Floral Depravity (11 page)

That seemed to please her. “Yes, well . . .”

“And you're also the camp herbalist. I'm surprised I didn't see you there trying to help Barry.”

She looked considerably less pleased. “The only thing he told me was that his stomach was upset. I had suggested that he go back to his tent and lie down. He told me to mind my own business. So I did.”

“That wouldn't have helped him.”

“I assumed he had food poisoning, that it had to run its course.” She shook her head. “I'm a research scientist, not a diagnostician or medical doctor.”

“How was he to work for?”

Raylene paused, as if to consider her words. “He was old school, maybe a bit autocratic for modern times. But he could run a business well. The company made money. The stockholders were happy. The board of directors was happy.”

“That seems a rather dispassionate description.”

“Are you suggesting I give you a more passionate one?”

I could feel my cheeks color. “I just meant . . . it would be helpful if I could get a better picture of him as a person. What he was like on a daily basis.”

By this point we had passed the last of the food vendors and craftsmen and approached a field. In the distance, a man on horseback had reached a gallop and advanced on a large target with his lance. Shortly after the lance hit the target, however, the rider lost his balance and hit the ground. The horse trotted off. I could have sworn it looked amused.

“Rookie.” Raylene rolled her eyes.

Closer to where we stood, smaller targets were attached to hay bales, and a man was charging exorbitant rates for a trial run at a long bow. I guessed they'd gotten that name since the bows were almost as long as Raylene.

“Care to try?” she asked. “Reggie owes me a favor anyway.” She smiled at the man who must have been Reggie, who then handed us each a longbow. We made our way over to a spot marked, not with a bright white painted line, but rather worn patches in the rough sod. I set my pot of rosemary on the ground and tried to mimic her actions as she lined up an arrow on the bow and let it fly. It hit the outer rim of her target and lodged there.

I mimicked her actions the best I could and started to pull back the bow.

“No, wait,” Raylene said. “You could take off your finger like that.” She came up behind me and repositioned my hands on the bow.

I pulled back and let the arrow fly. It went about ten yards and stuck in the weeds. At least I hadn't sliced my finger off. I'm rather fond of all my digits.

She retrieved another arrow from the quiver but paused. “Barry was . . . well, not much to tell, really. He was dedicated to his wife. To his son. To his job.”

“In that order?”

She shrugged and regained her shooting stance. “Hard to rise in business when you keep your priorities straight. There's always someone underneath you ready to lay it all on the line to advance. Barry knew that. He was just as savvy as his father in that sense.” She let another arrow fly. This one lodged in the hay above the target. She grimaced.

“His father?” I did my best to imitate her stance, then pulled the bow back around my ear, and let fly. The snap of the bow stung my finger a bit, but this time the arrow traveled all the way to the target. Unfortunately it was the wrong target.

“Nice distance,” she said, reaching for another arrow. “Yes, Melvin Brooks, senior. He was in declining health when I joined the company, apparently from a series of strokes, but what a man. Brilliant. Two PhDs. Well respected in his field. Barry was so proud of the old man, he named his son after him, but a hard legacy to live up to.”

This time her arrow fell just below center.

“Did Barry fall short of his father's ideal?” I asked.

“Oh, my. I didn't mean to imply that. Barry was successful, but he took a different path than his father wanted. He dropped out of an Ivy League school to join the military. But he rose in the ranks.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “He was decorated when he saved three men. Practically carried them out of harm's way. Later . . .” She stopped to help adjust my aim.

I let the arrow fly. This time it hit my own hay bale, inches from the target.

“Better,” she said, remaining just behind my shoulder and speaking barely above a whisper. “I don't know if I should be telling you this, but he's gone so I suppose it no longer matters. You might need to know. Barry was a covert operative in the CIA.”

I whipped around to face her.

Raylene nodded. “And I'm not talking about the kind that sits in an office and surfs the Internet for chatter or eavesdrops on the cell phone conversations of foreign diplomats. I'm talking the kind that parachutes into remote jungles and takes meetings with clandestine paramilitary organizations with which we share certain common interests. Barry's been all over the world. Okay, so his degrees are honorary more than academic. I still think he's earned them.” Raylene's tone had grown defensive.

And I wasn't about to argue with a woman armed with a longbow, either. “I'm sure he has.” Meanwhile my mind was spinning. If Barry was former CIA, didn't that mean there could be a lot more suspects? And dangerous ones? At least if the movies were accurate. I mean, motorcycle chases, bombs, guns. Deadly weapons disguised as normal bowler hats. If there was such a thing as a normal bowler hat.

“Anyway,” she went on, “he had great leadership skills. He took the company his father founded from a small pharmaceutical manufacturer to one of the leaders in the business. Quite a legacy.”

“Does that mean you'll be in charge now?”

She blushed but managed to send an arrow hurtling right to the center of her target. “Well, that will depend on the board of directors, won't it? Far from a done deal. They might want Melvin to carry on the family legacy. Although he doesn't really know the business.”

“But you can't think of anyone who might have wanted to kill Barry? I mean, the CIA ops were a long time ago, right?”

“There were rumors that he still did odd jobs for The Company.”

“What company?”

“
The
Company. The CIA,” she added, as if I were dense. Maybe that was good, because I didn't get that from “The Company.”

“Rumors?” I repeated.

“Of shady dealings. Of calls nobody was allowed to know about. Times where he took off for several days and we weren't supposed to ask why.” She nodded sagely.

I returned her sage nod, even though I wondered if those trips for The Company weren't with some blonde. Or brunette. Or redhead. I decided to change the subject.

“So you're the herbalist. Do you ever do anything with the native plants? The ones already growing in the woods?”

“Quite a few of them,” she said. “Better than carrying them all in.”

“What about monkshood?”

“Of course . . .” She lowered her bow and stared into the trees. “Monkshood. Aconite poisoning.” She turned to me. “Is that what killed him? Oh, the symptoms were textbook.”

I nodded. “Do you ever work with it? I mean, it could have been an accident.”

“Never touch the stuff. Oh, I know what it looks like and what it does. And I suppose that makes me a suspect.”

My eyes went to the longbow and arrow she still held in her hands. Yeah, asking a suspect leading questions while she held a deadly weapon was probably not my brightest move. I swallowed hard.

She must have seen my apprehension because she released the tension on her bow. “Oh, but I didn't do it.”

“I was told you supplied the herbs for the reception dinner.”

“The marriage feast.” She blanched. “I suppose I did. But I know the difference between culinary herbs and poison . . . or is that the point? You think I did this.”

“I didn't say that.”

“I would never kill Barry, let alone attempt mass murder.”

“There's no chance the herbs could have gotten mixed up?”

She shook her head. “Not even by accident. Monkshood is very distinctive, and I have no use for it at all, not the leaves or the flowers or the root. I suppose you know the root is the most toxic part. It's not used in any of my tonics. There is no way it got into the pot from anything I supplied. It must have been something else he put in it.”

“Who?”

“That baker they hired.”

I sighed. Back to Nick. “But Nick had no motive.”

“No motive that you know about. Or what if
he
got mixed up?” When I didn't answer right away, she went on, “I see. So he's the local boy who could do no wrong.”

“I didn't mean to imply—”

“You didn't have to.”

“Before we decide it was just an accident, has anyone recently asked you questions about herbs or flowers? About monkshood in particular? Or just any questions out of the ordinary?”

She placed a fist over her mouth and thought for a moment. “I wish I could supply a name for you,” she said, “but I honestly have nothing.”

When I left Raylene Quinn, she was still taking out her aggressions on those targets, and I made a mental note to avoid the archery range when carrying out any future interrogations.

But I had put it off long enough. It was time to find my father. Hopefully Bixby hadn't arrested him and carted him back to town. I stopped to leave my rosemary with Nick for safekeeping and ask for directions to the friar's tent.

“I can go with you,” Nick offered.

But I waved him off. I needed to do this alone.

I followed Nick's instructions until I found my father's tent, not far from Chandler Hines's blacksmith area, but Hines was apparently on a break because there was no pounding, clanging, or whooshing taking place. Directly across from the friar's tent was a food vendor who was also doing little business and leaned on his counter half asleep.

“Hello?” I called into the tent.

I strained my ears, but didn't hear anything. “Hello?” I tried again.

When no one answered, I peeked my head in the tent flaps and was relieved to discover it was unoccupied.

I scanned the nearby area. Not many people were in this end of the camp, but those who were there didn't seem interested at all in what I was doing. I waited until one woman ambled up to the food vendor and distracted him, then I ducked into the tent.

At first I couldn't see much. What little light was available had diffused through the tent itself, making the inside claustrophobic, musty, and gloomy. I could see why Opie had said he didn't seem to want to be here. He'd always wrinkled his nose at the suggestion of camping for our family vacations. Looking at this space, I had to contend that he was on to something. This was not how I'd want to spend my vacation.

Or was he even here on vacation? He'd said he didn't know I was going to be here, so he didn't come for an overdue family reunion. If he was a bounty hunter . . .

My mind went back to our brief conversation in the woods.
Dangerous things were happening here
.

Was he here on business? A bounty hunter would mean there was a fugitive in the camp, someone who had jumped bail.

But that couldn't be Barry Brooks. He was the president of his own company, not running from the law.

By this time my eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness.

The tent wasn't a large walk-in model like Nick had. This was more of a camping tent, with a sleeping bag on the floor next to a lantern and a knapsack of sorts. Very Spartan.

I riffled through the knapsack. It held a change of clothing, some modern and clean (hopefully) undergarments, and a bottle of cologne. I unscrewed the top and sniffed. It was the same scent I remembered as a child, when I'd climb onto his lap and he'd tell me a story. I swallowed hard and put it back, then tried to arrange the sack as it was before I touched it.

It was then that I felt more than heard the buzzing sound. I pulled back, thinking I'd managed to trap a bee in the sack, but then I peeked in and saw the rectangular outline of a cell phone screen shining through the fabric. I didn't see a pocket, so I ran my hand around the outside of the sack and then the inside and finally found the cleverly hidden compartment. The buzzing had stopped by the time I got my hands on the phone.

“A forbidden cell phone.” I
tsk
ed, even though my own phone was packed into my bag. “It seems like you like to stay in touch with someone.” Fortunately, like me, he couldn't be bothered with passwords, so I was able to access his phone just by turning it on.

I flipped through the contents of his cell. A lot of numbers in his contact list, but the names meant nothing to me and didn't seem to contain any of the reenactors. These names could represent clients or friends. They could even be a new family. Wife. Even more children.

But if he had children, surely he'd have pictures. So I went to his camera app.

Bingo.

Only not children. But there were lots of pictures taken at the encampment. Many of the shots were unfocused, the subjects of the photographs were not centered, and no flash was used. Either my father was the worst photographer in the history of man or these shots were taken secretly. And a good number of them involved Barry Brooks and his entourage. Was Father Richard aka Richard Wilson aka Jeffrey Bloom simply catching up on his former employer? Or was he looking for something else?

I sat down on the sleeping bag and continued to go back in time via the cell phone pictures.

There were several provocative shots of Brooks and Raylene. If the nature of their relationship was only theoretical before, it was now proven. QED.

A few other photos showed Brooks with his son. One with Brooks in conversation with his then-future daughter-in-law. And a lot with Brooks apparently flirting with a number of women. I stopped dead when I saw him leering at Melanie, Opie, and Carol. That swine. I pushed back the thought that someone had done the world a favor by killing Brooks. After all, death hadn't been a penalty for infidelity and lechery since . . . maybe medieval times.