Floral Depravity (6 page)

“Congratulations. I didn't know they were engaged.” I smiled. “But yes, grooms are usually less excited about the details.”

“I hope you're not offended if we don't get flowers from you. My daughter was all for it. She saw that thing in the paper about you and the language of flowers and all that. But with my allergies, we've been trying to talk her into silk.”

“We do silk flower arrangements, too. But if you'd rather someone else . . .”

“No, I wasn't aware. She'd like that. I'll let her know.”

And I'd probably kick myself later, but I pulled the folder closer to me. There were five paper-clipped bundles at the front.

“I put the most likely suspects first.”

“Why are these the most likely, again?”

Bixby's face went blank as if he were trying his best to hide a scowl. I'd bet money on it. He took a sip of his coffee. “They best knew the victim. Friends. Relatives. Co-workers. Of course, we can't eliminate the possibility that Barry Brooks was not the intended victim. For all we know, someone wanted to wipe out the whole camp. But these still seemed a good place to start.”

“Of course.” As I skimmed through the top pages, I almost spewed my coffee across the table. “Kathleen Randolph is a suspect?”

“Keep. It. Down,” Bixby said with a forced smile, then nodded to a patron across the restaurant before leaning in closer. “Did you know that Kathleen Randolph was once married to Barry Brooks?”

“No, she hadn't thought to mention that in any of her four consultations. You're saying her daughter married the son of her ex-husband? Is that even legal?”

“Not blood relatives. The kids never even lived in the same house. Granted, it's going to make family reunions a little tricky.”

The next file was Andrea's. “Why would she kill her father-in-law?”

Bixby flipped to the next file, which showed a picture of the young groom. He placed them side by side. “The happy couple will inherit. Megabucks. Not to mention the senior Brooks was reportedly not all that happy about the marriage. Insisted the bride sign a prenup. Implied that if she were anything like her mother . . .”

“Which opens the old wounds with Kathleen.” I sighed and studied the pictures of the three of them. Kathleen's bitterness over her ex-husbands, all three of them, was no secret, but I doubted she'd kill any of them. “She was all over the encampment that day, which is understandable since she was the mother of the bride.”

“How'd she seem?”

“Busy.”

Bixby's face froze into an unreadable expression. Apparently that wasn't the response he was looking for. “I meant,” he went on, “did you detect any tension or anything odd about the way Kathleen was acting?”

“Chief, you have a daughter, right? How do you think
you're
going to hold up on the day of her wedding? Yes, I guess you could call Kathleen tense, but probably no more than anyone else would be, given the circumstances.”

“Including what might have been an unpleasant reunion with her ex-husband.”

“Sure, that had to make it even harder. But to poison her ex on the day of her daughter's wedding? She once told me that there were easier ways of getting rid of a husband than murder.”

Bixby sent me what seemed a patronizing smile and then went back to the counter for a refill.

I flipped to the next bundle. The buxom woman named Raylene Quinn was apparently a longtime employee of Brooks and listed as the Director of Research and Development. She looked every bit the sexy scientist and was one of those women who was probably older than she first appeared. Her platinum blonde hair betrayed her at the roots.

As Bixby slid into his seat, I said, “And she traveled with him regularly?”

“You're wondering if they had some kind of romantic relationship besides the business one.”

“Thought crossed my mind.”

He shrugged. “Not one that she was forthcoming about.”

“She wouldn't be.”

The small nod I got back from him belied the impression that I was getting closer. I hadn't come up with any new revelations, but at least we were on the same track.

“Was there a Mrs. Brooks?” I asked.

“On her way from Richmond as we speak. That's where Brooks Pharmaceuticals is headquartered.”

“She didn't come to the wedding of her own son?”

“Apparently the current Mrs. Brooks isn't the mother of the groom, either, and she's more into society parties than ‘running around in the woods' as she told me over the phone.”

The final entry in the most-likely-suspects category was a Chandler Hines. “Another co-worker?”

“Not exactly. He's the only one of our initial persons of interest who didn't know Brooks outside of the encampment. But his name came up three times when I asked people if they knew anyone who might have wanted to kill Brooks. And after interviewing him, I could see why.”

“He must have made quite an impression. They've only been at the site, what, three or four days?”

“Ah, but both Hines and the victim were regulars, with apparently a lot of bad blood between them. Hines claims to be one of the founders of the group. Really rigid.”

“Just the type of fanatic who might want to poison a whole camp full of people?”

Bixby shrugged. “He is, I discovered, the one who put that King Arthur character up to the restriction that everyone has to be in medieval dress. So if you go back there—and you shouldn't go alone—you will need to be in costume, otherwise they pretend like they can't see or hear you.”

“You tried?”

He nodded.

Underneath those first five bundles was a single page with two columns of names.

“The minor players,” he said. “There's a few more of Brooks's employees in there, too.”

“But they didn't make the most-likely-to-murder-your-boss list?”

“None of their names came up when we asked people who they thought might have killed Brooks. Doesn't mean they couldn't have. Just that nobody thought to throw them under the bus.”

Yet Brooks had made enough enemies in his life to make naming the most likely suspects easy. The list of witnesses and secondary suspects was alphabetized. I saw my own name under “Bloom,” but no “Bloom, Jeffrey.” My scone caught in my throat, and I washed it down with coffee.

“Did you get a statement from everybody at the encampment?” I asked.

“Yes, all there.”

Had my father left? And if he had, was he avoiding me or involved somehow in the poisoning?

“Something you noticed?” Bixby glanced at me, and then down at the page I was looking at.

That man was too perceptive for my own good. I tried for a conversational tone, even though my heart beat out a tango. “Did you . . . uh . . . talk to the friar who was doing the wedding? I wonder if he might have seen something. He would have been facing the wedding party.” Lame reason, but Bixby might buy it.

“Yes, yes we did.” He pulled the file toward him and shuffled through it. He pushed a single page onto the table in front of me.

“Richard Wilson?” I said, reading the name at the top of the page. “The friar's name is Richard Wilson?”

Okay, Dad. Why are you back? And why are you using a fake name?

I begged off work early, claiming the lack of sleep was catching up on me. I'm not sure Liv bought it. I could feel her gaze trying to break into my skull. It's her superpower. I needed to either get out of the shop or seriously invest in a tinfoil hat.

I wasn't ready to talk about my father with anyone.

It felt weird even thinking about him as “my father.” Even weirder was me putting air quotes around the phrase while talking to myself as I drove home in the CR-V that I shared with the shop.

When I parked in my overgrown driveway, Eric Meyer—Liv's husband and my contractor—was on my roof.

“Another patch?” I called.

“Audrey, this roof has more patches than a pirate convention. I'm not sure it's going to last the winter for you. I'd offer to reroof, but I have a feeling it won't just be a matter of tearing off these shingles and putting on new. I don't like the way she feels. Squishy.”

“Is that a builder's term?”
Squishy Patches
sounded like the title of a bad memoir. I wasn't ready for more bad news about the cottage, either.

“If you're lucky, all you need is new sheathing under the shingles. How lucky are you?”

I let out a disgusted sigh. “You don't want to know.” I was going through a few squishy patches myself.

When I opened the door, Chester was nowhere to be seen. Probably hiding under the bed, afraid of the pounding. The little black kitten yet to be named, however, stared at me impudently from the kitchen counter, the one place in the house that I'd declared forbidden.

“Get down,” I said.

She stood up, blinked, stretched her back, then lay back down, resting her head on her front paws. I was a failure as a cat trainer.

I scooped her up into my arms. But she wriggled out of my grasp, dug her claws into my shoulder, then step by excruciating step, climbed up until she was resting around my neck like some fox stole with her tail slapping my cheek.

Leaving the cat balanced on my shoulders, I headed to my laptop, still on the kitchen table. I brushed off a layer of drywall dust that seemed to have fallen from a new crack in the ceiling and powered it up. Mrs. June was a dear and suggested I use her Wi-Fi until I could get my own. She never mentioned a cutoff date, and I hesitated to bring it up. Not with my newly emptied bank account and a cottage that bled money.

The first name I typed into the search engine was “Richard Wilson.”

I paged past several screens of illustrious men named Richard Wilson. Executives. Philanthropists. A ball player and then a teenager with a racy Instagram page.

None of the faces matched. Up on my shoulder, my feline fashion accessory sighed.

I almost missed the listing for the bail bondsman. “AA-1 Bond Service.” Give me a break.

There was no picture. Not quite sure a bail bondsman would want his picture up on the site, since most people perusing the page would be criminals. Or rather alleged criminals. But a Richard Wilson was listed as the proprietor and the physical address of the bond agency was in the same zip code as the address my father had given Bixby.

A sudden barrage of drywall dust fell on the table. I closed my eyes for a moment and concentrated on the contented purr from the kitten on my shoulders.

A click of claws on the floor announced Chester's arrival. When I glanced down at him, he meowed at me. I've never been good at cat-speak, but he was either demanding more food or protesting the new kitten's prime real estate.

“You jealous, bud?” I scruffed his neck and he hopped up on my lap. I was feeling the love, but then Chester's real motive appeared. He took a swat at the kitten's swinging tail.

The kitten hissed then launched off my shoulders, digging her rear claws deep into my skin. She landed on the counter, then zoomed into the living room.

Chester launched next (also digging his claws deep into my thighs). He skidded on the old linoleum as he chased after the kitten. The sound of drumming paws raced through the small house. At least Chester was now getting more exercise.

After blinking away a few reactionary tears, examining the new hole in my best work pants, and idly threatening to drive both cats to the SPCA, I stared at the computer screen and paged through the AA-1 Bond Service site. It listed no personal information about the proprietor, and considering the type of business, that was probably a wise choice. But a page entitled “Other Services” touted that Richard Wilson sidelined as a bounty hunter. Other than that tidbit, I could find no more reference to him anywhere online.

My fingers hesitated over the keys. Then I typed in the name I had typed and deleted and typed and deleted over the years. Wanting to know. Fearing to know. I typed in “Jeffrey Bloom.”

And then the roof caved in, and no, I'm not being metaphorical. Large chunks of drywall, splinters of wood, and pink fiberglass insulation showered the table. When I gathered the courage to look up, Eric's work boot dangled through the hole overhead.

“Sorry, Audrey,” was his muffled response through the ceiling.

“Are you okay?” I called.

“Yeah, I . . .” The work boot swiveled and then pulled back up through the gap. After another brief drywall dust shower, Eric's scruffy face appeared in the hole. “Sorry about that. The patch obviously is no longer an option, but I'll make sure I cover the roof until we can figure out what to do.”

I dumped the debris off the laptop and moved my computer to the relatively unscathed counter while Eric thumped and bumped on my roof.

When the sound of tapping knuckles hit the glass window of the back door, I flipped down the screen.

Eric peeked his head in. “Audrey, sorry again about the roof. I don't have a tarp large enough in the truck, but I'll get something on there before that rain they keep talking about.”

“Thanks, Eric.”

“You okay?”

“Fine. Just a little tired.” I pulled a bit of drywall out of my hair.

He pointed to the computer. “Working on that murder out at the encampment, are you?”

“Not really.”

He came in and pushed the door closed behind him. That last inch or two takes quite some force. “I'll have to remember to plane that door down for you sometime. Add it to the list.” He pulled out a chair at the table and sat. “Audrey, I need to ask you a favor.”

“You asking
me
a favor? That's new.” I felt awkward imposing on his skills and materials gratis, even though he swore to me he only used material left over from other jobs. “Anything up to and including a pound of flesh. In that case, take more. I would gladly spare you five, or even ten . . .”

“I know you're getting involved with this whole murder investigation thing. It's all over town how Foley deputized you and everything. I'm not sure it's such a good idea—”

“I agree with you. In fact, I'm sure it's a very bad idea. There's nothing I'd like more than to stay out of it.”

“But . . .”

I inhaled deeply. And then had to stifle a sneeze because of all the dust in the air. I so wished the old cottage had retained some of Grandma Mae's scent. “But there's something I can't tell you about, something that's drawing me back in.” I didn't know that my father was involved with the murder—and I didn't know that he wasn't. But I realized when I typed in his name that I had to know the truth.

He nodded. “Here's the favor I want. Keep Liv out of it. I don't care if you have to lock her up, lie to her, or pitch a fight. I don't want her in danger. Not ever, but especially not now.”

“I don't want that, either. You know I'd do anything for her.”

“And she'd do anything for you. And that's the problem. Promise me?”

I considered what the promise would entail. Lying to Liv was almost impossible. And she was such a naturally gifted snoop that keeping anything from her required superhuman cunning. But then I flashed back to that point, early in Liv's pregnancy, when she'd tackled a murderer who had come at me with a knife, claiming it was okay, since she led with her shoulders.

“I promise to do my best.”

*   *   *

The computer yielded
no clues to Jeffrey Bloom. It was like he fell off the map. Which one might expect, since apparently at some point he became Richard Wilson.

How did that happen? If my life were a movie, I'd say he entered witness protection, or joined the CIA. But those were probably the wishes of a little girl who wanted her father to be some kind of hero. The truth was probably darker and less palatable.

When tires rumbled on the stone driveway next door, I decided a visit with Mrs. June might be in order. I doubted she'd have any more news on the official investigation, since it was outside of Ramble proper. And if Bixby didn't feel comfortable tying up town resources for county business, Mrs. June ranked high on that list of town resources. Then again, even if I came up empty in terms of information, at least there'd be cake.

“I wish I had something for you,” she said as the knife hit the bottom of the glass cake plate that I'd never seen her table without—or empty of its orange chocolate cake. “I copied that file for him, volunteered as a personal favor. Even did it on my lunch hour. But then he took all the fun out of it by giving you the information himself. Sorry about the ketchup on page forty-seven.”

“He didn't say anything else?”

“Only some choice words about Sheriff Foley, but I won't repeat them.” Mrs. June licked a glob of frosting from her thumb. “They might peel the paint off the walls. And I'm awful partial to this color.”

“That bad? I thought they were all in the same political party.”

“It gets more complicated than that. Mind you, I only know this because my daddy was chief of police for a lot of years. And I tell you, it's a hard job to keep. My father was an exception to that rule, as is Bixby. Foley really stuck it to him.”

I washed down a bite of cake with a sip of lemonade. “Sheriff Foley must have confidence in Chief Bixby to entrust him with the investigation.”

“See, that's how most people think. And that's how Bixby still thinks, even after all these years, or else he'd find some loophole to wriggle out of. But he's determined he's going to figure out who the murderer is and bring him to justice.”

“Well, that's his job, right?” I dug my fork into the last bit of moist chocolate, saving the frosting for last.

“That's Foley's job. Only right now he's too busy giving sound bites to reporters on the other side of the county. All he's basically doing there is drinking coffee and manning the roadblocks, trying to pretend like he's some hero, stopping, dropping, and rolling to prevent the spread of the flames to those expensive homes owned by some of his most ardent”—she rubbed her fingers together in the universal symbol of megabucks—“supporters.”

“Sending a killer to justice is heroic.” I even found myself defending Bixby.

“Ah, but there's the rub. The chief will be branded a failure if he doesn't. And then the mayor replaces him. Bixby can come out all right if he succeeds, then the mayor holds a press conference and pats him on the back. That is as long as the investigation doesn't step on the toes of too many supporters.”

“Surely people want to see the killer in jail.” And here I thought Bixby's job was more about fighting crime and less about politics.

“Sure, but in the meantime, they don't want to be detained, questioned, or otherwise inconvenienced while he does the job. And heaven forbid the investigation has an impact on the local economy. You might not believe it, but that silly camp brings in a lot of local revenue. And then if Bixby does succeed in catching the killer while not ruffling any other feathers, folks better not like the person he arrests.”

“So much for protect and serve.”

Mrs. June shrugged. “What can you do?”

“Well, I guess I can help him.”

“That-a-girl.”

“Just, if you happen to talk to Liv, tell her I'm
not
working on it.”

*   *   *

My fingers tapped
the table inches from where my phone rested. Just how badly did I want to learn about my father?

My mother liked to live with the idea that he fell off the face of the earth. Grandma Mae had explained to me that he was gone. She'd let me cry on her shoulder. Mother never mentioned his name again. She removed every trace of him from the house. Disposed of every family picture that he was in. It was like we'd stepped into some
Twilight Zone
alternate reality where he had never existed. I certainly wasn't going to tell her that he'd just resurfaced, and in the middle of a murder investigation. Not that I had mentioned to my mother anything about what Liv called my recent sleuthing experiences. And Liv had promised not to tell her mother. Apparently, as identical twins, our mothers lived completely different lifestyles yet were still unable to keep secrets from each other.