Bloom and Doom

by Beverly Allen

  “You have another plan?”

  “How about we finish cutting this cake and sneak up together? Maybe they’ll assume we just left.”

  “And if we get caught?”

  “Then we think of something.”

  Lurch came back for another tray. He eyed the remaining cake. “I think we’re going to come out about even, maybe a little left over.”

  “Make sure the staff all get a piece,” Nick said.

  Lurch gave him a yellow-toothed smile. “Sure will. Thanks!” I’d have sworn he skipped off. But the floor didn’t shake, so it must have been my imagination.

  “See, what did I tell you?” He slid the last piece onto a plate. “Here’s our chance. Ready?”

  He pulled off his gloves and led me around the blind corner. Two members of the kitchen staff looked up. “There’s extra cake here. I hope there’s enough to go around. Help yourself,” he said.

  The two cooks scurried to claim their cake. Nick grabbed my hand and led me to a staircase, probably the way they’d once carried food up to the wedding receptions upstairs. Now the staircase didn’t seem like it got much use, as I surmised based upon the dust and spiderwebs. Shoddy way to do business. Then again, this place didn’t get regular health inspections, either.

  The staircase opened up to a dim area with stainless steel shelves lining the wall. I imagined waiters once used them to queue the plates to carry them to reception guests.

  Doors were closed to the room beyond, but the windows leading into it weren’t blacked out like those leading to the outside. Nick and I crept to the doors, each of us claiming a window to peek into, when a loud alarm sounded and the lights began to flash.

  Chapter 20

  I jumped back almost just in time. The doors swung open and mine smacked me in the shoulder. Better than the nose, I guess, which was where the door would have hit had I not seen the mass exodus headed toward us.

  But I grabbed hold of the door to give me a little cover as people streamed out of the room and down the dusty staircase. No one seemed to look beyond the glass to notice me, but in the short gaps between the well-dressed people filing out of the building, I could see Nick’s face pressed against the tiny glass window of the opposite door, like looking out of a porthole of a cruise ship and seeing someone stare at you from the porthole of an adjacent ship. Except there was no water, no sun, and no buffet. I didn’t even get cake.

  When the stream of people dried up and the landing was empty, Nick let his door swing shut. I followed suit but remained pressed up against the wall, afraid to move. Nick returned to the window and peered into the room. He waved me back to the door.

  A few people remained in the banquet room. Or I should say “casino.” And the casino parts were disappearing fast, as black-clad workers flipped tabletops and rolled large items through a door. Only it wasn’t a door, because when they swung it shut, it disappeared completely into the moldings of the wall.

  I looked up at Nick and could see the tightness of his jaw. Then I remembered the story about his uncle’s gambling. He pointed to the stairs and mouthed, “Let’s get out of here.”

  I followed Nick. As we crept down the steps, I turned every few seconds to glance behind me.

  He paused on a bend in the staircase and put a finger to his lips. Voices ascended the stairs. I strained to hear what they were saying, and I hoped it wasn’t “Find that baker and his assistant in the doofy paper hats and kill them.”

  “. . . police won’t be searching the place tonight,” an authoritative voice said. “Getting a warrant takes time. The party line is that you’re doing some work for the owners, checking if the property is still viable as a restaurant. Depending on who answers the call, that may not be an issue anyway.”

  A muffled question was followed by the first speaker. “No, the key thing is not to panic. The minimum of people should be visible at the door, which is where I hope to hold them. Should that not work, just go about your business as if you have a right to be here. You want everything you do to show that you belong here, not that you’re afraid or hiding. Be polite, but not overly friendly. If questioned, you know what the answers are supposed to be. Stick to them. Don’t volunteer anything. Got it?”

  The voices grew quiet and more distant, replaced instead by the clinking of dishware.

  Nick craned his neck around the corner, then leaned back to report. “It looks like they’re doing dishes now,” he whispered. “I don’t think we’re going to be able to get out through the kitchen.”

  “The other stairs?” I asked.

  He considered this for a moment, then led the way as we crept back up the stairs. We surveyed the area through the porthole windows again. The upper banquet room now looked like nothing but an empty reception space. He pushed open one of the doors and stuck his head in. I followed him inside. I could make out the staircase at the other end of the large room. We were halfway across, standing under the large chandelier, when the lights went out.

  “Lovely,” he said.

  Then his hand—warm and admittedly a little sweaty—closed on mine. We inched our way through the rest of the banquet room toward the little bit of light that showed from the staircase. His foot creaked on the first step of what turned out to be an elegant curved staircase with an oak banister. We paused and waited in the dim light. I think I’d already stopped breathing five minutes earlier, so I concentrated on that, breathing in and out as rhythmically and quietly as possible.

  “You okay?” he asked in a whisper, his grip on my hand tightening.

  I sent him an artificial smile, and we took the next few steps without incident. The front door came into view. We froze for a moment when an apron-clad server ran past with more dishes, but she never looked in our direction. As soon as she exited the room, Nick said, “Go!” and we ran the rest of the way down the stairs. He pulled open the door and I ran out—right into the chest of a uniformed police officer.

  • • •

  “So, is there a problem here or not?” The officer looked back and forth from me to the “authoritative voice” we’d overheard prepping his crew for the police. The voice was now connected to a body and answered to the name of Cecil.

  “I don’t understand why you’re here,” Cecil said smoothly. “I can’t imagine what would have alarmed anyone to call the police.”

  “I got a call that a woman named Audrey was in trouble here.” He turned to me. “And you’re Audrey. Are you in trouble?”

  I certainly hoped not. “I didn’t call the police.”

  “I know,” the officer said. “The call came from someone named Olivia Rose. Do you know an Olivia?”

  “She’s my . . .” My voice cracked. “She’s my cousin.”

  The cop rolled his eyes. “Yeah, now everything makes sense.” He turned back to Cecil. “So what are you and your people doing here?”

  “Well, Officer, the owners asked me to check out the property, to make sure all the kitchen equipment was in working order. And what better way to do that than cook a meal?”

  “That makes sense,” the cop said.

  Although now Nick rolled his eyes. I jabbed him with my elbow as a warning. I wasn’t sure if he understood the significance of what Cecil said earlier, about their claim not mattering depending on who answered the call. To me it suggested that certain cops, maybe this one, might be connected to the gambling operation somehow.

  And here Liv thought I was being overly dramatic to suggest blackmail as a motive. Instead we’d stumbled into a gambling den, if they still called them that. Not that this elegant environment suggested anything dennish. But this qualified as organized crime, at least.

  “And what are you doing here?” the cop asked me. I considered telling him we had checked into the property for Eric, Rawling’s new property manager, but then thought better of it. I didn’t want to jeopardize Eric’s new job—wh
ich was probably why Liv used her maiden name when she called the police. “We . . . uh . . .” I looked at Nick.

  “I used to come here, years ago.” Fortunately he seemed to read minds and didn’t mention Eric, either. “And I wanted to see what had become of the place.”

  “I thought you were delivering a cake,” Cecil said.

  “That, too,” Nick said. “But it’s why I stayed to take a look around.”

  “Taking your assistant with you?” the cop asked.

  Nick put his arm around my shoulder. “Not my assistant.” The words were true, but the gestures and the tone of voice suggested something different. I blushed at the implication.

  “I’d always thought,” he went on, “that the upstairs reception area would be the perfect spot for a wedding reception. Isn’t that right, dear?”

  I nodded numbly.

  Nick turned to Cecil. “It’s good news for us, then, if they’re thinking of reopening the place.”

  Cecil cleared his throat. “That hasn’t been decided yet.”

  “So we’re good here?” the officer asked.

  Cecil sent him an ingratiating smile. “Of course, Officer.”

  The cop turned to me with raised eyebrows.

  “Fine,” I managed. “My cousin just gets a little overdramatic at times, I guess.” And as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wondered if my phone was still connected and Liv had heard that. I winced.

  “Then I’ll be off,” the officer said. “Make sure you lock up tight. We don’t want vagrants making homes in these empty buildings.”

  Cecil agreed as he held open the door, then closed it after the officer strode out.

  I took a step for the exit.

  “Just a minute,” Cecil stood, arms crossed, in front of the door, blocking it. “Thanks for playing it cool, but I want to know what you’re after. If you came to see the reception area, I know you got an eyeful.”

  “We know about the gambling, if that’s what you mean,” I said.

  “Don’t think you’re going to profit on that knowledge.”

  Nick took a step forward, so much tension in his jaw he was in danger of snapping a tooth or two. “Is that right?”

  Cecil raised a hand. Lurch stepped closer, a splotch of frosting still decorating his lapel.

  “We wouldn’t . . .” I cleared my throat and started over. “We wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “No,” Nick said. “But it’s getting late, and the lady and I should be going.”

  Cecil looked him up and down, then gave me a passing glance, before a half smile crept up his oily face. “But of course.” He stepped out of the way.

  Nick grabbed the handle. We were almost free. But was there more to learn here? Something to help Jenny? I suspected the opportunity wouldn’t arise again, since I’d have wagered that every bit of gambling equipment in that building would be gone before the sun rose. And maybe Cecil would trust us, since we hadn’t spilled everything we’d seen to the cops. At least, hopefully, he wouldn’t hurt us.

  “Oh,” I said to Cecil, “my condolences on your boss’s son.” It was a hunch, but I wanted to see how it played out.

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “Thank you,” he said. “You knew Derek, then?”

  Bingo. “Did he come here often?” Yes, I’d connected the dots. Derek’s gambling. An illegal club belonging to his father.

  “More than the old man wanted,” Cecil said.

  “Any idea who might have wanted him dead?”

  Cecil shrugged. “He was no more than a nuisance to me. Now I don’t need to chase him out anymore. His father didn’t like him hanging around the place.”

  “Or having to pay his debts,” I added.

  Cecil smiled, “That, too. I can’t imagine Rawling is all that choked up about it, but you didn’t hear that from me. He used to get in Derek’s face all the time. ‘Gambling,’” he said, imitating Jonathan Rawling’s aristocratic accent, “‘is for suckers. You only win if you’re the house. Be the house, boy.’” Cecil shook his head. “Good advice, but the kid wouldn’t heed it. Everything was about the game to Derek. He knew all about the odds, but for some reason he didn’t think they applied to him. That redhead must be devastated, though.”

  “Redhead?” I asked.

  “Yeah, slinky dresser, always hanging all over him. What was her name?” Cecil asked.

  “Lucy,” Lurch suggested.

  “Yeah, that’s it. She called herself Lucy, and then laughed like her name was funny,” Cecil said.

  “She been here since Derek’s death?” I asked.

  Cecil shook his head. “Strictly with Derek.”

  And now that Derek was dead, where did that leave Lucy?

  • • •

  Nick was silent on the way home. Whenever I got a glimpse of him in the headlights of oncoming traffic, he had that same tight-jawed look about him. Stewing in his own juices, Grandma Mae would have called it. The thought of stew just made my stomach rumble.

  “Is there any cake left?” I asked.

  “Nope.” Then he grew quiet again.

  We drove past a cluster of fast-food restaurants just off the highway. I thought of asking him to stop but decided that wasn’t a good idea given his current mood.

  So, we’d found the place where Derek gambled and lost all that money that he’d skimmed from the properties he’d managed. And since his father owned the place, all the money went back into the family coffers anyway. So old man Rawling wouldn’t have had a motive to kill his son, except to spare himself the embarrassment of having a son who gambled and lost.

  The idea that Derek could have blackmailed his father sprang to mind. Could he have threatened to expose his father’s whole illegal operation if, say, he wasn’t allowed credit or access to the games?

  Or maybe Cecil had just tired of having the boss’s kid around, having to kowtow to him and cover up for him. Didn’t professional hit men go for the carotid? I remembered something like that from an episode of NCIS. Either Rawling or Cecil could have hired someone to do the deed.

  And then there was the mysterious Lucy. Could Lucy be the same woman who’d written the letters found in Derek’s closet? The ones signed “Bunny”? And if not, where did she fit into all of this?

  And then add half the town of Ramble who were being swindled by Derek. Even Nick, sitting silently next to me, had motive. Could he be pretending to be helpful, leading me out of town to divert suspicion from someone closer to home?

  And I had a sinking pit in my stomach over Larry’s sudden secrecy. What was he hiding in that greenhouse?

  Pastor Seymour’s words rang in my ears. She could have been stuck with that man for life. Did someone kill Derek to protect Jenny? Maybe Mrs. Whitney saw through him and decided to put an end to Derek before he ruined Jenny’s life. And since Ellen didn’t know the wedding had been canceled . . .

  As we pulled into Ramble, the town took on a sinister appearance. Rather than the friendly hamlet I saw every day, I now saw a town with a secret. Shadows loomed in every corner, and Derek’s blood still cried from the deserted streets.

  Nick pulled into the alley behind the florist shop.

  “Do you still want those flowers?” I hopped out and stretched my back.

  “Flowers?”

  I forced a smile. “You came to buy flowers earlier.”

  Nick shook his head. “No, it’s okay. It’s late. I’ll . . . Good night.” And he drove off.

  My gaze followed the vapor trail the truck left behind, then a chill ran up my spine as a mouse scurried across the alley in front of me.

  As the noise of the diesel engine faded away, I started walking toward the apartment. I should have asked Nick to drop me at home, but he seemed too distracted. Now I was paying for it. Every noise, every gust of breeze that stirred the surroundi
ngs had me doing a double take. I had made this two-block walk before, in all kinds of weather, at all hours of the day and night, and it had never been so terrifying. I didn’t think I had any adrenaline left after our encounter in the gambling den, but my body proved me wrong as my heart and head pounded out of control.

  I rounded the corner, glad to see the light streaming from the porch—of my neighbor’s apartment at least. I half ran the remaining distance to my door, keys in hand. Movement at my living room window drew my attention as my curtains flicked ever so slightly. A gray paw seemed to be the source of the momentum. I let out the breath I’d been holding.

  I turned my key in the lock and swung open the door of my darkened apartment. Flipping on the overhead light, I surveyed . . . pure devastation. Magazines had been splayed over the floor and a lamp dangled from the end table, supported by only its cord.

  I rounded the corner into the kitchen. Two chairs lay on their sides, as did the kitchen garbage can. Plastic storage bowls were strewn across the floor, and a shredded streamer of paper towels weaved around everything.

  Either someone was trying to send me a message or I owned a cat.

  “Chester!” He trotted from the bedroom, sweet as can be, and circled my legs. I hoisted him up and stroked his gray furry head. He began to purr and dug his claws into my shoulder.

  “What am I going to do with you?”

  Feed me, he seemed to say as he jumped out of my arms and trotted over to his food dish.

  “All right, buddy.” I opened a can of cat food and slid it across the floor with little ceremony. Tonight he’d have to eat out of the can and like it. And judging from the way he buried his head in the can, I think he liked it.

  While he chowed down, I poured cereal and milk into a bowl and wandered back into the living room. I picked up a small stack of bridal magazines and righted the lamp before plopping down on the sofa.

  Normally while I thumbed through a bridal magazine my eyes were drawn to the flowers. But tonight, not so much. I saw a picture of a bridal couple dancing at their wedding and thought back to the reception-area-turned-casino. I spied a cupcake tower and thought of a certain baker, holding a knife . . . then minutes later grasping my hand as we tried to find a way out of the old restaurant. I saw a picture of a jukebox for rent, similar to the one Carolyn had rented, and thought back to the unfortunate jitterbug almost forgotten in the excitement of the evening.