seen the possibilities. Before I'd talked to Oliver, the garden had looked like a mass of rampant-growing vegetation that could only be tamed by an experienced hand. Hearing the way Eddie gunned the chain saw, I wondered how knowledgeable his hands would be without Oliver to guide him.

The area below the terrace needed more brawn than brains to give it order. Rambling roses had grown unchecked for years. The thorny branches had caught weeds in a stranglehold, binding them together seamlessly like a woven cloth. Mingled among the dried thatch was a new growth of plants trying to make headway. It was in this area that I'd depended on Oliver for guidance.

I looked back at Eddie. He was bent over his task, ignoring me. As I watched, the final cut was made, and the tree crashed to the ground, reduced to a heap of brittle branches. Eddie hit the choke, and the chain saw spluttered and died.

Before I could say “Good morning,” he spoke. “If you don't want me here just say so, but I can't stay at home. Everyone is bringing food to the house.” He grimaced. “As if a casserole is going to make Dad's passing any easier.”

“People want to show their support. Taking food to a bereaved family is a gesture of love and respect.”

He kicked the pile of wood. “I know it, but I don't have to like it. I need to work.”

“Fine, but at some point you're going to have to deal with Oliver's death and the people affected by it.”

Eddie's handsome jaw squared, and his blue eyes narrowed. “I don't need any lectures. I've already had my quota from my wife. Molly says I should be honored that Dad was so well liked.” He grabbed a pitchfork and stacked the broken limbs. “This wood is too rotten to burn in your fireplace. The branches will have to be hauled off. Just another mindless job for me. I told Dad we should hire more people, expand our business. But he wanted to keep it in the family—a mom-and-pop operation. Mom is gone, and now Dad. Surprise. Surprise. Guess who's left?”

Eddie's attitude wasn't a good sign. Hurt or even anger would have been healthier. I didn't want Eddie to be bitter at Oliver's memory or his shortcomings. “Your father did what was right for him. Now you can do what you want.”

“Oh, sure, like I have the capital to make major changes. Dad didn't have a business sense. When Mom was alive, she kept the books. She bid the jobs because Dad charged what he thought the customer could afford, not what the work was worth.”

I faked a wide-eyed gaze of alarm. “You mean he didn't gouge people? He didn't take advantage of their ignorance? Gosh, Eddie, that's terrible.”

“You don't get it. We're scrounging along. Dad was brilliant. He'd forgotten more facts about plants and shrubs and trees than I'll know in a lifetime. He could've cashed in on that knowledge, but he chose to be more of a handyman than a true landscaper.”

Eddie leaned on the pitchfork. “He knew instinctively which plants were compatible, which ones needed shade, sun, more moisture or less. He wasted his talent. He could've been famous like those guys on PBS. He could've been rich.”

“Let me get this straight. You think Oliver wasted his life because he wasn't on television or wasn't wealthy?”

Eddie didn't answer, but then I didn't give him much of a chance. “Your father was a sweet, generous man. You came here today, not because of the food that was being brought to your home, but because you couldn't stand hearing people tell you what a wonderful man your father was. You're resentful, Eddie, and probably jealous, too.”

Eddie had a short fuse, and I was prepared to duck if he decided to throw that pitchfork. To my surprise, he blushed. “Yeah. I'm jealous of Dad's ability. I'm also mad because he should've placed a higher value on his talents and made people pay for his services.”

I waved my arm, indicating our surroundings. “Who came up with the bid on my garden?”

“Me.”

“According to what you're saying, I'm going to pay dearly for this work?”

“No. I wouldn't do that to you, Bretta.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Really? And why is that?”

“Because it'll be a pleasure putting this area back to its original beauty. Dad said that in its heyday this estate was one of the most beautiful private gardens in Missouri. Once I get these trees cut and hauled out, I'll do a controlled burn to get rid of the thick layer of weeds and grass thatch that's been allowed to grow. Plants that have struggled to survive will be set free to reproduce and, I hope, to flourish.”

He smiled. “Then I can get at the true spirit of this land. Taking advantage of what nature has lain out is what landscaping is all about. Once I get this useless vegetation out of the way, you won't believe the change.”

“So you're doing this work because you want the satisfaction of a job well done and not just for the money?”

Eddie jerked around to stare at me. “Molly's good, but you get the gold star. You've made your point—loud and clear. Just for the record, I will make money on this project or I wouldn't be doing it. Dad would've done it for free.”

“Oliver mentioned something along those lines to me, but I told him I could afford the bill.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “And that's
my
point.”

He reached for the chain saw, but I forestalled his action. “Eddie, did the coroner rule Oliver's death was from natural causes?”

“Of course. Massive coronary.” Pain flashed across his face. “I could have given Dad the entire bottle of pills and it wouldn't have made any difference.”

I breathed a silent sigh of relief. I was sorry Oliver was gone, but if there had been a hint of foul play connected to his death it would have been devastating.

Eddie made another move toward the chain saw, but again I stopped him. “Before Oliver passed away, he looked up at me and said, ‘Bretta … Spade.' Did you hear him?”

“Nope. I had other things on my mind.”

“What do you suppose he meant?”

Eddie lifted a muscular shoulder. “I don't know.”

“Do you have his spade with you?”

“Yeah. It's in my truck.”

“Can I see it?”

“Why? Do you think Dad was giving it to you?”

I could tell he didn't like that idea. “No. The spade is unequivocally yours, but I'd like to see it again.”

Eddie strode across the garden to his truck and opened the passenger cab door. I hid a sad smile. For all of Eddie's tough talk, he'd given Oliver's spade a place of honor up front instead of rattling around in the truck's bed with the other garden implements.

I took the spade and stood it upright. It was about my height, coming almost to my shoulders. I ran my hands down the handle. Years of heavy use had refined the wood to a satiny sheen.

Eddie said, “I'm thinking I'll take the spade to the cemetery and use it to put the first scoop of dirt on Dad's grave.” He glanced at me. “Do you think that's sappy?”

It took me a moment to find my voice. “No, Eddie, I think Oliver would have liked the idea.”

“Dad did it whenever someone close to him passed away, so I guess he'd approve if I do it for him.” Emotion made Eddie's voice husky. He tried to clear his throat, but tears filled his eyes.

Embarrassed, he grabbed the spade out of my hand and spun on his heel. His long strides took him back into the garden. After a few minutes, I heard the chain saw start up.

Oliver had said, “Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclined.” It was heartening that Eddie's grief hadn't killed his love for the work he and his father had shared. My garden project was the best thing for him right now.

I moved toward the house, leaving Eddie to vent his anger and frustration in the best way he knew how. I, on the other hand, wasn't sure what to do with my day. Slowly, I climbed the veranda steps, making plans, and eliminating each as uninteresting or uninspiring.

The front door was locked. I'd brought my hand up to press the doorbell when, from behind me, Bailey said, “Bretta, I'm gonna talk—and you're gonna listen.”

Chapter Seven

I froze at the sound of Bailey's voice. I couldn't move, but my stomach lurched. My feelings for Bailey were confusing. I was upset that he owned the cottage, but the attraction I'd felt for him in Branson was as strong as ever. He'd come to River City looking for me. While this thought was exciting, it was also frightening. It meant that he was interested in me, interested enough to purchase a home that made him my closest neighbor.

Slowly, I turned and faced him. He was dressed in blue jeans and a plain white T-shirt. Each time we'd met, I'd been impressed by his good looks. But it was more than his appearance that had kept him in my thoughts these last few weeks. He possessed an air of knowing what he wanted and having the ability to go after it. Nothing seemed to daunt him.

But he sure confused me. “Bailey,” I said, “how nice to see you. Isn't this a beautiful morning?”

“I'm not playing that game.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What game?”

“Twenty questions.” He came up the walk and settled on the steps. Patting the space next to him, he said, “Sit here and listen. It's time to even the score.”

“Even the score” sounded like revenge, and I wasn't in the mood to match wits with him. Fact was, I'd probably be out of my depth before the first insult was hurled. And anyway, revenge for what?

“No thanks. I've got things to do.” Before I could do the first—press the doorbell for admittance into my own home—Bailey grabbed my ankle.

“Nothing is more important than what I have to say.”

The solemnity of his tone carried more weight than his hold on my ankle. After two years of doing as I pleased, coming and going as I saw fit, I didn't like being ordered about, especially on my own front porch. But curiosity has always been my downfall. I gave in as gracefully as an independent woman could.

“This better be good,” I said, plopping down. I put four feet of porch between us. “And for the record, I didn't know there was a score to even.”

Bailey, having gotten his way, relaxed and stretched his long legs out in front of him. He folded his arms across his chest. “Your mother's name was Lillie McGinness. Your father is Albert. He left you and your mother when you were eight years old. It wasn't until last Christmas that you renewed your relationship with him. You were brought up on a farm near a small town called Woodgrove. You never had children, but you were married for twenty-four years to Carl Solomon. He has a brother and a mother in Nashville, but you never see them. You own your own business—a flower shop. You have many friends, one of whom is the current sheriff of Spencer County. Sidney Hancock doesn't miss a chance to belittle your talents for meddling, but I think he has a high regard for you.”

He cocked an eyebrow at me. “Shall I go on?”

Because of Bailey's career, I didn't question how he'd gotten this itemized account, but the
why
made me glare. “You forgot my weight and IQ.”

Bailey chuckled. “I have it on good authority that I'd better not mention the former. As to the latter, I know from past experience that you're damned smart.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed that you've taken the time to look into my background? Don't expect me to swoon from the attention. Frankly, it's an invasion of my privacy, and I don't like it.”

“Ah, but that's where evening the score comes in. I know all these details about you. I'm ready to bring you up to speed on me.”

To say I was interested was an understatement, but I played it cool. “I'm sure you've led a fabulous life.”

Laughter rumbled in Bailey's throat. “Subtlety is definitely your style. You're a clever woman. I admire that.” His tone grew serious. “I'm too impatient to fool with some convoluted male/female flirtation. I'm laying it on the line. I'm attracted to you. I came specifically to River City with you in mind. We had the beginnings of something special in Branson, but my job called me away. That part of my life is finished now. I'm ready to begin another.”

His words made my skin prickle with excitement. What was he proposing? My pulse raced. He was free. I was free. We were of an age to do as we wished, and yet my upbringing reared its fundamentally moralistic head.

I couldn't leap into bed with this … this stranger, no matter how handsome and intriguing he was. Besides, I had all those ugly stretch marks that crisscrossed my body like a road map. Before I disrobed, I had to make sure the man I was with wouldn't take one look and run screaming from the room. My ego couldn't take such a beating. Neither could my heart.

But I was getting ahead of myself. Bailey had merely said he was attracted to me. “Just what are you suggesting?” I asked.

“How about a date? We can go to whatever restaurant you like. Or you can come to the cottage for dinner. I'm a good cook, though not too fancy. When my wife died, I had to learn my limitations the hard way.”

“And this would be your first wife?”

Bailey smiled. “My one and only wife. That line I fed you in Branson about having three spouses was part of the plan to get information from you.”

“As I remember, it didn't work particularly well.”

“Depends on how you view the outcome. I'm here, and so are you. Dinner tonight? Say six thirty?”

He was rushing me. I wasn't sure how to take this sudden bout of honesty. I was suspicious, and my guard was up. Maybe everything he said was true, but what if he was in River City for a different reason? What if he wasn't retired from the DEA? What if he was feeding me another line?