----
That night, I couldn't sleep. So I rolled out of bed at four-thirty in the morning and plodded over to the barn to visit our tiny horse, See-Saw. See-Saw measured 34 inches at the withers, which was on the small side even for an American Miniature. She had a reddish coat, somewhere between bay and sorrel, with a spray of white freckles on her haunches and a white diamond on her head. Her dark brown mane was cropped close, and it sprang up like a Mohawk along her neck.
Miss May had bought See-Saw when I was in high school and brought the little horse to the farm to make some extra money during off-season. I had spent hours grooming and feeding See-Saw when we’d first gotten her, but she had instantly preferred KP’s company to anyone else’s. He gave her treats and lovingly grumbled at her and took her for walks, and I was sure that she was missing him now.
“Hey, See-Saw,” I said. I approached and pulled a carrot out of my pocket. See-Saw sniffed my hand and nibbled at the carrot, then let it drop to the ground.
“Not hungry?” I asked.
See-Saw chuffed and stomped her hoof, trampling the carrot.
“OK, sorry,” I said. “So… you wanna talk about this murder case?”
See-Saw whinnied and flicked her tail. Did I mention she was a good listener? Not always the most open with her own feelings but more than willing to entertain my musings.
Over the course of the next hour I talked and talked, breaking occasionally for See-Saw to pee, poop, or chew on her own haunch. I told See-Saw about Linda and what had happened at Salazar's. I confessed that I wasn’t sure why I was still avoiding Mike’s phone calls, at which point See-Saw farted. I also tried to reassure her that Miss May and I were going to figure out this case and free KP. But See-Saw was a practical woman, and I knew that she knew that my promises were at least 20% horse manure.
So I admitted that I wasn’t sure about anything. That I wanted to be strong, but sometimes I felt like a house with a vulnerable foundation. See-Saw nudged my face with her velvet snout, indicating her appreciation of my metaphor. From the way she nuzzled against me, I could tell that she, too, sometimes felt like a house with a vulnerable foundation. We all do, sometimes.
After about minute seventy-seven, I could tell See-Saw was getting restless. She flapped her lips and flicked her tail, so I tried to wrap things up. “In summary, Linda Turtle is dead,” I said. “And so far, our only suspects are her husband and Petunia the flower shop lady. And I guess Salazar. He did have a creepy vibe, but also, I think he saw into my soul. So I don’t know.”
See-Saw didn't have much more insight into the investigation than I did. She was smart for a tiny horse, but not omniscient. If she had all the answers, she would’ve gotten KP out of jail post-haste.
I felt more relaxed after my chat with See-Saw, but I was also exhausted, and I needed coffee. So I gave See-Saw another hardy pat on the side and trudged away from the stables.
Not halfway back to the house, I ran into Miss May. Hooray. She was carrying 2 cups of coffee.
“I hope one of those cups is for me.”
Miss May rubbed sleep out of her eyes. “Nope. One cup is for me, and the other cup is for See-Saw. She's been drinking a lot of coffee lately.”
I laughed and snatched the cup of coffee away from Miss May.
“This better be mostly cream,” I said, and sniffed the brew.
“Are you ready to hit the road?” Miss May asked.
“One second,” I said. Then I took a sip of coffee and smiled. “All right. Now I'm ready.”
----
Although it was barely 6 AM, the Washington Village resort-style 55 and older community, nestled on the outer edge of Pine Grove, was bustling. The only person who still seemed to be catching some shut-eye was the guard at the front gate. Miss May had to honk six times to wake the guy up, and he was so startled, he almost fell out of his chair. Then he handed us a heavy sign-in book. The thing weighed so much, I wondered how most of Washington Village’s residents could lift it.
As soon as we pulled through the main gate, four elderly women strolled by, holding tennis rackets. Their legs were long and sinewy, evidence that tennis practice was likely a daily routine, and from the pep in their steps, it appeared the women had been awake for hours.
Next, we passed two elderly man working on sliding boards under their cars. One of the men slid out and sat up. He pulled off his shirt and wiped his face, and I swear he had a 12-pack. My eyes bulged. How old is too old for a 29-year-old woman? Asking for a friend.
Miss May parked next to the grease monkeys, and we climbed out. I nodded at the men. “Morning! How’s it going?”
The shirtless guy squinted up at me. “I'm above-ground, and I know what year it is. That's good enough for me.”
The guy was trying to be friendly, but I didn’t know how to respond. “Yup! I'm also happy I'm not dead or insane.” I didn't have the skill for that kind of repartee. So what I said instead was, “OK! Have a good one.”
The grounds of Washington Village were laid out in a rectangle. Tennis courts, a pool, and a gazebo occupied the center of the rectangle, and apartment units and townhouses lined the edges of the complex.
Though I had never been to Washington Village before, and I had never met Petunia, I could pick out which apartment belonged to the florist from a mile away. Most of the units were gray and had simple patches of grass out front. But one home blossomed with a dozen neat rows of rosebushes, tulips and daffodils.
I pointed out the house with the flowers out front. “Petunia's?”
Miss May shook her head, “No I think those are roses.”
“Har-har,” I said. “I meant…is that Petunia’s house?”
“Oh, right. Yes. That’s her place. Beautiful, isn't it? You can smell it from across the parking lot."
When we got to the door, Miss May rang the bell a few times, but Petunia didn't answer. I peeked through the little window beside the door. The apartment was cute. Overstuffed floral couches, billowing floral curtains, and paintings of flowers on every wall. But all the lights were out, and no one stirred.
“Do you think maybe she's still asleep?” I asked. “It’s early.”
Miss May shook her head. “Not a chance. You saw the hustle and bustle out there. 6 AM is like noon to these people. Half of them are already on their way to early-bird lunch! And Petunia gets up earlier than anyone. She used to come to the bakeshop before we opened. Back when she lived close by.”
I looked out over the lively pedestrian metropolis of the Washington Village luxury retirement community. “She could be anywhere.”
Miss May shrugged. “Then we better start our search."
----
We scoured the compound, searching for Petunia. A dozen ladies practiced yoga in the gazebo, but Petunia was not among them. Another ten or so women power-walked along the sidewalks. Again, no Petunia. After we had questioned the tennis players and the amateur mechanics to no avail, I was ready to give up. But Miss May wagged her finger at me.
“We can't give up yet,” Miss May said. “We haven't checked the clubhouse.”
“Why didn’t we check there first?” I asked.
Miss May opened her mouth to answer, but she clearly didn’t have a good one. “It’s early, Chels. I don’t know.”
As we approached the clubhouse, a din of conversation rose from inside. And rose, and rose, until it was a deafening roar of chatter. I hadn’t been to a club that popular since my New York City days. Ugh, fine, I had never been to a club that popular.
Once inside, I understood the allure of the Washington Village Clubhouse. As an interior designer, I often snubbed my nose at community spaces. They were practical venues, meant for hard use. But this place was exceptionally classy. High ceilings punctuated with vaulted skylights. Sturdy oak tables dotting the room. Winged leather chairs nestled into corners. And a king’s spread on a buffet table along the back wall. I gravitated toward the buffet, but Miss May grabbed my arm.
“T
here." She pointed across the room.
“The food? It’s the other way, actually.”
“Nice try, Chels. I'm talking about Petunia. She's right over there.”
I scanned the room, looking out over the sea of white hair, gray hair, and no hair. Then I realized... I had no idea what Petunia looked like.
“Which one is she?”
“Follow me.” Miss May charged across the room.
As we got closer, I developed a pretty good hypothesis about Petunia’s identity. A group of women played cards at a table along the far wall. One of the women at the table was dressed head-to-toe in floral attire. She had a frock of gray hair. Her sweater was covered in images of roses. Her leggings were covered in images of tulips. And she had a raspy, gruff voice that was a comical juxtaposition with her attire. The woman yelled at her table-mates impatiently and was clearly the leader of the card game.
Miss May walked straight towards the flower queen and tapped her on the shoulder. “Petunia! Just the woman I've been looking for.”
Petunia looked up at Miss May with an impatient curl of the lip. The florist’s voice was even gruffer up close, and she spoke with a thick Long Island accent. “May. What the heck do you want?” Petunia emphasized “you” like Miss May was an invasive species of weed. “I'm busy here. Too busy for you!”
Miss May balked at Petunia’s rebuke. Usually Miss May was butter-smooth when it came to dealing with rudeness, but it was early in the morning and Petunia was being a...thorny flower. I took a step closer to get a look at whatever was busying Petunia. I glimpsed a few flashes of bling, and then I realized that Petunia’s entire table was covered in coins, cash, jewelry, and poker chips.
From what I could tell, the women were in the middle of a high-stakes game of Texas Hold 'Em.
Petunia gestured at the table. “I'm in the middle of a game with these idiots.”
“Ah,” Miss May said. “Early for gambling, but I like it!”
“Early? This game’s still going from last night, May! I wouldn't get up this early if all my grandchildren's lives depended on it!”
All right, I thought. Maybe this lady could be the killer. Who casually references the death of their grandchildren like that?
Miss May didn’t let it faze her. “You've been playing since last night? All you girls must need a quick pee break. What do you think? Five minutes? I'd love to have a chat with Petunia.”
Most of the ladies nodded. Many looked grateful for the interruption. But Petunia slapped the table, rattling the chips and jewels. “No! I'm in the middle of a lucky streak. What kind of hard drugs are you on, May?”
As Petunia spoke, another one of the women dealt a new hand. Petunia checked her cards and frowned. “On second thought,” she said, “this hand is terrible. Reconvene in ten, ladies. If you're taking a number two, use the upstairs bathroom. And Ethel. You stay put and watch the table. Guard this booty with your life.”
A skinny, thousand-year-old woman I presumed to be Ethel nodded at Petunia’s directive and crossed her arms. Ethel seemed to be taking her job to heart, and I liked that. Then Petunia grabbed my bicep and pulled herself to her feet, using me as a prop. I almost toppled over. Petunia was strong.
“OK, May,” Petunia grumbled. “You've got five minutes. What do you want?”
12
Flower Power
From the outside, the floral prints in Petunia's apartment had seemed quaint and charming. From the inside, they were oppressive. As soon as we entered Petunia’s home, the smell of flowers overwhelmed me. Roses overtook the kitchen table. Lilies obscured the back window. Tulips and lilacs of every color blocked the television.
What a weird woman, I thought. Her face was so mean, yet her thumb was so green.
“It's actually good you came,” Petunia said, as she dug through a drawer. “I needed to take my meds over an hour ago. But I didn't want to show weakness at the table.”
Petunia grabbed a tattered bag from the drawer and emptied it on the counter. At least a dozen pill bottles spilled out. She lined them up and began opening the bottles and popping pills while we talked.
“In that case, I'm also glad we came when we did,” Miss May said. Her eyes widened as Petunia downed a millionth pill. “Have you been feeling OK?”
For real. All those pills, you hope someone isn't sick.
“I'm fine,” Petunia said. “The doctor says it's good to take preemptive medicines.”
I squinted at the bottles of medication. Those looked like prescriptions, not daily vitamins. But I did not want to argue with Petunia. Besides, we were there on an official, unofficial investigation about a murder. Not about Petunia’s potential abuse of pills.
Petunia downed three enormous tablets at the same time, along with a big sip of black coffee which must've been sitting on the counter since the day before. Gross. I grimaced and averted my eyes. Everywhere I looked, flowers seemed to be actively encroaching on the space. I think I’ve literally had this nightmare.
I tried to use my interior design brain to see past the flowers. What would I do if I could redecorate? I asked myself. How are the bones of this apartment? I noticed that Petunia’s unit had a handful of classy antique finishes. Her light fixtures were 19th century brushed copper. And her doorknobs were also antique. Pretty nice for a 55 and up joint. Somehow, I doubted that every apartment was so well-appointed.
“Did you see that girl, Ethel?” Petunia asked. “Do you think I can trust her? This is the first time I put her on money duty during a bathroom break. Sometimes the girls skim off the top. I hope I didn’t make a mistake with Ethel.”
Ethel was so old that I doubted she could be trusted to remember her own name. But I didn’t voice my concerns. I was pretty afraid of rankling Petunia.
Miss May chuckled. “I'm sure Ethel can be trusted in a little card game.”
“That's not a little card game, May. There was at least $10,000 in jewelry on that last hand. We've all accumulated so many nice things over the years, these games are high-stakes, even by Vegas standards. What else are we going to do with our stuff? Leave it to our grandkids? Why? So they can go to college? I didn't go to college, and I had a great life.”
At that, Petunia burst into hoarse laughter.
I take it she does not have a great relationship with her grandchildren, I thought.
“Ethel seemed trustworthy to me,” I said, trying to scoot the conversation back toward the murdered Turtle.
“Good,” Petunia turned to Miss May. “Now get to it. What do you want?” Here we go.
Miss May calibrated to her gentlest voice. “Actually, I wanted to ask you about your, uh, old house.”
“What about it?”
“Well...” Miss May fingered a wilting tulip. “There's no easy way to put this... “
“Spit it out!” Petunia barked.
“I know you said you sold the place, but—”
“I did sell it. I got good money for it. I would've kept it for another hundred years, but the place is too big for one old lady. The stairs didn't bother me, for the record. I'm great with stairs. I do 10 flights a day, with a cigarette in my mouth.”
“Really?” Dammit, why did I say that? And why did I say it like that?
“You don't believe me? I’ll light one up and give you twenty right now."
As curious as I was to see that spectacle, I shook my head and gazed at the floor.
Petunia grunted. “That’s what I thought. What do you want with the house anyway? The place is off the market.”
Miss May proceeded with caution. “That's the thing. Was it ever on the market? I don't want to offend you...but is it possible, perhaps, that the home was foreclosed upon?”
Petunia slammed a pill bottle down on the counter. The lid wasn’t on tight, and pills erupted from the bottle and scattered across the Formica. Petunia didn’t seem to notice. She glared at Miss May. “Unbelievable.”
“I know, Petunia. And I'm sorry that I have to ask.”
<
br /> “You don't have to do anything! You’re here because you want to be.” Petunia thrust one pill bottle after another back into her bag, shaking her head. “And now I want you to leave.”
Miss May wasn’t giving up so easily. “So the house wasn't foreclosed upon?”
“No,” Petunia shouted. “I'm not some homeless bum. I chose to sell that house.”
“OK,” Miss May said. “I’m not trying to insult you, Petunia. You know I have nothing but respect for you and your flowers. It’s just…well, the woman who bought your former abode is dead now.”
“And good riddance.” Petunia poured herself another cup of black coffee. “Linda Turtle was a scourge on Pine Grove. You met her, right?”
Miss May nodded. “She was a difficult personality. But sometimes difficult people are sweet inside. Don't you think?”
Petunia scoffed. “I think that Turtle was rotten to the shell.” That didn’t make sense, I thought. But I held my tongue.
Petunia’s hand trembled slightly as she sipped her day-old brew. “I could have paid off that house, if they had given me more time. You saw that spread on the card table. I have funds. Don't think of me like some homeless bum.”
What did this lady have against the homeless?
“No one thinks of you that way,” Miss May said. “Foreclosure happens to tons of people.”
“But I'm not like those people. Those people are bums. Homeless bums! I'm telling you, I could have paid. I just, I ignored the notices until it was too late. I hate mail. I never open it. When they showed up to take my house, I didn't have the liquidity to pay them right away. So they sold it out from under me. Taxes! The greatest scam ever perpetrated on the American people. Isn't this why we threw the tea overboard?”
“I think that had more to do with taxation without representation.” Welp, so much for holding my tongue. I wanted to stop talking but I couldn't. “The colonists didn't object to the taxes entirely,” I said. “They just wanted to have a say in who taxed them.”
Apple Orchard Cozy Mystery series Box Set 1 Page 40