Lilies That Fester (6 page)

Read Lilies That Fester Online

Authors: Janis Harrison

“When I was in the basement a Federal Express man brought a huge box. There was no bill of lading. No invoice. Nothing.”
I wondered what she was doing in the basement. “Perhaps it's another donation.”
“From California? What wholesaler from out west is going to donate flowers for a contest in Missouri?”
“Maybe it's a direct shipment from the grower. I won't know until I check my notes.”
Delia had sat down, but now she leaned forward. Her tone was sarcastic. “You mean you really have something written down? There are plans? There are notes? There is a list of categories?”
“Yes, Delia. I've worked damned hard on this contest.”
“So you say, but we haven't seen any proof.”
“Now, ladies,” said Tyrone, “I will not tolerate this bickering. Adverse undercurrents will be sensed by the attendees and put a damper on the festivities.”
“This contest could be fun for everyone,” I said. “If
everyone
will back off.”
Miriam surveyed me coolly. “Bretta won't change her mind, and we're using our energy arguing a lost cause. We'll have to prepare for the competition in another way.” She looked across the table at Darren and flashed him a smile. “How about sharing some of your wonderful design techniques? I'm curious how you can come up with one fantastic piece of work after another and another.”
Before Darren could speak, a trio of tray-bearing waitresses came into the room. The aroma of food turned my stomach, but more upsetting was the company I'd have to keep while eating. I pleaded a headache and left the dining room.
The headache hadn't been a lie, but I didn't want to shut myself in my room. I stepped to the door of the main dining room, but it was crowded, not a single empty table in sight. The bar was open, but I wasn't a drinker or I'd have hopped on a stool and knocked back a couple of margaritas.
I bet Zach could use a stout potion to dull the pain of his wounded posterior and pride. It wouldn't help his macho image to be seen gimping around the hotel, favoring his butt. I was sorry it had happened—sorry for him and for Effie, but I was glad Zach had traded chairs with me. In this flimsy skirt and panty hose that knife would have scored a deeper hit, and I'd have been out of commission.
In the hall I looked around wondering where to go, and what to do? The new shipment of flowers popped into my mind. When in doubt, do what comes naturally: work. A long flight from California meant the flowers needed water.
The hall was congested with people waiting for a table. I sidestepped several, murmured “excuse me” a couple of times, then hurried past the elevators to the stairwell that would take me to the corner of the basement nearest the storage rooms designated for our contest.
I had opened the stairwell door when a hand touched my bare arm. The contact was warm but surprising. Startled, I turned to find Bailey smiling at me.
“You look upset,” he said, nodding to the stairs. “Shortcut to your room?”
“Nope. Basement.”
He grinned. “Really feeling low, huh?”
That's the kind of comeback Carl used to make, and I smiled at the memory. But my lip action froze when I met Bailey's warm gaze.
Abruptly I said, “An unexpected shipment of flowers has arrived, and someone needs to cut the stems and put them in warm water. I decided I might as well do the job since I'm not feeling very sociable.” I tacked this last on hoping he'd get my drift.
“I'd like to see these flowers,” he said, taking my elbow and urging me through the stairwell doorway. The door clunked shut behind us.
I smothered a resigned sigh. Short of being rude to him, I didn't see how to get rid of him. We were silent as we went down the first flight of steps. The aroma of his aftershave lotion was pleasant but thought-provoking. I'd know that scent anywhere. Carl had worn Old Spice every day of his life.
Bailey clomped behind me, not saying a word. Finally, I said, “Besides being an avid gardener and butterfly enthusiast, what do you do?”
“I'm a deejay for a radio station outside of St. Louis. I play golden oldies for my audience.”
That was my favorite music, but I'd never have pegged Bailey as a rock and roller. I glanced over my shoulder at the easy way he wore his suit. The navy jacket was neatly buttoned.
His burgundy tie hung straight, the knot tied with precision. “I'd have guessed you were an IRS man, banker, accountant—a suit and tie kind of profession.”
“Really? I'm most comfortable in jeans and sneakers.”
I stopped to massage my left foot where a blister was forming. “Me, too. These heels weren't made to traipse down nine flights of stairs.” I looked at his feet. Spit and polish penny loafers without the pennies. In place of the copper coins, Bailey had substituted dimes. An interesting piece of trivia, and when I had a free moment, I might speculate on what it meant.
“I assume we're taking this route because you were in too much of a rush to wait for the elevators?” asked Bailey.
I slipped my shoe back on and started down the steps again. “I hate heights and those glass-fronted elevators are too exposed for my taste.”
“Oh, so you have a case of acrophobia. My second wife was claustrophobic. Could barely tolerate an open closet door. She'd toss my shirts at the hangers and seem amazed when none draped themselves obligingly around the wire frames. Of course, my third wife wasn't much better. Her problem was allergies—vacuum cleaners, washing machines, ironing boards, and dishwashers. You name it. If it involved moving off the couch, she became incapacitated.”
I couldn't keep from sounding flabbergasted. “You've been married three times?”
“Guilty as charged. I'm not proud of my mistakes, but I'm not accepting all the blame. It takes two to make a relationship. My first wife was a paragon. When she passed away, I should have been content with memories of a good marriage.”
“What happened to her?”
“Car crash. Slick roads. It's been five years, but the pain is still there.”
“Yeah. My husband died twenty-two months ago.”
Bailey whistled softly. “Tough time. I remember it well. You don't fit in. Still feel married, but no spouse. No spouse, but it's difficult going out with anyone.”
Finally someone who understood. Lois was forever pushing me to date and telling me to “get back in the scheme of things.” I looked over my shoulder at Bailey. “That's right. I've tried dating, but I feel as if I'm cheating on Carl.”
“I thought wife number two would fill a void in my life. Instead of solving my problem, she created more than I wanted to handle.”
I hurried on down the stairs. That's what I feared. Carl and I'd been in sync with few minor discords. Behind me, Bailey continued talking. “I divorced her and swore off any serious relationships. I dated a few times, but mostly I sat home. Then I met my third wife and fell for her like a randy teenager. She was beautiful, even laughed at my jokes.”
“This was the wife allergic to housework? You could have hired a maid if she was perfect in other areas.”
“Not perfect by a long shot. Did I mention that she gained forty pounds in the six months we were married?”
“Oh?” I kept my tone neutral. “Do you have an aversion to heavy women?”
“Women who don't care about their looks irritate me. Fat women, in particular, annoy the hell out of me. They blame genetics, sluggish metabolism, underactive thyroid, or some such medical problem, when all they need to do is shut their mouths and get up off their wide behinds.”
His insensitive words hurt. Right then and there, I should
have set Bailey straight that overeating has many contributing factors and rarely is laziness among them. I should have told him that I'd once been overweight, but I'd never spent my time lounging around the house. Perhaps I'd eaten the wrong foods, but I wasn't a slacker. However, those explanations were too personal to make to a man I didn't know. Instead I navigated the last three flights of stairs in silence.
At the basement door, I turned to Bailey. “I can take it from here, Mr. Monroe. As I said before, I'm not feeling social this evening.”
Bailey's brown eyes widened. “That's a cool dismissal. We were doing fine when we left the ninth floor. In fact, between the sixth and fourth, I thought we shared a common understanding of what it was like to be left without our spouse. What happened, Bretta? What did I say that annoyed you?”
I didn't bother answering. I opened the door and went down the corridor toward the storage room. To my irritation, Bailey followed. If he couldn't take a hint, then I'd have to spell it out. I wasn't interested in his company, and if he knew the truth—that I'd once been a fatty—he wouldn't be interested in mine.
I faced him and said, “You're right about one thing. It does take two to make a relationship. You might want to take a closer look at your own actions before you place the blame for the failure of your marriages.”
Instead of taking offense, Bailey flashed me a winning smile and grasped my arm. But before he spoke, his breast pocket rang. He frowned and took out a cell phone. It was shiny chrome, tiny, and compact—just the way he liked his women, I was sure.
“Monroe,” he said. “Yeah. Yeah.”
I tried to pull away, but Bailey's fingers tightened. “Wait,”
he said to me. “Not you,” he rumbled into the phone. “Go ahead.”
This man was testing the limits of my patience. I jerked my arm. His eyebrows drew down into a frown. “Can't say,” he murmured. “Can't say.” He cupped the phone closer to his lips. “Bodies?”
I froze, but cocked an ear.
Hearing the word “bodies,” and being the widow of a law officer, my mind instantly went to homicide. Carl had taken calls like this a number of times when we'd been married. Thinking back, it seemed that most of the requests to report for duty had come at night. I'd lie in bed and watch him dress to go out to investigate a scene that would keep him absorbed to the point that neither of us could rest until the case was solved.
In view of where I was, and whom I was with, it was a ridiculous assumption, but I didn't think about that. As soon as Bailey had slipped the phone back in his pocket, I asked, “Whose bodies? What happened?”
“Bodies?” he repeated, frowning. “Oh. A couple of butterflies were caught in a net. In their struggle to get free, they thrashed themselves to death.” He touched his jacket pocket. “The president of our organization asked me to help him mount the bodies on a poster to insure this kind of torture doesn't happen again.”
“That's the silliest thing—”
Bailey's tone was chilly. “I have my hobby, and I take it very seriously. Capturing butterflies that are burdened with eggs is against our club policy. Those butterflies are dead because a
couple of members wanted a closer look at the markings on the wings.” He dropped my arm. “You'll have to excuse me. I have work to do.”
I stared after him as he hurried down the corridor and through the basement doorway. I didn't buy that bit about the butterflies for a second. Something was going on, and my next best guess was shapely bodies. Bailey had been on the make in the lobby and later in the bar and the elevator. It sounded to me as if he'd gotten a call from a friend who'd arranged a hot date.
Out loud, I said, “Mount the bodies,” and was shocked at the inappropriate way my body responded.
“Carl, I wish you were here,” I said, calling on the best defense I had against these stimulating thoughts. But this time there was no answering voice. I hoped it was because my mind was crowded with other things, and not because Carl had slipped away. As time went on would his voice dwindle until I never heard it again?
I couldn't abide pursuing this, so I let my guard down and thoughts of Bailey crept in. It was interesting that we had several things in common—the loss of a spouse was an emotional bond that not everyone could understand. When Bailey had mentioned his first wife, I'd detected a deep sense of loss, but to marry two more times seemed irresponsible, if he was only lonely. He had said he was an avid gardener, so he liked flowers, which was a redeeming quality to this florist. But he couldn't abide fat women.
I sighed and meandered down the basement corridor. For the preparation of the contest, I'd been assigned two rooms with a connecting door. One room contained a walk-in cooler, while the other had easy access to water and trash pickup.
The hotel forbid handing out storeroom keys to guests. This had been the deciding factor in making the categories secret. Since I couldn't stop the contestants from snooping, I had to have some way to keep their work spontaneous during the competition.
To my way of thinking that's the only way to judge creative talent. If they were prepared with the knowledge of the flowers, the containers, and the categories, they could map out their strategy. How would natural ability come into play?
I opened the door to the storage area where I'd directed the hotel staff to put any deliveries for our convention. Alvin had just cut the twine from around a large box.
He straightened when he saw me. “Hi. I thought you were eating dinner.”
“Don't you ever rest?” I asked.
“Not when there's so much going on at the hotel. Weekends give me that ‘red-eye flight' look.” He nodded to the box. “One of the girls told me a shipment had arrived. I've learned it pays to get the flower stems into water as soon as possible. Since you were busy, I thought I'd help out.”
“Thanks, but I need the therapy. I might complain about being overworked, but when I'm upset, I always head for the buds and blooms.”
“I go to the lake. There's nothing like sitting in a boat with the wind in your face, the sun on your back, and the smell of a fresh-caught bass.”
“Nice picture you've painted, but it's dark outside. With both Taneycomo and Table Rock Lake nearby, I know there's plenty of water, but no available boat. As for the fish—” I sighed. “I see it fried to a crispy golden brown and surrounded by potatoes and coleslaw.”
“Sounds like you're hungry.”
“My own fault. I left the dining room as the waitresses were bringing in the meal. Eating while peeved makes for a bad case of indigestion. I've got enough problems without getting a stomachache.”
“Are you still peeved?”
I grinned. “No. I've mellowed out.”
“Do you like hot chicken wings and French-fried onion rings?”
“I love them.” If I was really mellow, I'd have said, “No thanks, I steer clear of those high-caloric snacks.” However, I kept my mouth shut and watched Alvin go to a wall phone and poke two numbers. I could have stopped him when he gave the order and added two glasses of iced tea, but my lips refused to say the words.
When he'd hung up, and it was too late, I said, “That's nice of you, but not necessary. I won't waste away without one meal.”
“I haven't eaten either, and we have to keep up our strength. The weekend is just starting.”
“Tell me about it. Once it's over, I can go home and settle into my same old rut.” I shook my head at him. “How do you do it? Conference after conference, followed by crisis after crisis. Or is my conference the only one that's a pain in the … uh … hibiscus?”
“That must be florist jargon because I'm not familiar with that particular body part.”
I chuckled. “I could have expressed myself in more vivid terms, a habit for which I'm noted, but I was trying to be polite.”
“Relax, Bretta, it'll work out. Everyone comes here to get
away from that ‘same old rut' as you so aptly put it. If the beds are comfortable, the service is efficient, and the food is delicious, who's going to complain?”
“I hope you're right.” I studied him thoughtfully. “How did you get into this business?”
Alvin leaned against the wall and talked as I filled a couple of buckets with warm water. “I started a career in the Peace Corps. Now I cater to the ‘lush' and ‘gush' of our society.” He made a face. “I've dealt with both ends of the spectrum—famine and deprivation and gluttony and abundance. Overseas, I literally got sick from all the deplorable sights. I had to come home to recuperate.”
Alvin gave me a sad look. “It's a fact that children are starving all over the world. I couldn't make myself go back overseas, so three times a year, I produce a benefit performance at the open-air theater that's part of the Haversham Hall estate. All the proceeds go to an orphanage in Somalia.”
“Alvin, I had no idea. That's admirable and very—”
“I'm not doing anything fantastic. Tell me how you became a florist?”
I was in the middle of my tale when the food arrived. While talking, I'd filled several buckets and was ready to pry off the lid from the box of flowers. Alvin suggested we eat before we cut stems. My stomach growled agreement.
The waiter had put the food on a small table after we'd cleared it. As Alvin and I sat down, I studied him, looking at him in a new light. His smile was shy; his eyes twinkled good-naturedly.
“I'm impressed with what you're doing for those kids overseas. Most people talk about it, feel bad, but don't do anything. If you'll send me information about the next benefit, I'll see to
it that you have coverage in my hometown paper.” I raised my iced-tea glass in a toast. “Good luck and congratulations.”
Alvin clicked his glass to mine. “Thanks, Bretta. It's a deal.” He took a slurp, then wiped his upper lip with a napkin. “Now let's talk about this floral conference. What's got you so upset that you'd walk out on that—what did you call it?—introductory dinner?”
I picked up a section of a chicken wing and took a bite. Alvin would be impartial and from what I'd discovered he was a good listener, but did I really want to talk about the contest?
I chewed and after swallowing reached a decision. “Let's just forget it. We'll eat this great food, and then cut the flower stems. Afterward, I'll toddle off to bed, and tomorrow morning, I'll wake up with a clearer head and a brighter outlook.”
“Sounds good.” He dipped an onion ring into the puddle of catsup on his plate. “You know what this snack calls for?” he asked, casting me a conspiratorial glance.
My mouth was full. “Hmm?”
“A piece of blackberry cobbler, or there's coconut cream or chocolate pie. Take your pick.”
“I can't eat all that before I go to bed. I won't sleep a—” My willpower fled at his offer of my favorite dessert. “Did you say coconut cream?”
We were visiting, having a good time, when the door opened and Gellie stuck her head in. Seeing me, she demanded, “How many storage rooms are there in this place? I must have opened twenty doors before I heard laughter. I knew it was you. There's no mistaking that cackle.”
She came into the room, eyeing the food and licking her lips. When she saw Alvin, she smiled. “A party? I hope I'm
invited.” She unzipped her purse. “I don't suppose I could get a cup of hot water?”
Purse. I whipped around looking for mine. I searched under the table, on the back of my chair, then stopped as memory surfaced. I'd left it hanging on the back of my chair upstairs in the private dining room.
“Sit here, Gellie. I'm leaving.” I explained about my purse. “But first I have to put these flowers in water.”
“Is that the shipment Bernice was ranting about?” asked Gellie. When I nodded, she continued, “Bernice has a bad case of tunnel vision. No matter what the subject, she focuses all her attention on it until she drives everyone around her bananas. When she won the association's bid for treasurer, I knew she'd be hell-on-wheels with this conference.”
I pulled the lid off the flower box. “As long as we stay within our budget, what difference should it make to Bernice?”
Gellie chuckled dryly. “Bretta, you really ought to attend more floral meetings so you'll be privy to all the gossip. Bernice has a thing for Tyrone. After he told her that he expected the association's bank balance to show a marked increase after the conference, she went into high gear, pinching pennies and doling dollars like a tightwad, hoping to please our esteemed president.”
Alvin took the cardboard lid from me and leaned it against the wall. “I'll do these flowers, Bretta, if you want to get your purse.
“First let's see what came from California,” I said, pushing away the plastic packing material. I rocked back on my heels. “I'm not impressed. I was expecting exotic blossoms, not this stuff.”
I pulled a woody branch out of the box. The leaves were dark green and shiny with touches of bronze on the new
shoots at the tips. I held it up for Gellie to see. “What is this? Do you recognize it?”
“No, but like Tyrone said, growers are coming up with new products every day. At least it's dramatic and has a sturdy stem.”
I nudged the cardboard container with my foot. The mailing label directed the shipment to me here at the hotel. “There isn't an invoice, so I assume we aren't being charged. That should make Bernice happy.”
“I don't mind putting these greens in water,” said Alvin. “They have a nice, clean smell.”
“I'll help him,” offered Gellie. She shooed me away. “Go get your purse, but let's meet for breakfast. I want to talk to you.”
And I wanted to talk to her. Had Effie been mistaken when she said it was Gellie who had pulled out in front of her at the hotel? What was Gellie doing in Branson yesterday, when she'd phoned me and said she couldn't arrive until today because she'd had car trouble? If she had come to Branson earlier, why keep it a secret? I also wanted to quiz her about Darren. He harbored some pretty intense feelings toward her, and I wondered what had happened to cause them.

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