African Violet Club Mystery Collection

by Elise M Stone

  Christopher burst out in a belly laugh. “You worry too much, Lilliana. We’re not performing at Carnegie Hall.”

  She supposed he was right. She tried a weak smile in response.

  They’d reached his casita by this time. He unlocked the door and held it while she entered. Such a little thing, but like pulling out her chair for her, it meant a lot to someone who was raised when manners and courtesies counted for something.

  He strode directly to the piano and raised the lid over the keys. She sat beside him, tentative, remembering the last time she’d sat here and they’d sung together. And kissed. Better not to think about that part.

  He didn’t say a word, but launched into a bouncy version of “If I Knew You Were Coming I’d’ve Baked a Cake,” belting it out in dance hall style with a twinkle in his eye. When he finished, he said, “And I would have, too, except as I remember it, you’re not one for sweets, are you?”

  “Not usually. Except for my gourmet chocolates.”

  “Ah, that’s right,” he said. “I’d forgotten about those.” He wasn’t telling the truth. She knew because he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small foil-wrapped square and gave it to her.

  It was hard for Lilliana to keep from gasping with delight. Warmth spread through her body. Another little thing. It seemed to her the important things in life were not the big things, but the little things. Too many men tried to impress you with the big things. Television seemed to think a new luxury car was an appropriate Christmas gift. She preferred this one small square of chocolate. It showed he’d taken the trouble to know what she liked. He’d thought about her when he picked it out, not the gift itself.

  She unwrapped the chocolate square and popped it in her mouth. She closed her eyes as she savored the earthy, rich taste melting on her tongue, sliding down her throat, nestling in her stomach. Slowly she opened her eyes to find Christopher staring at her bemusedly.

  “I think I’m going to have to buy you more chocolate.” His voice was husky. “Do you mind if I have a taste?”

  She didn’t trust her voice to answer him, so she moved her head slightly to one side, then the other. He leaned toward her, touched his lips to hers, his arms encircling her. Her arms responded by sliding around his body, pulling him closer. His tongue feathered her lips. Startled, she resisted for a moment. Just as she was about to respond, he gently pulled back, withdrew his sensuous tongue, closed his lips.

  “Sweet,” he said from under hooded eyes.

  If Lilliana thought she’d had trouble breathing before, now she felt as if all of the air had been sucked from her lungs, leaving her empty and filled all at once. She drew in a breath slowly, inhaled it deep inside her, filling the space he’d left behind. “Chris.”

  It was all she could manage.

  “Lil.” Unlike Lenny or Fox, whose nicknames had annoyed her, she didn’t mind him not using her full name at all. He pushed back a strand of her hair that had fallen over one eye, stroking her face with his gentle fingers, delicate touches that sent chills up her spine.

  And then he dropped his hands from her, put them back on the piano keys, and asked in a normal voice, “What do you think we should sing together?”

  She’d expected something romantic when he started to play, but instead he launched into “Music, Music, Music,” another bouncy song, sung by Teresa Brewer back when they were both young.

  “More show tunes?” he asked. “I think I have the sheet music to The King and I.” He segued into “Getting to Know You.” “Or possibly The Music Man.” His voice boomed out “Gary, Indiana” as his fingers played the melody. She joined in, humming and going “da-da-da” when she didn’t remember the words.

  The music brought back lots of old memories. In fact, it brought back songs she’d forgotten she knew. “Do you know any Patty Page songs?”

  “Like this one?” he asked, as he changed to “How Much Is That Doggy In the Window?” He seemed determined to keep it light after the gentle passion that had been exchanged between them just moments ago.

  “That wasn’t the one I was thinking of,” Lilliana said.

  “Surely not this one.” He changed to the mournful “Tennessee Waltz.”

  Tears came to her eyes as he played, memories of times long past flickering on the silent screen inside her head. Chris stopped suddenly, brushed the tears from her lashes. “That’s much too sad for us, Lil.”

  She blinked back the tears. “I should go back to my apartment and tend to my African violets.”

  “But we haven’t chosen a song yet,” he protested.

  “Another time.” She rose from the piano bench and headed for the door. Behind her she could hear the strains of “If I Loved You.”

  AS Lilliana transferred one shelf’s African violets at a time to her workstation, she redirected her thoughts to the unsolved murder of Fox Fordyce. Distracted by Christopher’s attentions, she’d been remiss in doing her part to solve the crime. Now she hoped the crime would distract her from Christopher.

  Her conversation with Rebecca earlier in the day had added another suspect to her list. From her angry tone of voice and scowling face, Rebecca still held a grudge against the murdered rodeo queen. She’d have to bring that piece of information to Chief Cartwright’s attention.

  There was also the alleged affair between Geoff Cameron and Fox Fordyce. Usually, where there was smoke, there was bound to be fire. Was Geoff a possible suspect? Was Penny?

  Poor Nancy couldn’t be ruled out. Not only had Lilliana found her standing over the body with the murder weapon, she clearly had a crush on Christopher. Jealousy was a powerful motive, and if Nancy considered Fox a rival, might she have killed her? If so, Lilliana had better watch out for her own safety.

  Which, unfortunately, brought her back to uncertainty about Christopher. Both Sam and Jaclyn had told her he and Fox had had a falling out. Had that “falling out” been much more serious than he’d implied? That might have given him motive. And he certainly had an opportunity when he’d left Lilliana’s side.

  His story about the burned out light bulb seemed slightly fishy. Did she believe he’d really gone to the funeral director over that?

  She wanted to believe him about everything, but, in truth, what did she really know about Christopher MacAlistair?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ANOTHER morning, another trip to town. At least she was keeping up with her exercise, despite it being full summer.

  After a night’s sleep, Lilliana wondered whether yesterday with Christopher had been real or not. It seemed more like a dream, a scene from a movie. She knew it would be all too easy to forget her common sense and be swept away by the handsome Scotsman. She might already have been swept away, but there was still a chance of battling the tide and swimming back to shore.

  What was it President Reagan had said? Trust but verify? This morning Lilliana was on her way to verify Christopher’s story about his talk with the funeral director.

  Fortunately, Mr. Valdez was able to see her immediately. “How may I help you, Mrs. Wentworth?” he asked once they were seated in his office.

  The office was very formal, dark shades drawn over the windows, a mahogany desk and bookcases which were empty except for a couple of large loose-leaf notebooks lying on their sides on the lowest shelf.

  “I was here for Fox Fordyce’s funeral,” she said.

  “Yes, I remember seeing you.” He sounded disappointed.

  Had he expected her to make funeral arrangements for herself? Perish the thought. She wasn’t ready to die yet. “You do?”

  There were so many people at Fox’s service, she was surprised he’d taken note of her, especially since she hadn’t done anything remarkable that day. Indeed, most days she did nothing remarkable.

  “You think I shouldn’t remember you? You are a very striking woman.”

  Mr. Valdez was certainly a charmer. But she didn’t want charm today. She wanted information. Fortunately, Valdez moved on, easing the t
ransition to what she came to discuss with him.

  “Besides, you were with that man who came to see me later. Mr. ...” apparently Valdez’s memory for Christopher wasn’t as sharp as for herself.

  “MacAlistair,” Lilliana supplied. “As a matter of fact, Mr. MacAlistair is why I came to see you.”

  A look of concern—whether it was genuine or not, Lilliana found it hard to tell—dropped down over Valdez’s features like a curtain. “He’s not ill, I hope.”

  “Ill?” She wasn’t sure why Valdez would make that assumption. Then she got it. “Oh. Oh, no. Mr. MacAlistair is in robust health.” In other words, he wasn’t going to die any time soon. At least, she hoped he wasn’t.

  His face eased, but remained guarded. He picked up a pencil from his desk and turned it round in his fingers. “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “I believe he came to see you that day.” She waited, hoping Valdez would help her out again. He didn’t. He merely sat there, fiddling with the pencil, some kind of nervous habit she supposed. “He told me it was something about a light bulb?”

  “Light bulb?” Valdez stopped twirling the pencil, held one end in each of his hands so tightly his knuckles whitened. “No. He requested a copy of the death certificate.”

  Her heart stopped beating for a minute and a wave of vertigo washed over her. Christopher had lied to her. As her heart resumed beating and the swirling room steadied around her, she was able to ask, “For himself?”

  Before he could stop himself, Valdez nodded. The pencil snapped in two with a loud crack as his grip on it tightened.

  She moistened her lips. “Why would someone not related to the deceased need a copy of the death certificate?” She hoped he wouldn’t correct her on the “not related” part. Could Chris have married the rodeo queen? If he had been married, he was now a widower. Still eligible. But Fox hadn’t been dead when Chris had first flirted with her.

  “There are many things that require a death certificate. Probate of a will. Closing of a bank account. All of those reasons are confidential.” His face closed down hard. “Unless you are related to Mr. MacAlistair? Or Ms. Fordyce?”

  “Me? No, I’m not related to either of them.” Although part of her had been hoping she might be. “Why did Mr. MacAlistair need one?”

  Valdez dropped the two pencil halves into a waste basket beside his desk, brushed his palms against one another. “As I said, that information is confidential.”

  Lilliana wracked her brain, trying to think of a way to ask for more information without raising the funeral director’s suspicions further, but couldn’t come up with one. She rose from the chair. “Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Valdez.”

  “Have a nice day.”

  What an incongruous thing to say, thought Lilliana.

  AS long as she was in town, she might as well stop by Town Hall and see the chief for an update on the murder case.

  Poor Chad Cartwright looked like he wasn’t having a very good day either. He slumped in his chair, a half-empty cardboard coffee cup and a donut on the desk in front of him. As she entered, he picked up the donut and took an unenthusiastic bite.

  “Good morning, Chad.”

  He shifted in his seat, straightened in an attempt to look a little more professional. “Good morning, Mrs. Wentworth. What brings you in today?”

  She got straight to the point. “I was wondering if you’d gotten any results from the crime lab yet.”

  Cartwright picked up a manila folder from his desk, opened it to a form with Department of Public Safety in large letters across the top. “As a matter of fact, I have.”

  “And?” Lilliana prompted. Since he’d opened the folder, it was obvious he intended to share the contents of it with her, but sometimes it took a bit of prodding to get him to do what he intended.

  “The only fingerprints on the gun were Mrs. Gardner’s.”

  “Well, the criminal must have wiped his prints off it, of course. You honestly don’t think Nancy Gardner could have killed her?”

  “She can’t always be innocent,” the chief said, referring to the last murder where it had also appeared as if Nancy was the killer.

  “Where would she get a gun?” Lilliana asked. “I can’t imagine Nancy buying a gun, much less shooting one.”

  “She didn’t have to buy it. She probably borrowed it.” Cartwright started to slump in his chair again.

  “From whom?” Lilliana asked.

  “Rebecca Cushing.”

  “What? Rebecca must be over eighty years old. Hardly the type to own a gun.”

  “Apparently she is the type,” Cartwright said. “I checked the serial number. The gun is registered to Rebecca Cushing of Rainbow Ranch.”

  She was about to protest again, then held her tongue. Was it possible? Rebecca had been at the fireworks show along with the rest of them. She also had a motive, one the chief probably wasn’t aware of.

  “You might have something, Chief.” Lilliana proceeded to tell him about the rivalry between Rebecca and Fordyce in their younger days, how Rebecca felt Fox had cheated her out of the rodeo queen’s crown. “I’d say that was motive.”

  “But why wait until now?” Cartwright asked.

  “Because Fox Fordyce left town. She only came back to Rainbow Ranch a couple of months ago. Rebecca probably learned of her return when the article was published in the paper.” Lilliana had almost convinced herself. Apparently she wasn’t quite as successful in convincing the chief.

  “I’m still having a hard time believing a woman that elderly and not in the best of health could have managed a murder. Now, Mrs. Gardner is no spring chicken herself, but she’s in a lot better health than Rebecca Cushing”

  She didn’t like the way the conversation was going. It would be too easy for Chad Cartwright to talk himself into Nancy as the killer if she didn’t intervene. She threw out another piece of information. “Do you know the Camerons, the couple that just opened the flower and gift shop?”

  Cartwright nodded. “We’ve met. Nice couple. Good to see some people not collecting Social Security move into town for a change.”

  Lilliana bristled at the insult but decided to ignore it. “Well, there are rumors that Geoff Cameron had an affair with Fox Fordyce. Supposedly it was over by the Fourth of July. If it was, he might be a suspect. You know, a lover scorned and all that. If it wasn’t, there’s always the jealous wife.” She paused to see how Cartwright reacted to that piece of information.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Where did you hear that?”

  “The information’s out there,” she said, quoting a line from Robert B. Parker’s Jesse Stone novels. She decided to omit the follow-on line. “Ask around town. I’m sure someone must have known about it. You might find someone who can confirm whether the affair was ongoing or not.” He looked interested, so Lilliana pushed a bit. “I’m still a stranger, so town people won’t necessarily tell me everything. But you’re a native, a hometown boy. I bet they’d be willing to tell you things they’d never mention to me.”

  “I still wish you’d tell me your source, Mrs. Wentworth. It would cut down on my investigation time.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do fine.” Having deflected the chief’s suspicions away from Nancy, she thought it was time to go. “Let me know what you find out.”

  “And you do the same,” he called after her, his words more of an order than a request.

  It came to Lilliana as she plodded through the late morning heat that she hadn’t been entirely honest with Chief Cartwright. It came to her that she’d made no mention of Christopher at all. She hadn’t asked him if he knew MacAlistair had been living with Fox Fordyce, had had some kind of relationship with her. It was her civic duty to report that to the police. But only if she was sure there was a reason, she told herself. Christopher had explained that. He had. But if she was so certain, why did she need to convince herself? Because he’d lied about his reason for speaking with the funeral director. She couldn’t help her doubts from ni
ggling at the back of her mind.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THE unfinished clay pot Lilliana picked up from the top of one of the shelves looked more lopsided than she remembered. The clay felt dry, so at least she’d be able to paint it during this class. She carried it over to her spot next to Pieter.

  Her eyes widened as she saw that Pieter had not one, but three pots in front of him, with an assortment of paints in tiny paper cups—the kind you get at McDonalds to pump ketchup into—in an arc around the sheet of newspaper on which his creations sat.

  “Good morning, Pieter. How did you ever make three pots?”

  He smiled shyly at her. “I asked Grace if I could make more during the week. When she said yes, I came back to the craft room a couple of afternoons and made these two.” He pointed toward two pots which were more elaborate than the first one he’d created during class. One had handles attached and the other had a bas-relief image on one side. Lilliana examined it more closely and saw it was a spray of flowers.

  “You really do good work,” she said. She looked at her own pot, with one eye squeezed tight and the opposite eyebrow arched skeptically. “Unlike me. This must be one of the worst pots ever coiled and scraped.”

  Pieter looked toward her effort. “You obviously haven’t seen Harlan’s or Bob’s yet.”

  Lilliana turned slightly in her chair and tried to take a discreet look at the men’s pottery. Pieter was right. Both of their projects were more lopsided than hers. Of course, Harlan had an excuse. He had Parkinson’s, and his hands weren’t steady enough to do this kind of work. Bob’s poor performance, on the other hand, was probably due more to lack of interest than lack of ability. Sarah had tried to get him interested in several activities at the retirement community, but like a lot of retired men, he preferred to sit in front of the television watching reruns of programs from his younger years.