Flower Power Trip

by James J Cudney

  “Nope!” Cheney grimaced and took off toward the men's room.

  Gabriel rushed after him. “I'll take care of him. We'll be back as soon as we can.”

  I turned to Sierra. “Hi, I'm Kellan Ayrwick. We were having drinks with—”

  “I know exactly who you are. My mother told me all about you nosing around with questions about our family. What gives?” she said, dropping her purse on the table and pulling out a chair to sit.

  I threw my hands up in the air and backed away. “Innocent. I was having drinks with my brother. Cheney showed up on his own, and then we all sat down to shoot the breeze.”

  “My brother's gonna be a while in the state you got him into,” she said kicking the leg of another chair toward me. “Sit and shoot the breeze with me.” The excessive confidence in Sierra's voice and her intense attitude was not winning her any points in my book. Was this a tactic she'd learned in law school or her natural cosmopolitan charm?

  “I'm not sure why you're being defensive. Cheney's dating Helena who happens to be the sister of a good friend of mine. I've known her for over ten years. As for your parents, I've met them two or three times. Who said I was nosing around?” Doug wouldn't have shared our conversation with his daughter, he wanted to keep that situation quiet. Karen must be worried about something.

  “I'm not defensive. I'm cautiously protective of my family. They're all I have, and I'd do anything to keep them safe.” Sierra crossed her arms and relaxed into the seat. “I don't mean to be rude.”

  “Fine, I can understand looking out for those you love.”

  “My mother said you have a reputation for digging into people's personal lives. Ours is just fine, we don't need a mole inventing drama for the sake of drama,” Sierra warned as she dabbed a napkin on a few sticky spots on the table. “If you need to know anything about us, funnel your questions through me in the future. Capiche?”

  “Law school agrees with you. You'll make a fine ambulance chaser one day.” I doubted I'd get very much out of the girl if I annoyed her, but maybe she'd echo her brother and say something in frustration or anger. I signaled to the waitress to bring me the tab. “I think we're done here.”

  “No, we're not,” she said, pointing an index finger at me. “What did Cheney tell you?”

  “Nothing for you to worry about. The guy's alone on his birthday, just needed some company. Tell me, why weren't you celebrating with him tonight if you're such a fantastic sister?” I stood and pulled out my wallet to collect a few twenty-dollar bills.

  “I was helping my parents with legal documents for the business. We were supposed to have a family dinner tonight, but Cheney never showed. I know he likes to hang out here, so I came to get him.”

  “Then you admit your brother caused his own problem tonight. It wasn't me.” I saw Gabriel and Cheney walking back from the restroom. Her brother appeared to have sobered up some.

  Sierra snorted. “Consider this a formal warning or free advice, whatever you want. My parents are good people. My brother's trying to get his life in order. I'm fiercely loyal to them and will stop anyone from hurting a Stoddard. So back off!” She smiled and turned to the waitress to snatch the bill from her hands. After rummaging through her pocketbook, Sierra grabbed a handful of cash and handed it to the server.

  “I was gonna buy, you know, it is his birthday,” I said.

  “No, thank you. You got Cheney into this mess, I'll get him out of it,” she said almost indifferently. When Cheney reached the table, she grabbed his hand and pulled her brother closer. “Come on, let's get to dinner, babe. We've got a fun night planned.”

  Cheney followed his sister to the front door but leaned back and whispered to me with a wide grin, “I'm in trouble. Don't ever piss her off, she always wins in the end!”

  Gabriel sighed. “That was fun. Is this what things are like for you all the time, brother?”

  I didn't think they were, but he had a point. People always had extreme reactions around me, whether good or bad. Had Sierra been listening to our conversation and heard Cheney tell us about George being his biological father? Was she responsible for getting rid of the man, so he couldn't hurt their family anymore? I needed to find out when she flew to Switzerland and Braxton as well as if she'd been a guest at the costume extravaganza that night.

  “It's unintentional, Gabriel. I don't know what happened here tonight, but the best thing about it was seeing you in action.”

  “You learn how to survive when you're on your own. I'm a people person. I know how to connect and get someone to talk. You should try me some time,” Gabriel said. He verified we left nothing at the table. “Let's motor. I need to meet Sam.”

  “You promised you'd come for dinner next week with everyone,” I reminded him as we walked to the parking lot. “I'm proud of you.” He kept walking to his car without any response.

  After Gabriel left Kirklands, I called the sheriff and let her know what I'd learned from talking with Cheney and Sierra. She was stunned to learn the truth about George being Cheney's father, but Sierra wasn't on her radar. April promised she'd check into Sierra's travel records and would consider how to move forward with Cheney.

  “I want to haul him in for obstruction of justice, not to mention add those charges to Helena Roarke's rap sheet. Why do people lie about something this important?” April asked.

  “I think you know the answer to that question. Either this secret has nothing to do with why George was killed, or they're all scared about something.” I wasn't an expert in human psychology, but Cheney was emotionally devastated on many levels. His mother had been lying to him all his life, and George rejected his son without knowing much about him. Cheney had anger management issues, and they could've escalated to the point he grabbed the knife from George and stabbed his newly discovered father in a moment of delusion or extreme anger and pain.

  “That is what I'm going to find out,” April insisted. The woman needed a night off. Too many unresolved leads were ripping her apart. “I appreciate you sharing this news so quickly. I need to remind you not to discuss it with anyone else. Not even Maggie. Helena is in enough trouble for keeping this from me. I'm stopping all visitors the rest of this weekend, so she and Cheney can't communicate.”

  April hung up. I understood why she had to limit Helena's conversations with anyone else. If she'd shared what Cheney had told her sooner, Helena might not have been arrested. Cheney might have been, but it wouldn't have wasted the Wharton County Sheriff's Office's time for the last few days. They could have been investigating other angles instead of a disagreement about access to George's room at the Roarke & Daughters Inn. Although I didn't want Helena to get in more trouble, perhaps something a little stronger than a slap on her wrist when this was done might be a good thing.

  Before heading to Nana D's to pick up Emma, I stopped on campus to get my mail and dashed into the faculty mailroom in the student union building. I punched my code into the keypad and collected my post. The Orlando postcard I'd asked my friend to send had arrived, but so did another from Yellowstone Park. It read:

  Emma loves Animals so much, I thought she'd never let us leave. Between the elk and the bison, she could barely contain herself. I wish we had the chance to return together as a family. So much has changed in the last few years. If only I could see her reaction as the snow fell on her face and made her laugh like she did when Old Faithful erupted.

  Recalling our family trip to Yellowstone comforted me in a way I hadn't felt for a long time. As much as I wished we could have that life back, we couldn't right now. I needed to push back on the Castiglianos if they were playing games with me. I snapped a photo of both and sent them to Vincenzo. There were several days between the dates on the two postcards, so it didn't look suspicious when he read them. It looked like she'd left the West Coast and flew to the East Coast to finish her tour of the past. If things continued, the next and last one I'd get would be from Savannah. Would she go back to Los Angeles afterward, or visit Br
axton to convince me to give us another chance?

  When I arrived at Nana D's, I called out to them and dropped off my satchel on the couch. No one answered me. My stomach rumbled as I checked in the kitchen. A whole chicken was roasting in the oven, and gravy was on a slow simmer on the stove. Sage and rosemary tempted my nose enough to taste a spoonful. I peered out the back window and saw them feeding the horses in the barn. Nana D always followed the same rule—animals eat first, then humans can have their chow. When I waved to them, Emma jumped up and down and began running up to the house.

  While I waited for their return, my phone rang. I picked up the call. “Did you get the photos?”

  “I did. You never told me about Orlando. You said Savannah and the park. Is this a trick you are playing on me?” he asked in an eerily calm tone. 'Only the Good Die Young' played in the background.

  Bingo! Vincenzo took the bait. Now to figure out if he was upset because I didn't tell him about Orlando or because he was sending the postcards and didn't have a clue where this one came from. “I must have forgotten. Your daughter and I were married for six years before she disappeared, Vincenzo. We went to a lot of places.”

  “I will send people there tonight. I do not have anyone in Orlando, but they are close by in Miami. Maybe she's still at Disney.” Vincenzo sounded like he believed she was there.

  “Perhaps Francesca needed this time to decide her future. She'll come home again soon. It must have been difficult being cooped up in the house for so long.” I was treading a thin line by annoying my father-in-law, and he was much better at games than me. Giving my plan a shot was necessary.

  “No! My daughter would not ignore me for this long. She sends these postcards to you. I get nothing. Her parents have no messages. She is a good daughter. She does what I tell her to do.” Vincenzo began losing his perfect composure.

  Maybe he wasn't sending them. Maybe Francesca did this on her own. I'd soon find out, but in the meantime, Emma came running in the room and hugged me. “Hey baby,” I said to my daughter. “Talk to Nonno.” I told Vincenzo his granddaughter was getting on the line and that I'd let him know when the next postcard arrived. Emma took the phone and raced into the living room.

  “Trouble with the Castiglianos?” Nana D asked while washing her hands. Although my parents never knew about the devious underworld my in-laws lurked in, Nana D had hinted a few times in the past that she was aware. “Need me to get involved? The Septuagenarian Club has always wanted to take a trip to Los Angeles. We could be a major distraction to keep them off your back!”

  Just what I needed. Nana D stepping into some mafia war to protect me. While she was clever at getting revenge and verbally torturing people, the mob was not a world she needed to experience. “It'll be okay. They just miss Emma.”

  Nana D pinched my cheeks. “This new shorter do looks good on you. I'm glad to see you're taking care of yourself again. I can't imagine what it's like to lose your wife at such a young age and have to raise your daughter on your own. You are truly an inspiration, brilliant one.”

  No sarcasm? No backhanded compliment? Who was this woman and where was my Nana D? She's one to talk. Nana D and Grandpop were together for almost fifty years when she lost him to a heart attack. We were grateful it happened quickly and there was little if any pain, but she was the inspiration. “I love you, Nana D. I don't know what I'd do without you.”

  “You'd probably screw up a lot more often.” Nana D took the chicken out of the oven and instructed me to pour iced tea for the three of us.

  She was right. I probably would, but so would she. “How are your last couple of days as a free woman working out? Stanton concede yet?”

  “Nah, that rascal won't give up until he counts every ballot himself. The team tells me I'm pulling ahead enough they aren't too worried. It's still a close race, so I can't—”

  “Can't get your hopes up. Just keep on being your confident and humble self. You're what this county needs to fix the sins of the past,” I said.

  For too long, Wharton County had been led by wealthy families who took bribes, bought cops in their pocket, and let fear hold back any change. When the former sheriff retired and the people voted in an out-of-towner, the beginnings of a new future had emerged. April had no tolerance for bureaucratic ways and ruffled as many feathers as possible. It worried me when she arrested Helena due to pressure from Councilman Stanton and Mayor Grosvalet, but she had an ulterior motive to draw out the real criminal. She was smart enough not to let them win at their game.

  “You bet I am,” Nana D cheered. She handed me the knife to carve up the chicken. “Any news on that murder you're all hopped up about? You still helping out Maggie's sister?”

  “I am. What did Dean Mulligan want from you?” The curiosity was almost killing me.

  “To ask me to convince you to stop looking into George Braun's murder.”

  “What?” I hadn't expected her to say that.

  “He overheard you and the sheriff talking about him being closely involved with the flower show, the disagreements with Anita Singh, et al. The dean didn't want to cause a problem for the college by confronting you himself, so he asked me to do it.”

  “That makes no sense. He's actually a suspect right now.”

  “Ed Mulligan and I go way back. He thought I could get you to leave him alone before he had to file a formal complaint about it,” Nana D replied.

  I felt like the man had stabbed me in the back. “What did you say?”

  “Oh, brilliant one. He and I might be friends, but you and I are family. I told him to fight his own battles, and that if you were poking your nose in his business, there was a valid reason!”

  “Did that shut him up?” I remembered the two pictures showing his rearranged costume. Had we found our killer?

  “Yep. He assures me he had nothing to do with offing George Braun. But I'll leave that to you to prove.” Nana D might believe him, but all killers said they weren't guilty. He knew something important.

  “Thanks, Nana D. I'm working with April who's checking into him as we speak.”

  “April? Since when do you call that mooncalf sheriff by her first name?” Nana D banged the lid on the gravy pot.

  “We're getting along better these days. I'm tired of fighting with her,” I said, wondering who I was convincing—Nana D or myself. I enjoyed the banter, but was that the most effective approach to eliciting pertinent facts from a sheriff who was supposed to keep quiet about the details of crime? “Aren't you the one who taught me about catching more flies with honey?” As I finished slicing the chicken, Emma entered the kitchen and stuck the phone in my pocket.

  “That woman is made of vinegar. She doesn't count,” Nana D blasted.

  There was no use pushing Nana D on that situation. Ever since the sheriff almost arrested my nana several years ago, she'd held the biggest grudge I'd ever encountered. “Dinner looks amazing, doesn't it?” I said, turning to Emma.

  “Nonno said your time ran out. What does that mean, Daddy?” Emma tugged on my shirt as we walked to the table with the rest of the side dishes—mashed potatoes and carrots jubilee.

  “We're playing a game and he's afraid to lose, that's all.” Vincenzo knew better than to pass messages to me through Emma. I wasn't gonna let this proceed any further.

  Nana D looked inquisitively at me as she poured gravy on her chicken. “He's gonna lose if I have anything to say about it.” Did my grandmother know more than she was letting on?

  “Can I play?” Emma asked.

  “No, it's an adult game. We can play a different one tonight with Nana D.”

  “I like Uno. Can we play that?”

  “Yes, baby.”

  While we finished dinner, we chatted about their day on the farm and how Rodney was adapting to his weekend home. Before we settled down with Uno, we played with the rabbit and fed him a carrot stick. As I watched my daughter comfort the little tyke, I remembered our jaunt to Yellowstone. She had only been three years o
ld and still too young to appreciate the trip, yet she'd had the best time that summer despite the unbearable temperatures. We never should have gone hiking in that weather, but Francesca made sure we'd all had sunblock and taken plenty of water breaks.

  Wait! We were in Yellowstone during the summer. Why did Francesca's postcard mention snow? There was definitely no snow on our trip. Had she been confused?

  “Rodney's back in his cage, Daddy. Let's play Uno,” Emma said.

  I couldn't shake the feeling that something weird was going on, but what did it mean? Emma grabbed my hand, and we met Nana D in the den to play cards. After an hour, Emma won a few hands, but Nana D triumphed on the rest. I was in last place by way too many points to admit.

  We left Nana D's and went back to our cottage. I tucked Emma in bed at her normal time without any issues. My daughter truly was the most perfect child. Every parent said it, but I was certain, unlike the rest. I got lucky and would never forget it.

  I debated calling Ursula to let her know what I'd learned about George being Cheney's real father. She now had a nephew, but would she be able to acknowledge him? I sent a text to see if she was awake. It was still before ten on a Saturday, yet I didn't want to risk calling and have Myriam answer the phone. Who knew what quote she'd blast me with at this hour?

  Ursula called me instead. “Hi. Myriam's making popcorn. We're about to watch a documentary on PBS. What's going on?”

  I'd never thought Myriam would watch television. Actually, I never thought about what she did outside of torturing me and working at Braxton. Did she have a personal life where she did normal things? “I spent some time with Cheney this evening. Our suspicions were correct. He is your nephew.”

  There was a long moment of silence on the phone. “I have to talk with him. He's family.”

  “I wouldn't do that yet,” I cautioned Ursula. “He's a troubled kid.” Although he was twenty-five years old, he seemed a lot younger. Perhaps all the misfortune he'd gotten into and his immature attitude and actions made it feel that way. I relayed everything I'd learned about Cheney. “I don't think Doug is aware Cheney isn't his son. Sierra is a wild card. Karen might be lying to you about not wanting to kill George.”