Say Yes to the Death

by Susan McBride

  “We’re doing peonies today, as I’m sure you can see, because nothing says ‘spring’ like a peony! We’ll just stick to three blooms each and do very simple arrangements that’ll look perfect on your dresser or vanity. First, let’s pick out some hardy greenery,” he said, and all the ladies leaned forward to watch him select his foliage.

  Then he plucked a small sharp knife from the table and began to pare off unwanted leaves, describing what he was doing every step. He used the knife again to trim the stems of his peonies before he selected a small silver-­footed vase.

  While he talked and worked, the ladies would occasionally pepper him with questions like, “Oh, Jasper, tell us that story again about how you did flowers for Richard Burton to give to Elizabeth Taylor when she was filming nearby,” or, “We want to hear the one about Audrey Hepburn . . . Sophia Loren . . . Gregory Peck.”

  So Jasper Pippin entertained them with tales of working with glamorous movie stars back in the day, and Janet busily scribbled notes while I studied the man, wondering if he’d been angry enough about losing his business to attack Olivia.

  “I like to strip the leaves off the main buds and put the plumpest blossom in the middle. See?” he explained as he worked his magic with several vases filled with peonies. When he’d finished, the ladies cooed over his artistry. Jasper declared, “Okay, girls, enough of me! Now it’s all about you. So come on up here, pick out your greens and your peonies, grab a pair of scissors, and make something pretty to take back to your boudoirs.”

  As Jasper’s rapt audience got up out of their chairs and ambled toward the front of the room, Janet leaned over and said, “So he’s the only one who gets a knife?”

  “He’s good with it, too, isn’t he?” I remarked, and I squinted toward Mr. Pippin, trying to imagine him confronting Olivia in her office, snatching up the Tiffany cake knife and stabbing her in the throat before she knew what hit her. “He could have done it,” I said, “if he caught Olivia by surprise.”

  Jasper’s smile slipped as he glanced toward us. He brushed a stray leaf from the sleeve of his jacket. Then he tugged at his cuffs. My mother would have called him a dandy.

  “I don’t know, Andy,” Janet whispered back. “He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d be okay with getting blood on his clothes.”

  I sighed. Yes, so it appeared that Jasper was rather meticulous. I’m sure a lot of killers were. It probably just made them a lot harder to catch.

  We had to wait another half an hour before the class wrapped up and all the twittering ladies had left with their peony arrangements in hand.

  It was only then that Janet stood and approached Belle Meade’s resident floral technician. “Mr. Pippin, hello, I’m Janet Graham from the Park Cities Press,” she said, extending her hand. “Did Madge tell you I was coming by?”

  “She did, although I’m not sure I like the idea of talking to the media.” Jasper didn’t take her hand. He made a point of sticking his into his pocket. “Do you plan to take photographs?” he asked, jerking his chin my way.

  It took a second before I remembered I was holding Jan’s camera.

  Apparently, Janet had forgotten, too. She glanced at me and nodded. “Oh, yes, Andy’s helping me today,” she said, “but we don’t have to shoot you if you’re shy.”

  I didn’t get the idea that Jasper Pippin was a wallflower, but he didn’t look happy when I raised the camera. Instead, he waved it off.

  “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.” He screwed up his face. “I don’t want to be too firmly associated with my stint here. Perhaps you can photograph the arrangements instead.”

  “You make it sound as though you’re leaving,” Janet said.

  Jasper smiled. “Nothing is forever, is it?”

  “Hmm, I guess not.” Janet pointed to the flowers on the table and said, “Take a few shots of the peonies, Kendricks.”

  “You’re Andy Kendricks?” Jasper repeated, giving me a look. “Are you related to Cissy Blevins Kendricks?”

  I glanced at Janet before I answered, “Sort of. I’m her daughter.”

  “Ah.” He crossed his arms, tapping a finger to his chin. “You’re the one who didn’t debut and caused such a stir. I was doing the flowers for the White Glove Society’s deb ball that year. They were very upset.”

  “Um, yes, that was me.” Great. A dozen years later and I was still infamous for being the debutante dropout.

  “So you ended up taking pictures for the Park Cities Press? Ah, well, c’est la vie,” Jasper said with a sigh, which I took to imply, I guess that’s what happens to trust fund babies who run away from their debut.

  Janet clamped her mouth closed. Knowing her, she probably wanted to retort, And what’s so bad about working for the Park Cities Press?

  “Um, I’ll just take pictures of the flowers since that’s why I’m here, right?” I said, and Janet nodded.

  “Wait, let me arrange them,” Jasper said and went to the table to place the three vases he’d done in a fashionable stagger.

  I stood and turned on the camera. There weren’t too many ways I could make vases of peonies interesting so I’d only clicked off a few shots before Janet tapped my arm.

  “That should do, Andy, thanks.”

  I settled down into a chair in the front row to watch and listen.

  Janet started with an easy lob. “What kind of response have you received to your classes at Belle Meade?”

  “It’s been inspiring,” Jasper said, and his cheeks flushed. “The ladies seem to love it, and I enjoy teaching them what I’ve learned from my years in the business.”

  “You owned a shop in the Bishop Arts District for nearly thirty years,” Janet said. “Do you miss it?”

  “I miss the area, yes,” Jasper replied, biting his lip. “It was such a great atmosphere. And I miss the customers, some of whom I’d known since I first opened my doors. Losing them was like a small death.” He shrugged and dusted off his sleeves. “But like Lazarus, I’ve come back to life.”

  Janet cocked her head. “Do you have something up your sleeve you’d like to discuss?”

  Where else would Jasper go if not Belle Meade? I wondered. I had a feeling he’d had few offers for employment after the smack-­down on Olivia’s show.

  “My time at Belle Meade has been lovely and a wonderful opportunity to regroup,” he said without giving anything away. “It was fortunate for me that they asked me to share my talents when I needed somewhere to go after—­”

  Olivia’s hatchet job, I nearly shouted out to fill in the blank.

  “After you sold off your shop,” Janet said instead. “I’m sure that can’t have been easy.”

  Jasper glanced toward the doorway then leaned nearer Janet. He fairly trembled with excitement, like he had a secret he just couldn’t hold in. “Off the record—­Miss Graham—­”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t quote me on this, but I will be moving on soon.”

  “What’s up?” Janet pressed him. “Do you have plans to open a new shop?”

  He put a finger to his lips, tapping and thinking before he replied, “I’m not at liberty to share details just yet. But it won’t be long. So leave your card, and I’ll call you the moment I can toot my horn. Then you can do a proper interview.”

  Janet glanced at me, and I shrugged.

  What was Jasper up to? Had he been biding his time until Olivia was dead, and now that she was, he had some great opportunity knocking on his door?

  “Here you go,” Janet said, pulling a business card from her bag and handing it over to him. “Can’t you give me a hint?” she asked. “My readers would love to know what you’re up to. I’m sure they’d be thrilled to hear you’ll have a happy ending to your story after all.”

  “Well, they’ll just have to wait.” Jasper smiled. “But it’s going to be bigger than a me
re flower shop.” He looked at the open door again then lowered his voice. “Promise you won’t breathe a word, especially not to Madge. She thinks I’m a permanent fixer already.”

  “My lips are sealed,” Janet said, even pulling an imaginary zipper across them.

  No one asked me to pinky swear that I wouldn’t discuss Jasper’s plans, thank God, so I wouldn’t have to feel guilty when I made sure Malone put Jasper Pippin on his “prime suspects” list.

  Jasper glanced at the clock on the wall above his head.

  “Is there anything else?” he said. “I need to pick up flowers and do new arrangements for the dining room, and I’m creating a spray of lilies for a memorial service this afternoon, a dear woman who still had so much life left in her.”

  Janet’s chin jerked up. “You don’t mean Olivia La Belle?” she asked, which was exactly what I was thinking because I had Olivia on the brain.

  “God, no, not Olivia La Belle,” Jasper moaned with a pinched expression. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

  “You must have heard about her death,” Janet said, intrepid reporter that she was. “She was killed in her office yesterday morning.”

  I sat on the edge of my chair, thinking, Yes, yes, finally! Go get him, Jan!

  “Of course I heard. It’s all over the news,” he replied, glancing down to pluck at lint on his mustard jacket. He mumbled something that I couldn’t make out, and apparently neither could Janet.

  “Any thoughts you’d care to share?” my friend pressed.

  I waited for Jasper to retort something along the lines of, Nope, I’ve got nothing to say about that bitch. But instead he squared his shoulders and uttered, “The world is such a cruel place, isn’t it?”

  “It certainly is,” Janet said and scribbled on her notepad.

  Those darned hairs at my nap prickled, and I squirmed in my chair. I cleared my throat, trying to get Jan’s attention.

  But she ignored me. “So the flowers you’re doing for that memorial service, they aren’t for Olivia?”

  “Absolutely not,” Jasper replied and fussed with his cravat. “They’re for Grace Louise Fairchild. She was ninety-­three and one of Belle Meade’s queen bees. She survived five husbands and two children before she breathed her last. She lived here for twenty years, would you believe,” he added with a shake of his head. “She was worth a hundred Olivia La Belles, and unlike Olivia she’ll actually be missed,” he remarked then checked the clock again. “Sorry, girls, but I’ve got to scoot. It’s been nice chatting.”

  He took off like a rocket.

  I got up from the chair to confront Janet. “Why didn’t you ask where he was yesterday morning at eight?” I asked, frustrated. “Isn’t that why we came? So we could grill him about Olivia’s murder?”

  “I’m not the police, Andy.” Janet gave her glasses an impatient nudge. “I’m not sure he would have told us anything worthwhile besides. You asked me to find him, and I did. And if I can find him, the police can, too. They can ask him the tough questions.” She tucked her pen and pad in her bag, shaking her hatted head. “Call me crazy, but he doesn’t seem like a cold-­blooded killer, and even if he was, he wasn’t going to blurt out a confession.”

  “And this observation comes from all the experience you’ve had interviewing real cold-­blooded killers?” I remarked and handed back her camera.

  “He just isn’t the type.”

  “Maybe not on the surface,” I said. But I’d been around plenty of people who’d seemed entirely normal and did horrible things. “I don’t trust him. I get this feeling he’s hiding some big secret.”

  “Yeah, he has a secret all right,” Janet said with a sigh. “Like he told us, he’s got a new business venture in the works.” She looked at me with squinty eyes. “I think you’ve been watching too much Castle. You suspect everyone and read too much into everything. FYI, writers don’t get to interview suspects or collect evidence unless the cops don’t want anything admissible in court.”

  “Thanks for the news flash,” I grumbled. Yeesh.

  “Maybe you should write mysteries instead of trying to create them.”

  “Hey, I didn’t create this one, Olivia did!”

  “But you can’t leave well enough alone.”

  Would Nancy Drew have turned a blind eye and let the Cake Lady rot in jail? Hell, no! I wanted to say but didn’t get a chance.

  Janet stuffed the camera into her voluminous carryall. Then she grabbed my arm. “Come on,” she said, “let’s go.”

  “By the way, I don’t watch Castle,” I said with a sniff, then added in a murmur, “much.”

  I didn’t care that Janet thought I was tilting at windmills. Something funky was going on with Jasper Pippin, and it had to do with Olivia. Why else would he have said the words “the world is such a cruel place” in response to Janet’s comment about Olivia’s death? It was like a line he’d rehearsed to avoid saying what he really felt—­that he was pleased as punch that Olivia was gone or that she’d gotten what she deserved—­and it wasn’t even original besides.

  I’d already heard someone say something awfully similar yesterday: Terra Smith, who’d happened to be driving a borrowed car with a TSFA sticker on its bumper.

  And I didn’t believe in coincidence.

  Chapter 24

  When Janet dropped me back at my condo, it was just past ten o’clock. I didn’t have much time to kill before I had to leave for Mother’s house to pick her up. We were supposed to be downtown at the Market Center campus for Draco’s bridal showcase at eleven, and the clock was ticking.

  So I went inside just long enough to sit down at my laptop and do some belated digging into Jasper Pippin. First, I Googled TSFA and his name, and sure enough, he’d been on the board of directors of the Texas State Floral Association before his take-­down by Olivia. Next, I dug into the archives of the PCP and Dallas Morning News, finding several small articles about Jasper selling off his shop in pieces. One even called it a “fire sale,” which sounded awfully desperate. Janet had said he’d begun getting rid of his business before Olivia’s show had aired—­and the dates of the articles confirmed it—­which made no sense.

  Was there more to Jasper’s story than met the eye?

  Maybe Olivia hadn’t destroyed his career glibly. If he’d been such a floral powerhouse, perhaps she would have found another target. Mother had mentioned Jasper’s arrangements getting “fuddy-­duddy.” Had he been losing clientele well before the drama on The Wedding Belle had aired? What if his career was on the wane, and he’d been looking for a way out?

  I couldn’t help wondering if Jasper had been paid off somehow. Could the entire scenario between him and Queen Olivia have been scripted? What if his business had been in trouble already? Perhaps he’d viewed Olivia’s show as his way out, his path to resurrecting a dead career?

  But didn’t it seem a bizarre way to save face when his reputation would suffer? Or had it truly been damaged? I’d wager that getting embarrassed by Olivia had generated an awful lot of sympathy, where simply going out of business would have branded him an out-­and-­out failure.

  Which got me thinking about Terra Smith.

  Had she been on her way out, too, at least where her gig with The Wedding Belle was concerned? Was it a fluke that she’d made her entrance on the final show of the season just as Jasper was exiting? Had Terra and Jasper banded together? Was her Planet Wedding idea the next big thing that Jasper had alluded to? What if they were going into business? Had they conspired to do away with Olivia to pave the way?

  It was an interesting theory anyway, and one I mulled over plenty as I jumped in my Jeep and headed south to Highland Park.

  When I reached Mother’s house, I thought about pulling into her circular drive and honking. But sitting outside and laying on the horn wasn’t something that sat well with Cissy (or any of her neighbors,
for that matter). So I made myself park the car, get out, and ring the bell. I knew that she was alone, as Brian had taken Millie downtown to the ARGH offices bright and early.

  When Mother didn’t answer the door after I’d tapped my foot for at least a minute, I got worried. I pressed the bell again but the end result was the same. So I located the gold key on my ring and let myself in.

  “Mother!” I hollered as I entered, and my heart pounded and my imagination wandered in a million directions. “Are you here?”

  “For heaven’s sake, there’s no need to shout,” she admonished as she came gliding down the stairs. “Just let me grab my bag, and we’re off.”

  For Pete’s sake.

  I released a held breath.

  “You’re all gussied up,” I said, figuring that was what had taken so long, not Olivia’s deranged killer holding her hostage.

  “This old thing?” she remarked and did a Vanna White with her hands to indicate her ensemble. “I figured you’d be wearing jeans with holes in them, so I didn’t want to overdo.”

  “I decided not to go with holes today,” I said dryly.

  She was wearing her favorite pink Chanel suit with black trim, a triple strand of pearls, and black heels. She looked like she was ready for New York Fashion Week. I, on the other hand, had on a pair of khaki cropped pants, my slip-­on sneakers, and a plain black T-­shirt. Well, at least we were somewhat color-­coordinated.

  Mother ducked into the hall closet and emerged with a black Chanel bag. Before we’d even stepped outside, she tucked on her Jackie O sunglasses and pulled her keys from her purse.

  “Whoa, put those away,” I told her and jangled my keys. “I’m driving,” I said, and she made a face.

  “You want me to get into your Jeep in these heels?”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Not if we take the Lexus,” she replied then bit her lip. “Perhaps I should have called Fredrik and had him ready the Bentley.”

  I tried not to laugh. “Didn’t Fredrik retire last year?”