Poison Flowers

by Nat Burns

  Images of Dorry swimming, embedded indelibly in her mind, chose this moment to come to the forefront. With a sharp, indrawn breath, she shut her eyes, allowing the inescapable sensations to swamp her. When she opened them, Dorry was there, close, and she was watching her.

  An eternity passed as they gazed at one another, their hands together still. Unbelievably, she saw Dorry’s eyes change, become tender, and the blue more dense—filled with a kind of easy passion that she had never seen on anyone before. Her face changed too, losing the tense lines of barrier that Marya was so familiar with. The Dorry that was revealed was younger, more playful and infinitely more lovable.

  The moment lasted only a moment, however. Dorry turned away, jerking her hands aside and leaving Marya with only the cool limpness of the dead bird in her hands. Its head drooped to one side, mirroring the deflation she was feeling. A feeling that she now had to swallow and deal with.

  In silence, Dorry cut down the other birds, catching each with quick economical movements. They moved in uneasy silence, Dorry wrapping the tiny carcasses in paper towels and Marya untying the twine from the light fixture. Marya could tell that Dorry was as aware of the attraction as she was. But she worried. Was Dorry’s attraction true, as true as hers?

  She shot a sideways glance Dorry’s way as she wrapped the tiny bodies, trying to gauge her mood. Her face was grim. Marya’s heart fell. Dorry still hated her and would, no matter the circumstance. The tenderness she’d glimpsed was a fluke, something no doubt caused by the whiskey Dorry had consumed. Marya sighed. It was just as well. Getting involved with Dorry was much more complication than she needed right now.

  “I’ll get a shovel,” she said, hoping the sadness evident in her voice would be attributed to the birds’ deaths. “We’ll bury them in the trees.”

  Dorry nodded, staring down at the lifeless bodies. “Good idea,” she said, a curious hitch in her voice.

  Silent again, they moved through the yard and into the trees, veering left, away from the site where Denton’s body had been found. Ghouls on a ghoulish mission, Marya thought.

  She dug a shallow hole and Dorry lined up the dead martyrs in a row, yet snuggling them together as if to share warmth. They watched them a long time, Marya secretly hoping they’d stir and fly away, but they remained still. Dorry took the shovel from her hands and covered the poor bodies with a thick layer of dirt, mounding the hole and packing it tight. The two of them spread leaves and litter over the grave in case anyone came snooping.

  ***

  “If you didn’t do it, then who did?” Marya asked again as they moved back toward the house. “Didn’t you see anyone?”

  “No, no one.”

  “I just don’t understand it. First Denton, now this. What is going on? Doesn’t it seem like it’s some type of personal vendetta against me?”

  “Or me,” Dorry replied quietly.

  “Yes, or you. Any idea why?”

  Dorry shook her head and laid one arm across the stair railing on the front porch. She seemed lost in thought and very sad. “I can’t fathom it either. I can’t say I much like thinking about it.”

  Childish fingers of ocean wind played with their hair and clothing and then gleefully ran away.

  “You know, it was different here when I was a girl. People knew their places then and could accept themselves. Now they’re aimless and looking for trouble. I see them every day at my class, young boys coming in thinking that the fight is what it’s all about. They forget—or refuse to learn—that we study the martial art so we won’t fight.”

  Marya nodded, remembering the same words coming from Master Hayes at her old school.

  They watched the night ocean without further conversation. Dorry’s statement was a lot, coming as it did from a woman who feared no silence, who even welcomed it. Marya was soothed by the stillness that created. Too often when people were together, they felt a need to fill the silence between them, whatever the cost. She and Dorry had no such agenda, none of that tension. Realizing that filled her with relief.

  An owl hooted in a faraway tree, giving her permission to voice her curiosity. “Assuming you didn’t kill Denton—and knowing that I didn’t—you have any idea who might have?” The bird echoed her query softly, its own plaintive who-who carried away by ocean sylphs as they passed by its perch.

  Dorry turned shadowed eyes on her. They moved across her like a warm caress of wind during a desert twilight. The tilt of Dorry’s head almost caused Marya to stop breathing. The threat of danger rested heavy upon her. What would she do if Dorry were a murderer?

  “I can’t believe he’s gone. I would have done anything to protect him. If I’d only known he was in danger…”

  Marya’s interest was piqued, but she wanted to act circumspectly, knowing that sharing her feelings like this was difficult for Dorry. “Danger? From whom? What do you know?”

  “Nothing really,” Dorry sighed as she leaned her shoulder against the porch railing. “I have guesses, theories, nothing concrete.”

  “Will you share them with me?”

  “Why? So you can get a good story? Scoop everyone else?”

  Her attitude was beginning to piss Marya off. She moved closer, getting in Dorry’s face, trying to make her hear her.

  “Look, Dorry, I may be a reporter but it’s just a job, okay? I once made the mistake of confusing my job and my life but never again.”

  With her face just inches from Dorry’s now, it would have been such a simple thing to lay her lips on hers. To kiss her easy and slow, a kiss of healing and truce. She almost did. Then their eyes met. Passion ignited, burning in slow licks of fire across her torso.

  Marya pulled back and continued in a shaky voice. “What we’re facing is serious. We could be in trouble if Denton’s real killer isn’t found and soon. This has nothing to do with getting a story; it’s all about you and me not becoming a tragic statistic. Now, are we going to work together on this or am I on my own?”

  The ultimatum was clear. Marya could see Dorry mulling it over.

  “But, it’s not so easy…” Dorry turned and pressed her forehead to one of the porch uprights. “When I’m with you…”

  “What?” Marya leapt upon her words. Did she feel something for her? Did she?

  “I just get so incredibly angry at what and who you are. It’s hard for me to get past that.”

  Sudden, surprising tears filled Marya’s eyes, and an involuntary sob escaped her. She turned away so Dorry wouldn’t see the tears, hoping to be able to examine the painful feelings those words had spawned in her.

  “Marya,” Dorry said, turning attention her way. “You okay?”

  Marya swallowed her sorrow and replaced it with fury, which was more familiar, less threatening. “Listen, anger or no anger, we have to deal with this. If you know anything about the murder then I need you to tell me about it. It’s only fair since my ass seems to be on the line just as surely as yours.”

  Dorry was taken aback by her vehemence. Seeing that gave Marya a momentary flash of satisfaction. She also hated her in that moment.

  Dorry walked away with purpose. Marya feared she would leave. She stopped fifty paces away, arms wrapped about her own shoulders, and stared at the ocean. Marya watched as the fretful wind caressed her, envying it, regretting that she would never have that opportunity. Life could be so unfair.

  Maybe coming to Schuyler Point had been a mistake after all. She longed for the security of Seattle. There at least she knew her friends…and her enemies.

  “I think it’s those kids, the ones I ran off the beach that night. They’re hooligans. They could have done it. An accident, probably.”

  “No, it couldn’t be. None of them are strong enough…”

  Dorry turned and rushed toward her. Marya cowered, filled with a pure, reactionary fear.

  “How can you be so sure?” Dorry choked out. “Denny was small. Dolly used to call him her little banty rooster.”

  She smiled sadly and pressed
both palms to her cheeks, scrubbing at her eyes. “Look, I’m going home. I’m so tired of all this crap.”

  Marya called her name softly as she turned to go. She looked back over her shoulder and their eyes met. Dorry’s sadness wailed through her…and then she was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Talking to yourself?” Ed asked from behind Marya.

  She hit the minimize key on her keyboard and turned to greet him. “No, not really. Just thinking out loud, I guess.”

  “Hmm.” He slipped one hip onto the far corner of her desk and swung a raised leather-clad foot with thoughtful mien. “It’s okay to talk to yourself, I hear. It’s the answering you have to worry about.”

  Marya smiled and shook her head in amusement. “Oh, really?”

  “So, what are you working on?”

  She noted that his expensive leather loafers were scuffed and pulling apart at the seams. Ed was a true newshound. Little mattered but the next story. “I’m just entering Denton’s stuff and working on that dog piece you gave me. Why?”

  “Just wanted to tell you that Sheriff Gennis called me. He had a bunch of questions about you and Denton. I reassured him you didn’t off Denton just to get his job.”

  “Well, thank you, I guess.” Marya watched Ed. She wondered…was he guilty…trying to frame Dorry?

  “They don’t really have anything on you, you know.” He looked away and then back, eying her with concern. “It’s just because you are new here.”

  “Oh, I know,” she assured him quickly. “I understand that.”

  “Well, I wanted to make sure all this mess didn’t sour you on Marstown. We’re good people here. This thing with Denton…well…” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It’s just bad business. First murder we’ve had since ’72 when the Sully boy did in his girlfriend, Teresa, and her new lover.”

  “I sure do miss him,” Marya said softly.

  “Shoot!” exclaimed Ed, frowning. “Me too! Him and me been friends for fifteen years. Life just isn’t the same without him here.”

  His eyes slid to Denton’s desk and visited briefly. Maybe he wasn’t the murderer. Or he was filled with guilt.

  “What was Darlene like?”

  Ed shrugged. “Sweet lady. Grandmotherly type, even though they were never able to have children. She really would have been a good mother too. Always making cookies and bringing them around. She loved to share a good funny tale…had a new one every time I saw her. You know, she made a birthday cake for each of us every year. And threw a little party for us.”

  Marya wanted to ask whether her temperament had been like Dorry’s but was uncomfortable suddenly. There was one thing she could ask.

  “Ed, you know a lot about this community. Who do you think killed him? Who would do such a thing?”

  Ed looked at her as if surprised by the question. “Oh, it had to be someone from out of town. No one from Marstown could do such a thing. We all loved and respected Denny. I don’t expect we’ll ever find out who really did it. Whoever it is…he’s probably long gone by now.”

  Standing, Ed wandered off to chide the intern who was scattering archived issues on the workroom counter. Marya was sorry to see him go. She would have loved to ask him more about Dorry’s possible involvement, to see just how far he would go in accusing her. After the night before, after the time they’d spent together cloaked by the South Carolina evening, Marya was having a hard time believing in Dorry’s guilt. She wanted to see if Ed concurred.

  Tapping the mouse, she brought up the Times database and dragged the “Private” folder she had stashed there onto her desktop. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was nearby and then clicked the folder to open it.

  The blasted folder was empty. Marya sighed, disappointed. She had hoped—and expected—it would shed some light on the mystery surrounding Denton’s death.

  ***

  The next two days were quiet, filled with work and with contemplating the changes occurring in her life. Not that everyday life had changed; it was more a shift in the person that she was—or thought she had been. Thoughts of Dorry worried at her every moment she wasn’t working, and that rarefied time just before sleep descended each night was filled with erotic imaginings of the two of them together.

  Which was ridiculous, really, since the Dorry Marya knew could never be capable of the intense intimacy her imagination had conjured up.

  Yet the feelings persisted. She became a walking picture of arousal, her body constantly moist and aching for Dorry’s touch. She hated this betrayal. The least her body and mind could do was lust after someone accessible. Surely, it was some cosmic joke that she should desire the most unattainable, yet most intriguing, woman in Marstown.

  Compounding her woes was the vision of dead birds with sightless eyes and limp necks that haunted her sleep when it finally came, robbing her of desperately needed rest. So it was with jaundiced eyes and a less than amenable nature that she faced Saturday morning’s assignment, covering the annual Schuyler Point Rescue Squad fund-raiser. Marya was uneasy about leaving the house as well, fearing finding another unwelcome surprise upon her return. Realizing that making a living had to take priority over fear, she locked the house as securely as possible and made her way out into the South Carolina sunshine.

  The fund-raiser, a picnic and mini-carnival, was held at the Amlyn Community Fairgrounds, no more than ten minutes from her home. The festival was well underway by the time she arrived and she merged into the crowd, notebook in hand. She jotted down a few first impressions to give the readers a sense of what the event was like, then began listing the fund-raising participants. Marya knew she would obtain a complete list from the organizers, but she liked to note her own impressions of the more outstanding booths. Many of the local businesses had come out to help the rescue squad, and she obtained a wonderful quote from Sammy Long, owner of a video store downtown, about how the rescue unit had been there within minutes the time he almost died from a heart attack.

  The pickings were easy and soon she was able to take a well-deserved break with a soda and a bean taco at a wooden bench in a small grove of trees. The biting flies and mosquitoes were having a heyday but it didn’t bother her much. Her mind was churning, racing back and forth between her notes about the fund-raiser and possible motives for Denton’s murder. It just didn’t make sense.

  Dorry, the more she came to know her, didn’t seem as much a suspect as she once had been. Seeing her tenderness with the birds had given her a better understanding of her as a person. Randomly harming anyone or anything just didn’t seem a part of her nature, no matter how the evidence looked. She might have some unknown reason to hate Denton, but if she followed the belief system displayed in her dojang, it was impossible, ludicrous even, to imagine her heartlessly torturing and killing him. So who?

  Her eyes roamed across the mass of people before her, judging and weighing possibilities. Her eyes fell upon Dallas, busy serving sodas at the Ruritan booth. She seemed such a friendly little woman, but Marya had seen the bitterness and jealousy she harbored about other people’s lives. She wasn’t big enough or strong enough to kill Denton the way he’d been killed, though.

  Ed Bush passed by with his petite, plump wife Louise, giving her a wave and an approving nod. She’d heard from him and others about his longstanding feud with Dorry over the Francie story. Would he have done anything so heinous as to murder Denton just to frame Dorry? She didn’t think so, but she’d been fooled before during her years as a reporter.

  Karen sat on a nearby bench engaged in an intimate conversation with, she assumed, her boyfriend. He was handsome, with a bookish air about him; they were a well-matched couple physically. She envied them their closeness and the sweetness of their interlocked gazes as he rose and walked away. Shifting her attention away from him, Karen spotted Marya. Her face brightened and she made her way over to Marya’s table. She was in her uniform, something that was normally worn only in the dojang or in co
mpetition. Suddenly Marya understood Karen’s attire, remembering that there was going to be an exhibition of taekwondo on the festival stage. Had she already performed?

  “Hey, Marya, how are you?”

  “Fine, wishing I were home.”

  “Oh, pshaw,” Karen said, perching on the bench opposite Marya. “It’s a beautiful day and there’s such a good turnout. I’m glad to see it too. It’s about the only way the rescue squad can finance what they do.”

  She paused and studied Marya, taking in her haggard appearance. “You’re not sleeping much, are you?”

  “No, not really. I found dead birds hanging in my house the other day. It’s creepy there now.”

  Karen gasped, then shook her head. “Oh my God, it would do me in for sure, coming upon something like that. Why dead birds?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Marya answered with a shrug.

  They fell silent, watching the activity whirring around them.

  “I just hate the fact he’s gone. It’s so unfair,” Marya stated finally, as if in explanation.

  “It would be one thing too if he’d gone naturally,” Karen said. “But they say he was tortured, maybe beat to death, strangled until his neck broke.”

  Marya shuddered at the images Karen’s words evoked. “Who would do that? Do you know of any enemies he might have had? Anyone who would have a reason to kill him?”

  Karen chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully. “Can’t think of anyone. Not around here. People just don’t commit crimes here the way they do other places. It’s such a small town that everyone knows everyone else. People pass through, but they usually never stay long enough to cause trouble.”

  Marya offered no response. Someone had caused trouble this time. Big trouble and she was in the middle of it.

  Karen may have sensed her depressing thoughts for she rose abruptly. “I’d better run, Grandma’s over there wandering, looking for me, I bet. Listen,” she pressed Marya’s hand against the worn table in a gesture of caring. “You take care, hear? Don’t take any chances. Tell Sheriff Gennis if you see anything else that’s strange, okay?”