Lilies That Fester (17 page)

Read Lilies That Fester Online

Authors: Janis Harrison

On the ride up to the fifth floor, I wondered what kind of public denouncement Miriam had hoped to hear. It must have something to do with Darren. Gellie had said that he had come to the semifinals prepared with glamellia blossoms fabricated from gladiolus florets. While Darren's clever gimmick wasn't proper, it was hardly worth pitching a fit over. It had been Gellie who'd brought the contrived flowers to the judges' attention when Miriam had refused to get involved. And yet for the last two days, Miriam had conspired “to keep the contest fair and aboveboard for everyone.”
Contrived—conspired—repertoire. The three words formed a picture I didn't like, but that didn't mean I was right. When the elevator had deposited me on my floor, I saw Hubert waiting in the hall outside my room. In his hand was a perfect peach rose with a bow and card attached.
He saw me and smiled shyly. “I promised I'd personally deliver this to you, Mrs. Solomon.” He thrust the flower into my hand and turned to leave.
“Please wait,” I said. “I assume this is from Darren?” When the old man nodded, I indicated my room. “Come on in while I read the card. I may want to reply.”
I checked the handle, unlocked the door, and flipped on the
lights. Reluctantly, Hubert followed me. “Have a seat,” I invited, gesturing to the chairs by the window.
He crossed the room and perched on the edge of a cushion. His black slacks were neatly creased, his shirt an ebony silk. As I nudged my suitcase aside, an apple rolled across the bottom. I stared at it before I sat on the bed and read the card. It simply stated that Darren was sorry, followed by his name signed in a tight scrawl at the bottom.
“Darren hopes you'll understand,” said Hubert.
Slowly, I nodded. “Yeah. It's coming to me, but not what Darren might have expected.” I laid the rose and card on the nightstand. “I was present when he won his first competition.” Reaching into the open suitcase, I picked up the red apple. “This is a Jonathan, and Darren used Granny Smith, but the end result would be the same.”
I smiled and tossed the apple to Hubert, who caught it easily. “I've always remembered those apples Darren carved into swans. Show me how it's done, Hubert.”
“I really don't know—”
“Oh, yes, you do. Aren't you tired of the deception?”
Instead of answering, Hubert pulled a red-handled knife from his pocket. His hand shook ever so slightly as he worked the blade from its casing. “My grandfather was a whittler—bars of soap, pieces of fruit—but not a wood-carver. He thought that sounded too grand for an idle hobby. When he held a knife, he drew a crowd, reveling in the attention, telling stories about the creation he was shaping. I was five when he gave me my first cutting tool.” The stainless-steel blade sliced through the crisp apple. “The minute I grasped that knife in my grubby little hand images were in my brain, and my fingers know exactly what to do.”
Darren had said those same words to Miriam, but in his case they'd sounded pretentious. Hubert was stating a fact. “And you taught Darren?” I asked.
“It took days. I had to trace each cutting line with a Magic Marker before he got the hang of it.” Three more times Hubert cut into the apple. “It isn't difficult if you can visualize, but that's Darren's problem. He can copy, but he doesn't have imagination. I make the original designs, he memorizes them down to the placement of a single piece of greenery.”
“But he does his arrangements with such finesse. How is that possible?”
“If you do something long enough it becomes second nature.” Hubert bent over the apple. “Just a couple more cuts—”
“Why wasn't he apprehensive about this contest? With the categories kept a secret wasn't he worried about making a good showing?”
Hubert didn't answer right away. He dipped the point of his knife into the apple and gave it a couple of twists. After wiping his creation with a handkerchief he'd taken from his pocket, he presented a swan to me, nestled in the palm of his hand. I admired his work, then placed it next to the rose on the nightstand.
“The categories didn't matter to Darren,” said Hubert, cleaning the blade of his knife and putting it back in his pocket. “He's learned a number of designs that would fit any occasion. You could have said, ‘Night of the Black Moon,' and I would bet he'd have reached for a low container. Next would have been a white football mum, standing tall and straight, with a cluster of the darkest purple flowers at the base. He'd have joked with the audience, whipping his knife accurately through the flower stems. When he was finished with his creation,
he'd have presented his bouquet with aplomb, making you gasp with admiration.”
“And you've seen him complete this design?”
Hubert scoffed. “Seen him? I created it for the France design symposium that was held last year. Darren taught one hundred and forty florists that more isn't necessarily best.” He smirked. “Regardless of what Martha Stewart says.”
“How could you allow him to take credit for your creativity?”
Hubert shrugged. “My job at Delia's shop was going nowhere. She reserved all the specialty orders for herself, leaving me the bud vases, mugs, or simple hospital and sympathy arrangements. When she was away on vacation, I learned that I had a knack for making a more dramatic showing. Darren came to work for her and expressed a desire to learn.”
Sadly, he shook his head. “She teased him about being a budding artiste—at driving a delivery van—and dared him to enter that contest. He and I got along well. I had the inventiveness, and he had the personality to carry it off. Teaming up with Darren was the best thing that could have happened to me.”
Hubert sat staring off into space and a smile touched his lips. “You asked if I was tired of the deception?” Before I could answer, he shifted his gaze to the carving on the nightstand. “I might not have been the swan, Mrs. Solomon, but at least I got to swim on the lake.”
The arrival of my salad was the excuse that sent Hubert on his way. I picked at the food, took a shower, and then climbed into bed. My body craved rest, but my mind wouldn't stop spinning. I was furious with Darren for having conned the industry I loved, but it was Hubert's last comment that kept me tossing and turning.
“I might not have been the swan, but at least I got to swim on the lake.”
It was a picturesque way of saying that he hadn't been the star of the show, but he'd had a supporting role and was important in the overall scheme of things. Wasn't that the way I felt when I got caught up in a case? By finding the truth, I was making a difference in someone's life, while at the same time, my involvement helped me believe that I still mattered.
I flopped over on my stomach and bunched the pillow under my head. This wasn't the best time to analyze my past, if I wanted to go to sleep. But I couldn't stop my thoughts.
Before Carl died, I'd seen myself as an independent businesswoman. And in that area, I had been self-reliant and confident. What I hadn't counted on was how Carl's love had shaped the rest of my life. Once he was gone, I'd faced a major upheaval in everything around me—everything except my
flower shop, but then, he'd never been involved with that aspect of my life.
I'd searched for ways to ease the pain I'd felt at his passing. I'd sold the home he and I had shared and bought the mansion that was more ostentatious than anything I'd ever dreamed of owning. I'd changed my physical appearance to the point that when I looked in the mirror it was as if I were seeing another woman.
My mother had believed that a well-centered person didn't manipulate life's circumstances but made the best of any given situation. Effie had offered the same advice, but with a twist another florist could appreciate—bloom where you're planted.
When I looked at my history from this perspective, it would seem I was a fantastic manipulator. Instead of blooming where I was planted, I'd eased my roots from my own flowerbed and transplanted them elsewhere, hoping to claim a piece of someone else's life as a means of rounding out my own.
Snuggling deeper under the covers, I closed my eyes and forced myself to lie still. There have been times when my bouts of sleeplessness have brought discovery. Some of my best plans were made at night while the rest of the world snoozed. However, at this particular moment, lying in a strange bed, away from home and all that was familiar, I was at a loss.
I was tired. Tired of thinking. Tired of swimming alone on the lake. I sighed and ran my fingers over the cold sheets at my side. Mostly, I was tired of sleeping alone. Maybe that's how Gellie and Stephanie had felt, too. At age fifty, Gellie had undergone major surgery to help her lose weight. Stephanie's picture had showed a young woman desperate to have a life. After coming home from Branson she'd been filled with hopes and dreams.
Graze—eat. Weight—gain. Starve—die.
I squeezed my eyes shut. It was there. The thought was just an embryo. If I could relax, my subconscious might make it flourish.
I was dozing restlessly when there was a knock on my door. I burrowed deeper under the covers, but the tapping became insistent. I flipped on the lamp and looked at the clock. It was after 1:00 A.M.
“Who is it?” I called.
“Bretta, it's Robbee. I have to talk to you.”
“Not now.”
“It's about Stephanie.”
That brought me wide-awake. I rubbed my eyes and creaked out of bed. “Wait a second,” I called as I put on my robe. After a brief visit to the bathroom, I unlatched the door. “This better be good,” I said. He was dressed in evening clothes, minus his tie. The first three buttons of his shirt were undone. “Damned good,” I muttered as he walked past me, wafting the aroma of liquor. I shut the door and faced him. “I hope this isn't a drunken plea for me to okay you as a contestant.”
“I'm not drunk. I had a couple glasses of wine.”
I motioned to the chair Hubert had occupied earlier, then watched Robbee closely to see if he staggered. He seemed in control of his faculties. I sat on my bed and pulled a blanket around my shoulders. “What about Stephanie?”
“You asked me if I mailed her presents or letters?” I nodded. “Not once did I send her anything. I could have taken advantage of her, but I didn't. She was nice, Bretta. I wouldn't have set her up to be hurt.”
“But that didn't stop you from spreading on the charm. You might not have meant for her to read more into your actions,
but I think she did. And you
know
she did. That's what brought you here tonight. You feel guilty, and you want me to assure you that everything is fine.”
I tossed off the blanket and stood up. “I won't do that. Stephanie is the one you owe an explanation to, but she's dead.” Robbee winced. I steadily surveyed him. “Her parents are dead, too.”
Robbee's forehead creased with a frown. “Stephanie told me her mother had cancer, but what happened to her father?”
“They were murdered.”
Robbee's eyes widened, and he jerked upright in his chair. “Murdered?” he repeated. “When? Where?”
“I don't know the particulars,” I said, “but an investigation is quietly taking place here in Branson. I want your word that this information won't go any further than this room. Which means no florist grapevine.”
Robbee slowly nodded. “Last fall I called the McDuffys' house to talk Stephanie into selling me some of her pictures, but she was too sick to come to the phone. Mabel told me that Stephanie hadn't been ill until she came back from Branson. I commented that Stephanie might have picked up a flu bug; Mabel was convinced her daughter's illness was more serious, but she couldn't persuade her to go to the doctor. She said Stephanie had trouble breathing, was depressed, and wouldn't eat. She just sipped tea—”
“—listened to music, and watched for the mail,” I finished softly. I sat down on the bed and pulled the blanket around my shoulders. “Gellie drank tea, too,” I said aloud. “She even carried her own tea bags.”
“What does Gellie's … uh … death have to do with Stephanie's or her parents?”
“I haven't figured out every detail, but Stephanie visits
Branson, then goes home, where she gets sick and dies. Her parents come to Branson, and they're murdered. Gellie arrives in Branson a day ahead of what she tells us. She met with someone who she said had approached her with an idea last year, and two days later she's dead.”
“When you put it that way, it does seem suspicious, but who or what connects it?”
Now was my chance. I stared him in the eye. “Is it you?”
“Me?” He licked his lips and tried to smile, but it was a feeble effort. “I'm not a killer, Bretta. I may have a hundred character flaws, but murderous intent isn't one of them.”
“If you're lying, Robbee, kill me now, because I'm going to figure this out.”
A spark of the old razzle-dazzle shone in his eyes. “I'm in your bedroom, and you're dressed in a flimsy robe. Killing you isn't my first impulse.”
I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders and gave him a disgusted glare. “I didn't think it was you, but I had to ask. Did you happen to notice who's on duty at the front desk?”
“Ruby. Why?”
“Darn. I wish Helen were here.” I frowned at Robbee. “You and this Ruby are on a first-name basis?”
Robbee's tone was defensive. “What's wrong with that?”
“Go down there and see if you can talk her into giving you the key to the McDuffys' room.”
“Good Lord, Bretta, you aren't asking for much. How in the world am I going to do that? What kind of excuse can I use?” His eyes narrowed. “Besides, if the McDuffys have been murdered, won't their room be sealed?”
“Nothing's been officially announced. I think the ‘powers that be' are waiting to see what develops.”
“But if we're caught in that room—”
We haggled for another fifteen minutes, but in the end, I had my way. Shame and guilt were mighty weapons, and I used both barrels. Robbee was scowling when he left, but I had no doubt that he'd wile his way around Ruby to get what I wanted.
I used the time he was gone to get dressed and to flesh out my plan. It stood to reason that with the murder of the McDuffys, they'd found the person who'd led their daughter astray. To do that they must've had more information than what they'd shared with me. Bailey would have gone over the room. I wanted that chance, too.
I waited for Robbee, wavering between going on with my plan or going back to bed. I stomped around the room, irritated with myself. I was doing it again. Getting involved in something that wasn't any of my business, and yet, how could I turn my back on Vincent and Mabel's final plea for justice?
Effie had said that I might have a God-given talent for helping others. Carl had thought I had potential or he'd never have taken the time to educate me. Just as my eyes were blue and my hair was brown, I finally admitted that this was to be my lot in life. I wasn't going to change—even for a federal investigation.
When the knock sounded on my door, my shoulders were squared. I opened the door to find Effie standing in the hall. My eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.
I took her arm and hurried her inside, where I gave her the once-over. She looked okay—no blood, no cuts, and no tears. But I was suspicious of the blush that stained her wrinkled cheeks. My gaze traveled from her polyester pantsuit to her soft-soled slippers.
“Effie, what are you doing still dressed? I hope you haven't been snooping around the hotel?”
“I can't do a surveillance of the entire building, so I took the stairs to the lobby and hid behind a plant near the front door. It was a good spot, dear. I was able to observe the comings and goings of everyone. I had quite an adventure. Of course, the man that does maintenance on the tropical plants won't ever be the same.” She tittered at the memory.
It made me crazy with worry to think about her going up and down that stairwell. I could have given her chapter and verse about the dangers involved in snooping, but I knew my warning would fall on deaf ears. So I tried another tact. “Effie, you need your rest. Everyone's asleep by now, probably even our killer.”
“We can only surmise what the killer is doing, dear, and everyone is not asleep. I saw Robbee flirting with the front desk clerk. When I heard him mention the McDuffys' name, I came up here to tell you.”
Before I could answer there was a knock on the door. Effie's eyes widened when I let Robbee into my room. His face was flushed; his hand shook as he held up the plastic key.
“Got it,” he said unnecessarily. “But it cost the association two dozen red roses, arranged and delivered to Ruby before she goes off duty at six A.M.”
“That's all it took?”
He made a face. “Her boyfriend won't propose. Ruby hopes when he sees the bouquet that has come from a ‘secret admirer,' he'll pop the question.” Robbee glared at me. “Don't ever shame me again, Bretta. Women are just as manipulative as any man could ever be.” He glanced around and saw Effie. “This is a pleasant surprise—I think.”
“Effie was just on her way to her room. We'll escort her before we go upstairs.”
“Upstairs?” said Effie. “What door does that key unlock?”
I briefly sketched out my plan and promised to fill her in tomorrow on what I'd found in the McDuffys' room. She wasn't interested in a replay. She wanted firsthand knowledge. I knew I was in trouble when she crossed her arms over her shrunken bosom and tapped her slipper stubbornly.
I tried one more time. “If the three of us traipse upstairs someone is sure to wonder what's going on.”
Effie nodded to Robbee. “Leave him here.” She got this devious gleam in her eye. “Or perhaps you'd like me to go back to my lookout in the lobby?”

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