A Mysterious Mix Up

by J. C. Kenney

  In my book, she was handling both jobs with the skill and aplomb of Phryne Fisher, the fictional Australian detective. She did this by limiting her work at the diner to weekends. During the week, and after the diner closed on Saturday and Sunday, she put on her mayor hat. Friends and family had stepped in to fill her shoes at the restaurant, but it was always reassuring to see her in her light blue shirt and white apron, a pot of coffee in one hand and an order pad in the other.

  “What can I get you ladies on this fine morning?” Angela poured us each a cup of coffee and left the pot on the table. The woman knew me.

  “Can you tell us when Chief Roberson plans to arrest Mr. Rasmussen?” Mom stared at me as she poured sweetener in her coffee.

  Patience, Allie. She wants to keep you safe.

  “I wish I could.” Angela shook her head. “What an awful thing. Vicky was such a kind woman, and Porter, well…”

  “Well what?” My clue radar rocketed up to eleven. If anyone outside of the police had information, it would be the mayor.

  “Slow your roll, Allie. He’s a good man and deserves a thorough and impartial investigation. Enough of this unpleasant talk. What are you having for breakfast?”

  We gave her our orders. Western omelet for Mom and a Belgian waffle with a side of turkey bacon for me.

  While we waited, Mom filled me in on her latest activities. She’d struggled, both emotionally and physically, after Dad passed away. Over the past few months, though, she seemed to have found her footing again, as evidence that she hadn’t misplaced her car keys since Luke and Sloane hosted a Super Bowl party.

  “I have some news.” Her cheeks got red as she stirred her coffee. “You have to promise you won’t say anything to Luke and Rachel, okay?”

  “Deal.” I kept my voice neutral.

  Mom didn’t like to confide in one of her kids at the exclusion of the others. As a family physician, she’d spent her career earning the trust of her patients by being honest. If you created a Venn diagram of Mom and secrets, the circles wouldn’t come within a mile of each other.

  “After the game yesterday, I went to dinner with Rachel and the kiddos. While we were waiting to be seated, a gentleman struck up a conversation with me.” She smiled. “He asked me if I’d like to meet him for a cup of coffee.”

  “OMG, seriously? What did you say?”

  Dad had been the love of Mom’s life. They’d been more passionate about each other with each passing year. The fact she’d go out on a date with someone else had never occurred to me. Sure, I wanted her to be happy, but I wasn’t ready for this.

  “Told him I’d think about it.” She took a drink of her coffee, never breaking eye contact with me. “After I got his number.”

  “Mom.” Now my cheeks were getting hot. My dear, widowed mother was becoming part of the dating scene. Maybe. It was inconceivable.

  “Don’t ‘Mom’ me. You and your brother have been after me for months to get out of the house more often. Well, this may be a chance to do just that.”

  “Did Rachel see you talking with this man? What did she say?”

  “That it was nobody’s business but my own.” She shrugged. “Maybe you could take a lesson from your sister when it comes to discretion, yeah?”

  Angela delivered our meals, which gave me time to regroup. Mom was right. Luke and I had made suggestions to make sure she didn’t spend every evening alone with nothing to keep her company but Sudoku puzzles and her thoughts. This was about her, not me, after all.

  “You know we want you to be happy, right? If having coffee with this guy makes you happy, go for it.”

  Mom’s shoulders dropped and her jaw unclenched. She smiled, too.

  Then it hit me. She wanted my approval, or at least my acceptance. Given how joined at the hip Dad and I had been, it was reasonable to assume I’d be the most resistant to Mom having another man in her life.

  She was right.

  Nobody would replace Walter Cobb, literary agent, hero, father. But he was gone. To deny Mom the opportunity for some happiness, even something as simple as having a cup of coffee with someone, was wrong. It wasn’t only wrong, it was selfish. I didn’t want to be selfish.

  I cut into my waffle. As steam rose and tickled my nostrils, I gave Mom a long look. “Do I know this man? What’s his name? How old is he? What are his intentions? Does he know you have a daughter who’s a superhero known as the Kickboxing Crusader?”

  Mom covered her mouth with her hand to prevent omelet being sprayed all over the table. Once she swallowed, she let out a long laugh. I joined her and reached across the table to give her hand a squeeze.

  Moments like these were magical. I’d had countless of them with Dad over the years. With Mom, not as often. Since his passing, they were becoming more common, and I treasured each one of them. It filled me with joy to have one now.

  Mom ignored my questions and started talking about the twins’ next game. I wasn’t letting her off the hook that easily.

  “Ahem, it’s rude to ignore someone when they’ve asked you a question. You taught me that.”

  “I did.” She chewed on a forkful of omelet and gazed around the room as if she hadn’t a care in the world. At this point, she was torturing me on purpose.

  “So?”

  She put down her fork. “Patience, little one. For now, I choose not to answer. I haven’t said yes, after all.”

  She was good, maybe a little too good for my comfort level.

  “Fine. I’ll get my answers from Rachel. She’ll tell me.” It was my last play, and I was desperate.

  “Don’t bother. She was busy with Tristan and Theresa when my friend and I were chatting. She’s more in the dark than you are.”

  Checkmate.

  “Well done.” I lifted my coffee cup to her. “I accept defeat. For now.”

  After breakfast, Mom and I readied to go our separate ways. She was taking the twins into Columbus to see the latest hit animated film. Then they were going to her house to make homemade pizza. While T and T loved spending time with their grandma, it also gave Rachel a break from the pressures of single motherhood. It was a win for everyone.

  I gave Mom a hug and admonished her not to eat too much popcorn and spoil her appetite.

  My walk home gave me the alone time I needed to ponder Mom’s news. On the one hand, I had enough going on in my own life. I didn’t want to think about Mom creating a profile on an online dating site. Or downing shots with the senior singles club that met once a month at Hoosiers, the local sports bar. Or taking a bus trip with a bunch of silver tigers for a weekend trip to a casino for gambling and who knew what else.

  The string of troubling visions made me shudder. I’d deal with Mom as an eligible woman when, and if, I had to. Not a nanosecond before.

  For now, I had more pressing issues on my plate. Like figuring out what I was going to say to the murder suspect I was going to be visiting in a few hours.

  Chapter Nine

  When I got home from my morning with Mom. I found a note from Brent. He had a few things he wanted to do at the library and would be back by five. Sammy’s dog crate was empty. It wouldn’t be surprising if I found out Brent had taken his four-legged buddy to the library to serve as a therapy dog of sorts.

  “Just you and me this afternoon. Let’s see how much we can get done.” I gave Ursi a couple of kitty treats and returned to my laptop. Work to pay the bills first. Work to catch a killer second.

  Two hours later, I hit send on an e-mail to a client regarding the manuscript I’d been editing. Overall, the story was strong, but I wanted a stronger motivation behind the protagonist’s choice to put her life on the line.

  The irony of making that request wasn’t lost on me.

  Relieved that I had at least a modicum of self-awareness, I fetched Ursi’s harness and leash.

  “Up for
a little sleuthing?”

  The cat trotted to the door then sat and stared at me with unblinking eyes, radiating an aura of impatience. She was ready for action.

  The sky was the color of dull slate as we exited my building. A breeze from the north had grown in force, too. Rain was on the way. I flipped up the collar of my jacket. If we were lucky, we’d be back home before the showers arrived. Man, I was getting tired of lousy weather.

  I’d never visited Porter’s house before. With his years in the hardware business, I’d assumed it would be flawless. When Ursi and I rounded a bend in the road and my gaze fell upon the home in question, my assumption was confirmed.

  The Rasmussen home was an A-frame structure with cedar shingles and redwood siding. A split-rail fence ran along the perimeter of the property. There was an opening in the fencing big enough for an impressive path of flagstone pavers that ran from the sidewalk to the front step. Flower beds lined either side of the path. A soft glow emanated from a lamp in the front window.

  As if a director had asked for increased tension, the wind died down, leaving the clicks of Ursi’s claws on the stone the only sound.

  “Here goes nothing, girl.” For good luck, I picked up Ursi and pressed a front paw against the button for the doorbell. A booming ding-dong-ding made Ursi pin her ears back flat as I stepped backward. It was so loud I wondered, for a moment, if Porter was hard of hearing.

  When there was no answer after a couple of minutes, I was ready to admit defeat and head home. I was turning away from the door when it opened with a quiet whoosh.

  “Miss Cobb, this is a surprise.” Porter removed dirt-covered work gloves and offered to shake hands.

  “Please, call me Allie.” Sweat broke out on my brow as the man stared at me, brushing spots of dirt from his gray sweatshirt. “I wanted to stop by. To see how you’re doing with…you know, everything going on.”

  “You mean being accused of poisoning the town’s beloved librarian?” He looked at Ursi, who was sniffing the air. “I was working in the greenhouse. You’re welcome to join me if you aren’t afraid of being murdered.”

  “Of course not.” A nervous laugh escaped as I scratched Ursi under her chin. “Is it okay if my cat, Ursula, comes along?”

  “By all means.”

  A scent of spiced potpourri tickled my senses as we followed him through the living room. It was painted a shade of yellow that called to mind an early morning sunrise. Framed photographs of flowers hung on the walls, the colors so vibrant I wanted to reach out and caress the petals. Gardening magazines were stacked on an end table next to a burgundy recliner.

  From there, we passed into the kitchen. Stainless steel appliances coordinated with black, granite countertops to give the room a classy feel. The black-and-white checkerboard tile was spotless.

  As we exited through the back doorway, I was left with a singular impression of Porter’s home. It was stylish but not ostentatious. Contemporary yet timeless.

  There were also no dishes in the sink, no unopened mail on the kitchen island. Nothing was out of place. As much as I liked the décor, I couldn’t help but wonder whether Porter was obsessive when it came to keeping house.

  If so, was he obsessive about anything else?

  The backyard belonged on the cover of Better Homes and Gardens. A greenhouse stood in one corner of the yard. A wooden shed painted deep forest green occupied another corner. In the center of the yard, an ornate stone birdbath gave the local avian population a place to get a drink.

  The grass had a newly mown smell and a healthy, vibrant green color. A glance over my shoulder toward the house brought me to a halt.

  “You even have roses?” Flower beds on either side of the back door contained a half-dozen rose bushes.

  We stared at the bare, thorny bushes. In a few months, they’d no doubt be bursting with glorious petals in shades from red to white to maybe even yellow.

  “My wife was named Rose. I grew them in her honor.” He wiped something from his eye as his voice caught. “She loved the smell but was wary of the thorns. She was always encouraging me to figure out a way to grow thornless roses. I never managed to pull off a completely thornless rosebush.”

  How could a man so devoted to his wife that he grew flowers dedicated to her be a murderer? Like an incomplete sentence fragment, the idea didn’t make sense. Then again, if he cared for someone so much that he was willing to tend to a high-maintenance and prickly flower, maybe over-the-top obsession wasn’t out of the question.

  Porter cleared his throat. He was at the greenhouse’s doorway with his bushy, gray eyebrows raised. Evidently, while I’d been gawking at the bare rose bushes, he’d moved on. After a quick look at Ursi to make sure she wasn’t doing anything untoward in the yard, I gave her leash a gentle tug and double-timed it to catch up with him.

  The greenhouse was made entirely of glass. I tapped on a pane to make sure. Metal strips connected the panes, which were about two square feet in size. Ornamental stone pavers lined the bottom edge of the structure, which gave it a clean, finished touch.

  We strolled down the middle of the structure. Raised, wooden planter beds about four feet in height ran along each side of us from the front to the back of the building. Above us, potted ferns so green they’d make St. Patrick proud hung from hooks bolted to the metal connecting strips.

  To my right, three orchids were in full bloom. I ran my fingers across one of the flower’s delicate petals. It was as white as fine bone china. “They’re beautiful.”

  Ursi gave a bossy meow, so I picked her up and let her sniff the flowers.

  Her tiny nostrils flared back and forth as a paw reached toward the plant. I pulled her away and set her back down, my cheeks warming at the thought of my cat damaging one of his gorgeous plants.

  “Sorry about that. I guess she liked it. Didn’t want her to get her claws or teeth into it. I’ve heard orchids are poisonous to pets.”

  Porter bent over and offered his palm to Ursi. After she gave it a sniff, she rubbed her head against his knuckles and plopped down at his feet. With a chuckle, he scratched her between the ears.

  “That’s not really true. This is a moth orchid, which is perfectly safe. There are some varieties of orchid that would leave Miss Ursula with an upset tummy, but that’s about it. No harm, no foul.” He straightened up and slipped his gloves back on. “I hope you don’t mind if I work while we talk. What can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to see how you’re holding up. I know what it’s like being accused of taking someone’s life. How frightening that is.”

  “Ah, yes. Georgie Alonso.” Using a hand spade, he stabbed at the black soil and turned it over. “Nasty business, but some might say he got what was coming to him.”

  I took a step back. Sure, it was no secret Georgie had been a louse, but, in my book, it was bad manners to speak ill of the dead. Was that a sign Porter was callous enough to be a murderer? Maybe. Time to try a different line of questioning.

  “I heard the police think Vicky was poisoned.”

  “Indeed.” He pulled some seedlings from a flat and worked them into the soil he’d turned. “And that, my friend, is why Occam’s razor puts me in a difficult position.”

  Occam’s razor. I sidled along an edge of one of the planter boxes for a better look around while I dredged up the term from the cobweb-filled crannies of my college years. After a minute of concentration, and not seeing anything suspicious, I snapped my fingers.

  “It’s the principle in problem solving that says the simplest solution to a problem is usually the right one. The fewer assumptions you have to make, the better.”

  While I basked in my moment of victory, Porter nudged Ursi away from a partially covered pile of roots near his feet. He adjusted the tarp to cover them completely.

  “Exactly. I was at the library before you were. Thanks to my career, I have e
asy access to poisonous materials. Only two assumptions are needed for Chief Roberson to decide I’m the killer.”

  The matter-of-fact way Porter stated the case against him made me shudder. It was cold and analytical. There was no emotion, as if he was resigned to a fate as a convicted murderer.

  Why was I here, then? If Porter was convinced he was going to be convicted of murdering Vicky, wasn’t that game, set, and match?

  No. Forget Occam’s razor. If I’d learned anything since my return home from New York, it was that things weren’t always what they seemed. There was more to this story. I felt it in my bones.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what poisonous materials do you have access to these days?” I picked up Ursi, who had settled down on the tarp and was grooming herself. All this talk of poisons made me worried for her safety. Or maybe I was paranoid. Probably a little of both.

  “Some of the flowers I grow may be poisonous when ingested in sufficient quantities.” He stabbed another area of soil and worked it until he seemed satisfied it was ready to be home to more flowers.

  Intriguing. “If they’re poisonous, why do you grow them?” I moved to the center of the aisle, just to be sure. No sense in taking a chance of getting something harmful on my clothes.

  He sighed and leaned on the planter box, looking me straight in the eyes. “Many reasons, actually. Azaleas are potentially harmful. They were also Vicky’s favorite flower. I grew them for her. Monkshood is another. The vibrant blue coloring of the flower has won me a few awards at the county fair. They’re not harmful in and of themselves. In fact, you can buy both of these specimens at any decent garden center.”

  Porter’s passion for his plants came through loud and clear. It made sense, too. Vicky liked a particular flower. He wanted her to like him, so he grew that flower. By the same token, he always entered his flowers in the county 4-H fair. If a particular flower increased his odds of winning, it was logical to grow it.