Something Buried, Something Blue

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  She looks at Blue, then drags her gaze—and her thoughts—away from him and from her earlier suspicions.

  Focusing on Virginia, Bella sees that she stands apart from the others. She, too, had been on high alert, expecting trouble. What is she thinking now that it’s come in an unexpected way?

  Her back is turned and she appears to be furtively fumbling with something in her hands . . .

  The gun? Or just her badge? Is she going to whip it out and announce that she suspects someone here of foul play?

  But it’s not as if someone took a shot at Johneen or leapt from the shadows and tackled her to the ground. That much is clear. Whatever happened to her appeared to be natural and health-related.

  Some kind of seizure, as far as Bella could tell.

  She sidles toward Virginia and realizes that she’s not holding a gun or a badge. She’s simply trying to light a cigarette in trembling hands, positioned to block the wind, not the gazes of potential suspects.

  “Does Johneen have some kind of medical condition?” Ryan is asking Liz. They’d both been seated at the newlyweds’ table. His arm is wrapped tightly around her as she shivers in her yellow dress, dabbing at her mascara-streaked face with a cocktail napkin.

  “Not that I know of.” Her voice is high pitched and wavering. “But she told me she was feeling dizzy right before it happened. I thought it was just nerves. I didn’t think anything was going to happen to her!”

  “So what did happen, exactly?” Frankie asks, still panting from her heroic CPR efforts. “Was she just sitting there one minute, and the next, she fainted?”

  “She didn’t just faint. She couldn’t breathe!” Liz snaps. “Didn’t you hear that horrible sound?”

  “I did. She was gasping for air,” Andrea agrees.

  Bella heard the wheezing, too. She shudders, hugging herself against the chill and the horror.

  Hellerman, who topped off his glass of bourbon somewhere along the way, suggests that it might have been a heart attack.

  “How could someone like Johneen have a heart attack?” Charlie asks.

  “Stress.”

  “She’s young and in shape.”

  “It’s a freak thing, but it happens. Especially with someone like her. Trust me, I’m the one who works with her. She can be one uptight—”

  “Shut up, Hellerman!”

  At Andrea’s admonishment, he throws up his hands in defense. “Woman. I was going to say woman.”

  “Yeah, sure you were,” Andrea says. “I’ve heard you call her a—”

  “Come on, babe, don’t bring that up again!” Charlie tells her.

  “Bring up what?” Tanya asks.

  “When Hellerman first met Johneen,” Andrea explains, “he was into her, but she wasn’t interested, so he—”

  “Babe,” Charlie says again. “Stop.”

  “So he what?”

  The sharp question comes from Virginia, who’s stepped closer, eyes probing Hellerman.

  “Nothing!” he protests. “I didn’t do anything!”

  Andrea looks from him to Virginia and shakes her head. “It’s no big deal.”

  “What,” Virginia asks in a low, steady voice, “did he do?”

  “I didn’t do anything!” Hellerman repeats.

  Ignoring him, Andrea says, “It’s just, as far as Johneen knows, they’re friends and he’s moved on. That’s why she invited him to the wedding. But whenever he has too much to drink, he . . . says things.”

  “What does he say?”

  “You know. He just . . . talks about her. Behind her back.” She shrugs. “He says she isn’t that nice.”

  That’s such a glaring understatement that Bella has to hold back a hysterical laugh that surges from her gut. It isn’t funny—none of this is amusing—but her emotions are volatile.

  Virginia shrugs and fixes her gaze on Hellerman. “True?”

  “Did I ask her out? Yeah. Did she say no? Hell, yeah. I already told you about that.”

  “Not all of it.”

  “So? Come on. Look at her. Look at me. Yeah, maybe I don’t think she’s all that nice.”

  “Sometimes she isn’t,” Charlie speaks up, and even Andrea nods.

  “But I sure as hell didn’t want her to have a heart attack,” Hellerman says.

  Virginia seems to consider this, then nods. “Y’all shouldn’t speculate about what happened. We’ll have to wait and see.”

  She walks over to the bar and pours herself a bourbon, straight up. She takes a long sip and then a long drag on her cigarette, heaving its acrid vapor into the night air.

  Bella herself has never smoked, and she isn’t tempted. Nor is she much of a drinker, though maybe she could use a stiff one now. But as she moves toward the bar, she spots her mother-in-law.

  Hovering alone at the edge of the group, she’s darting fearful glances from face to face. Her gaze settles on Bella’s, and she raises a hand to beckon her over.

  Bella quickly looks away, pretending not to have noticed.

  I can’t. I just can’t be fair to her and her suspicions right now.

  So much for a nerve-calming cocktail. There’s no way she’s going to pour one under Millicent’s watchful eye, much less risk loosening her tongue and saying something she might regret later.

  A cold gust sends leaves whirling around them, and thunder grumbles in the western hills.

  “We need to get everything inside,” she calls as lightning slashes the churning lake. “It’s going to pour.”

  “What should we do with everyone now?” Odelia asks, sidling over as the others begin clearing tables and heading toward the house.

  “What can we do? Tell them the party’s over and send them on their way?”

  “The ones who aren’t staying here, yes.”

  Bella levels a look at her. “You mean Blue.”

  “And Pandora.” She nods at the woman, who’s recruited Ryan and Charlie to manhandle her portable keyboard into the house. “I have a feeling she’s about to cause a problem.”

  “More singing?”

  “Not that kind of problem. She doesn’t think that whatever just happened to Johnny was an accident.”

  Bella’s mouth drops open, and the reverberating thunderclap she hears in that instant might as well have fallen out of it.

  “Shh, don’t say anything.” Odelia shakes her head at Bella as Millicent comes striding over.

  “Isabella, I need to have a word with you. In private.” She shoots a meaningful glance at Odelia, who holds out a hand, palm up.

  “It’s starting to sprinkle,” she announces, then begins clearing the bar table. “We need to get the rest of this inside.”

  Finding her voice, Bella tells her mother-in-law that they can talk in the house.

  “No, I don’t want them to hear.” Millicent emphasizes the word as if . . .

  As if they’re an evil cult?

  The sprinkles are turning to rain. Hard rain.

  “Come on, we’re going to get soaked.” Bella snatches the pitcher of lemonade and a few remaining mason-jar glasses from the bar. Then she spots something on the grass, poking from beneath the long, white tablecloth.

  “Maleficent, can you please take this for me?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Please just carry this into the house.”

  “What did you call me?”

  Bella is incredulous. There’s never a good time to have the “Please call me Mother” conversation, but could there be a worse one?

  “I called you Millicent,” she snaps.

  “You called me Maleficent.”

  Uh-oh. “I did?”

  “You did.”

  Remorse oozes in. “It was . . . it was a slip of the tongue. I’m sorry.”

  Wordlessly, Millicent takes the pitcher and marches it toward the house, sloshing lemonade and juggling delicate glasses.

  She’ll get over it. The only thing that matters right now is Johneen. Bella stands for a moment, eyes cl
osed, face tilted to the sky. She lets the rain wash over her as if it might scrub away the ordeal, but it only succeeds in soaking and chilling her to the bone. She needs to get inside.

  Kneeling on the grass beside the twitching tuft of blue fur poking from beneath the tablecloth, she lifts the fabric hem. There, crouched beside an ice chest, is Li’l Chap.

  His pale-green eyes are trusting and frightened. Bella gently scoops him up and carries him toward the house.

  Drew will understand that I couldn’t leave him out here alone.

  Chaos reigns inside the cluttered kitchen. There isn’t enough room for all these people, let alone everything they’re carrying.

  Bella pushes past Pandora’s portable keyboard and through the crowd with the kitten. She hurries up the stairs, unlocks the door to the Rose Room, and finds everything just as she left it. Chance is contentedly lying on a chair, keeping an eye on her energetic family. Several kittens wrestle on the rug, a few are playing paw hockey with Bella’s lip balm as a puck, and one is engaged in tug-of-war with a strand of carpet fringe.

  Not sure what to do with the little blue stray, Bella tentatively sets him on the cushion beside Chance.

  “This is Li’l Chap. He was lost, just like you were.”

  Listening to the rain hammering on the porch roof beyond the open window, Bella stands poised to grab the kitten at the slightest sign of aggression. Chance might be sweet-natured, but felines are notoriously territorial, and this is her family’s safe haven.

  Cat and kitten eye each other warily. Then the baby opens his mouth and lets out a surprisingly loud, high-pitched mew. Chance arches a fat tabby paw toward him, and Bella’s heart sinks. Before she can grab the kitten, the paw settles on his fragile little back.

  But it’s not a hostile gesture. It’s a protective one. Chance snuggles the baby against her and begins licking his fur, tenderly grooming him as she does her own offspring.

  Bella longs to cocoon herself in this hushed little haven for the rest of the night. But she forces herself to leave, sidestepping kittens as usual before locking the door and trudging back downstairs to harsh reality.

  In the kitchen, Virginia is barking orders as she scrapes the remains of the salads into the garbage and stacks the plates in the sink. “All of y’all need to find a spot to put stuff down and then clear out of here!”

  “I’m not putting this down, but I’m happy to clear out of here.” Hellerman wields the bourbon decanter. “I’m heading out to the porch. Who’s with me?”

  Charlie is with him. Ryan, too. They gladly escape, leaving Pandora’s keyboard propped against the refrigerator.

  Hellerman turns to the lone male left in the kitchen. “Coming, Slayton?”

  “Go ahead,” Calla tells Blue, and he follows the other guys, though not with much enthusiasm.

  Catching her grandmother’s critical look, Calla asks, “What?”

  “Did I say anything?”

  “You didn’t have to. But you usually do.” Calla gestures at the table centerpieces she’s retrieved from outdoors. “I’m going to go put these in the parlor.”

  “Me too.” Tanya follows her from the room with the rest of the flowers. “And then I’m going to go upstairs to call my husband. I really need to talk to him. I’m so upset.”

  “We’re all upset.” Andrea shakes her dark head.

  “Why is it that the women are always left in the kitchen with the mess?” Liz asks peckishly.

  “It isn’t fair,” Frankie agrees.

  “You should go with them,” Bella tells them. “All of you. Really. I can do the cleanup.”

  Not waiting to be asked twice, Andrea, Liz, and Frankie make a beeline from the room.

  Virginia is filling the sink with water and suds. “I’ll wash the dishes. I’d rather be in here.” She sounds as though she means it, and she probably does, being odd man out among the wedding guests now that Parker is gone.

  What’s going through her head now? Is she relieved that whatever happened to Johneen, as disturbing as it was, hadn’t been born of the violence Virginia was determined to prevent? Or is she still wary? Does she, like Bella, wonder if someone under this roof might have stolen the wedding ring out of vengeance? Blue, perhaps, or Hellerman?

  “Where do you want these, luv?” Pandora asks, her gangly limbs juggling several napkin-lined bread baskets. “Everything got wet.”

  Bella takes them from her and dumps the soggy bread into the garbage on top of the salad scraps, wondering again if Pandora could possibly have been behind the missing ring and the anonymous note.

  Hearing a clatter, she turns to see her mother-in-law wedging the pitcher of lemonade into a few square inches of counter space. It teeters, and she moves it to a different, equally crowded area. She picks up several used glasses, awkwardly looks around for a place to put them, and sets them back in the same spot.

  Clearly, she’s trying to make an effort to at least appear to be helping. Bella almost feels sorry for her. Though not enough to want to talk to her.

  “Let’s get your keyboard out of here,” she tells Pandora, “so that we can open the refrigerator. I’ll take one end, you take the other. We can put it in the study.”

  Together, they carry the unwieldly instrument through the house. Thunder and rain and voices from the porch float through open parlor windows.

  She opens the French door, and she and Pandora prop the keyboard against the wall of the small study.

  “Careful not to nick the hardwoods,” Pandora says with the proprietary air of one who painstakingly sanded them on her hands and knees when she lived in this house.

  Does she feel a sense of obligation toward everything—and everyone—in it? Was it enough to make her trespass and meddle again, despite the havoc she wreaked earlier in the summer?

  “Can you shut the door, please, Pandora? I want to ask you about something.”

  “Of course, luv.”

  Bella flips on the desk lamp. It casts a yellowish haze over the small, drafty room. Beyond the screen, rain patters into the shrub border. She closes the window to shut out the damp chill. As soon as it’s down, she feels claustrophobic.

  “Odelia told me that you don’t think that whatever happened to Johneen was an accident?”

  “She did, did she?” Pandora’s eyes, behind her glasses, blink rapidly. “That woman can’t keep a bloody thing to herself, can she?”

  Funny—Odelia often says precisely the same thing about Pandora.

  “Did someone try to hurt her? Is that why she collapsed? Or did someone say something that upset her?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Bella digests that, along with the guilt that comes with it. “Earlier, you were here with a message for her. Only I wouldn’t let you deliver it.”

  “It wouldn’t have changed a thing. I’d only have told her that my guides were concerned about her safety, and I’d have warned her to be careful. But we all have free will, Isabella. I couldn’t have stopped her from doing anything, and neither could you.”

  “What makes you think that this wasn’t an accident?”

  Stupid question. What are the odds that the answer will involve concrete evidence or logic?

  Around here, absolutely zero.

  “Spirit is showing me a hand at her throat.”

  “So someone strangled her?”

  “Of course not!”

  “But you said . . .”

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  No, of course not. Lily Dale logic prevails.

  “She was right there in plain sight, luv,” Pandora points out. “She wasn’t actually strangled. That’s just the symbol I see when someone leaves this world at the hands of another.”

  “Spirit shorthand,” Bella murmurs, thinking she has to tell Virginia about this immediately. It isn’t concrete evidence, by any means, but she should know that there’s a chance . . .

  And then it sinks in.

  “Wait a minute . . . did you say ‘leaves this world�
�?” she asks Pandora, who nods. “So then you think Johneen is . . . ?”

  “In Spirit?”

  Phrased that way, it sounds almost pleasant. Just another day in the Dale: Odelia is in the kitchen, Max is at dinner, Johneen is in Spirit.

  “I can’t be certain,” Pandora tells her.

  Bella thinks sadly of the beautiful woman who should have had every reason to live a long life with the man she loved. She may not be the warmest, fuzziest person in the world. Most of the time, she isn’t even likeable. But she’s human, and she doesn’t deserve this. Whatever . . . whatever this is.

  “I don’t suppose . . . did Spirit show you whose hand was around her throat?” she asks, allowing fear to creep over her once again.

  “The guides don’t have all the answers, Isabella. Neither do I.”

  “But what good is knowing what’s going to happen if you can’t . . . make it not happen?”

  “It doesn’t work that way. Surely you know that by now.”

  Bella closes her eyes, inhaling through her nose. This room, too, is enveloped in the smothering scent of flowers.

  “Pandora . . . do you smell anything?”

  She sniffs the air. “Yes. The house always gives off this aroma when it rains, or on humid days. I remember it well.”

  “It smells like flowers?”

  “No, it smells a bit musty, of old wood and damp paper. Do you smell flowers, Bella?”

  “I’ve been smelling them all day.”

  “There are wedding flowers around.”

  “No, it isn’t those.”

  “Of course it isn’t.” Pandora nods as if Bella had argued. “The ones you chose aren’t particularly aromatic.”

  “And there are no flowers in here now.”

  “Yet you smell them?”

  “I . . . yes. I smell them.”

  “How peculiar.” Pandora looks thoughtful. “And what does this particular scent mean to you?”

  “Absolutely nothing. Why?”

  “Spirit often uses fragrance to send a message.”

  “But I’m not . . . I don’t . . .”

  “Everyone is. Everyone does. They just don’t realize it.”

  Here we go again.

  But this time, Bella was asking for it. And she’s giving herself permission to momentarily suspend disbelief and accept the possibility that there might be a paranormal explanation to what she’s experiencing, because . . .