Poison Flowers

by Nat Burns

  Chapter Twenty-One

  On Thursday, Marya was able to take a day off from the Schuyler Times, a rare opportunity given that Denton was still missing. Ed had reported his disappearance to the sheriff’s office the previous morning and the day had been a tedious waiting one, full of meetings and questions as the police investigated.

  Wanting to use this special day well and seriously needing a nature break, Marya made plans to explore the land adjacent to her small cottage. Household chores, laundry, weeding the flower gardens and mowing the small patch of grass took longer than expected so she got a late start. After tucking a water bottle and snacks into a small pack, she donned hiking boots and set off.

  The weather was delightful. At eighty-five degrees, it was just hot enough without being too hot. The low sun rested heavy on her face as she blazed a trail through young pine trees. She headed into the wooded area, avoiding the beach where she might encounter Dorry. Dorry’s house was east of the wooded area, and she had no desire to let an impromptu sparring match with her dampen the peace and contentment of the day.

  The woods were surprisingly cool due to the shading of the interlaced tree branches overhead, and she found herself shivering in her thin T-shirt and shorts. Mosquitoes buzzed around her head and a few biting flies nipped at her knees. Nevertheless she was happy, her legs falling easily into the pumping rhythm of the hike, her breath rate increasing. Squirrels scampered at her approach, and small tribes of nut-brown quail made frantic escapes as she passed. She found her footsteps following the natural curve of the land as it sloped upward.

  At one point she had a wonderful view of the rental cottage with the mighty surging sea as a backdrop. She admired the neat square of lawn over which she had labored just an hour before, proud of the result. The many small, bordered flower gardens formed fascinating geometric patterns from this vantage, and she was sure that they were much more attractive without the choking green of the weeds she had removed earlier that day.

  Marya plowed deeper into the forested acreage, eventually emerging into a natural clearing. The warm sun kissed her in greeting and she strode the perimeter of the small sandy lot. White cotton clouds passed overhead and she stood, head thrown back, feeling vertigo as earth and sky rubbed against one another. Dropping her gaze, she spied a patch of blue through the trees on her right and moved forward. The blue was the ocean and she could see a house. Master Wood’s house.

  Larger than she remembered, it was a lovely home when framed against the ocean, with shutters and trim of deep blue. The siding was a weathered white and the sloping driveway, made of creamy crushed stone, blended in well as it framed the property. The house settled onto a thick, half-moon shaped peninsula of rock which jutted out into the water so its foundation was regularly caressed by frothy waves. The backyard sloped down to a dock and a landing where a small boat stirred restlessly at its mooring.

  Feeling a sense of guilt, even though she wasn’t intentionally spying, she turned away and returned to the clearing. Settling herself on a patch of soft sand, she sipped water and thought about Dorry. She forced herself to think of Dorry’s positive attributes, her strength, her bold attractiveness, her determination to make her mark in a traditionally male-dominated discipline. Still, the image of her blue eyes flashing in fury kept intruding.

  Marya forced all thought from her mind then, falling with practiced ease into that state of no thought, of the nothing that is the everything sought so often by Buddhist monks and practitioners of the martial art.

  Sometime later she allowed full consciousness to re-enter and came back to herself feeling refreshed and years younger. It always amazed her how energizing meditation could be. Though her legs were stiff from being folded for what seemed like hours, she could feel each mentally revived muscle fiber better than before. Her mind was quiet, oxygenated, her thoughts slow and crystal clear.

  Stirring reluctantly, as dusk was fast overtaking the land, she took a hearty drink of water, then began a casual stroll toward home. Realizing that she was lost in the trees, she began slanting her feet toward the ocean. The number of trees decreased and the last fading rays of slanting sunlight helped guide her steps. Soon she spotted the beach. Although it was unfamiliar, not the beach below her home, it was a welcome sight.

  She had emerged into the tree line just behind Dorry’s house, she saw. She prayed Dorry wouldn’t see her. She was feeling too good for another battle with the woman; it would ruin her pleasant mood. Then she saw Dorry. Her next indrawn breath nearly choked her.

  Dorry was swimming toward her across a small, enclosed pool of ocean water. Her muscular arms moved with smooth, powerful strokes, her short, white hair turned silver by the water. Marya stepped back so she was hidden by trees and watched her, hypnotized.

  Dorry climbed into the shallows below her deck and rose up, strong hands sluicing sheets of water from her suit-clad form. Marya was amazed by the richness of Dorry’s body—her breasts were melon globes of rounded flesh. They swelled from a hard muscular chest and were topped by visible nipples centered in the bodice of the crimson suit she wore. Her shoulders were broad and curved with muscle and her wide belly lay flat and smooth. Her legs rose like columns of sculpted granite, meeting with curious grace to cup the dark shadows at the mount of Venus.

  After scratching idly at her right thigh, she turned and dove into the deeper water, hands cupping and pulling her through the salt-water pool with dynamic speed.

  Marya was too shaken by the sight of her to complete her passage along the beach. She had to turn away and melt into the trees. Traveling just inside the line of trees along the beach, she made her way home.

  Once inside the cottage, she mechanically fixed hot tea. Only when the cup was in front of her on the kitchen table did she allow her mind to focus on what she had seen and, more importantly, on what she had felt.

  Marya desired Dorcas Wood in a big way. Watching her unconscious casualness had affected her in a strange fashion. She’d seen her share of half-dressed females in her life—males too, for that matter. So why should the sight of Dorry affect her so? She reviewed her feelings.

  How much of this was due to what she had learned the other evening? Was she enamored of Dorry just because she now knew she might be a lesbian?

  What was most amazing to her was the way her body had reacted. She reached one hand down and pressed it over the mound of her sex, able to gauge wetness even through the fabric of shorts and panties. A gentle throbbing still disturbed her there. She brought her hands up, swept them across her breasts. Her nipples, awake and alert, leapt to new life beneath her palms.

  She drew her hands away and shuddered. She wanted Dorry. The feeling rushed across and through her. She imagined Dorry’s wet sleekness pressed against her, Dorry’s taut, wet skin sliding over her own. She ached to heft the heady fullness of Dorry’s breasts in her hands, wanted to pluck the ripe red raspberry nipples from them with her lips. She wanted to plunder the crevice of Dorry’s sex with her fingers and tongue. She wanted these things with an ache that was consuming her entire body.

  With a growl of frustration Marya left the table, her tea untouched. She crept to her bed as if suffering a dire illness and crawled beneath the blankets, assuming a fetal curl, both hands pressed to her groin. There she stayed, eventually falling asleep, her mind trying to understand that awful, puzzling ache that was consuming her.

  Several hours later she awoke, her eyes wet with tears, the roar of the ocean surrounding her. The cottage was hot, so she kicked the coverlet aside. Her thoughts flew to Dorry as she came fully awake. How could she be so enamored of a woman who hated her? She knew then that her subconscious tears were for the futility of her situation. She told herself that Dorry would be no different than the rest of the women she’d temporarily shared her life with and been disappointed by. Surely she was doomed for even more disappointment as the barriers to touching Dorry’s soul and spirit loomed even larger.

  Yet, there was something ther
e, some unspoken something between them that had begun nagging at Marya a little more every day. She recognized it as attraction and it scared her. She didn’t feel equipped to deal with the growing feelings she was developing for Dorry. She didn’t feel she could handle the resultant regret of forcing them to go away.

  She rose and strode into the night through the front door.

  She watched the ocean for a time, then walked around back to lean one hip against the railing and watch the full moon as it lolled above the trees. The moon glow made the night transform into the murky crispness of a developing print; certain surfaces were raised in bas-relief while others retreated into light and shadow. She wrapped her arms about herself in a comforting hug. She so wanted to have someone in her life, but she would rather be alone than with a prickly pear of a woman who was incapable of tenderness.

  It was at times like this—after seeing Dorry’s intriguing beauty—that she realized how lonely she had allowed herself to become. She had told her mother she wanted closeness, touching, tenderness. Was it out there and she just wasn’t capable of seeing it? Or had she been blind to it on purpose, afraid of finding what she thought she wanted and discovering it still wasn’t enough? That she still wasn’t enough?

  She thought of the women she’d loved, listing them on one hand, considering why the relationships had foundered. It was not always her fault, she decided, at least not totally. They lost steam, just weren’t meant to be. There was someone out there for her. She still believed that. She had to. Someone who could touch her in places she’d never been touched. The question was, when the time came, would she allow them in?

  She watched the bright, rotund moon for a long time, telling the silent psychologist all her problems, all her dreams. Then, just as she turned to go inside, she spied it; a light oblong of fabric at the base of a tree about ten or twelve feet into the forest, a new addition to the familiar landscape.

  Curious, she walked across the deck, her slippered footsteps resounding too loud in the quiet night, even when she moved from echoing wood to the soft susurrus of leafy litter. Two minutes later she realized what she was seeing.

  Her mind tried to lie, actually argued with her eyes about what they saw. But there was no denying it. A dead body lay crumpled at the base of a small pine. And though she wanted so badly to disbelieve it, she knew by the distorted, blackened face gazing heavenward that the lifeless form belonged to Denton Hyde.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Inspector Christopher March was a small, neat whippet of a man whose dynamic energy whirled like a tornado in her small, calm kitchen. Marya was relieved when he settled that energy into the chair opposite her.

  She watched him dully, her senses still chilled by finding Denton in the forest.

  “So, Miss Brock. I’m very sorry you’ve had such a disagreeable experience this morning. I know it must have been grim being the one to find the body.”

  “Yes, I’d say it was grim.”

  His strong cologne made her nauseous. It had that strange gingery smell which she had never liked.

  “I saw him in the trees from the porch because the moon was so bright. I thought he was a pile of clothing at first. I would have missed him entirely if not for the moon.”

  He was watching her with eyes full of judgment and doubt. It seemed as though every word she said was being evaluated for merit and judged for credibility. He was weighing every fact she shared against what he knew to be true and therefore gospel. The tension made her uncomfortable, which was no doubt his intention.

  The door swung open and a familiar face below a blond crew cut entered the kitchen. She was trying to remember who the man was, and her shift in attention caused Inspector March’s head to swivel.

  “Hello, Thomas.” March said and her memory jarred. It was Thomas, the rude belt from the Barnes dojang. And he was a deputy sheriff for Coburn County. Lovely. “Canvass the rooms here and I think we’ll be through.”

  Thomas’s eyes swept across her, amusement in their depths, and she felt soiled by his consideration. He moved off into her home, meandering, hands clasped behind his back.

  “So tell me, what were you doing out on the porch at one in the morning?” The inspector’s intensity had returned to Marya.

  “Why is that important?” she asked, bristling with annoyance. “I couldn’t sleep. I have a lot on my mind.”

  “Ummhmm.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “How long have you known Mr. Hyde?”

  “Me? Less than a month. I only knew him from the paper, the Schuyler Times. We both work there.” Her eyes were following Thomas. She was praying he wouldn’t touch anything.

  “And would you say your relationship was amicable? Did you get along?”

  “Of course. I like Denton. He’s a teddy bear of a man, sweet and shy. And he knows everything there is to know about a newspaper.” She gulped, still unable to believe that precious life had been snuffed out like some insomniac’s morning candle. “Did know,” she amended quietly.

  The whippet was trying to be sympathetic, but she could sense his impatience. She realized he was waiting for her to mess up, to drop a clue that she was guilty in some nefarious way. He probably carried that attitude throughout his life. Marya bet his wife cringed every time he asked why his eggs were scrambled instead of fried.

  “Ummhmm. And how was the body when you found it?”

  “Just the way it was when your men got here. I didn’t move him. I didn’t even get real close. As soon as I realized what it was, I called nine-one-one.”

  He watched her in silence until it became uncomfortable. “How well do you know Dorcas Wood?” he barked finally.

  The change of subject startled her. “Not well at all.”

  Her mind flashed to the image of Dorry swimming in the pool below her house, and she knew from the flush on her cheeks that her face had to be mirroring some of her thoughts. She cursed the fairness of her Irish skin. “I met her about a month ago. I rent from her.”

  “And take lessons? In karate?”

  How could he know so much about her? There’s nothing like a small town for disseminating information. She felt violated. “Taekwondo. And yes, three nights a week.”

  “So you’ve been studying for quite some time?”

  “Yes, many years.”

  His eyes flew to her worn purple cloth belt, resting on the coffee table in a sinister looking S shape. “Purple belt, huh? Can you break a board with your hands? I saw that on TV once.”

  Marya frowned. “Of course, cinderblocks too. What has that got to…”

  Marya fell silent. How had Denton died? Gunshot? She hadn’t seen any blood. Suppose Dorry had…no, it was too horrible to contemplate. The inspector was speaking and Marya tried to focus on his words.

  “Dorry’s good. I’ve seen her compete a few times. She’s very strong.” He was watching her closely.

  Marya swallowed, the dry sound a loud click in her ear.

  “Yes, she is. And she’s a good teacher, as well.”

  Again he nodded, a low sound of assent issuing from his throat. He looked around the cottage, sharp eyes missing nothing. “You live here alone, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I just moved here from Seattle to be near my parents but wanted a place of my own.”

  She knew what he was implying, but she wasn’t about to help him along with it. He wanted real hard to believe that Dorry and Marya were sexually involved and that Denton had stumbled upon it and become a victim of their illicit passion. After all, Dorry was the town lesbian and a dangerous martial artist. What great gossip to share at the old police water fountain.

  “So you’re what? Divorced?”

  She stared evenly into his eyes, daring him to step onto this molten ground. “No, never married. Guess no one could tolerate me for the long haul. A reporter’s life is pretty busy and we stay preoccupied with our work.”

  “Yet you had the day off yesterday, I understand.”

  She turned her face away so he
could not see the flare of anger brightening her eyes. “Yes, sometimes I take a day off.”

  “And you did…what all day?”

  She turned cool eyes back onto him. “I don’t think that is any of your business.”

  Thomas’s radio sparked into life and he strode out the door. She wanted to sing hymns of thankfulness. Now if only the whippet would leave.

  March smiled, as if happy she had flared up at last. “Now, Miss Brock, this is a murder investigation. I think it has to be my business.”

  She was determined to maintain her equilibrium so she smiled back at him. “That’s true and in the spirit of cooperation, I will tell you that I cleaned and mowed my yard, then went for a long walk in the woods. I sat in a clearing at the top for a long time, most of the afternoon, then walked back home just after dusk. I fell asleep early and that may be why I woke up at one o’clock.”

  He watched her, eyes blinking rapidly. “Sat in a clearing. Were you alone?”

  She shrugged. “Afraid so. I told you, no one can stand me for the long haul.”

  “Right.” He sighed and stood. “I think I have everything I need, Miss Brock. I’ll be in touch as information develops. Do you plan on staying in Schuyler Point?”

  “Sure. Like I said, I moved here to be close to my parents.”

  He nodded and walked to the door, eyes roving across the main room of the cottage, searching for last-minute clues. This was one man who took his job seriously.

  Just a little more than an hour later all the blue flashing lights and busy voices were gone from the area around the cottage. Marya had been sitting at the table the entire time, watching the first phase of the investigative process in action. Another cup of tea in a long series of cups sat chilling before her.