Cake and Taxes: A Yellow Rose Cozy Mystery (Yellow Rose Mystery Series Book 2) (3 page)

The next morning, Martin was working on the daily crossword puzzle from his newspaper when his phone rang. Like Betty, he kept a land line telephone in his home in case of emergencies such as a lost cell phone or a local cell tower outage.

“Hello?”

Silence.

“Martin Lane speaking, can I help you?” he asked, trying to get the person on the other line to commit to a conversation or at least a greeting.

“You don’t fool me for a second. People like me can sniff an outsider like you from miles away.”

“Yeah, I’m a regular fish out of water,” Martin said. “Who is this?”

The man on the other end paused again.

“Meet me,” the husky voice exhaled. “Find me in Yellow Rose Park. You can’t afford to avoid me any longer, Martin Lane.”

Avoid him?
Martin thought. He hadn't the slightest clue who the guy was. A second later, the line went dead, leaving him with a decision to make.

*  *  *

The morning heat bore down on Martin's back. Betty didn’t understand why he insisted on wearing collared polo shirts and slacks in this brutal unrelenting swelter. A part of it he chocked up to shame. Shame in his dirt poor lower working class upbringing. Martin's father didn’t wear a collar to work, and he didn’t want to be anything like his old man. Had grown his hair long, too. Couldn’t stand the thought of looking like a working class stiff. It was less noticeable to most anyone else, and he buzzed down most of it when he'd enlisted in the Army. The last thing he wanted was someone walking on egg shells on his account.

Martin's eyes panned across the freshly manicured grass and well maintained pathways crowded with small children. A hundred feet ahead of him, underneath the dark and looming shadow of a cypress tree, a rough looking man paced from side to side.

Martin studied him for a moment, watching as he rubbed his hands together while talking to himself under his breath. He stood alone as children screamed at the top of their lungs from every direction. Quietly, he turned to Martin who could see the dark possessed look in his eyes. Martin rested his other hand on the butt of his revolver, keeping it low enough not to throw up any red flags.

As he began to introduce himself, the scraggly haired man looked at him and nodded.

“Let’s not go there, shall we?” He coughed into his hand, then pointed at the gun.

“You’ve got five minutes,” Martin replied.

Martin appraised the man's appearance. The guy looked like he hadn’t had a wink of sleep in days,  looking like he’d been purged of some deeply personal demons. Distracted by the trembling shell of a man standing before him, Martin failed to fully comprehend what he was saying.

“Turn around,” he grumbled.

Martin strained to look over his shoulder. Nothing there.

“No, you don’t understand. I’m saying you need to turn around and get out while you can,” the man said.

He rocked silently, stuffing his hands inside his pockets. Martin waited for him to regain his bearings. Ominous warnings weren't anything new to him. When he'd worked hard news years ago, there had always been some shadowy group of thugs looking to end him.

“Accidents happen to those who dig too deeply. You see?”

Yeah
, thought Martin.
I see all right.
A man who may be having a breakdown right before my eyes.

Martin shrugged. “I’m not worried about accidents. Luck’s been on my side every time. Well, mostly,” he replied.

Nothing felt right about how the man spoke. And it was what he said that gave Martin the most pause. The revelation that someone had it out for him didn’t exactly hit him like a sledgehammer. The man staggered out of the shadows of the trees. Wind rustled the hem of his tattered overcoat as he stepped out fully into the sun. He pointed at Martin. And he couldn’t keep his eyes off of the man's silver grizzled chin.

“Be advised, they will come after you if you cross 'em.”

Then, like that, he turned and walked off.

Martin furrowed his brow, watching the man skitter away. Another gust of wind made him feel a distinct ominous chill. Martin was not one to wax poetic about his own death, for Death and he had a clear understanding. The game of cat and mouse. Death held the advantage, although so far Martin had yet to be caught.

A buzz rattled deep in Martin's pockets. He dug his hand in and fished out his cell phone. He looked down at the caller ID. Betty Hitchens' name flashed in his eyes.

Her breath said it all. It was weightless. Broken. Unsteady. She rushed to speak.

“Nobody has any idea what happened. They tell me they found him lying there out cold.” She spoke in sharp bursts. “Tom is hurt. The doctors said he'd been in a fight, but when I look at him, Martin – I just know he was left for dead.”

“Where is he now?” Martin asked.

“Yellow Rose Medical. He’s in a coma. No one’s telling me if he’ll ever wake up. What if he dies? I’m so in the dark…”

“He won’t,” Martin told her.

“You’re only saying what I want to hear.”

Martin didn’t bother to further feed into Betty’s hysteria. He needed to get there quickly instead of hearing her pour out all of her agony over the phone. A high pitch screech crackled through the other end. It was her sobbing into even greater depths of despair.

The whole way driving to the hospital his mind wandered.
It’s only going to get worse before it gets better,
he thought. The parking garage was filled wall-to-wall, but eventually he found a space. Betty had mentioned that they had taken Tom to the third floor. A pair of EMS sped out of the ambulance with blood splattered all over their jackets, rushing their patient through the emergency entrance. Martin could hear their radios beeping in their pockets and saw beads of sweat glistening off their faces.

He stepped aside, allowing them to make a straight path through the automatic double doors. Martin trailed behind, knowing Betty was waiting up there with her friend.

Martin hated hospitals. Everything always smelled of nose-stinging high-grade disinfectant. Even in the elevators. As the doors closed ahead of him, he heard the strangled cries of a family member being informed of a deceased loved one. It was as if the woman had been standing there the entire time waiting for him to arrive.

Betty stared at him as he stepped out of the elevator. Her red-rimmed eyes told Martin she'd been crying for a long time. He wasn’t able to get a word out edgewise before she wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, her muttered words barely audible. “They’re saying he’s having trouble breathing.”

“Where’s his room?” Martin asked.

Betty wiped her eyes with her sleeve and pointed. “Over there.”

After a hard right, Martin walked down the long white hallway bustling with nurses rushing in one direction or the other. Betty followed closely behind him.
Why would anyone want to hurt Tom Nelson?
Martin wondered. His persona didn’t exactly read hardcore troublemaker.

After a pause, Martin entered Tom’s room.
They did a number on him all right
. Tom’s face looked like a sack of potatoes smashed open by an 18-wheeler on a six lane highway. Somebody wanted to send him a message. Someone had succeeded. Betty raised her hand to her mouth. She trembled like a leaf and buried her tear stained face into Martin's shoulder again.

“I don’t want him to die,” she cried, grabbing at Martin's shirt.

“No one’s going to die,” he said. Hoped. “How long have you been here? Why don't you step away for a bit. Go to the cafeteria and grab a bite of something.”

“Everything's falling apart all around me. Part of me wants to tell everyone to go away and just leave me alone.”

“The devil's prayer,” Martin said.

Betty brushed away more tears. Her eyes were still red and inflamed. “What?”

“Something I heard years ago from a friend. He said that when people say
just leave me alone
, they wind up isolating themselves from others. Nothing good ever comes from that. Supposedly, the devil is happy since it keeps people weak and confused and helpless.”

Betty stared at Martin.

Martin shrugged. “Sometimes life happens and there's not anything anyone can do about it. You only need to know that the best you can do is stay calm for your loved ones.”

After giving his words some thought, Betty gripped him tightly, then slipped out of his arms and quietly left the room.

If he didn’t know better Martin would think that Tom was dead. It took a moment to see his chest rising and falling, clinging to life. Clearly, Tom had crossed the wrong people. And someone decided to light a fire underneath him.

A short while later, Martin heard a knock at the door. There was a click and the door slowly swung open as Betty walked in.

“He’s okay, right?” she asked.

Her eyes were less red and more pinkish now. The bright rose flush disappeared from her cheeks.

“I’ve been in the room the entire time. Not much has changed. He’ll make a steady recovery. You’ll see.”

“Don’t you know what this feels like?” she asked, moving in front of Martin. “Didn’t you get tired of the world seeing you in a certain way? Is that why you got out of the newspaper business?”

When people talked about Martin's life like they knew anything about his past it always pricked a nerve, even when innocently said by friends. Instead of reacting, he paced Tom’s room.

“Seems I hit something you had buried,” Betty said, lowering her voice as she realized she'd said much more than intended.

“It's okay. You've been through a lot,” Martin replied. “I’ve been hurt worse. Words only hurt you if you let them.”

Betty gave a breathy laugh. “You're wrong. Words matter. They can be the hardest to heal from. Especially the cruel ones. You start blaming yourself for everything. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“No need to explain,” Martin said.

“Do you think someone he knows did this? When he was found by the lawn maintenance crew sprawled out behind his house, the cops had the whole street blocked off,” Betty said. “On top of everything else, no one knows where Boone, his son, is.”

Martin walked over to Tom’s bed side, staring at the IV drip snaking against his arm. After a moment, Betty sat down in the chair next to her friend’s bed and rested her head on his arm. Martin would tell her later what he'd overheard the police talking about earlier, that Boone had gone missing. Betty was dealing with enough at the moment. He quietly reached over, opened the door and exited the room.

After several more hours at the hospital, Betty returned home. Though it was late in the afternoon, she made herself some coffee and sat at the kitchen table as she gathered her thoughts. A friend of hers, Julie, sprang to mind. Julie was a hair dresser and had connections all over town. Betty wondered if she could help her figure out who, besides possibly Ned, might have been so upset with Marge that they wanted her dead. After checking for the shop's number in the directory, she got her cell phone and dialed the number.

The phone rang for some time before anyone picked up. Finally, one of the shop's employees answered and said they were closing up but that Julie would be with her in a moment. After several more moments had passed, Julie got on the line.

“Hey, Julie. Betty Hitchens. How are you?” Betty cleared her throat. “Sorry for calling you at work, but I'm trying to figure out a few things. I know you're getting ready to close up there, but do you have a minute?”

“Just spill it, Betty. You know I’m always eager to help.” Julie paused for a second as she yelled to someone inside the shop. “Say, Betty, did you hear about the new fireman the city hired? I got some great background on him from – ”

“Another time, Julie. Right now I'm checking to see what the word is on Marge Nelson.” Betty didn't want to be rude, especially since she was the one asking for information. But she knew Julie had a tendency to go off on tangents and it was hard to reel her in sometimes.

“Marge Nelson. Of course.  Everyone's talking about that. Some are even saying what a tragedy it was.”

Betty frowned. “That's not very nice. The woman may not have been popular due to the type of job she held, but she was a human being, after all.”

“I'm sorry, I know,” Julie said. “I'm only repeating what I've heard, including some of the sentiments.”

Betty sighed, then trudged onward. “What are people saying? Anything about who might have done it, or why?”

“Well, there are all kinds of theories and speculation. I did hear one thing, though, that sounded like it had a ring of truth about it.”

Betty waited for Julie to continue. The woman had a flair for the dramatic, and Betty knew she was pausing for effect.

“Carla was in here earlier today. You know Carla, right? Her mama was homecoming queen our freshman year in high school. She was able to parlay her looks and certain oral skills into a marriage with that contractor who later ran away with his personal assistant. Well, anyway, she was in here getting her hair done and I heard her talking to Sheila, the new girl here from Dallas. She's going through a divorce herself, poor thing.”

Marge sipped more of her coffee and held her tongue as Julie rambled on.

“Well, Sheila tells her that Marge used to hang around at Bacchus Jaden's place a lot. That was around the time she and her husband weren't getting along too well. According to Sheila, Marge wasn't exactly as strict on his businesses appraisals as she was with everyone else, if you know what I mean.”

“She was undervaluing his properties?”

“That's what Sheila insinuated. She also said that Marge eventually told him that she wasn't going to see him anymore and that the appraisal district was putting in new software that compared like-kind businesses from other counties or some such. Anyhow, the gist of it was that even in a small county like Magnum, the 21
st
century way of doing things was creeping in and she didn't plan on getting caught.”

“What happened then?” Betty asked.

“Not much. Bacchus didn't take the news well, but life went on. Well, until Monday when Marge died.”

“Did Sheila, or anyone else, report any of this to the police?”

“My guess is not, since it's only town gossip. But who knows?” Julie sneezed. “Excuse me, allergies are acting up. Hey, sorry to cut you short. But we're closing up. Gotta run.”

Betty could barely hear Julie from the tornado of thoughts going through her mind. She knew that she had to dig deeper, but at least this was a start.

“Yo, Betty, you still there?” Julie asked.

“What? Oh, yes. Thanks so much for your help,” Betty said, distracted by the scenario that was unfolding in front of her. “I’m good. Have a good evening,”

“No sweat. Let me know if you need anything else.” With that, the line went dead. Betty put her phone away, got her things and headed out the door.