A Blooming Fortune

by Stephen John

  I paused and let out a breath, “Listen, Victor and Bessie, about my identity. . .”

  It was Bessie’s turn to interrupt, “We have no desire to expose you, Fortune. Regardless how this turns out, your secret is safe with us, we promise. We are simply here to find out what really happened to Emma and to bring her murderer to justice.”

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, then,” I said. “Carter. . . uh, Deputy LeBlanc, had a blood sample drawn from Emma and a full toxicology screen was performed.”

  The news seemed to shock them both.

  “And?” Bessie and Victor said in unison.

  “And . . . nothing,” I said. “It came back clean as a whistle.”

  Their expressions turned dour as though the words had deflated them. Victor finally broke the silence after a long sigh, “Well, that certainly pops the proverbial bubble on my first thought; that Emma had been poisoned.”

  “That was the very first thing we were going to ask you to help us get accomplished,” Bessie said. “May we see it—the actual test results?”

  “I have them back at the house,” I told her. “I’d be happy to give them to you, but you won’t like what you find any more than I did.”

  “Dammit,” Victor barked. A few people turned and stared. Nickel leaned back from his spot behind the bar and looked our way. I waved and smiled.

  “Nothing to see here,” I yelled out, and then turned back to Victor.

  “Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?” I said. “I mean, if it wasn’t poison then Emma’s death could have been caused naturally, right?”

  “She was murdered,” Bessie insisted. “We do not yet know how or why, or by who, but she was murdered. We are certain.”

  “How can you be certain?” I asked. “Her money is intact, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, the money she set up in trust was untouched,” Bessie said.

  “A few things happened recently that flew high on our radar,” Victor said.

  “Okay, I’m listening.”

  “First, there is the obvious—things you know already; elderly woman comes into money. There are many predators out there—men and women alike. Two weeks ago, I began getting multiple calls from Emma. One of the calls was about Celia, who had been incessantly hounding her about this ridiculous statue. The other, however, was even more interesting.”

  My ears perked.

  “She wanted to know how she might go about setting up an account in the Cayman Islands,” he continued.

  “A foreign account? In the Cayman Islands? Why would she want to know that?” I asked.

  “My first question to her,” Victor said. “It was so far out of left field coming from her.”

  “It made us believe someone was trying to influence Emma,” Bessie interjected. “Of course, at the time, we never thought that it would lead to murder.”

  Victor nodded in agreement.

  “She said she was given advice that the Cayman Islands was the best place to hold your money if you wanted to maximize your returns and take advantage of loop holes in U.S. tax laws.”

  “You’re right. It doesn’t sound like anything Emma would be remotely interested in,” I said.

  “We agree,” replied Bessie.

  “Who was giving her this advice?” I asked. “Mark Baker?”

  “We’re not certain yet, but frankly we are somewhat suspicious of Mr. Baker,” Bessie said.

  I shook my head and waved him off.

  “Mark Baker had nothing to do with this,” I insisted. “Mark was Glory’s best friend in high school. He loved Emma. If you could have seen his reaction when I told him the news, you’d understand—he’s not your guy.”

  “Who else, then?” Bessie asked.

  “I’m not sure, but I have a couple of ideas. Have either of you ever heard of a woman named Maxine Reed?” I asked.

  Victor and Bessie shook their heads, no.

  “I don’t know her either,” I said, “but she was recently seen with Emma in the General Store and she accompanied Emma to visit Mark Baker ten days ago. Maxine was a recent acquaintance of Emma’s. She spent a lot of time with your sister over the last two to three weeks.”

  “I do recall Emma telling us that she had met a new friend at the nursery, but I didn’t catch her name,” Bessie said. “It must have been her.”

  “We must check on that lead for certain,” Victor said.

  “Do you have someone else in mind?” I asked.

  “We’ve considered Celia?” Bessie asked. “She wanted money from Emma to fund her project. She sounded pretty desperate.”

  I shrugged, “I thought of that, too, but my instinct says no. Celia is a lot of things—a lot of . . . annoying things, but I’ve never thought of her as a murderer.”

  Victor shook his head, “Celia is living proof that people who are both stupid and ugly still manage to find ways to reproduce. She’s certainly dodgy enough. People can sometimes surprise you, Miss Morrow, or whatever your real name is.”

  “Please, just call me Fortune. The less you know the better off we all are,” I responded. Victor was certainly right about one thing; I had seen many surprising things from people during my time in Sinful.

  “Has Celia had any recent setbacks?” Victor wanted to know. “Financial, professional, personal . . .”

  “I don’t know anything about her finances. She’s had more than her fair share of personal setbacks and humiliations,” I reported. I told them the story of Pansy Arceneaux, who was Celia’s daughter. Pansy once had an affair with her own uncle and was later murdered in Celia’s kitchen. I also told them about the whole debacle surrounding the mayoral election. Celia was originally declared the winner of the mayoral election until it was discovered that a vote for her had been registered by a dead person. The recount was stressful and ugly and didn’t go Celia’s way.

  “So, it’s safe to say that Celia has suffered a great deal of public humiliation in a town where she sees herself as a person of great influence?” Victor said. “She can be a spiteful woman, isn’t that so?”

  “Yes, that’s all true,” I admitted.

  “A proud woman with a mean streak who has been scorned might lash out under the right circumstances?” Bessie said.

  “Circumstances such as . . .?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Victor said. “Perhaps asking for money to fund a personal project that might elevate her in the public eye, and then being told no?”

  “I was there when Celia asked you about it,” I reminded. “It didn’t sound to me as though Emma had actually said no to her. It sounded more like she was expecting Emma to say yes.”

  “Could have been a show on her part,” Bessie said.

  Victor nodded, “Yes, that outburst could have been for our benefit. Celia is not as stupid as my jokes about her would have you believe.”

  “That had to be painful for you to admit,” Bessie noted.

  “Even morphine wouldn’t dull it, I’m afraid,” Victor replied.

  “We could always triple the dose,” Bessie suggested.

  “But that would kill me,” replied Victor.

  “Perhaps, but the problem would be solved,” she said.

  My mind wandered as Victor and Bessie traded barbs. Could it be Celia? I had thought many bad things about her, but murder?

  “I’d like to bring Carter in on this discussion,” I said. “If there’s anyone . . .?”

  “I’d be the first to go in that direction if I thought he would, or could, do anything. But he can’t—not yet, anyway. Please, no police,” Bessie interrupted.

  “Why?”

  “Why, you ask?” Victor replied. “Let me spell it out for you, my dear. Even if he agreed to help us, it would be with extreme reluctance—his heart would not be in it. He doesn’t believe it.”

  “I know all this,” I said, “but I’d like to think that he would be objective.”

  “And I’d like to think the four lumps of sugar that I have in my tea each d
ay would help me lose weight,” Victor replied. “I don’t think either expectation is particularly reasonable.”

  He was probably not wrong about Carter . . . or the sugar.

  “We have a lot of work to do to identify the killer,” Bessie said. “The police would look at the lack of evidence and then decline to intercede. If anything, they might put up a roadblock to our independent investigation, once they realized we were conducting one. At the moment, we are flying under the radar, so to speak.”

  “Right now,” Victor added, “the murderer thinks everyone believes Emma’s death was caused by a natural heart attack. The killer is relaxed.”

  I nodded, “So, where do we begin?”

  “We begin with the people we know to be associated most closely with Emma: Celia and this Maxine Reed person you mentioned. Do you know how to reach her?”

  “I know one of Maxine’s friends, Cindy Lou, our elections coordinator,” I said. “Let me start with her.”

  “Good,” Bessie said. “Victor and I will start a background check on Celia.”

  “Thank you for being a friend to Emma,” Victor said, raising his glass of beer. “A quick toast to new friends.”

  I raised my glass, and clinked it with Bessie’s and Victor’s. We drank.

  Chapter Eight

  At Francine’s, Ally had just finished pouring a refill round of coffee and walked away, out of earshot. Ally was my friend, but she was also Celia’s niece, even though their relationship was complicated. I didn’t want her to hear anything until we had more information.

  “This is unbelievable,” Ida Belle said. “You’re telling me that Victor and Bessie Bloom think Celia murdered Emma?”

  I’d given them the entire update, including Victor’s and Bessie’s suspicions, the blood test results, and the inquiry Emma made about a foreign bank account.

  “Shhhh—keep your voice down,” I admonished. “No, not exactly. Victor has identified her as a person of interest. He does want to investigate before eliminating her as a suspect.”

  “That’s poppycock,” Ida Belle dismissed. “She’s a lot of things, but Celia is no murderer.”

  “I wouldn’t put anything past her,” Gertie countered.

  “You and Celia have a long history,” Ida Belle said. “It’s clouding your judgment.”

  “So, you don’t think Celia would murder someone?” Gertie asked.

  “I don’t think she’s smart enough,” Ida Belle offered.

  “She’s ornery enough,” Gertie replied.

  “You have a point.”

  “That’s not why I’m coming to you. Do you remember Walter saying Emma had been in the general store with a woman named Maxine Reed?”

  “Yes, looking for plant food as I remember,” Ida Belle replied.

  “Well, she was also with Emma in Mark Baker’s office,” I added.

  Ida Belle and Gertie both drew in a breath and held it.

  “Well, that’s certainly interesting,” Gertie said, exhaling audibly.

  “It sure is,” Gertie added. “I think she’s someone we should check into.”

  “I think so, too,” I agreed. “Do either of you know where Maxine Reed lives?”

  “I can find out easily enough,” Ida Belle said. “Maxine was a volunteer on the elections committee. I’m sure her name, phone number, and address are in the committee directory. I still have my copy from the election period.”

  “Good idea, Ida Belle. We need to meet with her and find out what we can without letting her know there is an investigation going on.”

  “How do we do that?” Gertie asked.

  “I was thinking that, in my capacity as a librarian, I could be involved in honoring Cindy Lou for the outstanding work she did as an election coordinator during the whole debacle around the election and recount.”

  “What would that have to do with Maxine?” Gertie asked.

  “No one knows Cindy Lou better than Maxine. We would need some background information on Cindy Lou for the speech,” I proposed.

  “What speech?” Ida Belle said.

  “The speech that would be given prior to presenting the award to Cindy Lou,” I replied.

  “Cindy Lou won an award?” Gertie asked.

  “No. It’s made up,” I replied. “Since Maxine is her friend, we would be going to her to get background information on Cindy Lou for the award. The three of us will go to Maxine’s house and I’ll interview her about Cindy Lou and you guys will make an excuse to snoop around.”

  “That’s really weak,” Gertie opined.

  “Weak? This is coming from a woman who thought it was a good idea to walk an alligator on a leash, set Celia’s housecoat on fire, and carry around a stick of dynamite in her purse.”

  “Okay, fair point,” Gertie admitted. “What would we be looking for?”

  “Anything,” I said. “A diary; a ledger; events written on her calendar; mail; email . . . anything that might place her in Sinful at or near Emma’s house on Friday evening at the time when Emma was murdered.”

  Ida Belle nodded, “We can look for medications in her bathroom that might be used to induce a heart attack, or chemicals under her kitchen sink.”

  “What happens when Maxine calls Cindy Lou and tells her about this award?” Gertie asked.

  I tapped Gertie on the elbow, playfully, “It’s a surprise, silly. We’ll tell Maxine this needs to remain a secret.”

  “You know people in Sinful don’t do such a great job keeping secrets,” Ida Belle noted.

  “That’s true, but if Maxine were to be the award presenter, she’d be more apt to keep the secret, don’t you think?”

  Gertie nodded, “Hmmm. Not bad.”

  “Sooner or later, that’s going to bite you in the butt, you know that, right? Your heart is writing checks that your head can’t cash,” Ida Belle replied.

  “If Emma was murdered, I need to find out who it was and bring the culprit to justice,” I said. “If there’s blowback, I’ll deal with it.”

  “Okay, then,” Ida Belle said. “Want me to try to get us in to see Maxine soon?”

  I nodded and smiled, “Today would be great.”

  Chapter Nine

  We pulled up to Maxine Reed’s house. The outside of the small, brick home was well taken care of. The lawn was manicured and creatively landscaped.

  I got my first glimpse of Maxine when Ida Belle, Gertie, and I approached the front door, which was already open. She’d heard us coming and was waiting. She smiled, introduced herself to me, and invited us in. The inside of the house was as impeccably cared for as the outside. The furniture was older and dated but in pristine condition. The walls were textured and painted in tasteful earth tones.

  She had a tea setting laid out for us ahead of time. Maxine herself was an extension of the home she kept. She was a handsome woman of about sixty-five. Her hair was dyed red and styled—every hair was in place. Her makeup was tasteful and light. She looked to be dressed for town. It was possible she dressed up just for our visit but I didn’t think so. Maxine Reed appeared to be a woman of routine and that routine included her to be looking her best at all times.

  She invited us to sit and began pouring tea. “I’m so excited for Cindy Lou,” she said.

  “We are, too,” I replied.

  “She’s been Sinful’s Election Coordinator for a long time. There has never been any recognition for her efforts,” Maxine continued.

  “Well, we’re happy this recognition . . . uh, came along,” Ida Belle said.

  “I must admit I’ve never heard of this award,” Maxine said.

  “It’s new,” Ida Belle replied.

  “Yes, very new,” Gertie affirmed.

  “Tell me about the selection process,” Maxine asked.

  Ida Belle blinked, “It’s . . . complicated.”

  “Thank you for the tea. It’s lovely,” I interjected. “We don’t want to take up too much time from your busy day. Let’s get started, shall we?”

&nb
sp; “Yes, of course,” Maxine said.

  I pulled out a notebook and pen, and asked permission to take notes.

  “Now, why don’t you tell us what you know about Cindy Lou?” I said, sounding as though I actually cared about what I’d just asked to hear.

  “Do you mind if I use your bathroom, dear?” Gertie asked.

  “Oh, of course,” she replied. “It’s down the hall to the right, just before you get to the master bedroom.”

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Gertie said. “Don’t wait on me. Go ahead and get started.”

  Maxine began to eloquently articulate the attributes of Sinful’s Election Coordinator. She made Cindy Lou sound more like a combination of Mother Theresa and Madam Curie, rather than a small-town public servant. I listened patiently and pretended to take notes, careful to raise my notebook high. I didn’t want her to see that I was actually doodling.

  I waited for an opportunity to interject something about Emma. It took some time, given that Maxine had obviously prepared a lot of things to say about Cindy Lou. Finally, however, I found an opening.

  “You know, Maxine,” I began, “you and I have a common acquaintance.”

  She paused and raised her eyebrows, “Oh really? Who might that be?”

  “Emma Peterson.”

  Her facial expression changed. I looked carefully for signs of concern or shock, but instead, all I saw was sadness—genuine sadness.

  “Oh, that poor dear woman,” she said. “I was so saddened to hear of her passing.”

  “We all were.”

  “Wait a minute,” Maxine said, “Are you the sweet young woman who brought her books every month?”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Oh, my dear, she loved you so much. She spoke very highly of you. She so looked forward to your visits.”

  “Did you know her well?” I asked.

  “No, not really,” she said. “I just met her a short while ago at the nursery in Thibodaux. I was getting to know her, slowly but surely.”

  She didn’t try to oversell the friendship, I thought.

  “The nursery? Really?”