Bed and Breakfast and Murder

by Patti Larsen

  “Daisy, it’s honestly okay.” I sank against the counter, staring down at Petunia who waddled to my side, squatting on her butt with her back legs sticking straight forward, utterly pleased with her snack and likely looking for more to eat. “I’m so glad you’re here.” My friend lost her agonized hurt look and perked. “And you did awesome with Robert. I just hope that doesn’t come back to bite you later.”

  She tossed her blonde curls, long lashes closing over one gray eye. “I have it handled,” she said. And laughed.

  Way smarter than I ever thought she was.

  Daisy kicked butt the rest of the day, handling guests like an utter pro—they always loved her regardless of her quirks and occasional mess-ups—not a disaster to be had. I avoided the baleful glares of the Jones sisters lurking as they always did in the background and instead focused on finishing all the big and small tasks that needed to be done every day to keep Petunia’s running and legal. Like cleaning, paperwork, more cleaning, more paperwork. By the time the sun was setting and Mary and Betty long gone, I wearily descended to the foyer to find Daisy closing the appointment app on the sideboard computer with a happy sigh, the phone settling in the cradle from a finished call.

  “All booked up for the next two months,” she said, bright and cheerful, enough to make me smile. “We only have one night open the end of September and thanks to the big push the mayor is making for the ski lodge for the fall, it looks like shoulder season won’t be much quieter.”

  I’d take that as good news regardless of whether I was still Petunia’s owner or not. Filling up before or after the main season was over meant bigger revenue. Someone else’s revenue? Something to be tackled in the morning. For now, I was grateful for a tired body and mind and the chance, very shortly, to fall into bed and forget this day ever happened.

  I sent Daisy home with another hug and my thanks, checking in on the garden as the sun set behind the mountains. A young female deputy nodded to me, her blonde ponytail the only indication of her sex, body tucked into a more official uniform and jacket. I waved and retreated, hesitating before digging out a snack from the fridge and bringing it to her.

  “Thank you.” She seemed startled by the sandwich and canned soft drink. Didn’t hurt to ingratiate myself with at least one person on the sheriff’s payroll. A quick glance at the flower bed told me no one had uncovered the box Petunia dug up and I sloppily hid, the impression of my sneaker a red flag banner no one else apparently saw as evidence. It was too dark to see the koi, so I didn’t comment about Fat Benny to the deputy, leaving well enough alone for now. If the fish decided to finally swallow the scrap, so be it.

  I left her munching on chicken salad and ducked downstairs to my apartment for a quick collapse on the sofa with my feet up on the old coffee table. Petunia grunted her way up next to me, throwing her full weight against me as she collapsed and settled her wide, silly head on my lap. Those giant brown eyes stared up at me, black ears perked while she grumbled a few choice complaints until I rubbed at her cheeks and made her groan.

  “What a day, pug.” Now that I’d come to a sudden halt, everything crashed down on me again. The overwhelming truth of what had happened paralyzed me and left me breathless. A man died in my back yard after claiming he owned my business. A business that might now belong to his heir while the sheriff was investigating me for murder. Evidence more than likely remained in my yard, at the very least in the jaws of the koi and most probably—if I was willing to admit it—in the metal box buried in the flower bed.

  And my dad might have killed Pete Wilkins.

  I sat abruptly upright, Petunia muttering her displeasure at this state of not resting affairs. I had to talk to Pete’s family, find out about the deed. If in fact Grandmother Iris did sign over Petunia’s, why? And could they be talked into some kind of arrangement?

  It was too soon after his death to just go barging over there, wasn’t it?

  Maybe. But a lawyer, yes. First priority. I sank back into the cushions of the old sofa, intending to get up, check the grounds one last time, that my guests were secure and the house locked up. While Petunia’s head settled once more in my lap and her eyes closed.

  ***

  I blamed the dog for me waking in an uncomfortably awkward position, half sideways on the paisley fabric with a drool trail wetting the faded velvet nap. Movement in the kitchen over my head told me it was morning, as much as the light beaming in the windows, washing across my face and adding to my confusion.

  Petunia abandoned me for upstairs, fine by me. A shower and my own brewed coffee later—stronger than any guest would be willing to drink but just the ticket this morning—and I was feeling up to facing the day. Betty didn’t even acknowledge me as I entered the kitchen, but Mary made sure, as she hustled through the swinging door with the first plates of morning dirty dishes in her hands, I saw her frown of unhappiness.

  “Just say it.” I was done with her attitude, with both of them. “Go on, say it. How Grandmother Iris did such a good job and I’m messing everything up and how could I allow someone to try to take Petunia’s like that and how could I have murdered a man in our own yard?” I huffed through that tirade as Mary gaped at me. Even Betty spun in slow motion to stare, her bushy gray eyebrows climbing so high the lines in her forehead met each other in overlapping pink flesh. “Say it so we can just get on with things and have done with it.”

  Mary’s lips moved but nothing came out. And that, I have to say, was the most satisfying sound I’d ever heard.

  Instead of waiting for her to gather her wits, I strode past her and into the garden, needing a moment to catch my breath before I came face to face with a guest. The mood I was in this morning? They’d get both barrels even if they asked for extra toilet paper. And let me tell you, being a B&B newbie owner? There was nothing more frustrating than guests and excess toilet paper.

  Some things were worth murdering over.

  ***

  Chapter Twelve

  The moment of peace I needed, however, vanished in a puff of irritated breath at the sight of Crew and the female deputy—Robert standing around doing nothing while his boss and coworker wound up tape—cleared the crime scene. That should have made me happy, right?

  Grumble at least tell me what happened mumble.

  Crew’s scowl had to match mine as I stomped to a halt at his side and glared up at him. “Well?”

  He grunted, gritted his teeth. “The coroner,” he said like it hurt him to speak, “has ruled Pete’s death an accident.”

  “I see.” Vindication, oh yeah.

  “But.” So he wasn’t letting this go, was he? “There’s an odd bruise on the victim’s leg that isn’t accounted for and I still have to explain a few more things before I’m satisfied with that ruling.”

  Actually, I wasn’t 100% sold on the whole accident thing myself, oddly, so I didn’t argue despite knowing it meant I wasn’t in the clear yet. Stubborn knew stubborn, after all. That glint of a dog with a bone he couldn’t let go of wasn’t lost on me because I was gnawing my own, wasn’t I?

  “That said,” Crew went on, “I’m willing to release the scene at this point.”

  I choked on spewing about the box. But he noticed, because I was obvious and an idiot.

  “Was there something you wanted to disclose, Miss Fleming?” He had to use that snarky tone that made me want to smack him, didn’t he? “Something you want to confess?”

  “Only,” I sniped back, thankful one of the koi swam by right then and reminded me I had more than one bit of possible evidence to lure him with, “that your deputies need glasses. Or training.” I pointed at Fat Benny. Thankfully, the idiot fish still hadn’t managed to swallow his little red trailer. “While I’m not positive it’s part of the crime, you might want to collect actual evidence in an actual crime scene before the local fauna decides it’s dinner.”

  If I thought Crew looked irritated before? Well, that was an interesting vein he had in his forehead, the kind that bul
ged and pulsed in a lightning bolt shape under the skin in a way that could lead to an aneurism if he wasn’t careful.

  “Deputy Carlisle,” Crew snarled. “Get that fish.”

  I stepped out of the way, unable to restrain my grin of delight at the sight of Robert sloshing around in my pond trying to catch Fat Benny. For a chubby koi of excessive size, he could move when he wanted to. Finally, her face twisted into a disgusted grimace, his fellow deputy lunged while Robert pounced and the pair came up with the scrap of red.

  Definitely fabric, some kind of ribbon. It disappeared into a clear plastic sleeve before I could get a closer look. The glare on Crew’s face was worth it, though I caught him glancing around the garden then and cursed myself for saying anything. Because it would be just like him to slap up the damned police tape again and do a more thorough search of the entire garden. No way would he miss finding the box at that point.

  I stumbled sideways as he took a half step in the wrong direction, right toward the place Petunia had been digging. I smiled up at him, did my best perky while the corner of the box bit into the bottom of my thin sneaker just under the surface of the dirt.

  “In case you forgot,” I said, “you were just leaving.”

  He didn’t comment, hands on hips, looking around the yard while my heart beat grew louder and stronger in my chest. He knew, he’d seen the corner sticking out. Or he suspected I was hiding something. At the very least I was giving myself away right now. Why I felt so protective of the box I had no idea, only that he would be digging it up and taking it away over my dead body.

  And there had been enough death in this yard for my liking, thanks.

  Crew looked down at me, narrowed eyes unreadable. “If you find anything else, Miss Fleming,” he said.

  And then I understood. He wasn’t leaving the scene because he wanted to. If Crew Turner had his way, he’d dig up the entire garden just to see what was here. He was being pressured. By my dad? No, by someone far scarier than John Fleming.

  “Say hello to Olivia for me when you see her,” I said with just enough snark I triggered his vein and eye twitch at exactly the same time. I really shouldn’t have baited him, nor cackled inside like a maniac at his reaction. I should have been doing my best to work with him and help him solve the case. Maybe. Didn’t keep me from stepping aside and gesturing for the door to the kitchen.

  “I’m sure you’ll keep me posted,” I said. And waited.

  So satisfying to see him show himself out. Why, oh why then did that very nicely shaped posterior give me such delight to watch? Not just because he was leaving. I was honest enough with myself to admit it.

  Even after everything, damn that man was delicious.

  The instant I shifted my weight to my left foot I winced and remembered. Looked down at the little corner of the box as I moved my sneaker out of the way. I had to dig this thing up and now. Before Crew found a way around the mayor’s bullying and came back to finish the job of ruining my life.

  Petunia’s woof warned me, raised my head and though the smiling and waving Peggy over the fence was about the least threatening thing that had happened to me in the last two days, I still hesitated. The sweet old lady would have a million questions about the box, I imagined, and the part of me that wanted to protect it didn’t even want an old friend of Grandmother Iris’s to lay eyes on it before I knew what was inside.

  Dad may have talked me out of becoming an actual detective, but he couldn’t take the curiosity I was born with away.

  I waved back, kicking more dirt in a show of being irritated with the cops and the mess they left behind before heading for the house, Petunia at my heels. I’d come out here tonight and dig it up when no one was looking. Hide it in the wheelbarrow with weed cuttings. Perfect.

  And very satisfying, considering.

  A feeling that fizzled out when I entered the kitchen to Daisy’s smile. Not that I wasn’t happy to see her—and on time for once—but the small, wrapped box with the beautiful red bow in her hands made me stop and stare. And wince.

  “Can you please make sure Lucy gets this for me?” Mom’s birthday. I’d totally forgotten. Damn it. I took the present from Daisy as she blushed faintly. “I know she hates gifts, but I wanted her to have something.” Daisy tinkled a giggle, her multiple silver bangles jingling in tune with her laugh, the pretty blue dress she wore today making her look right out of the 50’s.

  “Thanks, Daisy,” I said. “I’ll take it tonight.”

  And, promptly forgot. Naturally.

  ***

  Chapter Thirteen

  It wasn’t until almost 4:30 I noticed the beautifully wrapped box sitting next to the phone on the sideboard desk in the foyer that I remembered again. The smiling couple who climbed the stairs with their luggage thumping behind them forgotten, I lunged for the small box, heard the rattle and felt my heart shrivel.

  Mom. Groan.

  With Petunia in tow, balancing my oversized purse, my phone, car keys and the present from Daisy—while she leaned out the front door and waved and beamed a smile with a, “Have fun!” that made me cringe—I lurched into the driver’s seat of my car and waited for the chubby pug to heave herself over to her own side before slamming the door.

  Yes, my hands were full. Yes, I had a purse. Yes, it was too crammed with crap I meant to clean out for anything else to fit. I shoved the worn brown leather—my favorite bag ever for its softness and durability when it came to handling my life—down beside the passenger seat of my little hatchback, buckling Petunia’s body harness into the seatbelt and making sure her airbag was off before slamming the car into gear and chugging away downtown.

  I could have walked, but dinner was at 6:00 which really meant 5:30 in Lucy Fleming time. Considering my mother was making her own birthday meal, I just couldn’t be late. And I’d forgotten all about the flowers Dad asked me like a week ago to pick up for her for tonight because he didn’t want a delivery car showing up at the house or something silly like that. And, of course, I’d completely dropped the ball leading me to race as fast as I could in the 20mph speed zones and with the complaining old engine of my little compact huffing at me because I hadn’t driven her much since we got to Reading.

  “Please,” I whispered into the windshield. “Just let me get through tonight.”

  Don’t get me wrong. I loved my parents. And Mom was a fantastic cook. But Dad wasn’t the most demonstrative of people and I ended up trying to make up for that, creating an awkward and disjointed conversation over food that should have been served in an upscale restaurant while Dad picked at it like it was going to bite him. While visibly contemplating getting a burger later.

  Families. So messy.

  I pulled into a vacant spot just outside the main door of Jacob’s Flowers with a whispered thank you to the parking genies for granting me their favors. Petunia’s leash immediately wrapped around my ankles and I spent about thirty seconds turning in circles one direction while she did the same in the other, winding us tighter together. I glared down at her, feeling ridiculous and out of breath and utterly frustrated.

  And laughed at the flustered look on her pug face.

  “Okay,” I said. “Hold still.” A quick unhooking and unwinding and we were on our way inside the flower shop, my mood greatly elevated. Who knew having a dog around could be anything but irritating? Dad never let me have a pet when I was a kid, didn’t want the responsibility. And I’d kept that attitude even in New York. My memories of the other Petunias were vague and often gross—being licked in the face, snorted on, sat on, farted at—and hadn’t endeared me to the idea of taking on Madam Petunia Her Highness the Fourth. But the more time I spent with her, the more she grew on me. Imagine that.

  The glass door tinkled a welcome, bells hanging from the hinges signaling my entry. I inhaled a moment, taking in the mixed scents of the lush foliage hanging from the ceiling, the expanse of cases humming behind the counter while Petunia snuffled curiously at the lower displays with a rather r
oyal air.

  “Can I help you?” I’d never seen her before, the girl behind the counter. Well, girl was being rude. She was about my age, I guessed, close to thirty, but considering I still thought of myself as eighteen I figured the term was fair game. I crossed to the tidy glass counter where she waited, her long, dark hair caught in a low pony, skin that delightful color between milk chocolate and mocha. Big, brown eyes smiled at me, her Indian heritage obvious in her appearance and the faint accent she spoke in.

  “I’m picking up an order for John Fleming.” At least Dad wouldn’t have forgotten to place it. I don’t think my father ever forgot anything in his entire life. “Red roses?” Of course, red roses. So original. He could have just picked up his flowers himself, couldn’t he? I privately grumbled in my head, though I knew what he’d say if I called him on it.

  “They’re from both of us,” he’d mumble in his growly voice. “Your mother would like that.”

  Not a sentimental bone in that man’s body. Seriously. And Mom a romance novel addict who loved everything to do with l’amore. Opposites attract, indeed. I really shouldn’t have been whining about it anyway. Sure, I was dealing with a murder and the possible loss of Petunia’s and an overflow of guests, but this was my mom.