A Deadly Bouquet (9 page)

He'd bought the cottage. I still hadn't gotten used to the idea that it would never be mine. But was the title of that piece of property more important than getting to know him?

I could tell him to dry up and blow away, but I'd wanted the chance to get to know him better. Here he was, offering me that chance. I'd be a fool not to take it. Or was I a fool for considering it?

Bailey said, “I can hear the wheels turning in your head. Are you willing to take a chance?”

I was startled at his use of the very same word I'd been thinking. “I … uh … guess dinner wouldn't be a bad idea.”

His coppery eyes teased me. “Love your enthusiasm. I'll try to live up to your expectations.”

I glanced sideways at him. “You have an advantage. You've had time to think this all out, but I haven't.” Something had been nagging at me since he'd started this conversation. Now seemed a good time to check the degree of his candor. “I saw you yesterday—in the old part of town. I called out, but you walked away. What's the deal?”

“No mystery. I was taking a drive, looking over River City. I saw a crowd and stopped to see what was going on.”

“How long have you known Claire Alexander?”

“Isn't that the name of the woman who was murdered?” Bailey's full lips turned down. “You're trolling for something, but I'm not biting.”

He pushed up off the steps and stared at me. “I'll have dinner ready at six thirty. I can eat it alone or I can eat it with you. If you decide to come to the cottage, please leave your suspicions at the door. I've spent the last twenty-seven years screening every word I say. In my line of work, I had to be circumspect or it could mean my life or the life of my partner. I'm tired of it. Take me at face value, Bretta, or don't take me at all. The choice is yours.”

With that, Bailey walked off. As I watched him go, I was mad, then I was sad, and finally I was resigned. The next move was mine, but thank goodness I had the rest of the day to make my decision.

*   *   *

Sundays are usually laid back, unless I have to go to the flower shop to do sympathy work for a Monday funeral. In the newspaper's area obituaries, I'd learned that Oliver's graveside service was to be Tuesday morning at ten o'clock. That left today free to do as I wished. It could have been pleasant except for two things—my father and Sid Hancock.

It was mid-morning when Sid arrived. I'd gone to the garden to give Eddie a message from his wife, Molly. She thought it was time for him to come home, but first she wanted him to order the flowers for his father's casket. Eddie liked my idea of assorted foliages with just a few flowers. Once I'd seen him on his way, I went back into the house to find my father and Sid chatting in the library. Or rather Dad was chatting. Sid was doing a slow burn.

“—no such thing as a private investigator's license in Missouri.” Dad delivered this bit of wisdom with a so-there attitude. “I'll locate office space, have business cards printed, and it's a done deal.”

Sid heard my step in the doorway and swiveled around. “Well, if it isn't Ms. P.I. herself. Is it your goal in life to send me to an early grave?”

I smiled sweetly. “Right now my goal is food. DeeDee has refined her talent in the kitchen. How about scrambled eggs, sausage, and a biscuit topped with homemade strawberry preserves and a glob of butter?” I was in no mood to entertain Sid, but if his stomach was full, perhaps he'd be less inclined to be obnoxious.

“Trying a new tactic—stuffing my arteries with cholesterol and grease?” Sid grimaced. “Make that two biscuits and you've got yourself a victim.”

I found DeeDee in the kitchen squeezing oranges for juice. When I told her there would be three for breakfast, her face lit up.

“Can do. I've got the b-biscuits in the oven. Won't take but a s-second to s-scramble more eggs.” She flew into high gear, and I reluctantly went back to the library, where a stony silence greeted me.

I looked at my father. Our relationship was still at that “getting to know each other” stage. I was glad he was back in my life, but I wasn't sure I was ready to find him in my house each morning when I came downstairs. Opening my home to strangers, who were paying for their accommodations, would be easier than having a relative under my roof.

This morning my father wore a pair of mocha dress pants and a plaid sports shirt. His wavy gray hair gave him a distinguished look. The mulish gleam in his blue eyes gave me a bout of queasiness.

I settled next to him on the sofa but directed my comment to Sid. “Breakfast is on me, but it's gonna cost you. For the next half hour let's have pleasant conversation. No nasty remarks or harsh accusations.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dad open his mouth. I hurried on. “I know you have a reason for driving out here, but unless it's an emergency, it'll have to wait until we've eaten.”

Sid struggled to hold in his usual caustic remarks. He finally muttered, “No emergency, but I never eat breakfast. I'll call this lunch.”

And with that, the mood was set.

When DeeDee announced “B-brunch is s-served,” in her most dignified manner, we filed silently into the dining room. To say this was a friendly occasion would be an out-and-out lie. Sid's business with me or his need for food must've been powerful because he behaved rather well. “Pass the jam” and “Anyone got dibs on that last sausage?” was hardly titillating conversation, but at least there was no open hostility at the table. At least not until Sid wiped his mouth and tossed the linen napkin on his grease-smeared plate.

“Thanks,” he said, gesturing to the leftovers, which were scanty. He looked at my father. “You're excused. Close the door on your way out.”

Dad bristled. “You, sir, may be a law enforcement officer, but you don't know peanuts from pecans when it comes to getting information.”

“And you don't know shit from Shinola. You'd better make sure you don't step out of line in my county. I'll be watching you so close you'll think you're casting a double shadow.”

“Whoa,” I said. My head wobbled back and forth as I stared at the two men. “Did I miss something? What's with you guys?”

Dad regally rose from his chair. “The sheriff and I understand each other, Bretta. When he arrived, I offered him our services in his latest case—the murder—but he tossed that offer back in my face.”

“I never tossed nothing,” said Sid. “I laughed. I thought he was joking. But hell no. He's having a sign painted. Haven't you heard that's the first qualification for going after a killer?” He turned a fierce glare on me. “Put an end to this nonsense, Bretta, but do it later. I want to go over your statement. I've got a couple of questions.”

I gave my father a placating smile and nodded to the door. He took my suggestion, but he had the last word. “This is an election year. If we decide against the detective agency, perhaps I'll look into the sheriff's position.” He swept Sid with a contemptuous stare. “The
qualifications
surely aren't too rigorous.”

He walked quietly out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him. I shut my eyes, praying for a giant hole to open so I could painlessly disappear. The floor remained firmly in place, even as Sid noisily scraped his chair back from the table. I took a deep breath and faced him.

“Well,” I said, not quite able to meet his gaze. “DeeDee's cooking skills have improved. She can caramelize with the best of them. She made a chiffon cake the other day that was—”

“Cut the food review. I want to hear again why you went to that beauty shop. Why did this Alexander woman call you? If you only met her that morning, why'd she pick you to confide in? Why didn't she call a crony?”

“Look, Sid, all I know for sure is what she said to me. I can draw conclusions, but you hate that. Right?”

“Right. Draw a couple anyway.”

I couldn't hide my amazement. In the past Sid has overemphasized that if I didn't know something to be God's own truth, I was to keep it to myself. Yet here he was inviting me to give him my theories. Maybe Bailey was right. Perhaps Sid did have a high regard for me. However, he hid it well behind a face flushed with anger.

He whirled his hand in a “get on with it” motion. I settled in my chair and gave him my best uneducated guess.

“Claire made the comment that I have a reputation for getting to the bottom of suspicious doings. Yeah, yeah. Don't give me that look. You asked. Something was bothering her. At the park she made reference to a hot bit of gossip. She hoped Mrs. Dearborne would confirm what she suspected. If I were in your position, I'd ask Lydia Dearborne a few pointed questions.”

“Been there, done that.”

“What did she say?”

“A bunch of gobbledygook that's insignificant.”

“How do you know that? You're still missing a big piece of the puzzle—the motive behind Claire's murder. Tell me what Lydia said, and maybe it'll trigger something.”

Giving information wasn't easy for Sid. He acted as if he were choking on a chicken bone. He hacked a couple of times and consulted his notebook. “According to Lydia Dearborne, the topic of conversation while she got her hair done was nostalgia.”

“Nostalgia for what?”

“A time when people were friendlier, when life wasn't so fast paced.”

“That's strange. I got the impression from what Claire said in the park that she had a particular subject in mind. There must have been more to their conversation.”

“I wouldn't know. Lydia wasn't in the right frame of mind for doing any heavy-duty remembering. When I arrived at her house, she'd already heard about the murder. She'd called her doctor for a sedative, as well as a horde of relatives to hold her hand. It wasn't easy getting anything out of her. She kept saying she hadn't known Claire long, but she'd been a nice lady, though perhaps a trifle wild in her younger days.”

“Maybe that's where the nostalgia comes in. Maybe they discussed some of Claire's adventures.”

“The victim didn't have a record. I checked that.”

“You saw Claire's hair and her contact lenses? Your average woman isn't prone to parading around town with green hair and strange eyes. When I see someone with a bunch of tattoos or body piercings, I always wonder what they're trying to compensate for in their lives. I didn't know Claire. Does she have a husband? Children?”

“Five ex-husbands, but no kids.”

Now I understood Kasey's remark about Claire's track record. “That's interesting. Are the men still in town?”

“Nope. All are out of state except one, and he's serving time for criminal assault and armed robbery.”

“What number was he?”

“Five.”

I sighed. “None of this is helping, is it?”

“Nope.” Sid got slowly to his feet.

I followed his lead and walked toward the dining room door. “I'll keep thinking on it. Can I talk to Lydia?”

Sid made a face. “You know where she lives?”

I nodded and would have opened the door, but he put a hand on the wooden panel.

“One more thing,” he said softly. “Keep that father of yours in check. If you get the chance, send him back to Texas. He's a rich, bored old fart out to impress his daughter. That's a bad combination. He informed me that he's been a subscriber to the
River City Daily
newspaper since he left Missouri. Your snooping has made the front page, and he's aware of your … uh … luck.”

Sid shrugged. “Poke around. Ask your questions, but keep me informed. Don't make me look bad. I want another term as sheriff in this county.”

Abruptly, he opened the door, and my father nearly tumbled into the room. Dad recovered with aplomb.

Sid scowled. “This is the kind of crap I'm talking about,” he said, stomping past my father. Sid crossed the foyer, but before he opened the front door, he looked over his shoulder at me. “Do what you gotta do.” He slammed the door with such force the windows shimmied in their frames.

Dad harrumphed. “That man has the personality of a rock and the manners of an alley cat.”

“Dad, we have to talk.” I led the way to the library, and once we were seated, I said, “You can't antagonize people because you think you're helping me. They're my friends. Offering to top Bailey's bid for the cottage was very kind, but it was offensive to Avery. He has too much integrity to make what would've amounted to an underhanded deal.”

“But you were disappointed about that cottage, and so was I. It would have worked as a wonderful location for our detect—”

I had to put a stop to this once and for all. “There isn't going to be a detective agency, Dad. At least none that will have my name attached to it. And I'd rather you didn't do it, either.”

“Figured you was going to say that. You've let the sheriff bully you.”

I perched on the edge of my chair. “No. Regardless of what Sid says, I'm my own woman. I make up my own mind, and I don't want any part of an agency. Besides, I have the flower shop. I love my work. There isn't room in my life for another vocation.”

“Or room for me?” he asked in a morose tone.

“There's plenty of room for you in this old house.”

He gave me a sad smile. “That isn't what I meant, and you know it.”

He wanted reassurance from me, but I couldn't say the words. To lighten the mood, I said, “I can stir up enough trouble on my own. I don't think this town could handle the two of us.”

He waved his hand to our surroundings. “I can't sit around here all day. I have to do something.”

He was used to leading an active life, and besides, if he were busy he'd be out of my hair. I thought a moment. “How do you feel about overseeing the renovations of the rooms upstairs?” When he perked up, I added, “Let's take a tour, and I'll point out some of the things I want done. I have the names of some contractors, and you can—”