For Whom the Bluebell Tolls

by Beverly Allen

  “I’m sorry.” But the thought of Liv in green makeup and dressed as a cricket made me smile. Fatal mistake.

  “You think being fired is funny?” Gary’s cheeks turned red, and his bulging eyes made him appear apoplectic. “I’d find another florist right now if we weren’t so far behind schedule. I’m going to do you a favor and we’ll finish up the interview, nice and pretty. But don’t think you’re going to be on Fix My Wedding again. And no exposés, either. I have enough friends in the wedding industry to ruin you, and don’t think I can’t. You can expect a more immediate financial hit when we charge you for the taping delay.”

  “But, Gary.” Brad stepped forward. “All she did was—”

  “Oh, so the glorified gofer is standing up for her, is he? Are you going to be the big man and protect her? It’s because of you that I hired her in the first place. I don’t know why I took the word of such a washout. I must have been out of my mind.”

  And if he wasn’t then, he was now. Of course I didn’t say it. But I did think it.

  Gary advanced on Brad. “She’s not the only one who should be in fear of her career. There’s going to be some staffing changes around here in the near future. Who knows? Maybe you’ll be one of them.”

  Tristan stepped between them. Brave man. “Hey, how about we break for a few minutes, huh? Get our heads on straight and finish up that last bit. It was going great until that point.”

  “No, let’s finish now, starting at the last bouquet. And you”—Gary pointed at Suzy—“don’t ask what the foxglove means.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” Max began, but Gary stared him down.

  Suzy nodded, using a finger to sweep upward on her tears so she wouldn’t smudge her mascara. We then restaged the reveal of the final bouquet, talking about its shape and flowers without the meanings, and with little enthusiasm.

  “How’d it look?” Gary asked.

  “A little stiff,” Tristan said, “but maybe we can intermingle some of the facial expressions from the first go-around.”

  “Do what you want.” Gary turned back to me. “I’ll send my gofer”—he glared at Brad—“to let you know which, if any, of the designs I deem acceptable.” Then he stormed off.

  I let out the breath I was holding and heard others do the same.

  “Is he always like that?” I asked no one in particular.

  “It’s the weirdest thing,” Suzy said. “Sometimes he’s sweet as pie. When we were doing the original interviews, he seemed so nice, like he was really interested in me. Well, not in that way, since he’s . . . you know. And on camera he’s, well, Gary.”

  As Suzy walked back to the inn in the consoling arms of Daddykins, Brad joined me behind the flowers. “Something seems to be bothering him. And I’m sorry you had to go through that.” He put his arm around my shoulder. “If I knew he’d be on edge like that, I never would have recommended you for the show. I thought I was doing something nice.”

  “Oh, you were. It’s not your fault Gary’s bipolar.” Talk about insincerity. “Do you think he really means to fire you?”

  Brad offered a half smile in response. “Probably just blowing off steam. I wouldn’t worry about it. But at least the taping part of your responsibility is over. And the flowers for the reception are okayed by Gigi, so you’ll mostly be dealing with her now.”

  “And here I always thought Gary was the nice one,” I said.

  “Not this week,” Brad added.

  * * *

  “He said that to you?” Liv was livid, pacing the back room after I recounted my story.

  Shelby shook his head. “He seems so different on television.”

  “Oh, Shelby.” My heart was broken for my friend and coworker. “I’m sorry so much of the drama centered around your design. It really was spectacular and deserved better than that. He still might choose it. The bride was entranced the moment she saw it. Maybe I should have—”

  “It’s not your fault,” Amber Lee said. “We all were right here when he told you not to mess with the meanings of the flowers for the other bouquets.”

  “And maybe I should have used something else.” Shelby scrubbed his face. “But that foxglove was gorgeous, you have to admit.”

  “Very,” I assured him. “That design could have been featured in any bridal magazine in the country.”

  “So now we sit and cool our heels until he decides to tell us which design he picked?” Amber Lee leaned against the worktable.

  “He’s supposed to send Brad,” I said, “who’s getting the raw end of the deal, too. Gary demoted him from potential associate producer all the way back to gofer in one fell swoop.”

  “Not quite the dream job he left Ramble for, is it?” Liv said.

  As I paused to consider this, I could hear a bell in the distance. “What’s that?”

  “Don’t go changing the subject,” Amber Lee said. “Seems to me that you’ve been seeing a bit of Brad since he got home. And with Nick around, that’s bound to be trouble.”

  “Don’t you hear that bell?” I paused a moment to listen. “Something’s going on.”

  “Sounds like the one at old First Baptist,” Shelby said.

  “Maybe they’re filming something for the show,” Liv suggested.

  “No.” I shook my head. “I saw the filming schedule. Everything was over at the Ashbury today.”

  I walked through the shop and out the front door to the sidewalk. Liv and Amber Lee followed me. Other townspeople had also stopped what they were doing and left the shops and restaurants. Soon, half the population was lining the sidewalk. We stared down the street toward the historic stone church.

  A black Range Rover was parked out front. Maybe they were filming after all. Or checking out the bell in the church prior to filming.

  But soon sirens joined the pealing of the bell, and a Ramble police car sped down Main Street.

  I started running toward the church.

  “Audrey, wait!”

  I glanced around to see a pregnant Liv trying to keep up. “No, stay at the shop. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  Without turning again, I sprinted around the rubbernecking citizens and arrived at the church just as the police were going in. I stood hunched over, my hands on my thighs, as I tried to regain my breath, then stared at the building. The Range Rover and a police car with its gum ball lights still flashing were parked out front. The Range Rover was the same car Brad had used to take me to his mother’s house. Was it just last night? Did that mean Brad was inside? What was wrong?

  I tried to run through the front door, but Ken Lafferty stepped outside and warned me to stay back.

  While we stood waiting, more officers arrived and sped inside. What seemed like hours later, one of them led Brad from the building. Thank God he was alive. Even from yards away, he seemed dazed, and his eyes weren’t focused on his surroundings.

  I ran up to him. “Brad, what’s happened? What’s wrong?”

  He wagged his head.

  “Brad!” I grabbed his shoulders and shook him.

  He shivered.

  I took his hands, which were like ice and beginning to tremble, despite the warm, sticky air. I turned to the officer. “He’s had a shock. Can you help me get him over to the bench?”

  “Sure,” the officer said. “But don’t leave yet. Bixby’s going to want to talk to him.”

  I was so glad for the help that I didn’t think about Bixby or why he’d want to talk to Brad until a couple of minutes later when Brad’s breathing became more normal and he squeezed my hand in response.

  “Brad, are you okay?”

  He exhaled. “I think so. Oh, what a thing to have happen.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “How could he have done that by accident? He must have done it on purpose.”

&n
bsp; “Who? Done what?”

  Brad sniffled and straightened himself.

  “Gary. He texted me and asked me to meet him here. Something about the bell.”

  “The bell was ringing,” I said.

  He nodded. “The bell started ringing as I pulled up. I figured Gary was testing it out. By the time I got up to the bell tower . . .”

  I swallowed hard. This couldn’t be good. And Bixby wanted to talk to him?

  “What did you see?” I asked.

  Brad leaned forward, covering his face with his hands. “Gary was hanging from the bell rope.”

  “Ringing the bell.”

  He shook his head. “No. The rope was around his neck. He . . .” Brad shuddered and sobbed behind his hands.

  I leaned closer and rubbed Brad’s back.

  An ambulance pulled up, its lights off and its siren silent. There’s nothing worse than a silent ambulance.

  It meant Gary was already dead.

  Chapter 4

  Kane Bixby, Ramble’s chief of police, climbed out of his car, looking as happy to see me as I was to see him. Not that he was ornery or incompetent, or even unpleasant to anybody else, it seems, but me. But his severe allergies put him at odds with anyone who was a florist. Of course, then I remembered that he and Brad had never gotten along well, either, probably based on Brad’s penchant for getting in trouble as a teenager.

  “There’s no flowers in there, are there?” he said, as he climbed the steps.

  “I don’t know. Not any that I put there, but I haven’t been inside. Chief?” I tried to make my voice sweet. “Brad has had quite a shock, finding the body and all. I’d like to get him out of this heat. May I take him home?”

  “No, Audrey. He’s not to leave the premises.” Bixby looked impatiently at the church.

  “But, Chief!”

  “Audrey,” he said firmly. “He needs to stay.” Bixby lowered his voice. “I have to consider him a suspect until—”

  “Brad? Nonsense. And if anything happens to him sitting in this heat . . .”

  “Audrey, I’m going to need to get a statement.” Bixby raked his hand through his gunmetal-gray hair. “After I get a look at the scene. And I’m not going to go traipsing all over the country to—”

  “My place then. Just a few blocks. Not even out of your way.” I went for a demure smile.

  “Audrey, don’t baby me. I’m fine.” Brad tried to illustrate it by standing up, but swayed so dramatically that I pulled him back down onto the bench.

  “Besides,” I said, “the reporters will be here soon, and you’ll want to talk with Brad before they sink their teeth into him.”

  Bixby sent me an exasperated glare.

  “You can interview him at my place,” I pleaded again, “and I guarantee, no flowers at all in the apartment.”

  “Fine. Your place. Just avoid the press, for now.”

  “Can you walk?” I asked Brad.

  “Don’t have to. We can take the Range Rover,” he said.

  “I’d rather you leave the vehicle here,” Bixby said, “until we know if we’re dealing with a crime scene and what the extent of it is.”

  “I can walk.” Brad slowly rose from the bench.

  I had him lean against me. As we hobbled our way down Main Street, Ramble residents watched us out of the corners of their eyes while pretending not to watch us. Small towns are like that. When we reached the bakery, Nick Maxwell stepped outside.

  “What’s happened?” Nick’s gaze traveled back and forth between Brad and me.

  “I’m trying to get Brad back to my place,” I said. “He’s had a terrible shock and I want to get him out of the heat.”

  “Come in here for a few minutes, then.” He held the door open. I could feel his air conditioner reach out onto the sidewalk, luring us in with its frozen fingers. Or maybe it was the scent of fresh-baked goods that was doing the luring. I’d often thought that heaven must smell like a bakery.

  Brad shook off my support as we walked into the shop—maybe some testosterone-controlled male ego thing, not to be seen leaning on a woman. He slipped into a chair at one of the white two-seater bistro tables scattered in the middle of the room. Lining three walls was a glass counter, with all kinds of confectionary wonderment displayed. Nick had started the shop focusing on cupcakes, and those were in good supply, but he had a knack for adding in new items and varieties.

  I remembered a couple of months ago, shortly after we started dating, when he told me that he didn’t think Ramble could support a cupcake shop. I feared it meant he was considering closing down and moving to a larger community. Instead, he’d expanded into a full-service bakery, adding scones, cookies, and pastries, which he sold in the shop but also supplied to the local coffee house. Later came fresh breads and rolls, which he also sold to the local restaurants. And those gorgeous, scrumptious wedding cakes. He’d hired more employees to help with all the work. Of course, all that baking may have made the room smell amazing, but it really stank when it came to his social life. And my waistline.

  Nick slipped three large glasses of lemonade onto the table, then pulled up another chair and straddled it. “I heard the sirens, but wondered what was happening. Nick Maxwell, by the way.” He sent a pointed look to Brad, which was his polite way of saying, What in blazes is going on?

  “Brad Simmons.” Brad held out his hand, and the two men shook. “I’ve seen you around the set, I think.”

  “Yes, and we’ve talked on the phone. I’ve been supplying coffee and snacks for the show.”

  “Those were your scones?” Brad asked. “They were amazing.”

  “If I give you one will you fill me in on what’s going on?”

  “Gary Davoll is dead,” I said. “Brad found him in the church.”

  “Whoa,” Nick turned to Brad. “And you rang the bells to call for help?”

  “No.” Brad gulped. “Gary did that, I’m afraid.”

  Nick’s brows were not only knit in confusion—it looked like they were purling and casting off as well.

  “Gary was hung on the bell rope,” Brad said.

  “Hanged,” Nick and I both said together. Had to give the man a point for good grammar.

  “How in the world did that happen?” Nick asked. “Accident?”

  “Suicide,” Brad said.

  But at the same time, I said, “Murder.”

  “Murder?” Brad pushed up from his chair in protest. “Audrey, what makes you think that?”

  “Easy,” I said. “Who hangs themselves on a bell rope? Certainly not that egomaniac I met this morning, and not in the middle of filming.”

  “You can tell that by meeting him once?” Brad sank back into his chair. “I’ve worked with him for months now, and I don’t know him well enough to know that for sure.”

  “Call it a hunch if you want. Or maybe intuition.”

  “Or maybe a good schooling on human nature,” Nick suggested. “I believe you.”

  “Thanks.” I sent a smile in Nick’s direction, then patted his hand, which he turned over to grasp mine.

  “Oh,” Brad said. “I didn’t realize. Of course, I should have known when I left Ramble, I—”

  “You know,” I said, “I should get Brad back to my place. Bixby said he’d be coming to question him, and if we’re not there . . .”

  “No problem,” Nick said. “Let me get Jenny to watch the front of the house, and we can take Brad in my truck. No sense walking in this heat.”

  Nick untied his apron and darted into his back room.

  “New boyfriend?” Brad said.

  “We’ve dated a little.”

  “How much is a little?”

  “Why? Are you jealous?” I asked.

  “Do you want me to be jealous?”

  Nick and Jenny emerged from the ba
ck room. I’d once considered hiring Jenny to work at the Rose in Bloom, but before I could add her to the payroll, her former fiancé was murdered with one of our shop knives. After that, while we remained friends, she decided to seek employment elsewhere. Nick’s expanding bakery seemed like a good fit.

  “Audrey, just the person I was thinking of,” Jenny said with a broad smile. “Hi, Brad,” she added, almost as an afterthought. She turned back to me. “I was wondering how busy things were for Eric. I might have some business to send his way.”

  Nick must not have told her about Gary. No, probably best not to alert the town before the news could be officially released. “Is it true what I’ve heard about your mother’s restaurant reopening?” While I needed to get Brad back to my place, I could spare a few moments to lobby for the man who married my favorite cousin.

  “Maybe.” Her eyes sparkled. “It’s going to take a while, though. The building needs a major renovation. But the financing just came through, and I know she wants to ask Eric for a quote on the construction.”

  “I’d tell your mother to get to him quick,” I said. “Once the fall hits, people want to start getting ready for winter.”

  “I’ll suggest that to her, then. We’re planning to make it a little more family-friendly, this go-around. No wine list because . . . you know.”

  I nodded. I was happy that Jenny’s mom was sober again, but working around wine all day would probably not be the best of ideas.

  “Sounds great,” Nick said. “Although I never got to see the old place to compare.”

  “I have,” Brad said. “Audrey and I used to go there all the time, didn’t we, Audrey?” Brad put his arm around me, while Nick stared.

  And somehow my illusions that we could be mature and all get along began to evaporate. Any such thoughts that remained were driven away as I sat between the two men on the bench seat in Nick’s truck. Nick sat bolt upright, working his jaw and hammering out a silent rhythm on the steering wheel. Nick was the taller of the two men and had well-developed muscles, which he claimed came from tossing twenty-five-pound bags of flour around all day.