by LK Rigel
“Baby’s breath?” the florist said.
“Never,” Bonnie said. “No baby’s breath.”
All florists had an unhealthy attachment to baby’s breath, the quickest path to mediocrity.
“This vase. Some of that fern is good. Not that much. No ribbon. Four peonies and four delphiniums—the dark blue, not the light. Excellent.”
She found out about the accident this morning during one of Gracien’s harangues about Turtledove Hill. Rafe didn’t deserve such a fabulous bouquet after getting himself nearly killed, but what could Bonnie say? Everything she did was art.
She set the arrangement in the passenger seat and secured it with the seatbelt and her purse. As the top was going up, Bram pulled in beside her and got out of his truck.
“Who’s the lucky guy?” He eyed the flowers beside her.
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous,” she said. “And don’t pretend you don’t know who they’re for. The guy your house almost killed.”
“The guy Gracien’s barn almost killed, you mean. Yeah, I know about it. My wife was at the hospital last night until he came out of surgery.”
Two things about that sentence grated on her nerves. First, the way Bram said my wife, possessively, and with a sense of enduring relationship. She eyed him more closely. Was he just playing with her?
Second, the fact that Sara was at the hospital last night until Rafe came out of surgery. By what right? The Lyndons moved in on everything that should be hers. Her mother, her wedding spa, her friendship with Peekie, and now Rafe.
Not that she wanted Rafe, that puffed-up egomaniac. But he was a Chaser, and Sara Lyndon wasn’t. She had no business being worried about him.
“Anyway,” Bram said. “From what I know, Poole Haven Wines is responsible for the accident.” His gaze traveled down to her mouth and lingered there. “And I am jealous of any other man who benefits from your attention.”
“Good.” She gave him an air kiss and put the car in reverse. “I’ll be in town later. You can have my full attention then.” She started to back out when something caught her eye. “What’s that?” She stepped on the brake.
“Isn’t it cool?” Bram held his hand out flat, displaying a small knife. “It was in the barn. I thought you might know what it is, since you’re so up on local history.”
“It’s a spike knife.” She picked it up. “Made from a spike from a tie in the train tracks. Hard to say where it came from though.”
“That’s what I told Sara.” He took it from her and tossed it in the air, catching it by the handle. “It’s the murder weapon in my latest book.”
“Speaking of which, you’d better get to your work, and I’d better get to mine,” she said. “See you.”
“You know where I’ll be. Click, click, clicking at the keyboard.”
As she backed out of the parking space, he looked at her with puppy dog eyes, and her reaction unsettled her. She didn’t like it.
It took longer than usual to get up to Fort Bragg. She had to take every curve slowly to keep water from spilling out of the vase. At the hospital, Rafe’s room was full of flowers and Mylar balloons. And visitors. Gracien and Chief Ken—and Sara Lyndon.
“Hi, Chief Ken,” Bonnie said. “Hello, everybody.”
They all murmured approval of her bouquet, which was pretty fabulous.
“Bonnie, you shouldn’t have.” Rafe said.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t have, you big lunk.” He looked kind of cute propped up against pillows in his hospital gown. A massive dressing covered his shoulder. “But I guess we’re all glad that pole didn’t catch you in the head.”
“That’s the most gorgeous arrangement I’ve ever seen,” Sara said.
If she wasn’t a Lyndon, it would be hard to hate her.
Bonnie put the flowers down in Rafe’s line of sight. While she adjusted the stems to best advantage, she caught him admiring her work. Everything you do is art, she told herself again. If people could just keep things neat and tidy and beautiful, the world would be so much less crabby.
In fact, Rafe wouldn’t be sitting in that hospital bed with a hole in his shoulder and his arm in a sling if his guys had followed the neat and tidy part of her credo.
“So how long are you in for?” she said.
“Dr. Kasaty says I’ll be out by tomorrow,” Rafe said.
“So you’ll be able to come to the reception on Friday,” Sara said. She had the best seat, right beside Rafe.
“I wouldn’t miss it,” he said.
“And you’re sure your crew didn’t leave the stakes in the rafters?” Sara said. “I was about to give Gracien an earful on safety. I guess I’ll save my lecture.”
“Trust me,” Gracien said. “Rafael’s given his crew two earfuls.”
Gracien always called Rafe by his real name. Personally, Bonnie thought Rafael was a beautiful name. When she was a girl, she loved it that he was named for an angel. But Rafe suited him better. It was so close to rake.
Not that she thought about him that much anymore.
“They say not, and I believe them,” Rafe said. “We never use the rafters for storage. Too hard to get up there.”
The Doctor Who theme song started playing on Chief Ken’s cell phone. “Chief of Police….Yes, sweetie. I know it’s you.”
Now that was art. He used the Doctor Who song on his cell phone to announce calls from his wife, Dr. Kasaty. Bonnie approved.
“How about The Coffee Spot?” he went on. “I’m with him now….Yes, at the hospital….Oh. Well. See you in an hour.” He hung up with a red face. “That was my wife. I’ve been severely chastised for using my cell in the hospital.”
“Be glad you have someone who severely chastises you.” Rafe looked at Bonnie. “It shows she cares.”
The egomaniac.
“I’m still going to have to take statements,” said the chief.
So that’s why he was here.
“Statements plural?” Bonnie said. “Who from besides Rafe?”
“Mrs. Blakemore was the first victim,” Chief Ken said. “I’ll need her statement too.”
Really? Sara didn’t look hurt.
“Not victim,” Sara said. “More of a witness.”
“Victim,” Bonnie said. God, she was insinuating herself into everything. Where would it end? “You think it wasn’t an accident?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” the chief said. “Now if everyone can leave the room, I can take Rafe’s statement and be on time for lunch with my wife.”
“The chief’s right,” Rafe said. “We wouldn’t want him to be severely chastised. Again.”
Gracien walked out with Sara. By the look on his face, Bonnie would bet he was going to push on the sale again. She wished she knew what was up. He was usually relaxed about business. She didn’t like not knowing all the details in a deal. It made it hard to bargain. Worse, she hated it that Gracien was keeping her in the dark. If he didn’t trust her, how could she trust him?
“Bonnie,” Rafe said when she was at the door. She turned back, bracing herself for another sarcastic remark. “Thank you for the beautiful flowers.”
“No problem, Rafe.”
She hated it when Rafe was full of himself. She hated it more when he was sincere.
- 21 -
Memorial
“OOH-HOO!” PEEKIE WAVED FROM Bonnie’s car as the convertible rolled into the courtyard. “There’s nowhere to park!”
“Pull over on the grass for a second.” Sara came down the back porch steps “The caterer’s assistant is leaving to get more ice.”
Every inch of space was taken from the barn to the end of the driveway, and the side of Turtledove Hill Road was lined with cars and pickup trucks all the way to Highway 1. Aunt Amelia’s quiet little reception was beginning to look like the event of the year.
Bonnie was dressed in a figure-enhancing black sheath, fingerless black lace gloves, and a black pillbox hat with a starched lace veil that popped out and
came down just to her eyebrows. A necklace and earrings of gray freshwater pearls completed the picture. No wonder Bram was so taken with her. Sara thought she was amazing, too.
Peekie had tried to look somber in a long black dress, black boots, and jet bracelets and necklace, but her scarf flowed with gypsy colors and her usual Bohemian flair. She’d stuck her hair on top of her head, but several copper curls had already escaped the dastardly trap.
“Hey, gorgeous!” She gave Sara a hug.
“Yeah, right. I look okay.” Sara wore black wool slacks and a plain black silk sweater. She’d forgotten to put on jewelry. “But Bonnie, you’re a work of art.”
Bonnie glowed at the compliment. “What an awesome turnout,” she said.
“I know. How did this happen?” Sara said. “It’s supposed to be a memorial service, not a party.”
“It’s a celebration of Amelia’s life. Is that so bad?” Peekie said. “Besides, that’s what you get for putting the mayor in charge of the guest list.”
“I was afraid no one would come.” Sara said.
“Not likely,” Peekie said. “Spot knows everybody.”
“Amelia never had people out here,” Bonnie said. “No one’s going to miss the chance to see Turtledove Hill.”
Sara opened the back door. “The caterer wants guests to stay out of the kitchen, but we can cut through to the front where the booze is.”
Peekie said, “I want a disgustingly sweet bevvy with a paper umbrella.”
“No worries.” Bonnie surveyed the kitchen with a real estate agent’s eye, horrified. “No one’s going to gather in here. The wallpaper will scare them off.”
“Oh, good grief.” Sara burst out laughing. “Isn’t it the worst?”
It felt so good to laugh. This had been the week from hell, and she was ready to let it go. She just wanted to say goodbye to Aunt Amelia, stop worrying about Bram and Bonnie, and forget about Joss Montague.
“That looks…good.” Bonnie stopped at the repaired staircase.
It was Sara’s turn to beam. She was delighted with how it had turned out. Rafe’s men had stripped off the old carpet, stained the original wood, and laid down a beautiful arts and crafts style runner based on a cabbage design by William Morris. The runner was held down by clamps of polished brass at every tread.
“It’s beautiful, actually.” Bonnie eyed the work and glanced up the stairs longingly. “This entire place screams to be restored.”
“Have you seen the whole house?” Sara asked. “Bram says you’re the expert on it.”
“Not really,” Bonnie said. “I’m a fan of the architects. Where is that man, anyway?”
“At the bar, last I saw him.” Sara opened the front door.
The veranda was crowded with guests. Bram waved from the far end where he hovered over the bartenders and motioned at her to bring the others up to the back of the bar.
“Hell, yeah,” Peekie said. “The perks of knowing the host.”
The line for drinks extended down the stairs and out to the lawn. In the middle of the grass, Gracien and Spot were involved in animated conversation. Sara was relieved to see Rafe on the lawn too, his arm in a sling. He was talking with Dr. and Chief Kasaty.
“You two go ahead,” Sara said to Bonnie and Peekie. “I want to see how Rafe is.”
“What’s your bevvy?” Peekie said.
“Wine.” Sara grinned. It was good to see Peekie so ready for a good time. For Bonnie’s benefit she added, “Bram will know what I want.”
The doctor saw her coming. “Mrs. Blakemore, let me say again how sorry I am for your loss. Amelia was a wonderful person.”
“Thank you, Dr. Kasaty. I appreciate everything you did for her. And please call me Sara.” She did mourn Aunt Amelia, but it felt strange to be on display with it. Like she hadn’t earned her grief. “Hello again, Chief Kasaty.”
“I’m definitely Ken,” Chief Kasaty said. “Amelia was a nice woman, and we’ll miss her. Are you going to be staying on?”
Rafe perked up. Of course. As a vice president of Poole Haven Wines, he’d be interested in her answer. Sara had learned he had a degree in viticulture and enology from the University of California at Davis and was one of Gracien Poole’s top lieutenants.
“I’d like to. I’ve always loved this house.” To Dr. Kasaty said, “If we do stay, we’ll need a new GP.”
“Call my office Monday morning,” Dr. Kasaty said. “We’ll get you set up.” She and the chief left to get something to eat.
Sara turned to Rafe. “I’m so glad you came.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” he said. “I knew Miss Amelia since I was a kid. She pushed for my scholarship to Davis, though she’d never admit it.”
“This is going to sound strange, but do you remember me?” Sara told him about the crazy driver in the Lexus, though she left out the part about thinking he was flirting with her.
“Man, that lady was mad.” Rafe laughed. “Yeah, I remember that, now you mention it.”
“I was just a kid then.” Sara didn’t really think he’d remember her, but she was disappointed all the same. “You wouldn’t have noticed me. But when I saw you the other day, I remembered your smile.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Blakemore. I don’t remember you.” His smile broadened. “You must have been a nice kid, though.”
“Why do say that?”
“I was pretty shy in those days. Don’t get me wrong. I looked at all the pretty girls. But I only smiled at the nice ones.”
Sara felt her face go red, but she was saved from embarrassment by Spot.
“Hey, hermosa!” The mayor gave her a hug. “It’s good to see you on this gorgeous evening.” He was schmoozing, being all political as the mayor, but the attention felt good. In fact, now that she thought about it, Rafe had just called her pretty and nice. She was on a roll.
“Don’t you look handsome,” she said to Spot. “There’s a certain bookstore owner here I should introduce you to.” Spot blushed, and Sara had a flash of insight. She was only joking, but she’d hit a nerve. Spot liked Peekie!
“What’s happening with your ghost?” Spot changed the subject himself. “Any luck?”
“None with going to the light,” Sara said. “The other day, though, I found the graves of Joss Montague’s wife and son in Pelican Chase Cemetery.” She said nothing about Joss’s feelings for Olivia. It would be gossiping, even if he was dead. “If his remains are ever found, there’s consecrated ground waiting for him beside the little boy.”
“Aha, the ghost of Turtledove Hill,” Rafe said. “Maybe that’s who put those vine stakes in the rafters.”
“Hey, here they come!” Spot broke out in a smile as a blue van with a huge cartoon eye painted on the side door came down the driveway. “Hermosa, your husband told me you had no music planned. We can’t have that!”
The van stopped and the door slid open, and out poured a band of mariachis like they were coming out of a clown car. Each musician hit the ground playing his instrument—a mariachi version of When the Saints Go Marching In.
Sara was scandalized. But a cheer went up all over the lawn and spread to the veranda. She relaxed. Sometimes she forgot not everyone grew up in fundamentalist circles. Just because Dad would be shocked by mariachis at a memorial didn’t mean she had to be.
“Nobody can be sad when Parpadear plays,” Spot said. He glanced over Sara’s head toward the house. “Ah, here comes your sweetheart now.”
Sara gasped. Spot was a ghost whisperer. Could he see Joss too? She turned and bumped into Bram’s chest.
“Whoa.” A little wine spilled out of the glass he was holding.
“Oops. Bram, I'm sorry.”
“For you, babe.” He handed her the wine. “This is a great Napa Valley sauvignon blanc I just discovered.”
Bram had a bottled beer in his other hand and Peekie had her fruity bevvy with a paper umbrella. Bonnie wrinkled her nose at Bram’s comment, like they’d shared a personal joke about the wine,
but Sara wasn’t going to let any of that bother her today.
“Now there’s a pretty girl,” Rafe said to her under his breath, looking at Bonnie. She was stylish sipping a crantini. Rafe winked at Sara. “If only she was as pretty on the inside.”
The sun must have dipped below the horizon, because the stars were suddenly brighter in the darkening sky. Parpadear was playing Cancion del Mariachi.
All was right with the world.
Sara tried to ignore the fact that when Spot had said sweetheart she thought of Joss, but she couldn’t stop herself from glancing at the roof. Her heartbeat skipped. He was there. He was standing behind the wisteria, looking looked down at the lawn, searching the crowd.
Their eyes met, and his bittersweet smile warmed her soul.
- 22 -
We Can Have It All
“DON’T JUDGE, BON,” BRAM said. “Remember: an old lady lived here for a million years, so it won’t be up to your exacting standards.”
Bonnie followed him up the fabulous staircase. The house was mostly horrid inside; Amelia sure did a number on it in the ‘70s. But there was a lot of original content to work with, as the staircase restoration showed. The library downstairs was amazing. She wasn’t much for books, but it wouldn’t surprise her if there were some first editions in the collection.
It was strange to think that her great aunt had once lived here. If things had gone differently, if Olivia hadn’t been killed, Amelia Lyndon never would have inherited Turtledove Hill. It might even have come to Bonnie. And with a tax assessment based on 1975 values. She wept inside to think of it.
Bram stopped at the door at the end of the hall on the second floor. “The master bedroom.” He motioned for her to go in first. “Imagine what you could do with this. The view alone is to kill for.”
She gasped. You got that right. Windows spanned one wall with French doors opening onto a covered deck. The view of the vineyards went on and on. It would make a perfect honeymoon suite.
“Fashion wasn’t Amelia’s strong point,” she said.
“Fashion doesn’t run in the Lyndon family,” Bram said. “They’re all so….” He set his bottle of Sierra Nevada Torpedo down on the dresser and slipped his arms around her waist. They were the same height, their eyes level with each other. “They’re all so short.”