Steps to the Altar

by Earlene Fowler

  “Ten thousand dollars was a lot of money in the forties,” I pointed out.

  “Not compared to what she’d gotten if she’d stayed.”

  “Yes, but it could be the start of a new life.”

  “Say, one with another man? Yes, I thought of that and that’s exactly what I think happened. I said I didn’t think she killed her husband. I didn’t say I thought she didn’t know something about who did. I think Mitch Warner and Garvey Sullivan got into an argument about her affections. Mitch perhaps asking Garvey to let her go. Garvey refuses. A gun appears and someone is killed. In this case, Garvey. Mitch and Maple flee and another domestic murder is left unsolved. They might have been rich, but I’ve seen that same scenario played out hundreds of times in my career. Mark my words, this was two fellas fighting over a girl, a story as old as Adam.”

  “So, how come the papers made it sound like the police thought Maple did it? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  He snorted with derision. “Of course the newspapers would make it look like she did it. That bird cage liner was partially owned by the Warners. All my opinions and conclusions were tossed aside.”

  “Of course,” I said, sighing. “What was I thinking?” I pushed my plate of half-eaten steak aside and rested my elbows on the table. “Let me tell you something I found out and see what you think.” I told him about the rose delivered monthly to Garvey Sullivan’s grave.

  He shook his head, his mouth turning down as he listened. “Now that’s a curiosity. How long’s that been going on? Deliveries must have started after the case had been relegated to the inactive file or I would have tried to trace it. If someone had reported it, that is.”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “That’s what I’m going to try and find out tomorrow. Tell me, what did happen to the case files on this?”

  He dabbed his mouth with his teal-colored napkin. “Don’t really know. I imagine somewhere along the line someone just threw everything out. Town the size of San Celina’s not going to have the manpower to have one of them old case units. There were a lot of unsolved cases that got pushed aside once the war was over. A lot of people did things during that time they didn’t want known, and if they had the power to cover them up, destroy evidence of their crooked dealings, they did. Everyone wanted to start fresh in the fifties, leave the sadness of the war behind.” His blue-gray eyes bore into mine. “You’ll let me know what you find out? It would be nice if this case could be put to rest before I join Beth, you know?”

  “Of course,” I said. “I’ll call you if I find out anything new.”

  He walked me out to my truck and shook my hand warmly before opening my door. “It’s been a pleasure, Mrs. Harper. Tell that husband of yours that he’d best keep you. You’re a good’un.”

  I gave a half smile at the irony of his statement, considering the situation between me and Gabe, and thanked him again for taking the time to see me.

  “You take care, Bob.”

  “Will do. Drive careful now,” he replied. “Lock your doors.”

  On the drive back, I went over in my mind what new information I’d gleaned from Bob Weston. The most significant was Maple’s fear of guns, which had never been mentioned anywhere. That was a piece of information that would have probably been in the case file had it still existed.

  At home, Scout was overjoyed to see me and we had a nice long walk downtown even though it was past ten o’clock. The streetlights glowed a soft gold on the sidewalks, and twice I stopped and chatted with other downtown residents out for a stroll. I would have enjoyed living this close to the center of town. I couldn’t help wondering where I would be living six months from now.

  The next day I was waiting outside Mission Floral at 10 A.M. when they opened.

  “Wow,” said the young college-age girl unlocking the door. “You must need some flowers bad.” She grinned at me with a mouthful of silver-colored braces.

  “Actually, I have a question about a possible customer of yours.”

  She walked behind the counter and punched some numbers in the cash register. “You’ll have to ask my mom about that. She owns this place. I just work here part-time when I’m not in school.”

  “When’s your mother due in?”

  “Around noon.”

  I sighed. “Okay, I’ll be back.”

  I decided to kill some time down at Blind Harry’s, find out what was going on with Elvia and Emory. It was hard to believe it was only five days until their wedding. It didn’t surprise me that she wasn’t there, but out taking care of another of the millions of details a four-hundred-guest wedding required.

  “Would you care to leave her a message?” Mrs. Langcroft, one of her assistant managers, asked. She was a retired children’s librarian who couldn’t resist the lure of working with books.

  “No, thanks. I’ll call her on her cell phone if I don’t run into her somewhere.”

  I was on my way downstairs to buy a café mocha and a newspaper when I spotted Sam restocking books in the mystery section.

  “Hey, stepson,” I said, going over to him. “How’s it going?” I gave him a smile and a light punch in the arm.

  He looked at me as if I’d just swallowed a live spider. “How can you be so cheerful?” His astonished facial expression turned hopeful. “Did you and Dad make up? Is that woman gone?”

  I must admit I was speechless for a moment. Though I’d certainly had plenty of marital tiffs with Jack, and since we lived on his family’s ranch, which bordered the Ramsey ranch, thereby guaranteeing more than our fair share of comments and opinions by both sets of families, I’d never had to discuss a spousal argument with a child, step or otherwise.

  “Uh, no,” I stuttered. “We’re still . . . working on it.”

  He swore colorfully, calling Del names out loud that I only called her in my mind.

  “Shh, Sam,” I said, pointing to our proximity to the always crowded children’s section. “Don’t worry about this. Your dad and I will work it out.”

  “Yeah, right,” he said bitterly. “Just like he and my mom did. What an asshole he is. He talks about me keeping it in my pants, me being responsible. What about him?”

  For the second time in thirty seconds, I was without words. I stared at his angry face, trying to choose my words wisely. Whatever happened between me and Gabe, I truly didn’t want his fragile relationship with Sam to be destroyed.

  “Sam, your dad’s in a really . . . tough place right now.”

  “More like a really stupid place.”

  I held up my hand for him to stop. “Sam, whatever he does or doesn’t do with me, the truth remains that he loves you and wants the best for you. This . . . thing with Del caught both him and me by surprise. I . . . I’m sorry for whatever problems this woman caused with you and your mom, but try to see your dad’s whole life, the whole of who he is and not just the mistakes he’s made. He’s been a good father to you in so many ways. Sam, he loves you more than he loves his own life. I promise you that.”

  He shoved a handful of books into an empty space. “How can you defend him when he’s being such an asshole? I don’t understand that. Why don’t you want to just kill him?”

  I looked up at Sam’s agonized face. “Truth?”

  He nodded emphatically.

  I took a deep breath. “Okay, truth is, I do want to kill your father. There are moments when I regret ever having met him. And frankly, if there were a way I could hold Del Hernandez’s head under water until she was blowing bubbles, I would.”

  “So why don’t you? Why don’t you just go kick her ass? Tell her to get lost.” He clenched his fists.

  I thought about that for a moment. Why didn’t I just go and confront her? Tell her exactly what I thought about her and her actions.

  “Because I have too much pride, Sam. I’ll never let her see how much she’s hurt me. I refuse to give her that power. It’s one thing to let your father see it, but I’ll be darned if I’ll let her have that sat
isfaction. That’s why. And the reality is I have to let this thing play out the way it’s meant to be. I can’t make your father want to be with me, any more than you can make someone be with you when they don’t want to be. I love your father, but I’m only fifty percent of this marriage.”

  “But I don’t want you to stop being my stepmom,” he said in a low voice.

  I squeezed his muscled biceps. “Oh, Sam, that’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me. I don’t want to stop being your stepmom either, but if it comes to that, remember, you and I will always be friends.”

  “Really?”

  I nodded, wishing I could erase the sad look off his face. Wishing I could freeze my own heart into not hurting so much. In that moment, I hated Del with all my being for bringing this pain into my life, into Sam’s life. And I hated Gabe for allowing it to happen.

  His face did not look entirely convinced. “I hope you’re not mad at me for telling my mom. She said she talked to you.”

  “Not at all. Your mom’s a very special woman. You treasure her, okay?”

  “Okay. I guess I’ll see you at the wedding Saturday.”

  “You bet.”

  I went downstairs and tried to forget about Gabe and Del and the whole mess my life was in while I drank my café mocha and read today’s Tribune. Two hours finally passed and I was back at Mission Floral. The owner had come in a few minutes ahead of me.

  “She’s in back,” another young girl told me. This one looked to be about fourteen and had a bright green streak down the side of her black hair.

  I made my way to the back of the store, where a woman in her early fifties was working on a huge funeral wreath of white gladioli and gold mums. A radio in the background played our local oldies station. Herman’s Hermits was singing about Mrs. Brown’s lovely daughter. The woman turned to face me. Her platinum-streaked black hair was pulled up in a messy topknot. A white stick dangled from her unpainted mouth. She pulled out a red Tootsie Roll Pop and said, “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so. I’m Benni Harper. I talked to your daughter this morning.”

  She held out a dirt-stained hand. “Janet Nicholson. I own this place. She said something about you wanting to know something about one of our customers.”

  I quickly explained my story. She listened, moving the sucker from one side of her mouth to the other. When I’d finished, she took it completely out of her mouth and shook it slightly from side to side.

  “I’m sorry, but our records are confidential. There’s obviously some reason why this person wants to remain anonymous and I should honor that.”

  “But this is very important—”

  “So’s my reputation. If it gets out that we give out information about our customers, think of how that would make us look.”

  “But—”

  “Sorry.” She turned back to the white-and-gold funeral wreath.

  Back outside, I kicked the ground in frustration. How else was I going to find out who was sending those flowers? The thought that Maple’s actual address was as close as Mission Floral’s records in physical distance but out of my actual reach made me want to bite through a steel bit.

  An idea came to me as I was unlocking my truck’s door and I headed back downtown. If anyone could help me, she could.

  Amanda Landry’s law office was located above the Ross Discount Department store downtown. Inside its expensively decorated Kentucky-colonial-home-style waiting room, I begged her receptionist for a minute of her time.

  “Two minutes tops,” I said. “My name is Benni Harper. I’m an old friend.”

  “She’s with a client,” the receptionist said in a cool, professional voice. She was a woman in her late sixties who had the look and manner of someone born drinking from a silver baby bottle. Amanda had just hired her, which was why I introduced myself. She’d get to know me eventually, as this wasn’t the first time I’d cajoled Amanda into letting me use her investigator’s prodigious Internet capabilities.

  “Would you care to wait?” She pointed to the cordovan leather sofa.

  “Absolutely,” I said, sitting down. “Thank you.” Etta James sang a sad, he’s-left-me song in the background.

  Fifteen minutes later when I was well into an article in Southern Living on plantation house restoration, Amanda walked into the reception area.

  “Benni, girl! What a surprise!” Her voiced boomed across the compact reception area. “Have you met Sara?”

  “Sort of.” I held out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “How do you do,” the woman said in a quiet, elegant voice. Her handshake was firm, but her skin soft as a newborn kitten’s.

  “I just love her,” Amanda said, giving the woman an enthusiastic one-armed hug. “Has only worked here a month and already knows me like a book.”

  “Do you have a few minutes for Ms. Harper?” Sara asked, her delicate face a pale pink from embarrassment.

  “Oh, shoot, Sara,” Amanda said, gesturing at me to follow her. “I always have time for my favorite cowgirl. Benni’s an old friend.”

  “I’ll remember,” Sara said, smiling graciously at me.

  Inside Amanda’s office, she quickly filled me in on Sara. “Just between you and me and the hitching post, she’s a client I represented back in Alabama right before I left. Criminal trial. She was the defendant.”

  “What’d she do?” I asked.

  “She blew away the asshole of a husband who’d been beating her senseless for thirty-two years. She served her three years and was released completely destitute. Her son, a real chip off the asshole’s block, abandoned her and she had no marketable skills. I sent her the money to come out here and work for me.”

  I smiled at Amanda. Rich from her deceased daddy’s ill-gotten gains as the crookedest judge in Alabama, she continued to use her money in ways like this, helping people who needed a hand up.

  “You’re a good woman, Miss Mandy,” I said, using her housekeeper’s nickname for her. The blues-singing, very hunky male housekeeper she was still contemplating falling in love with.

  She made a scoffing gesture with her hand. “Pshaw, as my mama used to say. Sara’s the best thing I ever did for myself next to hiring Leilani.”

  “And Eli,” I said, grinning. Eli was her housekeeper.

  “We’re not going to go there today,” she said, grinning back at me. “So what can I do you for?”

  “I’m in desperate need of Leilani’s services.” Like I’d done so many times in the last few days, I quickly told Maple and Garvey’s story and how far I’d gotten in my investigation.

  “What possessed you to attempt this right before Elvia’s wedding?” she asked, leaning back in her chair and laughing.

  I shrugged. “It just sort of happened. Obviously, there’s no real hurry except that if these flowers are being sent by Maple herself, well, I’d love to get a chance to talk to her while I can.”

  She leaned forward and picked up the phone. “Let me see what Leilani can dig up.” After relaying to her the scanty information I’d discovered, she hung up the phone. “She said to give her about fifteen minutes.”

  “She’s amazing,” I said.

  “Amen, Sister Benni,” Amanda agreed.

  We chatted about Elvia’s wedding and again debated the wisdom of Amanda dating her housekeeper, who we were both sure was interested in her romantically, and though the feeling was definitely mutual on her side, the possibility of losing him as a housekeeper was a real consideration. We still hadn’t debated all points to death by the time Leilani knocked on her door.

  Leilani was a former San Celina police detective and investigator for the district attorney’s office. A soft-spoken, satin-skinned Samoan woman with depthless eyes that dared you to lie, she was a whiz at computers as well as, according to city police legend, the toughest female cop the force had ever seen. If there was any way for me to get that address over the Internet, Leilani would know how to do it.

  “Hey, Leilani,” Amand
a said. “You remember Benni.”

  She nodded wordlessly at me. I waved hello.

  “Mission Floral doesn’t seem to do anything by computer,” she said. “I’m guessing they still do bookkeeping the old-fashioned way.”

  “Darn,” I said. “That means unless I break into their offices and riffle through their files, I’ll never find this woman’s address.”

  “Don’t give up so easy,” Amanda said. “Any ideas, Leilani?”

  She held out a sheet of paper. “This is the best I could do. I checked the records, and Janet Nicholson has owned Mission Floral since 1978. Before that, it was owned by a Mr. and Mrs. James and Clara Downey, who’d owned it since 1939. Clara Downey died three years ago, but Mr. Downey lives in Templeton. Here’s his address and phone number.”

  “Great!” I said, standing up and reaching for the paper. “If the deliveries started before Janet Nicholson owned the shop, he might know something about them. It’s a long shot, but who knows?”

  “That’s exactly what I thought,” Leilani said.

  “Leilani, again you save the day,” Amanda said, beaming. “Thank you kindly.”

  Leilani nodded at both of us and left.

  “Thanks, Amanda,” I said, giving her a hug before I left. “See you this Saturday at the Mission.”

  “Wouldn’t miss this wedding for all the roux in New Orleans,” she said.

  It was now one o’clock, and though I knew I should grab something to eat, I was too excited about the possibility that this Mr. Downey might have Maple Bennett’s—or whatever she called herself now—address.

  I sat in my truck and dialed his number on my cell phone. It took a little talking before he agreed to meet me at a cafe in downtown Templeton.