Lilacs for Laura

by Dianne Miley

  “Yessir.” The deputy looked at the ground and pressed forward. Then he stopped dead, and the chief ran smack into him. Warren pointed to a brown pile at the base of a tree. Brett covered his mouth to contain laughter.

  “Come on, Warren!” The chief shoved him on with agitation. “I don’t care where he took a crap!”

  They climbed up the ridge toward the horse barn. Behind a tree, Brett stayed outside the yellow tape. He wondered if they’d find evidence that Chad and John had been at the barn with shotguns.

  It boggled the mind. Surely neither of them could have done it. And they wouldn’t let Laura take the blame if they had. He couldn’t even consider it. Under cover of the woods, he watched the cops traipse around the barn. They found an apple core and put it in a plastic bag. Warren high-tailed it to Calvin’s orchard and the overweight, fifty-something chief huffed behind.

  Hunter stopped to grip an apple tree, panting and heaving.

  Warren stopped where the grass was matted down. After snapping a few photos, he picked up something shiny and placed it in a zip-lock bag. He pointed to Calvin’s house, but the chief shook his head, squawking. From his hiding place in the woods, all Brett heard were the words ‘hermit’ and ‘harmless.’

  Chief Hunter wearily followed his deputy toward Calvin’s house. They found some type of evidence in Calvin’s yard. Maybe he saw something. They knocked at the door, but no one answered.

  Odd, the ‘52 pickup wasn’t in the driveway. The old hermit shied from town on busy days, and Labor Day was the worst. He never went anywhere else. Hunter barked into his cell phone while Warren taped off Calvin’s yard.

  Frustrated, Brett had no more information than before. He wanted to trust Laura, but sensed she was concealing something. Was she protecting someone?

  ****

  Rumors spread fast, covering the landscape like ants rushing from a smashed anthill. People milling around town on Labor Day made it even worse. With wide eyes, tourists pointed at Rosebuds ’ display window but not a soul ventured in.

  Vulnerability overwhelmed Laura. She had no control over her business or even her life. She was losing everything. Too angry with God to even pray, she trusted no one with the torment in her soul. She could only rely on herself.

  The phone didn’t ring and there were no orders to fill. Her mother busied herself cleaning and dusting the shop, so Laura pulled out some paperwork. She sat up straight and held her head high. All she could do was maintain her dignity.

  The bell on the door jingled. Grateful for a customer, she leapt from the desk as the door swung open.

  The pencil she gripped splintered in two.

  Myrtle Winthrop strutted in, snapping her umbrella closed with authority. The leaded glass shook as she slammed the door against a sudden rainstorm. Nose in the air, she snubbed Laura and turned to Emily.

  Laura stood with a catatonic stare. Her stomach slid into her shoes. With leaden feet, she couldn’t move, talk, or think.

  A flash of anger crossed Emily’s features. Fists clenched at her sides. She strangled the dust rag in her hand.

  “I heard the news, dear,” Myrtle said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m sorry too, Myrtle.” She said the name like venom.

  “Poor Rachel,” the woman droned on. “Whatever will she do? Raising children is difficult enough in this day and age without doing it alone. Not that her husband was any help to her.”

  “Now that’s enough.” Emily’s eyes shot daggers. After a pause to get her bearings, she countered, “Have you seen the spider mums we got in Saturday?”

  “Jake Santos was slimier than worm spit.” The tarantula was not curtailed. “I’m certainly glad to rid the town of scum like that, but not by means of murder.” She glared at Laura.

  Emily gasped. “I won’t have that talk in my shop!” She stomped to the door and yanked it open. “Now good day!” She pulled Myrtle into the doorway and gave her a shove.

  “My hair!” she yelped, leaning back from the rain. She opened her umbrella in record time. Protecting her coiffed gray twist, she lifted her chin as Emily shut the door soundly.

  “Good riddance!” Laura’s mother proclaimed in uncharacteristic fashion and locked the door, not seeming to notice two prim ladies on the sidewalk with gaping mouths. The ladies stared dumbfounded in the pouring rain.

  Emily turned to Laura with a piqued expression. “That there does it,” she drawled in the Appalachian accent that returned when she was stressed. “There ain’t no sense tryin’ to get through the day like this. We cain’t have people talkin’ and pointin’ like that.”

  Laura just wanted to work and forget all of it. But no such luck in this small town. She knew by the time her mama had reached this state of improper English she was beyond reason.

  “Git on home, now,” she urged. “Don’t talk to no one until this mess is cleared up. I’ll handle them gossips and gawkers.”

  Holding the back door open, Mama looked at the sky. The thunderhead rolled west toward Myrtle’s home. “Storm’s chasin’ the wicked witch of the west,” she growled with satisfaction.

  Laura headed for her car. Above the scent of rain wafted the aroma of sweet pastry. Desperate for comfort, she slipped in the back door of the bakery without thinking. She emerged with a wax paper bag of chocolate éclairs. What difference did it make? Nothing she said or did helped.

  In a state of shock and exhaustion, she arrived home to see police cars in Brett’s driveway. Emotions waged within her: shock at the threat of jail, devastation at Brett’s distrust, and indignation at Rachel’s blame. Anger at Myrtle Winthrop and humiliation at the rumors floating through town made her cringe with disbelief.

  Beneath it all, a lump of fear choked her. Had her mind played tricks? Had she fired a third shot? Was Jake within range? Could she have killed him?

  Her life slipped down a drain, caught in a whirlpool of lies and deception. She’d lost Brett, her reputation, and her dignity. Now she’d lose her rights, her freedom, and her dreams.

  Climbing under her grandma’s handmade afghan on the sofa, she cried herself into a stupor.

  Hours later, she awoke shivering. She dragged herself from the sofa and lit a fire in the fireplace. On the coffee table lay the white bakery bag. She’d been too upset to eat even her favorite treat in the world. Her stomach rumbled. Had she eaten anything at all today?

  Opening the crinkly bag, she breathed in the sweet smell. She flopped back into the sofa and shoved a doughnut into her mouth. Swirling tastes of chocolate frosting, sweet dough, and creamy filling dulled her emotions. She devoured three huge éclairs in thirty seconds flat. And swallowed her self-respect right along with her dignity.

  Emotion returned with a vengeance, burning a fierce combination of terror, guilt, and disgust. She wadded the bag and tossed it into the fire. Staring mindlessly, she watched the paper twist and curl. Flames licked the waxy surface.

  She wanted to curl up and die like the burning paper. There was no escape. No one could help her.

  Then she heard steps on the porch.

  Lilacs For Laura

  Lilacs For Laura

  Chapter 20—Perks out the Ying-Yang

  Brett needed to know what Laura was hiding. Then maybe he could figure out how to help her. His trust in her had been shaken, but he couldn’t deny his love.

  From the farmhouse porch, he saw her sitting on the sofa like a zombie. Heart aching, his love for her swelled. How could he leave her now? She needed him even if she refused to admit it. And he certainly needed her, needed the comfort of her love, needed reassurance they could work it out. Somehow.

  It couldn’t be over. Love would find a way. Wouldn’t it? Fearing another rejection, he steeled himself and knocked.

  An eternity passed before she opened the door. Then she stood frowning at him and didn’t speak. A dab of chocolate smudged the corner of her mouth. Tear streaks ran down her cheeks, and wet splotches covered the front of her blouse.

  “
Can I come in?”

  She stared for a second before stepping back. He walked inside and closed the door. Her despondency frightened him.

  “Laura.” He reached for her, but she shuffled to the sofa. Maybe she didn’t notice his reach. “Are you okay?”

  She shook her head. Tears resumed paths down her face.

  He rushed to her side and held her. In the cold, wet blouse, she slumped like a limp dishcloth.

  “Laura, talk to me.” He leaned back enough to catch her eyes. “Don’t block me out. Please.”

  “What’s the point?” She stared into space.

  “I want to help.” Desperation rose in him, and a flash of panic. “Please, Laura, tell me what you’re hiding.”

  “I’m not hiding anything,” she burst out with an icy glare. “And no one can help me. The police found Jake dead in my backyard and a shotgun in my house. They think I killed him. So do you and everyone else in this town.”

  Anger twisted his gut. “Who are you protect—?”

  “It doesn’t matter. My life is over,” she interrupted. “Nothing matters anymore.”

  “The heck it doesn’t! You matter, Laura. Justice matters. And keeping this town safe from a murderer who’s still out there.” He pointed out the window with a force that brought him to his feet.

  “Last I knew,” she said sarcastically, “you were moving away from this piddly little town.” Any hint of expression drained from her face and voice. “I’m going to jail,” she stated matter-of-factly. “You’ll move on with your life as planned. So what do you care?”

  “Laura, I care about you!” He ground his teeth.

  “No.” She looked into the dying fire. “You turned on me. Just like Rachel.”

  A surge of fury swelled in him. “Laura, I’m here for you.”

  “Not for long.” Standing, she glared at him. “Just go, Brett. Go on with your life and leave me alone.” She moved past him and trudged up the stairs.

  The fire sputtered. Orange coals dimmed to black.

  A chill snaked down his spine. With a pop, one last coal fell to the hearth and died. He stomped to the door and slammed it behind him.

  Standing on the steps, he let sorrow swamp him. How could he leave her now? Yet if she didn’t want him, how could he stay?

  ****

  After her mother forced her to eat a healthy dinner, Laura’s mind began to clear. The pity party had gone on long enough. She could sit here feeling sorry for herself and let the cops cart her off to jail, or she could figure out a way to prove her innocence.

  As usual, her parents sat down to watch the six o’clock news. She cringed when Chief Hunter appeared on TV, standing in front of Crystal Falls Town Hall.

  “You’re innocent, and the evidence will prove it,” her father stated with absolute certainty. Then he clicked up the volume.

  She wished it were that easy. And what made him so sure?

  A microphone was shoved under the chief’s nose as the camera zoomed in on his face.

  “Do you have any leads in the Jake Santos murder?”

  The chief cleared his throat nervously. “We questioned neighbors near the crime scene, but the only neighbor not related to the victim is hospitalized.” Hunter’s eye twitched. “He had a stroke the night of the shooting. Since his speech is impaired, we haven’t been able to question him yet.”

  “Mr. Calvin?” her parents puzzled in unison.

  Fresh shock assaulted Laura. Did he see Jake?

  “Do you have any suspects?” the reporter asked.

  Hunter rubbed the back of his neck and adjusted his hat. His sad eyes looked away. “Yes, we do.”

  “And it’s me.” She wrung her hands as the chief muttered the standard disclaimer. Cameras panned the town square, zooming in on Rosebuds . Through the fog in her brain, she heard something about murder in small town Ohio.

  “Laura.” Her father’s voice was soft, assuring her when she wasn’t sure of herself. What if she’d really shot him?

  Louder, John said, “Laura.” His deep blue eyes filled with determination. “Chief Hunter will clear you.” His face hardened. “I’ll see to that.”

  And just how would he do that? As if he could provide undeniable evidence. She ticked off her mental list of suspects. Who were Jake’s enemies? Mr. Gallagher, a jilted lover, a jealous husband? Rachel?

  She didn’t want to believe Rachel did it, no matter what Jake said. She went to the bar for the car seat, end of story. No way would she risk losing her daughters for revenge. The shock and horror on her face yesterday afternoon proved it.

  Or was the shock and horror a reaction of fear? Was her slap a desperate attempt to conceal the realization that she might be found out?

  Should she try to get those wire cutters? It was dangerous, risky, and highly illegal. If she were caught, it would only draw attention to the cutters. She’d look even more guilty by breaking the law. She assured herself it was best to let sleeping dogs lie. The cops were after Jake’s killer, not Layla’s. They assumed Jake had killed her, and he was dead.

  As for the suspects, rumor had it Mr. Gallagher had an alibi. But she wasn’t so sure. The man was a loose cannon. So were the bar patrons where Jake worked. Dozens of women could be jilted lovers, dozens of men their jealous husbands.

  Just the thought of that skuzzy bar made her skin crawl. But she needed to talk to someone who knew Jake’s friends and enemies. His key witness was his sister.

  But she probably thought Laura killed her brother. She couldn’t approach Sarita Santos. Could she?

  ****

  Brett spent the evening packing. He couldn’t handle another day of rejection. Laura didn’t love him. In her darkest hour, she told him to leave her alone. He’d do as she asked.

  First thing in the morning he’d leave. After working toward this opportunity for years, why did it feel rash and impulsive?

  He had spoken to Chad. Max’s remodel was in the final stages. Chad didn’t mind finishing alone, and understood why Brett was anxious to go. Bo Hatley had called, thrilled he could start so soon.

  As he packed his bedding, a marked absence of the blue blanket haunted him. Even from some distant landfill the darned thing plagued him with memories he wanted to forget. All the reasons to leave Crystal Falls behind.

  His father’s drunken fits, his mother’s useless pleading, his own tears and weakness. He was a coward then, afraid of his father and afraid to stand up for what was right. But no more. Those days were gone, and he’d never go back.

  He taped the box shut. He would not be controlled or manipulated any longer. Not by anyone. One last visit to see the folks, and this place was history.

  He parked in his parents’ driveway, pleased his father’s truck was missing. His mother flung open the kitchen door. Dark ringlets of hair fell to the shoulders of her scoop-necked, red sweater. Without the granny-style bun and apron, she looked ten years younger.

  “Oh, Brett, it’s just you.” Her dark features fell.

  “Well don’t sound too excited,” he teased as he stepped in.

  “I thought for sure your father would be home by now. He knows it’s your last night here. “ Irritation stung her voice. She stepped to the oven and carefully removed a pan of lasagna.

  “He’s working on Labor Day?” Brett asked.

  “Of course. The almighty dollar.” Disappointment shone in her dark chocolate eyes. “I wanted tonight to be special.” Her hands moved automatically to her waist and reached for the missing apron. Just in time, she caught herself before dirtying her slim-fitting sweater and slacks. With an embarrassed frown, she grabbed a dishtowel from the counter and wiped her hands.

  Brett grinned, motioning to her flowing hair and perky outfit. “You dressed up for me?”

  “You like?” she smiled shyly and posed Vanna-style.

  “You’re beautiful, Mama.” He planted a kiss on her cheek. “Tonight is special. Waiting for Dad gives us a chance to talk.”

  Guilty pleasure
spread across her face. “Then let’s chat.”

  They each took their usual chairs at the worn, wooden table set for dinner complete with candles, china, and crystal. Angelina leaned toward him eagerly.

  “Bo called this afternoon,” Brett told her. “The pay is better than I expected. Phenomenal benefits and perks out the ying-yang.”

  “Brett! What kind of language is that?”

  He shook his head. Mothers never changed, no matter how old you got. He told her about the job, and was impressed with the caliber of questions she asked.

  As he took a sip of water, she checked out the window for his dad’s empty parking space. She settled back in her chair and folded her hands with determination.

  “So how’s Laura?” she asked abruptly.

  He nearly choked on his water. He coughed and swallowed hard, but couldn’t gulp down the overwhelming hurt. He patted his chest, stalling, as he squelched rising frustration. “I don’t know,” he finally replied. “She won’t talk to me.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Empathy mingled with the disappointment in her voice. She drew her brows together. “I thought she’d be the one. The way your eyes lit up when you said her name and the dreamy tone of your voice.”

  “Dreamy? You make me sound like a fruit,” he joked. He did not want to discuss this.

  “Oh no. Just a boy in love.” She sounded dreamy.

  “Come on, Ma, I’m not a kid anymore,” he protested, squirming in his childhood chair.

  “But you’ll always be my little boy.”

  He counted on that. Just like he counted on his mama staying the same, always. “Leaving you is the worst thing about this move, Mama.”

  “But you’re leaving Laura too. I thought for sure you’d propose and take her with you.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. It just didn’t work out, okay?” He found out where Laura’s loyalties were, and this move prevented untold heartbreak later.