Sid finished his conversation and turned to me. “We’ve had an unexpected stroke of luck. We’ve located the body, so I don’t need your father’s help in that respect. But I need an ID. I can have Natalie Parker brought to me, but since you’re this close, will you do it?”
The nerves under my skin crawled with apprehension. I didn’t want to perform this gruesome task, but I didn’t want Natalie to face it either. I took a shaky breath. “I’ll try, but there were people here today I didn’t know.”
Sid’s voice was grave. “According to one of my deputies it’s bad, Bretta. We’re dealing with a savage murder. Prepare yourself.”
Sid’s concern increased my anxiety. How was I supposed to prepare? As a florist I deal with death on a regular basis, speaking with bereaved families, delivering flowers to the local funeral homes. But those events were after the fact. After the body had been cleaned and dressed in his Sunday best. After makeup had been applied to conceal the harsh reality of what had led to his demise. On the other hand, my amateur detecting had unearthed a few victims, but none had saturated the ground with freshly spilled blood. It was the blood that was getting to me.
We turned the corner of the path. In a quiet voice, Sid explained, “I’ve called the fire department to bring their halogen lights so we can make a thorough search of the crime scene. They should be here pronto, but I’m not waiting. My deputies have flashlights, and we also have these little path lamps to help light the area.” He nodded to the spot ahead of us. “I think you’ll be able to see enough to try to make an identification.”
Six deputies and two paramedics watched our approach. Flashlights cast an eerie glow on their faces, revealing the heightened tension. I kept my gaze off the ground and on the marble cornucopia that loomed ahead of me. I’d always admired this piece of statuary. Dan’s grandfather had commissioned a sculptor to create a piece of art that would commemorate the productiveness of this land. The horn was approximately fifteen feet in length and about eight feet wide. It was cantilevered on a base with washtub-sized fruit and vegetables spilling forth.
These thoughts raced through my head, but I never lost track of what I was about to do. I glanced down briefly and saw a bare leg splattered with blood. The sight made my knees weak, and I wobbled.
“Bretta,” said Dad, grabbing my arm, “I don’t think this is a good idea. Let someone else do it.”
I patted his hand. “I’ll be fine, Dad, but you stay here.” When he started to protest, I said, “Please. It will be easier for me if I don’t have to worry about you.”
He nodded and gave my arm a gentle squeeze. I moved forward, trying not to drag my feet. In my mind I repeated the words, Let it be a stranger. Let it be a stranger. Perhaps I thought if I didn’t know who’d been killed, the horror would be lessened.
As we neared the body, Sid moved closer to me. “This is as far as we go. I don’t want the scene contaminated by our footprints on the grass. Don’t try to take in details,” he cautioned. “Give the face a swift look, then another to make sure. Don’t stare. Don’t commit anything to memory.”
I tried to do as Sid suggested. One swift look and I could leave. But my eyes refused to zoom in. Slowly my gaze traveled over the blood-splattered grass, up the shapely legs, to a pair of shorts and a jade-green T-shirt drenched in scarlet.
“You’re taking too long,” said Sid. “For your own peace of mind, Bretta, give her face a look. Do you know her?”
Tangled ringlets of red hair. Blue-green eyes wide and staring. I nodded because I couldn’t speak.
“Who is it?” demanded Sid.
I blinked back tears. “Marnie Frazier. She … uh … was Dan Parker’s lab assistant.”
Sid asked, “Without a doubt?”
Numbly I repeated, “Without a doubt.”
“Okay, let’s get you out of here.”
Sid tugged on my arm, but I couldn’t move. A copper plant marker lay near Marnie’s head. A jagged hole marred her smooth neck. “There’s so much blood,” I murmured.
Grimly, Sid said, “The tines of the marker probably pierced her carotid artery. Blood would’ve spurted like a—” Abruptly he stopped. In a brisk tone, he said, “That’s enough, Bretta. Come on.”
My feet felt as if they were glued to the path. I stumbled when I turned. Sid took a tighter grip on my arm. “I told you not to stare,” he said, and practically dragged me to where my father waited. “I have work to do here. I’ll have an officer escort you both to the house. There’s to be no talking to each other or to anyone else. I don’t want the victim’s name revealed.” He stared at me. “Is that understood?”
“Yes,” I said. “I won’t say anything.”
Sid summoned a deputy and ordered, “Keep Mrs. Solomon and her father away from each other and from the others. I’ll be there shortly.”
We headed single file back down the path with the officer bringing up the rear. The path lights cast our bodies’ shadows into deformed, unrecognizable shapes. The eerie sight merged with the horror I’d seen. Had Marnie been killed while we’d watched the fireworks? Had the bright flashes distorted the killer’s face so she hadn’t realized she was in danger?
I felt sure Marnie had known her attacker. There was no doubt in my mind that she’d come here to meet someone. She’d wanted me to explain how to conduct an investigation, and I’d let her down. I hadn’t warned her that the most innocent of inquiries could have devastating results, especially if evil is at its crux.
In that paralyzing moment before the killer took her life, had Marnie realized her mistake? By then it would have been too late. Just as it was too late to explain that in such a confrontation, the only one to remain unscathed was the shadow of death.
Chapter Three
Back at the lodge, Dad was asked to make himself comfortable on a bench. I was taken to the sheriff’s car. Peering through the bug-splattered windshield, I counted thirty-three people standing on the porch. The deputy, who had escorted Dad and me from the garden, waited on the gravel drive. The other deputy, who had been assigned to watch over the people on the porch, gave instructions. I couldn’t hear what he said, but the group divided. Parker employees went to the west end of the porch. The guests remained at the east end.
This was the first time today I’d seen the employees—Harley, Jess, Eugene, Irma, and Jacob—together in one place. They were actually a fraction of the greenhouse work force. The regular workers had the day off while management had hosted the day’s celebration. Natalie stood with her uncle Donovan, who worked at the greenhouse. Emily hesitated on the steps, unsure where she should stand. She wasn’t an employee, but she was Donovan’s wife. She probably didn’t feel like a guest either. Donovan waved her to his side. She nodded and slipped into the curve of his arm.
I had my gaze on Natalie, saw her take a head count, and knew the exact moment when she missed Marnie. She twisted and turned, searching for the young redhead. Donovan turned to say something to her, but the deputy quickly called for silence.
Natalie touched her lips with her fingertips, and she stared across the driveway at me. I met her gaze. All I had to do was nod, and she’d know it was Marnie’s body in the garden. I fought the urge and didn’t move a muscle. Natalie shook her head sadly.
After forty-five long minutes, Sid strode from the garden followed by two deputies. He motioned for me to get out of the car. I went to stand near him as he addressed the group on the porch.
In a clear, authoritative voice, Sid said, “There has been a murder. In order for me to do my job, I need your cooperation. I understand there were a number of people here today. Just because they aren’t here now doesn’t mean they won’t be questioned. I will ask Mrs. Parker to give me the invitation list. Everyone on that list will be contacted.
“As we proceed with the questioning, it will not be up to you to decide what is relevant and what is not. My deputies and I will sort out the information, but you have to do your part. We need facts. We need your assista
nce.”
“Who’s dead?” called someone from the guest side of the porch.
“I’ll get to that later,” said Sid. “Right now, I want your names and addresses. My deputies will collect that information and then we’ll take your statements.”
Annoyed murmurs rose from the group. Sid held up his hands. “I know it’s late. We’ll make this as quick as possible, but I’m not going to jeopardize my investigation to accommodate any of you. Is that understood?”
His answer was a restless shuffle of feet. Sid seemed satisfied. He turned to me and spoke quietly. “Look at everyone up there on that porch. Have any of them changed their clothes?”
I bit my bottom lip. He was asking because so much blood was involved. “I don’t know, Sid. I didn’t pay any attention—”
“Just give them a look, okay?”
I did as he asked, which meant I had to stare at each person, feel his or her eyes bore back at me. I squirmed. “Sid, all the employees have on their Parker uniforms. Natalie was dressed in orange, and she still is. Donovan was gone to take Dan to the airport, so I don’t know what he was wearing. His wife, Emily, has on the same clothes. As for the rest of the guests, I haven’t got a clue as to what they had on.”
Sid heaved a sigh. “Didn’t figure that hope would pan out, but thought it was worth a try. You and your father can go home. I’ll come by tomorrow and talk to both of you. Until then keep your mouths shut. Don’t discuss this case with anyone and that includes each other. Got it?”
“When are you going to tell them Marnie is dead?”
“When the time is right.”
“I think the employees already know.” Sid’s eyebrows drew down, and I hurried on. “When your deputy divided the group, Natalie immediately missed Marnie.”
“They can surmise whatever they please, but they can’t know for certain until I tell them. That’s the way I want it. That’s the way it will be done.”
Unexpected tears filled my eyes. “I feel terrible leaving Natalie alone to cope with this. Her husband, Dan, had to go to Oregon because his mother is gravely ill.”
Sid frowned. “Don’t fall apart now. You did good in the garden. You made the ID and spared Mrs. Parker that loathsome chore. Tomorrow after I talk to you, you can come back and be with her, but for now, go on home.”
My father hobbled toward us. I asked Sid, “What about Dad’s walking stick? Can we have—”
Sid’s tone was firm. “It’s part of the crime scene. He’ll have to buy himself a new one.”
Every eye was on me as I helped Dad into the SUV. I climbed behind the steering wheel and started the engine. Before I put the machine into gear, I gazed at the porch. One by one I scanned the faces, wondering if a killer stared back at me.
The pleading look Natalie gave me tore at my heart. Eugene nodded. Jess frowned. Donovan shook his head sadly. Irma’s arms were folded protectively across her chest, but she’d edged closer to Harley. Jacob’s slim shoulders were stooped. I moved my gaze to the guest end of the porch and encountered Allison’s stony glare. Roused into action, I put the gearshift into drive.
As we left the lodge behind, my father said, “Who, what, when, where, why, and how. We know the where, the when, and the how. But what went on in that garden? Who was with Marnie? Why was she killed?”
“Dad, you heard Sid. We can’t discuss the case.” Under my breath, I added, “But those are damned fine questions. I hope Sid is primed to find the answers.”
That night I slept little. I got up at seven, which was unheard of for me on a Sunday morning. I like to start my day of rest at a slow pace, leisurely waking, puttering around in my robe, and drinking coffee on the terrace. Since I didn’t know what time Sid would arrive, I was dressed in shorts and T-shirt before eight o’clock.
I came down the back staircase, which put me near the terrace doors. I stopped and stared at the half-finished project that ultimately would be one of the finest gardens in this area—or so boasted Eddie, my landscaper. I couldn’t see it yet. The place looked as if it had been terrorized. All that remained of the original garden were the concrete lily pool, some century-old trees, and a few group plantings that Eddie hadn’t been able to identify. Before he uprooted them, he was doing some research.
The rejuvenation of my garden had been put on hold because it was August. The weather was too hot, the ground too dry for planting. All the main features were in place. The raised beds waited for rich soil to be brought in. The old brick walkways had been re-laid with new grouting so the crisscross pattern was distinctive. A tire swing stirred lazily in the hot air. An arbor had been constructed of lattice. The stark white boards fairly begged for some green vines to curl over them, softening their sharp angles.
I might have gone out to look around, but the house was deliciously cool. I wasn’t in the mood to sweat or fight the bugs. The offensive little critters always mistook me for their next meal.
I wandered down the hall, pausing in the foyer. My home’s architectural style was Greek Revival. The exterior was pure southern hospitality. Lovely fluted columns supported a veranda that I’d outfitted with comfortable chairs and a chaise longue that I rarely had the opportunity to use.
Inside the house, a horseshoe-shaped staircase curved elegantly to the second story. The foyer was the height of both floors and was illuminated by a crystal chandelier. The main floor contained a state-of-the-art kitchen, a dining room, a library, and a ballroom. The west wing served as employees’ living quarters. The east wing was a three-car garage.
I’d spent plenty of time and money renovating the downstairs. My father was supervising the remodeling of the upstairs. The work was coming along nicely. By Christmas I hoped to have the extra rooms rented to my first boarders. I had plans to turn this big, historic home into a boardinghouse to help defray the expense of renovation. I’d thought about running a bed-and-breakfast, but I didn’t have the time to devote to keeping track of reservations, and I didn’t want to hire anyone to do this task. Besides, I liked constancy. I wanted to get to know the people that stayed in my home.
My stomach growled, reminding me that it was time to eat. I moved into the kitchen where I had the place to myself. Normally, my housekeeper, DeeDee, was up and cooking. At twenty-three, she was passionate about the process of creating fine cuisine. She especially liked to revamp ordinary recipes into fabulous edibles, while keeping the calorie and fat grams to a minimum. Since I was forever watching my weight but loved good food, I encouraged her to cook up a storm.
I had the refrigerator door open, studying the contents, when I heard DeeDee enter the kitchen. I glanced around. She’d recently had her dark hair trimmed and permed into a neat cap of curls. Her shoulders were square, her waist dainty. In a pair of shorts and crop top, she looked fresh and cool. I might have complimented her, but I had other things on my mind. I pointed to a shelf that contained several covered bowls.
“What’s in those?” I asked. “I’m hungry.”
DeeDee rolled her large, expressive brown eyes. “What’s new about that?”
I grinned. When I’d first met DeeDee she stuttered so badly she rarely spoke. It hadn’t helped her situation to be tethered to her mother’s protective apron strings. Leaving home and coming to work for me had broadened the scope of DeeDee’s life. Learning to cook, keeping my household running smoothly had given her poise and confidence. I loved her like a daughter. Hearing her speak without stuttering was gratifying. I couldn’t have been more proud of her had she been my own flesh and blood. I wanted to give her a hug, but that would have embarrassed her.
Teasingly, I said, “You’re becoming a gabby, brazen little hussy, aren’t you?”
DeeDee spoke slowly. “It is the fault of the people I associate with.”
I lowered my eyebrows and frowned. “I knew my father would be a bad influence on you.”
DeeDee chuckled. “Albert isn’t the problem.” She moved past me and reached into the refrigerator. Removing a casserole d
ish from the bottom shelf, she said, “You’re up early. It’ll t-take fifteen minutes to w-warm up this c-crustless quiche.” With her knee, she gave the door a nudge.
Fifteen minutes? My stomach craved food now. Just as the door was about to close, I saw a hunk of Colby cheese wrapped in cellophane. I made a successful snatch and took my appetizer to the table. After I’d sat down, I removed the wrapping and munched in silence, staring off into space.
“You’re not t-talking,” said DeeDee. She picked up the piece of plastic I’d left on the table and tossed it into the trash. “That’s not a g-good sign. Neither is your being up early. What’s going on?”
“Sid is coming by later.”
“The s-sheriff?”
I nodded. “He’s taking my statement. A young woman was murdered yesterday in the Parkers’ garden. My father found the body, and I made the identification.”
DeeDee’s eyes grew round. “O-oh, n-no. T-that’s t-terrible.”
DeeDee’s stuttering always increased when she was worried or nervous. I wanted to reassure her that everything would be fine, but how could I? Marnie was dead. A killer was free, unless Sid had made an arrest, which seemed unlikely this early in the investigation.
DeeDee checked the oven temperature. She fussed with the dial, picked up a potholder, and smoothed the calico-print fabric. When she spoke, it was on a different subject. “Bailey c-called last night. H-he said to t-tell you he w-would see you t-today.”
I heard DeeDee, but steered my thoughts away from Bailey Monroe and concentrated on what my father had said last night as we drove away from the lodge.
Who? What? When? Where? Why? How?
I skipped the who and wondered about the what. What had Marnie known or suspected that made her a threat? She had wanted the answers to what kind of questions? Nothing came to me. Perhaps I should approach the possible motive from another angle. What was the driving force behind her murder? Was the emotion rage, fear, or revenge?
I sighed softly. I had more questions than answers. I lacked information. When it came to the victim, I knew very little. Marnie had planned to attend college this fall and major in finance. She’d worked for Dan since the first of June. I’d heard him say that Marnie was an excellent lab assistant. Her interest in numbers and accuracy had coincided with his need for exactness when it came to keeping records on his hybridizing program.
Reap a Wicked Harvest Page 3