Jonas gave Daisy a little nudge. “We really should go over there.”
As they walked toward the site where a short service would be held, Rowan caught Daisy’s eye. Disengaging himself from the group of men he’d been speaking to, he came toward them.
Stopping when he reached Daisy, he asked, “Did you think any more about what I requested?”
While Daisy studied Rowan, she considered the fact that he looked like a man in mourning. He appeared a little more disheveled than any other time she’d seen him. His expensive suit jacket had a few creases. His tie was crooked. His usually styled hair was windswept.
She took a tighter grip on her clutch purse. “I spoke with Vanna. That didn’t lead anywhere important, but I did learn some things I didn’t know before. I was surprised that Vanna didn’t know Margaret’s stage name. Can you tell me what it was?”
“Yes. It was Luna Larkin. Unique, don’t you think?”
“I suppose it is.” Daisy actually thought it sounded more like a Las Vegas showgirl’s name than an actress’s. But she didn’t say that. Both her gaze and Rowan’s went to the group of people standing at the chairs under the canopy. Rowan pointed to a beautiful African-American woman with shoulder-length curly black hair that was pulled back on either side by gold barrettes. Her skin was unlined and her big brown eyes darted here and there.
“That’s Keisha Washington, the stage manager Margaret brought in from New York. The man next to her is Ward Cooper. He’s the lighting technician.”
Ward Cooper was tall and thin with ears that wouldn’t look so big if he didn’t have his hair cut so short. He was wearing a herringbone-patterned sweater coat, black slacks, and a light gray scarf wrapped around his neck in a style common to many men now. Other members of the cast were also present—Daniel Copeland, Heidi Korn, Arden Botterill, and Jasper Lazar. Glenda Nurmi was speaking with Heidi.
The minister beckoned to Rowan, who excused himself and headed toward the front row under the canopy. Daisy leaned close to Jonas. “Since Glenda’s here, I’ll speak to her after the service.”
“She might be too upset to talk.”
“She might be. If she is, I’ll set up another time.”
The minister gave a signal that it was time for the mausoleum service. Daisy had never been to a service like this one. But she was learning new experiences happened every day.
The minister didn’t simply read from the Bible. He spoke about Margaret as if he had known her, and Daisy wondered if he had, or if Rowan had just given him details.
After the minister finished, Rowan went to the podium. He said, “Margaret probably didn’t want a funeral service that was traditional. But I thought in a way her roots should be evident. However, I also know she would like me to recite lines from writers she admired.”
After Rowan said that, he read quotes from William Blake, Wordsworth, and Ibsen. After he finished, the pallbearers took the casket to the mausoleum. Daisy stared at the small building. She knew at some point she had to confront her fear of enclosed spaces. Maybe today was the day to do it. She wanted to wait until everyone who was inside the mausoleum left.
While Jonas spoke with someone he knew, she walked the path around the edifice. Somehow a pebble got into her shoe, and she stopped to shake it out. She heard voices and realized one of the windows of the mausoleum had been opened. It was above her head so she couldn’t see who was inside. But she could hear.
After listening for a while, she thought one of the people inside was Glenda. The other person was a man, but Daisy couldn’t quite make out their words. Still . . . she heard Margaret’s name uttered.
Was this about the funeral service? Or was it about Margaret herself? Maybe it concerned her murder. Daisy stayed where she was. When the voices stopped, she stepped to the edge of the side of the building. Glenda and Ward Cooper exited. Ward broke off from Glenda, and it was easy to see that Glenda was headed for her car, as were many of the other funeral-goers.
Daisy caught up to her and tapped her arm. “Glenda, can we talk?”
When Glenda turned toward her, her face was flushed but there were no tears in her eyes. It was possible she was still angry from whatever she and Ward had been arguing about. “I’ d like to talk to you about Margaret,” Daisy said honestly.
Shaking her head, Glenda held up a hand. “I don’t want to talk about Margaret. I’m not even going to Vanna’s house. Everything’s still too raw.”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” Daisy concurred with empathy. “I’m trying to find out a few facts that might help the police. If you don’t want to talk here or today, maybe another time and place?”
Glenda looked around the area as if she wanted to run away.
“Why don’t you stop in at the tea garden sometime before rehearsal? I heard the play is still going on.”
“From what I know, it is,” Glenda said as if she didn’t agree with that. “Many of the cast and Rowan believe we can pay tribute to Margaret by making this the best production it can be. That means a lot more rehearsals than we’ve been having. It means new lines to be learned. I’d like to rewrite a few of the scenes. Margaret wouldn’t let me make the changes, but now I’m going to do that.”
“You’re the playwright so I imagine what you say goes.”
“If Rowan doesn’t want to manage the cast and crew and everything that has to be done, he’ll have to appoint someone. I’m hoping he appoints me. Ward and Keisha are experienced in theater mechanics, so to speak, but I think I’m the one who can pull this together.”
Seeing that almost everyone was leaving, Daisy nodded. “We can talk more about this soon, tea and scones on me.”
Glenda slowly smiled. “Maybe.”
Daisy turned and started back to meet Jonas. Rowan hadn’t wanted to have a gathering at the house where Margaret was murdered, so the reception after the funeral was to be held at Vanna’s house. It was small but would be adequate for an occasion like this.
As Daisy kept her eyes on the mausoleum, she knew she wanted to recover from the panicky feeling she got whenever she was in a small space. She didn’t like the condition hanging over her. She wanted to feel normal again.
Jonas stood under the canopy as if he didn’t want to be near the mausoleum either. He’d only worn a suit coat, and she imagined he must be cold. Even in her raspberry-colored dress coat with a scarf around her neck, she was chilled. It was as if those chills came from the inside, though, not outside. She wasn’t sure.
Once more at Jonas’s side, she said, “I’m going into the mausoleum alone.”
“Why don’t I come with you?”
She shook her head. “Alone, Jonas. I have to do this alone. I don’t want you standing right outside like a guard. Why don’t you go sit in your car? It’s cold out here.”
But he could be as stubborn as she could. “I’m going to wait right here for you. Do whatever you need to do, then come back to me.”
She appreciated his sentiment and kissed him on the cheek to show it. But then she walked toward the mausoleum, determination in her step. The granite or concrete or whatever it was, was so cold, not only to the eye but to the touch. It held the cold and seemed to radiate it. Crossing the threshold, she shut the wooden door. Standing perfectly still, she took in a breath and let it out. Then she took in another, deeper, and let that one out. After the third, she felt calmer. She didn’t know what she intended to do in here. Maybe just feel the space. Maybe she needed to prove she had enough courage that she wouldn’t panic while she was in here.
She studied each crypt, all of which held a brass plate with the name of a family member and also engraved with a quote from a text or the Bible. When she came to Margaret’s, the newest one, she stopped. It didn’t have a name yet, nor did it have a quote. However, she saw a slip of paper on the ground floor. It was half buried as if someone had dropped it and then stepped on it. Pulling it from the ground, she brushed it off. As she opened it, she saw words were written on it. The acts of th
is life are the destiny of the next. Eastern proverb.
Was Rowan going to put that quote on a brass plate that would be screwed into the crypt? Had Margaret picked it out herself and maybe included it in her will? Daisy studied the crypt a few moments longer, then she walked to the left until she reached the wall. Turning, she walked to the right. Nothing happened to her. A panic attack didn’t overtake her. She was perfectly fine.
Maybe not perfectly fine. Her heart was racing. Her palms felt sweaty even in the cold. There was no point standing in here becoming chilled to the bone. She didn’t like this place because it was a mausoleum. Perhaps the next time she was in an enclosed space, she’d escape a panic attack. She was so grateful one didn’t happen now.
After she opened the door, she felt a whole lot better. As she stepped outside, her heart settled into a regular rhythm. A gust of wind blew as if cleansing her from her experience inside. She ducked her nose down into her scarf.
Jonas had stayed exactly where he’d been under the canopy. He was pacing back and forth, but she imagined that was to keep warm. He spotted her, and their gazes met. She walked in a straight line toward him. Without a word he took her into his arms and held her close. At that moment she felt more peaceful than she had since the last murder investigation had been solved. Could this one be solved? Only time would tell.
A half hour later at Vanna’s house, Daisy helped the church secretary distribute the platters of deli meat and cheeses as well as potato salad, macaroni salad, and potato chips to her dining room table. Then she returned to the kitchen to the slow cooker of meatballs, where she transferred them to a serving dish.
Daisy arranged the food in an attractive design on the table out of habit and moved to the end of the table where paper products stood. She moved the Styrofoam cups to a card table with the coffee urn. Then she set the luncheon plates, the dessert plates, the napkins, and the silverware in a row so they could easily be picked up by the funeral-goers. She heard Rowan’s voice in the living room, and a couple of minutes later guests began entering the dining room. Apparently, he’d told them that lunch was served. While she finessed the position of the food on the table, she heard various comments.
One woman whispered to another, “I heard Rowan say that Margaret never would have used paper plates. He’s so right.”
Daisy wove in and out of the guests, making sure no one needed anything. She heard a younger woman say to the man with her, “Margaret was a perfectionist. I think that was because she didn’t know whether she belonged in the world of her upbringing or in the new world she’d made for herself.”
The man responded, “New York can be vicious. I imagine she carved out the life she wanted for herself. After she found Vaughn, she had it made.”
If that was true, Daisy thought, then why had someone murdered her?
Jasper Lazar, an HVAC contractor well known in Willow Creek for his expertise, had also joined the cast. His medium brown hair was dusted with silver. His hairline receded a few inches above his brow. His nose was stubby and his double chin broad. He stared down at the food on the table and raised his brows to Daisy. “Quite a difference from the food you serve, isn’t it?”
Daisy defended her friend. “I imagine Vanna had to put this together quickly. I brought an assortment of desserts that are on the table in the kitchen if you’d like some of those.”
Jasper slicked back his hair that had some length to it. His golden-brown eyes sparked at her as he agreed, “I’ll head that way.”
A short woman Daisy had seen at church now and then sidled up next to her. She was probably as old as Vanna and wore her hair blunt-cut around her face. She was plump, dressed in a plain black dress and sturdy black shoes. “Mr. Lazar is just mad at Rowan and looking for any reason at all to criticize him. That is perfectly good country-cut ham on that plate, and those cheeses came from the Stoltzfuses, who make their own.”
Daisy had often stopped at the Stoltzfus stand at the farmers’ market. “Vanna made the potato salad and the macaroni salad herself. I think she just needed to busy herself to keep her grief at bay. She wanted to feel as if she were doing something.”
The woman looked up at Daisy with a small smile. “I see you understand. My name is Gayla Mann. You’re Daisy from Daisy’s Tea Garden, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“It’s good for Vanna to have her friends around her. She’s mentioned you a few times to me. She said you and Tessa Miller make the best teas and baked goods.”
“Have you ever tried them?” Daisy asked.
“My husband and I live on a small property out at the east end but we’re pretty self-sufficient. I don’t have much need to come into town. But now that I’ve met you, I might have to try the tea garden. I do like tea.”
As guests who had been at the funeral filled their plates and picked up a soda or a bottle of water, Daisy took the chance that Gayla was friendly enough to ask her a question. “You said Jasper was mad at Rowan. Do you know why?”
“Jasper lives in one of Rowan’s apartment buildings and is wrangling with him about repairs.”
“Doesn’t Rowan take good care of his property?” Daisy asked in a lower voice.
“I don’t know if the problem is Rowan per se. He has a management company to take care of his properties. If you don’t hire the right managers, the work doesn’t get done, or they let things slide. Rowan isn’t a handyman himself, and it’s tough finding good managers, I suppose. Jasper can do his own repairs, but then he feels Rowan should reimburse him. It can be an ongoing circle of argument and resentment.”
Argument and resentment. Daisy remembered the phone conversation that Margaret had had with Rowan.
Chapter Eight
A short time later, Daisy decided to freshen up in the powder room. It was located on the other side of the house from the reception, near the three bedrooms. After she’d washed her hands and freshened her lipstick, she unlocked the door and stepped into the hall. Once there, however, she thought she heard a woman crying. Not knowing whether to go toward the sound or away from it, she stood still for a few seconds.
Whoever was crying was in the bedroom next door to the bathroom. That bedroom door was open. When Daisy peeked in, she could see that the bedroom was decorated in lilac. The wallpaper consisted of tiny little violet flowers and the chenille bedspread, very pale lilac, complemented it. Lace curtains crisscrossed at the windows and swooped over white mini blinds. Vanna sat in a deep purple velvet bedside chair, her head in her hands.
Crossing to the older woman without hesitation, Daisy sat on the bed across from her and patted her shoulder. “I know today has to be hard for you.”
“It’s so hard,” Vanna mumbled. “But Rowan just made it harder or better. I don’t know which.”
Noticing that Vanna was fingering a brooch on the lapel of her sweater, Daisy asked, “What did Rowan do?”
That brooch gave Daisy chills because she’d seen it on Margaret’s body . . . covered in clotted cream.
Without hesitation, Vanna fingered the piece of jewelry again. A small smile slipped across her lips. She unpinned the brooch and held it in her hand. The diamonds with the amethysts twinkled in the daylight from the window.
“Rowan gave me Margaret’s favorite piece of jewelry. I’ve admired it from the moment I saw it. That was the day I saw Margaret for the first time after she returned to Willow Creek.”
A thought flitted through Daisy’s mind. If this brooch was Rowan’s wife’s favorite piece of jewelry, why wouldn’t he want to keep it?
Then again, maybe he simply wanted to do something nice for his wife’s sister.
“Did Rowan tell you where the brooch came from?” Daisy asked.
“You know, I didn’t think about that,” Vanna answered. “Margaret never said where it came from. I just assumed Rowan had given it to her because she loved it so much. She wore it often. It seemed to be a talisman for her. She’d run her fingers over the diamonds and the amethysts as
if she couldn’t believe someone cared enough to give it to her.”
“You’ll treasure it,” Daisy offered.
“Yes, I will.” Vanna kept her gaze on her hand.
“Margaret never wanted a home and family the way I did. She always wanted to be famous. Acting was the path to that and she wanted to be the best actress she could be. She liked putting herself in different roles. The parts were all sides of herself. She never communicated with our parents. They were angry with her and bitter that she’d left without a second thought or a look back.”
“That’s such a shame. Maybe they could have reconnected.”
“I doubt it. They were so disappointed in her. I was fortunate. When I left the faith to marry, it took a while, but my parents could see that I’d married a good man and that we were going to raise our children in the tenets of our faith. I think they finally saw that Margaret and I had to choose our own paths. If she would have tried to communicate with them, tried to come back, they might have accepted her back in. I don’t know. Dad had a heart attack and died while she was incommunicado, and then Mom went to live with her brother’s family in Indianapolis. She’s infirm now and it’s too difficult for her to travel. I’d like to think she would have come for Margaret’s funeral if she could. I told Margaret she should call Mom and try to make peace, but Margaret said she was happy with Rowan and wouldn’t rock the boat by trying to adhere to our mother’s ideas of what was right and wrong.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Mom’s physically in a bad place. But I also think the emotional toll would have been as hard on her as the physical toll. It was hard enough for her to digest the fact that Margaret had died let alone that she’d been murdered. You know, I loved my husband. He was my partner. The children always came first, and if there’s any glue in a marriage, it’s children. I’m not sure that Margaret and Rowan had glue. Rowan traveled so much, and even though Margaret had the Little Theater, I think she was becoming terrifically bored with Willow Creek.”
With a sigh, Vanna re-pinned the brooch onto her lapel. “I’m going to try to find mementos of me and Margaret and keep the memories alive. We were so close as kids. I’m just not sure what happened.”
Murder with Clotted Cream Page 9