A Deadly Bouquet (3 page)

Lois said, “You won't convince me that a man on the brink of death was playing some convoluted mind game.”

Lew straightened his tie. “All right, how about this? Spades are the highest suit in bridge. What if Oliver used the word
spade
to denote an event that was of supreme importance to—”

I didn't let him finish. “I doubt that Oliver ever played a hand of bridge. Let's drop it. I'm too tired to discuss it further.”

Lew frowned. “Too tired? I'm amazed you aren't hot on the trail of this latest mystery. Or is it because these theories came from me?” When I didn't answer, he turned on the heel of his well-polished shoe and stomped to the back room. “I'm taking these last deliveries. See you Monday.”

“Thanks for the warning,” said Lois under her breath.

After the door had closed, I said, “He's in a foul mood. What's his problem?”

“My first thought is that he isn't getting any, except he never does. I don't know why things are different today. He's been a grouch all morning, and he's taken to critiquing my bouquets.” She grabbed a broom and swept the littered floor. In a haughty tone, she mimicked, “‘Red, purple, and yellow are so gauche, Lois. Must you always pick that combination for a hospital order?'”

I chuckled. “So what's been going on here, besides Lew being a bigger pain than usual?”

Lois shrugged. “Not much. Business is slow for a Saturday.” She swept the flower stems into a dustpan and dumped them into the trash bin under her table. “If you don't need me to close, I'm going home.” But she didn't look happy about it.

Last month, Lois had agreed to let her sister's daughter, Kayla, come live with her. Lois had raised five children, but all were finally out on their own. I didn't think it was a good idea when Lois talked it over with me. In Cincinnati, Kayla had been in trouble. Her mother thought a change of scenery might change the girl. That hadn't happened. Kayla, a junior at River City High School, was in trouble again. Lois hadn't told me the problem, which was unusual. She and I had few secrets.

“Is there anything I can do?” I asked.

Lois's smile was pinched. “No thanks. I assume we'll be putting in overtime on this wedding?” After I'd nodded, she continued, “I have a ton of dirty laundry, and I need to go grocery shopping.”

I waved her on. She hung the dustpan on its hook, then picked up her purse. Hesitating at the door, she asked, “You aren't going to let Oliver's death get to you, are you?”

“I'm fine. But I wish I knew what he tried to tell me. Not to agree with Lew, but it sure seemed like Oliver expected me to do something.”

“Not necessarily true. His mind could've flipped back to your earlier conversation with him. He'd talked about the spade. He saw you leaning over him. Put it out of your mind. We have enough to deal with when it comes to this wedding.”

I made a face, but Lois didn't see it. She'd already gone. I counted out the cash drawer, then glanced through the day's orders, but saw nothing interesting. I checked the walk-in cooler to jog my memory as to what fresh flowers were available for Oliver's upcoming funeral.

Would Eddie want red roses for the spray on the casket or something earthier, befitting a gardener? Bronze and yellow mums with an assortment of greens—ivy, variegated pittosporum, and some gold-and-orange croton leaves—would be appropriate for a man who'd made his living from loving plants.

I turned off the workroom lights and strolled up front, where I flipped the lock and put the
CLOSED
sign into place. I particularly like being in the shop when the doors are shut to the public and the lights are off. The pressure eases, and I can relax and let my mind drift. I stared across the street at Kelsey's Bar and Grill and felt a need for an order of their curly fries.

Two years ago, after my husband, Carl, had passed away, I'd lost one hundred pounds. My struggle to keep the weight off is an hour-to-hour battle. With the stress I'd been under, I yearned for a plate of comfort. But I summoned up some willpower and turned my back on Kelsey's, staring instead at the shop's shadows.

This month was the second anniversary of my husband's death. It had taken every one of those days to accept the fact that he was gone and my life was forever changed. For twenty-four years, Carl had been at my side. I'd been married to him longer than I'd been alone. We'd been friends before we became lovers. I could tell him anything, talk to him about everything under the moon and stars, and he'd listened, really listened to what I had to say.

I hadn't known the true extent of his faith in me until he became a deputy with the Spencer County Sheriff's Department. He'd trusted me with the facts of cases he worked on. Together we'd explored possibilities as to what might have happened. We'd made wild conjectures. I was a great one for taking that “shot in the dark.” Carl had urged me to let my mind flow even if the picture seemed askew.

Carl's legacy had been a bountiful education, but the art of solving a mystery had been a fraction of his tutoring. From the first day I'd met him, he'd tried to teach me to trust and to forgive. I hadn't been a willing pupil. When your heart's been broken, it isn't easy to give those emotions another chance.

When I was eight years old, my father walked out of my life. For more years than I care to count, he was simply a name on a birthday card or a box of grapefruit at Christmas. This past December he'd come to River City for a visit, and I'd learned that you can't have trust without forgiveness.

I smiled sadly. It hurt that Carl wasn't here to see that I'd gone to the head of the class. The lines of communication with my father were open. In fact, last night I'd gotten a call from him. He'd said he had a fantastic surprise for me and that it would arrive this afternoon.

I wasn't particularly curious. He'd gotten into the habit of sending me trinkets. What I really wanted, he wasn't ready to give. I needed a detailed account of why he'd walked out. So far all I'd gotten was the old cliché—irreconcilable differences with my mother—which didn't tell me squat.

And neither did the words “Bretta … Spade.”

What had Oliver meant? What was he trying to tell me? Lew had been right about one thing. If Oliver had used his dying breath to whisper those words to me, it must have been important to him. Of course, the man couldn't be sure he was dying. He'd fought death before and won. Only this time he'd lost the battle and had left me with a final plea.

Damn but I hated not knowing what was expected of me. By not doing anything, by not having an inkling of what I should do, I felt as if I was denying Oliver his last request.

Guilt was a great motivator. I grabbed my purse and started for the back door. I could go to the park, pack up Eddie's tools, and take them by his house. I wouldn't knock on his door. I'd simply leave everything in plain sight. It wasn't much, but it was better than—

The telephone rang. Irritated, I stopped and stared at it. Now that I had a plan, I was anxious to put it into action, but it's difficult to ignore a ringing phone. Two more jingles and I picked up the receiver.

“The Flower Shop. Bretta speaking.”

“This is Claire. I met you this morning at the park.”

“Yes, Claire. I remember.” Green hair. Green eyes. How could I forget? “What can I do—”

“I've got to see you.”

“If you have any questions about this wedding, go straight to Evelyn. I'm not about to second-guess what she wants.”

“I can't discuss this on the phone. Can you come to my beauty shop? The address is 3201 Marietta Avenue. You have a reputation for getting to the bottom of suspicious doings. I can't make heads or tails of this information, but I'm not sitting on it.”

“What information?”

“Just get here—” Claire's voice lost its excited tone. “Well, hi,” she said calmly. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

I frowned in confusion. Was the woman crazy? Perhaps all those chemicals she used on her hair had seeped into her brain. “What's going on?” I asked.

Instead of answering, Claire plunked down the receiver, but I could still hear her talking. “Just making an appointment. If you'll take a chair, I'll be right with you.”

Oh. A customer had come in. Claire said, “Sure, I have time. Let me finish this call.”

The receiver was picked up, and Claire asked, “You have the address, correct?”

“Yes. I'll be there in a few minutes.”

“No hurry,” she said quietly. “My pigeon just walked through the door.” She hung up.

I replaced the receiver and went out to my car. Pigeon? That was a strange way to refer to a customer.

I made a left turn, headed for the park, but after a few blocks I detoured back the way I'd come. I was curious as to what Claire wanted.

Marietta Avenue was located in the old historic district, which sat on the limestone bluffs overlooking the Osage River. The area, with its brick-paved streets, was undergoing revitalization, which I was glad to see was progressing well. I had a fondness for this part of town, and had done a bit of research on its history.

In 1810 a man named James Horton and his wife, Hattie, had organized a group of people intent on finding a new land and new beginnings. On their trek west, these pioneers had gotten lost. Finding themselves on the bank of the Osage River, they had either lacked the will to travel forward or liked what they'd stumbled upon. For whatever reason, the settlers had put down roots in this soil, and River City, Missouri, had sprouted.

I traveled up Marietta Avenue, stopping often to let cement trucks go around me. The area was a beehive of activity. Scaffoldings were everywhere. Workmen called back and forth from rooftops.

The building that housed Claire's Hair Lair had already received its face-lift. The front was painted burgundy with gray shutters flanking the plate-glass window. Styrofoam heads topped with stylish wigs were on display, along with several bottles of enriching shampoo and cleansing rinses.

I leaned closer and read a sign:
D
ON'T LET YOUR UNRULY HAIR MAKE YOU A SOURPUSS.
C
LAIRE WILL HAVE YOU
PURRING
WITH SATISFACTION IN NO TIME.
For emphasis two stuffed lions had been added to the exhibit. One had matted fur, his mouth opened in a snarl. His companion sported a glossy, manageable mane.

Chuckling, I opened the door and stepped inside, where my nose was assaulted by the smell of fresh perm solution. Fanning the air with my hand, I called, “Claire? It's Bretta Solomon.”

“Just a minute,” was the muffled reply from a curtained doorway at the back of the building.

“I know I'm early,” I said, “but I decided to come by before I did another errand.”

My answer was the sound of a toilet flushing. I peered at my surroundings and forgot my burning nose. Blue, red, green, and yellow stripes raced up and down the walls. The floor was covered with a vinyl pattern that screamed kindergarten finger painting. But it was the ceiling that grabbed my attention. I tilted my head and marveled at the sight.

Painted directly on the tiles was a ten-foot picture of a lovely girl who might have been fifteen years old. My gaze skimmed over her face, noting the closed eyes and gentle smile. She was dressed in a robe and looked angelic surrounded by an aura of light achieved by the shading of brush strokes. Her hair was a crowning glory of flowers, painted in meticulous detail, sprouting from her head.

I squinted at the blossoms. These weren't flower shop varieties. The pinkish purple daisylike flower was echinacea. An evening primrose curled seductively around the girl's left ear. The brilliant orange blossom of the butterfly weed was an exact replica of the ones that lived on the farm where I'd grown up. Rose mallow, milkweed, and elderberry were all Missouri wildflowers.

Standing just above the other flowers was another blossom that was a cluster of eight blooms on one stem. Each was yellow-green, tinged with purple. The individual flowers had five tubular hood-shaped structures with a slender horn extending from each.

I didn't recognize this last flower, but I was impressed with the overall appearance of the painting. “How neat,” I said aloud. My voice echoed in the silence.

The absolute stillness of the building finally penetrated my preoccupation with the ceiling. Impatiently, I called, “Claire, if you're busy, I can come back later.”

This time I received no answer. As I made my way across the floor to the curtained doorway, the soles of my shoes made tiny
tick-tick
sounds like I'd stepped in something sticky. I checked but saw nothing except wild swirls of color underfoot.

“Claire?” I called again, pushing the curtain aside. A strong herbal odor rushed out. I moved farther into the supply room. Here there was a total absence of color. The walls were unfinished Sheetrock, the floor bare concrete. Metal shelves held bottles of shampoos and such. The bathroom was on my right. I rapped on the door, then pushed it open. The room was empty.

I turned to my left, and my breath caught in my throat. Claire lay on her back. With a cry of surprise, I hurried to her side and carefully felt for a pulse. There was none. A pale green froth oozed from her mouth and nostrils. Near her body was an aerosol can of herbal mousse. A bit of green foam clung to the nozzle.

At first I couldn't comprehend what I was seeing. If Claire was dead, then who'd answered me when I'd first entered the beauty shop? Who'd flushed the toilet? I looked from the can to the watery foam that filled Claire's mouth and nostrils and nearly fainted as I put my own interpretation on these details. Someone had knocked her unconscious, then squirted the thick foam into her air passages so she'd suffocate.

Slowly I dragged my gaze up to her wide-eyed stare. Since I'd met her in the park, she'd changed her emerald contacts for ones that resembled a cat's eyes, with lentil-shaped, hyacinth-colored pupils.