A Deadly Bouquet

by Janis Harrison

  “Hubris?”

  “Excessive pride.” Pain twisted her face. “I’m no psychologist, but I’ve had plenty of experience studying adolescent emotions and behavior. Even so, I couldn’t help my own son.”

  I leaned on my car, staring across the rooftop at her. “What was Claire like?”

  “Needy.”

  “In what way?”

  “All ways. Claire followed her desires against reason and more often without logical forethought. Her marriage to my son is ample proof of that. But in the last few months I’d noticed a change. Everyone wants to feel special, unique. Claire dyed her hair and wore those strange contacts. Everyone wants a sense of being useful. She lavished attention on anyone who walked through the doors of her beauty shop. She donated her time and talents wherever they were required. Everyone needs to feel an emotional bond. We need to have a sense of belonging in this world.”

  Mrs. Mitchell shook her head sadly. “From what I understand, Claire’s earlier years were spent eliciting attention. What she got was a reputation for being a rabble-rouser.”

  Aristotle had finished massacring the flowers. He stepped to the edge of the porch and stared at me.

  Mrs. Mitchell grabbed his collar. “You’d better go.”

  I didn’t have to be told twice.

  As I drove away, I looked in my rearview mirror. Amid the flower stems, petals, and chunks of floral foam at her feet, Mrs. Mitchell hunkered down to the dog, her arms wrapped around his neck. Aristotle’s thick pink tongue slurped her face with adoring kisses.

  I might have smiled. On the surface it was a charming picture—a woman and her faithful companion. I shook my head and pressed on the accelerator. Aristotle wasn’t the only one in that household who carried emotional scars.

  Chapter Nine

  I drove up my driveway, keeping my eyes straight ahead. I would not look over at the cottage. It wasn’t any of my business if Bailey was home. Besides, I’d know soon enough if I decided to join him for dinner.

  If? Who was I kidding?

  Since I’d met him in Branson, I’d tried picturing him going about his daily life, but it was hard forming a mental image when I didn’t have a shred of information. Would we have things in common? Did he listen to the radio while he drove? Were the lyrics important to him—that unique phrase that can strike a chord, bring forth a passionate thought? Was he a sports fanatic? Did he like walks in the woods? Was he content to lean against a tree to marvel at nature?

  I knew the cottage and could imagine him in this setting. The vaulted ceiling with its rough-hewn beams seemed like it might suit him, as did, perhaps, the multicolored braided rug on the glossy hardwood floor. Would he use the fireplace? Or see the necessity to cut wood and clean ashes from the hearth as a tasteless chore?

  I had hundreds of questions, and if I’d understood Bailey correctly, he was willing to answer them. Anticipation made my stomach quiver. I felt as giddy as a schoolgirl about to go on her first date.

  What was I going to wear? My weight had stabilized, but only because I was prudent and DeeDee cared enough about me to not keep high-calorie snacks under my nose. It wasn’t a blue jeans evening, but nothing too dressy. I had that pair of black slacks. I could top them with a shirt and my favorite vest. Catching sight of my expression in the rearview mirror replaced my enthusiasm with guilt.

  “I’m sorry, Carl,” I said as I pulled into the garage. I shouldn’t feel guilty. I hadn’t gone looking for someone. I still wasn’t sure I was doing the right thing, but spending one evening with Bailey was an opportunity I didn’t want to pass up.

  I’d been gone from home longer than I’d planned. Had my father found something to occupy his time? In the hallway, I stopped. White particles danced and swirled, cloaking the air like a fine mist. At first I thought it was smoke. I sniffed, but only smelled something cooking in the kitchen.

  A crash from above brought my head up. I charged into action when my father yelled, “Stand back! There’s more gonna fall!”

  “What’s going to fall?” I demanded as I took the stairs two at a time. I was about halfway up the steps when another loud crash rocked the house.

  On the second floor the dust was like a fog. “Dad? DeeDee? Where is everyone?”

  “Bretta?” answered my father, stepping into the hall from the Mistress Suite. An embroidered dresser scarf was tied over his mouth and nose. He carried a fine ebony walking stick topped by a pewter knob. He brandished the staff like a classy bandit about to rob me.

  “You hadn’t been gone fifteen minutes when I discovered we’ve got one hell of a problem. But I’ve remedied it. That wasn’t just an ordinary crack in the ceiling, daughter. I poked at it with my stick, and a huge chunk of plaster fell. It hit the light fixture, and we had fireworks. Sparks were shooting out like it was the Fourth of July. DeeDee replaced the blown fuse. She’s a smart young woman. Can’t figure out how she knew what to do, but she did it. While I caught my breath, we did some evaluating over diet-style slices of key lime pie. When we came back upstairs I put in a new bulb, and everything is in working order.”

  I went past him, but stopped at the doorway. DeeDee was on the far side of the room. Her eyes were like two pee holes in the snow. I couldn’t speak, but stared in utter confusion at the chaos.

  Three-quarters of the ceiling had been reduced to rubble on the floor. The falling pieces of plaster had hit a lamp, and it lay smashed. A curtain had been ripped from the window. A marble-topped table had one corner broken. But what rocked me back on my heels was the dust. I could feel it in my nose, my eyes, and my mouth. The white grit sifted over everything, coating the interior of the house as effectively as pollen stuck to a bee’s belly.

  My gaze traveled from the floor to the twelve-foot-high ceiling. “How did you get up there?” I asked.

  “DeeDee said you don’t have a ladder—which is on my list to buy—so I improvised.” Dad rapped his knuckles on a wooden highboy. “They don’t make furniture like this anymore. I used the open drawers for steps and climbed up.”

  He stared at the ceiling with a small smile, as if reliving some great adventure. “Just before you arrived, I knocked down the rest of the ceiling. That corner over there is being stubborn, but I’ll get it. We’ll have this fixed in no time.”

  My temperature shot to a dangerous level. Three quick thoughts—He’s an old man; he’s trying to help; he’s my father—kept me from combusting. “We’d better get this cleaned up,” I said, trying not to clench my teeth.

  “H-he meant w-well,” said DeeDee, picking her way across the floor. “I’ll go get some cardboard b-boxes from the g-garage.”

  “I know this is upsetting, Bretta,” said Dad, “but you have to tear down before you can fix up. I remember the time we papered the living room at the farmhouse. We had to peel off eight or ten layers of old stuff before we could put on the new.” He chuckled weakly. “Off with the old. On with the new.”

  “But I didn’t plan to do any major plastering. The contractor had spotted the crack and said he’d take care of it.”

  “You didn’t mention that.”

  “I didn’t know you were going to poke it.”

  “True. True. We’re both at fault.”

  I nearly choked. “Let’s not talk. Breathing this dust can’t be healthy.”

  My father gestured to the cloth that covered his face. “Shall I find you a mask?” Using the toe of his shoe, he rooted in the debris. “Seems like I saw another one of these doohickeys on a table.”

  “Here comes DeeDee with the boxes.” She handed me a large carton, and I picked up pieces of plaster. My father continued a running review on his afternoon. I let his words flow around me, but I didn’t pay any particular attention.

  I filled one box, left it sitting where it was, and then filled another and another. We were making headway, but the bulging cartons were in the way. I bent to heft one and groaned. I couldn’t budge it. DeeDee was trying to drag a box across the carpet.

>   I straightened, rubbing my back. “We’ve done all we can. I’ll have to call in a cleaning company. Even if we got these cartons downstairs, I don’t know what I’d do with them.” I waved a hand. “Let’s call it quits. I need to shower and change. I have a dinner date at six thirty.”

  “You do?” said Dad. “I thought we’d spend the evening together.”

  It wasn’t an unreasonable idea, but I wanted to wail like a banshee at the added pressure. He expected me to conform to his agenda, and I had my own. Even when Carl was alive I was free to come and go as I pleased. If I needed a break from the frantic pace of the flower shop, I could buzz off to Springfield without any pangs of guilt. If Carl’s schedule let him, he’d go with me. If it didn’t, I went on my own.

  I liked that freedom, and I realized I’d been guarding it zealously. I’d made it clear to DeeDee, when she took the job of housekeeper, that I might be home or I might not, depending on my mood.

  Maybe the curtailing of my freedom was another reason why I’d put off renovating these rooms. People in the house could tie me down. Make me feel that I had to put in an appearance. Having my father here was even more complicating. With strangers, I could be the eccentric landlady. My father expected to be included in my life, and with each passing hour I felt the pinch of responsibility in a relationship.

  “I’ve g-got to stir the b-bouillab-baisse,” said DeeDee. “The ingredients are too exp-pensive to let scorch. I’ll b-be r-right b-back.” She dashed out of the room.

  “Who are you having dinner with?” asked Dad.

  “Bailey.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, really. I didn’t get the impression the two of you were friends.”

  “We have a few things to straighten out.” I looked at the antique clock on a dust-shrouded table. We hadn’t been cleaning as long as I thought. There was still plenty of time to get ready. Then I remembered the fireworks. “How long was the electricity off?”

  Dad glanced at the clock, compared it to his wristwatch. “Looks like about thirty minutes. What time is Monroe picking you up?”

  “He’s not picking me up. I’m walking over to the cottage.”

  “Hmm. A private dinner party. Monroe’s a good-looking man, and his former life could be viewed as glamorous—righting wrongs, rubbing out drug deals. I could see where a woman would be attracted to him, but discretion might be the better part of valor. Don’t you think it would be more sensible to go to a restaurant or come here? DeeDee has that pot of fish soup simmering on the stove.”

  “No thanks. I can take care of myself.”

  “Carl’s been dead, how long?”

  I was rapidly losing my cool. “It’s been two years, but I don’t see—”

  “I do see. You’re lonely. You’d like to find someone to … uh … spend time with.” He tugged off the mask to expose a crimson face. “Are you ready to take this step?”

  With a studied effort, I kept my tone even. “What step? I’m having dinner with him. I’m not promiscuous, Dad. I never was, and you’d know that if you’d been around. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to wash away this dust.”

  Alone in my room, I forced myself to take a couple of deep breaths, then I treated myself to a hot bubble bath. I shaved my legs, plucked a stray hair or two from my eyebrows, and did the things women do when they want to impress a man. I added a lavish spray of cologne, and I was ready. The black slacks were snug in all the right places. The blue vest brought out the color of my eyes.

  “This is as good as it gets,” I said as I turned away from the mirror. I opened my bedroom door and hurried down the front staircase.

  DeeDee stepped out of the kitchen. “You l-look nice,” she said. “Have a g-good time.”

  I grabbed a jacket out of the front hall closet. “Gotta rush. I don’t want to be late.”

  DeeDee glanced over her shoulder. “It’s not quite s-seven-th-thirty.”

  I froze in the act of slinging the jacket over my shoulders. Slowly, I turned. “What did you say?” When she opened her mouth to repeat it, I said, “Never mind. Where’s my father?”

  “He t-took a cab into t-town. He’s th-thinking about b-buying a car.”

  My expression must have been frightening, because DeeDee’s stuttering intensified. “W-what’s w-wrong? He’s t-trying to f-fit in. H-he s-said if h-he h-has h-his own v-vehicle he w-won’t be a b-burden to y-you.”

  I opened the front door and stepped out on the veranda. I could see the cottage driveway if I went to the farthest end of the porch. By stretching my neck and peering around a grouping of pine trees I saw Bailey’s black-and-silver truck was gone.

  “I’m only an hour late,” I said, going back into the house. “Doesn’t the man have patience? Doesn’t he know that stuff happens?” Stuff like an interfering father. But maybe Dad hadn’t done it on purpose. Yeah, right. He knew he was giving me the wrong time, and then to make matters worse, he skipped out so he wouldn’t have to take the heat when I discovered what he’d done.

  I draped my jacket over the stair railing. In the library, I plopped down in a chair and folded my arms across my chest. After a few minutes, DeeDee peeked around the doorway.

  “I’ll be eating here tonight,” I said. “Bring me whatever is left of that key lime pie, and you might as well haul out the crème brûlée. It’s going to be a long, long evening.”

  DeeDee has a stubborn streak that often flares up when I try to eat something that I shouldn’t. I didn’t get the pie until after I’d eaten a bowl of the low-cal bouillabaisse. The fish was succulent, the shrimp plump and pink.

  At regular intervals, I called the cottage armed with an explanation. Over and over, I rehearsed what I was going to say. Sometimes I thought I should be formal, not give a specific reason, but an ambiguous “I lost track of the time.” In the next instant, I decided to tell the truth: I had an overprotective father who was proving to be a pain in the tushie.

  At a quarter after ten, my father still hadn’t returned, but Bailey finally answered his phone. When I heard his voice, I blurted, “I would’ve figured a drug agent had a world of patience. I was only an hour late.”

  For a minute all I could hear was his breathing, then he said, “Ex-agent. I’m retired, remember? So what happened? An emergency call for flowers?”

  “No, it’s a bit more complicated than that. The electricity went off, and the clocks weren’t set with the right time.”

  “I didn’t lose power over here.”

  “This was an in-house catastrophe.” I sighed. “You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  So I gave him a spirited account of what I’d found when I came home. His laughter put the irritating event into a different perspective. “It wasn’t funny at the time,” I finished with a smile. “If you aren’t doing anything, you can come see for yourself.”

  I’d thrown out the invitation with no real hope of his accepting. When he replied “I’ll be right there,” I was surprised. As good as his word, he rang the doorbell in less than three minutes. I was ready. I opened the door and we stared, looking quietly into each other’s eyes. Not once did he make a move to touch me, but his expression told me he was thinking about it.

  Suddenly shy and unsure of what I wanted, I broke eye contact and moved toward the staircase. “I’ll give you a quick tour, then we’ll go to the kitchen. DeeDee always keeps the cookie jar full for guests.”

  As I led the way up the stairs I could feel Bailey’s eyes on my backside. I fought the urge to tug at my slacks. Perhaps they were too tight in the derriere department. I glanced back at him, and he winked. This was no playful eye maneuver. It was stimulating and damned sexy. I gulped and scampered up the remaining steps, talking a mile a minute.

  “I’ll have to call in a cleaning company to get rid of the mess. In fact, I’m wondering if they’ll need to clean the entire house. The dust was unbelievable. I’m sure it’s penetrated every nook and cranny.” I opened the Mistres
s Suite door, thinking that in my irritated state I might have overplayed the details. Nope. It was bad.

  Bailey’s whistle was low and sharp. “And your father did this with only a walking stick and a chest of drawers? I’m impressed.”

  His quirky comment made me giggle. Before long I was doubled over with laughter. When I could speak, I said, “Thanks. I needed that.”

  Bailey took my hand and kissed it. Goose bumps the size of ostrich eggs puckered my flesh. “I aim to please,” he said.

  Oh, yes, I breathed to myself. Please … please me.

  Out loud I gasped. “Cookies.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

  I eased my hand out of his and hurried toward the stairs. “I offered you cookies and here I am going on and on about—”

  Bailey had caught up with my mad dash. He put a hand on my arm and turned me on the stairs to face him. “Cookies are fine—if that’s all I’m being offered. But if I had my druthers”—he bent toward me, his eyes steady on mine, his lips a scant inch away—“I’d rather have a kiss.”

  “Oh,” I squeaked. “Well … uh…”

  I closed my eyes. Every sensory organ in my body was primed for his touch. My nose was filled with his scent—something woodsy and clean. His hand on my arm was warm and provocative. His breath was sweet and smelled of peppermint. His lips—

  Where the hell were his lips?

  I moved my head to the left and then to the right. Nothing. Opening my eyes, I found Bailey’s attention had wandered. Not a good sign.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Changed your mind?”

  He brushed a quick kiss to my cheek, then galloped down the stairs. “Can’t you hear it?” he called over his shoulder. “Something’s going on outside.”

  I couldn’t hear anything over the rapid beat of my heart. But now that he mentioned it, there was a hullabaloo out on my drive. Horns were blaring.