Claire stepped forward. “I have to get back to my shop—”
“That hot piece of gossip from Mrs. Dearborne won’t wait, huh?” asked Dana.
Oliver stared at Claire. “Dearborne? Gossip? Who are you?”
Claire raised an eyebrow. “I’m Claire Alexander, owner of Claire’s Hair Lair.”
Oliver studied her face and shook his head. “I don’t know you, but suddenly something is niggling at me.” He gazed at the ground. “I wish I could remember.”
Evelyn said, “Please, we have to discuss the fine points of Nikki’s wedding.”
Oliver closed his eyes and cocked his head as if listening to some distant sound. His hand moved up and down the handle of his spade. “So long ago,” he murmured.
Eddie said to Evelyn, “Dad and I have done like you asked. We took out the euonymus shrubs, and we’re planting the golden spirea. The look is natural. To spray the foliage with gold paint would be ridiculous.”
“Spray the foliage?” I repeated.
Evelyn turned to me. “Yes, Bretta. The color of the shrubs is too yellow. I want Nikki to stroll down a gilded path.”
“She also wants us to plant dead trees,” groused Eddie. “Dead trees, mind you, so the bare branches can be draped with hoity-toity lights.”
“I saw the idea in a magazine. The effect against the night sky was—”
“—not done by Terrell Landscaping,” finished Eddie.
Oliver opened his eyes. “Where are the markers?”
Eddie shot his father a puzzled look, but said to Evelyn, “I’ve had it. Dad and I are done. Plant your own shrubs. Drape your own damned lights.”
Evelyn’s smile was cold. “Fine. Pack up your stuff and get out.”
Eddie waved an arm. “It’s a public park.”
“Son?” said Oliver weakly. He stumbled forward. “Chest hurts. Heart.”
Eddie whipped around. “Where’s your pills?”
Oliver sunk to his knees. “Can’t … get … breath.” He gasped and fell forward.
Sonya used her cell phone to call 911. I knelt next to Oliver. “Help me turn him over,” said Eddie.
Once we had Oliver on his back, he opened his eyes. Eddie found the pills, uncapped the brown bottle, and slipped a tablet under Oliver’s tongue.
“Hang in there, Dad,” he coached. “Give the medicine a chance to work.”
Spittle drooled from the corner of Oliver’s mouth. Eddie used his shirttail to wipe it gently away. Oliver gazed at his son. Love reflected beyond the pain he was enduring. He turned his head and stared directly into my eyes. Softly, he said, “Bretta … Spade.”
Chapter Two
My flower shop has always been a safe haven, a place I can go to regroup and put my thoughts in order. I headed for that calming piece of real estate when I left River City Commemorative Park.
As a florist, I’ve helped bereaved families choose a fitting memorial for their loved one’s service. On a personal level, I’ve had my own share of dealing with an unexpected death. But never has my name been on a dying man’s lips. Never have I stared into his eyes as he drew his last breath.
I pulled into the alley behind the flower shop and climbed wearily out of my car. It felt as if an eternity had passed since the morning. As I went up the steps to the back door, I checked my watch, but my wrist was bare. The timepiece had stopped a few days ago, and I hadn’t bought a new one. I entered the workroom and glanced at the clock. It was only eleven thirty. The shop closed at noon on Saturdays. My employees, Lois and Lew, were finishing a couple of last-minute orders.
“Oh, boy,” said Lois, eyeing my grim expression. “I take it the meeting didn’t go well. What does that woman want now? White doves released from gold-plated cages?”
Lew said, “More like trained seals barking ‘Ave Maria’ from the reflection pool.”
I moved a tall stool closer to the worktable and sat down. Lois Duncan is my floral designer, and while I value her work, I treasure her friendship. Over the years, I’ve tried to analyze why we get along so well when we have so many differences.
Lois is taller than I am, and has the metabolism of a hummingbird. Her weight never varies even though she sucks down candy like a vacuum cleaner in an M&M factory. My hips expand when I so much as smell chocolate. She has five children. I have none. Her bouquets are flamboyant. Mine are conservative. Sometimes she’s bossy, especially when the subject concerns my lack of a social life.
Lew Mouffit is my deliveryman and perhaps the most annoying male in River City. He has the answer to everything and pontificates with such pomposity that I’m often tempted to fire him. However, he has a following of well-to-do women who patronize my shop, so I bite my tongue again and again.
Before I plunged into the story of my morning, I looked around me, drawing strength from what was near and dear to my heart. Years ago, when I had to name my business, a cutesy title didn’t cut it. I’d settled on the Flower Shop, which suited my practical nature. I ran a tight ship. I believed that everything should have a place, that an object should be where I wanted it when I wanted it.
Bolts of satin ribbon were neatly lined on shelves. From where I sat I could see the front cooler, displaying fresh, colorful arrangements. Next to the cash register was a vase of white carnations, their spicy scent an open invitation for my customers to make a purchase.
I took a deep breath, then released it in a sigh. “You can’t begin to imagine what happened.” I filled them in on everything. My visit with Oliver and Eddie. Meeting the other women involved with the wedding. Eddie’s and Evelyn’s disagreement, and finally, the morning’s distressing finale.
“The paramedics arrived, but it was too late. Oliver had already passed away. Eddie was devastated. He jumped in his truck and tore out of the park.”
“Poor guy,” said Lois.
I glanced up, saw the concern in her blue eyes, and knew what she was thinking. Carl had died from a heart attack, too. Lois was worried that my morning’s experience might send me into a deep depression.
I summoned up a smile to ease her fears, then turned to Lew, who was muttering under his breath. Lew was thirty-five and rapidly going bald. I’ve never seen him dressed in anything but well-pressed slacks, a shirt, and a conservative tie.
Against my better judgment, I asked, “Are you talking to us?”
Lew checked to make sure he had our complete and undivided attention. “If Oliver used his dying breath to whisper ‘Spade’ to you, then it must have been important.” He added piously, “I’ve figured it out.”
Lois rolled her eyes. I had to control an urge to do likewise. This was so typical of Lew. I’d skimmed through the account of my conversation with Oliver. I’d briefly explained his brush with death six months ago. I’d ended my story by repeating Oliver’s dying words. I’d been there, I’d seen everything that had happened, and yet, Lew had drawn a conclusion.
I said, “Let’s have it. Why did Oliver say ‘Spade’ to me?”
“If I understood you correctly, Oliver actually said, ‘Bretta … Spade.’” Lew’s balding head shone in the fluorescent light. “He was asking for your help. It makes sense. Bretta Spade.”
When I didn’t shout “Eureka!” or do a cartwheel across the floor, he demanded, “Don’t you get it? Oliver was drawing a parallel between you and Dashiell Hammett’s fictional detective—Sam Spade.”
Well, that was stupid, and I would have said so, but Lois beat me to it.
“Get real. The man was dying. He could’ve been confused. Disoriented. Bretta told us he cherished that gardening tool. Maybe he was asking her to keep it safe for Eddie.”
Lew’s chin rose several degrees. “As my great-grandmother would’ve said, ‘Balderdash!’ If Oliver wanted his son to have the spade, he’d have said ‘Spade’ to him. According to Bretta, Oliver actually turned his head toward her. He spoke her name. He knew who he was talking to, and he knew exactly what he was saying.”
Lois said, “You won�
�t convince me that a man on the brink of death was playing some convoluted mind game.”
Lew straightened his tie. “All right, how about this? Spades are the highest suit in bridge. What if Oliver used the word spade to denote an event that was of supreme importance to—”
I didn’t let him finish. “I doubt that Oliver ever played a hand of bridge. Let’s drop it. I’m too tired to discuss it further.”
Lew frowned. “Too tired? I’m amazed you aren’t hot on the trail of this latest mystery. Or is it because these theories came from me?” When I didn’t answer, he turned on the heel of his well-polished shoe and stomped to the back room. “I’m taking these last deliveries. See you Monday.”
“Thanks for the warning,” said Lois under her breath.
After the door had closed, I said, “He’s in a foul mood. What’s his problem?”
“My first thought is that he isn’t getting any, except he never does. I don’t know why things are different today. He’s been a grouch all morning, and he’s taken to critiquing my bouquets.” She grabbed a broom and swept the littered floor. In a haughty tone, she mimicked, “‘Red, purple, and yellow are so gauche, Lois. Must you always pick that combination for a hospital order?’”
I chuckled. “So what’s been going on here, besides Lew being a bigger pain than usual?”
Lois shrugged. “Not much. Business is slow for a Saturday.” She swept the flower stems into a dustpan and dumped them into the trash bin under her table. “If you don’t need me to close, I’m going home.” But she didn’t look happy about it.
Last month, Lois had agreed to let her sister’s daughter, Kayla, come live with her. Lois had raised five children, but all were finally out on their own. I didn’t think it was a good idea when Lois talked it over with me. In Cincinnati, Kayla had been in trouble. Her mother thought a change of scenery might change the girl. That hadn’t happened. Kayla, a junior at River City High School, was in trouble again. Lois hadn’t told me the problem, which was unusual. She and I had few secrets.
“Is there anything I can do?” I asked.
Lois’s smile was pinched. “No thanks. I assume we’ll be putting in overtime on this wedding?” After I’d nodded, she continued, “I have a ton of dirty laundry, and I need to go grocery shopping.”
I waved her on. She hung the dustpan on its hook, then picked up her purse. Hesitating at the door, she asked, “You aren’t going to let Oliver’s death get to you, are you?”
“I’m fine. But I wish I knew what he tried to tell me. Not to agree with Lew, but it sure seemed like Oliver expected me to do something.”
“Not necessarily true. His mind could’ve flipped back to your earlier conversation with him. He’d talked about the spade. He saw you leaning over him. Put it out of your mind. We have enough to deal with when it comes to this wedding.”
I made a face, but Lois didn’t see it. She’d already gone. I counted out the cash drawer, then glanced through the day’s orders, but saw nothing interesting. I checked the walk-in cooler to jog my memory as to what fresh flowers were available for Oliver’s upcoming funeral.
Would Eddie want red roses for the spray on the casket or something earthier, befitting a gardener? Bronze and yellow mums with an assortment of greens—ivy, variegated pittosporum, and some gold-and-orange croton leaves—would be appropriate for a man who’d made his living from loving plants.
I turned off the workroom lights and strolled up front, where I flipped the lock and put the CLOSED sign into place. I particularly like being in the shop when the doors are shut to the public and the lights are off. The pressure eases, and I can relax and let my mind drift. I stared across the street at Kelsey’s Bar and Grill and felt a need for an order of their curly fries.
Two years ago, after my husband, Carl, had passed away, I’d lost one hundred pounds. My struggle to keep the weight off is an hour-to-hour battle. With the stress I’d been under, I yearned for a plate of comfort. But I summoned up some willpower and turned my back on Kelsey’s, staring instead at the shop’s shadows.
This month was the second anniversary of my husband’s death. It had taken every one of those days to accept the fact that he was gone and my life was forever changed. For twenty-four years, Carl had been at my side. I’d been married to him longer than I’d been alone. We’d been friends before we became lovers. I could tell him anything, talk to him about everything under the moon and stars, and he’d listened, really listened to what I had to say.
I hadn’t known the true extent of his faith in me until he became a deputy with the Spencer County Sheriff’s Department. He’d trusted me with the facts of cases he worked on. Together we’d explored possibilities as to what might have happened. We’d made wild conjectures. I was a great one for taking that “shot in the dark.” Carl had urged me to let my mind flow even if the picture seemed askew.
Carl’s legacy had been a bountiful education, but the art of solving a mystery had been a fraction of his tutoring. From the first day I’d met him, he’d tried to teach me to trust and to forgive. I hadn’t been a willing pupil. When your heart’s been broken, it isn’t easy to give those emotions another chance.
When I was eight years old, my father walked out of my life. For more years than I care to count, he was simply a name on a birthday card or a box of grapefruit at Christmas. This past December he’d come to River City for a visit, and I’d learned that you can’t have trust without forgiveness.
I smiled sadly. It hurt that Carl wasn’t here to see that I’d gone to the head of the class. The lines of communication with my father were open. In fact, last night I’d gotten a call from him. He’d said he had a fantastic surprise for me and that it would arrive this afternoon.
I wasn’t particularly curious. He’d gotten into the habit of sending me trinkets. What I really wanted, he wasn’t ready to give. I needed a detailed account of why he’d walked out. So far all I’d gotten was the old cliché—irreconcilable differences with my mother—which didn’t tell me squat.
And neither did the words “Bretta … Spade.”
What had Oliver meant? What was he trying to tell me? Lew had been right about one thing. If Oliver had used his dying breath to whisper those words to me, it must have been important to him. Of course, the man couldn’t be sure he was dying. He’d fought death before and won. Only this time he’d lost the battle and had left me with a final plea.
Damn but I hated not knowing what was expected of me. By not doing anything, by not having an inkling of what I should do, I felt as if I was denying Oliver his last request.
Guilt was a great motivator. I grabbed my purse and started for the back door. I could go to the park, pack up Eddie’s tools, and take them by his house. I wouldn’t knock on his door. I’d simply leave everything in plain sight. It wasn’t much, but it was better than—
The telephone rang. Irritated, I stopped and stared at it. Now that I had a plan, I was anxious to put it into action, but it’s difficult to ignore a ringing phone. Two more jingles and I picked up the receiver.
“The Flower Shop. Bretta speaking.”
“This is Claire. I met you this morning at the park.”
“Yes, Claire. I remember.” Green hair. Green eyes. How could I forget? “What can I do—”
“I’ve got to see you.”
“If you have any questions about this wedding, go straight to Evelyn. I’m not about to second-guess what she wants.”
“I can’t discuss this on the phone. Can you come to my beauty shop? The address is 3201 Marietta Avenue. You have a reputation for getting to the bottom of suspicious doings. I can’t make heads or tails of this information, but I’m not sitting on it.”
“What information?”
“Just get here—” Claire’s voice lost its excited tone. “Well, hi,” she said calmly. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
I frowned in confusion. Was the woman crazy? Perhaps all those chemicals she used on her hair had seeped into her brain. “W
hat’s going on?” I asked.
Instead of answering, Claire plunked down the receiver, but I could still hear her talking. “Just making an appointment. If you’ll take a chair, I’ll be right with you.”
Oh. A customer had come in. Claire said, “Sure, I have time. Let me finish this call.”
The receiver was picked up, and Claire asked, “You have the address, correct?”
“Yes. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“No hurry,” she said quietly. “My pigeon just walked through the door.” She hung up.
I replaced the receiver and went out to my car. Pigeon? That was a strange way to refer to a customer.
I made a left turn, headed for the park, but after a few blocks I detoured back the way I’d come. I was curious as to what Claire wanted.
Marietta Avenue was located in the old historic district, which sat on the limestone bluffs overlooking the Osage River. The area, with its brick-paved streets, was undergoing revitalization, which I was glad to see was progressing well. I had a fondness for this part of town, and had done a bit of research on its history.
In 1810 a man named James Horton and his wife, Hattie, had organized a group of people intent on finding a new land and new beginnings. On their trek west, these pioneers had gotten lost. Finding themselves on the bank of the Osage River, they had either lacked the will to travel forward or liked what they’d stumbled upon. For whatever reason, the settlers had put down roots in this soil, and River City, Missouri, had sprouted.
I traveled up Marietta Avenue, stopping often to let cement trucks go around me. The area was a beehive of activity. Scaffoldings were everywhere. Workmen called back and forth from rooftops.
The building that housed Claire’s Hair Lair had already received its face-lift. The front was painted burgundy with gray shutters flanking the plate-glass window. Styrofoam heads topped with stylish wigs were on display, along with several bottles of enriching shampoo and cleansing rinses.
I leaned closer and read a sign: DON’T LET YOUR UNRULY HAIR MAKE YOU A SOURPUSS. CLAIRE WILL HAVE YOU PURRING WITH SATISFACTION IN NO TIME. For emphasis two stuffed lions had been added to the exhibit. One had matted fur, his mouth opened in a snarl. His companion sported a glossy, manageable mane.
A Deadly Bouquet Page 2