by J. R. Ripley
“Actually, I sort of did. I would.”
Lance rolled his eyes. “You are way too naïve, Amy. You’re like a . . .” He snapped his fingers several times. “Baby chick. The world isn’t all birds and bees.” Lance started down the path to the sidewalk. “Sometimes,” he called, his back to me, “it’s greed and violence.”
As much as I hated to think so, I knew Lance Jennings was right.
12
The farmers market was a popular destination that brought locals and tourists alike to the town square. All summer long, the market was open daily. I parked around the corner in one of the public lots and walked over.
I’d made a point to stroll past Bookarama. The closed sign hung in the window. I crossed the street to the square where row after row of red tents had been erected. Local vendors selling everything from their artistic creations to the fruits of their farm labor greeted every passerby with a smile and sometimes a sample.
I’d tried a local, unfiltered apple cider, a spoonful of honey and grits, and a habanero-mango salsa that left my mouth feeling like I was walking around with a bonfire on my tongue. I was glad to stumble on Duvall’s Flower Farm’s setup before I could do myself any more harm.
Frank Duvall occupied a stall near the middle of a long row. Three six-foot tables formed a U shape, and indoor and outdoor plants and flowers of many varieties filled every inch of the tabletops. He was talking to a woman in tight jeans and a ball cap with her back to me. When she turned and walked on, I recognized her. It was Violet Wilcox from AM Ruby.
I stopped and inhaled. “Hello, Frank. Everything smells wonderful,” I said, smiling. My eyes carefully scanned each table, wondering which, if any, of these flowering plants might have been the one Duvall had contacted Mason about.
Mr. Duvall stuck his thumbs behind his suspenders and greeted me. His dungarees were faded, and his white T-shirt spotted with soil—an occupational hazard, no doubt. “They are wonderful,” the grower boasted. “In fact, I’ve never met a flower I didn’t like.” He winked at me. Frank Duvall is a rotund man with sloping shoulders, a shock of radiant black hair, shot through with gray at the temples, and hazel eyes. If I was right, he was in his early sixties. He had the ruddy complexion of a man who spends a lot of time outdoors.
“Wasn’t that Violet Wilcox?”
“Yes, yes, it was.” He glanced away and waved his hand in front of his face.
“What did she want?”
“Ms. Wilcox is always nosing around for news. I suppose she’s preparing something on the farmers market for her radio show. I’m afraid I wasn’t much help.”
“I see.” What I hadn’t seen was Violet or her assistant holding a tape recorder of any kind. That made it rather difficult to conduct a radio interview.
Frank shouted out a greeting to a fellow stall owner as she passed. Then he sidled up alongside me. “Are you looking for anything special or simply enjoying this lovely morning?”
“Both,” I said. It was a beautiful Carolina morning, and though it was warming, the humidity was, gratefully, low. “I was considering adding some more flowers to attract hummingbirds to the front yard.
“I enjoy watching them, and they’re good for business. I can’t tell you how many people walking by stop to watch the birds zoom about from flower to flower.”
“I’ll bet.”
“What would you recommend?”
Frank did a turn around his stall. “The red lantana are always good.” He ran his finger along the leaf of a bee balm. “These are nice.” He continued on. “Daylilies. Anything in the sage family, of course.”
“Yes, I have a number of those.”
“That’s right,” said Frank. “I remember seeing some between your store and the biergarten.”
I moved over to a striking red, star-shaped flower near the corner of the center table. “What’s this one here?” I lifted the small quart-sized plastic pot and held it up to the light.
“Oh, that’s nothing. Something I’m working on.”
“It’s beautiful. How much is it?”
He set the flower gently back in the corner. “Sorry, it’s not for sale.” He wiped his hands on the front of his dungarees. “Yet.”
“Pity. It would make a great addition to my garden.”
Frank laid a gentle hand on the small of my back and led me to the third table. “I’m running a sale on penstemon—or beardtongue as most folk know it. Five dollars each, or three for twelve.”
I looked over the colorful, trumpet-shaped blooms. “Such a lovely shade of pink.”
“They do well in full sun or partial shade.”
“I’ll take three,” I agreed, pulling my wallet from my purse.
“Great. I’ll write you up.” Frank moved a tall thermos bottle sitting atop a thick ledger and wrote down the sale. He set the three plants in the sturdy lid of a cardboard box. “Remember, they don’t like to be crowded.”
“I’ll remember,” I promised. I brought the box to my nose and sniffed. “Mason Livingston would have loved these.”
“Excuse me?” A guarded look came to the farmer’s eyes.
“I’m just saying that Mason had a special fondness for flowers that attracted hummingbirds. It’s no wonder, considering he wrote a book on them, right?”
“If you say so.”
“Did you get to know Mason while he was here, before the—”
Frank waited for a pair of browsers to move on before replying. “Not really. I listened to the talk he gave. But you know that.”
“You were at his book signing, too, as I remember.”
“Yeah. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. I’m just trying to figure out what Mason did, who he saw, and where he went while he was in town.”
“Heck if I know.”
“You didn’t meet with him?”
The farmer made a face. “Why should I? Nope. I saw him the same places everybody else did—the bookstore and the biergarten.”
“So you didn’t have any business with him?”
“Business?” Frank appeared surprised by the question. “I grow flowers, and he wrote books. What kind of business could we possibly have in common?”
“Sorry, you’re right. Do you have any idea who else he might have seen or where else he might have gone, Frank?” I prodded. “There’s an entire day that is mostly a blank for me, the day between the time he lectured to our group and the time he showed up for his book signing at Bookarama. Where had he been? Who had he seen and why?”
Frank chuckled. “You’re asking the wrong person, Amy. Besides,” he sat, hitching up his dungarees, “that sounds like police business. And the whole town is talking about how the police think Amber Smith murdered the professor.”
“That’s a nasty rumor, Frank. Please don’t go spreading it. This is a small town, and a person’s reputation can be ruined for life over such things.” I balanced the box lid in my hands. “If the police really believed she was guilty, don’t you think they’d have locked her up?”
“So she’s got a good lawyer. That doesn’t mean she isn’t guilty.”
“Amber Smith is a sweet young woman. Why on earth would she want to murder Mason, let alone actually commit the deed? She’s a small-town girl, and Mason lived in Texas, for goodness’ sake. What connection could she possibly have to the man? The fact that he was signing books in her mother’s store? Big deal!
“You don’t murder a man for nothing. She had no connection to him. None.” I was getting worked up but couldn’t stop myself. If anybody had a connection to Mason and a reason to kill him, it appeared to be the man I was talking to, but I wasn’t about to accuse him without hard evidence. “I’m sorry to say it, Frank, but you’re as bad as Jerry, jumping to conclusions. Conclusions that could embarrass and humiliate her.”
Frank looked amused as he shook his head. “No connections, huh? I guess you haven’t heard.”
I scowled at him, unable to hide my anger. “Heard what?”
“Amber Smith and Mason Livingston were connected.”
I arched my brow. “How?”
“The word is that the police have learned that she took a class with the professor when he was teaching a semester at the university in Chapel Hill some years ago.”
13
My mind was reeling as I carried my awkward burden across the square. I ignored the honking cars as I darted across the street. Balancing the shallow box lid under one arm, I pushed open the door of Harlan and Harlan and went inside. I set the plants down on the table near the window where they could get some sun.
“Hello, is Mister Harlan in?” I asked.
The well-dressed woman in a peacock-blue jacket and skirt behind the mahogany desk looked me over and seemed to take me for a street urchin. “Which one?”
“Derek.” I pointed to the logo on my shirt. “I’m Amy Simms, with Birds and Bees.” Her brown hair looked sprayed into place, and she hadn’t blinked once. She was so pale I wondered if she even knew what the sun looked like.
“Won’t you have a seat?” She motioned to the plush chair at the window, then picked up the phone on the corner of her desk. Though she wasn’t six feet away, I couldn’t hear a word she said.
A minute later, Derek strolled up, dressed in his good gray suit and a red silk tie. “Hi, Amy. This is a surprise. What brings you here?”
“I was hoping for a word with you.”
“You look upset.” Derek came closer and took my hand. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I nodded quickly. “I’m just a little shaken. Maybe I shouldn’t have come.” I pulled away, but Derek stopped me.
“Nonsense,” he said. “I’m just finishing up with a client. It shouldn’t take much longer. Wait for me?”
I nodded, embarrassed at the way I was acting. “Okay. If you’re sure?”
He grinned. “I’m sure.” He glanced at his watch. “If you’d like anything—water, coffee, anything at all—this is Mrs. Edmunds,” he said, turning to his secretary. “Mrs. Edmunds, take care of Ms. Simms for me, would you?”
“Absolutely,” the secretary replied smoothly, though I got the impression she’d more like to take a broom and sweep me out the door than she would provide me with refreshments.
Several awkward minutes later, during which time I squirmed in the chair, trying to ignore the sun beating down on the back of my neck and the sweat rolling uncomfortably down my back—and endured the occasional blunt scrutiny of Mrs. Edmunds—Derek returned. There was a stranger in baggy blue jeans and a light blue short-sleeve chambray shirt with him. The man made brief eye contact, keeping his gaze mostly on the carpet.
He nodded to Derek, then left.
“Who was that?” I whispered, turning to watch the tall man lumber along the sidewalk as if unsure what legs were meant for.
“You mean Mister Mulligan?”
“That’s Pack?” I pressed my face closer to the glass. Packard Mulligan stopped at the corner and climbed into an antique black pickup truck loaded with boxes. “He looks so different.”
Derek laughed. “When was the last time you saw him? Didn’t you say you hadn’t seen him since you were a kid?”
“Yes, that’s right.” I spun toward Derek and grabbed his arm. “No, it isn’t right. I saw him again.”
“Okay.” Derek plucked my arm from his sleeve. “Listen, I don’t have a lot of time. I’ve got another appointment in—”
“Twenty minutes, Derek,” Mrs. Edmunds interjected firmly.
“Right. Twenty minutes. Come on back to my office.”
“You don’t understand,” I said as I followed Derek to the rear of the space where his private office was located. “I saw Pack Mulligan outside Bookarama the other night.”
Derek stopped in the middle of the hallway. “You mean the night of Professor Livingston’s murder?”
I swallowed. “Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
Derek motioned for me to enter his office and patted the back of one of the chairs. “Have a seat.” He took the chair beside me rather than going behind his desk. “So,” he steepled his fingers, “you’re pretty sure you saw my client, Packard Mulligan, outside Bookarama the night of the murder?”
“I think so. Remember I told you there was some man outside and that he asked me or said something about Mason being dead?”
“No, I don’t recall you saying anything at all about that.”
“Oh.” I frowned. “I meant to. I guess I forgot. Anyway, it was Packard Mulligan.”
“And he asked about the murder?”
“I’m not sure. He asked, I think, if somebody was dead.”
“That’s not unusual. There were police cars, flashing lights. Quite a scene, I expect. Anybody walking by would be curious.”
“True.”
“Did he mention Mason by name?”
“No. No, he didn’t.”
“What else did he say?”
“Nothing. And I really only barely saw his face. I’m sure it was Pack though. It had to be.”
“But why?” Derek said. “I don’t remember seeing Mister Mulligan at the book signing.”
“Neither do I. So what was he doing hovering around outside?”
Derek could only shrug. “Going for a walk. People do stroll around the shops and the square at night.”
“Maybe,” I admitted grudgingly.
“And he does have a stall at the farmers market.”
“It’s not open at night.”
“True. Listen, Amy, did you tell Chief Kennedy about seeing Mister Mulligan outside Bookarama that night?”
I shook my head. “Do you think I should?”
Derek pursed his lips. “I hate to say it, but, yes, I do.” He stared into space. “Then again, I don’t want to get Mister Mulligan into any more trouble than he’s in now.”
“Is he really in trouble? Maybe I should hold off.”
“That’s hard to say. There are a lot of homeowners and shop owners who would like to see him locked up. But, in my professional opinion, there’s not enough evidence to convict. I’m hoping the county prosecutor feels the same way.” Derek pressed his fingers into his knees. “You reporting seeing him outside the site of a murder isn’t going to help his case or his reputation.”
“I don’t know about that. From what I’ve been hearing, half the town believes Amber Smith did it.”
Derek looked doubtful. “That pretty little thing?”
I feigned jealousy and arched my brow. “Pretty, is she?”
Derek grinned. “You know what I mean. I can’t picture her getting angry enough to grab a pair of scissors and stick them in the neck of a man she barely knew. What would be her motive?”
“I don’t know, but I wish I did. Because to hear Frank Duvall tell it, Amber was a student at UNC when Mason was a visiting professor, just like I was years before.”
“So? That doesn’t give her a reason to hate the guy, let alone kill him. Even if he flunked her. Besides, hundreds, maybe thousands of students have had classes with Mason, including you. I’ll bet dozens of former UNC Chapel Hill students live right here in the area.
“That doesn’t make all of them,” he grinned, “and you a suspect, too, does it?”
“No. I agree. Amber and Rose sure act guilty though. They’ve holed up in the bookstore, which has been closed since the murder, and are refusing to talk to anyone. At least, according to Lance Jennings.”
“I disagree,” Derek said. “I don’t think they’re necessarily acting guilty. Look at it from the Smiths’ perspective. They’re being accused of murder—first one, then the other—and hounded by the press. Wouldn’t you hide out, too?”
“I suppose you could be right.”
“I always am,” he said with a gleam in his eye. “Trust me, they’ve lawyered up. I heard they consulted an attorney out of Greensboro. I’m certain that he’s told them to do exactly what I would have told them.”
“To talk to no one. Especially the press. And nosy shop owners.”
“Very funny. Do you think they’ll talk to you?” I blinked my eyes at him disingenuously.
“Nice try. I’m not their lawyer.”
No, he wasn’t. But I wondered if they’d talk to me even if their lawyer, as Derek suggested, had told them to talk to no one. “Cara Siskin, Mason’s publicist, told me that Mister Duvall wanted Mason to go into a business deal with him.”
“What sort of a deal?”
“I don’t know. Mason never mentioned anything like that to me. When I asked Frank Duvall about it, he seemed surprised and basically told me that the very idea was nonsense. I’m not so sure I believe him though.”
“Oh?”
I explained about the flower that Duvall had purportedly developed and the part Mason Livingston was reportedly to play in marketing it.
“Do you really think a fancy flower could be worth enough money to cause a falling out and even lead to murder?”
“Hundreds of thousands? Millions? Your guess is as good as mine, Derek. As you know, people have killed for less.”
“And you think this Mister Duvall has something to hide?”
“I got the feeling that he wasn’t being totally honest with me when I spoke with him this morning at the farmers market. I asked him if he ever met with Mason, and he denied it.”
“But Ms. Siskin says he did?”
I nodded. “The question is, who’s telling the truth?”
Derek rubbed his chin. “And who has something to hide?”
I pulled out my phone and tapped the screen. “There’s this, too.”
“What am I looking at?”
I scrolled down. “I found this phone number written on the back of an envelope in Mason’s trailer. I also found a makeup kit behind the bed that Ms. Siskin said belonged to her.”
“What were you doing in Mason’s trailer?”
“What can I say? I was curious.”
Derek sighed. “You could be putting yourself in danger, Amy. I wish you would leave this matter to the police.”
I ignored the remark and tapped the screen. “The phone number’s local. It’s not the bookstore, and it’s not the Duvall’s Flower Farm number either.”