Floral Depravity (14 page)

“Why, thanks.” But inside I was already beginning to seethe. Bixby may have had all the training, but I thought I was doing okay getting people to open up to me. And since Bixby was headed out the door, I had until tomorrow to decide how much of what I learned I would share with the chief.

I awoke again, this time to bright sunlight and the smell of bacon, which certainly hadn't come from my empty refrigerator. And if Nick had sponged it off my neighbor, I'd be the talk of Ramble for weeks.

“I hope you don't mind”—Nick slid two plates of eggs and bacon onto the table next to already poured glasses of orange juice—“but I borrowed your car to run to the grocery store. You seemed out of a lot of things.”

“Mind?” I grabbed a fork. It was like having June Cleaver on call. By the smacking sounds Chester and the kitten were making over dishes of wet food—which hadn't magically appeared from my near-empty cupboards—they enjoyed having Nick around as well. But soon the meal was over and Nick rushed back to the encampment.

As I filled up the sink with soapy water to wash our breakfast dishes—which was when I realized why I don't cook breakfast for myself that often—my cell rang.

I checked the number. Mother.

I slid into the chair and stared at the ringing phone until the call went to voice mail. I guessed I shouldn't have delayed the inevitable, but I was too tired to deal with the dishes and too conflicted to talk with my mother.

Instead, I sipped the rest of my coffee as Chester headed for the water bowl. No sooner had he lapped up a bit than the kitten yet to be named scampered over and nosed Chester out of the way.

He sat on his haunches for a moment, probably shocked by the audacity. He meowed once at me.

“Sorry, bud. Y'all are going to have to learn to get along.”

His whiskers twitched, as if he was considering my advice. Then he reached over one gray paw and bopped the kitten on the head.

She swished her tail a few times but backed off until Chester had his fill and moseyed on to the living room. After a couple of sniffs at the water, she lost interest and chased after him.

I headed to work, doubling back only once to get Opie's book—and shoo the kitten off the counter.

Thursdays weren't the busiest days, but I had one small wedding job to do, so I wanted to make sure the flowers had arrived. But when I walked into the back door of the shop, Liv and Opie were already hard at work, processing our latest delivery by deftly cutting off the old ends—at the prescribed angle—and putting the newly cut stems into preservative.

Liv's hands automatically continued as she looked up. “Audrey, what in the world are you doing here?”

“I work here, remember?” I set Opie's borrowed book down on the edge of her worktable before pulling my apron from its peg. “How's the paper coming?”

“It's coming,” Opie said. “The book will help a lot, though. If I weren't such an honest person, I'd offer Carol money to write this paper for me. Come to think of it, she'd probably enjoy it. I could kick myself for getting thrown out of that camp.”

“Are we such bad company?” Liv asked.

“No.” Opie stopped as she found a rotten spot on the calla lily stem she was cutting. She made her cut just above the mushy area. She held up the flower with a now three-inch stem. “Is it worth keeping?”

“For a boutonniere or corsage maybe,” I said. “But you managed to dodge the topic. Are we such bad company?” I winked at her.

Opie held the calla lily where a lapel would be—not that you could really wear a boutonniere with the black studded T-shirt of a skull with a pink bow on the top of its head. Then again, why not? She shrugged and put the lily into the bucket. “Not at all. It's this paper that's lame. And here I thought that camp was lame. I should have listened to Melanie and Carol and tried harder to follow those—”

“Lame rules?” Liv suggested. “But our lovely intern isn't the only one to skirt questions this morning. I seem to recall asking what you were doing here when you could be hunting for clues and interrogating suspects.”

“I'm going in later. Believe it or not, with Bixby.”

“Then I guess I need to tell you what I learned while digging on the Internet last night,” she said.

“About?”

“About everyone I could think of. I couldn't sleep.” She patted her belly. “I think these hormones are all messed up.”

I gnawed on a dry cuticle. It really wasn't fair to saddle Liv with all the work of running the shop, especially in her condition. “Maybe I should stay here today while you go home and rest.”

She shook her head. “Amber Lee's coming in later today, and I have Opie hanging around me like a mother hen. I half suspect Eric of paying her to play nursemaid.”

Opie smiled but didn't answer. Apparently Liv was on to something.

“Did you find anything interesting?” I asked. “Online, that is?”

“I learned a little more about the gruff Chandler Hines. He does quite a business online in metal working. Mostly armor and armaments for enthusiasts. He's even done some work for the motion pictures industry. Very pricy stuff, though. And a very limited market. At least for people who want to be truly authentic, and that's what he does.”

“He didn't seem to have much tolerance for Brooks and his factory-made armor,” I said, “but that hardly seems like a motive for poisoning someone.”

“Oh, you don't know these guys,” Opie said. “They're nuts about this kind of stuff.”

“Hines told me that he'd challenged Brooks to a joust to settle the dispute,” I added. “Why would he then go and kill the man?”

“Got tired of waiting?” Opie suggested.

“If he got tired of waiting, you'd think a man obsessed with antique weapons would choose something other than poison.” I turned back to Liv. “Does Hines have any education or training in plants or chemistry or anything like that?”

“Not that I could find,” Liv said. “He's former military. Went straight from firing modern weapons to crafting medieval ones.”

The “former military” part rang a chord.

“Brooks was also former military,” I said. “Might they have met? Perhaps even served together?” Or if Brooks were involved in black ops, as my father suggested, would that have put him at odds with the military? I really should have paid more attention to all those spy movies Brad had dragged me to.

“That's going to be harder to find out,” Liv said, “but I could try. I mean military records are protected, and I'm no hacker. But perhaps someone posted old pictures on Facebook or something. That's how I found out about Chandler Hines. His old unit is into social networking and quite the raucous reunions. I can try to find a connection between him and Barry Brooks.”

And I knew by that determined look that if there was anything to learn, she would find it.

“But if he's former military,” she said, “wouldn't that mean he's had some kind of survival training? Do they do that? Or is that just Boy Scouts?”

I shrugged.

“That I can look up,” she said. “But if Hines had survival training, learning what you can eat while stranded in the woods could be just as helpful in knowing what you can't eat. Right?”

That made sense in a Liv sort of way.

“Did you come across anything on Raylene Quinn?” I asked.

“She's a very intelligent woman, but she has a very depressing Facebook page. Kind of passive aggressive. The whole world is bad, it seems. And then more about how adversity makes you stronger. And then she rants when people invite her to play games.”

“Probably trying to cheer her up.”

“That's what I thought,” Liv said. “If she'd bothered to take the ‘What Winnie the Pooh Character Are You?' quiz, she'd be a definite Eeyore.”

“I can see why.” I leaned against the table. Apparently just thinking about her could drain the energy from someone. “She's invested a good part of her life in Brooks Pharmaceuticals and in Barry Brooks personally. And I'm not sure it's done that much for her.”

“How do you mean?” Liv asked.

“She took up with Brooks right after college,” I said, “apparently trading certain . . . favors . . . for rapid advancement in the company.”

“So she slept her way to the top,” Opie said. “It happens.”

“Yes, but for someone clearly as intelligent as Raylene, it has to be galling,” I said, “to know your promotion didn't come from your accomplishments.”

“Maybe those advanced degrees were Raylene proving to herself that she was worthy of the promotions Brooks was giving her,” Liv said.

“Or proving it to others,” I said. “The sad thing is, I wonder how far all her education and experience could have taken her if she'd worked elsewhere.”

“Brooks wouldn't have let her go to the competition,” Opie said. “Not without a fight.”

I nodded. “And I'm sure he had ample ammunition to smear her reputation if he'd wanted to. She was stuck. No way for her to rise any higher at Brooks Pharmaceuticals, and no door open to go anywhere else.”

“Far cry from the Hundred Acre Wood. And,” Liv said, “if she suddenly came to realize Brooks was using her and holding her back . . .”

I tapped my nails on the table. “She's still my best suspect.”

The bell over the door rang, and Opie excused herself to check on the customer.

Liv watched her leave. “Well, did you find out anything?” Liv asked in hushed tones, moving closer to me. “Did you get to talk with
him
?” She leaned in so close I could no longer focus on her face. “Did you talk to your f-a-t-h-e-r?”

“Good heavens, Liv. Even if Opie could hear us, she knows how to spell. But yes, I talked with him. Briefly. Bixby was looking for him and found him right after.”

“And?”

“We're taking that long-promised trip to Florida and he's buying me a puppy.”

She hit my arm. “Will you be serious?”

“Being serious is depressing. But don't worry. I won't post that on Facebook.”

She gave me the glare, so I recounted my visit, starting with snooping on my father's cell phone and ending with Bixby interrupting our discussion to question him. I then filled her in on Bixby showing up at my house at three a.m., but I left out the part about Nick being there in a drool-covered tunic and the imprint of the tie on my cheek.

“But Bixby doesn't know he's your father?” she asked. “Are you going to tell him?”

“I'm not sure. I'm not sure it's relevant.”

Liv closed her eyes. Meanwhile the bell up front chimed twice, meaning Opie would be tied up longer with customers.

Liv pushed herself up onto a stool. “Well, I did find your father mentioned in a number of cases. He's a legitimate bail bondsman
and
bounty hunter, and apparently very good at it. Never did a guest appearance on
Dog the Bounty Hunter
, though. Such a pity. Not even any photographs online.”

“He would have avoided being seen on TV or posting pictures. Why change your name and then risk being recognized by putting your image out there? Can't imagine Mother watching an episode of
Dog
, though, so if he was hiding from her, that would have been safe.”

“I also couldn't find any records of a wife or family, but he pays his taxes, apparently runs a clean, profitable business, albeit in a shady part of town. But I expect most bail services are near the jails.”

That made sense.

She winced. “I did call my mother.”

I inhaled through my teeth. “That's pretty risky.” Liv's mother and mine, like many twins, seemed to have some kind of psychic connection. It was impossible for one of them to keep a secret from the other.

“I know,” she said. “But I didn't tell her that he was here. I just said that you were in a relationship and seemed to have trouble committing, and I wondered if it could be because of your father.”

My jaw dropped, so I snapped it shut and closed my eyes, then hid my burning face behind my hands.

“Well, it's true in a way,” Liv hedged. “And Mom bought it. That's all it took to get her talking. Your mother hasn't been telling you everything about him and why he left.”

I peeked out from between my fingers. “Did she know about Brooks?”

Liv shook her head. “Not about those supposed CIA connections, at least as far as Mom told me. But she did say something interesting that plays right into that angle. She said Brooks was far too accommodating after your father left.”

“What does that mean,
far too accommodating
?”

“Just the words my mother used. But I gathered that Brooks came on to your mother.”

“So Dad left under a manufactured cloud of suspicion, and then Brooks made a play for my mother?” By this time my cheeks were hot and my stomach gurgling. “Good thing,” I said. “All I can say is that it's a good thing.”

“Audrey, you're frightening me. What's a good thing?” She hopped off her stool and made her way to where I stood clenching my fists.

“Good thing he's dead,” I said. “Otherwise I might have killed him myself.”