Murder Most Thorny
A Myrtle Grove Garden Club Mystery
Loulou Harrington
Denton, Texas
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Deadly Niche Press
An imprint of AWOC.COM Publishing
P.O. Box 2819
Denton, TX 76202
© 2015 by Loulou Harrington
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
ISBN: 978-1-62016-144-9 - Paperback
ISBN: 978-1-62016-133-3 - Ebook
Chapter One
Up before dawn, Jesselyn Camden exited her second floor apartment on tiptoe. The door shut behind her with a soft snick as she turned and, staying close to the walls, avoided the creaking center floor boards of the Victorian’s ancient landing.
Behind her, French doors led to the rear veranda that ran the width of the second story. Ahead of her a dark mahogany staircase led to the first floor foyer, where the faint ruby glow of a stained glass nightlight accentuated the shadows of the still dark interior. With a cautious glance toward the closed door of her mother’s apartment on the other side of the landing, Jesse took three steps toward the staircase before the creak of a floorboard echoed through the silence.
“Jesse, dear, is that you?”
Frozen in place, Jesse smothered a groan and looked behind her. She saw nothing but gloom lit by the faint glow of moonlight bleeding through the French doors.
“Yes.” She looked around her, seeking the disembodied voice that was alarmingly clear—too clear to be coming from inside her mother’s apartment and too close to be coming from the foyer below. “Did I wake you?”
The tinkle of her mother’s laughter caressed the predawn like a soft breeze through a wind chime. Behind Jesse, the doors to the veranda opened.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” Sophia Camden chirped with the enthusiasm of a morning person. “I was hoping you would be up in time to join me for a cup of coffee before you went running off. I have a thermos and an extra cup.” She turned to the side and swept her arm toward the wicker seating arrangement that was just out of sight. “I even have a spare orange roll with your name on it.”
Her mother’s voice hovered between cajoling and pleading, and Jesse couldn’t bring herself to say ‘no’ and walk away.
“I don’t have much time,” she said instead. “Winnie’s expecting me.”
“I’ve never known a cup of coffee and an orange roll to slow you down for more than a few minutes,” Sophia answered with the confidence of victory.
From the porch behind her, flickering candlelight echoed her invitation. Still a pretty woman at 69, Sophia Camden was just plump enough to be a good armful, she liked to say, and exuded a warm and inviting attitude that embraced everyone. This was a favorite time of day for Jesse and Sophia to steal a few minutes together before the downstairs businesses they co-owned with two others got started.
“You know me too well.” Jesse returned her mother’s smile.
“You know what they say…” Sophia turned and disappeared through the open doorway, her voice carrying over her shoulder as she went. “…mothers know the right buttons to push—since they installed most of them.”
By the time Jesse caught up, her coffee was poured and sitting beside a comfortable wicker chair. Next to the coffee was a yeast roll with orange zest sprinkled through a glaze made from powdered sugar and fresh-squeezed orange juice. Sophia herself was curled into the corner of a settee, her legs drawn up in the seat and tucked under the warmth of an afghan.
“So, you’re meeting little Winnie Harkness today. And I know she’s been married for years, but she’ll always be little Winnie Harkness to me. So, how is she doing?”
“Okay, I hope.” Sinking into the wicker chair, Jesse wrapped her fingers around the coffee cup and let its warmth chase away the chill of the early spring morning. “She’s not-so-little Winnie Rogers these days, at least she was the last time I saw her. But between our two schedules, we don’t get together as much as we should.”
“Wasn’t she having marriage problems awhile back? Did they get that worked out?”
“I don’t think so.” Jesse took a sip of the coffee, which was excellent, and the perfect temperature. So she took another, longer drink. “Did you use the French press?”
Sophia smiled again. “Yes. It really makes a difference, doesn’t it? I’m not as good as Lindsey, yet, but I’m getting better.” The last word rang with a happy lilt, and Jesse laughed.
“Be careful. You don’t want to get stuck with barista duties.”
“I’ll worry about that when Lindsey learns to bake. Now, what has prompted this sudden, crack-of-dawn fishing trip with Winnie?”
“Well, she’s never been one to pour out her problems, so I honestly don’t know. But I got the definite impression that there was something she wanted to talk about today. Something important, and I’m pretty sure our little fishing trip is just an excuse.”
“That would be a logical deduction, since you don’t fish and she knows it. Maybe it’s just easier for her to talk with a fishing pole in her hand.” Sophia picked up the orange roll and handed it to Jesse. “Here, eat this before your coffee gets cold.”
Dutifully, Jesse took a bite and then got completely sidetracked as the orange glaze combined with the delicate yeast roll to melt in her mouth. Chasing it with a gulp of the dark, rich coffee, she took another bite that released a second, unbelievable burst of flavor.
The recipe was one passed down from her grandmother and perfected by her mother. Jesse herself had begun making the orange rolls as part of the breakfast offering at the Gilded Lilly, but Sophia’s were an ambrosia unmatched and on the mornings the orange rolls were made by her, the tearoom’s customers had them gone in the first hour.
“Oh, it’s so hard to eat just one,” Jesse said, grateful her mother hadn’t offered her the temptation of a second.
“I put a couple aside for the lunch you’re taking with you. You are taking a lunch, aren’t you?”
“Probably more like a brunch, since we’re getting such an early start. And if I remember from past outings with Winnie, the fish are more active in the mornings.”
“Your father was a fisherman,” Sophia said. “And I never understood why anyone enjoyed sitting in a boat, tossing a line at something that only paid attention when it was dark, wet or cold.”
“I’m already not looking forward to this,” Jesse said, returning her empty cup to its saucer. “And you’re not helping much.”
“You’re a good friend, dear.” Sophia reached over and patted her daughter’s arm. “I remember that even as a little girl, Winnie wasn’t your average child. She always seemed a little more awkward and a little more serious than the other children. I used to worry about her and hope that she would become more comfortable with herself as she grew older. Then I worried that it was shallow of me to think about things like that because she always seemed perfectly happy just as she was. Is she?” Sophia looked at her daughter with concern in her eyes. “Happy, I mean?”
“I don’t honestly know,” Jesse said. “She sounded
as if something was worrying her but didn’t want to talk about it until she saw me in person. And, you’re right. She does seem to open up more with a fishing pole in her hands.”
“Do you know where the two of you are going?”
Jesse shook her head. “Not a clue. She seems to like remote spots with no one else around. But that means we won’t be interrupted. And once she starts talking, we should have a nice long, heart to heart, followed by brunch. Which will leave my afternoon free for a trip with Connie out to assess the inventory at the Geller estate sale.”
“You have a busy day ahead of you, dear.” Sophia opened the lid on a porcelain baking dish and extended it to Jesse. “Have another orange roll.”
∙∙∙•••●●●•••∙∙∙
After making quick work of a second roll, Jesse left the veranda with her mother. Together, they carried the thermos of coffee and a tray with their vintage English china cups, saucers, and dessert plates, along with the covered baking dish. Deftly they maneuvered their burdens down the staircase, through the foyer, and along the central hallway to the kitchen entrance of the Gilded Lily Tea Room and Coffee House. There, they found Lindsey Hatch, their partner in the restaurant, already grinding the coffee beans she used for their justifiably famous coffee.
“You’re here early,” Jesse said, glancing at her watch. It was barely five thirty, and the tearoom didn’t open for another hour. The bread had been left out overnight to rise, along with the cinnamon rolls and pastries that were prepared and ready to bake in time for the first customers.
Not having heard their arrival over the sound of the grinder, Lindsey glanced up, surprised. “Look who’s talking. You don’t even work today.” Then she turned her attention to Sophia. “Good morning. You outdid yourself on those orange rolls. It was all I could do to have just one. And thanks for the thermos of coffee. I needed a cup.”
“Did you have another bad night?” Sophia asked. “I declare, between you and Jesse, I’ve never seen two people who had more trouble getting a decent night’s sleep.”
“Excuse me,” Jesse said, not for the first time, “but I’m a night person with a morning job, and I’m doing the best I can. I don’t know what Lindsey’s excuse is.”
“I’ll go with what she said.” Lindsey pointed to Jesse. “It sounds as good as anything I can come up with. By the way, is that your salad in the refrigerator, or did someone decide to get a big jump on lunch?”
“Salad’s mine,” Jesse answered. She reached into the pantry and retrieved the hamper she used for picnics, already lined with a red-and-white checkered cloth she could spread for them to sit on. “And the baguette. And that little container of pear-infused vinaigrette.” Going to the refrigerator, she began to pull out prepackaged containers and stack them into the picnic basket. “And the fruit compote. And the green tea with mango.”
“I thought you were going fishing with an old friend,” Lindsey said, frowning at the now overstuffed hamper. “Isn’t that more of a peanut butter and jelly type of outing?”
Jesse stopped, stared at her picnic lunch and realized that Lindsey might be right. Winnie quite likely would prefer something simple and more of the meat-and-potatoes variety, but it was too late now. “Where were you when I was fixing all this?”
“Me?” Lindsey asked. “On a Saturday night? I was doing what all single young ladies do on a date night—washing my hair and watching old movies on TV. Alone. What were you doing?”
“Touche,” Jesse said with a laugh. “Well, at least I’ve got a date for today. And I’m going to be late if I don’t get a move on. I’ll see you ladies later. You have a good day, now.”
With that, she was out the door and on her way. The first, faint glow of peach lit the eastern sky. The lowest clouds were tinged a dark lavender against the navy blue background of the night. Peace seeped into her soul and she looked forward to the coming day.
Chapter Two
Peach had deepened to rose, and lavender faded to lilac before Jesse reached the small farm house belonging to Winnifryd Rogers. By the time the two of them transferred the picnic hamper from the well-seasoned pickup Jesse had inherited from her grandfather to the just plain “old” Dodge truck driven by Winnie, daybreak was lighting the sky.
“We better get a move on, or we’re gonna miss prime fishing time,” Winnie muttered as they climbed in and the pickup took off with more pep than anyone had a right to expect.
“Wow, what do you put in this thing? Rocket fuel?” Jesse struggled to fasten the stubborn buckle on her seatbelt while bouncing over potholes the size of soccer balls.
“Daddy just tuned it.” Winnie shifted into a higher gear as Jesse finally got the buckle to catch and gained a free hand to brace against the dashboard.
“Your dad? Goodness, he must be…” Jesse stopped herself just before she blurted out an age that would only highlight her own advancing years. As a secure woman, Sophia was proud of her age, but Jesse had reached forty-eight a year or so earlier and dug in her heels, content to hang out there for awhile.
“He must still be getting around pretty well,” she amended, with no reference to age. She remembered him as a tall man, distant and intimidating even when he was younger, with shoulders prematurely bent from the burden of life.
“Why wouldn’t he be?” Winnie demanded without shifting her gaze from the long dirt driveway that connected her farmhouse to the main road. “He’s only seventy-two. That’s not old. Of course, it’s older than your mom, but, hell, she was practically a baby when you were born.”
Winnie sucked in a quick breath with barely a pause. “I remember the first time I saw her, I thought she was your big sister coming to pick you up from school. I couldn’t believe anyone would have a mom so young and pretty.” Her tumble of words slowed as her tone softened. “It was a shame about your dad. We were both just kids, but you seemed like such a tragic heroine to me, being practically an orphan and all.”
The truck slowed along with her monologue, just long enough to make the turn out onto the paved county road that fronted her land. Then Winnie shifted again, and the truck surged forward with a jerk. “I was always kind of jealous of what good friends you were with the Windsor family,” her ramblings continued, bouncing along at the same speed as the truck. “Until you started taking me with you over to their house to go swimming.”
Winnie grew silent. When she spoke again, her words were soft and wistful. “That was some kind of pool they had. And Mikey’s mom was so nice to me, I used to feel like a fairy princess for the day.”
She sighed then, and the headlong flight of the truck eased. Jesse relaxed her grip on the dash and argued herself out of reaching over to give her friend a hug. Not because the truck had slowed to a saner speed, but because little Winnie Harkness, as Sophia had called her, was still so much like the awkward, guileless child she had once been—complete with rough edges, runaway mouth, and a frighteningly tender spirit.
What Winnie never talked about was that she had lost her mother to an illness the same year Jesse’s Marine father had been killed in an accident overseas. Semi-orphaned at seven, the two girls had drawn even closer, but while Jesse still had her mother and grandfather as well as the surrogate parents of friends, Winnie’s father had clung tightly to his small daughter while shutting out the rest of the world.
That was when Jesse had begun to bring Winnie with her to the Windsor estate. It was also when the seven-year-old Jesse had begun a silent tug of war with her friend’s overly protective father, and just maybe it was why, sliding into advanced middle-age, she and Winnie were still turning to each other in times of need, and why Jesse still felt the urge to watch over her friend, even if she didn’t know what she was watching for.
Zipping through the first hour of daybreak, as they rode a narrow ribbon of winding blacktop past wooded hillsides and open pastures, Jesse’s mind wandered to the reason they were together that morning. Should she ask about it, or should she be patient and let Wi
nnie approach whatever was bothering her at her own pace?
Judging from her tendency to talk more when she was nervous, Winnie would appear to be plenty nervous about whatever it was, and that was enough to goad Jesse’s own curious nature. But she had decided to keep quiet and let Winnie make the decision herself by the time the truck slowed, completed a 90 degree turn onto two tracks of hard-packed earth and proceeded to bounce its way down a rutted lane toward what looked like a levee.
Jesse could see the tops of bare gray trees behind what seemed to be a slope too steep for the truck to climb. “Where are we?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound as nervous as she felt.
“Fishing hole.” Winnie waved a hand vaguely off to the left of the incline they were pointed straight toward. “Ft. Gibson Lake.”
Jesse looked around again and resumed her grip on the dashboard as the truck took the steep grade at an angle, engine whining. Cresting the peak, they leveled off on the narrow, flat surface at the top. The nose of the truck faced the direction Winnie had pointed. Letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, Jesse checked the view from her window. A few yards away, she could see an equally sharp descent down to where a dense stand of trees grew along the water’s edge.
“Oh, wow, nice,” she said with a burst of enthusiasm. Brunch on the shores of a lake. She could do that.
Winnie unbuckled her seatbelt, opened the driver’s door and slid out of the pickup, booted feet first. Jesse did the same on her side, except that being the taller of the two by several inches, she could actually step out, her pink Keds making softer contact with the hard-packed red clay they were parked on.
Grabbing her fishing rod from the truck bed, Winnie started down the levee in the opposite direction, away from where she said the fishing hole was. Jesse left her purse and the picnic basket on the passenger side floor and hurried after the only person who had the slightest idea of how to get them back to civilization.
Within a few steps, Jesse stopped and stood just gazing around her, captivated by the view. In both directions, the old roadway seemed to drop away into nothingness, while behind them, water curved around the narrow plateau on three sides.
Murder Most Thorny (Myrtle Grove Garden Club Mystery Book 2) Page 1