Poison Flowers

by Nat Burns

  ‘‘My life…” She shook her head from side to side with eyes closed, then looked at Marya. “What do you know about my life?”

  “Nothing. That’s why…” She shrugged, feeling suddenly helpless.

  “So you thought you’d trot on down here and open up old Dorry like a can of peaches. Then invite the whole county in to have a look inside, see what makes Dorry tick. Is that right?” Master Wood waited for an answer, her glare belligerent.

  Anger swelled inside Marya. “Now, look here. I was just given the assignment…”

  “No, miss, you look here.” Fury darkened the master’s gaze and abrupt fear surrounded Marya’s own anger. “I’m sorely tired of you reporters sniffing around after me like dogs after a bitch in heat. People who know me know I like to be left alone. It’s just you new, pasty-faced, snot-nosed little reporters who are stupid enough to take the bait—to come down here and pull my chain. Now, don’t you feel stupid? I’m sure old Ed Bush is down there just laughing his fool head off at you.”

  Her sarcastic tone bludgeoned Marya, knocking off pieces of confidence as surely as any real weapon. Marya’s face flushed and equal parts of anger and hurt raged within her. Then that Irish temper took over and once again words spewed from her before she could think about them.

  “What is your problem, anyway? Is your life so precious that you have to keep it under lock and key? I don’t deserve this kind of crap from you. I’m just trying to do my job. Some of us don’t have fancy businesses of our own and actually have to do what others tell them to, you know.”

  She took a deep breath and raged on. “Besides, if I were a hard-core investigative reporter, you’d be shaking in your shoes right about now ’cause I wouldn’t give up. I’d be like a hyena tracking a gazelle going after your butt, until I learned everything there was to learn about you with or without your help. How would you like that? Huh? Are there any skeletons in your closet, Miss Wood?”

  Marya angrily flipped open the lid of her notebook and poised her pen above the page. “You want to talk now? No? You’d rather I did the work for you? I’ve been wanting to do a little investigative journalism anyway.”

  They glared at one another as Marya tried to get her breathing under control. As Marya watched Master Wood, her eyes and face feeling hard as flint, she saw Master Wood’s gaze change. It softened in a subtle way; maybe there was sadness there. But if it was sadness, there was a steel edge to it, as her gaze remained locked with Marya’s. Abruptly, without changing her demeanor in the slightest, she turned and strode through the side door, leaving Marya standing alone in the lobby.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mama found the Silvestres’ cat right off. I should have known.

  She was standing on the porch when I drove up, her white dress blinding bright in the high beams of my headlights. The dead cat, mauled and partially skinned, dangled from one hand.

  I closed the car door quietly and approached her. I tilted my head down, hoping she could sense how sorry I was. Only I knew it was not for the cat, of course, but because she’d found it.

  “Well,” she began, eying me harshly in the twilight dimness. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  I scrubbed my palms along the front of my T-shirt, in my imagination again feeling the cat’s warm blood there on my stomach.

  “It pestered me, Mama. Every night when the windows were open it would come crawl in bed with me, bringing its fleas and God-all knows what else. The other night I just couldn’t do it anymore.” I hung my head again.

  “And it’s just too damn hot to shut the window, is that it?” she asked, swinging the cat slowly to and fro.

  I was hopeful for a brief moment but realized she was just setting me up. No way was I going to get away with this one.

  “No, Mama, I shoulda shut it.”

  Silence fell between us for a long beat. I glanced up to see a deeply thoughtful look on her face.

  “What’re you thinking, Mama?” I asked, keeping my voice low and soft.

  She was suddenly all business. “Don’t you worry none about that, child.” She held the cat toward me.

  “You need to do something about this, though, and don’t put it back in the root cellar. Don’t you know it’ll start stinkin’ to high heaven, you leave it there? Use some sense, now, pay attention.”

  “Yes, Mama,” I replied, taking the cat from her. I waited for the slap that never came and a small smile nibbled its way across my lips. I carried the cat away, off toward the woods.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dorry had had just about enough. The constant calls and messages were too much. Izzie never said much in the messages she left in her voice mail box, just a simple “Call me, please. It’s important.” That somehow made it worse. If it had been something easy or even a heartfelt “I miss you, Dorry,” it would have been okay. This, this had to be something else.

  Dorry rose and closed the door to her office, effectively shutting out the slams and chi calls of her belts and students. She was calling from her office because she knew there was a chance she would be interrupted and she wanted that fail-safe so the call would be a short one.

  As she waited for Izzie to pick up, Dorry hated the fact that her heart was racing and that her mind had immediately gone back to what they’d once had. Once.

  And then Isabel was on the line.

  “It’s me,” Dorry said quietly.

  “Oh, my gosh, I am so glad you finally returned my call,” Isabel said, her words clipped and fast, subtly accented by a French pace.

  “You called enough. What did you need?” Dorry asked belligerently. She didn’t want to let Izzie know how much hearing her voice still affected her.

  “I can’t talk now. The mah jong girls are here. I wanted to let you know that I’ll be coming in next week and we need to meet.”

  Dorry sighed. “About what, Izzie? You know coming here is not a good idea. And we definitely shouldn’t be seen together.”

  “I know,” she said in a hurried whisper. Dorry could hear women laughing in the background. “But this is important. There’s been a threat.”

  Dorry sat straighter in her chair. “Toward me? Is it…him?”

  “Yes…I’m not sure. I’ll call you when I get into South Carolina.”

  “Okay. Okay. I’ll talk to you then.”

  “Dorry?”

  “Yes?”

  “Please be careful. I do still love you, you know.”

  Dorry closed her eyes and her voice was a whisper when she replied. “I know.”

  The line went dead, and Dorry suffered a conflict of emotions. A part of her wanted to be elated by Isabel’s last words, yet she knew that way led to madness. Their love simply could not be. Would never be again.

  She severed the phone connection on her end and placed her phone on the desk.

  A threat. That’s all she needed. Things had gotten bad after Little Bit died, but that had been years ago. Her stalker had finally faded away when she pressed charges. Now, it appeared that all of it was coming back to bite her on the ass in one way or another. Add to that the nosy reporter who’d been sniffing around and Dorry had way more than she wanted to deal with.

  Her thoughts drifted to the reporter. She had been brave that afternoon on the beach. Dorry had seen her square off, go into horse stance, as she had been trained, ready for battle. That was impressive. Seeing her close up afterward had given Dorry pause. She seemed so young, but her eyes had been wise and that hug…well, Dorry had yet to forget that hug.

  What about her threats today? Would she really dredge up all that old dirt? Dorry shuddered. Wouldn’t that just be peachy? There was nothing she could do about it now; things were in motion that she had no control over. Wearily, she rose and moved toward the door. Things would unfold as they would.

  She paused after opening the door as a new thought occurred to her. She would see Isabel next week. She didn’t know whether to be thrilled or terrified.

  Chapter Thirteenr />
  Denton had taken the day off to have his yearly physical, and Marya was proofing the classifieds for him. The simple, straightforward advertisement caught her eye immediately. “Cottage for rent,” it read and then listed the number of a local realty firm. She reached for the telephone.

  “Coastal Realty,” said a piping female voice on the second ring.

  “I’m interested in the advertisement in the Schuyler Times. About the cottage for rent,” Marya said.

  “Oh, that’s probably Henry Giles’s listing. I’ll get him for you if you don’t mind holding.”

  She told the receptionist that she didn’t mind and was treated to an immediate flood of lilting, low-decibel music. She hummed along with Barry Manilow for half a song before he was switched off abruptly.

  “Henry Giles,” stated a young, but self-assured male voice. “How can I help you?”

  Marya told him her name and asked about the cottage.

  “Oh yes, that’s a nice place. Kind of small, though. Do you have children?”

  “No, I plan to live alone,” she answered.

  “Then it will be perfect, I’m sure. I just thought, in all fairness, I’d let you know that up front.”

  “Oh, I appreciate that. So tell me more about the cottage.’’

  “Let’s see.”

  She heard the distant rustle of paper.

  “It’s one bedroom, living room, a large kitchen and a fully furnished bath. It’s got this big wraparound porch and its location is prime, right on the water of Begaman Cove.”

  “And the price?” She tried to hide her mounting excitement. After all, you can’t tell much about a place until you see it and hear how much it’ll cost.

  “Low, if you ask me. Just four hundred fifty a month for the entire cottage and use of all the land adjacent to it,” he said with a sigh.

  “When can I see it?”

  Again the rustle of paper.

  “How’s three thirty today sound? I’m free then.”

  She agreed with enthusiasm and wrote down detailed directions, thrilled by the possibility of a new home at last. True, she wouldn’t own it, but she was strangely at ease with that idea. If truth be told, she thought she enjoyed her footloose status. Everything she did had an experimental flavor and she was beginning to enjoy the feeling of starting her life anew with different parameters than before.

  ***

  The cottage looked to be more than adequate. Situated about five hundred feet from the serene water of Begaman Cove and framed by a copse of scrub pines and cedar brush, the small wood bungalow glimmered, the glass of many large windows reflecting the early afternoon sunlight. Weathered wooden shingles covered the slanted roof, and the outer walls were constructed of large planks nailed together in an intricate pattern of descending angles. The extensive deck, just as modern as the rest of the structure, had been stained a dark mahogany, which added to the overall nouveau-rustic appearance. Marya decided it was very attractive.

  She moved away from her car and walked toward the front door, which faced half-round to the cove. The ocean wind was stronger on this side, and empty planters, which were hanging from the edges of the wooden awning, swayed hypnotically. The well-built deck was sturdy under her feet. To her surprise, the brass knob in the wood and glass front door turned. The house was unlocked. Holding onto the knob with one hand, she knocked with the other and she stepped inside.

  “Mr. Giles?” she called. “It’s Marya Brock, here about the cottage.”

  There was no response, but she entered the large pleasant front room anyway, hoping the owner and the realtor were not the sorts who press charges for unlawful entry. The inside was completely, but simply, furnished, another plus. An adorable potbelly wood-burning stove occupied a place of honor in the center of the large living area. The bedroom, right off the main room, featured little more than a double bed, two end tables, a small closet and one tall bureau. Still, that was more than enough to meet her needs. The bath was small, but pleasant, the shower wide and bordered by a wall of glass bricks. The sparkling clean kitchen, part of the open living area, was large and airy, with many tall windows looking directly onto the cove. She stood for a moment and watched gulls vying for one another’s attention as they frolicked in the air above the small curved beach. The water, fading from greenish blue near the beach to the blue of midnight farther out, moved with sluggish restlessness as it ignored the drama unfolding among the gulls just above it. Far out on the ocean horizon, she saw a hazy body of land. Unable, after many moments, to figure out exactly where the land lay, she pulled her eyes away.

  A figure snared Marya’s attention as it strode from a forested copse onto the reddish sand of the beach. She watched as the figure moved closer and realized that this person was coming straight toward the cottage. Perhaps it was the owner. She walked rapidly through the house and out the front door, not stopping until she reached the front bumper of the Trooper. It wouldn’t do for the owner to find her browsing through his house unattended.

  Waiting, she began counting to herself to dispel a sudden nervousness. One would think after more than a decade of reporting on people’s lives, she would feel at ease with strangers. Not so. She often clenched up when it came time to meet someone new. After what seemed an interminable time, the owner rounded the corner of the house. It was Dorcas Wood. Marya’s nervousness leapt up and increased tenfold.

  When Dorry saw Marya she stopped and impaled her with those keen, bright blue eyes. Marya watched her as well, maintaining as steady a regard as possible. After almost a full minute, she was puzzled to see a wave of resignation flicker across the woman’s eagle gaze.

  “So, it’s you,” she said. “I should have known. Guess I pegged you wrong after all. You’re going to be one of the ones who just won’t give up. I suppose I should have paid more attention to your fancy threats.”

  It took Marya a moment to realize what she was talking about. When she did, she became angry. “This has nothing to do with the story. I need a place to live,” she retorted, trying to keep her tone calm.

  Dorry resumed walking and continued around to the front of the cottage. “Well, you’re not living here.”

  Marya’s mouth dropped open at the abrupt dismissal, and she strode after her. “What do you mean, I can’t live here? Are you afraid I won’t be able to pay the rent?”

  Dorry paused before entering the cottage, one hand poised on the edge of the open door, and regarded her with steely calm. “I’ll not have you spying on me. I’m sorry. You’ll just have to find another place.”

  “Find another place! But I like it here,” Marya cried as she stepped onto the deck. She tried the front door; anger flared as she realized Dorry had locked it after entering the house. She was tempted to kick in the door, but she tried to maintain her composure. Dorry’d never rent to her if she proved destructive.

  “Look, Miss Wood,” she called through the door, cupping her hands around her face and leaning close to peer through the glass. “I really like this cottage. I’m living with my parents and I need to move out. Please reconsider.”

  Marya could see her through the window of the door. She was sitting at the kitchen table, her square hands wiping at the tabletop with a paper towel. She was pointedly ignoring Marya.

  Marya slammed the edge of one fist against the wooden doorjamb, unable to help herself. The sound echoed throughout the cove, giving her a certain satisfaction. She wished it had landed on Dorcas Wood’s stubborn head instead.

  Marya stomped across the deck and walked with heavy tread around to the driveway. Just as she was getting into her Trooper, a small blue car pulled alongside.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late, Miss Brock. Someone bought a house at the last minute and I got bogged down in paperwork. I called the owner, Dorry Wood. Did she show you around?”

  Henry Giles was much as she had pictured him—young, handsome, athletic in build. Now, as he apologized, he brushed absently at his thinning blond hair and watched her expe
ctantly.

  “She showed me around all right,” she told him, her tone sullen. “She showed me the way out. She won’t rent to me.”

  He seemed perplexed. “But why? Did she tell you why?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I’m not sure. I believe it’s because she thinks I’ll spy on her or something.”

  “Spy on her?” Giles laughed, then sobered. “Well, legally she’s got to give you the reason on paper. Let’s go see what’s on her mind.”

  He led the way around the house. She followed doubtfully. She figured once Dorcas Wood’s mind was made up, it stayed that way.

  Pulling a tagged key from his pocket, Giles soon had them inside.

  “Now, Henry, don’t come annoying me about this girl. I’m not renting to her and that’s that,” said Dorry as she rose from her chair at the table.

  “But why, Dorry?” Giles asked quietly. “We need to talk about this.”

  Dorry fixed her irritating stare on Marya. “She’s a reporter, Henry. That’s all that needs to be said.”

  Giles quieted in thought and then motioned Marya outside. “Let me talk to her, Miss Brock. Why don’t you step down to the beach?”

  As Marya closed the door she could hear Dorry lashing into the realtor. Great sadness filled her. She guessed she wasn’t meant to live there after all. Unwilling to stick around for the dismal outcome, she slid into her car and drove back to work, hoping there would be something in tomorrow’s rental ads.

  Back at the newspaper office, Marya found herself unable to concentrate. The story she was doing about a woman who lived with fourteen dogs just wouldn’t come together. She found herself falling into a mild depression, taking out her lingering anger and frustration by snapping at a bewildered Dallas.

  It rankled that Dorcas Wood hated her so absolutely. Marya had done her no real harm, at least not on purpose. If only she had approached her differently, she thought, if she hadn’t been dumb enough to act as Marvin’s patsy, things could have been different between them.