I met Avery’s gaze, and his eyes shifted uneasily away from mine. Disappointment brought a lump to my throat. I’d never pressed him. Not once had I demanded a decision. There were hard feelings toward me from the owner, and I’d hoped that if I bided my time, those old wounds would heal. But that hadn’t happened. My intention to be a goodhearted, understanding person was about to be flung in my face.
The doorbell rang. Anger replaced my frustration. I crossed the foyer, but I didn’t open the door. Instead, I turned my back to it so I could tell Avery just what I thought. From the look on his face, my words were unnecessary.
“I assume this is my new neighbor,” I said. “You knew I wanted that land because it’s part of the original tract. And now you expect me to make this tenant feel welcome? To sit at my table and eat my food?” I gulped. “Gosh, Avery, I didn’t think my day could get much worse.”
I swept open the door and gasped.
Bailey Monroe stood on my doorstep. Since I’d returned from Branson, he’d haunted my thoughts. I almost reached out a hand to touch him, to see if he was real, but I quickly checked that impulse. “Bailey?” I whispered. “What are you doing here?”
The glance he traded with Avery said it all. I’d coveted the land. I’d coveted the man. Now both were tied together in one neat package.
Chapter Five
Since I’d last seen Bailey it would’ve been heartening to learn I’d magnified his fine points, exaggerated his good looks. No such luck. Six feet, two inches of muscle. Eyes the color of unpolished copper. Dark hair feathered with gray at his temples. When his lips slid into a lazy smile, my body reacted in a disturbing manner.
Carl had been as comfy as my house slippers—cushy to my soul. Bailey was that pair of stiletto heels you admire in a store window. Common sense says not to buy them—don’t even bother trying them on—but the allure was there.
Feeling the need to say something, I repeated, “What are you doing here?”
“Who won the floral contest in Branson?” he said.
My eyes narrowed. He and I’d had a couple of these rounds where I’d ask a question and he’d answer with another. This was a different time and place, so perhaps it was only a coincidence. I tested him. “Won’t you come in?”
The well-mannered response could have been “Thank you, Bretta.” Or “Lovely home, Bretta.” Or “Nice to see you, Bretta.”
Bailey said, “Will I be a bother?”
I couldn’t resist. “Are you usually?”
Bailey brushed past me. “Have you heard something I haven’t?”
I gritted my teeth but fought foolishly. “Is this conversation going somewhere?”
Bailey didn’t pause. “Life is trying, isn’t it?”
I gave up. “But not as trying as you.”
Avery and my father gaped as if they’d viewed a complicated vaudeville skit and hadn’t gotten the punch line. No way was I going to explain.
“Let’s eat,” I said, waving the men into the dining room. I headed for the kitchen, where I could catch my breath. DeeDee looked up from the pot she was scraping.
“Is everyone here?” She turned her question into an explanatory sentence. “Everyone is here.”
“Ha, ha,” I said, grabbing the platter of grilled pork chops. “We’ll discuss your part in this calamity later.”
“Th-there’s nothing to d-discuss. Avery is your f-friend, and it isn’t m-my p-place to d-deny your father a meal.”
“And Bailey? Where does he fit in?”
DeeDee met my gaze. “Wherever you let him.”
* * *
Dinner passed rather well with my father monopolizing the conversation, telling about his flight from Texas. Under Bailey’s artful questioning, I, along with everyone else, learned that my father had sublet his condo, had sold his interest in the cattle-branding tool manufacturing company, and was here to stay. Where he was going to live brought us to the hot topic of the evening—Bailey’s takeover of the gardener’s cottage.
We had moved into the library and were sipping coffee. DeeDee clattered dishes in the kitchen. My father lounged in one of the wingback chairs; Avery occupied the other. Bailey sat on the sofa with his arm flung across the upper cushion. If I were to sit, he’d either have to move his arm or I’d find it draped across my shoulders. I stayed where I was, which was across the room near the fireplace.
Avery twisted around to stare at me. “Bretta, come sit down. Let’s get this situation ironed out.”
I moved to the sofa and perched on the arm. “What’s to iron out? Seems to me every wrinkle is permanently set.”
Bailey chuckled softly.
I turned my cool gaze on him. “What’s so funny?”
“You’re bent out of shape, and you don’t know the details.”
“Are you living in the cottage?”
“Yes.”
“Are you buying it?”
“The contract is signed.”
“So it’s a done deal. I don’t need to hear the details because they won’t make any difference.”
Bailey sighed and stood up. “If that’s the way you want it. Thanks for dinner. I’ll see myself out.” He strode from the room. His footsteps clunked across the foyer. The front door opened, then closed with a sharp snap.
“Well,” I said, “I don’t know why he’s upset. I’m the one who’s gotten the short end of this situation.”
Avery drummed his fingers impatiently. “This hasn’t worked at all the way I had planned.” He shook his head at me. “Which would you rather have in that cottage? Bailey Monroe or Fedora’s Feline Care and Grooming Center?”
“You had my offer.”
“But the owner wasn’t going to take it regardless of the amount. I’ve warned you not to get your hopes up over buying that piece of property, but you ignored me. She doesn’t want you to have it, and she doesn’t want any ties here. I was given orders to find a buyer. I had two offers at the stipulated amount.”
Avery raised his hands with the palms turned up. He lifted his right hand. “Here is Bailey, a retired federal agent. He wants a quiet place to write a book on his twenty-odd years of work.” He lowered his left hand. “Here we have Fedora. A nice lady, but a fanatic when it comes to cats. I visited her home and was appalled at how she let her pets have free rein.”
His hands seesawed. “Quiet man. Cat woman. You weren’t in the equation, Bretta. I made my decision, and it’s the right one.” He smoothed his collar, then settled back in his chair. “If you think about it, you’ll see I’ve done you a tremendous favor. You’re planning a garden. Do you want cats running amuck over your seedlings?”
I pursed my lips, then finally said, “I guess not. Did Bailey tell you we’d met before?”
Avery nodded. “That’s why he was out this way. He was hunting your address and saw the cottage. His inquiries brought him to my office. That piece of property was going to someone, other than you, and as I see it, Bailey was the best choice.”
My father hadn’t asked for an explanation but had apparently caught the main theme of what was going on. “I’ll offer five thousand over Monroe’s deal. With my name on the deed, who’ll know—”
“I will,” said Avery. “It’s over.”
“But if I—”
“No. I don’t operate in that manner.” Avery heaved himself out of the chair. He nodded to my father. “It was a pleasure meeting you again,” he said, though his huffy tone sent a different message.
Avery’s expression softened when he turned to me. “I worry about you in this rambling old house with only DeeDee for company. Put that cottage out of your mind and concentrate on finishing the rooms upstairs. Your plan for a boardinghouse is sound. Stick to it. Diversification is the right step for some people. You have plenty on your plate with the flower shop and this house. Don’t be led into more than you can handle.”
He gave my father a sharp glance before moving toward the door. Of course, Avery was referring to the idea of my bec
oming a partner in a detective agency. At the moment that plan was the last thing on my mind. I was exhausted. The day had been an emotional roller coaster with monumental valleys and peaks.
“Did you know Oliver Terrell?” I asked Avery as I opened the front door.
“Yes. I heard he’d passed away.” Avery’s walrus mustache twitched. “I also heard you were there, and a short time later you discovered a body in a beauty shop.”
“How come you didn’t say something?”
“I had my own agenda for this evening. The last thing I needed was you reliving your disastrous day when I was about to pile more on top.”
“Did you know Claire Alexander?”
“I go to a barber, not a beautician.”
“What about a Mrs. Dearborne?”
Avery stroked his mustache. “Would that be Doreen, Sharon, or Lydia Dearborne?”
“I don’t know. What about the name Spade?”
“I can’t know everyone in River City. Why? Are these people connected to that alleged murder?”
“There’s nothing alleged about it. Claire Alexander was hit over the head, her nose and mouth filled with herbal foam so she’d suffocate.”
Avery shuddered and stepped out into the warm night air. “I don’t want to hear another word, Bretta. I need a good night’s sleep.”
He gave my arm a squeeze and warned me to keep my wits about me. I waited until he had his car started and was headed down the drive before I closed the door and went back into the library.
While I’d seen Avery out, my father had made himself comfortable on the sofa and fallen asleep. His snores were a sonorous accompaniment as I spread an afghan over him. I stared down at him and shook my head. What was he thinking when he’d concocted the foolish notion that I would want to be part of a detective agency? I enjoyed dabbling in solving mysteries, but to make it a day-in-and-day-out job wasn’t of interest to me. Like Avery said, I had the flower shop, and I had this house and the garden—minus the cottage.
“Bailey,” I breathed his name softly. He was so close and yet so far away, held at arm’s length by my frustration and disappointment at not being able to buy the cottage.
Sighing, I gathered up the used coffee service and headed for the kitchen, where DeeDee was putting away the last of the dishes. “Here’s some more,” I said, setting the tray on the counter. “You can leave these things till morning, if you want. I’m going to bed.”
“I heard Avery say you f-found a b-body today. W-whose was it?”
“Her name was Claire Alexander. She had a beauty shop located in the old section of town.”
“Claire’s Hair Lair? That’s where my m-mother g-goes.”
“You knew Claire?”
“N-not really.”
“Does your mother have a friend by the name of Dearborne?”
“L-Lydia Dearborne.”
I opened a drawer and took out the phone book. After flipping through the pages I saw a number of Dearbornes, but all were male. “Do you know her address?” DeeDee shook her head. “Could you call your mother and find out?”
“I-I guess.” She glanced at the clock. “She’ll be getting r-ready for bed.”
I pressed. “It won’t take a second. I’d like to have this information to give to the police.”
Her tone was droll. “You don’t think th-they can get it on th-their own?”
I gestured to the phone. “Please call.”
Reluctantly, DeeDee did as I requested. Ten minutes later she replaced the receiver. Her slender shoulders slumped. Her head drooped with despair.
I’d eavesdropped the first few minutes, then busied myself washing up the coffee cups and saucers. I’d heard only one side of the conversation, but DeeDee’s answers had clued me in. Her mother was being her usual annoying, overbearing self.
“I’m sorry, DeeDee,” I said. “I keep thinking your mother will change. That she’ll see how independent you’ve become, and stop being so domineering.”
“W-won’t h-happen, B-Bretta. I can take most of it until she asks if I’m w-wearing clean underw-wear. Then I l-lose it. L-Lydia lives on C-Catalpa R-Road. Out b-by that g-garden c-center. M-Mother can’t recall the n-name.”
DeeDee’s stuttering was always worse after a conversation with her mother. I wanted to kick myself for putting her through— Garden center? There wasn’t any garden center on Catalpa Road, but there had been a gardener.
Again I grabbed the phone book, although it wasn’t necessary because I knew what I was going to find. Yes. There it was. “Terrell Oliver 18807 Catalpa Road.” I flipped back to Dearborne. “Dearborne Harold 18809 Catalpa Road.”
With this bit of trivia cluttering my brain, I said “Good night” and went upstairs to my room. So Oliver and Lydia were neighbors. How did that piece of the puzzle fit into the scheme of Claire’s murder?
I tried to think about it after I was settled in bed, but I kept seeing Avery’s blue-veined hands weighing his choice for the new owner of the cottage.
I dropped off to sleep with the image of those hands rising and dipping. But in my dream I removed Bailey and Fedora from the formula. Avery’s hands were replaced by an old wooden teeter-totter. A faceless Mrs. Dearborne straddled one end of the plank, with Oliver balancing her weight at the other. They seesawed back and forth like a couple of kids at a playground. Then, like the zoom lens on a camera, I took a closer look at the middle support.
Mrs. Dearborne and Oliver were teetering over Claire Alexander’s body. Claire’s green hair grew like tentacles, twisting and tightening its hold over Oliver and Mrs. Dearborne. I reasoned this was a ridiculous dream. I had only to open my eyes and the horror would fade, but those slithering tendrils were mesmerizing, drawing me in.
Chapter Six
The ringing of a bell prompted swollen buds to emerge from the tendrils of Claire’s hair. Another shrill ring and those buds burst into a multicolored display of blossoms. Like the painting on the ceiling of the beauty shop, the flowers flourished around the girl’s head. Only this time the girl was Claire.
“Bretta? There’s a c-call for you.”
I came awake in a rush of confusion. Sunlight shone through my bedroom window. DeeDee stood in the hall doorway, motioning to the telephone on my nightstand.
“What time is it?” I asked, wiping the sleep from my eyes.
“Seven on S-Sunday morning.”
I made a face and picked up the receiver. “This is Bretta.”
“Why didn’t you call me about Claire?”
I recognized Sonya’s voice though it was rough with grief. Sitting up, I swung my legs over the edge of the mattress. “I’m sorry, Sonya, but I never thought—”
“I heard the news from Evelyn. She said you found the—uh—” She stopped and blew her nose. “I can’t believe Claire is dead. We were like sisters, staying at each other’s house, walking to school. I’ve let my business take over my life. She called a month ago to see if we could meet for lunch, but I’ve been booked up. I should have called her back, but I knew we’d be seeing each other as we worked on this Montgomery wedding. I thought it would help renew our friendship. Now it’s too late.”
“Do the others know?”
“I told them, and they’re as shocked as I am. What happened? Was she robbed?”
“I don’t know.”
“How was she—uh—killed?”
I dodged her question. “Don’t think about that. Think of the good times. Claire remembered them fondly or she wouldn’t have recited that poem in the park. Something about Royals being on the make? Sounds like the male population back then didn’t stand a chance against the four of you.”
Sonya’s tone was distressed. “I have work to do.” She hung up.
I put down my receiver. I’d mentioned the poem because I’d wanted to divert her from asking about the murder—a subject I’d been warned not to discuss. But I’d also been curious. Sonya, Dana, and Kasey had all seemed bothered when Claire had recited it in the p
ark. I wondered how the other women would respond to my referring to that poem now that Claire was dead.
I looked up Dana’s number. She answered after several rings, sounding as if she had a severe head cold. When I identified myself she let me know she’d been crying nonstop, which accounted for her stuffy, nasal tone.
“Why Claire?” asked Dana. “She was good, kind, and generous. Did you know she spent her days off at local nursing homes washing and curling the residents’ hair? Or that for the senior prom she styled the hair of any girl who couldn’t afford a trip to a beauty shop?”
“No. I didn’t know that. I’d never met Claire until yesterday at the park, but I could tell she had a sense of humor. That poem she recited was—uh—cute. Something about the Royals being on the make, wasn’t it? Is that part of a school song or something?”
Dana gulped. “Why are you bringing that up?”
“Just curious, I guess. Claire must’ve had a reason. Perhaps good memories were associated with it?”
“She shouldn’t have said it. I have to go. I have a—uh—cake in the oven.” Dana hung up.
Next I looked up Kasey Vickers’s phone number. When I dialed it, the line was busy. I got out of bed and made a trip to the bathroom. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and wondered why I was exploring the reactions of three women about a poem that most likely didn’t have any relevance on any level.
But if I didn’t think about the poem, I’d have to think about my father’s arrival and his plans for a detective agency. Or about Bailey’s purchase of the cottage and his close proximity to my house and my life.
I wanted to know both men better, but I’d been thinking small doses, not the chug-a-lug portions I’d gotten. I’d hoped for a quiet talk with Bailey—a time of discovery—who he was, what he liked, how the past had shaped him into the man he was today.
As for my father, a lengthy and honest discussion was in order. After said discussion, I assumed he would go back to Texas, and I could digest the information at my leisure.
A Deadly Bouquet Page 5