African Violet Club Mystery Collection

by Elise M Stone

  Willie finished chewing his sausage and swallowed. “As it should. From what you say, your suspect had a motive, and it’s very possible he had means. What about opportunity?”

  She realized she’d left that out of her story. Lilliana nodded. “He was at the fireworks show.”

  “Can he account for his whereabouts for the whole time?”

  “That’s hard to say. He did go off by himself a couple of times, but I don’t know that anyone saw him near the toilets any time close to when Fox went there. It’s possible Chief Cartwright hasn’t had time to question everyone who was at the fireworks yet, or if he has, if anyone would have noticed this person in particular. I’m sure the chief wouldn’t think to ask about the suspect. I haven’t told him about my suspicions. Because I’m not sure. Yet. Should I, Willie? Is there enough to go to the chief with?”

  Willie rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s hard to say, Lilliana. It certainly is enough to warrant further investigation.”

  “What would you do?”

  “I think I’d engage the suspect in some casual conversation. See if I could draw him out about the night of the murder. Sometimes when people get to talking, they say more than they mean to. Is this someone you know well enough to do that?”

  “I think so.” Of course she did.

  “Good morning.” Christopher’s voice startled her, as if he could read her mind. “You didn’t take your walk this morning. I was looking for you, hoping I might join you.”

  Willie scrutinized the Scotsman as if evaluating him in a new light before glancing at Lilliana.

  She avoided Willie’s gaze and turned her attention to Christopher. “I decided to skip walking today. It’s getting too hot even in the early morning.”

  “That it is,” Christopher said as he put his breakfast at the place next to her. Oatmeal and a banana and black coffee. Once he was settled, he proceeded to put sugar on his oatmeal.

  Now was as good a time as ever to put Willie’s suggestion into action. “I’ve been thinking, Christopher, that this morning might be a good time to practice.”

  He stopped peeling the banana to give her a wide smile, eyes sparkling. “I’d be happy to.”

  “Practice?” Willie asked, looking from one to the other.

  “Lilliana has agreed to sing with me at the talent show,” Christopher said.

  “I didn’t know you were a singer,” Willie said to Lilliana.

  “I’m not, really. But Christopher plays the piano beautifully, so I’m sure he can cover up my mistakes.”

  “Nonsense.” Christopher finished peeling the banana and started slicing it into his cereal. “Lil has a lovely voice.” He put the knife down and wiped his fingers on a napkin. “Are you going to take part in the talent show?” This last was directed at Willie, who looked surprised.

  “Me?” Then a sly grin passed over his face. “I’d dance, but my hip hasn’t healed all the way. Maybe I could do some magic tricks.”

  “Magic tricks?” Lilliana said.

  “I used to be somewhat of an amateur magician,” Willie replied. “I’m a little out of practice, but I think I still have the props somewhere in my apartment.”

  This talent show was revealing more about the residents of Rainbow Ranch than Lilliana would have expected. And, if today went as planned, it might also reveal a killer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  HER heart was all a-flutter as she walked to Christopher’s casita with him. She wasn’t sure whether it was because of her romantic feelings or the fear of what she might discover on this visit. Probably a little of both. He slipped his hand over hers once they were outside. Despite the heat, his skin was dry. She thrilled at the feeling of his fingers curling around hers, a soft, intimate gesture, almost as intimate as if they were caressing her.

  “Have you thought about what you’d like to sing?” he asked in a normal tone of voice, as if he had no idea what his touch did to her. Which he probably didn’t.

  She shook her head, as much to clear it of her fantasies as to answer him. “Perhaps a show tune would be best. We seem to both like them.”

  “That we do,” Christopher said, “and they’re good for singing in harmony.”

  He opened the door to his casita and headed for the piano. Lilliana followed, glancing at the print of Fox Fordyce on the wall with mild dismay. Why had he bought that? Was he still in love with her, even though he’d denied it? Surely their relationship must have been more than traveling companions for her to have left him so much money.

  He opened the piano bench and started shuffling the sheet music inside. His hand emerged with two or three selections which he held up for her approval. “Will these do for a start?”

  She could read the word “Carousel” on one of them, “South Pacific” on another, and “The Sound of Music” on the third. “Rogers and Hammerstein is always a good choice.”

  He closed the bench and put the scores on the music rack.

  She had to force herself to sit on the bench beside him. Who would have thought that sitting on a piano bench could be such an intimate position?

  He raised the lid from the keys. “Which would you like to start with?”

  She suddenly realized that each of the musicals was, at its heart, a love story. Dangerous ground for a woman who wasn’t sure she dared trust this man. She picked the one she thought was safest. “‘The Sound of Music.’ How about ‘My Favorite Things’?”

  He opened to the page without comment and began to play. Soon they were smiling as they sang the words, moving their heads in time to the music. It was difficult not to feel buoyed up by the three-quarter time of the waltz. Before too long, it wasn’t only their heads that were swaying back and forth. Their bodies joined in the movement, the pendulum arcs getting wider and wider until they were almost falling over, laughter bubbling up between the words, until Christopher pulled his hands off the keys and Lilliana from the bench and waltzed her around the room as they sang louder and louder. They ended the dance with a flourish and a bow. And a pounding on the wall of the adjoining casita.

  “Oops,” Lilliana said. “We’re disturbing your neighbor.”

  “He’s a crabby old man,” Christopher said. “Pay no attention.”

  “Just the same,” Lilliana said as she headed back to the piano bench, “I think we should choose something a little less boisterous for our second number.”

  Christopher sat beside her. “If you insist.”

  He held up the sheet music from South Pacific. She nodded her approval, and he opened the book to “Younger Than Springtime.” Which was how Lilliana felt when she was with Christopher. She felt as if she were emerging from a long black tunnel into the clear daylight of spring.

  She’d entered that tunnel when Charles had his stroke, plodded along through the months when he laid in the hospital bed, barely recognizing her, a strong man made weak and helpless by the explosion of a blood vessel in his brain, hoping and praying he’d recover. Which he never did. Then the months of mourning, when daily living was too much of an effort, too hard to bear, and her dearest wish was to join Charles in the afterlife.

  A few months ago, Frank, noticing her admiring one of his plants, had given it to her, promising her that the blooms would brighten her days. Which they had. Raising African violets had taken her mind off her sorrows, brought her out of herself to the point where she’d suggested they form a club, and lit the path toward the tunnel’s exit. With Christopher, Lilliana had emerged into full sunlight, marveling at the wondrous colors and sounds and smells all around her.

  He segued into “Some Enchanted Evening,” his deep, rich voice telling the story of seeing someone for the first time and knowing she would be special to him. Her throat tightened on the final line, and she wondered if Christopher would be the one to hold onto her forever. His eyes said he might be. “Oh, Chris, what are we getting ourselves into?”

  His hands, which had rested on the keys at the end of the song, now lifted and clasp
ed hers between them. “Something verra good, I hope.”

  With all her heart, she wanted to believe him. But she still had doubts. She wanted to ask him about the insurance policy, but how do you ask someone about something you’re not supposed to know about? Her eyes flicked to the print of Fox Fordyce on his wall. He turned to follow her gaze.

  “Is that a problem?” he asked. “Because, if it is, I’ll take it down. It’s only a print you know.”

  Lilliana slid her hands out from his and walked over to the picture, her heart thudding. Because she’d noticed the light from the patio door reflecting off a portion of the print. A raised portion. As she got closer, her eyes confirmed what she’d been afraid was true.

  This wasn’t the print Christopher had bought in Benson. This was the original oil painting from Fox Fordyce’s house.

  She whirled to face him. “I have to go now.”

  She practically ran for the front door, fighting to hold herself together long enough to reach the safety of her apartment. As she hurried down the path, she heard the strains of “If I Loved You” playing behind her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  PATTING her face with a towel, Lilliana wasn’t sure if there was more moisture from the cold water she’d splashed on her cheeks or the tears that didn’t want to stop. She breathed deeply, a ragged breath that caught on the spikes piercing her heart, tearing out the fabric of what-might-have-been and leaving a shapeless lump of worn-out shreds of nevermore in its place. Another deep breath, this one less ragged as the spikes lost their sharpness. One more, and then she’d make her plans.

  She could no longer keep what she knew from Chief Cartwright. There was only one place the painting could have come from. One reason Christopher had taken it. Like the insurance policy, it was something of value. He was not the Prince Charming she’d hoped for, but a gigolo, an opportunist living off the wealth of women he wooed.

  She’d best walk into town while it was merely hot, rather than the torrid fever of afternoon. She might miss lunch, but she doubted she’d be hungry today. Or tomorrow, for that matter.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Wentworth,” DeeDee greeted her. “The chief just got back from his meeting in Bisbee.”

  Lilliana hadn’t known he’d had a meeting in Bisbee, but she was glad he was back from it. She rapped on his door, then opened it and entered his office. He was wiping a cotton handkerchief across his brow. Before he could get to his nose, a globule of sweat dripped from the end of it. He sneezed in response, barely getting the handkerchief over his nose in time. “Excuse me,” he said as he wiped his nose. “Allergies.”

  “Bless you.” She took her usual place in the chair in front of his desk. She started talking before she could lose her resolve. “I know who killed Fox Fordyce.”

  “So do I,” the chief said.

  “It’s not Nancy Gardner,” she replied firmly.

  “Rebecca Cushing? I don’t think—” he stopped as Lilliana cut him off.

  “No. It wasn’t Nancy Gardner, and it wasn’t Rebecca Cushing.” Her mouth had suddenly gone dry. She licked her lips. “Could I have some water, please?”

  Cartwright buzzed DeeDee and asked her to bring in two bottles of water. Once those were delivered and they had each taken a drink, the chief said, “So if it wasn’t either of those two, who do you think it was?”

  “Christopher MacAlistair.”

  The chief’s face screwed up.

  “He’s new,” Lilliana explained. “He’s only been at the retirement home about a month or so.” When the chief still looked as if he had no idea who she was talking about, she added, “He’s the one who waited for me on the night of the murder.”

  The chief’s face cleared. “Oh, the handsome one with the accent.”

  Lilliana nodded.

  “Why do you think he did it?”

  “Did you know he came to Rainbow Ranch with Fox Fordyce?”

  The chief’s eyes widened. “He did?”

  “Yes, he did. He lived with her for a while before he moved into a casita at the retirement home. They had some kind of falling out. I think it had something to do with the fact he wasn’t paying any rent or contributing to expenses.”

  “From what I know, Ms. Fordyce didn’t need the money from a boarder.” His eyes narrowed. “He wasn’t just a boarder, was he?”

  Lilliana felt the heat rise in her cheeks, took another drink of water to cover her embarrassment. “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  Before she could falter, she continued her recitation of the circumstantial evidence. “He was in Rebecca’s apartment before her gun went missing. Rebecca seems to think he could have taken it.” She opened her purse and took out the insurance policy and lay it on the desk so Cartwright could read it. “Then there’s this.”

  Cartwright took his time going over the terms of the policy. His finger paused on the date it was taken out, then the beneficiary, and finally the death benefit. He whistled through his teeth. “Where did you get this?”

  This was the difficult part. She’d carefully planned her response to the not unexpected question. “It came into my possession via a third party.”

  “Who?” he barked.

  “I’d rather not say. Let’s just say an acquaintance of mine noticed it and thought I should have it.”

  “You mean he stole it.” Cartwright stroked his chin. “Not the best of evidence to present at trial.”

  “But you could use it?”

  “I think so. I’ll have to get in touch with the County Prosecutor.”

  “There’s one more thing,” Lilliana said. She told him about the print Christopher had bought and how it had been replaced by the original painting. “There’s only one place he could have gotten that. He must have broken into Ms. Fordyce’s house and gone to retrieve the painting after her death.”

  “Why would he have done that?”

  “I think he formed an attachment to it when he lived with her.” And possibly to the subject? “It’s also worth a lot of money.”

  The chief leaned back in his chair and stared at a spot over her shoulder, evaluating the evidence she’d brought him. As if coming to a decision, he leaned forward as his eyes met hers. “Mrs. Wentworth, it appears you’ve solved another murder.”

  IT was with great trepidation that Lilliana headed for the dining room that evening. If she’d had anything to eat in her kitchen, she would have skipped dinner. But she’d already missed lunch, and her stomach had been growling an hour before mealtime.

  She’d ignored the ringing of her cell phone, the special tone for text messages, and anything else that might have led to contact with Christopher. Happily, she ran into Sarah and Bob Higgins as they came out of the elevator and joined them. She kept her head down and her eyes focused ahead of her to avoid seeing MacAlistair should he be anywhere nearby as they stuttered their way down the buffet line filling their trays.

  “When do you think we should have the next club meeting?” Sarah asked as they made their way to a table.

  So far, the African Violet Club had been meeting once a month. Lilliana wondered if that might be too often. “How does next month sound?”

  Sarah looked disappointed. “So long?” She and Bob sat in adjoining chairs, their trays in front of them.

  Lilliana sat next to Sarah once she’d arranged her meal on the table and taken the tray to the nearest stack. She realized Sarah looked forward to the meetings more than she did. Bob wasn’t the greatest conversationalist, and Sarah probably enjoyed getting out of her apartment. “Do you think we should change to a two week schedule?”

  Sarah’s face lit up. “I think that would be much better. People enjoy the meetings. I’ll have to reserve the library with Beverly tomorrow.”

  “Did you have an idea for a topic?” Lilliana asked.

  Frank arrived with his own tray and, much to her relief, placed his dishes on the table in front of the seat beside her. She was now barricaded between two of her friends should Christopher sho
w up. Nancy followed behind Frank and joined them, sitting opposite Lilliana.

  “Maybe Frank does,” Sarah said.

  Bob shoveled food into his mouth.

  “Maybe Frank does what?” Frank asked.

  “Have a topic for the meeting,” Sarah said.

  Frank, being the most expert grower in the club, often provided the discussion topic. “Perhaps we could talk about design. We didn’t have a design category in our last show, but it might be something fun for our members to try.”

  “What’s design mean?” Sarah asked.

  “Well, most shows have a theme,” Frank began. “That gives the show a name to advertise and suggests something visual. Since we’re in Arizona, we could call our next show something like ‘Violets of the West,’ which would suggest cowboys and cattle and the desert and mountains. The design category is one which would be an arrangement, not only of African violets, but other objects that carry out the theme.”

  Sarah looked puzzled. Lilliana wasn’t sure she understood what Frank meant herself. “Could you give us an example?”

  Just as she finished speaking, Christopher arrived with his meal. Before she glanced away, she saw his confused look, which he quickly covered up with a smile. “Good evening, everyone. May I join you?”

  “Of course,” Nancy said eagerly, and shifted her chair slightly to make room for Christopher beside her.

  “Think of it as a diorama,” Frank said.

  “Frank is explaining what a design is,” Nancy said.

  “For the next show,” Sarah added.

  Lilliana didn’t say anything. She purposefully cut off a piece of chicken—a tiny piece—and put it in her mouth. The entree, which had tasted so delicious moments ago, had lost its flavor.